Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 8: In Retrospect, The Signs Were There
Ross Macfarlane’s short story serial specially for Edinburgh’s festival season continues
In retrospect, the signs were there.
Literally.
Alex Bryant (cis they/them) was “performing” their latest collection of poetry: ‘A Man’s a Woman - for A’ That.’ - a gender-bending collection of The World of Robert Burns featuring revisions such as: ‘A Fond Miss’, ‘To a Louise’ and ‘Tamsin O’Shanter’.
The poster had a voluptuously female-looking Alex Bryant beckoning the potential audience and wearing a teeny-weeny kilt showing off a pair of his sheer-tighted (fabulous!) legs. Wood and detective Maddy Price had climbed the narrow staircase plastered with posters up to the venue itself and they were led into the tiny broom-cupboard-space that served as a dressing room. Wood smiled. No change from when - as a student - he had appeared as Duke Theseus/Oberon in a student production of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. He had played Theseus in a handlebar moustache and Oberon with a face painted like David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane. He spoke the ‘I know a bank where the wild thyme blows…’ speech to the accompaniment a twelve-string guitar playing the chords of Ziggy’s ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide’.
Wood smiled. Ahhh - the Seventies…
When performer Alex Bryant finally appeared from getting changed in the tiny loo, it was fair to say that he made an immediate impression. A well-preserved man in his 50s, he looked like a picture that had been cut vertically down the middle: the right half of his body dressed formally, with his head a G.I. Joe crew cut and his clothes a business suit. The left half, entirely female: longer hair, makeup, blouse, skirt, tights and shiny court shoes. He reminded Wood of a villain out of a Batman comic. ‘Two Face’?
When Bryant spoke, it was from each side of his mouth. Gruff from the masculine side, feminine-seductive from the other side. The male side barked: ‘I apologise in advance for the strangeness of my appearance - I’m getting into character. He held out his right hand: “Pleased to meet you - my name is Alex.” He then offered his left hand (as if to be kissed) and purred (from the left-hand side of his mouth): “And my name is Alexis. Charmed, I’m sure…’
Wood stood back and gave a little bow to acknowledge the introduction (and avoiding any desired contact/reaction/drama). Maddy Price initially held out her own hand, but withdrew when she realised that Bryant’s hand had been offered to be kissed. She gave an apologetic smile. Bryant gave a theatrical sigh: ‘Don’t worry, my dear - I’m used to it. Those thousand acts of micro-aggression that my people have suffered since the beginning.’
Wood felt a wave of weariness wash over him. He had prosecuted cases involving abuse of the trans community and had felt genuine sorrow and concern for the victims - and had secured convictions in every single case (with a number of Thank You cards to show for it). But there was something in the demeanour of Alex Bryant that cried ‘FAKE’ with every well-rehearsed wave of that manicured left hand.
Maddy Price forced a smile: ‘I’m sorry if you feel that…’
Bryant gave a practised shake of the head: ‘Again! More micro-aggression. “I’m sorry if ” is not an apology. “I’m sorry that ” is an apology.
Maddy had also had enough of the faux-flounce: ‘I’m sorry that your mum is dead, Mr Bryant…’
The performer shook a casual head: ‘I’m not. She was a horrible person. So messy – growing up, our home was always a pig-sty. What a short-sighted woman. Short-sighted - literally and figuratively. She was so myopic, she needed two pairs of glasses.’ He mocked his dead mother: ‘“Oh, Alex, Alex - get me my glasses so that I can see for myself what a terrible disappointment you are.” He was angry now. ‘A horrible person. A horrible mother.’ His manicured left hand pushed a hole into his left cheek: ‘She was never encouraging of my work. My calling. My life. In the avant-garde.’
Wood had had enough. An experienced cross-examiner. Maybe four or five questions would do it? ‘And here you are at the Edinburgh Fringe. How many other shows have you done?’
“This is my first.’
Wood raised his eyebrows: ‘How many people did you get last night?’
‘Business is slow everywhere…’
‘Forty? Fifty?’
Bryant frowned. Began to count on his fingers. ‘I think…um…um…six…. But two of them left after ten minutes.’
‘They didn’t like the show?’
‘They didn’t like the truth.’. He gave a fake sigh: ‘Well, they can listen to my podcast instead…’
Wood cut to the chase: ‘Mr Bryant, where were you on Wednesday morning at 8.30?’
A sudden malevolent smile crossed Bryant’s face: ‘Oh Emm Gee! Am I a suspect?’ I haven’t visited that old witch in months.’ He leaned in and placed his womanly left hand on Wood’s knee: ‘Are you going to handcuff me? I would like that…’. Wood gently removed the hand: ‘I’m not a police officer, Mr Bryant.’
‘Pity. I like a man in uniform.’
He turned his male face towards Maddy Price and growled in a low voice: ‘And what about you, doll? You are real cop?’ He nodded towards the little toilet: ‘Shall we go in there and you can ‘take down my particulars’…’
*****
Festival of Murder continues on Monday in: On What Charge?
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