Backstabbers - Chapter 3
Cyanide Wand
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
The story so far: Feeling the call to become a writer, fresh-out-of-school Stuart Ostridge attends an evening of exploring drama with local actor Ivan Stroud - famous for his very brief appearances in many television dramas. Whilst there, Stu meets young upstart would-be scriptwriter Gary, who dreams big and takes no prisoners.
Gary fuels Stu’s dream of becoming a writer, but having no life experience leaves Stu feeling aimless. That is until he discovers (along with his best friend Alan) the dead body of local critic Hartley Rumbelow. Sensing fate has plans for him, Stu contacts sleazy journalist Brookes Manders, believing foul play is afoot…
The landlord of The Bitter End pub shook his head at Alan’s jukebox selection: Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody. Christmas was months away, but to Alan, a great song was a great song.
He had been collaborating with Stu on his legendary concept album since they were twelve. Images that tell a story - a complete bollocks story - but a tale nonetheless.
Alan believed fame and glory were only a matter of time, rather than a matter of not writing songs titled I’m Watching You (with one hand down my trousers). Alan finished scribbling on a beer mat, sliding it across the table to Stu, who was fixated on the rubbery sneer of Brookes Manders’ headshot, gurning out from the front page of the Falking Advertiser. The headline screamed Old Man Dies!
‘I’ve had some more ideas for the album cover,’ said Alan, pointing to his crudely sketched image of a large-breasted Amazonian woman soaring on a dragon with lasers coming out of its eyes. Stu was too preoccupied with shaking his head in disgust at the newspaper. ‘How does Brookes Manders have the neck to call himself a journalist? He’s got my name wrong: ‘Ostridge’ spelt Ostrich, as in Emu. Quote: “The body was discovered by a bobber-jobber.” Bloody bobber-jobber?’
Alan attempted to console his friend. ‘Did you see the news today? The stage collapsed at the Miss World competition. They spoke to a photographer who was buried under a pile of the most glamorous women in the world.’ Alan leaned in to hammer home his point. ‘Which part of the story do you want: The stage collapsing, or bundling a bunch of bikini-clad crumpet? So what if that guttersnipe got it all wrong. At least your photo’s in the paper.’
To Stu, Alan’s positive spin translated to a lack of compassion. Adopting a cheery outlook would not remedy the slur.
Chronicling the sleazy, self-serving character of Brookes Manders released pleasurable toxins inside Stu. He convinced Alan to lend him his parents’ typewriter. For someone so rock ‘n roll, Alan’s parents were middle class and could afford such luxury items. It also explained why Alan didn’t have to worry about inconsequential nonsense like paying rent.
Sat at his parents’ living room table, typing one key at a time, Stu whipped sheets of paper from the typewriter as if releasing doves to heaven.
In the background, his parents continuously muttered about the television show they were watching. ‘Is that what’s-his-face? Who’s that next to him?’ … ‘Her off that thing we watched a few months ago…’
Jeffrey disrupted Stu’s flow, tilting the typewriter for a closer look. ‘Where’d you get that from?
‘Leave off. It’s Alan’s,’ grumbled Stu.
‘Still hanging around with the only black boy in Falking Hill? Oh, very rock ‘n roll.’ Jeffrey leant in, attempting to read Stu’s work. ‘Pfft. Roger Red Hat must be bricking it.’
‘Roger Red Hat isn’t an author. He didn’t write his own life story,’ said Stu.
A slap around the head reminded him that lipping off to Jeffrey was never a wise idea.
Fuming at his brother, Stu returned his attention to his writing, vowing to liberate his pent-up opinion of Jeffrey onto paper. The best of both worlds. Stu could vent his spleen and Jeffrey would be none the wiser because he hadn’t read a book since his junior school days.
With the morning spent at the library photocopying his manuscript, Stu bussed it to The Cockpit Theatre. By daylight, it seemed even smaller. Wandering into the poky foyer, Stu caught the eye of the Box Office Manager, smiling winningly as he proffered an A4 envelope.
‘This is for Ivan Stroud. I was told he’d be here.’
The Manager shot Stu a look like he was some sort of moron. ‘He did a performance here… he doesn’t live here.’ Stu delivered an innocent yarn that would have made Ivan proud.
‘Oh. I’m supposed to be dropping off a script for a new show. Can you forward it on?’
The Manager was rightfully cagey. ‘Perhaps. You say he’s expecting this?’
‘Yes. You have to make sure he gets this. Very important,’ said Stu, lying through his teeth.
Keen to distance himself from the Cockpit Theatre, Stu walked at speed to the bus stop. The invigorating air cleansed him of deceit. He reassured himself. It wasn’t lying. It was a means to an end. He had to help himself because nobody else was coming to his rescue.
In the twilight of evening, Stu stood on the threshold of Scholars Hollow, his old secondary school. It had only been a few weeks since he’d left. A pang of longing jabbed, of wanting to revert to a situation he understood. Entering the school foyer, Stu felt a detachment. The walls that had contained him for years were no longer his to climb. It was simply a tired building that had already forgotten him.
Home-made posters for Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: De-constructed hung from the walls and the ticket table. A fold-out board displayed cast photos of varying quality.
Hugh Batey as Happy (a thespian’s thesp and broody quaffer)
Jeremy Wrigley as Sleepy (an over-eager young man with an air of cheesy game show host)
Nigel Chavis as Bashful (simple-looking, light-bulb-shaped head)
Bedford Baker as Doc (dashing, confident, silver-haired)
Vernon Prebble as Dopey (mole-like, friendly, probably an accountant)
Max Monteith as Grumpy (unemotional, artificial, mix of Nero and Napoleon)
Ralph ? as Sneezy (eyes half shut as if in mid-sneeze, photo out of focus)
Justin Cathro as Prince Charming (hunky, lantern-jawed, and knows it)
Emily Fothergill as The Narrator (thick-set, strident; startlingly mad, wide-eyes)
Paula Fraygrent as The Evil Queen (acidic, heavy eye make-up, snarky attitude)
Lena Darrow as Snow White (winsome, airy ingénue, raven-haired, fairest in the land)
Michael Landaker as The Butler (Smooth, moustachioed bank manager-type)
Finally, a large, expensive-looking headshot of the director Celia Landaker. A determined steely eye betrayed the benign smile in the corner of her mouth, suggesting she was merely tolerating the rest of the world.
Uncertain if this would be the longest night of his life, Stu opted for an air of detachment to combat the anxious heat increasing inside his body – a feeling that he had no right to be there.
Stu assured himself that he was an exciting, vital young writer who was checking out the competition. These people needed him more than the other way around.
Try as he might, Stu wasn’t buying his own hyperbole, but it was more palatable than manifesting whatever his Dad told him he should be.
At the ticket table stood a short man in a bobble hat and round spectacles, wearing a homemade knitted chunky jumper. His red-cheeked, rubbery features appeared child-like for someone in their mid-forties. Vernon Prebble passingly addressed Stu.
‘Sorry, I need to get into costume. I’m Dopey. I’ll leave you with young Melody here.’
Vernon’s rough hands framed the flame-haired beauty of Melody Monteith, before scuttling away. Her delicate features caged by Deirdre Barlow-esque glasses, Melody avoided eye contact through fear of turning to stone. Wordlessly serving Stu, she slid a ticket across the table. Melody glanced aside in the hope that Stu would go away.
In the tuck shop, a woman in her late forties served tea. She bore a resemblance to Vernon: the same jumper, the same ruddy complexion, with a dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards hairstyle.
Straining a tea bag, Stu lowered it towards a pot beside the urn. Vivienne Prebble instinctively shielded it. ‘That’s my Dad. We take him to all our socials so he gets to enjoy it too.’
Another voice rode over their conversation with no consideration. ‘Gissa drink, Viv. Dying ‘ere.’
Stu and Vivienne looked to the source: Gary Blenny.
Matronly Vivienne tutted. ‘Gary. Consider those in the world without clean water. When you state that you are “Dying of thirst”, you’re not, are you?’
‘Quite thirsty, yeah,’ said Gary, collecting a bitter cup of tea whilst pulling a daft face at Stu.
In a vacant corner of the tuck shop, Gary eyed Stu up and down with amusement. ‘You'll have someone's eye out with the crease in your jeans.’ Blushing at the pointed critique of his dress sense, Stu chose to go on the attack. ‘For someone who hates the theatre, you don’t half hang around the scene a lot.’
Gary produced a rolled-up, wafer-thin script from his jacket, forcing it upon Stu. He read the title on the cover: Gary Blenny’s The Man with No Skull
‘Me being Gary Blenny and this being my film script. Gives it a whiff of a visionary master of horror. It’s part slasher film, part anti-government paranoia thriller. A paranoid slasher,’ said Gary. To Stu, Gary’s script sounded like someone who urgently needed the toilet but couldn’t go because they felt like they were being watched.
‘It’s a statement of artistic intent. I’m looking for someone to turn my nightmares into words,’ said Gary, locked onto Stu with an expectant gaze. Uncomfortable with whatever Gary was doing with his eyes, Stu tried to defuse whatever Gary was plotting. ‘I’m not into scary things.’
‘You don’t write for yourself. It’s us you’ve got to please. Besides, foxy birds love an entrepreneur. And there are at least twenty topless scenes in the film,’ said Gary, blowing on his hot tea with the confidence that he need not speak another word.
An elderly audience resembling multiple Nora Battys and Compos chatted amongst the rows of school chairs. Stu and Gary took their seats, somewhat out of place. ‘Wow. So many foxy birds,’ remarked Stu. Abruptly, the lights switched off. Shuffling. Sweet wrappers. A hacking cough. On stage, the curtains opened. Pickaxes over their shoulders, six ‘Dwarfs’ marched across the stage; all but two of them stood over six feet tall. Stu stifled a snigger.
His stance drastically converted when Snow White pranced gaily onto the stage. Slack-jawed, Stu squinted at the cast list in the folded A4 program. LENA DARROW as Snow White. She looked strikingly similar to Harriet Flaxton with her long dark hair.
Paula Fraygrent/the Wicked Witch posed behind an authoritarian desk, flanked by Hugh Batey as her pompous Aide. Michael Landaker stood statue-still as a mirror-holding Butler.
Paula/Wicked Witch: Who is this ‘Snow White’?
Hugh/Aide: She’s incredibly popular. All of the miners love her.
Paula/Wicked Witch: That... BITCH! I will crush HER!
In a moment of improvisation, Paula pounded her fists, hurling desktop props in all directions.
Paula threw a book at Hugh/The Aide, missing his left ear by a millimetre. The book impacted somewhere in the audience, provoking a disembodied yelp.
In the wings, playwright/Grumpy Dwarf Max Monteith clinically directed his hushed displeasure at the director, Celia Landaker. ‘One has to admire Paula’s commitment to murdering my play.’
Dressed as Bo-Peep’s frenzied dream of a wedding dress, Emily Fothergill placated Max. ‘She’s improvising. All the best actors do it.’
Celia looked Emily up and down, taking exception to her costume. ‘Emily, why are you dressed like a sturdy meringue?’
‘Thought it would help me get into character,’ said Emily.
‘You’re the narrator. You don’t even step foot on the stage,’ said Celia.
In mid-costume change, would-be hell-raiser thespian Hugh Batey chipped in. ‘Probably for the best. Paula almost took my ruddy head off.’
The tallest dwarf, Nigel, stifled a burp. ‘Internal organs have liquefied. Pray I don’t suffer any voiding during my solo.’ Emily tutted at Nigel. ‘Disgusting man,’ she muttered to herself.
The play lumbered from one bizarre analogy to another. Snow White led the “Dwarfs” at a picket line. The Wicked Witch readied her army. Justin Cathro/Prince Charming stood between the two factions, legs widely displaying a stuffed codpiece, which the old ladies found pleasing.
Big J/Prince Charming: Stop this madness! Don’t you see, Snow White? The Wicked Witch has poisoned you! Leave this… Dissent and Disorder… live happily ever after with me.
Both sides retreated off-stage, as Snow White accepted Prince Charming’s hand. They kissed.
In the wings, Celia elbowed Emily into delivering her closing words.
Emily/Narrator: “… And they all lived happily ever after!”
Emily failed to recognise that she had delivered the word “lived” as “Lie-ved”. Celia buried her face in her hands. Curtain down. The disgruntled cast cleared the stage. Justin Cathro – a macho action man with a Kevin Keegan haircut – poured scorn over Emily’s contribution to the play.
‘Seriously, Emily. “Lie-ved”? “They all “lie-ved” happily ever after”?’
‘That’s what it says in the script,’ said Emily, feeling justified.
‘It says LIVED,’ barked Hugh.
Emily innocently frowned. ‘That’s what I said! Wasn’t it?’ Hugh barged past Emily with a hard stare. ‘No, it wasn’t, you… sentient fondant fancy.’
In the foyer, the O.A.P.s shuffled out of the exit. Loitering with a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee, Stu gazed dreamily at the headshot of Lena. Nearby, Gary argued with Vivienne.
‘Blatant false advertising on the seven dwarfs front. There were only six,’ said Gary.
Vivienne tried her best to explain the issue. ‘Sneezy came to rehearsals, practised for months —didn’t show up on the night. We phoned and phoned. Sent Nigel down to the takeaway in his dwarf costume to find out where Sneezy was. He ranted at Nigel about how he never felt part of the show because he was Chinese.’
Gary persisted with making a scene until Vivienne relented, shoving a refund into Gary’s hand to make him go away. Victorious, Gary bowled over to the still-mesmerised Stu.
Gary took a moment, before blowing into the side of Stu’s face, breaking Lena’s spell.
‘You should put her in your film,’ said Stu, still dreamy-eyed.
‘I know her. She would never go for someone like you,’ said Gary, slapping a firm hand on Stu’s shoulder, and spilling his hot beverage over his hand.
In the toilets, Stu ran his hand under cold water. A toilet flushed in the cubicle. Reflected in the mirror, Stu saw Nigel step out of the cubicle, pickaxe ready to strike.
Stu pivoted, fear-struck. Nigel considered the pickaxe, placing it against the cubicle as he washed his hands. Nigel smiled politely at Stu in the row of mirrors before them.
‘Enjoy the show?’ Stu nodded, reasoning he should never tell the truth to a man with a pickaxe.
Exiting the boys’ toilets with concerned haste, Stu wiped his wet hands on his jeans. Paula exited the girls’ toilets in costume, struggling to unzip her dress. Spotting Stu, she called out to him.
‘Oi. Oi! C’m ‘ere! Unzip me.’ Paula offered her back to Stu.
Fingers trembling, Stu daintily unzipped the dress; the closest he had ever been to a woman. His nostrils filled with the warm scent of Tramp perfume. Paula turned to face Stu at an intimate distance.
‘There’s a good boy. Get us a drink, will ya darlin’? Gasping,’ said Paula, softly. Stu felt his cheeks burn red as his heart thumped.
Under Paula’s musky mind control, Stu collected a pre-prepared tray of drinks from Vivienne in the canteen. Returning to the classroom/dressing room, Stu baby-stepped around the desks, careful not to spill the drinks. Looking anywhere but at Hugh’s Y-fronts, Stu also saw suave, ageing actor Bedford Baker and Big J in their pants, hands on hips in mid-discussion.
Hugh took a coffee from the tray, dashing a glob of whiskey into it. Running out of places to avert his eyes, Stu then became aware of Paula in her underwear. Paula’s eyes puffed up with tired disgust. ‘Oh have a good stare won't ya…’
‘You ain't got nothing we haven't all seen before, darling,’ jeered Hugh.
Bedford buttoned up a stylish shirt, continuing his dissection of the show. ‘This isn’t the fringe theatre. This is where actors go to die. A fairy tale mixed with politics? Felt like a right prat.’
Hugh added to the moaning. ‘Why does Celia insist on using Max to write every play?’
‘Old boy’s network. Michael and Max are paid-up members of the Red-Hand Gang,’ said Big J.
A cough signified the impish presence of Max Monteith in the doorway. His lack of stature wasn’t an issue, as he closed in on Bedford with grim intent. Big J positioned himself between them, disarming the face-off.
Stu gormlessly looked on, as if he was the only audience member. Words were exchanged, not that Stu got to hear any of them as Paula ended his spectatorship, firmly guiding him backwards out of the room.
In a drafty corridor, Stu marvelled at their state of undress, how nobody batted an eyelid. Who were these people? Voices approached: Snow White Lena Darrow, and her gushing sidekick Emily, bestowing her friend with platitudes such as wonderful and simply incandescent.
Stu watched Lena pass by, oblivious to his reverence. That was until Lena gazed over her shoulder and softly waved. Hardly believing his luck, Stu delicately waved back, until a voice spoke with startling intimacy. ‘You were f.a.b., Lena!’
Perturbed, Stu looked to the source: Nigel; stood behind him in his pants, cradling his costume. The three actors entered the dressing room on a high, slamming the door on Stu.
In the school foyer, Stu checked his watch as Gary promised glorious careers on the silver screen to a couple of middle-aged divorced women, who tutted outrage before promptly exiting. ‘It’s only a little bit of nudity! Cor, not every day you get offered a role in a film, is it?’
Gary leapt out of his skin, as the shortest of the dwarfs grabbed his backside. Jeremy Wrigley was known as ‘Little J’ to differentiate him from his larger counterpart ‘Big J’. Stu observed them pal around, trying to laugh in the right places, clueless as to what their jokes were about.
Strapping Big J joined the lads, shirt half-unbuttoned. ‘Wotcha slags.’
‘Shirt’s undone, J,’ said Gary.
‘I know,’ replied Big J, with sincerity.
Sparkling grande dame Celia placed a delicate hand on Big J’s shoulder. ‘You were wonderful, darling,’ gushed Celia, before floating away to congratulate Lena.
Gary nodded in Celia’s direction. ‘Picking ‘em ripe these days.’
Sensing Big J wasn’t finding his approach amusing, Gary brought out the big guns. ‘Is it true you were a stand-in for Lewis Collins on the first episode of The Professionals?’
Big J exhaled a puff of contempt. ‘I was his stunt double.’
Gary continued. ‘See, I’m making a film and I wondered if you wanted to…’ Gary’s invite petered out as Big J brushed him aside, joining his fellow cast members at they departed.
Gary and Stu could only watch Lena drift by on the adulation of her co-stars. Little J flicked Gary a dismissive wave. ‘After-show party. Ta-ta.’
Gary scampered eagerly around Little J as he walked towards the exit. ‘J! Mate! Wanna be in a film?’
Stu supposed he should follow Gary, and scuttled past the publicity display of cast photos.
Except one black and white headshot was now missing: Lena Darrow’s.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022