Backstabbers - Chapter 16
The Sounds of Complaint
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
‘Is she dead?’ asked Emily.
In the rehearsal room, Big J postured before the cast, delivering news of Paula’s attack. ‘She’s in hospital. She’ll live. But she’ll be lucky if she ever sings again.’
‘Thank the Lord for small mercies…’ said Reg, but nobody questioned what he actually meant.
‘The police have arrested Tony Nedwell,’ said Vernon Prebble. ‘Her ex-boyfriend.’
‘They should have nicked Hugh,’ suggested Gary. ‘He drinks for England. A bit handy with his fists, too.’ There was a moment’s silence as everyone reflected on the news. Reg spoke softly. ‘So comes the callous question. Do we carry on?’
A stilted, affected voice from the doorway drew focus. ‘Was that ever in doubt?’ asked Ryan.
His appearance had radically altered. Gone was his slicked-down jet-black hair, now electric blue. Blue eyebrows. Blue lipstick. His skin was now porcelain white. The cast stared incredulously at Ryan’s new look.
‘The play is over when I say it is,’ said Ryan. Lena stepped forward with a burning question. ‘So… with Paula gone, who gets to play the lead?’
Behind Lena, Stu discreetly shook his head at Ryan. The director raised a finger, arm jerking towards Melody, who pointed to herself with disbelief. ‘Congratulations, Melody. Lena, you’ll take over Melody’s role,’ said Ryan. Lena’s posture deflated with disbelief.
Emily approached Ryan with a knowing grin. ‘So if Lena is playing Melody’s part, am I to presume I have Lena’s old role?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Leaving Emily to hang, Ryan clapped sharply, rousing bodies into action.
Post-rehearsal drinks in the theatre foyer were solemn and reflective, counter-balanced by the chirpy Come Back My Love by Darts. Gary fumed over a pint, clearly waiting for Stu to ask what his problem was. Stu had other matters to fixate over, like Kevin and Lena being all pally-pally with Emily and the two J’s at a distant table.
‘Tony Nedwell did not attack Paula,’ said Gary, ominously.
Unbothered, Stu poured cold water on Gary’s paranoia. ‘The police seem to think he did.’
‘What reason would Tony have for bumping off Bedford, or attacking me and Elke?’ asked Gary, annoyed at Stu’s blasé tone. ‘These are not random, unconnected events,’ said Gary, counting out on his fingers. ‘Harridan. Bedford. Pru Sloman’s house burns down. Lawrence Wintercoat: missing. Paula. No, nothing to see here.’
Within earshot, Brookes Manders spoke across their conversation, polishing off a large whiskey.
‘You forgot one. Where it all began.’ Brookes enunciated loud and clear. ‘Hartley Rumbelow.’
Curtain up was just over two weeks away, and the rehearsals limped like a three-legged dog. Ryan had a special hellish level of irritation for Emily.
‘Emily, your entrance! It’s like watching Ivor the Engine crawl up a steep hill. Go again!’ And so she did. Even slower. ‘Faster! What do I have to do? Stick a rocket up your arse?’
Aggrieved, Emily defended her craft. ‘I feel this is how my character would walk.’
‘In your opinion, Emily, not mine,’ hissed Ryan. ‘First positions, Nelly.’
Emily stomped back as instructed. Ryan clapped once, cueing Emily. She walked on, just as slow and leaden-footed as before. Ryan emitted a sound similar to Ivor the Engine chugging along. Affronted and embarrassed, Emily blurted ‘Well you can jolly well eff right off!’ before barging her way out of the rehearsal room, flapping away the tears.
Stu told everyone that he had taken to wearing dark sunglasses to hide his lack of sleep, but the truth was he could no longer look anyone in the eye, such was his anxious state of mind.
Stu lumbered upstairs, narrowly avoiding the stampeding Emily. Along the corridors, he saw the Prebbles observing the rehearsal at a safe distance, pouring scorn on Ryan’s directing prowess.
‘I’d stay out of there if I were you,’ said Vernon to Stu. ‘Ryan’s on the edge.’
Shuffling into the rehearsal room, Stu passed through the bickering without a word, invisible to them all. Making himself a black coffee in the small kitchenette, Stu kept an eye on the proceedings.
‘We are days away from opening night,’ shrieked Ryan, ‘and we’re still on the opening number! We’re here ‘til you get it right or I bludgeon you to death!’
Nigel approached Ryan, carrying a shovel. Ryan coolly avoided the nudge of Nigel’s elbow, before he spoke. ‘Ryan, I’ve spent weeks researching Victorian-era shovels and this is as close as it gets, but it’s not really correct. I was wondering if you had any ideas where I could find such an item, given your extensive expertise in all things theatrical.’
Nigel waited for a response. A flicker of warmth in Ryan’s eyes as he beckoned Nigel closer. ‘Come. Come here. I know where you can find a Victorian shovel,’ said Ryan. Nigel lent an eager ear, ready for enlightenment.
‘UP JACK’S ARSE AND AROUND THE CORNER!’
Nigel leapt out of his skin, scuttling out of sight.
In the kitchenette, detached from it all, Stu observed the resentment on the actors’ faces cranked up another notch. The sneering and muttering. The plotting.
Later in the foyer, the disenchanted cast surrounded Celia at a window table with pleading eyes. Maconwee’s Election had become Maconwee’s Revolution.
‘There must be something you can do about Ryan’s temperament?’ pleaded Reg.
‘Ryan called me ‘Ten Tonne Tessie’!’ huffed Emily. ‘He complimented me last week,’ said Lena, playing devil’s advocate. ‘Your performance wasn’t completely poo isn’t a compliment, dearest,’ replied Emily.
Little J took his turn to complain. ‘Ryan has gone proper Apocalypse Now. Scares the bejeezus out of me. And I’ve shared a dressing room with J.’
Big J dispatched a retort without missing a beat. ‘At least I don’t talk to dead people, mate.’
Celia began to explain her position. ‘The Guild has strict guidelines for the community play—’
Vivienne interrupted as her desperation could not be contained any longer. ‘Save the policy talk, Celia. The people are revolting!’
‘Especially Nigel,’ grimaced Emily.
‘Your husband’s company is generously financing this production,’ said Vernon. ‘But you can’t chequebook, Jerry your way out of this. If the play falls apart, it won’t reflect well on anyone.’
Celia took exception to this. ‘You don’t need to blackmail me, Vernon. I am aware of the danger. I can only step in should something present itself as a direct threat to the show.’
‘I found Nige in the bogs the other day,’ said Gary, ‘trying to slash his wrists with Big J’s electric razor! The whites of Big J’s were visible as he exclaimed ‘I’ve been bloody looking for that!’
‘I have known Ryan since he was a confused boy,’ said Celia. ‘I will persuade him to play nicely.’
Celia sipped her tea; her unflappable poker face was not to be confused with a perceived lack of action.
In an attempt to calm tempers and raise spirits, Celia swung a deal with Shepperton. With no show in place for Wednesday evening, the stage was free for an early morning rehearsal. Two hours to brush up on tap skills. It was the first time the cast had shared a stage. As shoulders bumped and personal space was invaded, one thing was clear:
‘We’re gonna need a bigger stage,’ said Little J.
Towel around his neck, Big J removed his tracksuit, intent on wowing the ladies with his leotard budgie bulge. Little did he know he would soon be reduced to the state of a sweaty Morph.
Daz intended on holing up in the lighting box to avoid contact with the peasants, but the continuous questions meant he had to chain-smoke in the stalls to save all the to-ing and fro-ing.
As much as he hated bearing witness to amateur offerings, Daz was blessed with a front-row seat for the hilarious dance choreography session.
Resembling a flame-haired pipe cleaner, Bonnie Inchcape and her superman husband Clive (sporting a gargantuan head of hair and tight short-shorts) limbered up before the daunted cast.
‘Right, listen! I’m in charge! I’m Bonnie, and this is my gorgeously muscular husband, Clive. Today we will teach you how to dance! No more stompy feet and beer guts!’ Clive bounded up to the unwilling participants. ‘Okay, boys and girls. We’ll break you into two groups. I see some of you remembered to dress appropriately.’
Bonnie lit up a cigarette, directly addressing Nigel. ‘Those that haven’t brought their sportswear will perform in your pants. Come on! Off!’ Nigel looked around for help, all aflutter. ‘Oh, no. I’m the props man. And I’m playing the goat, so I don’t need to— ’
‘No exemptions!’ barked Bonnie. ‘Let me see those pants!’ Off came Nigel’s beige cords and cowboy-print shirt. Sensing he was next in line, Stu retreated to the safety of the wings. There was no way in hell he was showing anyone his pants or nipples.
Backing off through the wings, Stu collided with something – or someone: Max Monteith.
Stu attempted to step around Max but was blocked by every move. Max stared to one side as if computing how to deal with Stu.
‘Y-You got what you wanted,’ quivered Stu. ‘Melody’s the lead now.’
Max spoke without emotion. ‘That friend of yours. Gary Blenny. I’ve seen how he looks at my wife.’ Stu didn’t see what that had to do with him. ‘So? Beat him up. The hell’s your problem?’
Max slapped the back of his right hand into Stu’s chest, shoving him off balance.
‘Hey, don’t touch what you can’t afford—’ was all Stu could say before Max forced him back against the ropes of the pulley system, snatching the first thing at hand from the prompt table: a discarded copy of Jackie; undoubtedly belonging to Jackie Jiggins.
Max rolled up the magazine tightly before thwacking Stu around the head with it. Cowering, Stu gasped as Max wrapped his hands around his neck.
On stage, Bonnie’s yelling and the stomping feet of the cast drowned out Stu’s strained gasps for air. He stared deep into Max’s eyes finding nothing there.
Fat sparks flew as a sonic boom from the edge of the wings threw Max off his stride, and off his balance.
Stupefied by the sudden explosion, Max fled the scene, leaving Stu to snort oxygen to the sound of his ringing ears. The disoriented cast crouched in fear, covering their ears. White smoke billowed over the cowering heads.
‘S’alright. S’fine,’ said Daz as he jogged down the auditorium steps from the lighting box. Daz leapt onto the stage, fag on his lip, kneeling beside a black Pyro box. ‘Dodgy pyrotechnic. Prone to going off at random intervals. No idea why.’
Bonnie stood over Daz, hands on hips. ‘Do you think it could not go off anymore?’
Daz blew smoke up at her. He had even less intention of fixing it. Instead, he re-set it, knowing the pyrotechnic had been on the fritz for ages. It had a mind of its own, and impeccable timing. With each random explosion, Daz feigned innocence, inspecting the pyrotechnic whilst stifling his giggles. It was worth it for the terrified expressions.
Stu thought his eyes were open, but there was nothing but blackness. He couldn’t hear anything. The realisation that death was an endless gulf of nothingness crashed over him. Yet he could smell something familiar. A hot mix of sawdust and metal shavings. He was in the wings, slumped in an alcove with no idea how long he’d been there. He tried to move. Bruises. A sore neck; the ghost of Max’s crushing grip around it.
Back home, Stu stewed in the bathtub, plotting revenge on Max. He considered reporting him to the police, but considering Max was a policeman, what was the point?
His Mum called from downstairs. Telephone.
In the living room, Stu spoke a curious hello. A firm, direct voice gave clear instructions.
‘You are Little Bastard. That is your name. I am Big Bastard. That is my name. This is how we address each other. I have information. In three days, I will call you in the morning. You will meet me if you want to stay alive. You are dealing with people more powerful than you can possibly imagine. When I contact you, it will be on my terms and without deviation.’
The mystery caller hung up. Growing up on James Bond movies, Stu recalled a time when having a codename seemed cool. Once more, real life had let him down.
Ryan paraded along a line of intimidated faces like a sergeant major about to berate his squad.
‘So you all hate me, do you? Celia relayed your message. Received and understood.’
Vernon had to say something in the vain hope of helping Ryan to understand the tension. ‘It’s not personal. We thought you could try using encouragement, instead of saying “Stop being crap”.’
‘Not personal? Trying standing where I am,’ said Ryan; his wiry arms flailing. ‘Directing you lot is like dragging a ship up a mountain! If only you knew—’
Before Ryan could continue another of his verbal nose-punches, Vernon took the lead. Ryan scuttled backwards until he was up against the wall; his powers flushed from his body as the entire cast silently filed out.
Alone in the rehearsal room, Ryan clasped his face. He practised saying sorry, as if running lines, never once sounding sincere. He rummaged for an excuse to undo his ruinous behaviour. A death in the family would elicit sympathy. Everybody got let off for acting like a berk when it came to dealing with the death of a loved one.
Ryan locked up the rehearsal room, ready to plead for leniency. As he turned the corner, a shovel swung into Ryan’s face. He spun into a freefall down a flight of stairs; limbs flailing. Lifeless and mangled, Ryan’s final position remained just out of sight from Dick Pitkin, who curiously leant over the bottom half of his office stable door, before returning to his crossword puzzle.
Burnt toast was heavily buttered to conceal the evidence, conveniently in time to The Street Band’s ode to the genius of grilled bread. A ciggy-lipped waitress delivered it to the corner table, where Gary Blenny mimed along with Paul Young’s jazzy skiddly-dooing on the radio; engrossed in the front page of the Falking Advertiser.
MASK OF DEATH! Killer at large!
To complete the lurid fear-mongering, an artist’s impression of Paula Fraygrent’s Tragedy- masked attacker. There was a caption under a blurry photo of Tony Nedwell: “Released without charge.” Ryan Deutch’s sudden exit down a flight of stairs had also made the copy.
Gary lapped up the sensationalism and speculation of Brookes Manders; his mind soaked with suspicion. How sweet it would be to discover the identity of the masked attacker. To beat Brookes to the punch. Winning was always more appealing when another person’s loss would taste so bitter.
The fuzzy sketch of Paula’s masked attacker was on every notice board and A-Frame outside newsagents. On the 365 to the theatre, Stu was surrounded by passengers hooked on the headline. Brookes had finally hit mainstream consciousness. There was a frisson of danger in the air. The people of Falking Hill had lost trust in each other. The delight Brookes must have taken in this.
In the foyer of The Bernard Saucier Theatre, Nigel played the trumpet with a sparkle-suited cabaret band. An evening of songs from television shows, for the pleasure of a small audience of O.A.P.s. The theme tune to Are You Being Served echoed through the foyer.
At a loose end, the cast buzzed around a solitary grinning theatrical mask hung on the wall opposite the theatre entrance. Only now did they realise its crying counterpart was missing.
‘Whoever the killer is,’ speculated Emily, ‘they have a sense for the theatrical.’
‘Well that’s you lot in the clear,’ said Big J without a hint of jest.
‘Pity the poor sod who takes over,’ said Kevin, whose astuteness surprised everyone. ‘It’s a flaming death wish… I mean, who’d want any part of it?’
Big J unhooked the Comedy mask from the wall, attempting to scare his friends. The shrieks were silenced by Richard Shepperton’s furiously projected reprimand.
‘Merry hell on a wet Tuesday… Take that off! NOW!’ Elbowing with incensed haste, Shepperton snatched the mask from Big J, who got as far as batting away Shepperton’s arm before finding himself pinned to the wall by his neck. Big J tried to laugh it off but was actually quaking in his boots. ‘Only joking… Blimey Charlie.’
Shepperton released Big J, regaining his composure as the red mist cleared. Shepperton swiftly departed, leaving Big J to resume normal service with his cocky bravado. ‘Ooooh I’m really scared,’ said Big J, pulling a daft face in Shepperton’s direction. The truth was he desperately needed the toilet for an urgent bowel movement and a small cry.
Celia Landaker had it all. The strength. The commitment. The thirst. As much as it irked the remaining Guild Leaders, a unanimous vote was cast. Within hours of Ryan being hospitalised, Celia was appointed the new director of the community play.
The cast was notified of Ryan’s ‘accident’ (which was met with little sympathy), followed by Celia’s string of executive decisions. ‘Our primary goal is my artistic vision, and for that to succeed I must trust my theatrical instinct. Some of the roles will be re-cast.’ A trickle of discontented tutting followed, after which it was every man for themselves.
‘I’ve attended every rehearsal,’ groused Big J. ‘I know the play like the back of my hand.’ The cast agreed that Big J was indeed over-familiar with the back of his hand. Vernon raised his hand to make a point. ‘Erm, I also have attended every rehearsal too.’
‘So? So have I,’ added Little J, ‘On and off.’
Celia silenced the dispute with a firm voice. ‘You are not here to make a name for yourself. We strive for the greater good.’
There was no point in arguing. The cast fell in line. Gary muttered to Stu out of the corner of his mouth, more deliberate and sarcastic than normal. ‘Knew it. I knew. S’joke. S’farce.’ Stu wasn’t following Gary’s train of thought, so Gary made it clear. ‘Did Ryan fall or was he pushed?’
Post-rehearsal, fearing he would be lumbered with an avalanche of notes from Celia, Stu dashed from the theatre to the car park. The Prebbles were already in their boggy-coloured Triumph Dolomite, having bolted early from rehearsal, unable to stomach Celia’s lording. Stu blocked their exit, imploring them to stay.
Vivienne wound her window down. ‘It’s over, Stuart. Celia’s happy. Got what she always wanted. You’re all hers. We shan’t be returning.’
Stu beseeched The Prebbles. ‘Don’t go. We need you. You’re the only sane ones left. Celia’s worse than Ryan. The only difference is she runs people down with a smile.’
Vernon appreciated Stu’s sentiments, but there was no changing course now. ‘We’ve got plans for Celia. Just take my advice: Just watch your back, young man.’ Vernon accelerated, scaring Stu into moving aside or being flattened. Vernon’s words hung in the air long after he had departed.
A haunting, clanging chime drew closer, as did the excitement of those in the local vicinity.
The Ice Cream Man was coming.
The ice cream van parked up on the semi-circular slip road outside the theatre. It was customary for the entire cast to pounce onto the pavement whenever the distorted tinkle of “Just one cornetto… give it to meeee…” echoed. (Stu later learned this was a famous song called O Sole Mio, and not just a ditty about lusting for ice cream.).
Stu sat on the steps, away from the energised throng hustling around the ice cream van. A curious sight caught Stu’s eye: Alan Gould was serving the customers, pulling 99s and poking chocolate flakes into them.
Once the crowd had dispersed with their treats, Stu approached the van, just as the serving hatch slid shut. Stu tapped on the glass, prompting the hatch to re-open sharply.
Alan glowered down. ‘What.’
The two old friends frowned at each other, taking a moment of recognition. ‘What are you doing in there?’ asked Stu. ‘Hairy Jim’s Dad’s in hospital,’ said Alan, ‘Arse ache. Tate ‘n Lyles playin’ up. Someone’s gotta keep the business going. Stu peered in through the hatch, spying Hairy Jim working his way through a box of wafers. ‘Y’alright, Jim?’ Hairy Jim nodded, munching.
Stu questioned them like a responsible adult. ‘I presume Graham knows about this? Who’s minding the shop?’ Hairy Jim and Alan shared a troubled glance of “Uh oh”. Feeling an estranged disconnect from his old pal, Stu said what was on his heart. ‘Not seen you for a while.’
Alan ‘hmm’d, uncaring at Stu’s observation. Detecting frostiness, Stu knew he was going to have to do the legwork in this conversation. ‘What you been up to then? Alan over-did the pleasantries, which confirmed Stu’s hunch that all was not well between them.
‘Hmm, well, let’s see… I was in the hospital. Did you know that?’ Fifty/Fifty, Stu was simultaneously concerned and guilt-tripped.
Hairy Jim helpfully filled in the details. ‘Alan tried to smash up his guitar at the end of a gig. Knocked himself out instead.’ It was difficult for Stu not to find this slightly amusing.
‘Whaddya do that for?’ Alan fixed Stu with an indignant glare. Stu stammered, digging fast for positivity. ‘Got any gigs coming up?’
Devoid of his usual free-and-easy verve, Alan shrugged; tellingly unbothered, meaning Alan could have wept for his stalling music career. ‘Got ice cream to sell,’ said Alan, nodding to the theatre. ‘I see you’re still prancing around with that lot.’
Stu hadn’t abandoned his friendship with Alan, but neither had he done much to keep it going.
‘Listen, Al…’ Stu searched for the words to restore their bond, but was unable to articulate the depths of what he was feeling. ‘Can I have a Lemonade Sparkle?’
Alan denied his request. ‘We’re out of those.’ Stu wasn’t sure if it was pity or the generosity of true friendship, but Alan took something from the freezer. ‘I recall you were always partial to a 2 Ball screwball. On the house.’ Alan handed over the plastic cone and a small wooden spoon.
The hatch slid shut. The van swerved away at speed; its musical chime reverberating like nails on a chalkboard. It felt good to have seen his old friend but disconcerting to see the career of a local rock God resemble a dropped ice cream.
Saturday morning. Stu had overslept and discovered the house curiously empty. The sleep fog cleared, and he remembered that his parents were out watching the yearly carnival parade.
Jeffrey led his troupe of teenage cadets through the high street, along with the Falking Hill Belly Dancers, a fire engine, a beauty queen on a float, and the Forsyth Twirlers majorette corp. Mayor Hazelbaker waved from the back of his car, possibly just caught in the slow-moving traffic.
At home, Stu made the most of the empty house, blaring ELP’s Peter Gunn on the turntable. His eye was drawn to a handwritten note positioned on the sideboard. A message from his Mum.
MISSED CALL:
Meet Big Bastard at midday, at the bandstand in St. Ludo’s Park.
He checked the time. Almost eleven. There was a P.T.O. Stu did as instructed.
Can your friends not use rude language on the telephone, please?
His Mum did not like swearing. She accidentally smashed a teacup the other day and only manage to muster a perplexing “Bosey Balls” to express her ire.
Big Bastard, whoever he was, wasn’t a friend. Stu reckoned it was Little J. He seemed the sort to smile in your face whilst wistfully lingering amidst malevolent daydreams.
St. Ludo’s Park was situated off a perpetually busy main road. The pronunciation of St. Ludo’s Park mystified Stu. Generations of Falking Hill residents did not pronounce it as written. Far too easy. St. Ludo’s was, in fact, St. Luddows. Much like Falking Hill was a part of Essex AND a London Borough. Was it in London? The postcode begged to differ. But how could Falking Hill be in Essex if it was a London Borough? It was the kind of conundrum which had been the cause of many a pub brawl over the years.
It was a few days into October, but the skies were still bright and cheery. Stu arrived at a bandstand, leaning on a wrought iron panel of intricate swirls. He suspected his tormentor was nearby, laughing at his gullible expression. A voice echoed across the bandstand.
‘Little Bastard.’ Stood upright, Stu turned with instant recognition. Lawrence Wintercoat.
‘Were you followed?’ asked Wintercoat, stern-faced. ‘Am I a target? Once I was in, I would never get out.’ Stu knew the feeling. Wintercoat rambled on about living and dying by swords. He was ex-MI6 and knew too much, especially regarding the inner machinations of Falking Hill.
At Wintercoat’s insistence, they strolled through a wild garden to a maze of hedgerows. Stu hoped he was being followed because he was in the middle of nowhere with a man he didn’t know. Wintercoat spoke in power game riddles. ‘This town was founded on secrecy. It is not about community. It’s about who wins.’ Wintercoat made Stu promise that he would not mention their meeting to anyone, for both of their sakes. According to Wintercoat, a “lapsus linguae” could mean a sticky end for both of them.
‘So what’s this got to do with me?’ asked Stu.
Wintercoat spelt it out to Stu. ‘You found Rumbelow’s body. You were arrested for the murder of Hilda Harridan. Dr Baker died in a frankly bizarre manner, and somehow your script rose to prominence for the community play. You are at the mercy of life, surrounded by strange circumstances, which means you can only be pivotal to uncovering the truth.’ As the information sunk in, a panic spread through Stu. ‘You don’t think I killed—’
‘Heavens no,’ reassured Wintercoat. ‘Look at you.’ Stu didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. Wintercoat expanded on his insight. ‘Recent events are not down to the universe disturbing you. Strings are being pulled. Old scores are being settled. You must flush out the killer before more people die.’ The burden of Wintercoat’s insistence felt unfair to Stu. ‘The police arrested Tony Nedwell. He seems a likely suspect.’
‘Nedwell is a diversion,’ said Wintercoat. ‘He’s weedier than you are.’
‘Brookes Manders seems to hate everybody,’ suggest Stu.
Wintercoat threw out that dead end. ‘That’s his job.’
Stu rifled through his thoughts in an attempt to come up with a plausible suspect. ‘Er… Max Monteith tried to kill me. He said he saw me ‘n Brookes at your house.’
They arrived at a small bridge and loitered on the peak of the arch, gazing out to the lake. Wintercoat disclosed information without making eye contact.
‘I know because I saw him lurking whilst I was ensconced in a tree adjacent to my house. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they came for me. I shelved the script years ago due to Ivan Stroud’s threats of libel.’ Wintercoat hesitated, a connection forming in his mind. ‘Ivan Stroud understands the play. The threat it poses. You read it, didn’t you?’ Stu awkwardly nodded, knowing he had read it at speed and skipped some of the more boring parts.
‘Then you will know what the threat is.’ said Wintercoat.
Stu tried to recall, to no avail. ‘Explain it again?’ Wintercoat exhaled, exasperation rising. ‘The play contains the identity of the killer.’ Stu switched from confused to surprised and back again. ‘Oh. Oh! Does it?’ Wintercoat’s patience was deteriorating. ‘You did read it, didn’t you? Page 75 clearly states the killer’s identity and motive.’ Riding out the tricky situation, Stu hummed with uncertainty. ‘It didn’t really come across. That’s the problem with mixed metaphors.’
‘It was an allegory,’ stated Wintercoat.
‘Allegories, metaphors, analogies… pretty much the same kettle o’ fish…’ said Stu.
‘It’s a bloody allegory,’ snapped Wintercoat. ‘You have the manuscript?’ Stu sheepishly scrutinized the ground, the sky, anything but Wintercoat. ‘Brookes took it from me.’
Wintercoat’s animated seething perturbed Stu, provoking feelings of false responsibility. Wintercoat stomped a thunderous exit, leaving Stu to flail his arms in hopelessness.
‘Well, I didn’t know! You wrote the bloody thing. Surely you remember who the killer is?’
Wintercoat yelled back with impenetrable symbolism. ‘Time!’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022