Polish

The spectacular new Indicator/Powerhouse box set of Tod Slaughter films on Blu-ray has been landing on doormats this weekend. While you're all enjoying revisiting, or possibly even experiencing for the first time, the merciless machinations and theatrical thunderstorm terrors of the overripe 'Mr Murder' (as Dennis Meikle, Kip Xool, and Doug Young dubbed him in their excellent 2019 biography, with a little beyond-the-grave assistance from the man himself!), I hope you will also dig into the copious and entertaining extras contained across these discs. Speaking of extras, to celebrate the issue of this fine collection, I'm happy to add something of my own to the merry mayhem; so here's a short tale I originally penned in 2020, written for 'The Third BHF Book of Horror Stories'. It's a piece of fiction, and the tragic lead character Elsie is entirely my invention. However, much of what you will read here is rooted in local Derby late-20th century folklore - the cinema setting was a real place, it was owned by Michael Klinger, it did screen all of the films mentioned, and any 'supernatural' events are loosely based on reports from the period 1967-1975. As for the meaning - and pronunciation - of the title, I'll leave you to decide...

Darrell

Polish

"Fred's been here again!"

It all started with Michael Klinger. You'll know the name, and he's not the only recognisable figure in this accursed account. Flamboyant, shades-sporting, cigar-chomping head of Compton-Tekli - the people responsible for bringing Polanski to make movies in Kensington and Lindisfarne, and who had rocked the cinema establishment with such salacious sleaze as Naked as Nature Intended, That Kind of Girl and The Yellow Teddybears - with Klinger himself progressing to produce one of your favourite thrillers (Get Carter) and your guilty pleasure (the Confessions series).

Let's not spring too far ahead, though. This isn't Michael's story. Oh no. It's Elsie's.

Elsie Broadhurst was nineteen in 1967. What a time to be nineteen! If you knew the bright lights of London or frequented the trendy nightspots that were a distant train journey away, maybe. But Elsie had no money, no boyfriend, no mates, no family to speak of, and no job. She was just scraping by, living in a cold council dwelling in Normanton, Derby - a cramped, tiny two-up two-down with no carpets, no heating, no garden, and no indoor 'facilities' as her late mum Enid had called them. Those shiversome trips to the outside loo were made all the worse by the prospect of having to 'use' squares of old newspaper, which she cut up every weekend and hung on a rusty nail jutting from the once-whitewashed brick interior.

Suddenly, though, Miss Broadhurst's Sixties started swinging. She'd been seeking work for a while, ever since her post in the typing pool at Rolls Royce had been truncated due to 'poor timekeeping'. Not her fault, she'd tried to explain - those municipal double-deckers were never on schedule, certainly not at her nearest stop - but Mr Carruthers with the beads of sweat and the too-tight suit and the walrus moustache was having none of it, and she was out. Who wanted to work at Royces anyway? Everyone in Derby seemed channelled to head there or to International Combustion to earn a crust, but Elsie yearned for something more... more... well, more glitzy. And the Labour Exchange had just the ticket!

You've heard about the bloke who got chatting to another bloke in a Californian bar, haven't you?

Buy you a drink, stranger?

Sure.

What's your line of business?

Have you seen those Sabu movies, shot over at Universal?

Yeah, sure, buddy.

Well I work on those.

You do? Whadd'ya do?

Well, I have to go on set after the animal scenes, with a scoop and a bucket, and pick up all the elephant shit.

Jeez, pal! You do?

Yeah.

And how is it?

It's even worse than it sounds. No gloves, no protective gear, the smell is beyond belief, I get no respect from the actors, the crew, or Jumbo, I take home ten bucks a week and six of that goes straight out of my pocket and into my landlord's. Terrible.

Wow. Sorry to hear that. Hey, why don't you quit? Tell the studio to shove it.

No way! Me, leave showbiz?

Elsie hadn't heard that one before, but an old fella named Bert was relating it in a loud voice at lunchtime in the local, and she somehow identified with it. The sparkling new Superama cinema had opened on Colyear Street, right where the Scarsdale Arms used to be - Elsie had wandered down there on first night, because the Derby Evening Telegraph mentioned there might be stars present. She'd hardly seen anything - it was a dark February night and half of the town seemed to have pushed and shoved its way down Macklin Street to get a glimpse of the glamour. Some penguin-suited chap in a frilly shirt - Mister Klinger, did they announce him as? - was giving a big speech on the front steps, Jess Conrad was there, and that lovely Annette Andre off the telly, but you couldn't really see or hear much, and by seven o'clock all the invited guests and civic dignitaries had disappeared inside and the hoi polloi began to disperse.

Down at the Labour the following morning for her weekly appointment, Elsie had - to her amazement - been offered a job at Mister Klinger's Glittering Palace of Entertainment! They were looking for cleaners. Ok, it wasn't secretarial or anything with prospects, but it would mean a step-up from beans on toast every other night and a chance to get out for a drink of a Saturday. She might even get a few free tickets to see some of the films, you never know. So she said yes without even blinking. On day one, she'd heard that Bert - assistant commissionaire, he was - telling that joke about Sabu, and "that's me, that is" flitted across her mind momentarily. But she couldn't leave showbiz. Not now.

Elsie got stuck in at the Pennine, and found to her amazement that she really, really enjoyed cleaning! The task gave her a lot of satisfaction, and the new cinema lived up to its 'Superama' billing - it was a beautiful building inside and out, so modern and easy to maintain. Elsie occasionally found herself wondering how future generations might look back upon the era, and usually concluded that the Sixties would be seen as a golden period in English history. We'd won the World Cup, that Mr Wilson didn't seem to be as much of a stuffed-shirt as most boring politicians (not to mention sweaty Carruthers from Royces), and now even little Derby had one of the country's most with-it cinemas showing all the latest big releases. And she worked there!

An old spinster named Miss Clifton - and she insisted on the 'Miss' and the 'Clifton', should you deign to address her with a bothersome enquiry - was in charge of the cleaning duties. Not that she ever had a mop or tin of Brasso anywhere near her, although she did often wear the same flowery pink overall and elasticated cap as the staff. Staff? Well, Elsie and one other girl, a tad younger and slightly more flighty, Chrissie. Nice name, pleasant enough lass, though she popped out to meet her beau, Ray, most lunchtimes and so Elsie only ever saw her during working hours while they were dusting bannisters or cleaning the lavatories (nowhere near as bad as it sounds - as already mentioned, this was a beautiful new building and likely to be the shining jewel in Derby's crown for the next hundred years or more. And even the state of the loos was testament to that). They got on well, though, and always had a lively chat about Mick Jagger or Lulu or Tom Jones while keeping the place tidy and ready for the punters.

Chrissie and Elsie made a good team, and Miss Clifton seemed very impressed with their toil and effort, even though she would never reveal as much. So Elsie was surprised, one mid-morning, when a tearful Chrissie came running out of Miss Clifton's small office located in the corner of the upper floor.

"Chrissie love - what's up?"

"Oh, she won't believe me. Clifton. Won't have it"

"What?"

"I... I don't like to say. It sounds daft"

"Don't be daft yourself. Spit it out"

"I've just seen a ghost"

It was about time for a coffee break, give or take five minutes, and most of the cinema lobby and the stairway had been sorted by now, so Elsie took Chrissie down to the cafe area and ordered two cups of that new frothy Italian coffee and a Bar Six to share as a treat.

"What's all this about ghosts? What happened?"

Chrissie managed to respond, between sobs and sniffles.

"Well, I was down here doing the Ladies' lavs, squirting a bit of bleach down, and I heard the main door open. Thought it might be Cliffy checking up on me, so I popped my head out - and saw the door swing shut, but no-one was there. I called out - 'coo-ee' - and then checked all three cubicles, but no sign of anyone. While I was still inside the end stall, though - that door suddenly slammed shut, almost banged me on the nose. I went to pull the handle, but there was some kind of force stopping me"

"Are you sure about all this, Chriss?"

"I'd swear it on me mam's life. Tried and tried and tried to force the door open, but it was like summat was pushing against it, stopping me. Whatever it was, was in there with me"

"Crikey! What happened?"

"I haven't even got to the scary part yet. It spoke"

"What spoke?"

"I dunno. 'The ghost', is how I described it to Cliffy. She wouldn't hear any of it. "Silly little girl", she called me. "Get back to work, this instant". I know she can be a bit strict but she's never been so abrupt with me like that before. Just wouldn't listen"

"So what do you think it might have been? I've never seen a ghost before"

"It was summat creepy, that's for sure. And it spoke to me"

"What did it say?"

"Summat about polish"

Elsie attempted, not entirely successfully, to stifle a grin at this point.

"Polish?"

"Yeah. Sounds daft, dunnit?"

"What did they mean? Brasso or something?"

"It's... it's hard to say. I think it said summat else, like a whole sentence. But the only word I could make out was 'Polish'. Right in my left ear. "Der-Der-Der, POLISH, Der-Der-Der. Then I think he called me 'Dear' "

"He?"

"Oh yeah. It was definitely a bloke. Oh, I didn't mention - he finished off with a... well, I suppose you'd call it a chuckle. No, more like a deep cackle - very throaty. A bit like some of the old guys down the pub. Too much booze, too many fags"

"How do you feel now?"

"Ok. A bit better. The chance to have a sit down and tell someone about it has helped, thanks. Giz a bit of that chocolate - goes lovely with this frothy coffee"

And nothing more was said about the matter, for several months, though both girls sensed that Cliffy had taken a dim view and now regarded Chrissie with a bit more suspicion.

Elsie did get quite a few free tickets for Superama shows over the years - a little extra staff perk, shame she didn't really have anyone to go with, but then again she always liked seeing the pictures alone. Apart from one called Repulsion - it was in black and white, and the strange, beautiful but very lonely figure at the heart of the dark drama really struck a chord. That's me, that is. Elsie could hardly bring herself to watch the razor murders or those odd scenes with hands poking through the walls, but it was the fleeting shots of a dead, skinned rabbit, somehow simultaneously glistening with luminescence and rotting with putrescence that disturbed her the most. No, that isn't true. What disturbed her most was seeing Mister Klinger's name, prominent during the screen credits. Who was this man, the boss? Making films like that...

Luckily, The Sound of Music soon began what was to turn into a whopping six-month revival run, packing audiences in and helping to prop up the Superama finances a little. Elsie went to see it three times and even started singing along the third time, now she knew all the words even better than Julie Andrews did. She got a few funny looks from the people around her, but this was Derby. That always happens in Derby.

It was Elsie's turn to clean the Ladies' loos the following Tuesday. Mop, pail, Brasso, cleaning cloths in hand, hot soapy water at the ready, she got down to the task. Yes she was in showbiz. But it felt more like one of Mister Klinger's productions than the story of the Von Trapps today. Downbeat, grubby. Filthy. Polish. That was the answer. Polish, polish, get everything clean, all ready for the public.

"Polish"

It was a gruff voice, though with an air of culture amid the menace. A man's voice. Yet there was no man present. Elsie glanced towards the inner cubicle door, half expecting grasping, groping hands to come thrusting through from outside. Instead, she felt warm, fetid breath on her cheek. Something... someone... was close by.

"I'd like to polish you off, my dear"

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Mister Klinger didn't come up from his plush London abode to Derby all that often. I mean, would you? But sometimes his presence was essential. Miss Clifton's murder had stunned the entire town, not least Colyear Street and the residents of Macklin Street, and the guests staying at the Pennine Hotel, and the regular customers at Superama. Throat slashed with a keen-edged razor. Klinger's attendance at the request of the local police was a quick in and out job, showing his professional business face as required - hardly anyone in Derby was aware that he'd visited, and even fewer knew several months later that his long-term interest in the premises had waned. Most people in Derby knew who Michael Caine was, though, and they'd have been impressed to hear that he was meeting Klinger at a hotel in Duffield the following day for discussions about a gritty new thriller based on the novel 'Jack's Return Home'.

The actor Norman 'Tod' Slaughter was born in Newcastle upon Tyne in 1885, 85 years before author Ted Lewis saw publication of 'Jack's Return Home', also set in Newcastle. Tod became known as a 'barnstormer', a performer possessed of unique talent who didn't simply play to the gallery but to people several streets away! You may know him from the creaky but endearing vintage film versions of his stage hits 'Maria Marten: or, the Murder in the Red Barn', 'Crimes at the Dark House', 'The Face at the Window', 'Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street'. You may be familiar with his famous catchphrase. Tod Slaughter died at the Scarsdale Arms, on the corner of Derby's Colyear Street and Macklin Street, after a typically lusty and committed performance in 'Murder in the Red Barn' staged at the nearby Hippodrome Theatre in 1956. More than a decade later, an eerie presence was sensed every so often by staff of the Superama deluxe cinema, constructed on the site of the old pub. It's said that the presence vanished for good in the mid-70s when a fashionable discotheque replaced the ailing movie house. Whether Tod loathed the funk, or whether he had long craved such a mix of soulfulness and beats to die for, thus ultimately departing happy and satisfied, is not recorded by the region's paranormal investigators. In typical Derby manner, those who encountered the uncanny spectral figure haunting Colyear Street, unaware of Mr Slaughter's theatrical endeavours and screen infamy, dubbed the ghost 'Fred'.

Elsie Broadhurst died in Rampton Secure Facility, Nottinghamshire, in 2010, at the age of sixty-two, after four decades of incarceration and unsuccessful treatment.