In Which Tony Learns of A Conspiracy

It had been a long day. As Tony Stamp wended his way back towards the dressing room down the dark corridors of power, he contemplated the latest indignity visited upon his character by those shadowy figures, The Producers. Something to do with a ‘new dynamic’. He’d ‘new dynamic’ them, a little Grecian 2000, and he’d be good as new, well as good as 1989 at any rate.

Nothing quite lived up to driving the area car, and hanging around all day to cook under those lights, especially if he was the one to deliver the crowd pleasing one liner. The one that stuck in the fans’ heads, and still had them chortling over their cornflakes the next morning.

He smiled to himself sadly. His crowd pleasing one liners were getting thinner on the ground. Sometimes he’d go for weeks without one. Oh well, at least he hadn’t been put out to pasture like his old mate, Reg. Resigning because Emma died?? Oh for heaven’s sake... Reg hardly knew the girl. Tony shook his head. Writers... or Producers... as bad as each other!

Damn, it was hot, he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and rubbed a weary hand over the back of his neck; a few more feet, and then dressing room and Tony would be back in the box, quick wipe over to remove the make up, a change of clothes, and he would go from lonely Tony, to happily married Graham again.

He was just drawing level with the door to the dressing room when he noticed another door opposite. A door he couldn’t remember seeing before, and it was open. Perhaps that’s the legendary broom cupboard. Tony hesitated, on one hand, get changed and get out of here, go home to his, Graham’s, family... or have a little recce?

Curiosity got the better of him, and he crossed the hall, put his hand on the doorknob; and hesitated. You couldn’t be too careful with the broom cupboard. Kezia had inadvertently wandered in there once and had been lost for six weeks, before a thoughtful writer had found her and guided her back out. Nonsense. Tony took a firm grip on the handle and pushed the door open.

It was very dark and gloomy inside. And full of brooms. Exactly what you’d expect from a broom cupboard. Tony was pleased that his fears had not got the better of him. Thespians were superstitious enough without fearing a broom cupboard... all that malarkey about The Scottish Play... oooh creepy!

He turned away, getting ready to leave, when something caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, in the darkest, gloomiest corner of the cupboard... he turned his head. A figure. All stiff and dusty, stuck in the corner of the cupboard. Someone was in there with him.

This was really giving him the willies now, but Tony moved closer. He couldn’t make out the features in the gloom. Pushing aside the brooms, which somehow seemed to have multiplied in number, he moved closer to the figure. Probably just a shop window dummy he thought, although why he should have thought that he wasn’t too sure, and shop window dummies can be dangerous... remembering a shopping centre invaded by the things... true that wasn’t Canley Market, that was somewhere called Cardiff and had something to do with a Police Box, but spotty thugs are a little like shop window dummies, he reassured himself. He was Tony Stamp... scourge of spotty thugs... he might not have the legs, but he had the wheels. He steeled himself and peered closer at the dummy.

Reg Hollis’ beady eyes peered back. Or they would have... except they were glass.

Tony felt sick. “Reg... mate... what have they done to you?”

Reg’s voice was thin and sounded very far away, “They stuffed me... it’s a conspiracy... Tony... mate... I came to warn you.”

“Warn me?” This was a little surreal, even for Tony having Graham’s experience of time lords and warps and such at his fingertips.

“It’s a conspiracy... Tony... all characters over forty...”

“Nonsense, mate... it’s the stuffing process” Tony tried to reassure his old chum, “the sawdust hasn’t settled... you’ll feel better when things have settled.”

“No mate... it’s true... it’s on the Exec Producer’s desk... facts, figures... costs...”

Tony couldn’t believe he was hearing this, “No... Reg mate, that was a storyline where Gina Gold looked at some spreadsheets on Heaton’s desk. You’re confused.”

“I wish I was. You try being taxidermified, it plays havoc with your sinuses. I had to bend the space time continuum to get here. To warn you, Tony.”

“Reg. This is South London, we make The Bill here, not Star Trek!” Tony patiently explained. Clearly taxidermy was not a good thing in Reg’s case.

“I know. But all that. It’s real. Space, time... all that stuff.” Reg’s voice was getting thinner... as though he was fading away... “I don’t have much time left. Tony... you have to warn them.”

“Warn who?” Tony was now very confused.

“All the characters over forty. Before they wind up stuffed. And a distant fading memory. Only you can do it Tony...”

“But...”

“Save them, Tony... Only you can do it....” Reg’s voice faded away.

Tony was left standing in the dark and dusty cupboard. Wondering if he’d just dreamed it all.