The first person Tommy saw on set the next day was Rona. Although he didn’t realize it at the time, she was the star of the whole show. He’d seen her in other stuff, a few TV series, even a Bond film, looking glamorous and sexy with her long dark hair and make-up accentuating her large brown eyes. But today he didn’t recognise the rather plain-looking young woman strolling head down towards him as he sat outside the cosmetics trailer sipping at his first cup of tea,
She had no make-up, was dressed in a scruffy sweater, her hair was tied back peremptorily, and she was stuffing a piece of toast in her mouth. She smiled thinly, awkwardly, at Tommy, and some of her toast broke off to fall down her jumper.
“You’ve dropped a bit,” Tommy said stupidly. It was one of those irritating comments that men sometimes make to women to show they are in control, to belittle them. This really wasn’t how Tommy meant it but he realized as soon as the words were out how they sounded.
Rona reddened, then walked past and up the steps into the make-up truck. She would emerge half an hour later looking like a voluptuous vision in a WWI nurse’s uniform, but by then Tommy had other matters to occupy his attention.
Like Jasmine, for instance. He had suspected Mark would turn up, and subconsciously hoped Jasmine might too. But lately the same faces had continually been showing up on different productions as the casting agency worked their most reliable and effective extras as much as they could, so he had believed as a newbie in this line of work she might not get picked. He was delighted to be proved wrong.
He had already spotted Mark. The smug bastard saluted him as he walked past, resplendent in his officer’s uniform. Of course Mark would get the best costume—Tommy had already seen his own rather tatty orderly uniform, a couple of sizes too small and with holes in the cap and sleeves that looked like they’d been gnawed by a rat. Seeing Jasmine however, improved his state of mind a whole lot, even if it was only 7:00 a.m.
She wasn’t in costume yet, and looked gorgeous in tight jeans and an Arran sweater. Her tawny blonde hair was wild and spilling around her cute, cheeky face. Her lips parted in a libido-boosting smile when she saw him and she hurried over to join him. He got up from his plastic chair to embrace her, spilling a few drops of tea on the ground as he did.
The sun was just rising over the trees that bordered the production unit base, and her hair came alive under the rays. Her freckles glowed too, and her eyes twinkled.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were on this?” she scolded him, finally releasing him from the hug.
“I almost rang you last night. But then I thought if you weren’t on it, you’d only feel left out…” That hadn’t been the only reason; he’d been feeling depressed after the cops left, thinking of Trish, and really didn’t have the heart to talk to Jasmine. He realized now what a mistake that had been; she had transformed his mood with one smile.
“Silly,” she trilled, stroking his cheek. Desire flared up under her touch. He wanted to snog her face off right there and then. Only the sight of Slade and his stooge Whitley restrained him. There they were, like cartoon cops, eyeing everyone up with measured disdain. He’d clocked the uniformed constables on the gate when he’d arrived and had supposed it was only a matter of time before he bumped into his best mate Slade. The DI spotted him, and Tommy saw him nudge Whitley and point over. Oh, fuck. Not now, just when he was starting to enjoy himself.
“PC Plod and Big Ears, 12 o’clock,” he quipped to Jasmine. She giggled, smiling sweetly at the detectives as they crossed the grass that would soon turn to mud under the first of the early summer rains.
“Mister Wallace, how lovely to see you again,” Slade said drily, giving Jasmine the once over.
“You knew I was coming.”
“Yes I did. But I wasn’t expecting you to be accompanied by such a charming companion,” he gave Jasmine a lewd wink. She smiled back expansively, either immune to his creepiness or completely unaware of it.
“And you are?” he asked her, his eyes tracing the slight curves of her breasts under the sweater.
“Jasmine Paal. I’m playing a nurse.”
“Are you? Well you can take my temperature anytime, love.” He winked again. Then, as if realizing how cheesy that was even for him, he turned abruptly back to Tommy. “So can I expect any dead bodies today, Wallace?”
Tommy sighed, and saw Whitley shaking his head in disbelief behind his superior officer.
“Rather tactless, Detective Inspector.”
“They do seem to follow you around, son. Regular flypaper for corpses you are. But I’m here today, and my peepers are wide open.” To demonstrate this, he bugged them at Jasmine. She giggled unsurely, glancing at Tommy for guidance.
Slade was about to continue on this theme when somebody else snatched his attention away—Rona descending the steps from the make-up truck, her nurse outfit half unbuttoned, the lace up bodice underneath showing a tantalising glimpse of powerful breasts. Slade’s eyes finally made it up to her face. She glared back at him for a moment, clearly a little taken aback by his unabashed lechery. Then she gave him a brilliant smile. If the sun hadn’t already found its way out, it might just as well have stayed in bed and let Rona’s dazzling smile do the job of brightening up the day instead. Even Jasmine’s grin tarnished under the shine of those perfect teeth.
Tommy was staring too, unaware that Jasmine’s smile had faded, that the twinkle had darkened somewhat in her eyes, brown and cute too, but rendered almost plain compared to those of the lead actress. Rona’s eyes were huge and sensitively protuberant, they sucked you in and held you, oh lucky male, as she favoured you with her attention. What a transformation from the scruffy, clumsy girl who had spilled toast all down herself, Tommy thought.
Tommy realized he was gaping too, like the detective next to him, and only gradually became aware of Jasmine’s displeasure. He chucked the finished tea cup in the bin next to him and clutched her hand in his. She continued to watch Rona impassively.
“Miss Capley…” Slade strode forward to intercept the actress as she descended the steps. She continued to dazzle him with her smile, her eyes inquisitive.
He shook her hand, holding it a little too long, obviously reluctant to release it. “Detective Inspector Slade, and this is…” he realized Whitley hadn’t followed him over and suddenly seemed a little lost for words, like a schoolboy with a crush.
Rona came to his assistance. “Very reassuring to have you here, Detective Inspector.” The smile was relentless. She thrust her half-glimpsed breasts out as she adjusted her belt.
“Especially in light of these awful…crimes recently. But I do hope you don’t think we could possibly be in danger?”
“Not at all, Miss Capley. Purely a precautionary measure. We have a police presence on all productions in the area as a result of recent events. But you’re entirely safe with us around, don’t you fret.” He was clearly back on familiar ground now, and even managed to drag his eyes away from her formidable chest for a second.
“I’m sooo glad to hear it. I feel much safer already, with a big strong policeman like you around.”
Was she taking the piss? It was difficult to tell. Tommy thought it was probably just the way she was—or as he was soon to learn, the way she was with men. Females didn’t receive half as much attention. He should have realized that immediately from the way she virtually ignored Jasmine. Those big brown eyes that had flirted with James Bond himself, left the detective for a moment, and rested on Tommy. He quailed inwardly, fearing she would lambast him for his clumsy words earlier. But her smile eclipsed any such fears.
“As you can see, I’ve wiped myself down now. Not a crumb in sight.” She brushed demonstratively at her chest and Tommy felt Jasmine’s grip on his hand tighten.
“Er, so I see,” he said pathetically, his cheeks burning.
“Enough of that, Wallace. Put your damn eyes away!” Slade stepped between them and took Rona by the arm, escorting her away from the make-up truck. “Is there anywhere more private we can go, Miss Capley? I need to fill you in on a few details and precautionary procedures.”
Hypocritical fucker, thought Tommy, but couldn’t help grinning. He became aware that Jasmine had released his hand. She was watching him with obvious disappointment in her eyes.
“Jazz…he’s talking shit. I wasn’t…”
Any more proclamations of innocence were thwarted by the arrival of Jen the runner. He’d had the pleasure (and it was a pleasure) of working with her on numerous productions. She was a comical northern girl, cuddly and dry-humoured. She took one look at them and shook her head. “Tommy Wallace, you just can’t leave the girls alone, can you?”
“Not helping, Jen.”
“Time for that later. I need you both in costume. Then hair.” She eyed Tommy’s quiff. “That’ll probably have to go for a start.”
As it turned out, the quiff stayed, although they GottobeGlue’d it to his forehead, as well as giving him a sharp back and sides. “Count yourself lucky,” the hair stylist told him as she finished plastering his hair down with the strong gel, “I could have given you a middle parting. Very popular in World War I.” She pointed at a series of sepia photos of real contemporary Tommies tacked to the wall in front of them.
“Yeah, thanks for that,” Tommy said with heartfelt gratitude.
He emerged from the trailer to find Jen waiting for him. “What are you waiting for, Wallace? Go and eat your bloody breakfast!”
He gave her the thumbs up and headed towards the catering wagon. He ordered the full Monty: two sausages, fried egg, mushrooms, black pudding, toast (buttered), beans and hash browns, and as he carried the heaped plate up the two steps onto the supporting artist dining bus, he reflected how four months of this—and that was the duration Rhiannon had quoted—would play havoc with his waist size.
He groaned as he saw Mark Hamm sitting at one of the few free tables left. He glanced around hoping to see Jasmine, but no such luck. Mark looked up and gave an expansive smile.
Tommy approached him, ready to pass by and squeeze onto someone else’s table, but Mark pulled a look of mock hurt.
“Nice uniform. Shame about it being too small.” He gestured at the empty seat opposite. “Don’t you want to sit with an old pal?”
Tommy paused in front of him. “Not really.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still sulking about that audition business. I told you, you just weren’t right for the part.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the part.”
“Then what’s your beef, fella? Not blaming me for that unfortunate Professor What business, surely? I’ve had enough suspicion from that paragon of police procedure, DI Slade, thank you very much.” A look of enlightenment dawned on his permanently spray-tanned face. “Ah, the lady. Always the lady with you, isn’t it Tommy? Do you think we didn’t know about your dirty little secret? Always chatting up the girlies on your porn sites…”
To shut him up—and he was speaking very loudly—Tommy sat down opposite him. “They weren’t porn sites, you asshole.”
“Dating sites, whatever. It’s all porn in the end, isn’t it? You’re only looking to get off, after all.” He stuffed a whole black pudding in his mouth and talked while he chewed. “But I told you not to worry about Vicky. I’m sure if you tracked her down on Facebook or somewhere you’d find she was perfectly alright.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, poking his fork at Tommy. “But then I’d say you’re not too bothered anymore, right? You got another lady in your sights now…”
Tommy did his best to ignore him and took a bite of sausage.
“Very attractive she is too, young Jasmine. Doing very well in our little film.”
Tommy finished the sausage slowly, refusing the bait.
“Don’t you want to hear how it’s going? Or has Jasmine been satisfying your…curiosity?”
Tommy forked some bacon into his mouth, glanced out of the window at the collection of trailers and trucks that constituted the production unit base. He spotted Slade emerging from a trailer, and Rona standing in the open doorway. She gave him a wave and disappeared back inside. Crew members were smoking in the morning sunlight, preparing themselves for the long day to come. Tommy recognised several of them from other productions, other SAs too with whom he’d worked on many occasions—it really was like an extended family. He tried to shut Hamm’s drone out, but it kept coming.
“Well, she’s hardly been used yet so she won’t be able to pass on much detail. But I can tell you this…” He leaned forward over the table again, fork extended, a baked bean impaled on one prong. “The director’s a genius. Hitchcock, DeMille, Truffaut, Tarantino—dwarfs, man. Dwarfs, compared to this dude.” His face was flushed with admiration and excitement. “And I’ve never even seen his face. He wears a latex mask every time I work with him. The mask of an average, conservative, middle class Daily Telegraph reader. Some kind of statement I guess. Like I said, he’s a genius. There’s real power in the movie. It’s a highly stylised faux Snuff film—at least that’s one dimension to it. A disturbing epic with simulated snuff scenes to provide frisson. You probably guessed that from the fake Vicky audition footage anyway, but yes, that’s the theme, the motif the director is going for. It’s going to be intense, my friend. The most threatening movie ever to be made. Forget A Serbian Film; it pisses all over Snuff. Think Cannibal Holocaust for the 21st century. But even that doesn’t come close. This is going to smash it out of the park, Thomas old bean. This ain’t gonna wow the critics so much as whack them over the head with a shovel, while raping their intellect and senses too. This is a real thinking and feeling man’s film. The audience will be so engaged they will never, ever be able to forget it!”
Tommy gazed at him. Mark was so absorbed in his speech that all efforts to antagonise Tommy had been dropped. Spittle flecked his lips, his face flushed with the emotion he so obviously and genuinely felt for the project, his eyes bugged. Tommy had never seen him so emotive about anything before, and almost admired his passion. But as he listened to Mark’s words, a dreadful fear began to collect in his gut. He dropped his knife and fork, and stared unblinking at Mark as he spoke.
“My God…it’s you…”
Mark stopped talking and sat back, bewilderment furrowing his brow. “Huh?”
“It’s you and that bloody film—or at least the director. I should have known it when I saw the audition footage of Vicky.”
“What are you blabbering about now?”
“The deaths, you bastard! The copycat video nasty murders. You just gave the game away: Snuff, Cannibal Holocaust… What, are the killings just some kind of fucked-up publicity drive for your sick movie?”
Mark actually chuckled. He too put his utensils down and grinned at Tommy.
“Yeah! You’re right. Why didn’t I think of it? Brilliant publicity!” His grin dropped and he leaned forward again, his face serious, eyes hard. “You seriously think I would be involved in something like that? Now I really am fucking hurt. You’re right: someone is playing snuff, or something very like it, but it’s nobody involved with my film. This is just a horrendous coincidence.”
“And you actually believe that? Or are you just—against all previous evidence—a good actor after all?” Tommy stood up, shoving his plate of half-eaten breakfast against Mark’s with a definitive clink. “Fuck this. I’ve been blind. And I don’t believe in coincidences. I’m gonna have a little word with Detective Inspector Slade…see if he doesn’t believe in them either.”
“You’ll be wasting your time, Tommy. But go right ahead. Hell, if Slade does launch an investigation into the film, it’ll drum up even more publicity, so thank you very muchly.” He winked, and the grin was back.
Tommy emerged from the dining bus, and stood for a moment on the bottom step, breathing in the fresh morning air. He was giddy with conflicting thoughts. But there was one way to solve this without involving Slade. Mark had been right: all he had to do was check Vicky was still around to disprove his theory. If that audition stunt had been just that—a stunt—then maybe he was being paranoid about Hamm and his “epic” faux-snuff opus. He reached for his cell and switched it on. Jen came up behind him, stroking the back of his neck affectionately. “Line up, Tommy.”
“Hmm?” He was concentrating on trying to get a signal on his phone.
Jen laughed ironically. “You’ve got two chances of getting a signal out here, sunshine—fat and none.”
Tommy sighed and dropped the cell in one of his wide WWI jacket pockets. This would have to wait. Hamm was probably right, though: what sane film-maker would publicise their film with real life atrocities? It was paranoid nonsense. Hamm had just freaked him for a moment when he mentioned notorious video nasties in relation to his precious film project. But then he could always rely on Hamm to display his customary lack of sensitivity, even when people they had known were actually being killed around them. He pulled the moth-eaten cap down further over his brow and followed Jen round the back of the dining bus to where a line of supporting artists was already patiently awaiting inspection. Tommy stood next to a blousy middle-aged lady with greying hair dressed as a nurse. She eyed him saucily and elbowed him gently in the ribs.
“Tommy Wallace, if I’m not mistaken?”
She leaned into him, prodding him with her not inconsiderable breasts. She air-kissed him demonstratively, while he wondered who the hell she was.
“Lovely to meet you at last, cock,” she said, her voice carrying the slight lilt of a Scottish accent. And the penny dropped.
“Lana…” he groped for the right surname. “Lana Fordham, right?” Her lack of make-up had thrown him, as it had previously with Rona. But while the star was allowed to don some slap for her role, supporting artists were actively discouraged, aiming for World War One verisimilitude. Lana was attractive in a slightly ravaged way, and it was easy to see why he had initially failed to recognise her. Lana’s Facebook profile was far more glamorous, albeit far more airbrushed.
“Nice to see you in the flesh, as it were,” she cooed, pushing her breasts at him again. He backed up a step, her overt femininity slightly overwhelming, a second rate Rona without the charm.
“It’s not just our agency Facebook page I’ve seen you on though, is it?” She tipped him a sly wink.
Tommy’s mind was still curdled by all the unpleasant associations Hamm had stirred up, and he was slow to grasp her meaning. “Huh?”
“Morefishinthesea.com. Ring any bells?”
“Oh fuck. You’re not on there, are you?”
She giggled, and her breasts bobbed against his uniform. “Voluptuousnymph67. Her interests are horse riding, walking on the beach, and acting. Sound familiar? I’ve seen you on there a few times, and was tempted to pop a little something in your inbox. Maybe you’d like that?”
“Er, yeah…maybe.” He looked round, hoping Jen would signal for them to leave for the set. But the make-up and wardrobe bods were taking their time moving down the line, checking everyone thoroughly. Jasmine arrived at the end of the line and grinned gorgeously at him. She looked so cute and desirable in her figure-hugging period nurse outfit that he forgot all his dark thoughts and beamed stupidly back.
Lana followed his gaze and audibly humphed. “Have you had any luck on there yet?” She asked, wilfully detaining him with her words.
“Sorry?” Did she mean on Jasmine?
“Morefishinthesea.com. You spend enough time on it. I’m guessing you’re checking out all the possibilities.”
Tommy smiled at her apologetically. “Excuse me for a moment, Lana…” He rather hoped it would be for the whole of the day. He trotted over to stand next to Jasmine, who stroked his arm coquettishly.
“You look great,” he told her. The sun was already climbing well above the fringe of trees that bordered the base now. It was going to be a beautiful day. Even the sight of Mark Hamm appearing around the corner of the dining bus and taking his place in the queue with a supercilious air couldn’t tarnish it.
A minibus took the twenty or so supporting artists to the filming location in two trips. Tommy and Jasmine were in the second load. It only took three or four minutes to reach the site. The minibus followed the curve of a mud track round the belt of trees and suddenly the full extent of the set was spectacularly revealed. There were several gasps and oohs from the SAs as they admired the collection of freshly constructed wooden wards, huts, offices and cabins that were spread around the site. Canvas tents were erected, too, and wooden walkways spanned the grass between wards and cabins. In the distance they could see a perimeter wire fence and, at the end of a straight track, a mock up of a sentry gate, complete with barrier and guard hut. Most impressive of all to Tommy were the vintage Ford Model Ts parked at the head of the basic drive.
The minibus unloaded them next to a large tent. Jen was waiting for them. “Come on lovelies,” she chirped. “This is your Green Room for the next four months.”
She led them inside. It was gloomy and smelled of canvas and hemp. A rough circle of plastic folding chairs had been placed centrally. Most of these had been bagged already. Lana waved at him and patted the one spare seat next to her, but Tommy shrugged noncommittally, with an apologetic smile. He turned to Jasmine.
“Nicer outside, I think.” She nodded happily. He grabbed a free chair positioned against the wall of the tent and carried it out for her.
“What about you?” she asked sweetly.
“I’m happy standing,” he replied, peering over at the set. It really was large and impressive, and exact in every period detail. Opposite the Green Room tent, the main unit camera was set up on the grass, preparing to film a scene outside one of the wards. The principle actors were gathered on the walkway next to a huddle of make-up and wardrobe assistants. He recognised a couple of the principles but couldn’t remember their names, though he was sure one of them, a tall brunette with a sharp face, had been on Coronation Street. He searched for Rona but the voluptuous star was nowhere to be seen.
He turned back to Jasmine. “Quite happy to spend the next four months on this. Especially if you’re going to be here too.”
She smiled up at him. He meant it. This whole set up was looking great. Four months of regular work with the hottest girl he’d ever pulled. Bliss. And yes, he wasn’t going to waste any more thoughts on dark and depressing things. Why should he? He reached for Jasmine’s hand and squeezed it.
“Excuse me a sec, Jazz. I really need a pee,” he said, and glanced around for Jen. She was emerging from the tent, listening to instructions in her earpiece. Tommy waited for her to acknowledge them before speaking.
“Where’s the honey wagon, Jen?”
Still listening to the First AD on the wire, she gestured over towards the perimeter fence. He could see a couple of uniformed police officers patrolling the fence, and beyond it, a white trailer. He jerked his thumb up at her and headed across the grass towards the perimeter.
As he threaded his way round guy ropes and past wooden cabins, he heard the First AD’s voice echo across the location, amplified by a megaphone. “Quiet please. Turning…”
He slowed his pace a little, although it would have been impossible to hear him from this distance, and waited for the inevitable follow up. It came soon enough: “And… Action!”
He smiled to himself. He loved his job.
It was only now as he neared the perimeter fence that he could truly appreciate the scale of the location. It easily covered three square miles or more and was situated on private parkland. He could see an impressive old mansion nestled three hundred yards or so beyond the fence amongst well maintained grounds. Beyond the mansion and its protective border of woodland, he could just make out the picturesque Wiltshire town of Malmesbury. He marched on slowly through the tall grass, heading for a gap in the fence at one corner. A WPC was guarding the gap, talking to what looked like another detective (a plain clothes black woman) and beyond her, a truck containing security belonging to the production was parked. The WPC and the plainclothes DC watched him approach indifferently.
He nodded to them politely, and while the WPC didn’t react, the black detective smiled back. A very attractive smile. He saluted theatrically and passed them on his way to the honey wagon.
He could hear someone rummaging about behind the door marked Female, and was about to climb the two steps up to the male compartment next to it, when the person who had been rummaging emerged, adjusting her petty coat under the nurse uniform as she did so. She saw him looking and smiled widely. He froze on the step, unsure what to say, and awkwardly aware that her bodice was even more undone than before.
“Hello,” she said openly and with such warmth and charm that Tommy’s mouth opened to reply but couldn’t quite form the words.
“Nice uniform,” she cooed, adjusting her skirts a little more.
“It is,” he stammered, meaning hers.
“Mine’s a real fucking pain in the ass,” she retorted, and a little belch followed the words, tainting the glamour somewhat.
“Yeah?” He attempted a smile, but was sure it was goofy, and dropped it almost immediately.
“Gonna be fun this, isn’t it?” she persisted, tugging at the dress so her breasts lunged out from between the lace of the bodice even more.
“Absolutely!” He struggled to keep his eyes level with hers.
“That is, if we don’t get horribly butchered, eh?” She tipped him a wink.
“Er, yeah. Let’s hope not…”
She cackled lewdly. “Yeah, let’s fucking hope not eh, lovely?” She gazed around at the collection of huts and tents spread around the wide expanse of parkland. “Be a shame, wouldn’t it? After they’ve gone to all this trouble. The set is fucking amazing, don’t you think?”
I saw you naked in Game of Thrones, that’s what I think, he felt like saying. I saw your splendid ass and boobs. I saw you kissing James Bond too.
“I shouldn’t worry about anything. There is a strong police presence to protect you—us.”
She faced him again, voluptuous smile swallowing him whole. “Oh, I’m not worried, sweetie. But if you’re referring to the Dicktective who spoke to me earlier, I feel a whole lot fucking safer already.” She chuckled sarcastically. “That copper couldn’t find a hard-on in a whore house. But if the killer has big boobs we’ll be fine, cos he did spend rather a long time staring at my tits.”
Tommy found himself laughing along with her. She was so engaging and infectiously down to earth. “I can’t imagine why,” he quipped, shocking himself with his own temerity.
She laughed raucously. “I like you!” She finished hitching her dress around. “Right, I’d better hustle over to the set. Mustn’t keep the darlings waiting. Laters, lovely.” He heard her rip out another belch as she strode away across the grass. Tommy was still chuckling to himself five minutes later as he returned to the Green Room tent. Star struck? Hmm. Just a tad, maybe. He thought about mentioning his conversation with Rona to Jasmine, but then, reflecting most of it centred around the largeness of her breasts, thought it better not to.
The Dicktective of whose skills Rona had been so wonderfully scornful was at that moment sitting back in a swivel chair, which, like the trailer in which it was located, had been “borrowed” from the production for the foreseeable future. The Second Assistant Director, a rather attractive, slender blonde called Helen, had been politely but firmly asked to vacate her own office by the forceful DI, although he had asked if he could buy her drinks that evening as compensation. She had just as politely and equally as firmly declined his kind offer, and re-housed herself temporarily in Wardrobe’s spare trailer, where she continued to monitor the production as skillfully as ever, albeit with a host of uniforms smelling of hemp for company.
“Okay, Trev. This is how we’re gonna play it.” He tapped a pen against his chin and stared at his DS across the small metal desk. “I want a list of every TV show and movie currently in production in the region cross-referenced with every video nasty on the 1983 DPP banned list. Anything that looks like a match in terms of location, setting, period, theme, etc, et-fucking-cetera, I wanna hear about it. Who’s best for the job?”
Whitley sniffed, staring out of the window behind his boss. “Jason Stead. Pete Brack. One of those two could chase it up.”
“No, fuck them. They’re plodders. No imagination.” He threw the pen on the desk. “Nandu. Get DC Nandu to do the work. She’s the one who knows most about all that ‘nasty’ shit. In fact she’s come up with some corking ideas already. Just shows what the fuck I know, eh?’
Whitley cocked a brow. Slade actually asking a female to participate? Unheard of. “There’s a problem with that, sir. You’ve already allocated her to watch over the uniform boys on perimeter patrol.”
“Fuck, yeah. Bollocks. Can’t ask her to do everything I suppose. Did she get back to you with that report on any suspicious film school dropouts?”
Whitley nodded. “Nothing that screams psycho in there. She’s been doing her homework on the nasties alright, coming at it from an MO point of view based on the previous killings, but she hasn’t been asked to cross check the vids with current productions.”
“Like I said, can’t expect the lass to do it all. Us boys have to get a lick in as well sometimes. Tell you what, you fucking do it. Pull off that list from Helen Hotcheeks’ laptop and get cracking. I want to know first of all if any of the nasties could possibly be relevant to a World War One setting. Any films on that DPP list where a sick nut-job goes to town with a fucking bayonet, or wears khaki while he’s sawin” some tart’s head off, or—I don’t fuckin’ know, use your imagination. You do have some, don’t you, Trev? Crack on.” He got up and turned his back, gazing out across the unit base toward the belt of trees masking the location site. He could see Helen chatting to a sound man, and his gaze took in the long legs sheathed in a particularly tight-fitting pair of jeans. “That is some ass.”
“Guv?”
Slade continued to stare out of the window. “I’m beginning to wonder if I got into the wrong business, Trev. TV sets are swarming with tits and ass. Fucking criminal, it is.” He sighed, then added, “Now get the fuck on with your job. Crime won’t fucking crack itself.” He lit a JPS and concentrated on the slender vision in blue jeans just beyond the window.
Wrap was eight p.m., and by then Tommy and Jasmine were pretty exhausted, as were all the SAs and crew. He’d spent several hours crossing back and forth outside the main hospital ward, carrying bowls of pretend poo, pails of water, or sometimes struggling along with another male orderly under the weight of a long and cumbersome ladder. It was repetitive, unexciting work. Wipes, as they called it in the business. But Tommy was genuinely happy for the first time in months. Every time he passed Jasmine, whose job it was to walk in and out of the ward in her starched but fetching WWI nurse uniform, he would flash her a cheeky grin. He always got one back. The sun was warm on his face. The birds had become accustomed to the First AD’s persistent megaphone barks of “Action” and had settled in the trees beyond the set, warbling happily.
Occasionally Rona had been placed in the shot, delivering dialogue to a swarthy-faced, unpleasant-looking actor who was wearing a period eye patch. In between takes she would give Tommy a ravishing smile that he hoped was not spotted by Jasmine. He soon came to realise however that he was not the only male on set to benefit from her fulsome charms; she smiled at every man in uniform. He quickly came to sense the unspoken hostility towards her emanating from the females on set. It was quite natural, he supposed, for the girls to feel a little jealous—hell, even his own delightful Jasmine; Rona was gorgeous, and positively oozed sex and charisma.
But despite his overall enjoyment of the day, Tommy was nevertheless grateful when Jen announced wrap and they piled wearily into the minibus to be whisked back to base.
As he changed out of his uniform in the wardrobe trailer, Tommy reflected on what a pleasant contrast today had been to his previous two assignments. No death, no terror. Perhaps Slade wasn’t as useless as he had suspected, and might actually know what he was doing. The police presence at the set certainly lifted morale. Yet despite the fact most people had avoided mentioning what might well be on their minds following all the recent press speculation regarding the Video Nasty Murders as they had become known, Tommy was sure the fear was still there.
He waited for Jasmine outside the ladies’ trailer and finally she emerged, even more glamorous in her tight jeans and pretty sweater. He walked her to her Fiesta, and after declaring how much he looked forward to seeing her again at work the next day—which was actually going to be a night shoot, —kissed her goodbye and walked over to his Polo.
Entering his empty house reminded him of Trish. He thought about giving her a ring, just to talk things through, but the goodbye kiss from Jasmine stalled him. He sat in front of his PC, powered it up, and almost instinctively found himself immersed in Morefishinthesea.com. He had no real idea why he was doing this. Wasn’t the enticing thought of Jasmine enough to keep him occupied? Deciding it was more habit than inclination, he scrolled through the online faces, pausing with his mouse over the radiant face of BlondeVenus. He hovered over the Send Message bar, and then moved the mouse on. Jasmine was the real deal. He didn’t need some haughty bint who never responded to his messages. He moved to his Inbox instead, having noticed the single glowing green digit indicating he actually had mail.
His excitement was dampened upon opening the message to find it came from VoluptuousNymph67. Or as she was known to her mother, plain old Lana. Not that she looked particularly plain in her profile pic. She was airbrushed to the gills. He sipped at the decaff coffee he’d made for himself and read the message.
Hi Sexy
You looked FAB in your costume today. But then I’m a sucker for a man in uniform.
Just been reading through my messages. You wouldn’t believe the illiterate perverts that seem attracted to me. If one more idiot refers to me as M8 or “hun” or writes “Your looking gr8” I will be forced to remove myself from this site. Text speak is the choice of children and morons. I’m getting bored of replying to them all with the reminder that “your” is a signifier of possession, not a contraction of my state of being. I’m sure it completely baffles them, darling. I shall be forced to block the whole lot. But anyway, what a wonderful day today was! Look forward to seeing you tomorrow, lovely.
That made him smile, and he decided he would be kinder towards her the next day, while also making it clear how he was interested in Jasmine alone. Okay, he might allow room for a brief flirt with Rona too if he got the chance, but then hell, he was only male after all!
He typed out a brief response.
Hi Lana. Er, I mean, VoluptuousNymp. Gr8 to C U too, hun
He closed the computer and went downstairs to watch the tail end of the 10 o’clock news. What a change a day had made to his state of mind. Even the crisis in the Ukraine couldn’t distract him from happy thoughts. Of Jasmine predominantly, of course. But Rona took her place in there too. The throb of his cell phone in his pocket—it was still set to silent, one of the main on-set rules—pulled him from his pleasant reveries. He thought of ignoring it, he was so dog-tired, but the chance that it might be Jasmine made him change his mind. A buzz of excitement rewarded him when he saw the caller’s name.
“Feeling a bit lonely…” Her voice was a purr.
He perked up immediately. “Can’t have that…”
“So what do you propose to do about it?”
Approximately forty-five minutes later he was pulling up outside her flat in Redland. His mind felt tired—hell, if he was honest, so did his body—but the thought of visiting her flat was just too good to pass up.
He buzzed flat number five on the second floor and waited for Jasmine to let him in. It was a standard residential semi, split into apartments. Three storey, grey stone. Nondescript. A cat watched him from beside the bin.
The intercom crackled and the door lock popped open. He let himself into the plain hall and took the red-carpeted steps two at a time. She was waiting for him in her doorway, wearing a gold negligee and a wicked smile. Her small breasts peeked out at him through thin lace. Tommy’s fatigue evaporated.
She kissed him briefly before pulling him in and closing the door behind them.
He had time to look around her living room only briefly—small pink settee with pink cushions, a teddy bear lolling against one of these; a small plasma, bookcase, coffee table—before she was pulling him towards the bedroom.
“Not even going to offer me a coffee?”
“Fuck coffee,” she said, posing coquettishly in the middle of the small bedroom. A soft lamp glowed over the pink duvet and pillows. A chest of drawers with one drawer open, stuffed with lingerie, and a rather shabby wardrobe were the only other items in the room.
She pulled him against her and they were kissing again. First softly, teasingly, moulding against each other’s lips, finding their way, then picking up passion, tongues tender but insistent. She stepped away from him long enough to pull the gold negligee up and over her head and toss it aside. His eyes devoured her. Her flat stomach bore a silver jewel stud, the small breasts were tinged with a faint flush. Nipples as pink as the material of the bed summoned his lips. He knelt before her and let them go to work.
Afterwards they lay in bed, drained from the day and the ecstasy of their lovemaking. Tommy’s tongue ached from questing into every orifice. Intoxicatingly, he could taste her on his lips, and if he hadn’t been so exhausted that would have aroused him all over again.
Yet he couldn’t sleep. Not now. She breathed softly beside him, her eyes watching him drowsily. In a playful mood brought on by the afterglow of sex, he reached out to pull at a pair of knickers, a small fold of which was lolling out of the half-open drawer next to the bed. “Does everything have to be pink?” he asked.
“What are you doing? Don’t touch those!” Her voice was uncharacteristically sharp, sharp enough to make him withdraw his hand and turn towards her.
“Dirty are they?” He smiled at her suggestively. Her face relaxed again and the tired anger was gone. “What have you been up to behind my back? Sleeping with your special director? Does his latex mask turn you on?”
Her smile became lascivious. She pulled the duvet down so that her pert nipples were revealed. “You turn me on. Now get to work! I’m hungry again…”
He got to work. Tommy had always done as he was told in the bedroom.
An hour later, when her soft breathing had settled into rhythmic sleep, he let himself out and climbed into his car, bone-tired and cock-happy.
Back home, he sat in front of the TV, reluctant to end this perfect day. Eventually he fell asleep during the repeat of a Lee Mack sitcom, and finally dragged himself up to bed at 3:00, for the first time in years looking forward to what the next day might bring.
On the night before her world turned red, DC Nancy Nandu was dreaming of video nasties.
She’d been watching a download of Nightmares in a Damaged Brain. Not a good one to fall asleep in front of. The dreams were vivid and full of action, colour and torment. They morphed from the psychotic breaks of the film in question into a horror-run down nightmare alley, taking in all the DPP 39 tourist sights along the way.
The Technicolor fun—yes this dream was definitely not monochrome—began in a seedy bedroom. The child protagonist of NIADB was entering the room, wearing a face mask and carrying a fuck-off axe. There was a woman’s decapitated head sitting in a spreading tide of gore at the foot of the bed, and a corpse sprawled on the floor below, more blood pulsing from the neck stump. But as Nancy lay rigid in fright under the blankets, she realized the rigidity was not simply fear as she drifted into the next detour in this dreamscape to discover straps were holding her down in a different bedroom, in a different bed. From the medical restraints that bound her, she knew which film she’d blundered into this time. The door was being forced open, and she knew a bearded giant would soon be through, a mathematical compass protruding from his left eyeball.
Here he was now, her friendly bedside visitor. He didn’t seem bothered by the restraints (or at least the dream didn’t) because she was now being born aloft and carried down a hall that went on forever. And she could hear the soundtrack music now. An electronic symphony of damaged synapses that grew louder, louder—surely her neighbours would hear it next door and wake her!
The bearded killer took her in the kitchen and that was where she knew she really had to stop this dream. Right now, please. Right now! Because this was the scene. The Worst Scene Ever. The Big Bad of video nasty clips.
Someone up there was obviously listening however, as just before the monster from Absurd could reach the oven, she was snatched away, into another scene, another film. The soundtrack to her terror became more elegiac, more composed, just as disturbing. She was running through the House by the Cemetery, she was backing away from the Freudstein Zombie rising from the tomb in the hallway (didn’t every house have one?) poker at the ready in one decomposing fist. His head resembled a block of lamb in a Greek Take Away, and when he opened his kebab mouth, there were maggots, and they tumbled from his lips in a white wriggling waterfall. She could hear them pattering on the carpet. Her carpet.
She jerked awake. She’d knocked over the glass of wine that had been standing on the little glass table next to the armchair in her convulsions. The red drops continued to patter onto the carpet. The TV was still playing. Another suppurating wound of a film—Beast in Heat—but enough was enough! She reached for the remote, still shaking from the dream, and killed the TV. Then she leaned back against the armchair cushion and listened to the thunder of her heart.