Backstabbers - Chapter 5
Some Kind of Heat
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 ingratiates himself into a sniping drama group in hope of making actress Lena Darrow aware of his existence. As an outsider, Stu witnesses the assortment of characters and their backstabbing behaviour: The double-act of hunky leading man Big J and his diminutive (but equally striving for greatness) counterpart, Little J; the ice queen director Celia Landaker and her wealthy businessman husband; Lena’s best friend and hero-worshipper Emily; self-sufficient couple Viv and Vernon; dashing (and ageing) ladies man Dr. Baker and his much younger Swedish girlfriend Elke; intense and sulky writer Max Monteith and his timid wife Melody; drunken lothario Hugh Batey and his turbulent relationship with social-climber Paula Fraygrent, and Nigel Chavis, an unpopular but handy man-with-a-van.
At an after-show party, Dr. Baker’s ex-wife arrives unexpectedly, smashing up his pride and joy on the driveway. Stu leaves the party on foot, but is later picked up Little J, who takes Stu on a venture into his sinister spiritual side…
The wonky walls and uneven wooden floor of The Bitter End pub heaved with hairy young men in ripped denim and studded leather jackets. Drunken laughter and raised voices fought to be heard against the siren wail and booming bass of Sweet’s Blockbuster. Weaving through the jammed boozer, Stu spied Alan and Hairy Jim at the jukebox. They greeted each other with a pumped-up secret handshake which always went a bit wrong towards the end.
‘Big crowd tonight,’ said Stu.
‘Marketing. Handed out leaflets at the shop. Shrewd.’ Alan tapped himself a bit too hard on the forehead.
‘Well, play one for me,’ said Stu, crossing the line of encouragement into mawkish sentiment.
‘They’re always for you,’ said Alan softly, egged on by Stu’s outpouring of brotherly love.
Bedraggled in leopard-skin leggings and a T-shirt displaying a black and white image of some breasts, Paula Fraygrent draped drunken arms around Alan and Hairy Jim. ‘Allo boys. Blimey, don’t look so scared!’
‘This is Paula. My favourite groupie. She’s into all that poncing about on stage,’ said Alan.
‘We’ve already met. Sort of,’ said Stu, recalling that particular moment with a gulp.
Alan checked his watch. ‘Time for action. Remember - Life is a circle.’
Alan and Hairy Jim bounded triumphantly onto a small corner stage. Paula grabbed Stu by the neck, piloting him to a table where Hugh swirled a brandy in purse-lipped contemplation.
‘This is Hugh. Over there’s Lena.’ Lena raised her pint glass with wordless acknowledgement. Hugh grasped Stu firmly by the hand. ‘Hugh Batey, by my beard. Poet, actor, raconteur.’
An electrical crackle drew attention to the stage. Guitar slung low, Alan tapped the mic. No sound. Hairy Jim flicked a few switches. A throb of feedback rolled through the pub. ‘Hello, Falking Hill! We are Toilet Overflow!’ Alan's guitar chugged into a deafening rendition of Cheggers Plays Pop, looping the theme tune to the popular children’s television show before the power cut out. From behind the bar, the bewildered landlord yelled out. ‘ALAN! What are you doing? From the stage, Alan and Hairy Jim shared a confused look before Alan replied. ‘Doing my gig, man.’
The Landlord bellowed from across the crowded pub. ‘Tomorrow night, you dozy tit!’
Alan and Hairy Jim huddled at a corner table, downing pints in shamed silence. The rest of the rowdy drinkers chimed in every time jukebox Chas ‘N Dave yelled “Gertcha!”. Stu and Lena sipped their drinks as they tried to ignore Paula and Hugh being all gropey.
Paula giggled drunkenly. ‘Look at these getting on like two nuns in a bath. You got a girlfriend, Stu? Lena’s single.’ Paula waggled a finger suggestively. Lena sipped her Vodka and Coke for a prolonged amount of time, all the while giving Paula the evil eye.
The evening descended into debauchery for Paula and Hugh, and there was only so much Stu could stomach before stepping out for some air. In a gloomy courtyard, away from the din, Stu inhaled breathable air. The jukebox blared The Buzzcocks’ What Do I Get all too appropriately.
A hand grabbed his arm, pulling him into the shadows. It took seconds to realise he was being passionately kissed to the point of being ravaged. Stu recoiled. Lena stepped into the light with an intense, lingering gaze before re-entering the pub without a word.
Taking a moment to run that scenario again, Stu broke into a pace, burrowing back into the pub. The pursuit of Lena was derailed by Alan; arm outstretched from his table to block him.
‘You coming to the gig tomorrow night?’
‘You’re sure it’s tomorrow night?’ said Stu, frustrated at the delay.
Wound salted, Alan sneered up at his friend. ‘Yeah, alright. Don’t take the piss, you.’
Stu focused into the distance, eyes searching. On the far side of the pub, Lena was leaving.
Out on the street, Stu stood at a crossroads. Ahead, the marketplace. Rows of shops in every other direction, full of drunken, over-excited/over-emotional noise. Lena had gone. A moment of disappointment was overridden by a broad grin and a Ready Brek glow.
Sprawled on the living room carpet, What Do I Get? pounded down the headphones to Stu’s mind, reliving that moment. His Mum stepped over him, bidding him goodnight.
Later, unable to sleep, Stu dreamily leant on his bedroom window ledge. Warm summer air flapped the net curtain. Stu lifted the curtain over his head, removing the distraction. Gazing listlessly, his eyes lowered down to the street where a figure stood on the pavement outside his house. The motionless figure stabbed a chill to his core, driving him away from the window.
The figure approached his house. Downstairs, the letterbox clanged. Stu crept down to see what it was, flapping his arms into a dressing gown. It was his manuscript. Careful not to disturb his sleeping family, Stu edged out the front door, and up the rough concrete driveway to the pavement.
Stu followed the figure, calling out in a hushed rasp. The figure kept moving. Stu called again, firmer. The figure halted. They turned, ghost-lit by the moon. It was Ivan Stroud.
‘I read your manuscript. The address on the cover page was the only honest collection of words in the whole thing. Poor, sad old Hartley Rumbelow. Boo hoo.’
Stu swallowed tears in an attempt to regain some poise. Ivan closed in, poking Stu’s belly. ‘Soft ‘n doughy. The only conflict in your life is whether to watch BBC or ITV.’ Ivan’s sarcastic eyes widened as if patronising a puppy.
Stu felt his cheeks glow with anger. ‘You tell me, then.’ Ivan’s face cracked a wicked smile.
‘Good. That’s good. You’ve taken your first step into a larger world. Rumbelow reaped what he sowed. Don’t tell us how sad it all is. Tell us why a man comes to be despised. Get into his soul. Rifle through the knicker drawer. People will tell you who they are... if you'll just listen.’
Who Do You Fancy? - You’ll Never Be Without a Fella Again! - Has he got sex appeal?
Stood in the newsagents before rows of teen magazines, Stu peaked inside slender tomes of romantic wisdom. But no free badge or jumbo comb would solve the enigma that was Lena Darrow.
During their midnight cruise through the twilight zone, Stu expressed to Little J an interest in learning more about ‘the theatre’ (meaning ‘Lena’), so Little J invited him to a rehearsal in the hope of nabbing a lead role in Stu’s first play.
“Better to be dead than late” was drummed into Stu from an early age by his Dad. Stu was ridiculously early for everything. Waiting was part of the experience, and he had spent his life doing just that. Stu arrived forty minutes early at the Falking Hill Arts Centre; a Victorian building with many rooms, booked up by numerous arts and crafts workshops.
An A-Frame outside the entrance advertised an art exhibition. Stu gingerly entered, tracing a mumble of chatter down a narrow corridor. A firm hand clamped on his shoulder. Stu spun, face to face with Graham Hastings. The hairy cornflake. ‘What are you doing here?’
Provoked by Graham’s rough interrogation, Stu opted for bluntness. What did it matter? He knew Graham hated him, anyway. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone. What’s your excuse?’
Graham puffed up his chest, speaking in a strained manner as he deeply inhaled. ‘Music retailer by day, Arts Centre manager by night. I am an essential cog in Falking Hill’s cultural community. A gatekeeper. Not for plaudits, because I never get any. Because I have to.’ Graham scowled at Stu through the dense jungle of hair that covered his entire head. ‘Just behave yourself. Alright?’
Without breaking eye contact, Stu backed away from Graham’s hostility, stepping into an adjacent exhibition room. At a safe distance from Graham, Stu turned away to find a plastic cup of white wine placed into his grip. Stu accepted it without fully understanding what was happening.
The room was full of local amateur artists discussing their displayed efforts. Stu perused the kitsch images like the art connoisseur he wasn’t. He recognised Nigel, dressed as a Mariachi, playing ‘Little Spanish Flea’ on a trumpet, accompanied by a re-heated corpse on acoustic guitar.
Arts Councillor Tony Nedwell – thick-rimmed secret-lemonade-drinker glasses, lank hair and leather elbow patches - signalled to Nigel to cease playing. Tony’s long bony arm flapped inside a billowy shirt sleeve to no effect. A wet blade of grass when it came to asserting himself.
It took a wolf whistle and an “Oi! Nige!” from Tony’s girlfriend Paula Fraygrent to halt the music.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I can distract you for one moment...’ called Tony, garnering everyone’s attention. Paula hooked on his arm, dressed for the Riviera. Loving the attention, she pouted as if she were about to burst into Happy Birthday, Mister President.
‘I am Tony Nedwell. Arts councillor for Falking Hill. It is my pleasure to announce the winner of this month’s art exhibition. Third place: Nigel Chavis for his piece Me ‘n my Mum!’
Tony displayed a viciously sketchy life drawing in charcoal of Nigel and his mother. The crowd applauded. Nigel suppressed a bashful smile, waving his trumpet. Tony continued. ‘Second place is English Country Garden, by Doris McGrew... Congratulations Doris. And in first place is... Melody Monteith for her work Dance of the Masks.’
A camera flash alerted Stu to the presence of Brookes Manders. Max Monteith pecked a hollow kiss on his wife. Coy Melody accepted an envelope from Paula, who whispered spitefully through her broad, red lipstick smile. ‘Don’t spend it all at once, will ya?’ Paula relinquished the envelope in her own time. Nigel and his ancient counterpart resumed playing, now the upbeat theme to The Waltons. Claiming the envelope from his wife, Max promptly left with Melody scuttling behind.
Stu forced a smile of recognition in the direction of Paula. ‘Hello again,’ said Stu, with an uncomfortable tone. The last time he had seen Paula she was drunk and flopping about with bawdy rogue Hugh Batey. Increasingly puzzled, Tony awaited an introduction from Paula, which was unforthcoming. Stu deduced a deadly glare from Paula. ‘People do often confuse me with Debbie Harry.’ That must be it, yeah.
Tony continued congratulating the almost-rans. Paula glanced over her dark sunglasses, smirking at her little secret with Stu. A salacious voice whispered in Stu’s ear. ‘I’ve seen her in the buff.’
‘That long lens comes in handy, then,’ said Stu, in no mood for Brookes’ repartee.
‘She’s only with that lanky streak for all of… this. His days are numbered, trust me,’ said Brookes, draining another cup of free wine. Stu decided to avoid any association with the rat in the room and departed in haste.
Wandering the narrow, wonky corridors of the dilapidated arts centre, Stu followed the sound of tumultuous voices projecting from a distant room. Through a small window in a door, Stu spotted Celia, waving her arms at Emily, Big J, and Lena. Stu slunk into the rehearsal room, discreetly greeting Little J. Emily emoted dramatically. ‘And in I walked, only to find my husband canoodling with the butler! I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life. I could have died!’
Thrusting her script downward with despair, Celia approached Emily. ‘No Emily, it is not literal. It’s not as if you entered the room, saw your husband with the butler, and somehow your life was in jeopardy. You’re speaking of your personal embarrassment, not a brush with death.’
Exasperation boiling, Celia locked eyes on Stu with putrid disdain. ‘I’m sorry, can I help?
All eyes swooped in Stu’s direction. Little J leapt to Stu’s defence. ‘I said it was okay for Stu to sit in. He wants to learn the ropes.’
‘Have you performed on stage before? Or perhaps in one of the many films you’ve written?’ asked Celia. Stu shook his head, wanting the exposure to end. Celia tutted. ‘Well, sit over there with him.’ Stu followed the direction of Celia's head nod across the room to where Gary Blenny sat, finger-waving smugly back at Stu.
Coffee break. Actors converged at a vending machine in the corridor. Gary and Stu stood guardedly opposed, irked at each other’s presence.
‘Come to sniff around the bum ‘ole of drama where the stars don't shine?’ asked Gary.
Stu didn’t have to justify his presence, but Gary certainly did. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Lena invited me,’ said Gary. ‘We’re kind of… a thing.’
Disappointment dawned on Stu’s face. Lena stepped out from the rehearsal room, frowning inquisitively towards Gary. ‘Chartering a flight to Brazil, Gary?’
Gary leant up off the wall, standing to attention. ‘Oh. Yeah. Coffee. Back in a tick.’
Gary scuttled to the vending machine down the corridor, rifling through the shrapnel in his pocket. Stu and Lena faced each other, both wearing serene poker faces. Silence unbearable, Stu nearly snapped into speaking first, pipped to the post by Lena. ‘Not tempted to tread the boards?’
‘Huh… I don’t get involved in all that,’ said Stu with some distaste.
‘Maybe you could hand out leaflets? Nigel used to handle promotion until his legendary poster for Lady Fandemere’s Wind. Lena broke into a friendly smile which melted Stu’s edginess.
‘Actually, I’m a writer,’ said Stu, in a mild attempt at impressing Lena.
‘The one-act drama festival is coming up. Write me a decent part and I might consider ditching this lot,’ said Lena, with a cheeky wink.
Gary reappeared with Lena’s coffee, scowling at Stu. ‘You still ‘ere, Cuthbert?’ Not to be outdone by that little upstart, Stu played Gary at his own game. ‘Gary. Have you told Lena the name of that film you’re making? The Man with no Skill?’
‘No skull. Yeah. She knows. Lena’s playing the lead,’ said Gary. Stu looked at Lena with raised eyebrows. ‘And you’re okay with all the nudity?’
Gary’s confident sneer fell off his face as Lena adopted a firmly opposed arms-crossed stance.
The next morning, wracked with guilt, Stu followed Alan around the record shop as he stocked shelves with LPs, confessing the previous night’s power play. ‘So,’ said Alan, ‘you write a killer part for this bird, she thinks you’re brilliant and Gary becomes a blob on the landscape? I find the quickest way to get into a girl’s knickers is to put your legs through the leg holes.’
Stu’s guilt was evident in his silence. Alan continued. ‘Thanks for asking how the gig went. Nobody showed up. Including you.’
‘What, I missed one gig… What about all the others I came to?’
‘That’s my point,’ said Alan. ‘Five minutes hanging round that lot ‘n you turn into one of ‘em.’
Stu built bridges with Alan by offering a ticket to a local performance of Jesus Christ Superstar. Alan’s curiosity for what had possessed his friend piqued his interest. It was impossible to hide Alan’s continual hip flask swigging. Stu guided him to the cast photos, where Alan mocked the actors’ headshots, confirming Stu’s suspicion that Alan was already drunk. Alan mockingly thumbed at the headshot for the star of the show. ‘Ha! Look at this guy: “Ryan Deutsch as Jesus”. Brilliant!’ Alan then parodied the pretentious expression of Ryan’s headshot, sucking in his cheeks.
‘Why don’t we take our seats, yeah?’ said Stu, in an attempt to calm Alan’s rowdiness.
Lights out, biblical characters paced on stage. Alan’s plentiful cynicism was long gone by Hosanna. Hoisted upon a cross, Ryan Deutsch - complete with a thorn crown and loincloth – wailed in agony.
Ryan/Jesus: My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me!
Alan wiped away a stream of tears, caught up in the emotional wailing.
Post-show, the cast mingled in character with the audience. Stu caught sight of Lena leaving in a fit of pique, Gary red-faced and apologetic. Stu could have twirled his moustache with glee.
Alan chatted excitedly, converted from an ordinary sinner to a fully signed-up disciple of musical theatre. ‘Jesus died for our sins. Entertaining AND educational. And that bird who played Mary Magdalene had lovely knockers.’
Stubby fingers patted Stu on the arm. Little J; in character as King Herod. Stu offered vague congratulations, careful not to be pinned down on details. Little J explained the show was a comeback for director/star, Ryan Deutsch. After Ryan’s previous production of ‘Hair’, he had to pull out all the stops to erase any memories of “the pageant of tiny willies”. The Dawning of The Age of a Hairy Arse, read one review, according to Little J. A ripple of exultation passed through the lingering audience, as Jesus drew closer. ‘Here he comes. Mutton dressed as the Lamb of God,’ joshed Little J.
Jesus/Ryan addressed Alan through tight grimacing lips, as if stifling vomit. ‘Hi. I’m Jesus. Thanks for coming.’ Browsing the programme, Alan wryly clarified. ‘Says here your name’s Ryan.’
‘Yeah, alright. Don’t take the piss,’ said Ryan, moving on to schmooze with his adoring fans. Alan nodded in Ryan’s direction. ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘That’s what everyone thinks when they see Ryan,’ remarked Little J. ‘We’re off to The Bernard now for a few drinkies. Coming?’
The Bernard Saucier Theatre was a 1960s grey concrete slab, across the road from the Falking Hill Arts Centre. A beacon in the night, its warm honey haze shone from rows of towering glazing.
Framed in gold upon the wall of the theatre as a homage to its namesake, a blown-up black and white photo of a brute in drag, mugging with every ounce of camp: Sir Bernard Saucier.
Orange, yellow and brown terracotta carpet sprawled the spacious foyer. Swooping custard-coloured walls, livened with exotic foliage. Rows of beige tables and Naugahyde chairs. An attempt at marine motifs proffered a whiff of ‘mermaid’s boudoir’. An oboe instrumental of Maybe from Annie piped through the speaker system. Two masks - Tragedy and Comedy - adorned the wall.
Downstairs in the bar, a painting of Anne Boleyn bore a comical plaque: “Don’t lose your head!” Fred Scrim - a gaunt barman with Hitler hair and pencil moustache - was in his typical sedentary pose behind the bar; sideways scowl seeing all.
Alan propped up the bar, worse for wear, as perched on barstools, Little J entranced Stu. A face around the theatre, Little J had a joke and a wink for all. Yet he was hard to pin down. A scant amount of personal questions were deflected by mysterious glances.
Little J divulged that he worked with “the cream of Falking Hill”. Stu later learnt that Little J was employed as a milkman. Little J told the truth, sort of. Discussing J’s theatrical craft opened the floodgates of doublespeak.
‘The masks we wear. The performance of life. Our quest for a deeper understanding of our internal struggle. That’s drama,’ pondered Little J with earnest eyes.
‘I wrote something. Gave it to Ivan Stroud, the actor. Have you heard of him?’ said Stu.
‘Once saw him in a play where he tried to knock himself out with a beer can. All he did was drench the front row with beer and blood. That’s not acting. That’s self-abuse.’ warned Little J.
Stu crowbarred the subject aside to make room for the real juicy meat. ‘Lena Darrow is pretty good, isn’t she? I mean she’s a good actress.’
‘She’s gorgeous. Great kisser. Don’t pout. It was all above board. We did a show together,’ said Little J, coming over all wistful. Stu exhaled a smile, relieved to hear the end of that story.
‘Spent the night together, of course,’ added Little J. The story wasn’t over. ‘We didn’t do anything. I was ten sheets to the wind,’ said Little J, leaving just enough time to pass for Stu to relax, before twisting the mental imagery once more. ‘Seen her in the nuddy, though.’
The yo-yo story-telling was beginning to grate. Little J placed a reassuring hand on Stu’s knee. ‘All it takes is a little confidence. I can show you how it’s done.’
Over a few nights, Stu attended numerous plays and rehearsals in which the ubiquitous Jeremy Wrigley appeared as a cyborg butler and a trouserless vicar. Then came an Operatic adaptation of The Marathon Man. Little J gripped a dentist’s chair, as a bald old dentist bellowed over him.
Singing Dentist: Is it safe?
Little J: Is whaaaat saaaafe?
Singing Dentist: IS IT SAAAAAAFE!?!
The crowning glory of Little J’s chameleon-esque scope was his African cotton field slave. Packed with emotion, Little J scooped a handful of soil from the stage floor, bawling “WHY?!” The curtain closed, re-opening immediately for Little J to take a bow. There was a lot Stu didn’t understand about theatre. Most of it was shaky, wooden, or boring. But he admired the camaraderie.
The security.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022