Backstabbers - Chapter 14
Day of Judgments
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
The Next day. The Bear and Hippo Pub. Gary Gilmore’s Eyes by The Adverts on the jukebox.
Gary Blenny nursed a pint, eyes glistening with rage as he relayed the previous evening’s events. ‘And like that, she was gone. Out of my life. Back to Swederland with two broken legs.’
‘To be honest, I’ve had worse dates,’ said Alan.
‘I gave her my phone number,’ said Gary, ‘but I don’t fancy my chances.’
‘A broken leg never stopped me,’ quipped Alan.
‘A muzzle and straight jacket never stopped you,’ Stu wryly noted.
Alan expanded on his story. ‘Straight up. I got off with two birds in my Mini, my leg in plaster up to here. Hopped on the back seat and stuck me leg out the window.’
Gary coughed loudly and deliberately, regaining his friends’ attention. ‘What did the police say, Gary? Good question, Gary. They wanted to nick me. Thankfully, Elke managed to speak English well enough to put me in the clear.’
Stu tried not to spit out his beer. ‘Mate. Elke speaks better English than you.’
‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’ wondered Alan. ‘I mean, you’re an annoying, antagonistic dolt on the best of days, but nothing worth killing you over.’
‘They were after Elke,’ said Gary. ‘They didn’t like it when yours truly came riding to the rescue like the old spice surfer backed by heaven’s male choir.’
Alan cackled at Gary’s yarn of heroics. ‘You’re loving this! You actually want there to be a serial killer.’
‘Because there is!’ exclaimed Gary, extending one finger at a time from his clenched fist. ‘Hilda Harridan. Bedford Baker…’
‘… He died of rabies,’ Stu flatly pointed out as Gary continued his rant. ‘Then someone attempts to kill Elke? This was no boating accident!’
Alan mumbled to himself, counting on his fingertips. Stu snapped, aggravated by Alan’s behaviour. ‘What are you doing?’
Alan explained. ‘Hilda – Grumpy. Elke - Doc... Doctor Baker… Two down. Five to go. Dopey, Sleepy, Bashful, er, happy… and old whats-his-face. Snorky.’
Gary’s eyes ignited with delirium. ‘Yes. Good. Now you’re thinking. Alan. You’ll help me catch the killer, won’t you?’
Without missing a beat, Alan reeled off his schedule. ‘I’m working Monday to Friday, Saturday is a long shift. Shop’s shut on Sunday, Sunday being God’s day of rest, so no. Sorry.’
With two days to deliver a second draft, Lena tore through the script on her sofa. Stu occupied himself by taping the best of Lena’s record collection. It was mostly older stuff, with some new releases like Kirsty MacColl’s They Don’t Know. Pausing the tape, Stu queued up Steely Dan’s Peg.
Deep in concentration, eyes locked on Stu’s script, Lena responded with automaton precision.
‘What’s the significance of the kilt? Why’s he wearing it? You’ve written here... “Her kilted lover”.’
Sheepish at his typing skills, Stu corrected Lena. ‘It’s meant to say jilted.’
Lena and Stu threw around suggestions for improvements until they hit roadblocks of personal taste. Then came the raised voices, accusations of personal attacks, and refusals to back down.
With Elke out of the play and the lead female role up for grabs, Stu paranoia grew over Lena’s insistence on improving the role by taking lines from the supporting characters.
His suspicions increased with every suggestion from Lena, even when she criticised Stu’s scene-setting description. ‘You can’t describe the clouds as “cloudy”. What else are clouds if not cloudy?’
‘Does it matter?’ fumed Stu. ‘If it’s not important, don’t write it,’ countered Lena. They argued long into the night, pacing the room and clawing at their hair and tired faces.
‘It’s the best way to end the play!’ screeched Stu. ‘The best way to end it is to end it,’ yelled Lena, jabbing at the script. ‘That is not an ending.’
Stu threw his arms up in vexation. ‘Well, maybe there’s room for a sequel! Lena had heard enough. ‘I’m going to bed.’ As she stomped upstairs, Stu waited for her to call out, inviting him up.
The summoning never came.
The dawn light broke through a gap in the long curtains behind Stu, as he slowly woke on the sofa; his body barely covered by a fluffy towel. He winced, confused as to his whereabouts. The room was still. He noticed sheets of discarded paper on the floor. Stu twisted his head, peeking through the long curtains and through the sliding doors to the back garden. He didn’t know what to do. The night hadn’t ended well, and the thought of Lena’s brusque opinions didn’t appeal.
Trainers and coat on, Stu quietly opened the front door. He glanced back up the stairs to where Lena was sleeping, so close by. His chest filled with all the things he wanted to say to her, but not one single word could break the dam of confusion. Instead, Stu stepped outside, gently closing the front door behind him, having decided it was better to leave with a scrap of dignity.
The Guild Leaders’ guarded response to the second draft of the script left Stu on edge: A third draft was requested, but the Guild agreed there was enough to work with, and went ahead with the casting re-call. In the theatre auditorium, Celia introduced Stu to Ryan Deutsch, who sat alone in the centre of the seats. ‘We’ve met before. Sort of,’ explained Stu.
‘Then you already know – sort of - Stuart, our playwright. I thought you two should discuss ideas for the show.’ Ryan spoke in his monotone voice without so much as a glance at them; index fingers propping up his chin as if he was envisioning his masterpiece of theatre.
‘I have imagined it all already. There is nothing to discuss.’
Nonplussed by Ryan’s response, Stu decided he wasn’t going to be brushed aside so easily. ‘If you need to discuss anything, I’m happy to help. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Perhaps he could fetch me a drink and maybe a light dinner. I have work to do.’ Stu looked to Celia, wondering if Ryan was for real. Vivienne and Vernon Prebble arrived, removing their coats.
‘Sorry we’re late. Our goats escaped and broke into our kitchen,’ disclosed Vernon.
Ryan shot them a look of disbelief, before hollering orders at the stage. ‘First performer, please!’ The Prebbles, Celia and Stu sat behind Ryan as, on stage, human tree trunk (and thrice as wooden) Dean Sheather stomped into the spotlight. ‘Name!’ bellowed Ryan. Bewildered and dazzled by the stage lights, Dean shielded his eyes. ‘Er... Dean Sheather?’
‘Which part are you reading?’ called Vivienne. Dean consulted the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Erm... Lesley? The goat herder.’ Stu repeated a mantra to himself in a hushed voice. ‘Lesley’s a woman-Lesley’s a woman-Lesley’s a woman...’
Already bored, Ryan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Alright, so-called Dean. Tell me a joke.’
Dean thought long and hard; flickers of ideas registering on his vacant face. ‘Uh… A horse walks into a Barbers... No, wait. Hang on...’
Ryan gave Dean the thumbs down. ‘If he can’t remember a punchline how is he going to remember his lines? NEXT!’ Dean sloped off-stage; tail between his legs. Ryan clapped his hands twice, hurrying the next performer on stage. ‘Next contestant, please!’
Melody Monteith trod from the wings without a sound. Posture closed, she gazed at the floor, timidly chewing on her bottom lip. ‘Name!’ roared Ryan. ‘Name!’
‘We know who she is, Herr Hitler,’ said Vernon. ‘When you’re ready, Melody.’
Melody collected her thoughts. Ryan huffed contempt, writing her off in his head.
Melody’s quiet voice performed The Carpenters’ Sing. Fragile, pretty, but with an honest determination. All of this was lost on Ryan, who silenced her: ‘NEXT!’
Melody shrank inside herself, making way for a tall, meek-faced young man.
Vivienne hissed at Ryan. ‘Really, is it necessary to be so rude?’ Ryan stared at Vivienne as if she had just asked the stupidest question.
Stu recognised the young man on stage as a lifeguard from the local swimming pool. Celia scrutinised the lifeguard’s appearance, impressed at his physique. ‘He’s handsome. Good posture.’
‘Face-wise he’s a jug-eared monkey,’ said Ryan.
Vivienne tutted. ‘You’re no oil painting.’
‘He could be with the amount of make-up he wears,’ said Vernon. ‘Hope it’s lead-free, Ryan!’
Ryan scowled at Vernon’s ribbing, taking it out on the poor sap on stage. ‘Name!’
The lifeguard swallowed hard, intimidated by the process. ‘K-K-Kevin Pardon.’
Ryan gestured a flamboyant hand. ‘Astound us, Kevin.’
In the spotlight, Kevin psyched up, delivering a sonnet with a squeaky, child-like voice. ‘Fffarewell Love and all thy lawes forever, Thy bayted hookes shall tangill me no more...’
Ryan stared with morbid fascination. ‘Is he doing that on purpose?’
‘Oh he’s lovely,’ cooed Vivienne. ‘His little voice...’ Ryan made himself clear. ‘We are not having that muscular simpleton doing it. I’ll play the lead before I let K-K-Kevin anywhere near it.’
Tired of Ryan’s chief humiliator routine, Stu crept away, not that he needed to be quiet. It was clear to him that his presence was not required.
The Green Room
Stu fought through a zoo of nervously energised actors, checking the fridge for anything remotely edible. On the sofa, Little J was taking bets on the casting of the play. ‘A fiver says Reg will get a part. He’s a safe pair of hands.’
Perched in the only armchair, spectacles balanced on the end of his nose, Reg McClusky perused the newspaper. A permanently chargrilled middle-aged gentleman blessed with a good head of hair, a misanthropic twinkle and an odour of fine cigars.
With a watchful eye on Reg, Big J spoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘Better hope it’s a morning show. Once the pubs are open Reg will be slurring all over the shop.’
Nigel gently elbowed Hugh. ‘I expect we’ll be seeing you leading the cast at rehearsals, Hugh.’
On the sofa with his arm around Paula, louche Hugh Batey guffawed at the thought. ‘Rehearsals? Pfft. I’ve already memorised the text.’
Stu knew that Hugh was talking out of his arse. The play wasn’t even finished. Stu considered mentioning this to improve his standing with the crowd.
‘I’m not even sure I can do the play,’ said Paula. ‘I’m auditioning for a film next week.’
‘Huh, yeah. Brenda Bristols in Confessions of a Quantity Surveyor.’ teased Hugh, which triggered his laddish sycophants to fall about laughing.
The communal joshing and cosy fellowship was a new sensation to Stu, and something inside him craved that connectedness, physically and psychologically. Stu stifled a smile – not at Paula’s expense, but at the pleasing sensation of belonging - to which Paula took exception.
Paula sucked the insides of her cheeks as she sized up how to destroy Stu. It was one thing for her fellow actors to take the rise, but not some nobody like him.
‘Our resident Shakespeare,’ said Paula, intending it to be disparaging. ‘I’m keen to hear your opinion on the production so far. Is it all you imagined? All you dreamed of? Remember us when you’re famous, won’t you?’
‘Pfft, yeah right. Only if Celia Landaker says it’s okay,’ said Stu, instantly regretting being so outspoken as a stern voice clipped his final syllable. ‘Reg McCluskey. To the stage, please.’
Reg stood up, arms commanding a passage through the bodies like Moses parting the waves. Celia smiled benignly at Stu with the knowledge that, judging by his fear-struck eyes, Stuart Ostridge would live to regret making humorous asides about Celia Landaker.
Water splashed onto Stu’s face. Doubled over at a sink in the Gent’s toilets with Sad Cafe’s Every Day Hurts echoing from the bar, Stu reeled at his behaviour. Belittling Celia was a cheap shot, even if there was a whiff of truth about Celia striving for total dominance. Gazing at his reflection, wondering if he recognised himself anymore, Stu’s introspection was cut short.
‘I’ve got a question for you. One that’s been on my mind,’ said Max Monteith, stepping out of a cubicle behind Stu. ‘How did you know the Brookes Manders’ play was in fact written by Lawrence Wintercoat?’
Stu faced Max to avoid leaving himself vulnerable. ‘Have you read any articles written by Brookes?’ said Stu in a feeble attempt to keep things light.
‘I saw you at Wintercoat’s house, climbing through the window with that guttersnipe Brookes Manders.’ Stung by the exposure, Stu tried to ride out Max’s accusing glare.
‘From one writer to another,’ continued Max, ‘when I’m creating scenarios, I ask “What if… What if this happens? Then what?” What if… What if I told the police it was you that ransacked Wintercoat’s house?’ Max jabbed Stu in the chest. Again. And again. His usual unsympathetic tone was now deathly. ‘You will ensure my wife is cast in the lead role. My wife, Melody. Lead role.’
‘The lead role has a beard,’ squirmed Stu.
‘The lead female role, you turd.’ With each poke, Stu’s cheeks increased in redness. Finally, he deflected Max’s pointed finger. ‘Look, I’m not your wife, mate…’
Max thumped Stu in the eye. Stu’s world paused at the realisation that he had been punched properly for the first time in his life. Even though Stu was taller, Max grabbed him by the collar, dragging him head-first towards an open toilet bowl. Stu struggled and thrashed, desperate not to make contact. Max growled as he throttled Stu.
‘You’re only here because they had nothing else. You didn’t win anything. I can make you vanish like blood, grass stains, gravy and egg. Like you were never here. And nobody would care. Got it?’
Inside the auditorium, Stu swiftly retook his seat; nursing a sore eye and hoping that nobody would notice that he had been crying. What was he thinking? Of course nobody noticed. All eyes were transfixed on Lena, performing Buenos Aires on stage.
Down in the bar, Fred Scrim poured pints with a suspicious scowl. Stu collected his lager, smiling his gratitude. The barman didn’t flinch a facial muscle. Ryan, Celia, and The Prebbles conferred in a darkened corner, away from the eavesdroppers and those desperate for fame.
‘What about Nigel Chavis for the role of Fingal?’ suggested Vernon. ‘His back end of the horse in last year’s Panto was extraordinary.’
‘Bottom line: Nigel looks like he would attack you in the toilets,’ said Ryan.
‘With Elke out of the picture, we need a new lead female. Suggestions?’ said Vivienne.
‘Paula Fraygrent was solid,’ said Vernon. ‘Great set of lungs.’
This amused Ryan. ‘A disposition for the ol’ saucy milkmaid, eh?’
Vivienne glared at Vernon, who gaped with denial at Ryan’s insinuation. Celia suggested Lena for the lead. ‘She’s capable. Meaning we won’t have to nanny her.’ Max’s zinging right hook proved to be a helpful reminder.
‘Hmm... I don’t know,’ said Stu. ‘Lena’s fine, but... Not exactly what I imagined when I was writing.’
‘First rule of drama,’ said Celia, ‘Kill your darlings.’
‘Not. Her,’ said Stu.
‘Well, I’m sorry but Elaine Page is a little busy,’ said Celia.
Ryan backed up Celia. ‘I suppose you’d prefer Emily Fother-bloody-gill?’
Vivienne gasped at Ryan’s callousness. ‘Ryan! She’s your friend.’
‘Viv, there are trees in the park with more range than Emily,’ said Ryan.
There was no good way of saying it, so Stu just blurted it out. ‘Melody Monteith’s good. Excellent, in fact. She’s exactly what I had in mind when I wrote the part. I’d go with Melody, definitely.’
The conflab descended into a quarrel as, across the bar, Stu saw Lena with her admirers, throwing their heads back with laughter. A pursed, secretive smirk grew on Stu’s face.
The stage was packed with eager faces, awaiting the Guild’s decision. Stu hovered in the safety of the apron, ready to avoid the blame for any disappointment. Like a town crier, Vernon delivered the guild’s verdict.
‘When I read out your name, step forward. If I do not read out your name, you do not have a speaking part, but you are welcome to join the chorus.’ The actors shared shifty glances. Nobody believed that crap for a second. ‘Here we go. For the role of Sister Jinty: Emily Fothergill!’
Emily proudly lurched forward to trickling applause.
‘Justin Cathro as Fingal the Policeman. Jeremy Wrigley as Tavish the Shepherd. Dean Sheather as Paddy the Fisherman. Reg McCluskey as the Mayor. Lena Darrow as Aunt Elspeth.
Bewildered, Lena looked to Stu for an explanation. He shrugged; absolving himself. Vernon continued. ‘Melody Monteith as the mayor’s daughter. Gary Blenny as Robbie the Post boy.’ Stu looked away with a mystified scowl, unaware that Gary had even auditioned.
‘And for the male lead role of Hamish Maconwee, Kevin Pardon.’
Hugh Batey’s self-satisfied smile lost its footing and fell to its death. To add insult to injury, Vernon announced ‘The goat will be played by Hugh Batey,’ which prompted Hugh to baulk a mystified ‘What?’
‘For the lead female role of Iona Campbell,’ said Vernon, ‘Paula Fraygrent.’ Paula gawped, as equally bamboozled as her cast-mates.
As the excitement waned and disappointment bubbled up, the group disbanded. Some were jubilant, others bitter with rejection. One of the aggrieved, Hugh Batey, furiously paced up to Ryan.
‘You chose that lanky streak over me?’ But Ryan didn’t express even a flutter of remorse. Knowing he was wasting his time, Hugh then pleaded with Vernon. ‘Please. Let me be great.’
‘Our decision is final,’ said Ryan, then insincerely, ‘Do you not want to play the goat?’ Hugh took stock of the situation. On-stage was better than off. ‘I never said that…’ As Hugh retreated into the wings, Ryan bleated, goat-like.
Stu approached Gary, astonished at his professional hypocrisy. ‘Is this all part of your Agent of Chaos thing?’ Gary gave an unsubtle nod and wink in Melody’s direction. ‘I can think of worse ways to spend my evenings.’
Vivienne recalled one final name to announce as the actors dispersed. ‘Oh! Oh! Last but not least… Nigel Chavis will be the Props Master.’ Teeth gritted, Nigel raised a clenched fist of an achievement grasped.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022