“He suspects me, Wayne. I’m his numero uno.”
Wednesday had brought another light spring shower and a small northern man to the city of Bristol. The small northern man was called Wayne, and he liked video nasties. He liked them so much he was hell-bound on collecting every single nasty on the infamous banned list produced by the Department of Public Prosecutions in 1983. This was no easy task as some of them were rarer than British Eurovision Song Contest winners. But he had persevered, had Wayne, and could now count amongst his collection a solid thirty out of the hot 39 wanted by the Plod back when he was just a wee nipper.
It was chasing elusive video nasties that had first brought Wayne into contact with Tommy several years before at a horror film festival. Tommy had been flogging a few from a shoe box in the foyer, and Wayne had bought half his stock. Now he wanted the rest. And right now, Tommy was only too happy to give them up.
“But you’ve got solid alibis for both murders,” the small man from Burney insisted. They were sitting in a biker pub in St Nick’s Market, drinking Trooper Ale. The picture on the tap label showed a zombie Crimean Soldier waving an English flag ripped from an Iron Maiden CD cover, which was probably why they were drinking it. It was three in the afternoon, and both of them had drunk maybe one more Trooper than was probably good for them. “But don’t let that put you off flogging me your vids,” Wayne added hastily.
Tommy sighed. “That’s all you care about. You just want to get your hands on my nasties.”
“I’m doing you a favour and you know it,” Wayne insisted. The pub was fairly quiet at this time of day. There were a couple of longhairs playing pool, and a fat biker at the next table with a tattoo of Ozzy Osbourne on the back of his neck, chatting to a lady with a set of equally greasy looking tatts decorating her ample flesh.
“You know they’re worth more than you’re paying.”
“Look, I’m running a risk too, taking ’em off your hands.” Wayne looked righteous. His collar length hair was dark and unkempt, his eyes small but bright and canny. “This Slade copper could be following you. Which means he’ll have me on the radar too.”
Tommy sipped at his Trooper. “Just take ’em. All of them. Sooner you get them up to Burnley the better. The cops could raid my house at any time.”
Wayne nodded eagerly. “So you’ve got them stashed in the cemetery at the moment? Hope you remember where you put ‘’em. And I hope they’re not rain-damaged.”
“I wrapped them carefully in several polythene bags, don’t fret. They’re wedged in a gap under a tomb not far from my garden wall. I couldn’t exactly keep them in the house, could I?” He took a large gulp of Trooper, the warm fizz in his head calming him slightly and was almost beginning to relax a little for the first time in days. “I bet you’ll sell them all on at Fearfest, won’t you? Creaming a nice profit out of me in the process, eh?”
“That’s not for a few weeks yet. And I’ve got to look after potentially incriminating property until then. But I’m not selling them at the festival, don’t worry. I’m keeping them for myself. Always wanted Don’t Go in the Woods… Just a shame you haven’t got Werewolf and the Yeti, but I suppose it is one of the rarest…”
“Just do me one thing,” Tommy said, and his tone became serious.
“What’s that?”
“When you’re at Fearfest, check out the people buying video nasties from the stalls, or at least anyone who seems to have more than a healthy interest in them. Just keep your eyes open for anyone strange.”
“That’ll be every fucker there,” Wayne retorted. His brow creased as the implication of Tommy’s words sank home. “You think the murderer might be at Fearfest?”
“Could be. Whoever did it has got to be buying nasties from somewhere. Seems like a good enough place to find the freak.”
“There’ll be plenty of those there. At least, if you believe The Daily Mail.”
Tommy nodded. “Thought that rag had given up chasing video nasties.”
“They never give up. It’s a personal war for them. Always has been, since the original ‘nasty’ phenomenon in the eighties. Pure headlines, dear boy. They’re loving these latest nasty-linked atrocities.”
“So why did the police leak the details, I wonder…” Tommy looked into distance, forgetting Wayne for a moment. He was momentarily back in the past, breakfast time in the Wallace household, and his father’s stern face was staring up at him from the newspaper on the table, a bit of milk spilled on the photo from where Tommy had been clumsy with the jug. His Dad hadn’t been happy about that either. Though he had been happy about being in the paper, Tommy remembered. And that had been the Mail.
“Who knows,” replied Wayne, jerking him back into the present. “Maybe to nudge people into reporting anything suspicious related to nasties. In which case you and me should keep our heads down. Especially you…”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Wayne looked thoughtful for a moment, then peered down into his dark beer. “Weird though, ain’t it?”
“What is?”
“That two murders have been committed and each time a video nasty has been found at the scene of the crime. And you have both of them at home.”
Tommy leaned closer to Wayne. “Keep your voice down for fuck’s sake. I think maybe I’m being targeted. Framed.”
“How d’you work that out?”
Tommy hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak but just then his cell blared out a raucous ringtone from the pocket of his jeans. “Hang on…”
He checked the screen for the caller, and didn’t recognise the number. He paused for all of two seconds and then thumbed the accept button. “Hello?”
Wayne watched Tommy’s features suddenly light up. He sniffed and sat back. It was a rum business, alright, as his Dad used to say. A reet fookin’ rum business, if you asked him. He’d known Tommy for eight years, and he knew he was a good sort. But even a man who is pure at heart and says his prayers by night…etc. In truth, did anyone really know their colleague, their friend, their neighbour? People were fucked up. So many conflicting impulses and dark primitive instincts and only a thin veneer of civilisation to cover them. It was hardly surprising they broke through sometimes, these rude shark-fin interruptions on the smooth surface of normality. Deep that… Fuck. About time he had a sniff. He was getting pretentious. Besides, Tommy looked busy on the phone and wouldn’t miss him right now.
He got off his stool and ambled over to the disabled toilet in the corner of the bar. He locked the door behind him and looked around in a proprietorial fashion. Then he pulled out his wallet, extracted a twenty, slipped his baggie of coke from his other pocket and shook a little cluster on top of the porcelain flush housing above the toilet. He tidied the pile into a line with his Visa card, then rolled the twenty tightly. He took a deep toot, nearly clearing the line, then went back to finish the job. Better.
He made sure he hadn’t left anything behind, took a piss and washed his hands. He started singing (badly) along to the Don’t Go in the Woods theme tune. It was a travesty of the Teddy Bear’s Picnic that played over the end credits and Wayne could remember all the lyrics.
“Don’t go into the woods tonight, you probably will be thrilled.
Don’t go into the woods tonight, you probably will be killed.
There’s a friendly beast that lurks about,
And likes to feast, you won’t get out,
Without being killed and chopped up in little pieces.”
All in all, he was quite chuffed his mate was flogging off his nasties. He’d often thought of starting up a band, just so he could do a cover of this version of Teddy Bear’s Picnic. He was sure it would go down a storm at gigs…
When he emerged from the toilet the last thing he expected to see was a gorgeous, tawny blonde in a leopard-print jacket sitting opposite his mate. He already felt a zing of energy surfing the rapids of his veins and this new turn made it zing just that little faster.
They both seemed engrossed in conversation and didn’t notice Wayne until he’d been standing watching them for all of thirty seconds, arms folded patiently. The blonde looked up at him with lioness-brown eyes, and her lips parted in a bright smile, revealing slightly sharp teeth which only added to the animal sexiness she exuded. Fuck. Where did Tommy magic her from? This was such a dominant thought that he felt impelled to voice it. “Fuck, Tommy. Where did you magic her from?”
The girl trilled with giggles, then stood up quickly. “Have I taken your chair?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry; there’s plenty more. The pub ain’t exactly heaving.”
She giggled again and settled back down on the stool. “I was in the market shopping and when Tommy said he was here I couldn’t resist meeting him.”
“She got my number from that dick Hamm. Can you believe that he’s actually come through for me for once.”
The blonde giggled and slapped his arm playfully. “Don’t be mean! Mark’s lovely.”
“I’ve heard he’s a right twat. But why would you want to meet Tommy in the first place?” Wayne sniffed, realized the sniff was a bit obvious (although neither Tommy nor the girl seemed to notice) and took a hasty sip of his Trooper.
“Cheeky bastard,” Tommy answered. “She knows a star when she sees one. This is Jasmine, by the way. Jazz, meet my mate Wayne. He’s from up North, but don’t hold that against him. Jasmine’s working on a new film with Hamm.”
“The movie you couldn’t get on, you mean? She’s obviously a better actor than you, mate.” He winked at Jasmine. Her giggles were definitely infectious, and while Wayne could never be called a giggler by any stretch of the imagination, he was charmed into a guffaw by her.
“So tell me about it…” Tommy prompted Jasmine. “Have you actually started shooting yet?”
“Not our scenes yet, no. Though I believe the director’s got a lot in the can already.” She took a sip of her Rioja, and let out a little gasp of satisfaction. “But I’m really looking forward to it. The director sat us down and showed one of his earlier short films as a warming-up exercise. He didn’t want to show us the footage he’s already shot on this film as he wants us to see the complete item when it’s all done. And of course we’ll be in it by then. What we saw was a kind of promo. A prototype. And…” She paused, grimaced. “It was a bit rough, to be honest.” She shuddered melodramatically. “Very bloody and disturbing.” The shiver was followed by a girlish giggle that contradicted her disgusted tone. “But he clearly has some kind of progressive talent.”
Tommy was so full of questions he could barely stop them all bursting out at once. “How many are there in the cast?”
She shrugged. “I’ve only seen myself, Mark and two others so far, Simon and Jane—they were in the audition waiting room with us. It’s a low budget feature, so cast and crew are deliberately small, but—”
“What’s the director like?” Tommy interrupted, sensing Jasmine was about to embark on a gushing promotion of the film’s modest yet thematically important qualities, and he wasn’t particularly in the mood for that.
Jasmine paused. She was obviously trying to find the right words, and struggling. Eventually she shrugged. “He’s different,” she managed. “Very concentrated. Definitely knows what he wants. I’ve only met him the once so it’s difficult to form an opinion yet.”
“He’s a bastard then,” Wayne interjected.
Jasmine trilled in a mock-outraged way. “Noooo! And I think he might be disfigured. He wears a—a latex mask. Not a Halloween mask or anything. It’s a normal, rather bland plastic face, maybe representing Mr. Average… I think it’s a symbol of some kind. He’s an artist; the mask is his beret.” She thought about what she’d said and tittered.
But Tommy had more serious topics on his mind. He leaned forward, watching her carefully. “Didn’t you find the audition disturbing?”
Jasmine took another sip of wine. She looked straight at Tommy. “Mark told me the actress in the audition clip was a friend of yours.” Was there a challenge in those soft brown lioness eyes?
Tommy looked away briefly, then back. “It was horrible, Jazz. I had to walk out. And she wasn’t an actress, that’s why—”
“You fancied her, didn’t you?”
“Course he did,” Wayne butted in, sensing an awkwardness in the air. “He fancies anything in a bra.”
Tommy shook his head at Wayne’s crassness. Jasmine smiled carefully and said, “You know it wasn’t real, don’t you Tommy?”
He took a big gulp of Trooper, finished the pint. He nodded at Wayne who had just sniffed quite loudly in a sudden period of silence from the juke box. “Your round, Mr. Sensitive.”
Wayne wiped his nose self-consciously and got to his feet. “Another wine, Jazz?”
She shook her head prettily, and touched the northerner gently on his rough hand in a token of silent gratitude. Tommy noticed the gesture. She was very tactile. He just wished she would keep it solely for him.
“I’m happy for you though, Jazz. If you think the film’s got promise, then I’m glad.”
As if reading his thoughts, she reached out and stroked his hand too. The nerves in his hand felt like they’d been touched by a live wire. His blood sped up, and his cock tightened.
“I just wish you could be in it too,” she breathed huskily.
“Perhaps it’s better I’m not,” he answered. “I don’t like being around Mark at the best of times.”
She frowned at him. “What is it between you two?”
Tommy thought about that. “I guess he’s just everything I’m not. He’s super confident, super smooth, egotistical, has all the best putdowns ready to go at all times…”
“He’s not so bad,” she said with a little laugh. “I think you two just rub each other up the wrong way.”
“Too bloody similar if you ask me,” Wayne added, arriving back at the table with two foamy Troopers. “Beats me why he asked you to audition in the first place.”
Tommy lifted the Trooper to his lips. “Oh, I know exactly why he asked me…”
Wayne sniffed again. “Do tell…”
“He just wanted to rub Vicky in my face. Again.”
“Sounds fun,” Wayne sniggered. Tommy ignored him. Wayne thought for a moment then said, “But it’s not down to Mark, is it? About who gets the part, I mean?”
“He was in charge of auditions for some reason. He seems to have the director’s ear. Would you say they’re close, Jazz?” he looked at her, his heart still a little warm after that Electro touch.
“No…” She thought about it. “No, the director doesn’t get close to anyone. And as I said, we haven’t seen much of him yet.”
“Does he have a name?” Tommy leaned forward over the beer-slopped table.
She frowned again. “You’ll think I’m daft, but I don’t know it. He’s playing everything very close to his chest. He hasn’t even given the movie a title yet.”
“The Film with No Name, eh?” Wayne winked at her. “Very mysterious.”
“And how about you, Jazz…?” Tommy said, ignoring his friend. “How close do you keep things to your chest?”
“Maybe not as close as you’d like to be to her chest, sunshine.” Wayne sniffed demonstratively.
“Wayne, why don’t you go in the Disabled for another snort and leave us to chat in private for a bit? I think that would be a plan.”
“Don’t know what you’re referring to, but I can tell when I’m not wanted.” He glanced from Tommy to Jazz, waiting for them to contradict him. When neither did, he got to his feet, and took a big slurp of beer. “Okay. I’ll leave you two to get it onnnn. Popping down to Tescos to get some baccy. But don’t get up to anything naughty, cos I’ll. Be. Right. Back.”
“Wayne,” said Tommy with an embarrassed grin, “Fuck off…and take your time.”
When his friend had gone, Tommy sat back in his chair and relaxed a little. “Sorry about him. He’s a liability.”
“Oh, he’s sweet,” she giggled.
“Sweet as a dose of the pox. But where was I?”
“I’m not sure. It sounded like you were coming over all Detective on me,” she answered with a cheeky smile.
“Shit, I wouldn’t wanna do a Slade on you.” When she looked puzzled he told her all about the Detective Inspector dogging him, and inevitably, (reluctantly) about the murders on the sets of Arthur and Professor Watt respectively.
When he’d finished, she was quiet for a second or two. Her face was set and serious. Did she think he was making this shit up to make himself sound more interesting or something?
Then she reached out her hand and touched his again. The same shock ran through him. She held his hand for a moment, silence between them, her gorgeous brown eyes never leaving his. Then she got off her stool, leaned over him and kissed his cheek. It was as she was pulling away that he grabbed her, pulled her down onto his lap so he could kiss her properly. To his utter delight she did not pull away. Her arms came up to embrace him and she kissed him back. Lingeringly at first, lips gently melding, then tongues flicking at each other, seeking, playing, then passionate. Too soon she broke away, got up quietly and sat down on her stool again. She looked slightly flushed, and smiled guiltily at him. He guessed he was equally as flushed, judging from the burn he could feel in his cheeks. He tasted her on his lips and his smile was huge.
“Well, if that’s the response I get, I’ll be a murder suspect any day.”
She gave him a little teacherly frown. “You mustn’t say that!” Then she reached out for his hand again. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
“Then you believe me? Because that’s really important. That you know I had nothing to do with these deaths…”
“Of course I believe you.”
“Why?”
That seemed to throw her off guard. “What d’you mean?”
“Why should you believe me? I mean Slade may be a prehistoric moron, but he’s right, isn’t he? I was on the scene of both murders, and pretty much the first to find the body in each case. It doesn’t take Sherlock to figure out I’m in the frame.”
“But from what you’ve told me there were a lot of people present at both scenes…”
“Yeah, Mark-bloody-Hamm for one.”
“Besides Mark. Didn’t you say there were similar crew members on both productions?”
“I did say that. I think.” He paused, considering. “But yes, that’s right. There were cameramen, sound bods, make-up girls that were present on Arthur and Professor What…”
“Well then, this Detective must be aware of that.”
“Well if he is, he’s keeping it to himself. He likes the idea of me being the bad man.”
They were interrupted just then by the return of Wayne, who was eyeing them suspiciously to see if he’d missed out on any fun. Tommy was tempted to tell him exactly how much fun it had been, but resisted. He didn’t want to appear too keen in front of Jasmine. If he’d learned one thing in his relations with women—and a sad note struck through him as Trish’s face popped up in his mind like a reproachful Jack in the Box—it was never to play his hand too soon, never be taken for granted. Although he couldn’t deny, he’d certainly taken his wife for granted too.
He took a gulp of Trooper and smiled at Jasmine. The sadness soon faded, and for a precious, ever-so-fleeting moment in time—and he somehow knew he’d better make the damn most of these next few hours—everything felt like it was going to be alright in Tommy’s world.