Deadly Burial. Jon Richter
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turned to face the young wrestler.
‘It’s sometimes used to kill vermin, or as a pesticide.’
‘But it can kill people?’
‘The drug induces severe involuntary muscle spasms. Victor would have died in terrible pain.’ The reply was uttered not by Mason, but by The Necromancer. His voice was a deep intonation, like the ringing of a funeral bell.
‘But… I thought Mr Valiant died of a heart attack?’
Mason’s expression remained cool and detached as she responded.
‘No, I’m afraid not. That’s why we’re here.’
‘So you think someone here might have… poisoned him?’ Wilshere demanded, rising to his feet in visible agitation.
Sigurdsson risked the wrath of his new partner by interjecting.
‘Unfortunately that’s a possibility we have to explore. We owe it to Mr Valiant and his family to understand exactly the circumstances surrounding his death. And you can rest assured that we will leave no stone unturned.’ He gave the boy a reassuring smile, and Wilshere nodded slowly before resuming his seat on the bench.
‘Okay,’ Mason continued, ‘that’s all the information we have at this stage. We will take your telephone numbers from Mr Penman here, and contact you if we’d like to bring you in for questioning. Thank you all once again for your co-operation.’
At that point she turned and stalked out of the room, leaving Mitchell and Sigurdsson to follow her back along the corridor and past Penman’s office. Sigurdsson could feel stares boring into his back as he walked away.
A very strange group of people. And not a group with whom to make enemies, he mused as he thought about some of the powerhouses he had seen that evening, like Tall Paul and Kevin Samson. He wondered how many enemies Victor Schultz had managed to make in his short time here.
The drive from Rumours to the Grand Hotel, where Sigurdsson would be staying, was mercifully short. Rain had begun to fall, and although it was not yet the predicted downpour, its pattering on the car’s windscreen and roof seemed deafening in the glacial silence. Sigurdsson was relieved when they arrived and he could clamber out of the vehicle. ‘I’ll pick you up at half-eight tomorrow,’ Mason barked at him as he headed towards the lodging’s entrance.
Like the island itself, the place was shabby and dilapidated; age and regret seemed to radiate from its very brickwork. A very thin middle-aged woman welcomed him, handing him an old-fashioned key before showing him to his room. She seemed as much a part of the place as the furniture – a suggestion of vibrancy and optimism long ago replaced by embitterment and dereliction. As though she was slowly wasting away, like the building itself.
A rickety lift led them upstairs to a surprisingly large and well-furnished room, thoughtfully stocked with the little extras that many chain hotels no longer provide: kettle, teabags, little sachets of milk, complimentary shampoo and conditioner, a tiny sewing kit, extra blankets. But Sigurdsson had no time to make use of any of these – the energy had suddenly seeped out of his body, and he had to struggle just to clamber into the sagging bed. He fell asleep immediately, tortured as always by premonitions of his own death.
Excerpt II: The End Of The End
Ten years ago it was 1998, and the Monday Night Wars were really heating up. The biggest two wrestling companies in the world were directly competing for TV ratings – it was a real boom period for our business, and stars like Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock were becoming household names. Both companies were resorting to more and more controversial storylines to try to win the ratings battle, and the kid-friendly, all-American, comic-book product of the eighties had been replaced with something darker and more adult.
The SWA was always an also-ran, but we’d been gaining a lot of publicity for some of our edgier stuff, and I think Lance was angling for a big money buy-out by one of the big two. We’d had in-ring crucifixions; a story where one of our guys had put another’s mom in the hospital; we even had one wrestler who was supposed to be an insane dentist who was pulling people’s teeth out at the end of every match, with fake blood spraying everywhere. It was getting pretty out of hand. I’d been loyal to the place for over a decade, I’d been their champion twice, but Lance thought my character was getting stale, that people didn’t want a Kiss rip-off any more, that I needed to ‘add more layers’.
I think that got to me the most. The idea that I was outdated, past my prime, no longer relevant. The fact that he also told me I was getting fat and out of shape and that people were laughing at me honestly didn’t really bother me. He was right. I was a fucking mess. I was popping about thirty Vicodin a day by that point. I would run out long before I could get a doctor to write me a new prescription, so I was having to buy them from drug dealers. If I dropped one of them I would get down on my hands and knees and root around for it on the floor. And I was chasing them all with beer, or whiskey, or vodka, so most of the time I was pretty out of it. Some of the other guys had tried to persuade me to go into rehab, but I honestly thought I had it all under control, and Lance couldn’t fuck with me too much because I was still one of his biggest draws, because the others all kept getting poached by the bigger promotions. It was all fairly clear to me at the time. I was in a ton of pain because of my job, so I was taking the pills to help deal with it. The booze was because of my wife stressing me out, or my kids, or my divorce, or my second wife. You see what I mean – it was always some external factor, never my fault, or at least that’s what I believed back then. And anyways, I was special, I was Vic fucking Valiant, and yeah everyone else had to be sober for the show, but there were special rules for people like me, the real stars.
We were doing this stupid story where I’d been paralysed by the Brutaliser, Butch Buzzcut, and I was supposed to get pushed out to the ring in a wheelchair, and do this big speech where I broke down about my deteriorating mental state and how he’d ruined my life and how I was going to recover and make this big comeback and kick his ass. Maybe it was a bit too close to home, or maybe I just didn’t believe in the stupid bullshit story that the writers had cooked up. Vince Russell was the head script writer, and I never did like him, he always had it in for me like I was some big star and he wanted to bring me down a peg or two. That was probably all in my head too, or maybe I was just too fucking wasted to think straight, but anyways I decided I was just going to ruin it all.
It wasn’t planned or anything, I wasn’t thinking days beforehand that I was going to turn up to work stinking drunk and throw my career away. It just sort of happened. Marv and I were in some bar sinking shots about half an hour before showtime. I vaguely remember arriving at the MECCA Arena and Lance screaming at me and making me drink coffee before we went out, like that was going to help. He should never have let me go out there at all. But out I went, wheeled out like an invalid, which I pretty much was at that point. Then they gave me a mic, and I just let rip.
Some star. I finally made myself watch the video, a few months back. Up until then I think I’d always thought there was still something honourable in it, like I was trying to stick it to the man, man. The reality was just this overweight wrestler with his makeup smeared all over his face who was swearing and crying in front of a load of strangers. I told them how hard it was being famous, and how no one cared about the real Vic Valiant, the man under the makeup, and how even though I had tons of money and women my life was oh so hard and my kids didn’t speak to me no more and it was all everybody else’s fault.
When I stood up, even though I was supposed to be crippled, the crowd just started laughing, and throwing beer cans and popcorn and other trash at me, and so I turned on them too. I’d pissed myself by that point and you could see this big stain on the front of my silver tights, and I’m there ranting and calling them all fucking losers and assholes and then I fall back into the wheelchair and it tips over backwards and Chuck, who was supposed