senseless – Niles could hear the raging arguments on the set between Ralph and the writer in question in every line of dialogue – and you did, indeed, start to wonder. Some people, Niles thought, just didn’t know how to use Fictionals properly. “So,” he said, taking a sip of his beer, “you had some filial feeling towards him?”
“I never said that.”
Niles blinked, confused. “But surely you thought of him as a father figure –”
Bob shook his head. “No, no. Jesus, Niles, I know what filial means. I’ve already got a father – Rex Benton. Criminologist, gunned down by racketeers, left me his secret lab, yadda yadda. I mean, he wasn’t real , sure, and he’s dead, but the guy was still my dad. No, Malcolm was my creator – my main one, I mean. There’s a big difference. That’s what I think you don’t realise.” He got up off the bar stool, towering over Niles. “He was a nice guy, but the thing is that we never really got on well – not outside of work, anyhow. As soon as the show finished, we pretty much stopped talking to each other... listen, I really need to go...”
Niles blinked. “Why?”
“Because my bladder feels like it’s going to explode. Back in a second.”
“No, I mean –” Niles started, but Bob had walked away, towards the toilets. On the way, he stopped to take a look at a flyer for something called META MEET – probably a band. Obviously not in that much of a hurry to pee, Niles thought bitterly.
He sighed, taking another sip of his pint, then looked over at the redhead. She was still looking at him, her head tilted, and he found himself risking a smile and a nod. There was something about her that was very striking – something about her hair and her eyes – but he couldn’t quite work out what. It wasn’t that she was beautiful, exactly – beautiful women were ten-a-penny in LA, and in that context she was nothing particularly special – but there was something in the way she held herself, in the retro clothing. Something oddly distanced – artificial, even. Every movement she made looked like a performance.
He suddenly realised he was staring, and shifted his eyes to the news report playing out on the TV above her head. The words SHERLOCK HOLMES MURDER leapt out at him. He nodded to the barmaid. “I’m sorry, can you turn that up a little?”
“– coming to you live from the scene of the murder.” A reporter in a dark suit was speaking to the camera in front of a pawn shop of some kind, as police attended to a taped-off area behind him. “We’re not sure what Sherlock Holmes – and to avoid confusion, I’ll reiterate that this is the modern-day Sherlock Holmes, the one whose new show finished its first season on HDI just a few weeks ago – we’re not sure what he was doing on Camerford and Vine exactly. There is a Subway here, he might have wanted to eat something – what we do know is that at around seven-twenty he was brutally struck from behind by an unknown attacker who, ah, crushed his skull with repeated blows from some kind of heavy object –”
The reporter was interrupted by the woman at the news desk. “I’m just going to stop you there, Phil – do the police have any idea of the motive for the attack? Why kill the new Sherlock Holmes?”
“It’s hard to say, Joanne –” The reporter looked around, as if trying to seek someone out. “It’s possible that the attacker might not even have known he was Sherlock Holmes. Remember, this was a modern incarnation of the character, so unlike most of the more, ah, historical Fictionals, he would have been dressed quite normally...” He seemed to catch sight of someone off-camera, and made a quick beckoning gesture. “Actually, we have some people here with ideas on that – Sherlock Holmes and, uh... and Sherlock Holmes. If I could just ask you guys to step over here a moment –”
Niles blinked as two more Sherlock Holmeses wandered into shot – one tall and thin, with a
“I never said that.”
Niles blinked, confused. “But surely you thought of him as a father figure –”
Bob shook his head. “No, no. Jesus, Niles, I know what filial means. I’ve already got a father – Rex Benton. Criminologist, gunned down by racketeers, left me his secret lab, yadda yadda. I mean, he wasn’t real , sure, and he’s dead, but the guy was still my dad. No, Malcolm was my creator – my main one, I mean. There’s a big difference. That’s what I think you don’t realise.” He got up off the bar stool, towering over Niles. “He was a nice guy, but the thing is that we never really got on well – not outside of work, anyhow. As soon as the show finished, we pretty much stopped talking to each other... listen, I really need to go...”
Niles blinked. “Why?”
“Because my bladder feels like it’s going to explode. Back in a second.”
“No, I mean –” Niles started, but Bob had walked away, towards the toilets. On the way, he stopped to take a look at a flyer for something called META MEET – probably a band. Obviously not in that much of a hurry to pee, Niles thought bitterly.
He sighed, taking another sip of his pint, then looked over at the redhead. She was still looking at him, her head tilted, and he found himself risking a smile and a nod. There was something about her that was very striking – something about her hair and her eyes – but he couldn’t quite work out what. It wasn’t that she was beautiful, exactly – beautiful women were ten-a-penny in LA, and in that context she was nothing particularly special – but there was something in the way she held herself, in the retro clothing. Something oddly distanced – artificial, even. Every movement she made looked like a performance.
He suddenly realised he was staring, and shifted his eyes to the news report playing out on the TV above her head. The words SHERLOCK HOLMES MURDER leapt out at him. He nodded to the barmaid. “I’m sorry, can you turn that up a little?”
“– coming to you live from the scene of the murder.” A reporter in a dark suit was speaking to the camera in front of a pawn shop of some kind, as police attended to a taped-off area behind him. “We’re not sure what Sherlock Holmes – and to avoid confusion, I’ll reiterate that this is the modern-day Sherlock Holmes, the one whose new show finished its first season on HDI just a few weeks ago – we’re not sure what he was doing on Camerford and Vine exactly. There is a Subway here, he might have wanted to eat something – what we do know is that at around seven-twenty he was brutally struck from behind by an unknown attacker who, ah, crushed his skull with repeated blows from some kind of heavy object –”
The reporter was interrupted by the woman at the news desk. “I’m just going to stop you there, Phil – do the police have any idea of the motive for the attack? Why kill the new Sherlock Holmes?”
“It’s hard to say, Joanne –” The reporter looked around, as if trying to seek someone out. “It’s possible that the attacker might not even have known he was Sherlock Holmes. Remember, this was a modern incarnation of the character, so unlike most of the more, ah, historical Fictionals, he would have been dressed quite normally...” He seemed to catch sight of someone off-camera, and made a quick beckoning gesture. “Actually, we have some people here with ideas on that – Sherlock Holmes and, uh... and Sherlock Holmes. If I could just ask you guys to step over here a moment –”
Niles blinked as two more Sherlock Holmeses wandered into shot – one tall and thin, with a
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