19

I am Oscar Buzz. I am Oscar Buzz. I am Oscar Buzz... Brough sauntered down Dedley’s High Street. It was pedestrianized from the church at the top but at the bottom of its slope a couple of roads ran across it, before it levelled out at the marketplace. A few heads turned as he went by. Shoppers in tracksuits muttered in his wake.

They must know the film’s in town. They must know Oscar Buzz is here. They must recognise me...

At the disused fountain, greened with moss and pigeon shit, he stooped to re-tie a shoelace. He wanted everyone to have a good look at him. He wanted Kasper Buzowski to spot him. He wanted someone to have a conversation with him so that Kasper Buzowski might hear.

“Sure, I love this town,” he would lie in Oscar’s accent. “Yeah, filming’s going great; I can’t wait for y’all to see it. I’m heading there now. To the old hospital. We’ve got an important night shoot happening. Tonight as a matter of fact.”

Two hobby bobbies walked by. They nodded and saluted. Prats, he thought. It would be just like them to call him by his real name.

He ambled towards the market stalls and pretended to browse the fruit and vegetables.

“Excuse me, our kid,” a voice said at his elbow. It was a stallholder. He was holding out a cheap plastic mobile phone cover, with a badly reproduced picture of Oscar Buzz on it.

“Would you mind signing this, please? For my daughter. Her’ll be tickled pink.”

Brough obliged. “What name?”

“Asif,” said the stallholder, beaming.

“That’s your daughter’s name?”

“Er - yes,” the stallholder looked shaken. Brough noticed the placard above the stall. ASIF’S GOODS.

“As... if... ” Brough said as he signed. Oscar Buzz must get this all the time. No wonder he rarely goes out in public. The stallholder went away delighted.

Brough moved on. Other people approached. Mothers and daughters. Groups of schoolgirls. Brough signed whatever they asked - apart from one woman who presented a bare breast far too close to comfort - i.e. on the same planet.

Brough repeated his lines, although no one was speaking to him. He posed for selfies with his arms around strangers. It pained him to be out without his sanitising gel. But I’m not me, he reminded himself. I’m Oscar Buzz. I’m Oscar Buzz. I’m -

“Oscar Buzz!” cried a man walking past. “Fucking poof!” The man laughed with his mates. Brough smiled Oscar Buzz’s smile. And showed them his middle finger. The man’s mates laughed louder. “Fair play,” said the man.

Brough walked away from the market and into the Clement Attlee shopping precinct. He went into Queequeg’s and ordered a mineral water. He took a table outside, nodding at the denizens of Dedley as they shuffled past.

Is Kasper watching? Can he see me now? Will he make a move?

It is Oscar Buzz he wants, isn’t it? Brough reflected. All of this - the murders - what were they all for? Is Kasper trying to get to his famous brother? Is Luka also at risk?

And where is Oscar himself?

What the bloody hell is he playing at?

“Excuse me,” said a little girl, holding out a napkin. “Are you Oscar Buzz?”

Brough took it and scrawled Oscar’s autograph. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.”

“My mom fancies you,” said the girl. She pointed at a red-faced woman with her hair scraped back into a high ponytail, standing behind a double-pushchair. The woman waved. Brough waved back. “I think you’m a prick.”

***

Wheeler and Hardacre were speaking via webcam.

“Good morning, bitch,” the sheriff snarled.

“It’s afternoon here, you bastard,” said Wheeler. With the pleasantries out of the way, Hardacre said he’d found something she would find interesting. He would email her the file.

“What is it?”

“We ran a search on Kasper Buzowski. He was, up until recently, an inmate at a facility for the criminally insane. But he escaped. Before he did, however, he had a visitor. Our mutual friend, Luke the farm boy.”

“Well, well, well,” said Wheeler. “Do you think Luke helped him get out?”

“I don’t rightly know,” said Hardacre. “But he sure as hell triggered the escape. Warden at the facility tells me he showed up, asking to see his longlost brother. You’ll see them talking to each other on the footage. There’s no sound though.”

“He’s here,” said Wheeler.

“Who?”

“Well, both of them, we think. We’ve got Luka here right now. We suspect Kasper is at large in our town.”

Hardacre sucked in air through his teeth. It was a gesture Wheeler often performed herself.

“Then you got one shitload of trouble, lady.”

“What did you call me?”

“I apologise, ma’m. You fucking whore.”

“That’s better, you shitter.”

***

She played Luka the footage in the interview room. Pattimore was standing by the door in case this Bukowski brother tried to get away.

“Yeah, I went to see him. I was curious,” said Luka, his arms folded. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Wheeler didn’t answer that. “What did you talk about?”

Luka shrugged. “I did all the talking. He didn’t say a word. I told him who I was - who we were - and that he wasn’t alone in the world no more. I said I would go to our brother and he’d be sure to help us.”

On screen, Luka held up a full-page picture in a magazine next to his face. Kasper looked from one to the other and back again and then pointed at his own face. He reached to snatch the magazine. The guards emerged from the shadows but Luka let his brother have the magazine.

Kasper shredded it with his bare hands in seconds.

A guard gestured that it was time for Luka to leave. Luka nodded goodbye to his brother but Kasper was absorbed in eating the magazine.

“He’s not well,” Luka explained. Wheeler grunted a no-shit grunt.

“He’s escaped,” she said.

“I know,” said Luka. “I’m not responsible for that, if that’s what you’re thinking but I do blame myself. I came here to warn Oscar but Kasper got here first. When you look like one of the most famous people in the world, a lot of doors open for you. I shouldn’t have gone there. People wouldn’t have died.” His face fell. “You don’t think... my folks... ”

Wheeler hung her head. Luka understood at once.

***

The producers were keen to comply with whatever the police requested. The chance to get their movie underway once more was too good to pass up, especially considering financial ruin and professional suicide were the alternatives. The main ward of the hospital was set and lit for a night-time scene. Doctor Kilmore would have a heart-to-heart with a bandaged figure in the bed - representing the late Delia Cartwright’s character, Nurse de Screens, who would die following an explosion courtesy of the terrorists.

“You do realise we’m not really filming,” Miller pointed out. “It’s not really Oscar and I hope to hell that’s not really Delia Cartwright lying there.”

“It’s all good,” said one of the producers.

“We can see how Monty’s new scene fits in with the rest. We can tell the backers we’re back in business.”

“Great,” said Miller. “But I’d advise you to make yourself scarce, if I were you. And don’t go nowhere without a police escort.”

The producers laughed. “Your cops don’t even have guns,” said one.

“What can they do?” said the other.

They walked away, still laughing. Pricks, thought Miller. Stevens jogged up.

“Oi, don’t go upsetting my new bosses,” he jabbed her with a fingertip. “Don’t go spoiling my big break.”

“I’ll give you a big fucking break in a minute,” said Miller.

Stevens laughed. “Ooh, that tone of voice. That nurse’s uniform. Getting me going!”

Miller glowered. “I’m a Matron,” she said. “Now the next time I look I’d better be able to see my face in those bedpans.”

Stevens was puzzled.

“Just rehearsing. Isn’t there something you should be doing?”

“Oh,” Stevens was casual, “I’m just hanging around. Lurking in the shadows. When that nutter makes his move, I’ll pounce. Do you think they’ll be watching? The producers? I want them to be impressed.”

“I’m sure they will be,” Miller muttered. “Now, don’t you think you ought to get in position?”

Stevens bristled. “You don’t tell me what to do. I’m an inspector. I outrank you.” He clapped his hands and addressed everyone, “Come on, people; places please.”

He winked at Miller and blew her a kiss. She dodged out of its way.

A minute later, the set was apparently deserted. Apart from the figure in the bed and Miller, there was no one around.

“Just you and me, then,” said Miller. “I feel I ought to apologise about the quality of the bedpans.”

The figure did not respond. Probably a stuffed dummy, she considered. A prop. She walked up and down, keeping in the light, practising her line over and over, with different emphasis each time and with ever-changing gestures.

She gasped as a shadow approached. A man with long blond hair loomed beyond the lights. Miller backed against the bed.

The man stepped into the pool of light around the bed.

“Freeze!” yelled Stevens jumping out from behind a screen. Other police, dressed in black, emerged and surrounded the scene. “Get your hands up where I can see them?”

“Oh fuck off, Ben,” said D. I. Brough. “It’s me.”

“Stand down, everybody,” said Stevens. “It’s one of ours.”

“Makes a change from calling me ‘one of them’ I suppose. Well, I dawdled through the town, got myself seen. If Kasper’s out there, he’ll know where to find me.”

Miller handed him some sheets of paper. “New sides,” she said. “From Monty,” she rolled her eyes. “This is the scene we’re supposably filming.”

“That’s ‘supposedly’, Miller. No such word as supposably.”

“And to think I missed you,” she pulled a face. “Right, places everybody.”

“Oi,” said Stevens. He raised his voice, “Places everybody.”

The police withdrew. Brough perched on the edge of the bed and scanned the pages. “What’s all this, Miller? This woman is dying and you’re scolding her about dirty bedpans?”

Miller shrugged. “Matron has standards. Bunny was very firm.”

“I think you’re playing it wrong to be angry. I think it’s Matron’s way of saying goodbye. She really liked Nurse de Screens. So she’s not really telling her off. She’s just saying what she’s always said but it’s to mask how sad she is. How sorry she is to see this young woman die. You need to be more tearful, and only mock-angry.”

“Uh?” said Miller.

“Never mind. Think I’m going to improvise. Just wing it.”

“Won’t Monty be cross?”

“Miller, it’s not a real scene. We’re not filming it, remember?”

“Then why did you just give me all that direction?”

“Oh, shush! Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Aren’t we doing it in here?”

“Don’t try to be funny, Miller.” He shooed her away with his hand. “Someone shout action,” he said through clenched teeth.

“And... action!” said Stevens from behind the screen.

Dr Kilmore, as played by D. I. David Brough, took the patient’s bandaged hand in his. “And so, Paula, you see, there’s nothing more we can do. The skin grafts were fine but I’m afraid the damage to your lungs was too extensive. And what with losing your eyes and your tongue - no, don’t try to speak. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time and not much time at that. You’ll be gone by morning. I’m sorry to be so blunt but you know I never sugar coat anything. Which is why I’ve never won the interdepartmental baking contests. But I’m going to sit here with you, my dear sweet girl, and we can just remember all the stolen moments we enjoyed in the supplies cupboard, in the X-ray room, in the morgue... Uh, Matron, that’s your cue... ”

He looked around. Miller walked on stiffly. A panicked look in her eyes told him she had forgotten her one and only line.

“For fuck’s sake, Miller. Someone call cut.”

“Cut!” said Stevens from behind the screen. “Hey, Dave; that was really good. Trust Mel to fuck it up.”

“I’m sorry,” said Miller. “I’m not used to this. Places, everyone.”

“Oi, stop that!” Stevens complained. “Places, everybody!”

Brough went through his speech again and it was even better this time - if such a thing were possible. Miller strolled on a little too early but she made it look as though Matron was waiting discreetly for the optimum moment. She picked up the charts from the foot of the bed, looked at them, pulled a face and put them back. She stood over the bandaged patient.

“The next time I look I’d better see my face in those bedpans,” she said, flatly.

“Jesus Christ, Miller.”

“Cut!” roared Stevens.

“I’m doing my best!” Miller cried.

“Well, I think we should get that old budgie to do it,” said Stevens. “She can’t be any worse.”

“Wanker,” said Miller. She stormed away, sobbing.

“Go after her,” Brough jerked his head.

“Piss off,” said Stevens.

“No, go after her,” Brough insisted. “I’m supposed to be left on my own, remember. The trap?”

Stevens gaped. “Oh, yeah, shit. Right.” He scooted after Miller.

“Take five, everyone,” said Brough.

“Oi!” Stevens called over his shoulder. “Fag break!”

Brough stayed where he was. He realised he was still patting the dummy’s hand and released it. Around him, the hospital loomed, an agglomeration of darkness collected in its corners. It was easy to understand why people think it’s haunted. There’s an echoey quality to the air, thanks to the high ceilings and the cavernous scale of the room. But there’s also a lot of twisting corridors and little alcoves - in any one of which a crazed killer might be lurking, waiting to strike...

Brough shivered. And here I am, sitting in a spotlight, waiting for him to come and get me.

He jumped. He thought he heard a footstep or two. He listened: silence.

He felt foolish. The whole scheme was foolish. No self-respecting killer, however crazy, would fall for such an obvious ploy. He decided to call the others and tell them it was a bust. They might as well pack up and go home.

“Oskar... ” a voice hissed.

Brough froze.

“Oskar... ” the voice came from somewhere else. Brough spun around.

“Is that you, Kasper?” he said, in the film star’s voice.

A shadow emerged but the figure held back. Brough held out his hand.

“Come on,” he said softly. “It’s all right. I ain’t going to hurt you. You’re my brother.”

Kasper hesitated. Brough took a step closer. He smiled Oscar’s million-dollar smile.

Kasper roared with hatred and betrayal. He launched himself at the imposter, knocking Brough to the floor. He squeezed his hands around Brough’s throat. Brough struggled for air. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t call out. Where the fuck were the police? Had they really gone out for a cigarette break? Fucking idiots! He writhed on the floor while his attacker squeezed all the harder.

Kasper’s eyes were wide and rolling. Spittle flew from his lips. His hair hung over his face as he sweated from his exertions.

A metallic clang rang out. Kasper froze and then slumped. He fell on top of Brough who wriggled to get out from under him. The bandaged figure from the bed was standing over them, brandishing a bedpan.

“Freeze!” yelled Stevens. “Nobody so much as fart!”

Brough got to his feet.

“Get back!” Stevens roared. “I’ll tazer the shit out of you, if I have to.”

“Ben - it’s me,” said Brough, but he raised his hands anyway.

“And who’s the fucking mummy?”

“It’s me,” came the muffled voice of Oscar Buzz. Brough helped him unwrap his face.

“What the fuck?” said Stevens.

“Never mind that,” said Brough. “Get the one on the floor safely under lock and key before he wakes up.”

Police officers moved in to secure the prone figure of Kasper Buzowski.

“What are you doing here?” Brough asked Oscar, “You should have stayed at Serious.”

“And leave you in danger, David? No fucking way.”

“But - I wasn’t in danger!”

“Oh, no! You forgot your fucking contacts, you - what did you always call me - you plum! No way was that going to fool anybody for a second.”

Brough gaped. “But all the people in town... ” He turned red. They must have thought I was a right weirdo, he realised. Some poor sad Oscar Buzz wannabe. Oh God, I’m so embarrassed...

“Don’t I get a hug?” Oscar opened his bandaged arms. Brough was reluctant. “I just saved your life, man. After all this time, you still ain’t going to give me a hug? I thought we were close. Dude!”

“I’m technically on duty,” said Brough, lowering his voice. “But I’ll come to your hotel later. If that’s acceptable.”

“I guess... ” said Oscar. And then he grinned. “But, please, dye your hair back to its natural colour. I don’t want to feel like I’m fucking one of my brothers.”