Backstabbers - Chapter 11
Odd Fatality
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
FINAL VERDICT: Murder victim slated me! - Local amateur theatre director Ryan Deutsch posed solemnly on page seven of the Falking Advertiser, bleating about Hilda’s review of his one-act play. His bitter gripe at Hilda’s calibre of theatrical critic ended with the sweetener:
“Even though Hilda was murdered in such a brutal manner, I bear her no malice.
But she was wrong, and what goes around comes around.”
DEAD GOOD: Murder victim used to be a good actress detailed a local O.A.P.’s account of the time she once saw a twenty-something Hilda Harridan act in a play.
“She had a terrific stage presence. I got her autograph, but I didn’t think it was worth anything years later so I threw it out with the rubbish. If only I’d known then…”
LOCAL THEATRE DIRECTOR CLEARS NAME: Ryan Deutsch was forced to contact the Falking Advertiser to clarify comments he had previously made.
“I never meant to imply that her death was somehow justified.
What I meant was somebody else thought her death was necessary.”
Hilda’s funeral was a big social draw, not because she was loved, but due to the nature of her death. The am-dram community put on a show of force with emotional outpourings and public hugging. Even the more reclusive figures were lured out by the spectacle. Lawrence Wintercoat, face like a sheer drop off a craggy cliff, politely spoke with those deemed the least annoying.
Stu presumed his presence at the funeral of someone he was suspected of murdering would be viewed as poor taste, but nothing was going to stop his two-bob detective work. He surmised that Hilda’s killer would be in attendance. He had no idea if that was true, but it sounded good.
Big J commented loudly for Stu to hear. ‘Bit rich him being here, innit? Probably making sure she’s properly dead ‘n buried.’ Stu faced the mockery with weary acceptance. Big J sarcastically pondered. ‘Ttt. And at such a tender age. Why do the bad die old?’
‘Stu didn’t kill Hilda,’ said Little J.
‘See. There ya go. Thanks, J,’ said Stu, glad to have someone on his side. But then a thought crossed his mind. ‘How comes you’re so certain I didn’t do it?’
‘Your aura,’ replied Little J, leaning close to Stu’s ear. ‘I’m trying to help you out here, mate.’
A frisson of muted gasps. Dressed for a bordello, Paula arrived with Hugh on her arm. All eyes switched from the shameless couple to the reaction of shambolic Tony Nedwell; pinned down by emotional pain like a gazelle being eaten alive by a feline predator.
Inside the chapel, Stu approached the open coffin, bracing himself for what, he didn’t know. He just didn’t want any more material for nightmares.
Hilda’s empty face. Her yellow trousers and jacket with a black blouse, like a dead wasp.
The wasp from Rumbelow’s funeral.
Processing the information, Stu lifted his head, locking eyes with Ivan Stroud in the far corner of the chapel.
Nearby, Vivienne pointed indiscreetly. ‘That’s him off the telly, isn’t it? Ivan something.’
‘Stroud,’ said Bedford. ‘Saw him upstairs in a pub once. Had no idea if he was performing an edgy slice of political satire or if he was simply smashed out of his tree. Drenched me in spit.’
Ivan’s unnerving gaze remained fixed as if staring into Stu’s soul.
Dr Bedford Baker delivered Hilda’s eulogy. It was accepted by all that his charismatic speaking voice was second to none, with a rich intonation, strong projection and clear enunciation.
‘Hilda Harridan knew drama. It was her life, and for her life to reach such a dramatic conclusion… it was a fitting end. She lived by the sword and died by the sword.’
Big J mumbled to his diminutive cohort. ‘Thought it was a pickaxe?’ The J’s sniggered to themselves. A controlled voice boomed from the back of the room.
‘None of you knew Hilda. What she was really like.’
The mourners turned towards the source of the outburst: Ivan Stroud. ‘Falking Hill was where it all began for Hilda. And where it all ended. Not last week. Years ago. She died with her dreams. She never stood a chance.’ A deathly, tense silence followed.
Attempting to keep things light, Bedford politely clapped. ‘Er… Television star Ivan Stroud. Thank you.’ Bedford composed himself, addressing the mourners. ‘Please do join us this afternoon for a celebration of Hilda’s life at The Bernard Saucier Theatre, where I will be making an exciting announcement!’
A burning suspicion gnawed at Celia: What exciting announcement? Ryan concluded that Bedford was about to admit his culpability in Hilda Harridan’s murder. Big J fumed. Who does Bedford think he is, wearing a tight mustard sweater? Captain Kirk? Hugh Batey grumbled internally. I have more gravitas than Bedford. Hugh often confused gravitas for shouting.
Red curtains slowly closed, concealing Hilda’s coffin to the sounds of Hall and Oates’ She’s Gone.
The chittering masses regrouped at The Bernard Saucier Theatre. It wasn’t a wake, more an excitable aftershow knees-up. Cagey talk about Bedford’s surprise announcement continued. Whoever chose the send-off music for Hilda was on form, as Ian Dury and The Blockheads’ Reasons to be Cheerful Part 3 echoed through the foyer.
Emily fawned over Bedford; Elke on his arm. She couldn’t possibly know what Bedford’s big announcement would be but she was determined to be a part of it, whatever it was.
Lena had the feeling of being watched, which wasn’t unusual but it felt inappropriate at a wake. She glanced at the culprit – Stu - wishing he would stop staring. Did Stu even know he was perfecting his fifty-yard stare? Lena upped her interest in Bedford to combat Stu’s unwanted attention. ‘I could listen to your voice all day, Bedford.’
‘How was it?’ asked Bedford with a mock air of insecurity. ‘Did it go okay?’
Possessing the innate ability for spectral materialisation wherever there was a free bar, Gary sauntered up to Stu with a bemused expression. ‘What’s going on? It’s like Christmas round ‘ere.’
‘Apparently, Dr Baker is about to make an announcement,’ said Stu.
‘Oooh. Almost as exciting as finding a double conker,’ said Gary, unimpressed.
Stage door guardian Dick Pitkin dragged a cardboard promotional display into the foyer, propped up with little grace. Curious faces circled the promotional board, attempting to make sense of the frenzied red scrawl and images of manic robots and busty cowgirls, replete in fringed golden spacesuits. Little J read aloud the name of the production: ‘They Rode from Phobos 14: The Musical.’
‘Who rode from Phobos 14?’ queried Big J in a sneery tone.
‘They did,’ clarified Ryan, joining in on the derision.
Richard Shepperton addressed the crowd from a small stage. ‘Attention, hello! Theatre is about community. Without community, there is no theatre. So I am pleased to announce auditions for an all-new community play!’
Mortified Celia torpedoed to the front of the audience; her thunder stolen in broad daylight. Bedford stepped up to the mic. ‘I have led an interesting life. Backing singer for Cliff Richard, when he was still Harry Webb. I almost acted with Larry Olivier. Once I even sold a drum kit to Ringo Starr. He never collected it. Changed his mind.’ Realising he was going off-topic, Bedford gestured to Elke, who was watching, front and centre in the crowd. ‘Recently, I met Elke, and once again life dramatically changed. Who would have thought, me, engaged to a foreign exchange student?’’ Bedford stepped forward, taking Elke by the hand and gazing longingly into her eyes. ‘Where had you been all my life?’
A voice in the crowd, most likely belonging to Gary Blenny, shouted anonymously.
‘Waiting to be born?’
A ripple of stifled laughter prompted Bedford to get to the point. ‘Anyway, when I came up with the idea of staging a community play...’
Jaws collectively dropped. Celia. Ryan. Hugh. Vernon and Vivienne. All were aghast at their stolen thunder, as Bedford beamed like a cat with a mouthful of canaries.
‘... as not only a starring role for my wonderful Elke, but I want to give you the opportunity to share in my life... To be inspired by my unique insight. The community play is a fantastic opportunity to realise your dreams of being on stage!’
Slow applause grew in enthusiasm, powered by Bedford’s vigorous clapping.
Bedford, Elke and Shepperton posed for promotional photographs with Mayor Hazelbaker and his wife. The Mayor spoke out the corner of his mouth to Bedford.
‘There’s a part for my wife in this show, right?’
Alcohol flowed. Guests were buoyed by the upbeat Soul Limbo by Booker T and the MG’s. Ryan, Gary and Emily puffed furiously on cigarettes, glaring at Elke.
‘Look at her,’ fumed Emily. ‘So what if she’s symmetrical with a perfect tan. Nothing to write home about.’ Ryan enjoyed nothing more than seeing Emily like this because it allowed him to act pithy. ‘Jealousy really brings out your inner beauty.’
‘Jealous of her?’ scoffed Emily. ‘You misread my distaste for that birdbrain, dear sir.’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ chided Ryan. ‘Dear Sir. We’re not on horseback.’
Voices lowered as Vernon and Vivienne trudged towards the exit with uncharacteristic faces of fury. ‘Bedford’s not heard the last of this,’ scowled Vivienne. ‘The community play was my idea and he stole it! He’s a bloody thief, that man!’
Downstairs in the theatre bar, a party atmosphere ploughed aside thoughts of a murdered old lady. Rose Royce’s Is It Love You’re after rat-a-tat disco assault reverberated, forcing guests to shout to be heard. Bedford left a wodge of cash behind the bar, subverting the wake into a celebration of Dr Bedford Baker being a brilliant human being. A bold piece of self-promotion.
Stu had been knocking back Sherry for an hour, judging by the mini umbrellas piled on the tall table which was propping him up. The potent fruity aroma warmed the furthest reaches of his nasal passage. The brain-swirling sensation recalled his evening with Lena. Candles. Her perfume. The living room carpet; worn and in need of a good cleaning.
Stu craved a second invite, while his voice of reason reminded him about her fascination with psychopaths. It was safer to buy some scented candles and a bottle of sherry.
Nearby, Hugh cut to the chase with a production line of whiskeys (or “acting juice” as he referred to it). Hugh entertained his fan club with impersonations of Robert Shaw. ‘…not ‘til you crawl over here and you KISS MY FOOT!’ The crowd lapped up his red-faced intensity. Breaking character, Hugh bowed with fake humility. Stu eavesdropped on Hugh’s theatrical showboating, as he segued into an anecdote. ‘Of course, I have Mother to thank for my talent. The famous actress Bunty Batey, from the golden age of cinema. She worked with them all. Gable. Cooper. Cagney. My father could be any one of the Hollywood elite. It’s a little-known fact that Bette Davis based her legendary performance in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? on my Mother.’
A fan of cinema, Stu knew his acting legends. But he had never heard of Bunty Batey, not that it seemed to matter to Hugh’s enthralled fans.
Lena emerged from the ladies' toilets. Her blank face questioned why Stu was gormlessly open-mouthed at her. Her face scrunched at Stu’s piqued interest. Caught mid-stare, Stu bashfully glanced around the bar at anything that wasn’t Lena.
Lena joined Paula, as her boyfriend drunkenly bellowed a rendition of Spanish Ladies. Determined to address their weird disconnect, Stu stood without support, destabilised by too much free booze quaffed too quickly. He blinked hard. Somehow, Alan was now there. Stu vaguely recalled phoning him, broadcasting the news of a free bar. Alan addressed the barman with an immediate tone.
‘Nine pints, please.’ Alan noticed the pile of mini umbrellas on Stu’s tall table. ‘You preparing for inclement weather, son?’
Lost in a drunken haze, Stu followed Lena in her red coat. He staggered upstairs, wading through a swamp of distorted faces and deafening soundbites. The high walls and looming windows warped like an exaggerated gothic Disney Castle. Wicked Witch Paula blurred in and out of focus; her voice deafening and distorted. ‘Can’t stay. Hugh wants a shag. He’s out in the car already, probably standing to attention!’ Paula drunkenly cackled; the wail of The Osmond’s Crazy Horses emitting from her wide open mouth. Stu’s eyeballs were at Dutch angles, navigating a crooked house in slippery shoes. The heat from the fires which blazed around him almost overcame Stu, as faceless, Goyaesque apparitions swarmed him with ghostly, Papier-mâché faces. The hollow eyes and mouths leered, as Stu tasted the lifeless scrutiny that only a celebrity would be familiar with. The throng pushed and shoved with their swarming mass, but somehow Stu broke free, pin-balling off walls which appeared to be closing in on him.
Everywhere he looked, there were clusters of anonymous, wraith-like viewers, posed as if for a portrait. Stu’s panic attack reached fever pitch as, from a high balcony, Daz and Wesley sneered down with dismissal. Apparitions of anonymously masked figures swarmed, biblically parting to reveal Fred Scrim. An eyebrow arched, he pointed directly at Stu, shrieking eerily like a Body Snatcher.
Stu swivelled to see the back of Lena in her red coat. Melting in the hysteria, Stu feebly called to her. Slowly, she turned, revealing the craggy features of Hilda Harridan. She shook her head at Stu’s foolish naïveté as she raised a pickaxe. Struck by his sudden realisation of what was about to happen, all Stu could do was utter ‘wait’ before the death blow struck.
Dead eyes gazed upon an image of Peter Gabriel dressed as a gherkin cross-bred with a Flowerpot Man. Stu was home, on top of his duvet, fully clothed. He hated sleeping in his clothes, regressing to the state of a sulky child. His shag-pile tongue bore the aftermath of a long night. Laser sunbeams sliced through a gap in the bedroom curtains. Drinker’s remorse cycloned in his shame-filled mind.
Ugh, I feel terrible… I will NEVER drink again… What happened last night?
Alan must have driven him home. Stu recalled the journey, swerving through the streets at speed, Hillbilly banjo music blaring on the car radio. Maybe he was dead after all? Elke was there too. In the car? No, at the theatre. She seemed upset. Alone and discomfited. In his drowsy state, Stu realised he had spent ten minutes repeating the word discomfited to himself, mulling over the pronunciation.
Jumping back on board his train of thought, Stu could see Elke, upset. He recalled Dr Hook’s When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman. Gary exploited Elke’s need for consolation with a chat-up line, gesturing his empty glass at Elke. ‘Want a drink? Drink? Yes?’
Alan rolled his eyes at Gary’s attempt at communicating with alien life. ‘She’s not a gerbil, Gal.’ Elke half-smiled at Alan’s jibe, raising a full glass to answer Gary’s question. Elke knocked it back in one, handing the empty glass to Gary, who scuttled to the bar to fetch another.
On his bed, Stu snorted a laugh. Wait. Why was Elke distressed? Rewinding events, Stu cringed at a memory of being doubled over at the top of the theatre entrance steps. Intense feelings of panic.
Stu’s ribs hurt. There was a recollection of being shoved aside into a metal handrail. Shoved by… Bedford Baker. The impact of the handrail slamming into Stu’s ribs triggered him to spew vomit over the side of the entrance steps.
Wailing. There had been shouting. An argument? Stu half-remembered Bedford mopping his drenched face and suit. Drinks had been thrown.
‘Who the hell let my ex-wife in? How did she know I was here? Somebody tipped her off. Celia, I’ll wager. You saw her face. Like a dog had shat on her stripy lawn!’
There was another blurry memory. More bellowing. This time, from the pavement outside the theatre. Bedford’s ex-wife, Nanette. ‘You will get what’s coming to you, you bastard!’ Wiping the dregs of Nanette’s drink from his brow, Bedford took the moral high road.
‘Is this how a grown woman expresses herself? Throwing drinks at people?’ Bedford’s ex-wife, all wild-eyed and bared teeth, loomed up in his face. ‘If that drink was flammable I’d burn you where you stand.’
Stu’s bedroom door slammed open, jolting him back to the present. Jeffrey leant in, wolf-whistling with an eardrum-shattering pitch.
‘Wake up, be bright, be golden and light! Your bent mate’s on the phone.’
The low rumble of Deep Purple’s Black Night chugged through The Bitter End pub. The whiff of beer stirred Stu’s innards, yet he sipped at a waiting pint with surprising ease.
Gary and Alan sat mournfully. Stu didn’t know why, and it agitated him. ‘Hello? What’s so important that you can’t tell me over the phone?’
‘Last night, man,’ said Gary; unusually sombre. By his friends’ overcast faces, it must have been bad. Stu began to fill with dread. ‘Oh… Oh I didn’t puke in your car, did I?’
‘Crazy times. Crazy world,’ Alan ruminated. ‘I really should write that down. The world needs music in times like these. Something good has to come from all of this. It’s not wrong, is it?’
‘Na mate. You be inspired. Go ahead.’ said Gary.
‘Al, remember that phase you went through, doing that Status Quo thing? Chatting on stage to band members during guitar solos? And you forgot to finish the song? You’re doing it now.’ said Stu. ‘I’ve been sat on the bog for half an hour with the ballroom blitz. I’m not in the mood for…’
‘Dr. Bedford Baker is dead,’ said Gary. ‘Little J phoned to tell me.’
‘Oh you can’t believe a word he says,’ said Stu with confidence.
‘They’re commiserating at the theatre. Gonna grab a bacon butty and pop down. Might be a free bar?’ said Gary, producing loose papers from a carrier bag, and handing them out. Stu perused with derision.
‘A breakdown of suspects. Motives. Psychotic tendencies. All in a handy pull-out chart.’
Stu perused the list of suspects, all written in multi-coloured felt-tip pens. ‘It’s just a list of people who’ve wronged you. Surprised you’ve not mentioned your mum and dad.’
Gary scrawled “Mum” and “Dad” onto his papers, with a line pointing to a question mark.
‘Mark my words. There will be another murder,’ warned Gary.
‘Keep talking,’ said Stu, making Alan chuckle as he read down the long list of names. ‘What about that fella at the Theatre? The spooky barman with the haunted expression?’
‘Wouldn’t you be if you worked in a theatre? Probably run away from more balls than Cinderella,’
‘What about that Jesus wannabe?’ suggested Alan.
‘Ryan? Why would Ryan kill Bedford?’ asked Stu.
‘How should I know? He’s weird,’ said Alan.
‘Well thanks for that, Hercule Poirot—’ Stu noticed a name on the list. ‘Hold up. My name’s on here.’ Gary lit a cigarette, trying to talk at the same time. ‘There’s been one arrest linked to the murders, and that’s you matey.’
‘So? The police haven’t been kicking my door in this morning, have they?’ said Stu.
Gary’s eyebrow arched. ‘That’s not something to boast about.’ Engrossed in the list, Alan raised a curious point. ‘I see one name’s conveniently missing. Yours.’
‘I kill numerous people every day,’ said Gary, tapping his forehead.
The lamenting for Bedford Baker didn’t involve prayers. Stu, Alan and Gary arrived outside the theatre, struck by the sight of fifty or so Am-Dram members sitting on the green in small cliques. The atmosphere was upbeat: Christopher Gothard played acoustic guitar, strumming ‘Oh What a Circus’, displaying an impressive grasp of Latin.
Bodies swayed gently. Lads with their tops off and jeans on, pale unmuscular bodies on display. Gothard would burn easily in the heat, which amused Stu.
‘What are they doing? Why have they come here?’
Gary theorized. ‘Some kind of instinct. This is an important place in their lives.’
‘Gawd. It’s like that Coke advert,’ said Alan, cringing at Gothard’s harmonising. ‘I’d like to teach that ginger nut how to sing.’ A gleeful beam stretched across Gary’s face. ‘This is it. This is the change we need. I’m excited about this.’
Like a fly circling something foul, Brookes loitered at the foot of the theatre steps.
‘How does it feel to be knocked off the top spot of Falking Hill’s Most Wanted?’ Stu didn’t react because he had no idea what Brookes was ribbing him about. ‘The Old Bill nicked Bedford’s ex-wife last night,’ said Brookes, scrutinising the gathering with loathing. ‘Look at this love-in. Stalked by a killer ‘n all they can do is sing show tunes. This is what’s wrong with society.’
From the top of the theatre steps, Stu considered Brookes’ future. ‘Do you think anyone will cry when you die, Brookes?’
‘Not here to make friends, sunbeam.’
‘Why are you here?’ asked Gary, growing tired of Brookes’ presence. ‘Shepperton’s making an announcement. I would hazard a guess the community play is dead and buried,’ said Brookes with relish, before breaking into the chorus of Another Suitcase in Another Hall. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Don’t ask anymore,’ said Lawrence Wintercoat with steely conviction.
A story advisor for television and still living locally made Wintercoat a much-admired enigma who didn’t have to answer to anyone. A closed book, so shrouded in secrecy was the details of his life. Most presumed Wintercoat to be ex-secret service. An assassin. He could have been an ex-postman for all anyone knew, but his rigid bearing and icy sophistication craved presumption.
Wintercoat’s credentials put him on an equal pegging to Shepperton, who fortified his own position by resigning television productions to the lesser of the arts. Given the chance, Shepperton would have jumped at the chance to be on the telly.
In Shepperton’s musty den, a cold sweat coated Shepperton’s spine. ‘Why did you agree to Bedford’s proposal if you had no intention of writing the play?’
With an insistent smile, Wintercoat drilled his point home. ‘This is the misunderstanding you fail to grasp. I never said yes to writing any play. Bedford Baker doorstepped me. Begged me. Blathered on about aliens and cowgirl cleavage. I gave him the brush off as I had to make haste. I had a meeting for a new television series.’
Shepperton shrugged dismissively, jealousy running wild at the talk of television careers.
‘I never committed to a community play, nor will I,’ said Wintercoat.
Shepperton massaged his temples, desperately trying to think of a way out of the hole he had found himself in. ‘Give me something. I shook hands with the Mayor! It’s going to be in the papers!’
‘Yes, so I understand,’ said Wintercoat, which came across as more fool you.
Shepperton fretted as he poured himself another large scotch. ‘The Guild will be breathing down my neck. That Landaker woman wants me out.’
Wintercoat tried to console him. ‘I understand opting to work with Bedford was the least poisonous chalice.’ Shepperton brooded with his back to Wintercoat. ‘Oh, you’re loving seeing me like this, aren’t you? Well, you can remove your poisoned dagger from my back.’
Wintercoat relented not for pity’s sake, but for his own. Unclipping his briefcase, he removed a manuscript, tossing it onto a low table in the centre of the den. ‘This is all I can offer.’
Shepperton flicked through pages. His brow furrowed, his eyes screwed with contempt. ‘There’s only one role. A housebound mute? It’s a community play! They expect a big cast. If I offer this it will be merry hell with a twist of lime!’
As far as Wintercoat was concerned, there would be no negotiation. ‘Take it or leave it.’
Shepperton’s spite caused his face to squint. ‘Well you’ve really dropped me in the soup, haven’t you? As I live and breathe, there will never be another Lawrence Wintercoat play performed in this theatre.’
Wintercoat gathered up his coat and briefcase. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Richard, I have more pressing engagements.’
As Wintercoat stepped away, Shepperton’s voice rose. ‘Oh yes. Your glamorous TV career. Well, don’t let me hold you back, darling!’
Shepperton stood on the theatre steps, nodding benevolently; simmering the crowd. ‘The Bernard Saucier Theatre wishes to express deep condolences for the loss of Dr Bedford Baker. We are in shock—’ Brookes cut Shepperton off, pen and pad in hand.
‘Yeah yeah. Is the community play still going ahead or what?’
Put on the spot, Shepperton carefully searched for the right words. ‘Ah… We… A time of mourning and evaluation should be observed. Thank you.’
The despondent gathering sloped off, giving Brookes something to smirk about.
The Flying Fork Tavern was the closest venue for drowning sorrows. At the jukebox, Gary selected Hurry Up Harry by Sham 69. Too rowdy for their delicate tastes, the Am-Drammers sneered. With impish glee, Gary rocked back to his seat. Stu and Alan sat silent.
‘Hark at you two. Can’t find a ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs? Cheer up.’
‘Nothing changes round here!’ exclaimed Stu. ‘People die, but it’s nothing a good knees-up can’t fix!’ Disconcerted at Stu’s rage, Alan bottom-shuffled away from him.
A shadow fell across them. Christopher Gothard stood over them, hands on his hips. Alan bottom-shuffled back along the bench towards Stu, having found his face too close to Christopher’s groin.
‘I’m performing a gig for peace at Chevaliers. It’s a wine bar. Doubt you’ve heard of it.’ Puffing long on his cigarette, Gary spat smoke at Gothard. ‘I go there all the time.’
Nobody believed those words. ‘I might do,’ shrugged Gary.
‘Come along. Thursday night. Strictly no jeans,’ said Gothard, looking at Alan. ‘I heard you tried to do a gig at the bowls club.’ Alan’s eyes dotted around, realising Christopher was talking to him.
‘They phoned me instead. Good crowd down there.’ Christopher directed his promotional smarm onto the next table of unsuspecting victims.
Alan reached out to Gary with furious intent. ‘Gimme that list of yours.’
The Thursday evening traffic crawled slower than the meandering herds of youth on Greening Green’s lowbrow High Street. Alan limped behind Stu and Gary, hassled by drainpipe trousers.
‘Will you stop that? You’ve worn tighter legwear than those before,’ chided Stu.
‘Glad you noticed,’ retorted Alan.
They stopped under a small neon sign above a dark open doorway; narrow stairs leading up. Chevaliers. Stu read a laminated sign, gaffer-taped to the wall. ‘Chevaliers: Formerly the Electric Frisbee. Didn’t this place used to be called Nookie?’
‘You’re thinking of Gropers.’ said Gary. ‘Used to be Crumpet. And from what I heard it was a front for a knocking shop. Fifty rupees to get in, a score a pint and a ton to get out with your legs intact.’
Cautious, they climbed the steep stairs. Dark red velvety walls. At the top, two bulldog doormen stood, arms folded. Smug smirks that signified too much power. On the stairs, Stu recognised one of the doormen and tried to about-face, bumbling into his friends.
‘Why are you pulling faces like a winkle?’ asked Gary.
Stu exclaimed in a hush. ‘It’s Jeffrey. My brother. He’s a colossal Gareth.’
Gary drove Stu back up the stairs to where Jeffrey and his Cro-Magnon colleague stood sentry. Jeffrey ogled the trio up and down, snorting a laugh. ‘What a bunch of sweeties!’ Jeffrey looked Alan up and down. ‘Look at him. Like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards!’
‘All the panache of a bricklayer…’ remarked Gary, rattling Jeffrey’s cage.
‘What’s that, you wilf?’
Gary repeated himself. ‘I said you have all the panache of a bricklayer.’ Jeffrey stepped up to Gary, almost nose-to-nose. ‘Wasn’t funny the first time you said it. You must be one of them real-life idiots you hear about. Clearly a wolly.’
Gary didn’t pale at Jeffrey’s intimidation, but Jeffrey called his victory anyway. ‘Look at ‘im. Bricking it. Like a brass band tuning up.’ Jeffrey launched into comedy trombone-parp impressions. His dim-eyed partner’s shoulders shuddered, emitting a low chuckle.
Jeffrey spoke slow but edgy to Gary, close enough for him to smell the bouncer’s acrid breath.
‘I might look Radio Rental, but I’m the nice one. It’s KP you want to watch out for. Wanna know what KP stands for?’
‘Not really—’
Jeffrey told Gary, regardless. ‘He’s nuts.’
Hoping to avoid similar aggravation, Alan tried to stroll casually into the wine bar, blocked by Jeffrey. ‘Where’d you think you’re going? Cough up. Fiver each.’
‘You have to pay to get in?’ frowned Alan. Jeffrey blinked blankly. ‘You can fall down the stairs for free if you’d rather.’
With much huffing, the lads paid. Stu and Gary walked through the doorway. Alan followed, only to be blocked by KP, whose sweaty gaze lingered on Alan’s crotch.
‘Trousers shrunk in the wash? That's some bollock-hugging trews you got on there.’
Alan flinched a desperate smile as fear welled in his eyes.
Chevaliers was a stab in the dark at sophistication. Christopher Gothard performed Chanson D’Amour, flanked by two musicians. Stu squinted at the keyboardist. Was it Jeff Lynne out of E.L.O.? Nope. Graham Hastings; bobbing on the spot, all fuzzy hair and thick gold-rimmed tinted glasses.
Alan joined his friends at the bar as fast as his trousers permitted. ‘We need to leave. The doorman has taken a shine.’ The conversation halted as a waitress in a short, chic black dress appeared, addressing the boys. ‘Can I get you any drinks?’
Stu, Gary and Alan stood at the bar like schoolboys outside the Headmaster's office. Before Stu could find any words, Alan cut him off. ‘Got any bitter?’
Lena didn’t want to sound snooty, but Alan was making it very difficult for her. ‘No. We specialise in cocktails, being a cocktail bar.’ Feeling the pressure, Alan blathered; unqualified for ordering glitzy beverages. ‘Er… uh… Prawn cocktail?’
Gary cupped Alan’s mouth before he said anything else. ‘Pinas Colada. Three of ‘em.’
Browsing a bar menu, Stu made his choice. ‘I’ll have a Glass on the Beach. Please.’
Lena prepared the cocktails, knowing she was being watched by the three boys. Alan whispered to his friends out the side of his mouth. ‘What’s a Pinas Colada?’ Rolling his eyes, Stu muttered back at his friend. ‘A spelling mistake.’
‘I wasn’t gonna ask her for a Slow Comfortable Screw, was I?’ said Gary. ‘Not again, anyway.’
Gazing at the clientele, Stu speculated that Lena had been asked for Slow Comfortable Screws all evening. Through romantic couples, Stu followed a dot-to-dot of lone, male faces, positioned at safe distances from each other so as not to suffer having their presence - or purpose - questioned. Little J, Ryan, Tony Nedwell… Hugh and Big J accidentally made eye contact with each other. Flustered, they returned to their solitary ogling of Lena.
The band finished their number, and Gothard took the opportunity to schmooze with the crowd. ‘Thank you for coming. I’m Christopher Gothard. And this is my band, Recreational Buzz.’ Graham shrugged at his meagre introduction, begrudgingly performing the mellow Air on G String. At the bar, Alan fidgeted with recall at the plodding, comforting notes from the famous cigar advert. ‘Happiness is…’ Gary provided the answer. ‘… a cigar called Hamlet!’
Lena forcibly slid a ridiculous cocktail towards Stu; a huge pineapple slice dwarfing the glass. He tried to sip his fluorescent beverage, dodging all manner of extras bobbing in his beverage like junk dumped in a pond. An intimate voice spoke in Stu’s ear, startling him. ‘I understand you consider yourself a playwright? If you need any advice for the competition, I’m sure I could spare a minute or two.’ Stu frowned in silence. What competition?
‘The Community Play.’ Explained Max. ‘You don’t know? It’s open to local writers. I submitted my entry today, hence the celebratory drink. Winning will put me up there with the Lawrence Wintercoats of the world. I can’t lie to you about your chances, but… you have my sympathies.’
Strains of The Incredible Hulk closing theme delicately on his heart, Stu leant on his bedroom windowsill watching his old P.E. bag swing from the tree across the road with poignancy.
Stu accepted that it wasn’t just P.E. bags that would remain forever out of reach. A dream fizzed inside him like a lab experiment gone wrong, fuelled by Max’s sneering.
Ivan Stroud’s rage-filled sermon about “the craft” echoed in his mind. ‘Drama is not pretending. It is becoming. Hate. Anger. Defiance. True art is vengeance. Create for those who despise you. Carve their names. Only then is the mask removed.’
Stu sat up on his bed, framed in the moonlight as the chosen one.
Pen to paper, Stu wrote as if possessed. A complicated plot about a small island community. A tale of egotistical desires. Of morals consumed by ambition. Of death exploited for an opportunity.
‘Maconwee’s Election’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022