Mr. Nasty

PROLOGUE

Lights, Camera…

The Director paused, his voice muffled through the latex mask. The cameraman shifted the Red One digital on his shoulder, focused on the naked young man positioning himself in the bathtub. Fifty quid, cash in hand. A job to die for? It would seem so. To paraphrase the old movie: In the South West of England, life was cheap.

"And… axe him!"

The extra assumed his most terrified look. It wasn't very good. But what could they expect from someone with no formal training? Probably his first job. They hadn't even bothered to check. What was the point? He couldn't be much more than twenty-five, a bit of a Rock Dude with his beard and long hair. But he would do. He would do just fine. If this was his debut, then what a debut it was. And not just a debut, but a final bow, too. All to the accompaniment of an axe concerto.

It wasn't until the blade actually embedded itself in his right shoulder that the extra realized he didn't need to act terrified. By the time the axe slammed through his left wrist, half severing it, he was giving the performance of his life. He writhed, screaming, in the bathtub as the axe blows chewed into him. Three, four, five… Thunk! Thunk! Chunk!

He tried pitifully to evade the falling blade, to pull himself up the side of the bath, now slippery with his own red stuff.

Lizzie Borden took an axe, the Director grizzled through his mask as the huge man wielding the chopper swung it up and powered it down again, again, again, into unprotected flesh. …and gave the bad man forty whacks.

The extra had stopped shrieking now. The tub was filling with his blood. His limbs jerked spasmodically as the Axeman stepped back, wiping sweat and gore off his face.

Cut!

Part One: Turning…

Chapter One

Lights, camera… Atrocity!

There ya go. A perfect, gift-wrapped, bona fide reason why Tommy should hate Mark. Why, in Tommy's opinion, everyone should hate Mark. Because he came out with shit like that.

He didn't want to respond. Didn't want to have to turn around and acknowledge his colleague's latest dumb attempt at attention-seeking. But as he was the only one within earshot of the jerk, he couldn't wriggle out of it without being a jerk himself. So, without any inflection in his voice, and without looking around, he said, What's that, Mark?

Mark was strutting his gear, posing beside the vintage Tyrell 003 that had swept Jackie Stewart to victory at the '71 Spanish Grand Prix, and which was now being loaned ever so generously by its current owner to the production company behind The Man from U.N.C.L.E. remake. But Tommy was pretty sure the owner hadn't envisioned its role in the movie as the leaning prop for this posturing extra as he strove to charm the pit girl models decorously semi-dressed—and consequently freezing—in the pit lane a few yards away.

Mark leveled his gaze on Tommy. I said 'lights, camera…atroci—'

Yeah, I got that. But why…? Why would you say that?

Mark folded his arms and relaxed against the polished blue paintwork of the low-slung racer. Its curves were sleek and streamlined, sheer car porn to connoisseurs. Tommy grudgingly had to admit Mark looked good in his racing gear. He was playing one of the drivers in the '60s period movie. That made it sound like a big part. It wasn't. He was a lowly paid supporting artist—hell, let's call a spade a spade—an extra on the new film. But whereas Mark looked slim and handsome in his shiny blue and yellow jumpsuit, Tommy looked shit and shapeless in his grubby gray mechanic's overalls. Another reason to hate Mark. To top it off, the overzealous make-up girl had slathered orange foundation all over Tommy's face to make him look more Italian—the film was partially set in Italy but was actually being filmed in exotic Surrey—though it just made him look… well… orange instead.

This new role I've just been given. Got the text confirming this morning. If smugness was a perfume, then Mark was well and truly doused in it. Tommy could even put a name to his brand: Unctuous, for the smarmy shit in your life. That was the perfect word to describe the thirty-five-year-old with his slicked-back dark hair and smooth, waxy complexion.

One of the main parts, he continued, undeterred by Tommy's lack of enthusiasm. "It's gonna be big. No: huge."

Tommy sighed, hands in overall pockets, squinting against the April sunshine. Yeah? His interest was concentrated on the two pit girls rather than Mark, however. The Third Assistant Director was herding them toward the Tyrell as the First relayed instructions to him from the Pit Manager's office a few hundred yards behind Tommy.

The girls sauntered over, shivering ferociously. Despite the bright sunshine, it was freezing at Goodwood Race Track, and the girls wore midriff-exposing crop tops and mini skirts—very easy on the eye but obviously intended more for Mediterranean climes rather than English ones.

Mark noticed them, too. Yeah, he said emphatically. Gonna be the film of the year. The decade, man. Huge.

So…what's it called? Tommy still wasn't really listening. The pit girls joined them, and Jasper the Third AD, about to pass on instructions, suddenly received new ones, and dashed off toward the Cobra Coupe further down the track, where some of Tommy's fellow mechanics were mucking about with fuel cans. Tommy could see Max poking John up the backside with a nozzle for what had to be the tenth time that morning. Max was Bolivian, very loud, and great fun, but he was definitely making himself visible to the crew for all the wrong reasons.

Vicky's smile brought his attention back to where it should be. She was a stunning model with candyfloss blonde hair that had been teased and whorled into golden bliss by the stylists that morning. Her pouting lips were adorned with a nipple-pink gloss that drove Tommy mad. She was too thin for some of the other mechanics—as if they would ever get to have a choice in the matter!—but Tommy thought she was gorgeous. Thick as a brained pig, of course, but that didn't matter right then on that sunny, cold April day at Goodwood Race Track. He forgot all about his irritation with Mark for one glorious moment as Vicky's cobalt eyes held his.

So cold! She shivered, holding out her hands and rubbing them together. Tommy began to reach out his own to warm them, but somebody beat him to it, somebody who seemed to beat him to everything. The best roles, the best girls, the best costumes. Even his hairstyle was way better than Tommy's disheveled crop.

Mark held Vicky's hands firmly in his. I was just telling this mechanic about my new film role…

Oh, cool, she chirped, with what Tommy hoped was only polite interest. But he'd lost her smile now to the driver, who simply bathed in it.

Yeah, it's a genre-shattering debut by a maverick director. He's going to be the new Tarantino. Bigger, actually! Just got the news today. I'm going to be one of the leads…

Low budget, I take it, Tommy sniped, bristling over the mechanic jibe.

It's more of an Art film. He doesn't need excessive amounts of money.

So what's it called? Tommy asked for the second time. Lights, camera, atrocity…hmm. I'm assuming it's a horror film… He realized how hypocritical his scornful tone sounded, if only to himself. He loved horror films.

Violet, the other pit girl model, was looking bored already. Tommy couldn't talk to her as easily as to Vicky. While she was equally beautiful in an airbrushed way, she didn't exude the same warmth as her friend. She was taller, brunette, equally as dim. Tommy had overheard her asking where Bristol was, and that had annoyed him. Not just because that was his city, but because it was, what, the fifth major city in the UK? C'mon.

No title as yet, Mark said, still rubbing Vicky's hands. But expect something spectacular. The director says it's going to impact in a big way. And the lights, camera bit is just one of my lines…

"So it is a horror film. You gonna tell us which agency got you this future blockbuster, then?" Tommy realized he was sounding jealous and thereby playing along to Mark's tune, and that smarted even more.

Mark pulled Vicky into a warm embrace before answering, then smiled at Tommy over her blonde coiffed hair as he hugged her tight. "No agency, my friend. I applied direct. And it's going to be so much more than just a horror film."

Jasper hurried back over, followed by Max and John. Max was beaming from ear to ear as he took in the two lovelies. Jasper looked harried. Mark reluctantly released Vicky.

We're going again, the Third AD told them. Same scene, but they want more mechanics working on the Tyrell now.

Max was already raising the can with its menacing nozzle, but Jasper was onto him.

You won't need that. He puffed out a breath. John, you and Max roll tires from that pile to the Tyrell. Tommy, pretend to be examining the steering wheel or something. Just lean through the window and fiddle. Vicky and Violet, stand here looking pretty. Mark, pretend to chat with them.

Turning! The bellow came from the First AD, who had emerged briefly from the Pit Station building to check that everything was cool and dandy. Jasper followed him back in at a fair old clip.

"And… Action!" The shout was clear and crisp. Tommy bent through the open window of the Tyrell, pretending to adjust the steering mount with his spanner. He was aware of Max and John rolling tires up behind him, but was unaware of their exact intent until he turned to find they'd blocked him in. Very amusing. He could see the big smirk on John's face as he scuttled over to retrieve another huge tire. Max winked at him as he rolled one up to near the door of the racing car and hefted it atop its fellows.

Cut! Mark continued chatting up the pit girls while Tommy climbed over the barricade of tires. Jasper explained calmly and patiently to Max and John why it was a bad idea to block Tommy in while Max clapped the Third on the back mischievously and said Sure, sure, a lot. John smirked and adjusted his huge, thick-rimmed glasses.

By the third take, Max had somehow persuaded Tommy to climb inside the priceless Tyrell 003 while the cameras were rolling. The look on Mark's face alone was worth it; he'd been expressing a desire to get in the racer for the last two days but had always bottled out. Tommy settled in the bucket seat and grinned through the open door at the wild-haired Max. Say shee-it, the Bolivian said, and there he was, actually leveling his Samsung S5 cell phone at Tommy while the film cameras a few yards away were still recording, and the click sounded like a gunshot.

Fuck, Max! But Max just took another pic and then closed the door on Tommy and leaned his back on it, chuckling away to John, who had his precious fuel can back in his hand. Tommy could see Mark glaring at him through the windshield, Vicky looking a little perplexed, and this take seemed to be lasting forever. He shuffled across on his backside to the passenger seat, popped open the door. But the interior was so cramped he couldn't maneuver himself out through the opening. He did, however, manage to get one leg out, realizing the movie camera was facing him, and all this would be recorded for posterity.

He sprawled back across the two seats, his leg still protruding from the passenger door, and rapped gently on the driver's window. Max ignored him. He rapped a little louder, each knock sounding like a resounding thump to Tommy. Max finally spun round, grinned, and opened the door.

I can't get out, Tommy pleaded. Max grinned wider, grabbed Tommy's right arm, and pulled. Then he changed his mind and trotted round to the passenger side. He leaned in, chuckling softly. You in a right fucking mess, no? He got his cell phone out again and fired off a few more shots, then relented and seized Tommy by both his feet and dragged him from the racing car cockpit. Tommy landed on his backside, and beyond Vicky's shocked face, he could see Jasper inside the Pit Garage, staring up at the ceiling in utter disbelief.

Cut!

That was the end of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. for Tommy. He heard later that Max went on to play a helicopter navigator in a scene with Hugh Grant, sitting together in an actual Wessex whirlybird, the last one operating in the world. That was Max all over; while Tommy landed on his ass, Max always landed on his feet. And that was quite funny really because Max was a funny guy. You couldn't help but like him. As for Mark? Mr. Unctuous went on to fuck the living daylights out of Vicky and gleefully described the whole act in vivid detail to Tommy by email a few days later.

Things couldn't get any worse for Tommy after that, it seemed. Until he met Mark for the second time.

Chapter Two

Cheating on his wife had become something of a habit to Tommy. He did it practically without thinking now, and almost without guilt.

Why should he feel guilt, he asked himself quite regularly. His wife didn't love him, that was clear. She disapproved. That was her principal response to everything he did. Disapproval hung over their marriage like a depressing cloud. She disapproved of his comic book collection ("Why on earth would you want to tack a bagged edition of Batman 255 to the bedroom wall, for God's sake?"); she disapproved of his large collection of videos and DVDs (Why do you have so many—surely once you've seen them the first time, you don't need to bother again); she disapproved of his books (Can't you put them in the attic, they take up too much room); she disapproved of his art (Why should I put up with a painting of a naked woman sitting on a tomb in my own conservatory?). All right, he'd give her that last one—even if it was a Rick Melton original of the gorgeous Anna Falchi from Soavi's extraordinary Cemetery Man.

The fact they were still together was a mystery to most people, but it was thumpingly obvious to Tommy. Neither of them could afford to leave. The mortgage was all paid up, but neither of them earned much. Tommy was lucky to clear ten thousand a year, and his wife pulled in half that on her small wage as a part-time shop assistant. When she nagged at him to get a proper job, he nagged right back that she could always go full time, even though he knew the shop she worked at wasn't offering full-time hours. It was an automatic defense to The Nag. She was very good at The Nag, was Tommy's wife.

And while Tommy had cheated successfully on his wife on a couple of memorable occasions, right now he was getting nowhere fast.

He had found her on an internet dating site—Morefishinthesea.com. Her profile was BlondeVenus. Tommy's was TommySin. She had replied to a couple of his chatty messages, albeit in a non-committal way. But now she had stopped. He'd sent her five messages in the last week, and she'd ignored all of them, although he could see the infuriatingly provocative Online Now status highlighted in green beneath her seductive photograph.

He scrolled down through her profile for the umpteenth time since spotting her, the screen of his Samsung Ace cell phone grubby from the dirt paint Make-Up had supplied him with that morning. BlondeVenus, 35, Single. Body type: curvaceous. Likes reading, trampolining, skydiving, and Motorhead. Wtf, he'd first thought when he'd stumbled upon her. Not that he would argue with any of that. All right, he wasn't exactly in a hurry to chuck himself out of a plane, and bouncing up and down for fun without sex being involved just wouldn't have entered his mindset for one second, but the rest he could embrace. And who didn't love the Lemster? Well, actually, quite a lot of people, especially the girls he came into contact with on TV and film sets. Their loss. Love Me Like a Reptile was one of the best rock tracks ever written. And don't let him get started on Stone Dead Forever…

He'd told BlondeVenus that, of course, which had earned him a token response, but it also made him think she was bullshitting about her predilection for the Filth Rockers from Stoke, for whatever reason. Maybe she thought it made her sound cool? The rest of her profile didn't give much away. Her personal statement was bland in the extreme except for the comment: No Married Men, Weirdos, Web Cam pervs, or baldies please. That had made him chuckle. And at least he didn't fit any of those categories… Okay, just the one, maybe. All right: two. He wasn't going to admit to the third. But at least he had his hair.

What the fuck you up to? Perving again? For fuck's sake, man, put it away.

The exasperated Geordie¹ tones made him jump guiltily. He thumbed the phone off and turned to the tall, ginger-haired man in his early 30s who'd just emerged from the bushes behind Tommy.

Made me jump, ya bastard.

Andy Whay Aye Hill was dressed identically to Tommy. Both wore purple tunics with a wolf's head emblazoned on the chest. Their shoulders were clamped with chain mail. Andy's legs looked particularly skinny in his tights.

Give it a rest, man. You look at that site any more and your eyes are gonna ping pong out your head. They're bulgy enough as it is, fella. Anyway, we're needed for the next shot.

I'm trying to keep away from Mark. Tommy tucked the cell into his thigh-high boot. Can't believe he's on this job as well.

"Aye, he's a bit of a knob, man, I'll give ya that. It's always the ones ya dinna wanna work with that follow youse around, like. Cheer up, fer fuck's sake. Could be worse. I might not have been picked."

Yeah. That would have been a blow, Tommy told him as they pushed through the ferns toward the clearing where the TV crew had set up base.

He's bangin' on about that shit movie he's in again, mumbled Andy. They joined the collection of extras on one side of the clearing—the opposite side to that occupied by the director, First AD, and stars, some of whom were sitting on fold-away chairs planted on the lush green grass.

The silly fuck reckons it's gonna be huge. Andy chuckled. And it still hasn't got a title. If they canna even decide on a fookin' title, it doesnae look good as far as makin' a fookin' masterpiece, does it? It's all a load of shite.

Tommy could only agree. Mark had managed to wind up Andy, too, by the sound of it. Mind, that wasn't difficult; the big Geordie was quick to lash out, and a born scrapper. He saw red quicker than a West End traffic queue at rush hour.

Tommy could see Mark standing in the middle of the clearing, dressed in his poncey knight gear, while the majority of the supporting artists were done up as dodgy villains. Of course, he was a knight. That was just another stick to beat Tommy with, wasn't it?

Andy was on a roll now. Tommy knew better than to interrupt. I asked him what production company was makin' it like, and he was all kinds of evasive, ya know what I mean? In the end, he told me. I looked 'em up. Didnae inspire me with much confidence, man.

The runner who had been standing nearby frantically listening to a stream of orders on his earpiece rounded on Andy. "Quiet, please!"

Alreet, keep yer fookin' wig on tight, man, retorted Andy, albeit in a lower voice.

The runner trotted over to them, his young face anxious and stressed. Wasn't it always? thought Tommy. Who the hell would want to do his job? He didn't get paid much more than the extras, and instead of playing around in the woods with a sword and generally having a laugh, he was always waiting at the shit end of the production company for all the bowel movements to land right on his head at very regular intervals. But to be fair, he remained polite to the bunch of sixteen extras larking around waiting for instructions. Tommy wasn't so sure he could have stayed so patient.

Right, we need three of you… The runner had already earmarked Whay Aye and Tommy, and he just needed a third victim. He found it in Chris, long-haired, bearded, chubby. And by far the campest-without-actually-being-gay Star Wars fan Tommy had ever met. The runner marched them uphill toward the cave that overlooked the clearing.

What've we got to do like? asked Whay Aye a tad uncertainly as they were led toward the dark entrance.

Tommy turned to see the director, First AD, and all the principal cast were watching them.

We just want you to hide in here and then come bursting out on 'Action', the runner told them. D'you think you can do that? Very easy. Just come running out and pull your swords. Look menacing and angry.

So what's the special FX team doing in here then? Andy continued a little more uncertainly as they ventured into the clammy gloom.

The runner waved away the question and positioned them right at the back of the cave. So Andy asked it again: Not being funny like, but it looks to me like this guy's setting up a bomb.

The FX guy grinned widely as he crouched over the little contraption he'd rigged in one corner of the cave.

A drip of water fell from the low ceiling and trickled down behind the collar of Tommy's tunic.

Youse gonna blow us up or what? The gangly Geordie had gone redder than usual.

It's nothing to worry about, the runner assured him as he began striding quickly toward the exit again. Just a bit of smoke for atmosphere. The FX guy winked at them, finished fiddling with the timer, and joined the runner in a break for daylight.

Turning… came the familiar cry.

And…action!

There was a deafening bang, and the bit of smoke billowed in front of their eyes, filling the small cave in seconds. Tommy could no longer see his hand in front of his face, let alone his two friends as they stumbled blindly in the direction they hoped was the exit, coughing like heavy smokers. Tommy couldn't see Whay Aye, but he could most definitely hear him. A selection of choice expletives delivered in his aggressive Geordie tones signaled exactly where the gangly northerner was, which helped prevent Tommy from crashing into him in the thick smoke, although it didn't prevent him from colliding with the paunchy Chris, who emitted a pronounced and extremely camp squawk as they tumbled through the mouth of the cave together, Tommy landing on top of the bearded extra. Whay Aye joined them a second later, sprawling over their tangled bodies and rolling down the slope toward the crew and the delighted cast, particularly the arrogant tit who played Arthur, who was openly guffawing.

The First AD waved a hand for silence. Reset. Once more without the swearing.

As Tommy got to his feet, brushing away the thick flour-like substance the smoke machine had blasted at them to simulate ash and debris, he saw Mark grinning along with all the others. Of course, Mark's grin was bigger than everyone else's. Very menacing. He chuckled. "And very angry…"

After three more takes, the director was happy and the three dust-caked villains joined the rest of their colleagues for a cup of well-earned coffee from the provisions table erected under a canopy in one corner of the clearing. They sprawled on the grass and chatted idly, watching the crew busy themselves preparing for the next shot. The grips hunkered down under tripods and back-breaking cameras while the cameraman supervised the placing of a dolly track in the ferns not far from the tea table. The First AD chatted to him briefly, tapping the track with his Converse boot and cracking a joke that was not smiled at. Cameramen were serious bastards. You didn't fuck with them or their dollies.

Tommy's attention was diverted by a cell ringtone. The Teddy Bear's Picnic, for God's sake. The last person Tommy would have expected it to belong to was Mark, but Mark was indeed the offending owner. The First AD, rebuffed and slighted by the cameraman, turned his ire on Mark, which  at least gave Tommy a momentary spurt of satisfaction. "Phone to be switched off!" the AD barked. Mark shrugged off the admonition, silenced the phone, and carried his tea over to where Tommy and Whay Aye sat brushing at themselves. He was still grinning.

Loving your work. He smirked, squatting down next to them.

Aye? retorted Whay Aye aggressively. He brushed some dust in Mark's direction. Better than standing around like a prick doing nothing.

Oh, this is just downtime for me, Mark said smugly. My real filming job takes place mostly in the evenings.

And that would be this low-budget slasher you keep boasting about? Tommy said, taking a sip from his coffee. I hardly think you're gonna get much dosh from that—if you get paid at all.

It will certainly get me noticed when it comes out, as you will see, my envious friends. And I won't have to get covered in flour to do it.

Whay Aye looked murderously at him, his fingers playing on the hilt of his sword in its scabbard as if genuinely tempted to use it. While the supporting artists' swords were fairly blunt for obvious health and safety reasons, you could still do a lot of damage with them.

Mark patted the Geordie's back patronizingly. "But you did it so well. So very butch. Especially Chris." He grinned at the bearded extra lying back in the grass, enjoying the spring sun on his face. Chris belched demonstratively. Butch as you or anyone here, the belch said. Mark pulled out his phone as someone tried to ring him again, switched it off.

If you go down to the woods today… Whay Aye sniggered, …the only big surprise you'll get is if anyone ever listens to your bullshit. Was that your Mum checking you took your packed lunch to school and telling you not to mix with the wrong sort, like?

It was probably Vicky wanting more sex. He smirked at Tommy's expression. "Actually, I haven't heard from that bimbo for quite a while now. No, the Geordie's probably right. My Mum. And I'm definitely talking to the wrong sort. He winked at Tommy, ignoring Whay Aye now, perhaps realizing he risked a punch in the face if he carried on much longer. I've got something for you, though, Tommy." Mark got up and searched for his rucksack, which was stacked with all the other extras' belongings beneath the trees a few feet away.

He came back with a photocopied flyer.

Tommy took it as Mark settled down next to him again. He scanned it curiously. What's this?

Don't say I never do anything for you, my friend. It's a casting call audition.

For what?

You are one lucky son of a whore. It's only because I like you that I'm giving you this opportunity.

"You don't