Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
Loose sheets of handwritten notes surrounded Stu as he slept open-mouthed on his bed. A tinny rattle from the adjoining bedroom irritated him into life. The notes rustled as he rolled over. Spring-like, he clutched handfuls, reading with confusion. There was a list of characters:
The hero (Me, obviously
The damsel in distress (Lena
Handsome idiot (Big J
Diminutive mage (Little J
Interfering busybody (Emily
Evil snooty Queen (Celia Landaker
Mute minion of Queen (Celia’s husband
Pervy old sugar daddy (Bedford
A user of old rich men (Elke
Political self-serving influencers (Prebbles
Pompous, punchable minstrel (Gothard
Drunken sexist brawler (Hugh
Pretentious, self-involved village idiot (Ryan
Raving maniacal vagrant (Ivan Stroud
Beady-eyed narcissist (Max Monteith
Randy, usurped King of the Island (Shepperton
Massive pranny (Jeffrey
The Plot:
Set in “olden times” amongst a community on a small Scottish island, the people of Maconwee hold an election for the leader of their land. Numerous islanders lust after the prominent position of power, resulting in a series of mysterious murders.
Write what you know. This is what Stu knew. People thirsting for glory. Except his play had an outcome designed to please himself. If real life insisted he should be powerless, at least here he could have some say in it. Stu read through the notes, mouth downturned with admiration. He scooped up the papers, stashing them inside his wardrobe.
The Friday edition of the Falking Advertiser bore the headline CURTAIN DOWN! A typical Brookes Manders trouble-at-mill piece about the doomed community play. Words like shambles, farce, headless chickens and contempt for the local community were banded around with elation.
Stu bought a copy from Westacott’s Newsagents. He skimmed shock-horror descriptives, armed with the knowledge that it was standard Brookes. What wounded Stu more was the lack of recognition from Mr Westacott, his ex-boss. No warmth, no laughing about the good old days. It was like Stu had never worked there. Did he even remember him?
Settled in the local greasy spoon with the paper, Stu circled job adverts. It was a tedious, depressing situation which deserved a bacon sarnie pat on the back. Unable to ignore the call, Stu rifled back to Brookes’ story, scrutinising a staged photo of the Drama Guild. Viv and Vernon Prebble were centred, flanked by other Am-Dram group leaders. Celia Landaker stood stern on the edge of the frame.
Stu could only imagine the conversation leading up to that snapshot:
‘Shepperton says the only available slot in the theatre calendar is October the 31st,’ said Vernon. ‘We’re currently late August. Maybe we should cancel the play?’
‘That’s what he wants. Shepperton’s been booking numerous black and white minstrel showcases and two-bob Hinge and Bracket acts since the rep cast were hospitalised. He could give us any date. He’s being deliberately awkward,’ said Celia.
No-nonsense Bob Rothwell cut through Celia’s bitching. ‘More to the point: Who’s going to lead it?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Celia, without missing a beat.
Bob half-laughed at Celia’s keenness. ‘Pfft. Sure. In that case, I’ll do it.’
Face like an unclimbed rock face, Pru Sloman made her thoughts known. ‘I shan’t be led by anyone.’ Vivienne Prebble attempted to remind the guild of their purpose. ‘We are supposed to be uniting the community. Yet here we are, divided. Nobody wants to back down. We don’t have time to argue. We will have to vote on every decision.’
Celia discarded that suggestion without missing a beat. ‘Art is not a democracy, Viv.’
Vernon interrupted with a dithering idea. ‘We… We could draw straws?’ Nobody paid a blind bit of notice to that notion. ‘I should play the lead,’ suggested Celia. ‘Safest pair of hands.’
‘Should the rest of us sit in the audience and clap you?’ enquired Pru.
‘There must be proportional representation,’ insisted Bob with his typical grassroots passion.
‘The community play requires is a strong leader,’ said Celia. ‘Accept the cold, hard facts: It’s me.’
The newspaper photo of the morose Guild leaders spoke volumes.
Stu fished a scant amount of useful information from the article: The Prebbles had been appointed to oversee the community play. Their first decision was to announce a playwriting competition. For Stu, winning would offer a bounty of life rewards:
Respect from his parents. Acceptance from the Am-Dram community. Lena’s adoration.
At Sound & Vision, Stu’s fingertips flicked through classical LPs, as Gary buzzed around the record player. Nantucket Sleighride by Mountain played. Alan was unmoved, as Gary instructed him to wait for it-wait for it… The pulsating chorus ended on a searing keyboard sign-off.
Alan nodded with appreciation as Gary became aware of Stu’s presence. ‘Oh look. It’s old whats-his-face.’ Gary clicked his fingers, trying to recall Stu’s name.
‘Some of us are busy, y’know?’ said Stu. ‘We’re all busy,’ retorted Alan, realising he wasn’t in fact busy.
‘If you must know, I’m writing a stage play,’ announced Stu, on the verge of sounding snooty.
‘Have you got an alias? In case it’s crap,’ asked Gary.
‘No, I’m confident in my ability, Gary, thanks.’
‘On yer own head…’
Alan piped up, starry-eyed. ‘Clint Starfighter. That’s a good pen name. Or Dirk Seawolf.’
Stu turned his back on Alan and Gary’s mockery, flicking through the classical albums. Distracted by Gary’s charm offensive on a cluster of innocent young women, Stu huffed contempt. Film script in hand, Gary promised the girls the world. People would never give Gary the time of day without all the rainbows flying out of his arse, thought Stu.
Stu approached the counter, where Hairy Jim chewed on something in a small brown paper bag.
‘Morning, Jim. Uh… What are you noshing?’
‘Sausage in a bag.’ Hairy Jim gestured the bag at Stu, who scrunched his nose up, edgily building up to ask an awkward question. ‘‘Ere Jim. You got any of that Profokiev?’
Hairy Jim glanced around the shop floor, ensuring nobody was within earshot. ‘Prokofiev. Romeo and Juliet or Peter and the Wolf?’ Stu whispered shiftily. ‘‘First one.’
‘Meet you out the back in ten minutes,’ winked Hairy Jim.
Hairy Jim knew how to handle contraband. In the alley behind Sound & Vision, the deal was done. With the album in a brown paper bag, Stu departed in haste for fear of being labelled a softy for buying posh music.
Following a stream of shoppers past crowded bus stops, Stu brushed shoulders with a passer-by. Half-spun with the force of the impact, Stu scowled back. Whoever it was, they were gone.
Walking on, Stu felt different. Something was under his right armpit. An A-4 brown manila envelope. He stepped into a shop doorway, examining the envelope. Inside was a manuscript.
On the top deck of the 294, Stu scanned the manuscript, engrossed. Written from an observer’s perspective, it told the tale of five young lives whose dreams elude them, be it a successful career or the object of their affection. A story of lifelong bitterness and scheming envy, as one by one the characters fell victim to their egos. Puzzled, he closed the manuscript.
Questions buzzed. Who wrote it? Why was Stu now in possession of it? The likeliest option was Ivan Stroud. He had previous for unnerving behaviour; goading Stu like a mad scientist prodding a test subject. Maybe this was a next-level performance project?
In the poky office of the Falking Advertiser, Brookes Manders turned his nose up in disagreement. ‘Ivan Stroud didn’t write this.’ Brookes flung the manuscript across a desk so untidy it could have been fly-tipped. ‘It’s too cohesive. It’s got depth. It makes sense. Ivan Stroud is none of those things.’
Taken aback at Brookes’ use of the word ‘cohesive’, Stu desperately gestured at the script.
‘There’s a character in here. A playwright-turned-hateful critic, living alone in a remote house who dies in mysterious circumstances. Does that not ring any bells for you? It’s Rumbelow.’
Brookes looked pained at Stu’s theorising. ‘Oh knock it on the head with that… He was an old git that died. Happens every day. Not enough, if you ask me.’
‘When I found Rumbelow’s body, there was a note on the floor. I think Rumbelow wrote it in his own blood. It had the initials H H on it.’
Brookes sat up, hooked on the line. ‘Do the police know?’
Stu shook his head. ‘It took it. I don’t know why, I just did.’
Brookes beamed. ‘You stole evidence from a crime scene? Nice one! Can you show me?’
‘I threw it away,’ said Stu, causing Brookes to roll his eyes. ‘I got nervous, alright? Anyway, that’s only the start of it. I tried to ask Hilda about Rumbelow, and she got really edgy with me.’
‘So you did speak to her before she was murdered?’ asked Brookes with caution.
‘Yeah, but… Look, just listen. About a week after he died, Rumbelow’s house was up for sale. He owned a lot of land. Someone’s made a tidy sum off the back of Rumbelow dying,’ said Stu.
Brookes mulled it over, eventually shaking his head. ‘So how does all that tie in with this script? You’re clutching at straws,’ said Brookes. ‘If I was a gambling man, which I am, I reckon Lawrence Wintercoat’s yer man.’
‘What does Wintercoat want with me?’
‘Let’s go ask him,’ said Brookes, grabbing his car keys.
Traffic lights didn’t apply to Brookes Manders. Nor stopping at roundabouts. Stu regretted being so forceful back at the press office. He could’ve been at home watching Pebble Mill at One, but no, haring along in a death trap on wheels was much more fun.
Weaving through country lanes, Stu winced as Brookes overtook a slowly-trotting horse rider at full speed.
‘You’re supposed to slow down for horses!’ yelled Stu, but Brookes wasn’t having any of that.
‘If it aint got wheels, it shouldn’t be on the road.’
Stu gnashed his teeth, muttering ‘arsehole’ to himself. The steering wheel twisted fiercely. Brookes bumped up into a gravel driveway obscured by dense hedgerows and trees, skidding to a halt. ‘Everybody off!’ yelled Brookes, cheerily.
Brookes sauntered up to the cottage, thumping his fist on the front door. Stu rang an old doorbell, demonstrating how normal folk do it. They studied the condition of the house.
‘Telly money doesn’t buy you much these days, does it?’ reflected Brookes, wandering around the property to the back garden. Stu reluctantly followed, not wanting to get into any more trouble than he already was. He found Brookes by a broken window, peering into the house.
Brookes called to Wintercoat. No reply came. Coat wrapped around his forearm, he cleared the broken glass. Before Stu could object, Brookes warned him. ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’
Brookes clambered in through the window. Inside, Wintercoat’s study had been ransacked. With urgency, Brookes called for Stu to join him. Waiting at the window, Stu bit the bullet and climbed inside, finding Brookes standing, hands on hips in thought. ‘No Wintercoat. The gravy thickens. I need to get back to the office. I’ll ‘ave a proper butcher’s at the manuscript. See if I can get any clues from it.’ Brookes held out an open hand. Stu hesitated with good reason.
‘We’re in this together, right?’ assured Brookes. Stu grudgingly surrendered the manuscript.
‘Good boy,’ said Brookes. ‘You deserve a lager top.’ Needless to say, the patronising promise of watered-down beer never came to pass.
Late into the night, Stu sat at the living room table, writing furiously in his jotter. Headphones on, the turntable played Wings’ ‘Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Five’ to stop him from nodding off. The competition deadline loomed, and doubt was at hand to convince him it was all a waste of time.
The competition had ignited creative fires in many who fancied themselves as the next Lawrence Wintercoat. Or just fancied having their mug in the local paper.
Hugh Batey chain-smoked in his vest and y-fronts, poking at an ancient typewriter in a room lit by an ancient desk lamp. He snapped, screwing up paper as he cursed. He slapped himself hard around the face, knocking back another swig of whiskey before starting the process again.
____________________________
In a bikini, Lena obliviously sunned herself on a lounger in her back garden. Emily gazed down from her upstairs bedroom window; her open-mouthed concentration held for too long. Emily refocused her attention on her typed words. The same word repeatedly punctuated her prose. Nonsensical. Disconcerting. “Lena”.
____________________________
In a moonlit loft, Little J chanted, cross-legged. Inspiration flowed through him, as he spoke into a microphone connected to a portable recorder. ‘The lead character has an Irish American Indian spirit guide named K’Dulu.’ Little J lowered the mic, solemnly chanting.
____________________________
Sat on the toilet, Brookes removed the fag on his lip to sip from a beer can. An idea struck him. He grabbed a large Dictaphone which was resting on the edge of the sink. ‘Idea for play. A man in his late twenties, go-getting, suave, who uncovers the identity of a serial killer, but no one believes him cos... They don’t like him for some reason. He’s actually a nice bloke, but for some reason he makes everybody’s poo itch. Anyway, he catches the killer, and the public thinks he’s great. Turns out he was the killer all along. And it was all a dream!’ Brookes stopped recording, pleased with himself, until he gave it some real thought. It was a terrible idea and he knew it because that was his stock-in-trade. Taking real-life stories and adding his own touch of scandal may have worked for the local newspaper, but creating fiction from within eluded Brookes.
So he did the next best thing. Out in the cramped office area, Brookes waited for his colleagues to head out for lunch before unlocking the bottom drawer of his desk, removing the alleged Wintercoat manuscript. Sheet by sheet, he photocopied Wintercoat’s words.
All he needed was a title for his masterpiece. Poised at his typewriter, Brookes looked around the office for inspiration. Nothing leapt to mind, unless he could call it a heaving mess of a fire hazard.
Taking a Littlewoods catalogue from his desk, Brookes idly flicked through the ladies underwear section. The Playtex bras. That’s when inspiration struck. Brookes cast the catalogue aside as he sat up, tapping at his typewriter. He whisked the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, proudly reading the new title:
Cross Your Heart
Written by
Brookes Manders
Dr Bedford Baker’s funeral was a sober affair compared to the send-off for Hilda Harridan. Bedford was respected: A doctor. Actor. Director. A wealthy man with a sports car. Jammy git with a much younger, gorgeous girlfriend. The majority of the talk was about two subjects:
The cause of death: There was considerable scepticism surrounding Bedford’s demise, and a fair amount of crude jokes alluding to the cause of death being Bedford’s struggle to keep up with his much younger girlfriend in the bedroom department.
The official prognosis wasn’t Elke’s stamina or Bedford’s faulty heart. His body was discovered by Elke in their conservatory, infected with rabies. The police presumed it was from Elke’s dog, which had been smuggled in from “abroad”. Open and shut case. Adding to Elke’s misery, her dog was destroyed. It was difficult to tell what upset her the most.
B) The community playwriting competition
There was excitement and distrust in equal measure. Questions and answers volleyed back and forth, as competitors sussed out their chances of winning. The “Oh, it’s just a bit of fun” writers were first-hurdle fodder.
With all the talk of writing, Gary Blenny seized the opportunity to lord it over everyone by waving his film screenplay aloft like a rediscovered holy scripture. ‘I don’t care about any playwriting competition. No interest in theatre at all. Cinema is the only altar I’ll bow at—’ Graham Hastings snatched the script from Gary’s hand, reading the title. ‘Gary Blenny’s The Man with No Skull. Who’s Gary Blenny?’
Affronted, Gary pointed to himself. ‘Me.’ Graham sniffed loudly, shaking his head in ridicule. ‘Sounds like you haven’t got a skull. It’s more of a personal statement than a movie.’ Graham read on, finding something of interest. ‘Oh, here we go. “About the author... As a child, Gary Blenny’s introduction to the realm of horror began with a stranger offering to show him some puppies in the back of his van...” Hardly a selling point, is it?’
Gary swiped back his script, as those in earshot laughed at Graham’s put-down. Sensing Gary was about to make a scene, Stu escorted him to one side.
‘You’ll visit me in prison after I’ve confessed to Graham’s murder?’ Stu winced at the volume and content of Gary’s rant. ‘They probably all killed Bedford in some ritualistic blood sacrifice.’ Over-hearing, this was too much for Vernon Prebble to stomach. ‘What did you say?’
Gary sneered back, childishly. ‘No-thing…’
Stu shuffled sideways to distance himself. Gary Blenny’s mouth was not his responsibility.
Inside the Chapel on the back row of pews, Gary’s tirade continued. ‘It’s a conspiracy of silence. I’ll lay money that she’s behind it all.’ Gary pointed directly at Celia Landaker.
Celia and her husband, Michael, turned their glaring heads towards the finger pointer. Hushing his irate friend, Stu looked away with embarrassment.
Gary shrugged with an exasperated single laugh. ‘True though, ain’t it?’
Stu expressed his bubbling annoyance in a sing-songy manner, smiling through his teeth. ‘You’re like that clown at the end of Trumpton, winding the credits round and round…’
Lena passed by with Emily, Ryan and Nigel, sitting down a few rows away. Stu’s forlorn expression was becoming a habit he knew he had to kick. Gary echoed these sentiments. ‘These people are not your friends. They’re not even each other’s friends.’
Around the chapel were photos of Bedford’s acting career. Elke accepted sympathetic well-wishes, dressed to the edge of appropriateness. From the middle row, Big J observed. 'Eamonn Andrews will leap out any second with his red book.’ Little J, Hugh and Paula stifled guffaws.
Gentle music began, notifying the mourners to quieten. Vernon and Vivienne Prebble approached the podium in matching tweed outfits. Ryan commented to Emily, transfixed by the Prebble’s idiosyncratic style. ‘Where do these people buy their clothes?’
The music abruptly ceased. ‘Dr. Bedford Baker was our friend. We didn’t always understand the choices he made towards the end of his life, but we know he died a happy man. The man was a legend in our books. Legends live on. Bedford’s dream of a community play did not die with him. The show will go on!’
The am-dram representatives looked at each with confused excitement. Vivienne took her turn to speak. ‘As producers of the community play, we would like to thank those who submitted a play for consideration. The deadline has now closed, and we will be announcing the winner soon.’
Stu sat up with a pained realisation that he was too late. He had fudged his chances.
The Prebbles continued their dedication to Bedford, but all Stu heard was a cacophony of swear words in his mind. Stu’s senses returned in time for Bedford’s coffin to depart to the sound of The Bee Gees’ Stayin’ Alive.
Outside the Chapel, the mourners gossiped in secretive clusters. Stu gazed out at the rows of headstones, overwhelmed by mortality. Important lives that mattered to someone, once upon a time. It only seemed to take a couple of generations to be forgotten.
‘You got a pen ‘n paper? Stu. Oi,’ elbowed Gary, nodding in Elke’s direction. ‘Poor voluptuous Elke needs a shoulder to cry on. Over dinner, preferably.’
‘Ah, nothing like an old man dying of rabies to bring two lovers together,’ said Stu.
‘It’s not like that,’ said Gary, ‘What do you take me for?’
‘A rat up a drainpipe.’ Loath to encourage Gary’s oozing chat-up lines to the recently deceased’s fiancé, Stu tore a blank page from his notepad, passing it to Gary along with a pen.
With Gary off on his quest for whatever he could get, Stu tuned into a nearby conversation between Hugh, Paula and Max. ‘Rumour has it,’ said Max, ‘Bedford had asked Lawrence Wintercoat to write the community play. So I passed by Wintercoat’s house on my morning constitutional, only to see two police cars on his driveway.’
‘You don’t think Wintercoat had anything to do with Bedford and Hilda?’ asked Hugh.
Max shook his head. ‘You can’t trust anyone these days.’
Nearby, Gary over-egged the pudding of emotional support with Elke. Victorious, Gary swaggered back to Stu waving a scrap of paper.
Stu’s head shook with dismay at Gary’s opportunistic tactics, as subtle as a car mechanic’s calendar. Gary beamed the brightest smile. ‘I got her number!’
With a combination of disgust and apathy, Stu replied. ‘What did you say to her? Come here often?’
At the cemetery gates, Stu spied the Prebbles getting into their car. He dashed into the road between parked cars. Brakes screeched. Stu screwed his eyes shut in preparation for death. His outstretched arms hovered delicately over the bonnet of a high-end motor. Eyes open, Stu forced an apologetic smile at the disapproving owners: The Landakers.
Stu flapped towards the Prebbles car, tapping on the roof. Vernon wound down his window.
‘Easy on the motor, Sonny Jim!’
‘Sorry,’ said Stu. ‘I need to ask about the playwriting competition—’
‘The competition is closed,’ stated Vernon, clunk-clicking his seatbelt.
‘But, see,’ continued Stu, ‘I know how this sounds, but I didn’t know that—’
Vivienne leant across her husband to provide the final word on the matter. ‘We can’t help you. Pru Sloman has all of the entries at her house. Deadlines are deadlines. Act quicker next time.’ The Prebbles drove away in their moss-green Triumph Dolomite, leaving Stu to idly swing his foot across loose gravel, accepting his fate.
‘There is always a way.’ Stu searched for the source of this wisdom. Ivan Stroud leant against the bonnet of a parked car. ‘Inside is a beast. You have been conditioned not to feed it. Keep your fingers away from the bars or else…’ Ivan snapped his teeth like a wild animal. ‘When they say no, you say yes.’
‘I could say ‘yes’ ‘til the cows came home. Doesn’t mean anything is going to happen,’ said Stu.
Stu’s despondency amused Ivan, who regarded him with sympathetic eyes.
‘People will always despise you for your dreams. They will hate your belief and they will hate you. That’s what you fear. That’s what stops you. The critics will try to kill you with their jealousy.
But first they must catch you.’
Ivan clenched Stu’s shoulders, spinning and slamming him up against a corrugated fence. ‘Where are you?’ growled Ivan. ‘Where’s the beast? You’re in there, I know it! Come out, come out little piggy! Squeal!’ Trembling, Stu was locked in a terrified sideways stare. Ivan finally relented, realising Stu from his grip, straightening his shirt. ‘I apologise. You are not who I thought you were.’
The Falking Hill Arts Centre was the venue for showcasing local amateur artists: Pottery, painting, and sculpture. And more specialist fayre like jam-tasting and sock-puppet interpretations of cultural icons. Prize-winning playwrights were the latest addition to the roster of local talent.
A gathering of mostly alienated pale men awaited the announcement of the winning play.
Max Monteith sat silent, on a higher plane than the rest. Hugh, Little J and Emily bitched indiscreetly about the calibre of writers in the room, in particular Brookes Manders.
Stu sulked at the back of the room, arms folded. In a side room, he spied Celia and The Prebbles, struck mortified as Bob Rothwell delivered bad news.
The Guild filed into the main room, each footstep weak with dread.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ said Vernon.
‘And lady,’ added Emily from the second-to-front row of chairs. Vernon squinted at her through his thick glasses. ‘Oh. Oh yes. So you are.’
Bob got down to brass tacks. ‘Our writing competition runners-up were Lust and Loneliness, by Emily Fothergill, and Messages From Beyond by Jeremy Wrigley. In third place was The Cardinal’s Whore, by Hugh Batey. In second place...’
Max straightened with anticipation.
‘A Bloody Liability, by Max Monteith.’ Max erupted an affronted splutter, cheeks flushed.
Celia took over from Bob. ‘The overall winner, as voted for by delegates of The Falking Hill Amateur Dramatics Guild was… Cross Your Heart by Brookes Manders.’
Brookes’ smug head wobbled with glee, armed with knowledge that nobody else possessed. Those around him spluttered applause.
Stu blinked puzzled eyes. Celia said the winner “was”. Was?
Clearing her throat, Celia strengthened her projection. ‘We, unfortunately, are the bearers of deeply upsetting news. Some of you may know Prunella Sloman. Guild leader and theatre director. Sadly there was a fire at her house…’
Vernon chipped in with the facts. ‘She escaped with smoke inhalation. The fire brigade believes a chip pan fire was—’
There was no good way of saying it. Celia had to blurt it all out. ‘Pru had all the entries at her house. I’m sorry, but all of your plays were destroyed in the fire.’
A collective mortified WHAT?! Surged from the would-be writers. If they were sad for Pru Sloman, they were horrified at the loss of their masterpieces.
A hopeful voice piped up from the back of the room. ‘I’ve got a script!’ Stu looked to Gary; his script thrust in the air. Not to be outdone by that bloody opportunist, Stu threw his hat into the ring. ‘Me too!’
‘No you don’t,’ sneered Gary.
‘Yes I do,’ came Stu’s righteous reply. There was another round of no-you-don’t/yes-I-do before Brookes stepped in to silence the bickering. ‘Chaps. Let me stop you there. No panic. I made a copy of my play. Got it right here.’ Brookes produced a brown envelope from a plastic carrier bag. Stu snatched at the envelope, but Brookes swiftly avoided contact. ‘That’s considered rude in these parts, sunbeam.’
‘Show me,’ said Stu. ‘Show me that script.’
‘I don’t answer to you, pal,’ said Brookes.
‘You didn’t write that,’ said Stu, looking from Brookes to the guild, then back again. ‘He didn’t write---You didn’t write this. Tell them.’
Brookes grew tired of Stu’s accusations. ‘Just get lost, will ya?’
Stu dived for the script, dragging Brookes to the floor. A messy scuffle ensued, before Bob and Vernon pulled them apart.
Stu swiped the script from Brookes’ hand, clawing at the pages and reading excerpts of the text with increasingly bulging eyes.
‘Lawrence Wintercoat wrote this!’ Celia stepped up, curious about Stu’s claim. ‘If this is so, I am certain Mr Wintercoat will verify this.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Brookes, ‘he’s gone missing.’
‘Probably to get away from you,’ quipped Gary.
Brookes gave Gary evil eyes. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I dunno, but it made me laugh,’ concluded Gary.
Celia approached Brookes, softly speaking. ‘I knew you weren’t to be trusted. The craftsmanship on display in this script was far too good for you.’
Brookes tried to put on a brave face. ‘Prove that I didn’t write it.’
‘Prove that you did,’ said Bob, backing up Celia’s suspicions of Brookes’ talent. Humiliated, Brookes grabbed his carrier bag and left, as Max cried out in a fevered panic. ‘I can rewrite my script! I can remember every word!’
The room fell into disorder, as desperate writers yelled over the top of each other.
The Guild Leaders retreated to the side room to discuss the next move. ‘We can’t run the competition again,’ said Bob. ‘We’ll look like imbeciles!’
Vernon offered up a suggestion. ‘Can we not simply use the Wintercoat manuscript?’ Celia rebuffed that idea. ‘Without his permission, no.’
Back in the main room, Gary and Stu stood equal, ready to plead their case Celia stared them down, wondering what she was about to get herself into.
‘You both have finished scripts.’ They nodded. Celia addressed Stu first. ‘What’s yours about?’
Stu gazed at the ceiling, struggling with his pitch. ‘Well, it’s, ummm… it’s called Maconwee’s Election… it’s set on a small island… er, it’s about an election, but it’s more a commentary… a community of outsiders, all trying to better themselves, poisoned by an obsession for success. It’s about how the community turns a blind eye to corruption, how they keep up appearances when they all have blood on their hands…’
Weary of Stu’s rambling, Bob spoke over him. ‘Wait wait wait. Just get to the point.’
‘It’s a play about a goat who is elected as the leader of a remote Scottish island,’ said Stu, surprised at his own clarity of delivery.
Gary exhaled spitty contempt, confidently slapping his script on the table which divided the guild from the plebs. Gary jabbed at the title. ‘The Man with No Skull. It’s about a supernatural pervert called Jellyhead. He’s a man with no skull, see, and…’
‘Congratulations, Stuart,’ said Celia, having heard enough.
Celia turned with a serene smile for her fellow guild leaders, having regained control of the situation. ‘Crisis? What crisis?’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022