Backstabbers - Chapter 17
Those that Trespass
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
Monday morning commuters trudged inevitably towards the station. Ploughing in the opposite direction, Stu psyched himself up with a pep talk on how to approach Brookes. If he was to retrieve Wintercoat’s script, he had to deal with Brookes on his level of operating. No mincing of words.
The first port of call was The Ringer & Bell’s End pub. Brookes used his valuable pub time to legitimize a weekly quiz in the newspaper. He would photograph a location somewhere in Falking Hill (usually in or outside a pub), and readers would submit answers on a postcard in hope of winning a signed photo of Brookes. It was his favourite task of the week, and it served as an aide memoir, as he often woke on random benches with a cracking hangover.
As expected, Brookes Manders was perched at the bar, his home-from-home. Stu delivered his demands with his best attempt at supremacy. ‘We need to talk about Wintercoat’s script.’
Brookes slowly turned on his bar stool, taking a sip from his ale. By the hazy look in his eyes, he’d already had a few. ‘Y’know, it’s difficult to sound menacing with I’ve got a brand new combine harvester blaring out the jukebox.’ Stu knew he was going to have to change tact if he was going to get any cooperation from Brookes.
‘Listen… About that community play business. I didn’t mean for you to be humiliated or—’
‘You think you can just apologise? Kiss and make-up? You have got no idea what’s coming for you, sunbeam. That play is going to be the death of you. So watch your back.’
Celia arrived at the evening rehearsal on the strings of Jaws (in Stu’s head, anyway). After a minute of courteous chit-chat where Stu and Celia concealed their lack of interest in each other, Stu enquired about Wintercoat’s play. Naturally, Celia’s response was cagey.
‘The manuscript Brookes Manders submitted? What do you want with it?’
Celia was the last person Stu wanted to confide in. He wasn’t about to blow Wintercoat’s cover. Playing it cool, Stu shrugged. Forget about it. Celia did just that, clapping her hands loudly to inform the actors that the rehearsal was starting. Nearby, Little J scuttled up to the freshly arrived Big J, jabbering animatedly. ‘Did you hear about Tony Nedwell? He’s collected a Get Out of Jail Free card. The landlord at The Flying Fork vouched for him.’
Stu gnawed on his bottom lip, scanning the faces in the rehearsal room. Emily. Celia. The J’s. Kevin. Lena. The killer could have been hiding in plain sight and he would never know. He had suffered enough metaphorical knives in his back recently, but the one he feared the most was only a matter of time, and Stu knew he would never see it coming.
The only thing that saved Stu’s sanity during the latter months of nineteen seventy-nine was his diary. It was the only safe place to express what he truly felt. Of course, he lived in constant fear of somebody finding it, or his thoughts shaping mankind’s opinion even after he was long gone, but it was either the diary or adopting his own mask of death and bludgeoning the entire cast and crew of Maconwee’s Election.
5th of October 1979
I spent yet another rehearsal sitting in the kitchenette, listening to Leo Sayer’s How Much Love on Little J’s portable radio. He prides himself on having the latest gadgets, so he’s good for something, at least.
I must have spooned twelve heaps of sugar into my coffee as my burning gaze lingered on Lena and Kevin’s larks. They play their roles too well.
In a desperate bid to reduce their interaction, I ploughed through the script, scrambling for ways to keep them apart. Cut a line here, give a line away… Anything to keep them apart. I’m not saying it should be me she’s palling around with, but just not him. What is wrong with me?
7th of October 1979
Behind the scenes, the cast has begun to refer to the show as “120 Days of Sod It”. They have made their pact and will see it through to the bitter end, dedicated professionals that they are, but everyone knows they would rather be doing something less boring instead of being repeatedly shouted at by Herr Director Celia. Her Dalek-like authority has divided the company into two factions: The incessant grumblers and the weeping-behind-the-smiles.
‘Nobody is invisible on stage!’ declared Celia loudly. ‘If in doubt, chin up, tits out!’ If I hear that one more time…
Celia ordered Big J to be “quicker and better”, prompting Little J to remark “That’s what she says to her husband.” Celia picked up on their sniggering. Thought she was going to sack him on the spot. Instead, she issued another of her cryptic threats: “Jeremy Wrigley. A word of advice. To play dead, darling, you don’t have to die.” Celia's critiquing never ends.
‘Melody! Vocal projection! Strength and resonance. You want the audience to hear every word!’ Poor mouse-like Melody nodded meekly, only for Celia to scare the life out of her. “YES CELIA! Voice! Use it!”
“Kevin Pardon! In the script, it states the villagers jump up and down in jubilation. You were just jumping up and down.” All of this ball-breaking has only cemented the bond between Kevin and Lena. I can barely stand seeing my reflection above the kitchenette sink. The epitome of jealousy, I swallow my self-disgust.
11th of October 1979
The tripping. The stumbling over words. The bumbled walk-ons and forgotten exits. I have created a monster which will devour us all. I can barely bring myself to watch. I cringe my way through every rehearsal. What on earth convinced me that I could create anything of value?
All of my hopes and dreams have been dashed against the rocks. The play is going to be a disaster – not solely down to me – but it will be awful, and the blame will fall squarely on me. Not because Big J can’t sing for a toffee or Emily’s absence of timing… I have brought about my own curse and will suffer the consequences.
Late afternoon I hid in the bar to numb the horror of the rehearsal room. There’s only so much crap I can view through my fingers. They are all simply terrible. Not just in their creative endeavours, but as human beings. Awful, awful people. They bitch, they moan, and they’re all talking about each other behind their backs. Yes, Dear Reader, I know: “And what am I?” How do I save myself from going to the dark side? Or maybe I was already here, waiting for my moment?
The final straw came when the rehearsal ended, and the cast descended to the theatre bar, instantly ruining the tranquillity. I heard Big J making one tacky proposal after another to anyone with female parts, greasing them up with the invite to “an evening of wine-tasting”.
Urgh.
But then he moved on to Lena and Emily. “Ladies. The party is on. Tonight. Come see the new pad. Black Tower’s chilling as I speak.”
Emily had the good sense to reject his offer: “Washing my hair”. I could imagine how long such a task would take Emily, with her enormous, straw-like mane. Must be like grooming a herd of Shetland ponies.
Kevin attempted to muscle in on the invite, no doubt hoping to make his final move with Lena. Big J’s disbelief teetered on guffawing at the bright-eyed, daft puppy. There was no way Big J was permitting anyone he regarded as serious competition. The thought of Lena and Kevin being an “item” repulses me, but comparing a doltish lifeguard to a toxic oil slick of a car salesman, Big J poses a far bigger threat than dopey dimwit Kevin Pardon.
His invite to Lena was akin to witnessing the wolf luring Red Riding Hood closer to see his impersonation of Granny. I had to be at that party. To keep Lena safe.
She has to be protected for the good of the show. At least that was the excuse I told myself when I approached Big J, intent on scoring an invite to his so-called housewarming. I used the pretence of Big J’s dialogue, dangling the carrot of beefing up his role. Really laid it on thick. Kept it low and edgy. Said I could talk to him about it at his place that evening, knowing he would say no because of his sleazy evening of trying to cop off with Lena.
“Not tonight, Josephine.”
‘Ah, shame. I’d written a great scene which would have really elevated your character into something more heroic and far less forgettable, but that’s ok I can scrap it—’
And lo, my invite to Big J’s party was secured. Muppet.
Needle to the groove, Belle Epoque’s Black is Black crackled. Big J glanced over his shoulder with a suave smirk; nodding to the beat. Big J evidently liked the music. He loved the disco sound.
‘Welcome to the Love Pad.’
The “Love Pad” was a luridly decorated semi-detached house in desperate need of a feminine touch. A hostess trolley laden with two brands of wine confirmed the lack of imagination. A fondue set on the dining room table was a token gesture of nourishment.
Leading a tour around the living room, Big J pointed at his possessions. ‘That’s new. The sofa’s new. The Hi-Fi, too. Check out the bass on the speakers.’ Big J twisted the volume control to full blast. Lena, Jackie, Wesley, Little J and Della trembled from the soundwave. The large speakers perched upon metal frames with wheels, presumably for ease of mobilisation should Big J ever need to defend himself against the Death Star.
‘Table and chairs are new. Carpet. Gonna get someone in to deal with the wallpaper. Ain’t got the time for all that lark. Too busy earning. Oh! Check this out!’ Big J scooped up a cheap ‘n shiny trophy from a nearby shelf. ‘Salesman of the month!’
The doorbell rang. Little J raised a finger, ‘Ah, that will be your new doorbell.’ Big J shot his pal a sarcastic smile, leaving his guests to exhale their true feelings of boredom.
‘Love Pad?’ said Wesley. ‘It’s more of ‘Boxy Love Squat.’
‘He told me loads of people were coming?’ said Della, looking around the mostly empty room.
Lena grabbed a wine glass. ‘Bollocks to ‘im. I’m not waiting any longer.’ Lena filled a wine glass to the top. Getting plastered made total sense.
Big J re-entered with Stu, flowing seamlessly back into showing off. ‘Like the cushions? Got them from Habitat.’
Stu’s skin prickled. Big J’s interior design had it all. Blake’s 7-style sofa. A step leading down from the dining room into the living room, like George and Mildred’s snobby neighbours’ house. It was as if Big J had stolen Stu’s tick-list of trivial consumerism. He even had a soda stream. Son of a…
Stu broke from his jealous aching, as Lena spoke with a raised eyebrow of amusement. ‘How did you get an invite? Promise to give J more lines?’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t cramp your style,’ said Stu.
‘It’s only cheese and wine, Stuart.’
‘Hmm, then a quick game of naked Twister.’
‘Well, I’m sure he’ll let you join in. Big J won’t feel threatened, I’m sure.’
‘Not sure I like the implication… Listen, that spiv has dark thoughts concerning you. I heard him in the kitchen talking to Bodie and Doyle. How he hopes you get to play with them tonight. He was referring to his testicles. He’s named his balls Bodie and Doyle.’
‘And? Christopher Gothard refers to his knackers as Simon and Garfunkel. That’s what boys do.’
The image of that conversation was sickening. Bewildering. Was Stu the only boy in Falking Hill not to have named his own nuts… as if, somehow, he was the freak of nature?
‘I don’t need you watching over me,’ said Lena. ‘Or is that what’s bothering you?’
From the living room, Wesley joyfully exclaimed. ‘Guess what I found down the side of the sofa! Mayfair! Oooh, nudie pics!’ Magazine snatched from Wesley’s clammy hand, Big J stomped upstairs. Ludicrous interruption over, Stu went out on a limb. ‘Lena. We hardly speak to each other these days… that Kevin fella’s always hanging around…’
Lena saw straight through his meandering. ‘Say it. It’s not difficult. What am I to you?’
‘Well… yeah. That.’
‘Hmm. I like having you around. You fill a room nicely.’
‘Oh. Oh, that’s nice for your house. Brilliant.’
‘You’re... Homely. Dependant. I’d only ruin your life. Do you have to spoil things?’
Exhausted at Lena’s “let’s not over-complicate things” vibe, Stu went for broke. ‘What is going on here? Me and you.’
Lena couldn’t quite believe Stu could be so confused and made it crystal clear. ‘Nothing.’
Stu stepped into the living room, pouring himself a huge glass of wine to distract the tears behind his eyes. Lena spoke softly close to Stu’s ear.
‘If you’re not careful, you’ll have nothing left. Nothing to care for.’
Stupefied, Stu held the same senseless expression for the rest of the evening.
Wesley and Jackie had become so bored they decided to snog on the couch, prompting Big J to double-take with a Captain Scarlet staccato drumbeat. Nearby, Della fixed herself another drink.
‘Ah, the little loves. All rat-arsed on the devil’s Advocaat.’
Big J whispered conspiratorially to his shorter counterpart. ‘‘Ere. How comes the laughing cavalier’s getting off with Jackie? I thought he was bent?’
‘He is,’ confirmed Little J. Big J couldn’t wrap his brain around it. Why would a “first-rate sort” like Jackie Jiggins choose Wesley over him? Big J could only conclude that Jackie must be a bit “funny” too. This inexplicable turn of events reduced Big J’s prospects of copping off with a lady.
With no time to waste, he forcefully guided Lena towards his sofa. ‘Come. Join me in my conversation pit.’
Belle Epoque made way for Cerrone’s Supernature. Alone, Stu flicked through a small collection of LPs on the sideboard. One compilation album after another; always with scantily-clad women posing provocatively in unzipped gold jumpsuits and ill-fitting stretched-to-save-modesty t-shirts. Big J’s taste in album covers spoke volumes about his disinterest in music.
At the dining room table, Little J and Della sat hunched. Stu wondered what they were up to, and soon wished he had stuck with the Page 3 album cover girls.
A Ouija board. Eyes closed in concentration, Della communicated with the afterlife. Stu smirked at the thought of the poor ghosties having to show up at this particular party. As if they hadn’t suffered enough already. Stu took a seat at the end of the table, communicating with liquid spirits.
‘Spirits of the deceased,’ said Della, ‘we speak to you with respect and mean you no ill. We ask for your superior guidance. Tell me the identity of the masked killer.’
Fingertips on the planchette, Della’s hands are guided towards ‘NO’ on the board.
‘Then tell us the name of the next victim,’ said Della.
Again, the answer is ‘no’. Stu shook his head at such nonsense. ‘Might as well be using a cribbage board.’
‘Not a believer, then?’ enquired Della. ‘He is. He just doesn’t want to admit it,’ said Little J, who had an aggravating way of speaking as if he knew better than anyone else.
‘I find life terrifying enough without dabbling in ghoulies,’ said Stu.
‘He’s just bitter that Lena’s gonna be dabbling in Big J’s goolies,’ said Little J to Della.
‘Yeah? Do that blindfolded then,’ said Stu, gobby and confrontational. ‘Mysteriously, correct spelling went out the window…’
‘Wait ‘ere. I’ve got something that will make you think twice,’ said Della, scuttling out to the hall with a jangle of clashing bangles and necklaces. When the coast was clear, Little J threw his arms up at Stu. ‘Do me a favour, go home. There’s nothing for you here.’
‘I’m not cramping your style. You two are made for each other. Sapphire and Steel,’ said Stu.
Della returned, carefully placing a covered object on the table. She unveiled a crystal ball.
‘This will convince me,’ said Stu, deadpan. ‘Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, said the bishop to the actress!’ Della guffawed saucily. Stu rolled his eyes, now at maximum grump.
Della positioned her hands over the crystal ball, gliding them above the surface. ‘I can see… a shop. I think it’s… yes, it’s Woolworths. They’re shut.’
‘It’s Sunday. All shops are shut. It is Sunday, isn’t it?’ frowned Stu.
‘Let’s have a gander into your future, shall we?’ Within seconds, Della’s breathing slowed. She paled, pulling away. She hurriedly covered the ball. ‘What… what did you see?’ asked Stu. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Without explanation, Della collected her ball and Ouija board, leaving without any farewell. ‘Oh well done,’ said Little J, expressing disapproval with a slow head-shake as he removed a board game from his bag on the table. ‘Escape from Colditz it is, then.’
A framed black and white print of a topless model emerging from a swimming pool hung on the bathroom wall. Sat on the toilet, Stu stared at two fitted bathtubs, side by side. It was amazing how much stuff Big J could squeeze into his house. There was barely room for his ego.
Stu’s head dropped into his hands. If Della’s prediction suggested the rest of his life was destined to be crap, the future was now. He flip-flopped between staying and going. Between wanting to save Lena and leaving her to Big J’s grubby daydreams…
Stu tilted his head. Beneath the nudie pool lady was a poster of a theatre production. “Justin Cathro as Jack the Ripper”. There was Big J, posing ridiculously in an attempt to embody menace. In a cape and top hat, Big J smacked of Dracula at a cheap disco.
The compilation album had moved onto another anonymous offering (Space – Magic Fly). Stu interrupted Big J and Lena’s intimate sofa chat on the pretence of needing help with something.
Out in the hall with Lena, Stu switched from smiles to verging on frantic. ‘Go upstairs! Have you seen his bathroom?’
‘I know! His ‘n Her bathtubs. How cool is that!’ said Lena, genuinely impressed.
‘We are not safe here.’
‘I’m not. Don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. Wesley’s gone home with Jackie.’
‘I’m talking about him in there with the Space Ghost bum-chin, dressed up as Jack the Ripper, said Stu. ‘He played Jack last year. I was one of his victims,’ revealed Lena, drifting off in memories. ‘It was dreadful… I was good.’
‘What more proof do you need? The cape, the hat…’
‘I suppose you would dress Jack the Ripper in a frock and pigtails?’ said Lena.
Stu’s head rolled with predictability. ‘You always do this…’
‘You don’t know me well enough to make statements like that,’ said Lena, continuing after a pause. ‘Do what?’
‘Play things down. Like it’s all irrelevant.’
‘Oh dear… wait ‘til you find out Orac is just a transparent plastic box of Christmas lights… I dressed up as Snow White once upon a time. Doesn’t mean I’m a Princess,’ said Lena.
Stu muttered an aside. ‘Don’t I bleedin’ know it.’
Lena trailed off with a string of ‘fine, right, yeah, good…’ Stu cringed at how ridiculous he sounded. Big J filled the doorway with his dominating frame. Before Stu could utter a word:
‘I intend to boom-bangabang tonight if you know what I mean. Be a good lad ‘n push off.’
No follow-up questions were required.
The stench of his own infantile predisposition for fantasy objectification cloyed. Stu had placed Lena on a towering pedestal because Princes rescued Princesses. A short, sharp slap of realisation: He was not a Prince and Lena wasn’t a prize to be won. Betrayed by his naiveté, Stu left as if he were never there.
In the middle of the night, Emily stirred from a deep sleep. Fists. Pounding on a door downstairs. Unbolting the front door, Emily was shoved aside by a soot-smudged Lena and the two Js.
Emily gasped at their state. ‘What the bloody hell happened?
Lena recounted her tale with the verbal brilliance of a slightly above-average storyteller.
Back at Big J’s house, the hour was late. Little J had moved on to singing along with show tunes. As he rocked out to Superstar, “Don’t you get me wrong”-ing, his desperately lonely host unleashed a last-resort romantic gesture. Big J lunged a grabby hand at Lena’s right breast. With the reactions of a sexually harassed Bruce Lee, Lena blocked the move. ‘Oh, why not? Don’t be so boring! Just a quickie. Come on. Please.’
Lena wriggled out of Big J’s grasp. ‘Emily’s single. I can put a word in for you.’
‘Emily?’ cried Big J. ‘Have you heard the way she carries on? “The ache of my heart knowest the thrusting blade of love”. It’s bloody aggravating.’ (Lena didn’t recount this part to Emily, for obvious reasons.)
The sound of a window smashing from somewhere upstairs ceased the conversation.
At the bottom of the stairs, Big J listened out, backed by Lena and Little J.
‘Are you going to investigate?’ asked Lena.
Little J tutted. ‘If only I had my bowie knife on me.’
‘Listen to you being hard,’ said Big J, ‘you’re behind the sofa at the first whiff of a Dalek.’
Exasperated at the bravery-avoidance, Lena grabbed a fondue stick from the living room table, brandishing it like a small rapier. Leading the boys upstairs, Lena cautiously scouted the rooms.
In the back bedroom, a breeze of night air drew Lena to a shattered window. Irate, Big J paced up to inspect the damage. ‘Oh do me a favour…’
Little J crouched, inspecting a brick on the carpet, gazing up with concern. A barrage of fireworks erupted outside in the back garden. This bizarre assault on the eyes entranced them. Big J took the credit, even though he had no idea what was happening. But Lena was dazzled, and Big J wasn’t going to let anything get in the way between his loins and Lena.
Outside on the patio, Big J, Lena and Little J stood in rapture as fireworks launched from the darkened far end of the garden. Lena shivered in the brisk chill of the night air. Big J used this as an excuse to drape an arm around her. Once more she denied his quest for contact.
‘Just gonna grab my coat.’ Lena scuttled back into the house. The final firework fizzled out, failing to ignite. Big J took a step towards the dead firework, restrained by Little J.
‘Don’t go back to it. You never go back to a firework.’ Ensuring Lena wasn’t around, Big J lowered his voice. ‘For your information, I didn’t arrange any of this. Someone’s down there.’
Unsettled, they crept towards the source of the fireworks. Something lit up in the void, hissing. From out of the blackness, a rocket shot past Big J’s head. He spun to avoid it, falling off balance onto the damp grass. Another firework was lit as the first exploded.
In the hall, coat on, Lena flicked her hair out of the collar. She sniffed. Sniffed again.
In the back garden, a horizontal airstrike of colourful missiles exploded around the two Js.
A large rocket whooshed past the cowering young men as Lena ran screaming from the house.
‘Run!’
Lena cleared the patio as the rocket flew through the open sliding doors, detonating inside.
Big J’s house exploded in a deafening blast.
Thrown to the far end of the garden, the trio glanced back with ashen-faced dismay.
Back at her own house, Lena brought her tale to a close.
‘Gas leak. All the emergency services were there. Pretty exciting, actually.’
Emily said she would put the kettle on, and scuttled off to the kitchen. Lena called out to her. ‘I said J could move in with us until he gets back on his feet.’ A cup smashed in the kitchen.
Big J sniffed, fighting back the tears. Lena took Big J by his limp wrist, mother to child. ‘Come on. I’ll show you your room.’
Big J found the strength to remain unmoved, stopping Lena in her tracks.
‘I… I don’t think I can sleep alone tonight.’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022