Backstabbers - Chapter 4
Taken for a Ride
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
The story so far: Naive aspiring writer Stuart Ostridge joins his new friend - wannabe film director Gary Blenny - in attending a performance of the pretentiously politicised play Snow White: Deconstructed. Stu immediately falls for the star of the show, Snow White herself, Lena Darrow.
Behind the scenes, Stu witnesses the catty behaviour of the cast, who bemoan the quality of the writing (by self-aggrandising playwright Max Monteith) and direction (by ice-queen Celia Landaker).
Gary ingratiates himself into the drama group in hope of plugging his film script to the actors at the after-show party. Stu tags along, in hope of making Lena aware of his existence…
Squashed in the back of Little J’s Hillman Imp with Gary, they held tight as Little J raced down pitch-black country lanes; Lucky Number by Lene Lovich destroying Stu’s eardrums.
Stu had no idea how he was getting home, especially as he wasn’t sure where they actually were. Judging by the luxurious house that was their destination, Stu figured they must be somewhere in Great Bustard. Or was it Whopping Bustard? A road name lit up in the headlights: Cutts Close.
If the exterior of the house glowed with opulence, the interior was upper-middle-class heaven. Bevelled cornices. Cherry wood and golden lights. Exotic masks and framed photos of Celia and her finely moustached husband, shaking hands with numerous men who oozed wealth and/or importance. He kicked off his shoes, lest he smudged the marshmallow hallway carpet.
A child waiting to be spoken to, the warm sound of Leo Sayer’s You Make Me Feel Like Dancing attracted Stu to a comfortable sitting room. In the corner, Max Monteith stood vigilant over his wife Melody. Stu nodded hello, to no response.
Wandering the reception hall, Stu opened the door to a dark room. A deadly rumble of growling greeted his presence. Rottweilers. A hand pulled Stu back from the danger, closing the door. Michael Landaker, a robust fifty-something in a mustard-coloured roll neck, glowered long into Stu’s soul. Celia stepped in, fresh from her Narnian reign in a white shoulder-less sequined gown.
‘Michael, could you open the champagne, darling?’ asked Celia. Michael walked on towards the kitchen, glaring back at Stu.
Celia purred a breathy yet firm question. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Stuart.’
Celia shrugged for more information. Stu shrank, spot-lit under her frosty scope.
‘And what do you do?’ asked Celia.
‘I… I write. I’m a writer,’ said Stu, clearing his throat. That was the first time he’d ever referred to himself as a writer, and it felt simultaneously like a bold truth and a blatant lie.
Celia wasn’t impressed. ‘And?’
And? Who was this woman? Her inhospitable tone was beginning to grate.
‘I’ve written plays. Books. Films, even,’ said Stu.
Celia feigned interest. ‘Films, even… Mmm. Hh-hmm. Anything I might have seen?’
‘I don’t know. What films have you seen?’ Stu may have weakly verbalised his retort but inwardly he enjoyed the surprise of his sassiness.
Celia leant in, softly delivering cold advice. ‘There are few practicable entrances in life, Stuart, was it? Help yourself to my champagne, won’t you?
In the kitchen, Gary drained champagne into a wine glass, making the most of The Landaker’s hospitality. Discreetly observing from the other side of the room,
Big J muttered to his shorter counterpart. ‘Why did you invite the artless dodger? He’s got some nerve, coming back after what he did.’ Clueless as to what Big J’s beef was with Gary, Nigel jabbed at him with his elbow.
‘What did he do?’
‘Celia cast him as the lead in a play a few years ago. He got stage fright. Wrecked the entire show. Made us all look like complete prats,’ said Big J, adding ‘Not me, though. I was brilliant.’
‘Forgiveness is the path to enlightenment. And he’s making a film,’ said Little J.
‘So says he. Always put a stick in a turd to avoid treading in it twice, grasshopper,’ came Big J’s enlightenment. Celia entered, already irked from her “chat” with Stu. Her frosty demeanour turned arctic at the sight of Gary, whose cheeks were puffed with expensive champagne. Gary gulped hard, pointing at Little J and jabbering an excuse. ‘He invited me. I’m with him.’
Always the mediator, Little J turned on the charm. ‘Celia. You remember Gary?’
‘How could I forget,’ said Celia, collecting a drink as she left the room with a sting in the air. Gary waited for a safe distance before speaking. ‘I know this is her house ‘n all, but who the bloody hell does she think she is?’
‘Consummate professional with high standards. Celia doesn’t suffer fools gladly,’ said Big J.
‘She puts up with you, doesn’t she? smirked Gary.
Time and alcohol flowed. Inside the expansive kitchen, Gary schmoozed Little J and Nigel, film script in hand. Stu drained a bottle of champagne, bored of Gary’s schmoozing banter.
‘… the killer is a ghost, so they dig up his bones and burn them. Killer goes up in flames, the girl escapes,’ said Gary, animated at his own story-telling genius.
But Little J was hooked. ‘You want me for the lead?’ he asked, hopefully. But Gary had other ideas. ‘The lead is the killer, and no offence, but you’d either need to grow another four feet or do it on stilts.’ Never one to take no for answer, Little J thought on his feet. ‘I’m circus trained. You have to be ‘round here…’
Bordering on tipsy, Stu wobbled to the dining room, discovering a buffet on a stately table. He needed to load up on food. He’d never live it down if he vomited in such a posh house.
Raggedy Vernon and Vivienne were cornered by the trendier, looser-clothed Hugh, who swilled two large whiskeys and bragged about his gift of theatrical thunder.
Neil Diamond’s Cracklin’ Rosie played on a mahogany encased hi-fi, flanked by two enormous speakers of matching design. Paula danced on the spot, aiming her pistol fingers at Stu, which struck him as a tad over-familiar. She broadly smiled at Stu’s blank face. Yep, she was drunk.
Neil Diamond’s a cappella break repeatedly looped in time with Stu’s thumping heart as he bore witness to Lena Darrow’s entrance. Devoid of her Snow White wig, her victory-rolled blonde hair dismissed any comparisons with Harriet, but Stu stood helpless like a lost child.
Hugh gave the hi-fi cabinet a nudge, correcting the skipping stylus.
Emily lumbered up to Stu, wearing a dead Peacock on her head, thrusting a damp handshake.
‘Emily Fothergill.’
‘Stu.’
‘And what do you do, Stu? Ooh, that rhymed!’ said Emily, amusing only herself.
‘Ha. Yeah. Don’t really do anything,’ said Stu, careful not to encourage Emily.
‘Oh. That’s not very good, is it? I’m working on my first historical romance novel, inspired by Jane Austen. It’s called The Highwayman’s Knapsack. Either that or The Heaving Folly. Not decided yet. Oh, dear Jane, why was I born so late? Life can be so cruel,’ reflected Emily.
Sexagenarian Bedford Baker arrived; dressed as a far younger man. On his arm, was a nineteen-year-old tanned European girl named Elke. Gary sided up to Stu to ogle and jealously seethe.
‘Apologies for such lateness. Had to fill up the motor,’ explained Bedford.
‘Oy oy, saveloy,’ jeered Gary in a lewd tone. Repelled by Gary’s wit, Emily abandoned the boys to greet Bedford with frilly air kisses.
Stu marvelled at Bedford’s allure. ‘Who’s this guy and how can I be him?’ The answer came from an unexpected source. ‘Doctor Bedford Baker. Gynaecologist,’ said Lena.
Gary and Stu turned, simultaneously aware of Lena’s presence. ‘I hope the Swedish crumpet on his arm is his daughter?’ enquired Gary, knowingly.
‘That’s Elke,’ said Lena. ‘She’s the reason Bedford dumped his wife, drives a Triumph TR7 and dresses like the Fonz.’ Lena’s stern expression burst to performative exuberant joy; gliding away to greet Bedford in the hall.
Sharing a competitive glance, Gary moved first, scampering after Lena. A seed of determination sprouted in Stu’s backbone. Chivalry be screwed. Stu glided at speed, weaving around the other guests; smoothly overtaking Gary. As he closed in on Lena, the wide front door opened, blocking Stu’s path. The Reverend Greene entered with his son, Christopher Gothard; his vibrant copper hair complementing his plum-coloured ruffled shirt. His reptilian smile filled Stu’s view.
‘Stuart. Good heavens. I didn’t know you were friends with Celia and Michael?
Trapped in the corner of the sitting room with Harpo’s Moviestar in one ear and gloating prison guard Christopher in the other, Stu feigned interest in Christopher’s latest ballad, all the while watching Lena. Sandwiched on the sofa between Gary and Big J, Lena didn’t even seem to mind. Fatigued at the sleazy fawning, Stu slipped out of the room with Christopher in mid-sentence.
Stu trod silently upstairs. The staircase wall charted Celia’s career. Childhood days of forced smiles and wide eyes. Stu’s cultural klaxon rattled at images of Celia power-dressed as an intergalactic ice-maiden. A supreme leader with expertise in ball-breaking, enigmatic smirks and commanding poses; an arched eyebrow of judgement, ready to execute another failing minion.
Stu had seen this show - Star Minx? Space Jezebels; the name escaped him. He recalled it involved a heavily-implied lesbian Gestapo intent on ruling the galaxy in hot pants. It lasted one dreadful series, but Celia was evidently still in character. It was a high point for Celia. She had made it to television, if only for six episodes of naff special effects and pantomime villainy.
Stu tentatively explored the upstairs landing. He switched on a light, discovering a box room temple of awards. Best actress. Best Director. Glowing Falking Advertiser reviews. Photos of Celia accepting awards from interchangeable adjudicators. The light switched off. Celia stood silhouetted in the doorway. Stu filled in the blanks with the image of Celia’s ball-breaking glare.
‘Sorry. Looking for the toilet,’ said Stu. Celia remained silent. Desperate to keep things light and friendly, Stu gestured to the array of awards. ‘You’ve been busy…’
‘Across the landing,’ said Celia. Three words and she was gone. Words which burned her throat as she purged them.
Christopher waited for Stu to return, continuing his self-congratulatory monologue. Stu reasoned such agony was spiritual payback for all the times Stu had jumped on a random bus to avoid being sucked into the vortex that was Christopher discussing his musical career.
The frivolity ceased abruptly at the sound of breaking glass. Metal on metal. Everyone rushed outside to find a woman in her nightie, smashing up Bedford’s TR-7. Bedford elbowed through the onlookers, aghast at the state of his pride and joy.
‘Ber-luddy hell! Nanette!’
Bedford rushed to his car, gesturing wordlessly at the wilful damage. Gary shielded his glee behind cocktails, enjoying the pandemonium.
Michael Landaker restrained Bedford before he could retaliate, which wouldn’t have been the best approach given his ex-wife’s frame of mind and the pickaxe in her clutches.
Nanette Baker pointed to Bedford’s much younger girlfriend. ‘She did this! She-did-this-to-me! You ruined my life! Euro slag!’ Nanette smashed another window on the car, shattering Bedford’s heart with it.
Big J winced, reaching out to calm Nanette. ‘Come on, love. Don’t take it out on the car.’
Nanette swung the pickaxe at Big J, who dodged it with a well-time backwards step. Nigel wrestled Nanette from behind, struggling to disarm her as everyone looked on.
A teenage girl with heavy cat-eye Goth make-up, deep red lipstick and wildly jagged jet-black hair aggressively bounded from a parked car, attempting to console Nanette with repetitive calming words. ‘It’s alright, Mum. It’s alright. He’s not worth it.’
Her distressed mother pleaded sincerely and wretchedly at Bedford. ‘I loved you.’
Nanette’s daughter escorted her back to their car, gently positioning her inside the front passenger seat. As the daughter closed the door, she rotated scornfully towards Bedford, thrusting a judgmental finger towards Elke. ‘I’m older than her! Bloody pervert!’
Struggling to maintain composure, Bedford reasoned with his daughter. ‘I’m still your Dad, Carrie.’
‘Dads don’t do this!’ came Carrie’s reply. ‘You’re dead to me.’ Carrie returned to her mother’s car and sped away in a squeal of tyres.
The stunned silence broke, courtesy of Gary Blenny. ‘Pfft, watch out, there’s a Humphrey about!’
Rueful glances all around, the guests filtered back inside. Gary comforted Lena with a gentle walking hug, winking back at Stu. In the cold, Stu glanced awkwardly at Bedford, who stood stunned at the sight of his car. Bedford scowled daggers back at him. Stu took his cue to leave.
Trudging along a dim country lane, Stu blocked out thoughts of what might be lurking in the woodland on either side of the road. In the distance, the distorted rush of a speeding car. Stu shielded his eyes from intensifying headlights which slowed to a halt. Little J called out from the driver’s seat. ‘Whereabouts are you heading?’
‘Falking Hill,’ said Stu.
‘You do know that’s in the other direction? Want a lift?’
A sarcastic retort crossed Stu’s mind, but he didn’t want to appear ungrateful.
Inside Little J’s compact car, Stu’s knees begged for mercy; squashed against the dashboard. Weaving at speed through the dark, Little J knew the roads well.
‘As we’re out this way, I’ll take you to a special place of mine. Not many know about it.
We’ve got a lot to discuss. I know things about you. You’re an ideas man. A Puppet Master behind the scenes. I can see it in your colour. Your aura. You have creative power with a strong streak of survival,’ said Little J. ‘When I was young, I was in a car crash. Clinically dead for seven minutes. When I woke, I had this gift. I could sense the presence of spirits.’ Little J let that revelation hang in the air for a moment. ‘You have the power too. You feel things, don’t you? Their presence.’
Walking for miles down dark country lanes suddenly felt like the preferable option compared to Little J’s spooky talk. ‘I’d quite like to get home, actually,’ said Stu.
‘Almost there. Won’t take a minute,’ said Little J.
No, it took twenty minutes, during which Little J probed Stu with questions about his beliefs. Did he believe in God? Satan? Ghosts? Little Jeremy Wrigley revelled in the darker side of life. Or death, depending on how you viewed it.
Stu struggled to keep the conversation on track - Lena - but Little J never took the bait. The extent of his insight on Lena was: ‘I’m a good judge of character. You strike me as homely. Lena would only ruin your life.’
With that, Little J was back onto his favourite subject. The haunted theatre. The haunted arts centre. The haunted skateboard ramp. He disclosed first-hand experiences of the paranormal. Ouija boards. The claw of Satan upon his shoulder.
Stu wasn’t sure if ghosts were real: Usually, when he was being tormented by a terrifying menace it was his older brother tormenting him, eventually unmasked by their parents like Scooby-Doo nabbing a culprit.
Arriving at an isolated village church, Little J led Stu through a cemetery. ‘There’s a Ley Line that runs through here. This is a significant structure, this church. There’s an alignment here of the spiritual. The mystical. Close your eyes. Can you feel it?’ asked Little J.
If Little J was referring to the wee trickling down Stu’s leg, then yes. Stu peeped at Little J, eyes shut tight, arms open in the moonlight. Little J, with his Swap Shop perma-grin and Radio DJ sunny demeanour, now summoning who knew what.
The journey home was akin to falling forwards through an abyss. A palpable sense of dread filled the car. Awash with sheer terror, unsure of what was occurring, he glanced at Little J, who was only there in body.
Stu closed his eyes to block out the suffocating fright that was stinging him to his core. He didn’t know what it was, in the way a person can be overcome by toxic fumes only to realise it too late. The eerie atmosphere intensified to palpable fear as if something of pure darkness was in pursuit.
With a sharp snap, a cooling breeze forced Stu’s eyes open. Coming to his senses, the dense fog of dread was gone. He was in the town centre. Unable to spend another second in Little J’s car, he thanked the driver and hastened his getaway on foot, having lied about where he lived.
Later, bundled under his duvet, the fear clung to Stu. He distracted himself, sliding out a piece of paper from under his bedside cabinet. Lena Darrow’s photo; stolen from the ‘Snow White’ production display board. He memorised her winsome smile.
Thoughts of how the evening had panned out for Lena sent a shiver through Stu. Pangs of envy at the thought of Big J and Gary fawning over Lena. Stu accepted he didn’t have Big J’s physique and lacked Gary’s bravado. He rummaged for his own positive traits but drifted off to sleep before he could discover them.
The usual dream played out that night: Stu, lying on his death bed in a small room, looking down at the person sitting at the end of his bed. Only this time, it wasn’t Harriet looking back with mournful love. Wearing her jet-black Snow White wig, Lena smiled sadly at Stu, as his heart monitor slowed to a flatline, and his eyes closed for a final time.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022