7

“I’m Dan,” said Dan. “Who are you?”

“Oh, fuck me!” wailed Oscar from the sofa. He sprang to his feet and came to the door. “Pinkie! For fuck’s sake! What the fuck are you doing here? I mean, Christ -” Without waiting to be invited, Pinkie barged his way in. He turned on his three-inch heels like a diva in a night-time soap. “I told you I was coming! Yesterday. On the -” he flapped a wrist with far too many bangles around it at Oscar’s laptop.

“Er, I’m afraid that was me,” said Dan, sheepishly.

Pinkie’s painted eyebrows went up. “Oh, was it? And who are you, the Brits answer to Oscar Buzz?”

“I’m his stand-in,” said Dan. “I’m paid to look like this. What’s your story?”

Oscar laughed. Pinkie glowered at the pair of them.

“Well, I’ll thank you, Mr Stand-in to stand out while me and the genuine article have us a little tit-a-tit.”

“Oh, right; of course.” Dan made to leave but Oscar stopped him.

“Anything we have to say to each other we can say in front of Dan,” he said, looking Pinkie directly in the mascara.

“Need a witness, do you?” Pinkie snapped. “Afraid I might hurt you? Or blurt out your darkest secrets?”

Oscar put an arm around Dan. “We have no secrets,” he declared.

News to me, thought Dan. There’s still plenty I have yet to disclose... If I ever get a bloody chance!

Unperturbed but still worked up, Pinkie delved a hand into his man bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He thrust them towards Oscar.

“Told him about these, have you?” his voice cracked. “Because you sure as hell didn’t fucking tell me.”

“What... ?” Oscar glanced through the papers. They were print-outs of online messaging conversations. His face fell. “Oh,” he said.

“Oh, in-fucking-deed!” Pinkie screeched. “You’ve been chatting to this whoever-it-is for the best part of a year. And he’s your top follower on Twitter - you favourite all his tweets. Who the fuck is he, Oscar?”

“Pinkie, listen: he’s nobody. Just some guy I got chatting with. And we hit it off. It was a change from all the ass-licking and the girly fans begging me to follow them. But it’s just online shit. I don’t even know his real name.”

“But you send him messages about how great he is, and how no one understands you like he does!”

“It’s just chat. I don’t even know the guy.”

“Well, if I ever see him... ” Pinkie snarled an unfinished threat.

“Actually,” said Dan, “I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s me. I’m the nobody!”

He wrenched the door open and hurried from the room. Oscar threw the papers at the seething Pinkie and rushed to the corridor, but Dan was already gone.

***

Miller and her new showbiz chum were in the snug of the Three Frogs. Bunny Slippers was on the sherry but Miller, ostensibly still on duty, had fizzy water with a slice. The room was decorated with signed and framed photographs of Bunny at various stages of her career - most of them were from the golden age of her long-running soap but there were earlier ones of her in sequins and ostrich feathers, as well as more recent ones: Bunny meeting the Queen, Bunny meeting Saddam Hussein and countless other celebrities.

Miller didn’t have to say much. She couldn’t have if she’d wanted to. She was happy to sit back and listen to Bunny’s stories. Salacious anecdote followed salacious anecdote about actors and colleagues whose names had long since faded into obscurity. Miller had no idea who Bunny was going on about but the old girl was such a good storyteller, it didn’t matter who the protagonists may have been.

Miller was enjoying herself enormously. It didn’t matter how the evening was wearing on; she had no one to go home to since Jerry had moved out, and Bunny’s stories were infinitely more entertaining than anything the goggle box might have to offer.

And Bunny’s company was like a blanket, warm and cosy. Miller was reminded of cuddling up with her mother on a settee while a storm lashed at the windows. I was eight, Miller reflected, and I’ve never been loved so much since.

“Of course, all this,” Bunny made a gesture at everything and nothing in particular, “the film, I mean, dear, it’s all thanks to my wonderful fans.”

“Hmm?” Miller realised she had been listening to the sound of Bunny’s voice rather than the words she was saying.

“I’d be at home twiddling my thumbs right now if it wasn’t for my loving fans. It’s them who’ve kept me going. They’ve made all this possible. Oh, I don’t understand the ins and the outs of it, dear. They do it on their computers. Well, I don’t know sweet buggery about any of that kind of business. But they’ve been campaigning for years, writing petitions and all sorts. And then they set up some kind of fund-raising drive and it went through the roof, apparently. The money just kept pouring in. People want Hospital Corners, you see, dear. Pure, uncomplicated entertainment. Yes, the stories were a bit silly sometimes, a bit far-fetched and melodramatic, but it took people out of themselves. We gave them a world in which everything was sorted out in the end. The characters would go through a rough time of it but you knew they’d be okay in a couple of episodes time. Even if somebody died, it was usually for the best. We gave them optimism, dear. A positive view of the world. And that’s what people need these days - more than ever, it seems. Too many arseholes in this world, dear. And who the bloody hell put them in charge? More arseholes, that’s who. It’s all arseholes, everywhere you look.”

Miller was deep in thought. Bunny finished her sherry but before she could despatch Miller to the bar to fetch another, Miller reverted to detective mode.

“Bunny... ”

“Yes, dear. Same again.”

“No, you said something about fund-raising. You’re telling me the fans put up the money for the film to be made?”

“That’s right. Packet of scratchings too. Let’s push the boat out.”

“But if the fans put up the money, who are the Americans swanning around? I thought they were the producers.”

“That’s where it gets complicated. When all the money came pouring in, an American studio contacts me, saying they’ll double the kitty and put all their resources at my disposal. Only, of course, there were certain provisions. We had to have an American in it, to make it easier to sell across the pond. But I never agreed to all these terrorists and things blowing up.”

“Excuse me - they approached you?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Why would they approach you?”

“Because I own the rights, dear. When the show was cancelled, I did a deal with the television company. I wouldn’t sue them for breaking my contract if they signed over the rights to Hospital Corners to me. And where are they now? They lost their franchise and I’m still going strong. They thought they were getting off cheaply but I’m laughing now. Those rights will now keep me in clover for the rest of my natural.”

“Very shrewd,” said Miller. “And what do the fans think of the American takeover?”

“You’ll have to ask them, dear. Now get that arse to the bar. I’m gasping here.”

Miller waited to be served. Her mind was racing. Oh, if only Brough was there to talk it through. He’d see some connection she couldn’t.

She returned to the table.

“Lovely,” Bunny tore into the packet of fried pig skin. “Now, did I ever tell you about the time I was stuck in a lift with Val Doonican?”

***

“I’m running you a bath,” Pinkie announced. “Now come and join me in the circle of healing.”

He had moved the coffee table and placed a ring of crystals on the rug.

“I don’t want to,” said Oscar. “I want to go after Dan.”

“You need to cleanse,” said Pinkie. “I’ll make you a juice that’ll strip out your colon. Then you can have your bath with essential oils.”

Oscar slumped on the sofa. “I’ve got lines to learn for tomorrow.”

“You won’t learn anything if your mind is crowded,” said Pinkie, in a patronising tone. He sat beside Oscar and patted his thigh. Oscar squirmed under his touch. “Come on; Pinkie knows best.” The hand moved up the thigh. Oscar pushed him away.

“I think you’d better find somewhere to sleep,” he said. “And tomorrow you can go back home.”

“My, my! Your chakras are blocked! Come here and let me raiki on you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about any more.”

“Oscar, Oscar, you’ve been in this godforsaken, miserable dump for too long.”

“I’ve been here since Monday!”

Pinkie shook his head. “This place is poisoning you against me. Turning you from the path.”

“They have a word here,” said Oscar. “That word is ‘bollocks’.”

“Let me fill you with my life-light.”

“Let me show you the door.”

“Let me open you like a door. Let me open your perception. Let me light a candle to our cosmic vibrations.”

Oscar laughed. “You’ve become a parody of yourself; do you know that?”

Pinkie pouted. He snatched up his man bag. “I’ll book a suite here,” he said. “I’ll put it on your tab. Perhaps when you’ve had your bath you’ll see things more clearly. I’m the one who cares about you. Oscar. I’m the one who keeps you focussed when everyone else around you is all fakery and bullshit. You’ll remember that and you’ll come knocking on my door. Just you see.”

He stormed out in a snit.

Oscar called down the corridor after him, “I’m pulling the plug.”

He shut the door and reached for his phone. He realised he didn’t have Dan’s number - how could he not have Dan’s number?

He looked at his laptop...

I could contact Dan via the messenger...

He decided against it. Dan had deceived him. Dan should have told him who he was the moment they met. This is what happens when you think you’re close to someone from the internet.

Perhaps Pinkie was right. Perhaps Pinkie really was the only person who wasn’t fake.

Oscar went to bed and sat up, reading the script for the next day. But he couldn’t take in a word of it. He curled up and when sleep finally overcame him, it was fitful and troubled him with disturbing dreams of his unfortunate brother.

***

Miller poured Bunny into her car. The driver nodded; he understood the ways of Miss Slippers. And with Bunny snoring on the back seat he wouldn’t have to endure the same old showbiz tales the old biddy seemed to spew out on a loop.

Miller got straight on the phone to Harry Henry. He was still working at Serious. She told him what Bunny had said about the fans and the money.

“I’ll look into it,” said Harry Henry, stifling a yawn. He rubbed his eyes without taking off his glasses. “Tomorrow. I’m tired, Mel.”

“I can imagine,” said Miller. “What we need is names. Who’s behind the fund-raising?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that somebody so invested in a creaky old television programme might be bonkers enough to do anything to get the film made.”

“Or not made,” said Harry Henry.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been reading a lot of the forums. Some people are of the opinion that the film is an insult to the series. An insult to its legacy.”

“So they might take steps to disrupt the filming?”

“They might take writers and directors!”

“Harry, you’re brilliant. If I was there, I would kiss you.”

“Um... I’m a married man,” he reminded her. Miller laughed and told him he was priceless.

“We’ll look together,” she said. “I’ll be in at nine. Now, go home and get some kip.”

“Imagine me saluting,” said Harry Henry. “And Mel?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t worry about David; I’m sure he’s fine.”

***

Dan went back to his digs. He booted up his laptop and just as quickly shut it down again. He wanted to contact Oscar and try to explain. Every time he had tried to tell the film star who he was, something had happened. But online, perhaps he had a chance. They had always got on well online.

“You’re the only person I talk to,” Oscar had said on several occasions. “You’re the only one who talks to me like I’m a human being and not a living doll.”

Oh, Oscar. Dan threw his head back onto his pillow. We could be friends in real life; I’m sure of it. Perhaps more.

Please forgive me for not telling you from the start.

Please let me back into your life.