All stories

It was an impressive turnout. The sun beat down on the mourners at the graveside, crowded between ornate headstones and wreaths that were already wilting in the heat. A discrete band of black suited security ringed the entrance to the cemetery. Even so, the flash of paparazzi bulbs was a jarring reminder of his brothers popularity.

Tobias stood a safe distance away, dark glasses hiding his eyes as he scanned the crowd. The graveside was a veritable who’s who of stars of stage and screen from years gone by. It was a line up more Oscars than funeral. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. He hadn’t moved in the same illustrious circles as Anton, so he still experienced a thrill when exposed to the glamour of his brothers career, a life filled with award ceremonies, private yachts, and beautiful women (and beautiful boys, if the tabloids were to be believed). Not that it was any use to him now, poor bugger, his cancer ridden body lifeless in the coffin being slowly lowered into the ground. Tobias looked around at the heads lowered in prayer. Was that Suchet? Really? He had the nerve to turn up at Antons funeral? Tobias scrunched the handkerchief into a tight ball in his fist. He felt a sense of duty to continue the grudge Anton had long held for him, ever since he’d stolen the Poirot role from him in ‘89. He had been bloody marvelous though, Tobias begrudgingly thought. Even when Anton was Bafta nominated for his role as Tsar Nicholas II, he had never forgiven ‘that smug bastard Suchet’ for his betrayal. That had been the end for him really, losing out to a prime time TV detective at the awards, which had led to a loss of spirit, and faith in his craft that he never regained. He’d sank further away from public life, although the tabloids had hounded his every attempt at a discrete retirement.

The service was over, the crowd murmuring and moving towards blacked out limos waiting to spirit them away to the Groucho club, where whiskey tumblers would be raised aloft to toast the life and death of Sir Anton Buchanan. A fitting tribute that Tobias was sad to miss, but he’d already risked too much attending the funeral. He slipped into his own modest VW Polo and ran the aircon as cold as he could. It had all been Tobias’ idea, genius that it was. Lung cancer, only three months to live. Anton desperate to slip into obscurity. And they looked so similar, any differences were overlooked by a wad of cash discretely slipped into the funeral director’s hands. He eased the car out of the cemetery gates, the paparazzi packing up their cameras, nothing more to see. Anton smiled as he prepared to take on the most challenging acting role of his life, the mundane life of Tobias Buchanan. Fuck you, Suchet.

The Chancellor’s hopes were low for this demo - brainwaves plucked from the ether and converted into virtual reality? All the faculty wondered it; what was the man smoking to come up with these things? Crackpot pipe?

He followed Professor Higgins past crates overflowing with dusty machines sprouting wires and dangly bits into a room free of clutter. In the centre was a low padded bench next to a wheeled cart topped with a metal box with touchscreens and glowing lights.

The Chancellor gamely sat and placed the black and grey headset over his head.

He opened his eyes upon a gloomy basement. In his mouth was the taste of sweat and dank earth. His arms were behind his back, wrists squirming but held firm by ropes that burned.

A face loomed from the darkness, eyes sunk deep in his cheeks but they blazed bright with fervour. He raised a straight arm up in front of him and in his hand was a dull black metal pistol.

The Chancellor murmured, ‘Oh my,’ before the man shot him in the chest.

The basement spun, his vision had gone red and he began to scream and claw at the ruins of his chest at the same time as his still bound arms wrenched in pain against the ropes still binding them.

Now it was light again. Higgins hovered next to him with the headset. The Chancellor gingerly touched at his chest. No bullet hole, no pain. His heart was racing, his breathing ragged.

‘That was…incredible. It felt so real.’

Higgins began to grin. ‘It was real. Those were the last moments of Csar Nicolas II.’

‘You put that into a VR game?’

Higgins sighed.

‘This is not some tawdry game! This is real history, those were the last echoing thoughts of a man who died one hundred years ago.’ He puffed up smugly. ‘Do you know how hard it is to read brainwaves through time?’

Now the Chancellor sighed. He rubbed at his weary eyes.

‘Something a little gentler?’ Higgins said. ‘I have a man on a train with a lovely bowl of soup. He talks to a man called Erqule Pwa-roh. Ring a bell? I’ve scoured all my history books.’

The Chancellor opened his mouth but no words would come out.

‘I know,’ Higgins said. ‘Takes my breath away sometimes.’ He turned to his machine and began scrolling through items on one of the screens. ‘Let’s see…’

‘Hercule Poirot is a famous fictional Belgian detective.’

‘That’s the fella!’ Higgins grinned. ‘Wait. Fictional?’

‘Do you also have something about a sixties detective up north?’

‘Well yes…’

‘That’s called Heartbeat. Ten series in the nineties I believe.’

The Chancellor rose. He placed friendly hands on the idiot’s shoulders, and then bellowed it - ‘You’re picking up sodding ITV 3!’

Higgins crumpled. The Chancellor helped him to the bench. Then he had to sit as he realised.

‘My God, man,’ he said. ‘You’ve just built the world’s first three-dimensional video recorder.’

Hercule Poirot slumped in an armchair, open can of Red Stripe tipping perilously close to his crotch. Nearby Marilyn Monroe leaned against the wall, fag in hand, left tit edging ever closer to freedom and talking either to Charlie Chaplin or Hitler; with neither bowler hat nor nazi insignia it was difficult to tell. Vincent Vega wandered vaguely from room to room

In short, it was carnage. The kind of party I loathed; Tsar Nicholas II was being sick in the sink. You could hear the lumps and I didn’t envy my sister having to clear up that little treat tomorrow.

For now though Joanna was in her element, surrounded by admirers and looking every inch the belle of the ball because, as always, the whole thing was all about her. You’d have thought it was her birthday, not mine.

I stood in my corner sipping gin, waiting till Joanna decided I could go to bed. You see this party was for me; an act of sisterly love. Never mind that I hated costumes and parties and drunk people and vomiting Russian oligarchs - this was my night and I had better damn well enjoy it.

Suddenly a voice tinged with cockney spoke into my ear.

“I’m sorry - you’re on my foot. I mean, you’ve been there a while, so it’s not necessarily a problem, only it’s starting to hurt, so if you could, maybe...move?”

I panicked, stumbled, fell. We crashed backwards through the concertina doors, landing in a pile of dust and MDF.

“Oh God. I’m sorry!” I was lying on a thin man in a white suit, striped shirt and tie. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Nice costume” I offered apologetically, hauling myself off him, straightening my dress.

“Michael Caine. Italian Job?” he waved a plastic rifle feebly. The doors were in bits, but nobody had noticed.

“Oh”

“Look, don’t think I’m a complete muppet, but I’ve been watching you - not in a creepy way - and you don’t seem to be having a great time. Why don’t you go home?”

“That’s my sister”. Joanna’s face was now wrapped around Vincent Vega’s, they swayed passionately, narrowly missing the heaving Tsar.

“Oh”

“Yes. To be honest, you don’t seem that happy either. Or drunk. Why are you still here?”

“Vincent Vega is my brother.”

“Oh”

We stood silently for a bit.

“So you’re…?”

“Yes”

“And this is your…”

“Yes”

“So you have to stay and watch your sister…?”

“Pretty much.

“Even though you…?”

“I’d leave, but she’d give me the ‘hard-done-by sister’ routine forever. Not worth it.”

“She actually looks pretty busy with Alfie. He made me come so he could dress up like a twat and swan around impressing girls without feeling like a loner. Let’s blow this popsicle stand while they’re not looking. I know a great Italian place?”

“Trains will have stopped by now. It’s gone 10.”

Michael Caine pulled car keys from his pocket;

“Hang on a minute, lads, I’ve got a great idea...”