‘Sorry about the mess,’ Derek said lamely. ‘Haven’t cleared up properly since the Friday night.’
Mervyn went into the bathroom and coloured in his face furiously, making big heavy streaks of make-up. He was finished in minutes and then came out.
‘Right, that’s done.’
‘You haven’t done behind your ears.’
‘I
said
…that’s done.’
He ran back and forth across the room while Derek and Bob watched him in fascination, a piece of street theatre put on for their benefit. He wrapped a towel round his head, pulled the dressing gown off the door, put in on backwards and tied the belt tight. Then he rolled up his trouser legs. Not bad. He was starting to look like a Groolian. ‘Have you got a swimming cap?’ he asked.
Both Bob and Derek touched their heads nervously. ‘Not a spare one, no’.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll improvise.’ Mervyn grabbed the hotel shower cap in the bathroom and rammed it on his head. He looked in the mirror. Not good enough. ‘I can still tell it’s me.’
Derek looked around and pounced on a pair of glasses by his bedside table. ‘Try these dark glasses.’
‘He can’t wear those.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Groolians have very poor eyesight. It said in “The Doomsday Sequence” that they have very poor eyesight and can’t see in the dark. They wouldn’t be able to see wearing dark glasses.’
‘Look, it doesn’t really matter…’ groaned Mervyn.
‘Okay, clever clogs, if they can’t see in the dark, how did they go down that really dark tunnel in “Ship of the Stateless Ones” with no trouble at all?
‘Well obviously the script editor was asleep on the job that day and he couldn’t be arsed doing his…’ They both realised they were in the presence of the script editor in question, and their argument dribbled away.
‘Sorry,’ said Derek.
Mervy popped the lenses out of the sunglasses and put them on. ‘Satisfied?’
They nodded dumbly.
‘I’ll buy you a new pair, Derek. I promise. Just so long as I get out of here alive.’
They left Speccy Derek’s room, scuttling awkwardly, walking practically shoulder to shoulder. They would have looked very suspicious, but luckily everyone else in the hotel was doing his or her best to scuttle awkwardly too.
They were soon back in the foyer, where people spilled in and out of the main hall, laughing, drinking and chasing each other with clamps, mandibles and tentacles outstretched.
Mervyn peeled away from the group and sauntered up to the front desk. He waited impatiently for the people in front to hand in their keys and settle their bills.
A young couple settled their bill.
‘Hope you enjoyed your stay,’ trilled the receptionist.
The man behind them moved up, and after some heated discussion about how many massages he’d had, checked out too.
‘Hope you enjoyed your stay,’ trilled the receptionist, in exactly the same tone and inflection.
It was Mervyn’s turn. ‘I’m checking out,’ he hissed, lowering his head to her ear.
‘Of course, Mr…’
‘Stone, Mr Mervyn Stone…’ he muttered in a hoarse whisper.
The receptionist didn’t take Mervyn’s growl as an invitation to keep her voice down. She assumed he was putting on an alien voice. ‘Of course, Mr Stone, I hope you enjoyed your stay,’ she said loudly. She printed up a bill and handed it to him.
‘I’m with the convention. My room is paid for by Mr Simon Josh.’
‘Yes, he hasn’t settled the account.’
‘No, he wouldn’t have.’
‘Well I’m afraid he needs to. And according to the computer he checked out yesterday morning.’
‘He actually checked out late the night before. He was the dead man who gassed himself in the funny space car outside.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m sure, aside from being murdered, he enjoyed his stay very much.’
She gave him a look.
‘You need to speak to Morris,’ Mervyn continued.
‘Morris who?’
‘Well… I don’t know his surname, but Morris should be handling things from now on.’
She looked sceptically at her screen. ‘Okay… I’ve got a note here that “VixEnterprises” are paying for the room. Mr Morris Campbell?’
‘That’s him.’
‘…But not the extras. You have several movies on your bill that you haven’t paid for.’
Mervyn cursed his filthy habits. He’d thrown everything in his case, including his wallet. He wrestled with the zips and pockets until his fingers grasped smooth leather. He sighed with relief, pulling it out and producing a credit card.
The receptionist was now looking at him directly. Up and down. Mervyn wondered why she was eyeing him in such a funny way. Everyone else looked weird. Why was she looking at him like that?
Then he realised that he was wearing hotel slippers, a hotel dressing gown, a hotel towel and a hotel shower cap.
‘That’s original,’ she said with a smile. ‘Most people just put that stuff in their suitcase.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘I’ll let you have the shower cap, but we do sell hotel merchandise, should our guests wish to have a souvenir of their stay.’
Mervyn didn’t want to strip in the foyer. He thought it might make him look conspicuous.
‘Do you know what, I loved my stay so much, I want to walk out here covered in my hotel merchandise. How much is that?’
She told him. The terrifying sum would neatly dispose of half of his convention appearance fee.
Mervyn cursed. ‘Okay. Okay. Put it on my card.’ She typed in the extras, with agonising slowness.
Then she handed him his bill, and he was just about to pass her his credit card and key when he noticed a flash of orange out of the corner of his eye. He turned away from the desk to see someone dressed as Arkadia standing in the doorway of the hotel.
Facing him. Looking at him.
‘Arkadia’ wasn’t short, fat or stumpy, so it could be either one of two people: Stuart or Minnie.
The figure strode directly towards him. Mervyn didn’t feel like taking any chances. He retreated into the bowels of the hotel, the receptionist watching him disappear with wide-eyed curiosity.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m putting this stuff back. Take it all off my bill…’ he called to her.
He turned to go along the opposite corridor, only to see
another ‘
Arkadia’ marching directly towards him, looking grim and determined. One gloved hand was clenching and unclenching, twitching open and closed like a carnivorous plant.
Despite the mask Mervyn knew it was Minnie, and his soul leapt out of his body screaming, danced along his spine and crapped in his head. She was coming for him.
Mervyn ducked into the fancy-dress disco, hoping to lose her amid the alien life forms that writhed and jiggled in the semi-darkness. He weaved through, apologising when he stepped on a flipper or snagged himself on a tentacle.
‘Sorry, sorry, pardon me, coming through…’
‘Arkadia’ dived in after him and was pointing at him and shouting. The hand was still twitching. Its owner was deeply unhinged. He doubled round and waded back out into the foyer…
…Only to come face to face with Minnie. She wasn’t even in costume. She grabbed him with her powerful arms and dragged him into the tiny corridor where the cleaning ladies put their trolleys. There was no one around to see them.
She slammed him into the wall. ‘I said I was going to get you.’
Their noses were less than an inch apart. Mervyn’s eyes watered as he tried to focus on her face. Now that he knew the truth, Mervyn could see that the family resemblance was insanely strong. Not that he was stupid enough to mention it. She had the mane of lustrous hair, the pointy aristocratic nose. The wide, mobile face that could flip from sardonic-smiley-sexy to sardonic-angry-sexy in a split-second.
She’s so like her mother. It was so obvious. Some detective I turned out to be.
‘Minnie, I didn’t think it right to tell you…’
‘That you slept with my mother after me?’
‘Ummm. Yes.’
‘The same night?’
‘Yes…’
She stared into his face, searching his eyes, like a snake wondering where to strike first.
Then she kissed him, hard and long, on the mouth. Mervyn’s lips felt dead, but he soon had no choice but to respond.
She finally broke away, pulling at his bottom lip with her teeth. She fixed him with a filthy grin. A grin just like Vanity’s.
‘No champagne. Well, at least you don’t taste like Mother.’
‘Agh,’ said Mervyn.
Minnie let him go. His legs just about supported his body.
‘Did I scare you?’
‘Um. A bit.’
‘Good. I like freaking people out.’
‘Ah.’
‘Beats the boredom, doesn’t it?’ She looked at Mervyn’s ashen face. ‘You’re not going to die on me, are you?’
Mervyn straightened up. ‘Not just yet.’
‘I’m glad. I like you Mervyn.’
‘I’m glad you do.’
She barked a laugh. ‘Sorry for scaring you. As I said, I like freaking people out.’
‘So I see.’
‘I give them a bit of a scare. Most of them start scared, because at least they know I’m Vanity Mycroft’s daughter. Unlike you…’
‘Yes. Sorry about that.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to be hit on without thinking the other person’s doing it to get a trophy.’
‘Likewise.’
‘Hey, we’re very alike, you and me.’
Mervyn didn’t think so.
‘Anyway, I just wind them up further. Right up to eleven.’
‘Was…was…’ Mervyn struggled to get his breath back. ‘Was that why you threatened Simon? And Smurf? To freak them out?’
‘Yeah, and to freak out Mum as well. She deserved it, after all.’
‘Well, perhaps she did—keeping the truth from you, about who your real father was. That must have been upsetting.’
She pulled a face. ‘Not that. I’ve had four dads. I know how Mum can lie to everyone. I always guessed that bollocks about me being the daughter of Sir Bafta of Wotchamacallit was just that; bollocks.’
‘Oh.’
‘No, what
really
pissed me off was when she showed me my birth certificate.’
‘Right.’
‘Finding out my middle name was “Metro”. I mean, fuck. Can you believe it?’
‘Minnie Metro Mycroft?’
‘Minnie Metro Mycroft,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘You see, our family have this stupid tradition of naming our kids after—’
‘Where they were conceived.’
‘Oh, you’ve read mum’s book.’
‘She told me.’
‘So. I was named in honour of a desperate five-minute shag in a crap English car about the size of a wheelbarrow. Ha fucking ha.’ She stepped back and folded her arms, one leg bent. It was a classic
Vixens
pose. Mervyn could almost have imagined it was a younger Vanity Mycroft, preparing for a publicity shoot. ‘So I didn’t kill Simon or Smurf, if that’s what you’re thinking. Though I’m flattered you thought I did.’
‘Flattered? That’s a crazy thing to say. Your own father’s been killed…’
‘He wasn’t my father. As I said. I’ve had four dads. I didn’t need any more, especially one that won’t even admit it. He was no loss. Neither was Simon.’ She frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sorry, I got carried away. I might have done too much of a number on you. I would have left it at waiting in your hotel room last night, and the big hug this morning; made you think I was some nutty stalker for the whole weekend. That was funny. But when you told me you thought I was a mad murderer, I couldn’t resist, sorry.’
‘But… You did threaten Simon Josh?’
‘Hell, yeah.’
‘But he let you work at the convention!’
She looked at him pityingly. ‘He didn’t “let” anyone work at the convention. We had no loyalty to Simon. He was a twat. We work for Morris. Tell you the truth, I think Morris used me as a steward to wind him up. Morris likes stirring things up, from time to time.’
They walked out of the corridor.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Mr Stone Ranger.’ She grinned at him admiringly. ‘How rampant and self-obsessed do you have to be to sleep with the wrong person and not even notice?’
Mervyn shrugged, and gave a weak smile.
‘You’re an interesting man, Mervyn.’ She looked over the foyer, where pin boards and props were being taken out to waiting vans. ‘Anyway, fun’s over. Got to pack up. Maybe I’ll see you before I go, yeah?’
‘That will be nice.’ Mervyn heard himself saying. He was his own worst enemy, and considering the enemies he had at that very moment that was saying quite a lot.
‘I’ll try not to scare you again.’
‘Great.’
She suddenly growled and swiped a hand near his face. Mervyn flinched. She laughed and left.
He watched her retreating bottom with a mixture of awe, pity, lust and fear.
Then he started thinking about what she’d just said:
How rampant and self-obsessed do you have to be to sleep with the wrong person and not even notice?
Then everything clicked. The story was complete, all in place.
He’d finished it.
He had to have another look at Vanity’s autobiography. And catch the murderer, somehow.
Before the murderer struck again.
Someone tapped on his shoulder, making him yelp. It was Stuart. He was dressed in his Vixen costume. ‘Why did you run away from me?’ he said, hurt.
‘Sorry. I thought you were someone else.’
‘You have to come with me.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s been another murder.’
John the Stalker’s room wasn’t pleasant, even allowing for the dead body lying in the middle of it. A suitcase lay open on the bed. The T-shirt with the huge-bosomed warrior-queen was marinating sadly in the sink. The stench of body odour floated in the air like John’s recently departed spirit, hanging over both of them.
John himself was lying on the floor behind the bed, his head caved in. Stuart and Mervyn stood over him. The blood had oozed out over the carpet and stained his beloved collage of photos, which was lying curled near his feet.
This was the second body Mervyn had come across this weekend (or the second and a half if he counted the bits of Smurf as a fraction) and he was surprised how quickly he’d got used to them. He wasn’t shaking and his heart wasn’t jumping in his chest. It was fast becoming business as usual.