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Midnight Quatermass 09. Two Questions.

It’s been a rough week. I’ve got very little done to be honest. I had a wisdom tooth extracted 13 days ago and it’s been a little complicated and distracting. I don’t sleep much at the best of times so I’ve been using the extra hours suddenly available to catch up with a lot of music. Tonight I think I’ve finally turned a corner and the little pile of prescribed opiates, ibuprofen and antibiotics seem to have made a dent in the pain.

This morning I also had to attend a tribunal because as a parent sometimes you have to fuck a motherfucker up.

So between that and the self-inflicted deadline of this newsletter I’ve been forced to actually do something rather than sit on the couch watching Korean movies and spitting blood at the cat.

I don’t think I’m going to go all Timothy Leary and drop out on you as the drugs finally kick in, but just in case I’ll write fast.

Feel free to read at your own speed.

~

“So how did you wind up meeting and working with John Carpenter?”

This came up again the other day and I guess its one of the most frequently asked questions I get so I’ll try and answer it here. A little like when people ask me how I became a writer (or at least a decently paid writer) this is not a road map. Every writer I know got here by a ridiculously different path and all the people I know that are friends with John each have their own unique tale of first meeting him. Again, like the way I ended up writing as a living, my own answer is the same and pretty simple:

Luck and stupidity.

I’d met John’s wife, Sandy, first via Twitter as she is a writer and producer in her own right and this was back in the glory days of social media where you could just start a friendship from scratch in less than 140 characters. We hit it off and the next time I was in LA we grabbed a coffee or two and that eventually lead to me pitching story ideas as that was my bread and butter in Hollywood at the time. Oddly we never really talked about John or his movies despite me being a huge fan.

One particular trip and things are winding down. I’m staying with my friend, Amy, and out of the blue she asked me if there was anything in LA I hadn’t got around to seeing yet. Quite a question for an idiot like me. I’d already visited the house that Laurel & Hardy had tried selling Christmas Trees to as well as the steps they carried up and chased that damn piano down. I’d stood in J. F. Sebastian's apartment building, enquired about renting Philip Marlowe‘s 1973 pad and visited the office of Angel Investigations (“We help the helpless”). What else was left?

Oh. I know.

Later that evening we pull up outside the actual house where Michael Myers did his thing in HALLOWEEN (1978). And because I’m stupid, unlike Amy, I immediately jump out of the car and start trespassing. She tries to warn me about Americans and guns, but I can’t hear her because in one hand my laptop is now blasting out the theme from the movie while I livestream myself and the house to Twitter. Ten minutes later and I’m still unshot and beaming and agreeing with Amy about just how fucking dumb I am and looking to buy a doughnut. And then I get a text from Sandy.

‘John wants to meet you tomorrow.’

The next day I’m being offered a slice of cake by the man who made ASSAULT ON PRECINCT fucking 13 (1976) and chatting casually about THE TROLLENBERG TERROR aka THE CRAWLING EYE (1958) and RIO BRAVO (1959). Luckily we bonded over our love of old movies and a few months later we started working together.

~

It’s a cliche (I think) that people ask writers, ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’, and I can see that that would be tedious if asked repeatedly, but I can honestly say no one has ever asked me that particular question. So I’ll answer it here, if only in regards to the following story.

This was going to be a short film. Maybe.

My partner’s grandfather, a remarkable old bastard, finally warmed to me after he saw me cooking. If the recipe called for two cloves of garlic then I’d use two bulbs. He would laugh and say, “There’s no such thing as too much garlic!”. Bill was a doctor so I took this as gospel and it’s one of those phrases that my brain never properly folded away. One evening, not long after Bill had passed, I saw a call for short scripts for a competition via Twitter and while I normally steered away from such things I liked the idea of entering one all the way over in Tasmania. It’s weird the things that can trigger a writing sprint, but knowing absolutely nothing about the place was like a red rag to a bull.

So I opened up Final Draft and pulled this thing together pretty quickly adding a little Bill and a little Barlow from SALEM’S LOT (1979) and a little of my old school friend, Barry, and a pinch of an old school not-so-friendly Quasi who once held me up against a wall and threatened to kill me.

I threw it together in much the same way I do these newsletters and hit SEND. A few weeks later I found out it had won the Best International Script award, which was nice, but even better had been singled out by Simon Barrett who had written one my all-time favourite movies, THE GUEST (2014). He thought it was “very clever and funny with a nice twist and a great ending”.

Hey, who am I to argue with the guy who wrote my favourite diner scene in a world awash with diner scenes? (Not gonna drop the link as it’s spoilery, but if you haven’t seen it try and go in cold. It’ll uppercut you.)

We started preproduction on this twice, but could never get everything lined up to shoot the damn thing so it sat in a folder with a bunch of other dusty tales until tonight.

Now it’s a short story and it’s all yours.

~

NO SUCH THING

We’re in Tasmania (because of reasons), but if you’re having trouble picturing the place just imagine an isolated rundown, single story building boasting a grandiose sign that reads: HONEST JOAN’S ANTIQUES

The barred windows provide home to a hodgepodge of cheap looking bric-a-brac summed up by a prominently displayed tin plaque: WE BUY JUNK! WE SELL ANTIQUES!

A dirty truck is pulling up right outside just as the sun sets. We watch a shifty young man in his twenties hop out and hammer hard at the store door, dislodging the CLOSED sign. This seemingly automatically triggers a voice from within.

“We’re closed.”

The man looks around quickly then turns back to the door and manages to shout in a whisper.

“It’s Bazza. Delivery.”

A face appears at the window coupled with meaty hands that re-centre the closed sign. This then is the proprietor, Honest Joan. She’s in her late fifties, heavy set from a life well lived and not particularly happy to see Bazza as she opens the door.

“I’m cooking. Swing by in the morning and--”

Bazza’s already shaking his head.

“Can’t be done. Gotta get the truck back tonight before--”

“Before they find out you borrowed it, right?” Joan squints past Bazza at the second figure in the truck. “Who’s your friend?”

Bazza turns and waves to the large bearded man squeezed in  behind the wheel. He stares straight ahead ignoring them.

“Quasi. My cousin. Needed someone strong for this one.”

Joan pushes her head back and lets out a sigh to the heavens.

“Fine. I’ll open up the back. Take it round before I ruin my supper.”

And with that she closes the door on Bazza’s victorious fist-pump.

~

The rear of the store is a stockroom slash kitchenette. A series of shelves sag under the weight of old broken typewriters, record players and the occasional cracked vase.

Joan stands next to a small hob, seasoning a large T-bone steak as Bazza and Quasi, 30 and huge, struggle inside with a large throw-sheet covered object the size of a wardrobe.

“Easy... easy... SON OF A BITCH!”

Bazza’s grip has slipped and whatever the hell it is they’re carrying briefly pins his foot to the floor before he manages to pull it loose and stagger backwards on one leg, cursing.

“May as well put your bit down too, love.” Joan observes as she flips the steak.

Quasi slowly lowers his end and takes in their surroundings. He’s easily impressed.

“Welcome to the underbelly of the Tasmanian antiques trade, love. I don’t know what young Barry there has told you about me, but lets get two things straight right off the bat.”

Joan lowers the light under the frying pan and turns to emphasise each of her points with a flick of her skillet.

“One, I don’t deal in stolen goods, ever, and two, if you’re a copper you’ve gotta tell me right now or it’s entrapment.”

Bazza meanwhile has got his shoe and sock off and is tenderly probing his big toe. His turn to sigh.

“Jesus, Joan, I said he was my cousin. He doesn’t say much, but he’s strong as a bloody ox.”

Joan quickly scrutinises the situation while taking a quick glance at her wrist-watch before breaking into a smile.

“Good qualities in this line of work I’d say. Well, show us what you’ve brought me. But I tell you now if its another bloody IKEA wardrobe--”

Bazza gives Quasi the nod to pull the sheet away.

Joan’s eyes go wide.

She drops the skillet to the floor.

It’s not another bloody IKEA wardrobe.

The cabinet is beautiful. Dark red with two ornate panel doors displaying exquisitely carved dragons and clouds. Golden hinges match a single large lock where the doors meet.

Joan speaks softly to herself as if in a trance.

“Red lacquered sandalwood. 17th century. Ming dynasty...”

She walks slowly around it, openly amazed.

“Where the hell did you find it?”

Bazza, bless him, is still more interested in his swollen toe.

“Docks. Unloading’s always half-arsed this time on a Friday. No one’ll miss anything til Monday.”

Joan is running a finger along the edge of the cabinet.

“Oh, they’ll miss this, Bazza. Mark my words. They’ll miss this.”

The penny finally drops and Bazza quickly pulls his sock back on with a grin.

“Worth something then is it?”

Joan realises she’s let her guard down and grimaces behind the cabinet. Her emerging face shows nothing but disinterest.

“Maybe. Tricky to shift though. Gotta find the right buyer and that’s not gonna be here in Hobart. Overseas I reckon. And it’s a big bastard and I’d have to store it.”

Bazza rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“And what about what’s inside it?”

Joan looks puzzled.

“Inside?”

“Why do you think we had such a hard time carrying the damn thing?”

“They’re usually empty…”

Joan checks the doors. Securely locked.

“Well, Quasi can get it open for you, but we wanted to show you before he had a go with the lump.”

On cue Quasi pulls a heavy-looking lump hammer out of his jacket pocket.

Joan almost screams.

“Put that away. Now.”

Bazza makes a motion for him to put the hammer back out of sight. Quasi shrugs and puts his lump away.

“Jesus wept. The bloody thing survives the ravages of time for 400 years only for you two numbskulls to take a bloody sledge hammer to it? Not on my watch!”

She goes to one of the shelves and grabs a leather pouch.

“Hold your hands out. Palms up.”

Bazza does as he’s told and she unfolds the leather strip across his hands revealing a set of small intricate tools.

“You’re a dark horse, Joan Bishop.”

“In my line of work you never know what kind of lock you’re going to come across. Now hush.”

She takes two small instruments and returns to the cabinet. With small, delicate movements of her wrist she begins to work on the ornate lock. Quasi and Bazza watch silently.

Joan leans in to place an ear to the lock and they all hear the final small CLICK.

She smiles broadly, carefully removing her tools. She pops them back in the pouch, taking her time to return it to the shelves before turning back to the cabinet.

“Now. Let’s see what you’ve brought me.”

She pulls open both doors and immediately steps back as loose black soil falls from the cabinet.

“If I’d known I was breaking my bloody back shifting dirt--”

“No, wait... there’s something else.”

All three lean forward as a shape slowly forms at the back of the cabinet as the soil falls away from it.

A large leathery object.

They lean in closer.

Behind them the steak sizzles away beginning to burn.

“What the fuck?” asks Bazza. It’s a fair question.

The thing at the back of the cabinet suddenly unfurls dark leathery wings as sharp talons emerge. A skull-like head rears up revealing bat-like ears. Red eyes pop open and it’s mouth begins to gape wide, revealing razor-sharp white teeth.

“Mary, mother of Joseph!” says Joan.

They all stagger backwards in shock, but Joan’s foot lands on the forgotten skillet, slick with oil. Both legs go out from under her as she falls backwards. Her flailing arms catch Bazza who stumbles, this time stubbing his sock-covered toe on the edge of the cabinet. As he howls in pain Joan’s head falls backwards and strikes the extended handle of the frying pan.

The pan is knocked upwards like a catapult.

The steak is propelled through the air and flips forwards, in seemingly slow-motion, towards the vampire-bastard’s screaming face.

It hits the monster smack in the chops.

Silencing it with both surprise and the indignity of it all.

The thing lowers it’s terrible eyes to look at the wedge of meat caught in its maw. Then back over Joan’s head to the chopping board where it sees the remains of many many garlic cloves and the dog-eared cook-book still propped open to page 22:

PAN FRIED GARLIC STEAK

The vampire’s head explodes.

The corpse falls forward into a heap.

No one breathes until Quasi breaks the silence.

“Grandpa Wilfred always said there’s no such thing as too much garlic.”

Joan, still sat on the floor, looks at him for a moment and then struggles to her feet.

“Joan, what--”

She steps over the dead vampire to check on the cabinet and lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thank Christ! It’s okay.”

“Joan, what--”

She turns around and holds Bazza’s face in her hands.

“Vampire, son. Can’t explain it, don’t want to. But you see some funny things in this trade. Best forget it. No harm done. The important thing is the cabinet isn’t damaged.”

He shakes his head at her refusal to catch up.

“No. I’m asking what about the others?”

Joan blinks.

“Others?”

Bazza nods slowly.

“We’ve got another three in the back of the truck.”

~

It takes them half an hour to carry all the cabinets into the back of the store. Bazza is sweating, complaining, cautious with his toe. Quasi keeps a large hand on the lump in his pocket.

Just in case.

But he probably won’t need it. Joan is whistling now as she hovers over the hob.

The three brand new steaks just about fit in the pan, but she’s dropped in twice as much garlic into the sizzling oil this time.

Just in case.

~

See you next week. Keep safe.

Mike