Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

Quiet Please — We’re Rolling

A naked man on a tropical beach was chasing a small white dog that had just run off with his swimming trunks. The scene was shot from the rear. Once in a while, a bare bum is acceptable for early evening viewing.

Albert Challis, in his bedsit in Reading, reached for another can of lager, his eyes never leaving the screen of the small portable TV. “Jesus! I don’t know how they get away with this. It’s bloody obvious most of it is faked.”

His wife Karen continued mending the jumper on her lap, oblivious to Albert’s ranting. She didn’t enjoy the programme, and she had a long evening in prospect, repairing clothes. There was no escape from the TV when you lived in a bedsit.

Albert continued, after a belch, “When this show first went out, I reckon most of the clips were genuine. Then they started offering a few hundred quid for new material. Stands to reason people are going to fake the incidents. They set up someone making a fool of himself, roll the camera and cash in.”

He watched in cynical expectation as a grey man in a grey room began painting a door frame. A second later the door opened and the hapless decorator was dowsed in red.

“Well, knock me down with a feather,” said Albert with heavy sarcasm. “I never saw that one coming. It’s like I say, Karen. The whole thing’s a set-up.”

Karen folded the jumper and placed it on her ‘done’ pile, then turned her attention to a black woollen sock. It was one of Albert’s, the survivor of a pair he had worn so proudly on their wedding day, eighteen years ago. Now it contained as much darning wool as original thread, but Albert insisted it wasn’t ready for the rag-box yet.

On the screen a well-dressed woman in a stable yard started walking beside the half-doors where the horses were kept.

“Ay up!” said Albert. “Watch what happens to her big straw hat. There it goes!”

Sure enough, a horse’s head appeared suddenly from one of the stables and got the woman’s hat between its teeth and whipped it off her head and out of reach.

“I bet they rehearsed it three times.”

Karen had looked up and watched the clip, prompted by Albert’s “Ay up!”

“If they did,” she said, “they must have got through more than one hat. It’s very destructive. I’ve never had a hat as nice as that.”

Albert said, “It seems to me all you have to do is buy one of these bloody camcorders and the money’s yours. They’ll take anything, slipping on some ice, falling into a pond, being hit on the head by a football, any bloody thing. You could make one a week, I reckon. Shoot it on Saturday, send it to the television people on the Monday, and, bingo, the cheque arrives on Wednesday. We could live like kings on that sort of money, Karen.”

Karen looked down at her darning again. “Well why not, if it’s so simple? Why not get one of those cameras and try it?”

Albert had no immediate answer. He placed his can on the aged carpet and folded both arms across his ample beer-belly. The best he could manage in response was a smile that was meant to be superior.

Karen said, “You’re all mouth and trousers, Albert Challis. You say it’s all a con, but you don’t have the bottle to prove it.”

Albert found his voice. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly, my sweet,” he said. “You did just suggest buying one of those camcorders, didn’t you? When was the last time you looked in the bloody shop window? Have you any idea of the price of those things?”

Karen shook her head. They didn’t have the sort of money most other people seemed to have. Nothing in their household had been bought new. They got it all secondhand. Whatever broke, burst or wore out had to be repaired.

“They cost a bloody fortune, woman,” Albert ranted. “Hundreds of pounds. Can you imagine that, a little piece of black plastic costing five hundred quid?”

Karen shook her head, returning to the rhythmical comfort of needle and thread.

Albert finished his lager, watching a fat woman being chased across a field by a goat while the studio audience guffawed. “The point is,” he said in support of his apparent caution, “I’m not prepared to splash out five hundred on a camcorder when we only stand to make two hundred and fifty back.”

“But you just said you could make one a week and we could live like royalty,” Karen reminded him. “Soon as I call your bluff, you back off.”

Albert shot her a filthy look. “Don’t you provoke me.”

“It’s not as if we haven’t got the money,” Karen persisted. “We must have more than five hundred in the bank.”

“Never you mind what we have or haven’t got in the bank, Karen.”

“I do mind,” she said. “It’s mine as much as yours. I work to keep us going, same as you. The cooking, the cleaning, the mending. I think we ought to have a joint account and then I’d know how much we’re worth.”

“You’d spend it in a week,” said Albert. “Look, if anything happened to me, God forbid, that money goes to you, right? All my worldly goods. Satisfied?”

The programme was coming to an end. The grinning host was saying, “...be sure to keep your home-movie clips coming in, because you could be the winner of our clip of the series prize, and that’s worth a cool ten thousand pounds.”

“Ten grand!” said Albert, deeply impressed. “Now that might be worth lashing out for. The clip of the series. We’d have to think of something really brilliant. Get me a pen and paper, quick. I’m taking down the address.”

In bed, Karen was trying her best to sleep, drawing the thin blankets tightly around her, thinking of continental quilts, double glazing and central heating. She wondered how much they really had in that bank account.

Albert’s voice broke into her fantasies. “It would have to be a really great caper. Something completely fantastic. They wouldn’t give the money for one more silly kid messing about with a hosepipe.”

Karen said, “Are you still on about that programme?”

“I’m on about ten grand.”

There was an interval of silence before Karen spoke again.

“It would have to be believable.”

“What do you mean?”

She raised herself onto her elbows, any hope of sleep impossible as long as Albert was preoccupied with the big prize. “Well,” she said, “when you see most of those clips, the situation is just unreal. You couldn’t believe in it.”

The bed creaked and Albert rolled towards her. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“Tonight, for instance,” Karen said. “The chap who ended covered in paint. You yourself said it was probably all set up for the programme. I mean, who would want to film a door being painted?”

Albert clutched her arm. “You’ve hit the nail on the head. It’s hardly a prime home-movie subject.”

Karen explained, “That’s why the ones they show at weddings work so well. You know, when they can’t get the knife into the cake and they knock it off the stand. Or a breeze gets under the bride’s gown and lifts it up to her waist. Stuff like that. People accept them as genuine accidents because a wedding is the place where you take your video camera.”

“But you can’t mess up someone’s wedding just to get a laugh on video,” Albert said, misreading the plot.

“That’s just an example,” said Karen. “All I’m telling you is that to win the big prize you’d have to find a situation when it would be perfectly normal to be filming. Then it looks genuine, and it’s funnier, too.”

Albert pondered the matter further. “Weddings, kiddies’ parties, barbecues, village fetes. Where else do people take these little cameras?”

“Holidays,” Karen dreamily replied. She yawned. “Night, night.” She turned over, trying to find a comfortable spot between the thinly-covered mattress springs.

Albert’s eyes were gleaming in the dark. He reached out and fondled Karen’s rump. “You’re brilliant.”

“Shove off,” she said, pushing his hand away.

“What I have, I hold,” said Albert, replacing it. “You and I are going to take a holiday, my sweet. A caravan holiday.”

“A caravan, did you say?”

“And I know where to get one. That bloke across the street who keeps it on his drive.”

“Mr Tinker? He wouldn’t let us borrow his caravan.”

“I bet he will. He doesn’t use it himself. Since the divorce, it’s been stuck on that drive for two years. He’ll be glad to be rid of it.”

“Rid of it?” said Karen, failing to understand.

“We’ll be doing him a favour,” said Albert. “What does he want with a caravan? He’ll make a few quid on the insurance. I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”

When Albert returned from his chat with Joe Tinker, he was practically turning cartwheels of joy. “He couldn’t be more helpful,” he told Karen. “Like I said, he’s got no more use for the caravan. We’re welcome to do just whatever we like with it.”

“Take it on holiday?”

“We’re doing him a favour,” said Albert. “He won’t have to park his car on the street any more. But that isn’t all. I told him what this is about.”

“You told him?” said Karen, horrified.

“Everything. To get his co-operation,” said Albert. “He’s seen the programme and he thinks the same as us. He says this is one hell of a stunt and he reckons we can’t fail to win the big money. I’ve told him I’ll give him a couple of hundred if we do. Fair enough, eh?”

“I suppose so,” said Karen, “but can we trust him to stay quiet about it?”

“That’s why he gets a cut. He’s part of the conspiracy, then,” said Albert. “But I haven’t told you the best part. Joe Tinker also owns a camcorder. Yes, I’m not kidding. He’s going to lend it to us for nothing. For nothing, Karen! What’s more, he’ll show you how to use it.”

“Me?” said Karen.

“Unless you want to be making an idiot of yourself on television, you’ve got to be holding the camera, pointing it at me. And it’s got to be done properly. Good focusing. No shaking. You only get one take, remember. It’s got to be right first time, and it’s got to be up to professional standard to win the ten grand.”

She said nervously, “I don’t think I can do it, Albert.”

“Course you can! They’re simple, these camcorders, dead simple. I told Joe you’ll be over for some instruction this afternoon. He’s a good bloke, and he fancies you anyway. He’ll give you all the confidence in the world.”

“What is this stunt, anyway?” said Karen.

“We take a holiday, like I said, towing Joe’s caravan.”

“Where to?”

“Some remote part of Wales. I’m going to study the map this afternoon while you’re learning to be an ace camerawoman. If you get your certificate of competence we can drive down there next Saturday for the shoot.”

“The shoot?”

“Of the film,” Albert explained. “Get with it, love. We’re shooting a film, remember? Like I say, we hook the caravan to my old Cortina. Joe’s lending me his towbar as well. He’s great.”

“Is it strong enough?”

“The towbar?”

“Your car. Those caravans are big things to tow.”

“No problem,” said Albert. “We can take it gently, just tootling along. We’ll be stopping every few miles filming bits and pieces of our journey.”

“What for?”

Albert sighed. Everything always had to be explained to Karen. “Because it has to look like we’re on a proper holiday. We need about twenty minutes of boring holiday stuff to divert suspicion from our real intentions. Can’t you see how phony it will look if the only thing on the tape is the caravan going over the cliff?”

Karen gasped in horror. “Over the cliff? Mr Tinker’s caravan?”

Albert smiled. “With only the seagulls as witnesses — apart from the camera and fifteen million viewers.”

“It’s insane!”

“That’s why it’s going to win ten grand. What a spectacle! I’m going to look at the Ordnance Survey and find a bit of the coast with a gentle slope leading to the cliff edge, and a good long drop to the rocks below. We park the caravan thirty yards up the slope. That way I have time to get out.”

“Get out?”

“Before it rolls over. It’s going to be sensational. You’ll be outside filming the scenery from the cliff top. You pan around to me at the window of the caravan. I’ll hold up a bit of metal and say, ‘What’s this, love?’ The caravan will start to move. I’ll shout something the TV people will have to bleep out — the audience always loves that — then I leap from the door holding the broken hand-brake of the caravan, to watch the thing roll over the edge.” He laughed out loud and raised his arms like a boxer who has just heard his opponent counted out.

“It’s so dangerous,” said Karen. “I mean, it’s a tremendous idea, but...”

Albert brushed the objection aside. “No risk at all,” he said. “If you’re nervous, we’ll give the van fifty yards to roll, instead of thirty.”

In the week that followed, Albert planned the “shoot,” as he called it, with military precision. Having selected several possible clifftop sites, he drove down to Wales to make a decision on the most suitable. He found one on the Pembrokeshire Coast that was wonderfully remote, with a grassy slope leading straight to a two-hundred foot drop. In his spare moments he worked diligently on the script that he and Karen would have to follow, complete with stage directions.

“We only get one shot at this,” he told her when he returned from scouting the locations. “It has to go like clockwork, while appearing totally unplanned. How are the lessons going?”

“All right,” Karen said.

“You’ve been clocking in with Joe, have you, while I was away?”

She nodded.

“Mastered it yet?”

“I hope so.”

“Hope isn’t good enough,” said Albert. “You’ve got to be certain. Are you going over to see him again?”

“This afternoon.”

“Excellent. He’s a good bloke, isn’t he?”

“He’s very good,” said Karen, and she meant it.

“While you’re in there, I’m going to do a bit of work on the old caravan. It could do with a clean. The smarter it looks, the better the effect.”

So whilst Albert sponged and polished, preparing the caravan for its TV debut, Karen had more tuition from Joe. Really, as Joe explained, the camcorder was a simple machine that almost anyone could use, but if the attractive Mrs Challis wanted more practice with the thing, he was only too pleased to show her how to hold it. No woman had been inside his house since his wife had divorced him two years ago.

For her part, Karen was not displeased to feel Joe’s arm around her shoulders steadying the camera from time to time. He was a most considerate man, and not bad looking, either. And he had double-glazing and central heating. “It seems a real shame that you’re going to lose your caravan through this,” she said.

“Not at all,” said Joe cheerfully. “It’s had its day. I’ve no more use for it. Besides, it’s not in very good condition any more. The door has warped in the damp. You have to give it quite a tug to open it. Better mention that to Albert. A little grease around the sides will ease it.”

Extremely early Saturday morning, when it was still dark and nobody was about, Albert went over to Joe’s to attach the towbar. He’d arranged to collect Karen at the last minute. She sat in their front room with the lights off, mentally revising the instructions for the video camera. She had collected the camera from Joe after one last session of instruction the previous afternoon. Joe had been a tower of strength.

After what seemed like a couple of hours, Albert drew the caravan from its mooring and swung the car across the street. Karen climbed in, camcorder in hand.

“You’ll do no filming in this light,” Albert said tensely. “I don’t know what you’re holding it for. Chuck it on the back seat.”

“It doesn’t belong to us,” said Karen.

Instead of “tootling along” as he’d promised, Albert drove fast for the first two hours. Two or three times Karen said she was nervous about the car, but he didn’t slow down. Near the Welsh border, as dawn came up, she suggested a stop for filming. Albert said there would be opportunities later.

She reminded him of the reason for having some footage of other places as well as the clifftop, and he relented and let her film some sheep sheltering at the side of the road.

Albert looked at his watch. “I want to get on,” he told her. “The light isn’t so good in the middle of the day. It gets too bright.”

“Joe said it doesn’t matter what time of day you film with one of these.”

“Will you shut up about Joe?”

As they neared their destination, Albert made a couple of short stops to consult the map. The area was very remote.

About ten in the morning, the cliff came up on their left. Albert steered the car off the road and towed the caravan across the turf to the position he’d selected. He secured the brake on the caravan, uncoupled the car and drove back to a point near the road. They had a good view for miles around and no one was in sight.

“Smell it, love?” said Albert.

“The sea air?” said Karen.

“Money, stupid. Ten bloody grand.”

“It’s a good thing there’s no wind,” Karen pointed out as they walked towards the caravan. “This should be good for sound.”

“You talk like you work for the BBC.”

Albert walked towards the cliff edge and peered over. “Perfect,” he enthused. “The tide’s in. There’s a thumping great drop, and it’s going to get smashed to little bits and washed away and turn to driftwood.” He came back to where Karen was standing with the camcorder. “Want to run over your lines?”

“It’s all right,” she said nervously. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Make sure it’s working first.”

She switched on and checked the battery level for the umpteenth time. She took some footage of Albert standing with his back to the cliff edge and they played it back through the eyepiece to check. The clarity was wonderful.

Albert seemed to be getting his confidence back. “Isn’t it just like I promised? The gentle grassy slope, the impressive visual panorama, the sheer bloody suspense of the thing? And just look at that caravan!”

“Like ten thousand grand,” she said, admiring the polished chrome and freshly-cleaned surface.

Albert walked her to her position. “Now you do know what to do?”

She nodded.

“And what to say?”

“Mm.”

“Let’s get on with it, then.”

She watched him walk to the caravan. He had some difficulty opening the door, but he managed it at the second attempt, climbed inside, slammed the door and took his place by the window, opening it wide.

“Can you hear me all right?”

“Perfectly, Albert.”

“Are we ready to roll, then?”

“Yes.”

“Remember what I said. Establish the shot with a view of that cliff to your left, showing just how big the drop is, then pan around slowly along the cliff edge and across the grass to me. Right?”

“Right.”

“Start the camcorder now. Action.”

Heart thumping, Karen pressed the red record button, swinging slowly around to encompass the impressive-looking cliff. She didn’t care any more that her hands were shaking. She watched the grass in the lens, then the white gleam of the caravan, then Albert at the window.

True to his “script,” he held up a piece of metal. The caravan lurched on its mooring feet and for a second, Karen feared that it wasn’t going to move.

Albert spoke his words: “Do you know what this is, love?”

The caravan began to roll.

“It’s the brake, Albert! What is it doing in your hand? Get out — the van’s moving!”

“Bloody hell!”

She saw Albert move fast towards the door and waited for the panic to set in for real.

Thirty yards to the edge.

She screamed his name as loudly as possible, mainly to obscure his shouting. She had stopped filming, of course.

The caravan moved sedately on its way.

He was desperately trying to open the jammed caravan door. How many times had Joe stressed to her that she should tell Albert to grease the edges? Not once had she considered passing on the information. She wanted Albert to die.

Twenty yards to go, and it was picking up a little speed.

The worst thing would be finding a phone in this God-forsaken place. The closest must be miles away. Everything else would be simple. A few tears for the police. Then hand over the tape. “It must be all on here, officer. It’s been the most awful accident.”

Karen continued to scream, thinking of her future with Joe Tinker with his double-glazing and his central heating and his modern fully-sprung bed with the continental quilt.

Ten yards.

Five.

A moment before the caravan disappeared from view, the caravan door burst open, Albert flung himself out and hit the turf a yard from the edge. He had survived.

Karen was devastated. She flung down the camcorder and stamped her foot.

Fortunately, Albert was too shaken to notice. He still lay face down, panting.

Eventually she drew herself together and went to him. She could probably have pushed him over, he was so near, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. That would be too direct, a hands-on murder.

Albert said, “That was a bloody near thing.”

“What went wrong?” said Karen as innocently as she was able.

“Couldn’t get the bloody door open. I knew it was difficult. Found that out when I was cleaning the thing. Put some grease on it yesterday, but it wasn’t enough, obviously. Ended up kicking my way out.” He got to his feet. “Look at me. I’m shaking like a leaf.”

Karen said, “Let’s get you to the car.”

“Where’s the camera?”

“Oh, I dropped it over there,” she said. “I’m not sure how much I got. God, I was frightened!”

“Doesn’t matter, love,” said Albert with unusual tenderness. “We can’t use the video anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Evidence. If they ever find anything at the bottom of that cliff and come knocking on our door, the last thing we want is a bloody video of the event.”

She frowned. “They could only find the caravan.”

Albert was shaking his head. “There’s something else. With luck, the sea will take care of it.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Bloody Joe Tinker. When I went in to see him this morning, he said he wanted a half-share of the profits. Five grand! You know me, love. Mean as hell. I lashed out. Hit the bleeder against the kitchen stove and cracked his skull. Killed him outright. What could I do but shove him into his own bloody caravan and bring him down here for disposal?”

“Oh, God, no!” wailed Karen.

“Don’t shed tears over him,” said Albert. “Didn’t you ever notice he fancied you something rotten, the jerk? Like I told you the other night, what I have, I hold.”