Backstabbers - Chapter 8
The Vultures Scream
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
The story so far: Having failed his exams, Stu informs his parents that he intends to volunteer at the local theatre, which does not go down well.
Escaping to the relative safety of the theatre, Stu meets the repertory cast of actors, who are rehearsing their dreadfully out-dated up-coming play. Shepperton arrives to say he has been called to an emergency meeting with arts council. Curious to know what’s afoot, Daz instructs Stu to eavesdrop on the meeting.
From outside the arts centre, Stu hears the Drama Guild’s offer to help Shepperton and his ailing theatre. All Shepperton hears is accusations of running the theatre aground and threats against his position: mostly from Celia Landaker. That evening, the Rep cast are all hospitalised after a freak car accident, adding to Shepperton’s woes.
Stu chances upon Alan downtown, and the two repair their friendship en route to another gig, which ends disastrously before it has even begun. Alan questions whether he will ever be a successful musician.
Lena turns up unannounced at Stu’s house, inviting him to help out at a one-act play festival. Confused as to why Lena keeps blowing hot and cold, Stu asks why she kissed him, only to receive the answer “Why not?”
The following Saturday, Stu pitched his Dad’s pasting table at The Cubs hall. The Boot Sale was typically busy, opened by “famous local writer” Max Monteith. Stu wasn’t sure what Max was famous for but later overheard from another seller that Max was the cousin of the Cubs leader. It’s who you know in this game, Stu thought to himself.
He watched Max parade around the stalls until it was his turn for inspection. Max dismissively perused Stu’s bounty of toys. ‘Bit old for toys, aren’t we?’ Stu resorted to childish sarcasm. ‘That’s why I’m selling them. Ttt.’
If only that was true. Stu had cleared out his bedroom after Lena’s unexpected visit. Next time - for there would be a next time - his bedroom would be the height of sophistication, complete with elegant furniture, art deco lighting and maybe a cocktail bar.
By ten in the morning, Stu had sold the last item of his youth – a board game he used to play with his Nan called Whatchamacallit.
With his pocket jangling with loose coins, Stu bussed his way to a grass verge on the outskirts of town. Busy A-road traffic raced in opposite directions; either to the beach at Arthend-on-Sea or to the town centre for a long day of shopping.
A uniformed brass band warmed up, as curious spectators gravitated towards a giant, ribboned, Hollywood-style sign, spelling out the name of the town: FALKING HILL.
Stu drifted through the crowd for a better view of the band. The frizzy hair of Nigel Chavis caught his eye. Then Lena. Stu now understood what a euphonium was.
A tremor of excitement gripped the crowd, as Mayor Denny Hazelbaker and his bubble-haired wife Pinky arrived. Grandiose waving, punctuated by car fume coughs. The Mayor greeted a line of anonymous council representatives and local business leaders, including Michael Landaker.
At the end of the meet ‘n greet was a stylish gent who, in Stu’s mind, bore a strong resemblance to The Master from Doctor Who. Neat beard and combed-back hair. An ageing, jowly Dracula. Stu had no idea who he was, but his pungent air of authority intimidated the Mayor.
The “Master” led the Mayor and his wife to a line of parading teenage cadets, led by Jeffrey Ostridge. Whatever the connection was between the Master and the militarised youth, Jeffrey was enjoying the opportunity to show off their status.
Hatred of authority figures clouded Stu’s thoughts.
Behind the scenes, the Mayor conferred with Big J, who was acting as master of ceremonies. Local radio station DJ Mike Beslee and Page Three model/actress Yvette Purdie stood in the wings, politely chatting through awkward smiles.
Mayor Hazelbaker inspected the new signage with disbelief. ‘This it? This is what ten grand buys you these days? We’re supposed to be shaking off Falking Hill’s naff reputation, not wearing it as a badge of honour. I mean, it’s not exactly Hollywood, is it? Who signed this off?’
Big J muffled the microphone to mute any further disparaging remarks. He led the Mayor aside to run through cue cards. ‘This is your opener. Then you move on to introducing the special guests, then you spend a few minutes talking about the sign, then we move to the ribbon cutting.’
The Mayor frowned with deep concentration, struggling to process the words. He glanced to his wife for assistance, working himself up into a red-faced fluster. ‘Any tips for delivery? I’m struggling a bit here with her name.’ The Mayor pointed to the name on the card for Big J to see.
‘Yvette Purdie? What’s tricky about that?’ asked Big J.
‘In the opening line, I refer to her not by her stage name, but her real name.’
‘What’s her real name?’ asked Big J.
‘Una… something. I can’t say it,’ flapped the Mayor. ‘Can’t I just say something else?’
‘You can call her what you like,’ said Big J. ‘She might not be so agreeable, though.’
The Mayor’s blonde, bubble-permed wife Pinky offered encouragement. ‘You’ll be fine, love.’
‘Na, na. Can’t do it. Can’t,’ said Mayor Hazelbaker, becoming more childlike in his fretting.
‘He gets stage fright,’ explained Pinky to Big J. ‘When he gets edgy, his Jim Rockford’s play up.’
The Mayor glared at his wife’s casual reveal of personal information. But there was more to come.
‘He still hasn’t got over mispronouncing Peters and Lee as Litres of Pee,’ said Pinky.
‘Well I’d bloody forgotten until you brought it up!’ said The Mayor, suddenly erupting into a succession of wild sneezes. Big J could only watch the exhibition of a human being brought to his knees by panic. Pinky brushed her husband aside. ‘Stress makes him sneeze.’
Big J’s nose twinged with confusion. Pinky took Big J aside, failing to lower her voice; an over-protective parent defending their mortified child’s failings. ‘He gets edgy with public speaking. The last time knocked him for six. He announced the singer of These Boots Are Made for Walkin' as Nazi Sinatra. Looked a right tit.’
The Mayor pounced on his wife’s explanation with the reserve of an attack dog. ‘Humiliation sticks with you a lifetime!’
Big J took a step back, alarmed at the expanse of white in the Mayor’s eyes.
‘He gets a bit violent if he’s embarrassed,’ said Pink, turning to calm her husband’s fears. ‘Just repeat her name over and over. Find peace in her name. Una Cant. Keep saying it, Una Cant, Una Cant, calm and slow…’ The Mayor repeatedly uttered Una Cant to himself, taking deep breaths.
Away from the growing crowd, Gary stood unmoved in a green army jacket, sunglasses on, arms folded. From a distance, Stu could see Lena with her brass band, warming up next to the stage. Stu manoeuvred for a clearer eye-line of Lena, backing into someone.
Stu blustered apologetically at a tanned, lithe young woman, canoodling with her alien-looking pet dog.
‘Now apologise to Mr Poufy-Paws.’
Stu recognised her from Celia’s after-show party. The reason Dr Bedford Baker’s car was smashed to pieces with a pickaxe. Elke Thomsen was the default setting-ultimate dream for boys Stu’s age. Her classic indistinguishable European accent added to the James Bondian fantasy, yet it was her natural confidence which dissolved Stu into silly putty.
‘Sorry… Mr Poufy-Paws,’ said Stu with flushed cheeks. Elke laughed at his sincere apology. Stu cracked a coy smile, cringing at his embarrassment. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’
‘Ah, yeah… Various drama… things,’ blustered Stu. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’ asked Elke. Stu had no idea why he had said that. What did that question even mean? Idiot. ‘Er… What… what keeps you busy?’
‘I’m starting university in a few months. Studying archaeology.’
‘Ah, so you dig old fossils, do you?’ remarked Stu with a wink, suddenly playing it cool as Bedford Baker handed Elke an ice cream, furrowing his brow at Stu’s wincing nod of hello.
The band erupted into a fanfare of Hooray for Hollywood. Bedford broke off the conversation, shaking his head at Stu’s nonsensical babbling. With eager desperation, Big J roused the Mayor.
Big J introduced the Mayor, who limped to the mic as if he’d fallen into a haystack full of pins.
‘Hello?’ Hazelbaker tapped the mic with uncertainty. ‘Erm… Nice to see so many of you here today. I can count at least twenty…’ The joke fell flat, which made the Mayor sweat even more. ‘Er… This landmark will be something for people to celebrate. You should be proud of living here. Falking Hill is for the brightest and the best, and with us today we have two people here who represent that. Local radio DJ Mike Beslee and a young bit of… lady. We all know her as Page Three stunner Yvette Purdie, also known by her real name…’
The Mayor paused. Anxiety flung water AND the bucket at his face. His mouth contorted, as he fought against saying the wrong name – or something far worse. Unable to contain his words for fear his head would explode, the Mayor released the pressure. ‘PETERS AND LEE!’
From the sidelines, Yvette Purdie corrected the Mayor, calling out her real name. ‘Una Cant!’ Mishearing and feeling deeply insulted, the Mayor hollered back. ‘Well, there’s no need for that!’
Aghast, Yvette huffed as DJ Mike Beslee doubled over with uncontrollable belly laughs.
Red-cheeked Mike and stone-faced Una posed with scissors as Brookes Manders snapped publicity photos. The giant ribbon was cut, and the underwhelmed crowd seeped applause.
The brass band picked up, petering out as the Mayor led the unimpressed exodus.
The last man clapping, Stu directed his enthusiasm at Lena. Dr Bedford Baker spoke softly in Stu’s ear. ‘Some free advice. From one red-blooded male to another. Lena is a woman that you must possess. Being her friend or lover is never enough. You'll never know the real her.’
Stu wasn’t certain if Dr Baker was referring to Lena or Elke. If it was Elke, then he was miles off and out of order with such a statement. If he meant Lena, then Stu reasoned that every word spoken by Bedford were hammered nails.
The band packed away their instruments, muttering complaints along the lines of “Why did we even bother” and “waste of time”. Stu bid Nigel a warm, over-familiar hello, but as Nigel began his response, Stu had already moved on to greet Lena. ‘Ready for the one-act plays?’
‘Don’t sound too excited. It’s going to be a disaster,’ said Lena with resignation. ‘I’m the only one who knows their lines. Celia should sack ‘em all and let me do it by myself.’ Nigel looked lost at Lena’s verdict. ‘Not you, Nigel. You’re brilliant,’ comforted Lena.
Red-faced, Nigel flapped a self-deprecating hand. ‘Uh, I’m only doing props…’ Lena grabbed Stu by the arm, guiding him back towards Nigel. ‘Stu’s going to help, aren’t you? You should both have a chat about… stuff.’
Clamping up her euphonium case, Lena promptly lugged it towards her red sporty car. All Stu could do was watch Lena leave. Nigel joined him, marvelling. ‘Nice car, eh? Used to belong to Bedford. Gave it to her. Apparently had one going spare.’
Whatever else Nigel knew about Lena, Stu was determined to find out.
Holding his steering wheel close, Nigel cautiously drove his beige Austin Maestro (which smelt of cheese and onion Ringos), whilst Stu kept the conversation on topic. ‘Lena’s very talented, isn’t she?’ Meekly navigating a junction, Nigel raised an apologetic hand at a beeping motorist, struggling to remain focused. ‘She’s really good on the euphonium.’
Not the greatest of insight. Stu suspected Nigel knew more. It was rare for anyone to give Nigel the time of day, so he lapped up Stu’s friendly line of questioning. He spoke about his hobbies, elbowing Stu as an indicator that he was about to speak.
Normal people collected stamps. Nigel the Nudger collected empty crisp packets. At Nigel’s house, which he shared with his elderly mother, he led Stu to a box room of alphabetised folders.
‘One day this will be worth millions. You watch,’ said Nigel, brimming with confidence.
The corners of Stu’s mouth downturned as he supposed so at Nigel’s shrewdness, whilst his mind rolled around laughing in disagreement. But who was Stu to disregard Nigel’s pride? It was the only time he had seen Nigel blow his own trumpet, other than his actual trumpet.
Nigel proved to be a mine of stalking info when it came to Lena. He knew where she worked, where she lived, her family details, and what crisps she ate. Hours later and struggling to stifle wide yawns, Stu made excuses, promising to drop off an empty bag of salt ‘n shake crisps. Nigel insisted he stayed for dinner, as set-up for the one-act plays was less than ninety minutes away.
The house smelt oily and fishy. A plate of brown, crispy stuff slid under Stu’s nose.
‘Just taking Mum’s dinner up to her,’ said Nigel. ‘Tuck in.’
Waiting for Nigel to reach the upstairs landing, Stu grabbed some kitchen towel and wrapped them around the battered things, stashing them in the kitchen bin before Nigel returned.
‘That was tasty, Nige. Absolutely stuffed now. Might have to undo the belt,’ said Stu, wiping his mouth with convincing satisfaction worthy of a ‘Bernie’ award.
Shrubbers Valley: The Posh Part of Town. In the hierarchy of suburbs, if you lived in Shrubbers Valley, you could lord it over the rest.
Working for Ludwig Van Hire, Nigel was vital to the existence of Celia’s drama group. He was the only one with transportation for props and sets. In the car park of Shrubber’s Secondary School, flats and scenery were unloaded, as the school caretaker unlocked the main hall.
‘I don’t just do theatre,’ explained Nigel. ‘I’m a member of the Sugarcraft Guild. The Rock and Mineral Society. Pottery. Quilters. Lacemaking…’
Nigel’s list of club memberships continued as he constructed the set and Stu positioned items of furniture on the stage. ‘…Calligraphy club. Amateur radio. Word weavers… I joined a new group last week. Dirty Lens Film Club.’ Nigel fitted a brace to a flat, steadying it. ‘Stuart, be a gent and grab another brace from my van. Keys are in my coat.’
In an empty classroom, soon to be doubling as a dressing room, Stu found the van keys in the pocket of Nigel’s donkey jacket, along with a handful of sticky sweets. Disgusted, look around for a way to clean himself up, finding a grimy art corner sink.
Hands washed, Stu dried his hands on a filthy wall-mounted re-usable cloth towel. The door opened and closed, alerting Stu. From the alcove, he saw Lena drop off her bag before starting to undress. Stu weighed his options: Hide or brazenly bowl out like he wasn’t a complete degenerate.
By now, Lena was down to her underwear. The door opened once more, and Nigel curiously peered in, not blinking an eyelid at Lena’s state of undress. ‘Lena. Have you seen Stu?’
Stu stepped out, keys held aloft like a bank robber waving a white flag to armed police. ‘It’s alright. Found ‘em. Nige. You’ve got a very sticky coat pocket, mate,’ laughed Stu, feebly before adopting a more business-like manner. ‘Hello, Lena.’
Lena smiled a confident hello, removing her costume from a carry bag with no hint of embarrassment, unlike Stu who wished the ground would open up and swallow him.
Unlocking his van, Nigel grabbed the brace as Stu clawed his face with sheer despair. ‘Ah, man! That did not happen!’ Nigel chuckled to himself. ‘That’s Am-Dram. We’ve all seen each other’s pants.’
‘Yeah, but... Lena.’
Nigel frowned at Stu’s hopeless display of infatuation. ‘You like Lena? We all thought you were gay.’ Nigel slammed the van door, heading into the school as Stu registered those last words.
‘We? Who’s we? We who?’
An A-Frame outside the main entrance to the school declared:
The Falking Hill Guild of Dramatic Arts presents an evening of ONE-ACT PLAYS!
The classrooms ‘backstage’ were filled with actors in costume, running lines and performing warm-up exercises. The fretful stalked in circles. The spiritually Zen chanted.
In the main hall, the audience purchased hot drinks and homemade cake, served by the Prebbles.
The usual faces were dotted around the hall, a minefield to be carefully negotiated. Brookes stuffed his face with cake. Gary skulked, watching the Reverend Greene and his son Christopher Gothard corner a disinterested Elke.
The seated audience was unceremoniously plunged into darkness. Tony and a sparkly-dressed woman stepped onto the spot-lit stage. Pleasantries dismissed, Tony introduced his special guest.
‘Allow me to introduce our adjudicator for the evening, Miss Hilda Harridan.’ With a sly smile, Hilda addressed the audience. ‘Good evening. It’s so nice to be back in Falking Hill. My previous career as an actress began many years ago at what is now known as The Bernard Saucier theatre, performing under Sir Bernard – or Bosie, as he was known…’
A vision appeared before Stu’s eyes. The death note Stu had taken from Rumbelow’s hand.
Two letters, carved in dark red blood. H H. The letters formed a name: Hilda Harridan.
Stu’s heart raced and, as much as he talked himself out of his flight of fancy, he couldn’t block the thoughts from his mind. HH. Hilda Harridan. The connection made Stu itch in his seat, as the on-stage banter continued.
Fidgeting, Stu glanced around the hall, spying a late arrival who was buying a ticket from Melody. A tall, elder statesman in a distinguished hat and long coat. He sat at a distance from the audience.
‘Tonight,’ said Tony, ‘we have four one-act plays, with a variety of themes. Victorian farce, futuristic drama, period comedy and a spine-chilling thriller. So sit back, and enjoy.’
The One-Act plays covered all the bases:
Victorian era-attired actors hamming it up, as another dress accidentally ripped off.
Science fiction: A complicated, nonsensical plot involving sentient technology.
A silver-sprayed Little J robotically gestured.
Little J/Android: We are The Collective! We are now your master!
The interval arrived like a favourite Aunty. The lights flicked on, temporarily blinding the audience. Stu arched his painful back. Gary massaged his own buttocks. ‘They could use these chairs to interrogate suspected IRA bombers.’
Gary caught sight of Elke, politely fending off Big J’s clammy advances. ‘Check out Agnetha over there. Gimme gimme gimme. Maybe I should buy an Aston Martin. Might be in with a chance.’ Stu’s head tilted with disapproval. ‘Elke’s not like that. She’s studying to be an Archaeologist if you must know.’ Gary let out a single laugh. ‘So she is a gold digger then?’
Brookes sided up to Stu, pointing out the distinguished gentleman at the back of the room.
‘You seen who’s here?’ said Brookes, conspiratorially. ‘Lawrence Wintercoat. He’s lived a life. Ex-intelligence. A real-life James Bond. Now works in tv.’ Brookes drifted off in thought at the idea of having a job on the telly, before returning to reality. ‘One of Wintercoat’s plays is being murdered here tonight.’ said Brookes, looking to Stu. ‘Do me a favour. Ask him for his autograph ‘n I’ll chip in with a few questions.
‘Why bother when you can just make it all up?’ said Stu, stern-faced.
‘Ah don’t be like that,’ said Brookes, his posture wilting at the insinuation of being a hack.
‘You wrote that a couple of bobber-jobbers found Rumbelow’s body. Do I look like a chuffin’ bobber jobber to you?’ glowered Stu.
Max tapped Brookes on the shoulder in the hope of gaining his attention, and possibly an interview for next week’s Falking Advertiser. ‘Max Monteith. Thought you might like to interview me. My play was performed tonight.’
Brookes slapped Max lightly on the shoulder. ‘You’ll get over it,’ said Brookes, seizing his chance as Dickensian ghost Lawrence Wintercoat drifted past. ‘Lawrence? Mr Wintercoat? Brookes Manders. Falking Advertiser.’
Wintercoat slowed to a standstill. A benign smile formed on his chiselled features. ‘Of that, I am well aware.’
‘What’s an old recluse like you doing here?’ enquired Brookes, as subtle as a knee in the groin.
Composed, Wintercoat loomed over Brookes; a vulture braced for picking meat off a bone. His deathly features betrayed his sixty-five years, but he possessed a voice that exuded youthful wit.
‘I am not a recluse. If people ceased being arseholes, there wouldn’t be an issue.’
Max sided up to Wintercoat, interrupting without a care. ‘Mr. Wintercoat. Max Monteith. Any advice for professional writers?’ Wintercoat glanced down upon Max as if he was an amuse-bouche. ‘Get yourself noticed. Wear something light.’
With that, Wintercoat stepped backstage, leaving Max and Brookes to regard each other as Wintercoat’s source of annoyance.
The One-Act Plays continued into the evening. Next up was:
3. A witty bonnets and top hats comedy of manners featuring Lena and Emily.
Emily/Miss Gertrude Gussington: 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!
Lena rolled her eyes at Emily’s ‘acting’. In the wings, Celia and Max gave up on life.
4. A supernatural spine-tingler. Surrounded by police, a priest and a nurse, Ryan Deutsch went for it. He trembled with pained, guttural angst; quivering finger pointing upwards.
Ryan/Prentis Skipling: Don’t… open… the loft hatch!
A Policeman promptly climbed a step ladder and opened the loft hatch. The lights blacked out.
A poor attempt at a blood-curdling scream. In the darkness, the curtains slid to a close. The stunned audience sat dazed as the hall lights switched on. A trickle of confused applause.
Twenty minutes later, the actors had emerged in their own clothes and devoid of make-up, apart from Little J, who remained metallic silver because he liked it. He beamed expectantly to Stu. ‘What did you think of it?’
Searching for hard-to-find pleasantries, Stu made lots of impressive noises. ‘Yeeeeeah… Lena was really good.’
Stood within earshot, Gary couldn’t resist commenting on the source of his recent gloominess. ‘Pity life doesn’t imitate art then.’ Gary swigged deeply from his hip flask. ‘What doesn’t kill ya makes ya stronger, prannies,’ said Gary, sloping off towards the exit in a drunken strop. Little J enquired with glee. ‘Is all not well between Gary and Lena?’
‘Brace yourself,’ said Stu with conspiratorial glee. ‘The greatest romance since Burton and Taylor has ended.’ Little J feigned surprise. ‘Of course. He’s not Lena’s type. And neither are you.’
Stu didn’t enjoy the pain of having the tables turned so sharply, and went on the offensive. ‘Is this from her official representative or…’ Throwing his hands up, Little J acted innocent. ‘Just letting you know…’ said Little J, backing away in the comfort of knowing he had rattled Stu’s cage.
The audience had doubled in size, as the performers and stage crew eagerly awaited the adjudication. The stage curtains parted to reveal a spot-lit rostrum. Hilda Harridan walked on to rapturous applause. With a strong resemblance to Fanny Cradock - suspicious bouffant hair, drawn-on eyebrows and long, ghostly white face - Hilda stood at the rostrum.
Cigarillo in hand, she donned thick-rimmed spectacles. A witheringly patronising smile revealed a gap in the centre of her upper row of teeth. Hilda spoke in a clipped accent, somewhat like the Queen, or the woman who sang on The Flying Lizards’ Money (That’s What I Want).
‘I am reminded of the late, great Tandy Fortescue. When asked why she performed, she retorted “It keeps me alive, darling!” I started as an actress at the Bernard Saucier Theatre. Since then I have travelled the country, judging many drama festivals. Falking Hill will always hold a special place in my heart. And tonight’s plays fit well amongst those memories.’
The various productions sat in their respective clans. Ryan with his teenage following, Celia with her middle-class, middle-aged collective. Forced smiles shielded their fretting egos.
‘My role as an adjudicator is to award marks based on specific guidelines covering originality, production, acting, staging, direction and artistic endeavour. The first production, Victorian farce Eton’s Mess… well, don’t blame Eton. Castigate those who believed it was worth bothering with in the first instance. Unfunny, badly played, leaden direction. Simply dire. The Doomsday Collective described itself as “a warning from the future”. If only the message could have reached us about ninety minutes ago. Incomprehensible dialogue. Rudimentary production values.
The drama groups pouted like mortified fishes in a barrel as the slaughter continued.
‘Morality And Manners was directed with a self-satisfied smugness, performed by witless, wooden actors. In particular, the lumpen Emily Fothergill, who displayed a particularly shoddy line in stereotypical expressions such as the shocked face.’
Emily’s shocked face made an encore.
‘The blame must be squarely laid at director Celia Landaker’s doorstep. To permit such portentous stage movement with patronising, simpering performances can only be down to the old hack steering the ship.’
Celia, Max and Lena gaped. Michael Landaker stroked his moustache; tension bubbling.
‘Finally, the po-faced The Ghost in the Loft, a supposed thriller, as electrifying as a parking ticket, featuring a performance so stilted I had to arch my neck to see it. Never before has my role as adjudicator been so difficult. Based on today’s pedestrian results, I absolutely despair for the theatre. Nothing merited any reward. You should all be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.’
The audience sat stunned as Hilda left the stage in silence.
Then came the disgust and tears, rising to a frenzied outcry.
As the hall fell into revolt, Stu swiftly sneaked out unseen.
Hilda Harridan found a glass of sherry waiting for her in the library which was doubling as her private space. As she knocked back the drink, she shivered; her eyes locked in a tense recollection of anguish and pain, before softly warming to the vengeance which she had dealt to the past.
The door creaked open, warning her of a presence. She turned, regarding Stu with a condescending glare. ‘This sherry is vile. I stated in our correspondence that it should be Bristol Cream.’
Stu didn’t know how to respond to that. Hilda raised an understanding, wry eyebrow. ‘Ah. The voice of complaint. What is it? Did I offend your directing, acting… or writing?’
‘Miss Harridan…’ spoke Stu, clearing his dry throat.
‘Ms’
‘… were you, by any chance, acquainted with Hartley Rumbelow?’ asked Stu.
Hilda seemed taken aback by this, as Stu continued. ‘He… he died recently. I found him, actually. Locked in his cellar. There was a note.’
Before Stu could say anything else, Hilda shut him down.
‘Who? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Hilda became agitated and flustered at the pestering. ‘How did you get in here? You shouldn’t be here. Get out.’
‘Everything alright, Hilda?’ called Tony from outside the library.
As Hilda launched into a diatribe to Tony about how she expected better treatment and how awful the sherry was, Stu fled the rattled hornet’s nest.
Back in the hall, Lena consoled a wailing Emily. ‘She... called... me... lumpy!’
Lena clarified in a mothering voice. ‘Lumpen.’ Lena rolled her eyes at Emily’s hysterics.
Gloating entity Brookes hovered over the losers. ‘How did Hilda describe your direction, Celia? “The work of a hack”?
Celia took a moment of amused reflection before responding to Brookes’ gloating. ‘I will never forget the day you auditioned for me, Brookes. My advice stands. “Stick to what you’re good at.” Let me know when you discover what that is.’
Brookes swallowed the discomfort in his throat, lashing out in retaliation at the nearest victim as he stomped away. ‘Cry all the way home, little piggy.’ Emily’s wailing launched into stratospheric shrieking.
Ryan Deutsch chipped in with his indignation. ‘She had the audacity to say one of my cast was stilted. They’ve got learning difficulties!’ Big J corrected Ryan’s error. ‘She was referring to you.’
Ryan raised a dismissive hand. ‘Oi. Professor Yaffle. Beak out of it.’
‘That wasn’t an adjudication,’ said Celia, ‘It was an assassination. Something must be done about this. She can’t get away with this.’
An unexpected voice countered Celia’s bitter rally cry. ‘Well, the way I see it,’ said Stu, ‘you either complain or you let it go and move on.’ Celia turned to Stu with a look so contemptuous it made Stu wish he had kept his mouth shut.
‘Clearly, you’re a better man than me, Mohammed,’ said Celia.
Tony Nedwell passively approached, attempting to placate with agreeable head-tilting. ‘I can’t understand emotions are running high, but Ms Harridan has been adjudicating probably for longer than any of us have been alive…’
‘We demand to see the adjudicator,’ ordered Celia.
‘I am merely an arts representative for Falking Hill council. This is nothing to do with me,’ said Tony, passive hands held up in an attempt to placate the angry mob.
‘Oh pull the other one, Tony,’ said Bedford, ‘I saw you, clapping like a sea lion. Nearly threw you a bloody fish.’
The hall plunged into darkness. A blackout. A collective groan heaved in the moonlight. In the blackness, Bedford yelled out in his best authoritarian voice. ‘Whoever switched the lights off can you switch them back on, please!’ Vernon Prebble reached inside his market trader’s pouch, producing a hand-powered torch. He squeezed the handle repeatedly. The torch lit up for three seconds, before fading out.
‘What would we do without you, Vernon?’ said Big J, unimpressed.
‘Well you have to keep pumping the handle…’ said Vernon, dejected. Vivienne consoled her husband for his well-intentioned attempt at saving the day.
The angry mob stalked the dark corridors for answers, temporarily blinded as the power sprang to life throughout the school. ‘Thank goodness,’ said Bedford, at the forefront of the mob. ‘For a minute there I thought it was another bloody strike.’
The group searched from room to room. Ryan opened a door to a small storage room, horrified at the sight: Hugh Batey and Paula Fraygrent in a half-naked clinch. Their flustered yelps attracted the rest of the leering group; their morbid curiosity instantly reversed into stomach-grinding sickness.
‘Now that’s tragic!’ chirped Little J in his best Paul Daniels voice.
Big J joined in on the teasing. ‘Excuse me, is this the audition room for Kiss Me, Kate?
Tony barged through to the front of the search party, taking in the sight of Hugh and Paula covering their modesty. Wide-eyed, Paula rattled off excuses. ‘Tony! It’s not what you think. We’re… rehearsing. For a play.’
‘What? Tis pity she’s a Whore?’ barked Tony; his hitherto unseen anger surprising everyone. Tony lunged a wide, bony hand at Hugh, restrained by the two Js. The fighting halted as Nigel yelled from the far end of the corridor. ‘Quick! Come quickly! She’s dead!’
In the library, caught in a shaft of fluorescent light, Hilda Harridan arched backwards over a table. A pickaxe was embedded in the table beside her contorted face.
Dr Bedford Baker examined Hilda. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was scared to death.’
‘Someone had an axe to grind,’ remarked Little J, prompting a fatigued groan from the group. Little J shrugged defensively, as Lena took a closer look at the pickaxe. ‘It’s a dwarf’s pickaxe.’
‘A dwarf’s pickaxe!’ exclaimed Emily in her shrillest voice.
‘Yes, a dwarf’s pickaxe, Lady bloody Bracknell,’ said Lena, inspecting the hilt of the axe. There was an inscription on a brass plate, which Lena read for all to hear. ‘Grumpy’.
Rubberneckers loitered behind a police cordon. Emily beseeched Ryan for solace, only to be batted away with an aggravated hand. Shaken, Nigel exited the cordon, joining his friends. ‘The police want to talk to me at the station. Tomorrow.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Little J, ‘It was your pickaxe.’
‘I’m just the props master. Besides, they’re all gone.’
The group didn’t follow Nigel’s meaning. ‘Someone has taken all of the pickaxes from my van.’
‘Someone broke into your van?’ asked Bedford, only to be corrected by Big J. ‘Left it unlocked, more like.’
Emily hushed the bickering, pointing theatrically. ‘Look! They’ve arrested somebody!
The eyes of the group followed the Police as they escorted Stu past the wall of shocked faces. Their judgment burned Stu to his core.
Early the next morning, Mayor Hazelbaker stepped from his chauffeur-driven car, greeted by a troubled assistant, who led the Mayor across the green.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Mayor Hazelbaker. ‘You gonna tell me or what? What, is it a secret? It’s five thirty in the morning…’
The sombre assistant led the Mayor to the newly unveiled town sign, now newly vandalized.
FA KING HELL
Mayor Hazelbaker’s vision of alluring, exotic Hollywood pizzazz had run aground in a matter of hours.
‘We can’t have anything nice, can we?’ said the Mayor, looking to his aide like a child seeking comfort from its parent.
A familiar voice chirruped rapturously at The Mayor. Brookes Manders, poised with his camera.
‘Mister Mayor! Anything to say on the failing reputation of Falking Hill?’
‘Get him out of here.’ muttered the Mayor to his burly driver, who promptly removed Brookes; pleading innocence as he was frogmarched away from the scene.
The Mayor gritted his teeth at the vandalised sign, barking an order to his assistant. ‘Get this fixed sharpish. I’m going back to bed. I’m shaking hands with the unemployed this afternoon.’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022