Hospital Corners Page 3

  “Uh... ” Dan was flummoxed. Was one of the most famous people on the planet really asking him for a blow job? Dan suspected it was all a trick and this wasn’t the real Oscar Buzz and as soon as Dan got on his knees, a camera crew would make themselves known and the practical joke would be over...

  “There a problem?” Oscar Buzz sat up. “Oh, Dan-Daniel-Danny, I see what’s wrong? You think I’m the big-shot, egotist movie star just using people for my own selfish gratification.” He took the stand-in’s hand and squeezed it. “I like you, man; I mean really like you. Since we first met, I felt a - a - connection. Didn’t you?”

  “Um, sort of... you see -”

  “So, you going to suck my cock or not?”

  “Er... ”

  “Oh, I’ll do you later; don’t worry on that score - and I don’t say that to everybody.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “There’s nothing in all this world I want more than to have your pretty lips around my cock.”

  “Rightio.”

  “Rightio! You crack me up, man.” He undid his belt and slid his trousers down to his shins. Dan gasped: Oscar Buzz’s bare legs, tanned to perfection and speckled with fine blond hairs were right there in front of him. He got to his knees. He was about to reach up to lift Oscar’s shirt when the actor suddenly jumped to his feet and reached for his laptop.

  “Shit. What the hell time is it?”

  “Er - quarter past one?”

  “Shit. Have there been any messages, any calls on this damned thing?”

  “Uh... there was one. They didn’t leave a name.”

  “Who was it?”

  “They didn’t leave a name -”

  “No, I mean what did they look like?”

  “Like Marilyn Monroe with facial hair.”

  “Shit.” Oscar Buzz pulled up his trousers and buckled his belt. “Shit!”

  “Trouble?”

  “Oh, it’s just my p.a. in L.A. Total drama queen. What was he screeching on about? Don’t tell me you didn’t listen. I understand what people are like around movie stars. Once I was at Jack Nicholson’s house and he caught me rummaging in his laundry basket. Saw the funny side - we’re all fans of somebody, right? - Gave me a crusty sock as a souvenir. So, what did Pinkie say?”

  “Who?”

  “The p.a. in L.A.”

  “Er - nothing much. He said he’d found something and was going to get the next flight.”

  “Flight? Where?”

  “Here.”

  “Here? Shit!”

  “Is it a problem?”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No - not really. I think he thought I was you.”

  “Oh, really?” Oscar seemed amused. It was short-lived. “And he’s coming here? Shit, shit!”

  He paced the trailer a couple of times and then asked Dan to sit. He sat opposite and took the stand-in’s hands in his.

  “Listen; I have to tell you something. You know I’m not out, don’t you? It’s considered bad for the career to be out - as if those shits care about my career. What they mean is they think it’s bad for box office.”

  “I would never... ”

  “I know - I trust you. There’s something about you. But what I’m saying is Pinkie is - well... He’s been more than just my p.a. You see what I’m saying. To tell the truth, as an assistant he’s worse than a piece of shit, but giving him that title means I can have him around with no questions asked. Oh, I know the internet’s full of rumours and all sorts of bullshit -”

  “I know. Listen, Oscar, I -”

  “But I swear to you, there’s nothing between Pinkie and me anymore. But I can’t let him go because he could stir up a shit storm for me. Make things very sticky.”

  “He’d blackmail you?”

  “Oh, nothing as underhand as that. He’d go to the press and blow me wide open.”

  “He could be doing you a favour.”

  “What? Oh, Dan-Daniel-Danny, you’re just starting in this business. It doesn’t work like that. Listen, when Pinkie gets here, keep out of his way, okay? You don’t want that vicious queen on your back, let me tell you.”

  “So... ” Dan glanced back at the massage chair.

  “That’ll have to wait. I’ll palm Pinkie off as quick as I can, send him packing back to the States, and then you and me can pick up where we left off. I promise.”

  He planted a kiss on Dan’s forehead and gave his crotch a squeeze.

  “Now, be a love and fetch me a sandwich. I don’t feel like seeing people.”

  “Roast vegetable salad?”

  “Yes - how did you know?”

  “Um... the internet. Sometimes it’s not bullshit.”

  ***

  Miller was late to the catering truck having stopped to fetch her mackintosh from the wardrobe caravan; she didn’t want her posterior on display to all and sundry. Stevens and Pattimore had already found a table and were gorging themselves on a mountain of fried and greasy food. Ugh, she thought. A green salad and a bottle of water would do her.

  “Long morning, dear!” a voice said behind her.

  “Tell me about it,” said Miller.

  “I’ve been stuck sat sitting in that bloody trailer all day. Be ready, they says. So I sit there ready, flicking through Take A Break and does the call ever come? Does it buggery!”

  Miller’s eyes grew wide. She turned to see a famous face queuing behind her. Wearing an oversized fake fur coat over her matron’s costume and looking much smaller than Miller had imagined, none other than Bunny Slippers was smiling. The trademark red hair - now from a bottle - the beauty spot to the left of her chin - it was really her! Miller found herself staring. Bunny was accustomed to this sort of treatment and waited for the moment to pass.

  “Who are you in this picture, chicken?” she asked, with only the merest traces of a Dedley accent torturing her vowels.

  “Oh, I’m nobody. I’m just an extra,” said Miller, fearing Bunny’s attention would vanish at once. Instead she found a liver-spotted hand squeezing her own.

  “Where would we be without you?” Bunny grinned, showing dentures just a little too large for her mouth. She was old-school, was Bunny Slippers. Not for her the knife of the plastic surgeon. Her enhancements came from other sources: over-the-counter dyes and powders, National Health Service dentistry...

  “I’m Mel,” said Miller.

  “Call me Bunny,” said Bunny. “Now, would you be a sweetheart and ask them for fish and chips. And no bloody mayonnaise. Why do they have to spoil it?”

  “Um... tomato sauce?”

  Bunny’s nose wrinkled. “Just salt and vinegar for me, chicken. I’m not one for airs and graces.”

  Miller ordered their food, plumping for fish and chips herself. Bunny slipped an arm through hers and steered Miller towards a table.

  “Oi!” called Stevens from across the dining area.

  Miller ignored him. “Extras,” she said to Bunny’s ear. “Ideas above their station.”

  Bunny laughed. Her eyes twinkled when she laughed and Melanie Miller was reminded of her mother.

  Across at their table, Pattimore jerked his head to get Stevens to look at the man who was joining the end of the queue.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Oscar Buzz, getting in line like the rest of us plebs. I would have thought he was above that kind of thing.”

  Stevens glanced over his shoulder.

  “He’s just a person,” he said dismissively.

  “I’m going to talk to him. I’m sure he’s a gayer.”

  “Do you mind? I’m eating!” Stevens suddenly went off his sausage.

  “I’m going to tell him Miller fancies him,” Pattimore chuckled. “That should put the cat a
mong the pigeons.”

  He pushed his chair back and went to the queue.

  “Er - excuse me, Mr Buzz?”

  Dan the stand-in turned around. Pattimore’s face fell. Dan looked away very quickly.

  “Sorry - I thought you were... ”

  Dan didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the menu board across the back of the catering truck.

  Pattimore gave up and returned to Stevens.

  “Well, is he?”

  “What?”

  “A bum bandit.”

  “It wasn’t him. Stunt double or something.”

  But Pattimore kept looking at the man in the queue. The blonde hair was dyed but that was not surprising. There was something else about the guy. Something shifty? Pattimore didn’t know if shifty was the right word. He decided to keep a closer eye on the Oscar Buzz look-alike in case he was something to do with the problems the production had been having, the death of Simon Popper included...

  “Can I have your cream horn?”

  “What?”

  Stevens pointed at the cake on Pattimore’s side plate.

  “You can fuck off; that’s what you can have.”

  ***

  “Knock, knock!”

  “Yo!” Oscar Buzz called to the door of his trailer. “Come in if you’re hot.”

  The door opened. A pretty face peered in.

  “Hullo,” said the pretty face. “I’m Delia Cartwright.”

  “Deal your cards right?”

  The pretty face smiled patiently, as if she hadn’t heard that a billion times already. It was excellent acting practice.

  “May I?” she asked and stepped inside anyway.

  “I know you!” Oscar Buzz perked up. “I’ve seen you. You were in that rom-com with that floppy-haired guy.”

  “Crouch End Follies, yes.”

  “Did great business. Well, now, ain’t that something. Can I get you something?”

  “I’ve not come for refreshments, Mr Buzz.”

  “Oscar, please.”

  “Thank you, Oscar. I thought I’d better come and introduce myself. We’ve got our first scene after lunch.”

  “You’re in this picture?”

  “I’m the leading lady - well, the romantic lead. Bunny’s the star, of course.”

  “Bunny... the cartoon?”

  “And I was told Americans had no sense of humour. I’ve been a good girl. No garlic or pickled onions for lunch.”

  “A girl has to watch her figure.”

  “No, silly!” Laughing, she sat beside him, perhaps a little too close. “I mean for our kiss.”

  “Our what?”

  “We steal a clandestine moment in the bedpan-washing room.”

  “We do?”

  “Haven’t you read the sides?”

  “I prefer to glance before I go on. Keeps it fresh.”

  “Fascinating,” she edged even closer so her thigh was pressing against his. “I thought we might rehearse. We’re supposed to have been going out for quite some time. We’re passed the awkward stage. But management frown upon fraternisation among the hospital staff.”

  “I don’t blame them, Miss Cards-Right. Would you like a glass of water?”

  “It’s all rather tragic. Me the devoted young nurse, you the dashing doctor with an outbreak of some dreadful disease to prevent, and then I’m diagnosed and I die in your arms at the altar.”

  “Gee, that’s one helluva scene.” He got to his feet. Delia Cartwright almost fell on her side. She stood up and took his hands in hers. She looked up at his perfect chin, trying to fix eye contact.

  “You’re nervous; that’s why I’m here to break the ice.”

  He nodded towards the fridge. “I have a machine that does that.”

  “Hello!” Dan the stand-in elbowed his way into the trailer, carrying bags of food and drinks with lids on. He was surprised to find Oscar Buzz in an apparent embrace with what’s-her-name, that actress who was in that thing with him with the floppy hair.

  Buzz jumped back, as though electrocuted. “Delia, this is my stand-in and good buddy, Daniel. Dan, this is -”

  “Deal your cards right!” Dan gasped. He put the packages on the table and held out his hand. Delia shook it coldly.

  “I hope there’s no garlic in that little lot,” she pointed at the food parcels. “Well, I’ll leave you boys to your lunch.” She patted Oscar on the cheek. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Oscar dear. Don’t worry; I’ll brush my teeth.”

  She went out.

  “What you gonna do?” shrugged Oscar.

  “She seems nice,” said Dan.

  “Everybody seems nice in this business,” said Oscar, unwrapping his sandwich. “It’s what acting means.”

  ***

  Deferring his lunch until later, Detective Inspector Harry Henry was at the reception of the hotel in which assistant film director Simon Popper had been found dead, either through misadventure or murder. The receptionist confessed she herself had not been on duty when the poor man was found but she would do anything to help.

  Harry Henry asked to see CCTV footage of the reception area, the lifts and the corridor outside Popper’s room. The receptionist picked up a telephone and summoned the head of security. Presently a stocky man in navy blue uniform appeared and shook the detective by the hand.

  “There’s rules and regulations with regard to CCTV, as I’m sure you’re well aware,” the man began in lieu of introductions. “Not just anybody can look at it. But you’re Serious so we can forego the usual application procedure.”

  Harry Henry pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.

  “Cheers,” he said. He followed the security man into an office. There were two monitors on the desk, each divided into quadrants.

  “I’ve loaded up last night’s discs,” the security man said. “It’s all DVD these days. Better quality. To bring up a full screen you just put the mouse here, like this. I’ll leave you to it. If you need any help, just dial one and Sharon will do her best.”

  He went out. Harry Henry sat on the swivel chair. He knew Simon Popper had left the set at 10:30 the night before. Allowing twenty minutes for the taxi ride, Harry Henry searched the footage from 10:45, just to be on the safe side.

  There was Simon Popper coming into Reception. Waiting for the lift. Walking to his room and letting himself in.

  Harry Henry fast-forwarded through hours of footage. Mostly empty. The occasional person or couple appeared, bumbling along after too much to drink, fumbling keys, dropping them, and laughing before going into their rooms to get up to God knows what.

  No one went to Simon Popper’s door.

  Perhaps it had been a tragic if unsavoury accident after all.

  He hitched up his glasses and rubbed his eyelids. He fast-forwarded the footage. The time clock ticked rapidly past midnight and one a.m and two...

  Harry Henry was about to give up but he remembered what Chief Inspector Wheeler had said about being thorough and to leave no fucking stone un-fucking-turned. So he kept going.

  At 3:15 someone flitted through reception. The night porter barely glanced from his newspaper. The figure - a man with long hair - summoned the lift. He strode along Simon Popper’s corridor and - yes! - stopped at Simon Popper’s door and knocked. The door was opened. The man stepped in.

  Harry Henry paused the image. He rewound and paused again, lining up different frozen images of the man in different areas of the hotel. None of them gave a clear view of the man’s face. But the hair was unmistakable.

  Harry Henry picked up the local newspaper that was lying on the security man’s desk and looked at the headline.

  HOLLYWOOD STAR COMES TO DEDLEY.

  Below that there was a picture o
f one of the most famous faces in the world.

  Harry Henry looked from newspaper to monitor screens and back again.

  “Hello, Oscar Buzz,” he said.

  4

  “I’m done for the day,” Bunny Slippers wiped the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin. “Back to Shropshire for me, dear.”

  “That’s right,” said Miller. “I knew you had a house out there.”

  “They adore me there. But they leave me in peace and quiet. They respect my privacy. Not like Darlaston. I can’t walk down the street.”

  “If my mom knew who I’ve just had lunch with!”

  “Oh, you must bring her to set, dear! Always happy to meet a fan.”

  “She’s dead,” said Miller.

  “Oh, well, you could have broken it to me a little more gently. Now, will you be a dear and wait with me for my motor?”

  “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  She waited outside Bunny’s trailer while the old star got changed. While they waited for the car, Miller gestured at the set.

  “Has it changed much?”

  “Has what?”

  “This place. It’s been years.”

  Bunny screwed up her nose as if Miller had shown her a cute picture of a kitten in a baseball cap. “Oh, no, dear. Back in those days, it was all studio. We never saw the light of day. All this is new to me. Films, you see, they’ve got the budgets. Oh, your little face! You look like I’ve just told you Father Christmas doesn’t exist. The hospital in the show was based on this place but back then it was a working hospital. They used to get all sorts of trouble with people coming up, wanting to be treated by the actors, but of course we were miles away with cardboard walls and wobbly furniture. This place is closed now - they got it cheap, I expect. I could tell you stories. Used to be a wossname, this place - a loony bin - can I call it that these days, in these days of health and safety? And they did all sorts to them in here, the poor buggers. That’s why it’s haunted.”

  “It’s what?”

  “Haunted, dear. You know, spooks and ghoulies.”

  Miller almost laughed but she could see the old woman was in earnest. The car pulled up and the liveried driver nipped out to open the door. Bunny Slippers patted Miller’s hand.