Backstabbers - Chapter 19
The Local Power
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
Another sonic boom from the faulty pyrotechnic in the wings left the cast on stage huddled in tired, confused terror. Daz bounded down the auditorium steps, cigarette on lip. ‘S’alright. S’fine.’
‘Do you think you could fix that bloody thing before curtain up?’ asked Celia.
‘Dunno why it keeps doing it,’ said Daz, aggravated at Celia’s caustic request.
‘Well find someone who does know!’ lambasted Celia, turning sharply to the cast, still fuming. ‘First positions! Remember: If in doubt…’
The entire cast reeled off the final part of Celia’s advice, raising their chins and thrusting out their chests. ‘Chin up, tits out.’
A voice from the back of the stalls echoed with crystal clear enunciation. ‘I have received a telephone call, regarding something or someone called “The Prebbles”. It is my sad duty to inform you they have been found… deceased.’
The shockwave hit everybody. Celia bowed her head as tears trickled, most of them genuine. Gary embraced Melody with a reassuring hug, provoking a furious roar from offstage.
‘Get away from my wife!’ Max emerged from the wings, ploughing across the stage towards Gary.
‘Forget it, Max. It’s musical theatre,’ advised Little J. But Max was having none of it, as he drew back his clenched fist, ready to knock seven bells out of Gary.
On cue, Stu rushed out from the wings behind Gary, perspiring and breathless. ‘Does anyone know where I can find Hugh Batey—’
Gary ducked as Max swung his fist, lamping Stu squarely into unconsciousness. Melody backed away, wide-eyed as her husband trained his furious spotlight upon her. Kevin dived into action with a flying punch. Max side-stepped the blow. Instead, Kevin’s power punch clocked Little J. Another unconscious body collapsed onto the boards.
‘Oh, my word!’ screeched Emily, retreating into the wings as Max lunged an open hand at Melody’s neck. Nigel bounded in; his prop shovel raised. Max cowered at the sight of Nigel’s dominance; an ant to a boot.
Daz marvelled at Nigel’s heroics. ‘Never mess with a man carrying a sack, rope and a shovel.’
Riding to the rescue far too late, Emily hurried back clutching a mug. She slung the meagre milky content into the face of Max Monteith. The stage fell silent at Emily’s bizarre gesture of peace-making. Milk drained from Max’s face as Celia confronted him. ‘Get out of my theatre.’
Max malfunctioned into a mad laughing fit as he tried to outrun his humiliation.
Shepperton spoke softly, now looming behind Celia. ‘Your theatre, Celia?’ Celia faced him; her cast-iron poise and steely eyes not giving an inch.
Nigel and Big J lugged Little J off stage. Lena and Emily checked on Stu. ‘He’s alive,’ said Emily with breathless drama. ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’ asked Lena, incredulous at Emily’s verdict.
‘People can die from one punch,’ said Emily.
Woozily seeing stars, Stu sat up. He clutched his bruised eye, speaking through gritted teeth.
‘Where can I find Hugh Batey?’ Lena and Emily looked at each other curiously, before Lena answered. ‘The pub. Where else?’
‘Which one?’ asked Stu.
‘The rough one at the marketplace. He’s been banned from everywhere else.’
Stu struggled to his feet, lumbering off-balance into a pace. Lena called out his name, which was enough for him to stop and look back at her. ‘Make sure you tell your Mum and Dad where you’re going.’ Whatever that was supposed to mean, it was uncalled for. Stu sneered at her catty send-off.
The Bald Robot Cowboy public house was the roughest pub in Falking Hill. When Obi-Wan referred to Mos Eisley as a treacherous hive of scum and villainy, he had clearly never stepped one foot in that place. Stu crept across the uneven creaky floorboards; feeling the eyes of fifty rough-looking lowlifes following him across the pub.
Catching sight of Hugh Batey entering the toilets, Stu tutted his grievance at the two louts, moving on in pursuit of Hugh.
The floor of the gents’ toilets was two inches deep in water or wee, perhaps both. A dim light concealed whatever monstrosities lurked in the further reaches. A cubicle door slammed. Stu called out to Hugh. No answer. ‘Hugh? Hugh Batey?’ A deliberately silly voice replied. ‘He’s not here.’ Frustrated at the silliness, Stu upped the ante. ‘Hugh! What are you drinking?’ Hugh’s head jutted out from the cubicle, interest piqued.
Stu’s plan to get Hugh drunk in the hope he would confirm Wintercoat’s story was well ahead of schedule. Hugh could hardly sit straight, and the night hadn’t even begun. The two shared scotch and sympathy, bemoaning their fates to the pomp and plod of Supertramp’s Breakfast in America. Hugh became overcast, spiralling into depressed musings on the Prebbles’ demise. Word always travelled fast in Falking Hill, but this was a world record breaker.
‘A passing neighbour heard the Prebbles’ dogs barking,’ Hugh solemnly spoke, swirling his drink. ‘They investigated their smallholding… found Viv trapped under a large grate. Crushed. The authorities believe Vernon, in his distress, fell or threw himself into a slurry pit.’
The terrible news sank into Stu’s heart. How undeserving The Prebbles were of such a fate. A pertinent question rose to the forefront of his thoughts. ‘Was there a pickaxe?’ Stu looked to Hugh with serious intent. ‘Did they find a pickaxe with the… the bodies?’
‘Buggered if I know. Big J told me, and Little J told him. Still, happens to the best of us. So lift a glass.’ Hugh made the best of bad news, downing his triple whiskey in one.
Stu delicately broached a sore subject. ‘Any word on Paula?’
‘They all think it was me. Even the pigs felt my collar. I never laid a finger on her.’ Stu couldn’t be sure of Hugh’s innocence but thought it best to keep him on his side in case Hugh was a cold-blooded murderer. ‘I think I know who attacked Paula.’ Hugh leant forwards, shielding his face from potential spies. ‘Sotto voce, old man.’ Hugh glanced around the pub with distrustful eyes. ‘Was it Nigel? Bloody knew he wasn’t on the level.’
‘Nige wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ said Stu.
‘You’ll be surprised what’s physically possible,’ replied Hugh. Stu chose his words carefully, knowing the slightest misjudged word could provoke Hugh’s intoxicated rage. ‘Hugh. Your Mum… Bunty. I think she may be connected to recent events.’
Stu explained the complicated history involving Sir Bernard Saucier, Shepperton, Rumbelow, Hilda and Ivan. ‘After which, your mum went to America, right?’
Hugh exhaled a half-laugh into his booze. ‘Got as far as the airport. She’d tell me stories of Hollywood luminaries… stuff you lap up when you’re seven. But then you reach an age… realise it was all in her head.’ Hugh knocked back his drink to steady himself. ‘She got up the duff. Left the theatre in shame. Went to live with her Aunt Maureen in Mells Wafting. Got a job as a barmaid at The Jolly Bigot. Bunty had plans for the West End, but nobody wanted to know. So, she shoved yours truly into the spotlight. She was a good-time girl who died of cancer. Doesn’t that pour tar on your conspiracy, old man?’
Stu offered condolences, as Hugh's tale fitted in with Wintercoat's story. The character of Betty Crimple was Bunty Batey. Both were up 'n coming wannabes who would sell their souls for fame, and it all came at a cost.
Eyes wounded, Hugh jittered with laughter. ‘You’re sorry? Not as sorry as my dear old Dad will be.’
‘You know who he is?’ asked Stu, hooked by Hugh’s divulgence.
‘Bloody Ivan Stroud, by my beard.’
Stu straightened his back, taking in the revelation. ‘Does Ivan know?’
‘He will,’ jeered Hugh. ‘When I’m up on that stage, clutching my Oscar, I will stare down that lens…’ The alcohol had said too much. The temperature dropped as Hugh beckoned him closer.
‘If you tell him before I do, I will break your neck. Alright?’ Stu didn’t doubt Hugh’s warning.
Stu slung on his coat, and resolved to leave the Wintercoat’s tale where it belonged: In the past.
Hugh raised his glass to Stu. ‘Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies…’ Stu smiled feebly, slightly off balance. Hugh projected over the din of the pub. ‘Watch The Eves.’
The crumpled drunkard was consumed by a different energy. A strong, foreboding tone. Hugh leant across the table, offering a rectangular printed card. Hugh repeated his warning.
‘Watch. The. Eves.’
Stu accepted the card, reading the invite.
The Knights of the Green Shield
Invite you to a masquerade ball
at the Eves Lodge.
Max Monteith adjusted his billowing pantaloons and frilly shirt. Next came the cape and cavalier hat. Sword unsheathed, Max posed deadly stances at a long mirror. The final piece of costume was applied: A golden grimacing theatrical mask.
Trotting downstairs, he halted at the sight of the front door. It was wide open. A chilled draft flowed through. Max removed his mask and its shiny glower to reveal his own scowling features. He peered out into the night and felt it stare back. Unnerved, he closed the door and paced into the lounge. A rush of air went before the swoop of a blade, making contact with Max’s neck.
Cat Stevens’ Another Saturday Night played on the turntable, appropriately. Stu had the house to himself, as his parents indulged in gammon, melon boats and black forest gateau at the local Berni Inn, followed by a performance by The Baron Knights at the community centre. His brother was working the door at an exclusive function, earning extra bunce for official thuggery.
Stu struggled to concentrate as he threw darts at a board hung on the back of his bedroom door. Hugh’s warning words throbbed like a Klingon attack alert on the Enterprise.
“Watch The Eves.”
Hugh had recently acted in a series of public information adverts, produced locally by The Eves Lodge. That night was their masquerade ball; a fundraiser and the grand unveiling of their short films. Hugh took the job as a foot in the door for his television career, only discovering The Eves' involvement when they tried to recruit him as a member. Hugh didn’t declare whether he had accepted their offer or not. As much as he appeared to fear the Lodge, Hugh desired fame more.
Stu weighed up his options for the evening:
A) Stay at home, alone again (naturally), throwing darts at Lena’s acting headshot. (He needed a triple eighteen to get her in the eye.) Or:
B) Infiltrate The Eves Lodge masquerade ball, uncover their depraved secret society activities and end the night triumphant by solving “The Wintercoat Mystery”.
Gary Blenny’s recreation of a Droog was detailed, given the scant amount of time he had to throw his “fancy dress” costume together. Stu suspected either Gary had been waiting for this moment for a long time, or else this is what he wore on a Saturday night in the town centre.
Alan didn’t bother to dress up, opting for a green baggy t-shirt and brown trousers. Stu’s disguise came in the form of a hastily slapped-together Marc Bolan. Having borrowed a leather jacket and sparkly trousers from Alan (which were a struggle to squeeze into - Alan had legs like toothpicks), Stu completed the ridiculous outfit with a puffy black curly wig.
For the first time in its history, The Eves Lodge welcomed non-members. A selection of ornate ceremonial masks was displayed on a table for the interest of the uninitiated.
Leaving Gary to find his own way in (the invite-only permitted a plus one), Stu and Alan took in the opulent scene. The Knights of the Green Shield were not as superhuman as they sounded: Instead, they were a fraternity of Lodge Brothers, mostly middle-aged, upper-middle-class businessmen, dressed in suits and masquerade masks. Some wore cloaks.
There was little sign of ceremonial garb, save for rings and lapel badges. Wives stood by their husbands, privileged to be in the company of Falking Hill’s elite.
The musical entertainment was provided by Christopher Gothard, adorned in a golden wizard’s cape, warbling the closing lines of Forever and Ever. The guests politely applauded as Gothard introduced his band. ‘On bass, Jocky Palfrey. Keys, Steven Wonders. Wonky Whitlock on drums. My backing singers, Five’s a Crowd. Personally, I believe Angel Delight is a better name, but you can only offer an opinion.’
Gothard counted the band in, launching into a cover of Vinegar Joe’s Proud to Be (a Honky Woman).
The non-members of the Lodge were easy to spot: They were the ones who had taken “Masquerade Ball” to mean “Fancy Dress”.
Big J as the Green Cross Code Man
Reg McCluskey as John Steed from The Avengers
Kevin Pardon as the Shopkeeper from Mr Benn
A metallic clutter behind them introduced the spectacle of Ryan Deutsch; sporting two rigid broken arms and a suit of armour. Beside him, Little J wore a white suit and black shirt.
‘I see you made an effort,’ sneered Ryan. Alan held up his first. The letters ‘S L A D E’ were scrawled in biro on his fingers and thumb. ‘Minimal effort, maximum impact.’
Stu glanced at Ryan’s ridiculous appearance up and down. ‘And what are you meant to be?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ replied Ryan. ‘Klaus Kinski? Aguirre, the Wrath of God?’
‘More like C-3PO, droid off Star Wars,’ smirked Stu.
Finger at pursed lips, Alan wracked his brain for an answer to Little J’s appearance. ‘Don’t tell me… the little fella off Fantasy Island!’ Chafed by the wrong answer, Little J put Alan straight. ‘John Travolta. Saturday Night Fever.’
Gary emerged from the shadows behind Stu, breathless. ‘We should split up.’
‘How many times have I heard those words…’ said Alan with sardonic dryness.
‘How’d you get in?’ asked Stu.
‘Bricked a window, climbed in, found myself in a locked store room. So then I broke another window, which turned out to be…’ Gary trailed off. ‘Let’s just say I had to smash a lot of windows to get in.’
Gary swiftly swooped Stu and Alan to safety behind a pillar, as a tall man in a black suit and cloak passed by; their face was concealed by a shiny black mask: Dark Lord Michael Landaker, arm in arm with Celia, who wore a flowing white gown and Princess Leia hair buns.
Enshrouded by shadow at the edge of the chequered floor, Stu spied the mystery man from the Landaker photograph: Alistair Kristers.
Neatly bearded and dressed in a safari suit, Kristers held court with a small group of admiring men, desperate to climb the ladder of success. ‘Of course, the original premise for the Public Information Series was different. Bolder. Hard-hitting. You know I am not one to mince my words.’
Stu edged closer, eavesdropping on Krister’s showboating. ‘But in came the bureaucrats, the red tape brigade’s checklist of Those Who Shall Not Be Offended. Cry-baby bumpkins. The Nanny State. The Unemployed. Feminists. Punks. Protesters. Protesting punks. The very people these films are warning against!’
Flying too close to the sun, Kristers became aware of an alien presence. He addressed Stu.
‘Good evening. Alastair Kristers.’ Hand outstretched, Stu had to accept it. Kristers grip was crushing. Stu lowered his mask. ‘Stuart Ostridge.’
‘Allow me to introduce some of my closest business friends,’ said Kristers, introducing a couple of shady faces. ‘Ricky Dakin, Ian Paice.’ Kristers turned to the youngest of the three businessmen; a man with a wide smile full of teeth and a burgeoning goatee beard. ‘And this is Robert Offshore. One of our young businessmen already making waves in the music and leisure industries. And what do you do?’
Fear trickled in parts of Stu’s body he never knew he had. He inhaled, fearful of his voice cracking.
‘I’m a writer.’
Kristers cocked a snook. ‘Would I have seen anything you’ve written?’
‘Not yet’, came Stu’s stiff reply.
‘Oh. Keep trying,’ smiled Kristers. Regardless of whether Stu’s lack of success or recognition warranted such a patronising brush-off, Stu drew his own unprintable conclusion about Kristers.
A finger jabbed Stu’s shoulder blade. He confronted his provocateur: Lena Darrow, dressed as Daphne from Scooby-Doo. Looming beside her was Emily/Velma, dressed in an orange roll-neck and thick glasses. There was a moment of recognition from Lena, before realising her error.
‘Oh. Sorry. Thought you were someone else.’
Emily looked disgusted at Stu’s appearance. ‘The state of you.’
‘Yeah? At least I dressed up,’ retorted Stu.
On the small stage, Christopher Gothard brought his caped musical preening to a close. Mayor Hazelbaker stepped up beside Christopher, leading the applause. ‘Wasn’t he fantastic, ladies and gentlemen? A local superstar in the making. Christopher Gothard there, singing Proud to be a Honky.’ Christopher whispered in the Mayor’s ear. Corrected, the Mayor clarified the song title.
‘Proud to be a Honky Woman.’
As the Mayor continued waffling, a familiar mocking voice spoke in Stu’s ear. ‘I think he was right the first time.’ Stu took in the sight of Brookes Manders, dressed in sandals, with a padded body and a bushy beard.
‘You must be ‘The Kaftan Kid’?’ said Stu.
‘Demis Roussos, innit. The only way they’d ever let me into their stupid club.’ Brookes explained that he had previously applied to join the exclusive Eves Lodge, but was rejected on the grounds of not being able to keep a secret. ‘I see they’ve attracted the dregs of Falking Hill’s celebrity circuit. A Radio DJ who shows up at the opening of an envelope and a big-tittied page three bird.’
Brookes gripped Stu’s wrist firmly, hauling him away from the guests. ‘The sale of Rumbelow’s estate has gone through. I did some poking around. Apparently, Rumbelow had left everything in his will to Hilda Harridan. Guilty conscience, no doubt. But: She’s also out of the picture and had no next of kin. Shocker, I know. So guess who wangled their way into a good deal? BLS Property Development. Bolam-Landaker-Strauli. Landaker’s company.’
‘Landaker had Rumbelow and Hilda killed?’ frowned Stu.
‘No!’ replied Brookes as if Stu was some sort of moron. ‘The Landakers were at some drama festival in Flushing Baggage when Rumbelow was bumped off. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t have an accomplice. Michael Landaker is a member of this lodge. He’s connected. It’s this place!’
The band played an abbreviated version of The New Avengers theme, as Alastair Kristers took to the spotlight, thanking the Mayor. ‘Recent events have highlighted the moral decline of society. Previously inner-city problems are now on our doorstep. With the help of our sponsors, Lillicrap and Cant Solicitors and BLS Property Development, we have made a series of public information adverts, to be screened at midday after the close of educational programming. These films instruct how we can be vigilant, whilst promoting our values. Our way of life.’
The lights dimmed. The projector’s glow lit the hall. In the shadows, Stu closed in for a better view of the adverts. Messages such as Never Go With Strangers, with Hugh Batey attempting to entice helpless children into his van via the allure of a Rubik’s cube.
Hugh: Why don’t you pop into the back of my van? I’ve got lots of toys. And a kitten, too.
Child: What’s the kitten called?
Hugh: Er… Susan.
Child: Funny name for a kitten?
Hugh: Look, how should I know? Just get in the van.
Serious Voice-Over: That nice, ordinary man was sick and dangerous.
Messages instructing viewers to Be Afraid of the Unknown filled Stu with dystopian fear. He gazed around at the eyes; entranced by the on-screen finger-waggling. Krister’s plan of educating by terror was having the opposite effect. Did Falking Hill need an advert on how to avoid a serial killer? Nigel Chavis couldn’t act, yet his performance as a psychopathic stalker was uncanny. Did he even know he was being filmed?
The projector sputtered to a halt. Kristers’ cold-blooded confidence faltered, as he addressed the room once more. ‘I have just received word… one of our own Lodge Brothers… Max Monteith… was found at his home. Murdered.’
A soundwave of gasps crescendoed. Kristers seized the moment, projecting his voice with authority. ‘In memory of our fallen brethren, we will march for peace! For Falking Hill!’
Christopher nodded to the band, leading a quivering rendition of Bright Eyes as a tribute.
The stunned guests slow-danced around Stu and Lena, as they stood across from each other, apprehensive to express emotion towards each other. Maybe that was their connection. Their nervousness about each other.
Christopher segued in poor taste from Bright Eyes into the chorus of Barry Manilow’s Looks Like We Made It.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022