An Amateur Corpse

by Simon Brett

  There was a long pause. Mr. Farrow collected together his papers and put them in his briefcase. Had he left the room in silence, it could have been a dignified exit. But he let it down by trying an exit line. ‘More powerful men than you, Mr. Mecken, have tried to beat me and failed.’

  This delivered in his nasal London whine was suddenly unaccountably funny, and Charles and Hugo both erupted with laughter almost before the door had closed behind the aggrieved Brand Manager.

  Hugo’s laughter was a short, nervous burst and when it had passed, he looked ghastly, drained of colour. ‘Oh shit I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll have to go after him and apologize. I wasn’t thinking – or I was thinking about other things. I just snapped.’

  He rose to leave: Suddenly Charles was worried about him, he couldn’t forget their drunken conversation on the Saturday night. The outburst against Farrow had sounded like an overdue expression of home truths, but now he wondered if it had been a more fundamental breakdown of control.

  Hugo stood dazed for a moment and then started for the door. ‘I’ve booked a table at the Trattoria for twelve-thirty. See you there. I’ll get along as soon as I can.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHARLES WALKED ROUND Soho until it was time to go to the restaurant for another expense account meal. He gave Hugo’s name and was shown to a table where there were already two young men.

  One he recognized as Ian Compton, a bright copy-writer of about twenty-four who was under Hugo at Mills Brown Mazzini. He was wearing a double-breasted gangster-striped suit over a pale blue T-shirt. Around his neck hung a selection of leather thongs, one for a biro, one for a packet of Gauloise, one for a Cricket lighter and others whose function was not immediately apparent. His lapels bristled with badges, gollies, teddy bears, a spilling tomato ketchup bottle and similar trendy kitsch.

  The other was more soberly dressed in a dark jacket and open-necked brown shirt. ‘Diccon, this is Charles Paris. I told you about him.’ Ian’s tone implied that what he had told hadn’t been wholly enthusiastic. ‘This is Diccon Hudson.’

  ‘Hello.’ The name rang a bell. Charles had heard Diccon spoken of as one of the few who made a very good living exclusively from voice-over work.

  Diccon looked at him appraisingly. Not rudely, just with great interest, sizing him up professionally. ‘So you’re the guy who got the Mr. Bland campaign.’

  “Fraid so,’ said Charles inanely.

  ‘Oh, don’t apologize. You win some, you lose some.’ So Diccon had been one of his rivals for the job. Intuition told him that he was facing lan Compton’s candidate.

  ‘Who’s your agent?’ asked Diccon suddenly.

  ‘Maurice Skellern.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’ Was there a hint of relief in the voice? ‘You want a specialist voice-over agent if you’re going to get anywhere in this business.’

  ‘Where’s the old man?’ asked Ian, as Charles ordered a Scotch.

  ‘Hugo? Oh, he’s . . . he’ll be along shortly.’ Charles felt it prudent to keep quiet about the scene with Farrow.

  It was Diccon’s turn for a sudden question. ‘Do you know Charlotte?’

  ‘Hugo’s wife? Yes.’

  ‘How is she?’ The inquiry was poised midway between solicitude and insolence.

  ‘Fine.’ Not the moment to share her anxieties of the Saturday night. ‘You know her well?’

  ‘Used to. Before she got married. Drama school together. Used to go around with her.’ There was a shading of sexual bravado in his tone. ‘Quite cut up when she went into the geriatric ward, I was.’

  Charles ignored the implied rudeness. ‘But now you’ve managed to forgive Hugo?’

  Diccon looked at him very straight. ‘Well, he’s work, isn’t he, love?’

  At that moment the subject of their conversation arrived. He was deathly pale. It was impossible to guess at the outcome of his interview with Mr. Farrow. He was in need of a drink. ‘Got a lot of catching up to do. Marcello, vodka and Campari for me, please. And the same again for the others.’

  Hugo started drinking as if he were trying to catch up on a whole lifetime. He became very jovial, swapping flip dialogue, scandal and crude anecdotes with the two young men in a way that was jarringly out of character. Charles didn’t like the sight of Hugo being one of the boys. And he didn’t like the way the two young men were responding to it either. Hugo didn’t seem to notice the covert smiles that passed between Ian and Diccon, or the hint of mockery in their tones as they spoke to him. It was not just at home that Hugo had problems.

  As the drink got through, he became increasingly like a salesman in a dirty joke. At one point he leaned nudgingly across to Diccon. ‘What do you say to that bit over there? Chick by the wine rack, eh? Lovely pair of tits.’

  ‘Not bad.’ Diccon gave a superior smile. He knew Hugo was making a fool of himself and was enjoying every minute of it.

  ‘That’s what women should be like,’ Hugo went on in drunken man-of-the-world style. ‘Nice firm’ little tits. Don’t let ’em have children. Never have children. Not worth the effort. Little buggers don’t give a damn about you and look what they do to their mothers – make ’em bloody sag, ruin their figures, stop ’em being sexy. That’s what women should be about – they’re meant just to give you a bloody good time in bed, that’s all.’

  They had reached the coffee stage. Charles looked round desperately for a waiter to come and bring a bill. He couldn’t bear to see Hugo destroying himself much longer.

  Diccon Hudson leaned across the table and said to Hugo in a very sincere voice, ‘So 1 take it you and Charlotte won’t be starting a family?’

  ‘No chance. I’ve been through all that and it doesn’t work.’

  So you’ve managed to persuade her to go on the Pill. Funny, she always used to be against the idea.’

  Diccon’s ambiguous indiscretion had been quite deliberate, but Hugo didn’t rise to it. ‘Huh,’ he snorted, ‘there are other ways, you know. We didn’t have any Pills in our young days, but we managed, didn’t we Charles? Eh, we managed.’

  Charles had had enough of this barrack-room talk. He rose, ‘I’ve got to be going now actually, Hugo.’

  ‘No, don’t go.’ The appeal was naked, almost terrified. Charles sat down.

  They left the Trattoria an interminable half-hour later, just after three. Diccon Hudson (who had drunk Perrier water through the meal) said he had to go off to his next recording session.

  ‘They keep you busy,’ Charles observed and was rewarded by a complacent smile.

  ‘Got an evening session tonight, have you, Diccon?’ asked Ian in his usual insolent style.

  Diccon coloured. ‘No,’ he said and left without another word.

  After Ian Compton had also gone, Charles turned to his friend. ‘Well, Hugo, thanks for the lunch. Look, I’ll no doubt see you tomorrow down in Breckton for this Critics’ –’

  ‘Don’t go, Charles. Let’s have another drink. ‘S a little club in Dean Street where I’m a member. C’mon, little quick one.’

  The club was a strip joint with gold chairs and a lot of hanging red velvet. A party of Japanese executives and a few morose single men watched a couple of girls playing with each other.

  Hugo didn’t seem to notice them. He ordered a bottle of Scotch. The boisterous, vulgar stage of drunkenness was now behind him; he settled down to silent, cold-blooded consumption.

  Charles drank sparingly. He had the feeling that Hugo was going to need help before the day was out.

  He tried asking what was the matter; he offered help.

  ‘I don’t want help, Charles, I don’t want talk. I just want you to sit and bloody drink with me, that’s all.’

  So they sat and bloody drank. Clients came and went. The girls were replaced by others who went through the same motions.

  Eventually, Hugo seemed to relax. His eyelids flickered and his head started to nod. Charles looked at his watch and put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Come on, it�
�s nearly six. Let’s go.’

  Hugo was surprisingly docile. He paid the bill (an amount which took Charles’s breath away) without noticing. Out in the street he looked around blearily. “S find a cab, Charles. Get the six-forty-two from Waterloo.’

  They were lucky to find one and got to the station in good time. Charles went off to buy a ticket and returned to find Hugo on the platform with a copy of the Evening Standard tucked under his arm. Charles made to move a little further down the platform. ‘No, Charles, here. Right opposite the barrier at Breckton.’

  Sure enough, twenty minutes later they got out of the train opposite the ticket collector. Hugo showed his season ticket with an unconscious reflex movement, turned right out of the station and started to walk along a footpath by the railway line. After a few steps he stopped.

  ‘Come on, Hugo, let’s get back to your place. See Charlotte.’

  ‘Charlotte.’ There was a deep misery in his echo.

  ‘Yes, Come on.’

  ‘No,’ Hugo dithered like a recalcitrant two-year-old. ‘No, let’s go up to the Backstagers and have a drink.’

  ‘Haven’t we had enough drinks?’ Charles spoke very gently.

  ‘No, we bloody haven’t! Don’t you try to tell me when I’ve had enough!’ Hugo bunched his fist and took a wild swing. Charles was able to block it harmlessly, but he felt the enormous strength of frustration in the blow.

  Hugo went limp. ‘I’m sorry, Charles. I’m sorry. Silly. Come on, come to the Backstagers – just for a quick one. Often go there for a quick one on the way home.’

  ‘All right. A very quick one.’

  In the Back Room bar (manned that evening by Robert Chubb) Hugo recommenced his silent, systematic drinking. Charles, himself no mean performer with a bottle, was amazed at his friend’s capacity. What made it unnerving was the fact that after the outburst by the station, it no longer seemed to have any effect. Hugo spoke with great care, but without slurring. And still the alcohol poured in, as if fuelling some inner fire, which must soon burst out into a terrible conflagration.

  There were a good few Backstagers about. Apparently, this was one of their rare lulls between productions. The Critics’ Circle for The Seagull the next day and then, on Wednesday, rehearsals for The Winter’s Tale would start. Charles visualized Shakespeare getting the same perfunctory treatment as Chekhov.

  Hugo introduced him liberally to everyone in sight and then left him to fend for himself. Geoffrey Winter was lounging against the bar with a middle-aged balding man dressed in a navy and white striped T-shirt, white trousers, plimsolls and a silly little blue cap with a gold anchor on it.

  This refugee from H.M.S. Pinafore turned out to be Shad Scott-Smith, director of The Seagull. ‘Now, Charles,’ he emoted when they were introduced, ‘promise me one thing – that when you do the Critics’ Circle you will really criticize. Treat us just as you would a professional company. Be cruel if you like, but please, please, do be constructive. There’s an awful tendency for these meetings to end up just as a sort of mutual admiration society, which really doesn’t help anyone.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to avoid that.’

  ‘Oh, super. I’m just here actually buying the odd drink of thanks for members of my hardworking cast – libations to my little gods, you could say. Oh, the whole gang did work so hard. I tell you, I’m still a washed-out rag at the end of it all. Still, I at least get a bit of a break now. Do you know, Geoff’s going straight on to play Leontes in The Winter’s Tale. Honestly, I don’t know where he get the energy. How do you do it, Geoff?’

  Geoffrey Winter shrugged. Charles thought that was a pretty good answer to a totally fatuous question. He warmed to the man.

  Shad went on. ‘Oh, something happens, I know. The old adrenaline flows. Leave it to Doctor Footlights, he’ll sort you out.’

  He breathed between gushes and changed the subject. ‘By the way, Geoff, do you know if Charlotte’s going to be in this evening? I do want to buy my darling Nina a drink.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what she’s up to. Ask Hugo.’

  Charlotte’s husband was hunched over a large Scotch at the bar. Shad swanned over. ‘Any idea what the little woman’s up to this evening?’

  ‘Little woman?’ Charles heard a dangerous undertone in Hugo’s echo.

  ‘Darling Charlotte,’ Shad explained.

  ‘Darling Charlotte . . .’ Hugo began, unnecessarily loud.

  ‘Darling Charlotte may be in hell for all I know. Don’t ask me about Charlotte the harlot. She’s a bloody whore!’

  After the shocked silence which followed this pronouncement, Shad decided that he’d ring Charlotte from home. As he minced away, other Backstagers joined the exodus with desultory farewells. Charles felt guilty, responsible. ‘Geoffrey, has Hugo driven them away? He’s drunk out of his mind.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. This place is used to dramatic outbursts. The mass evacuation is due to the telly. I, Claudius tonight. Nine o’clock. Becoming a great cult show. I haven’t seen any, been rehearsing. But I’m told it’s just the thing for bourgeois commuters’ wish-fulfilment. Lots of rapes and murders.’

  ‘Living vicariously.’

  ‘Yes, well, we don’t get all that at home. At least, not many of us.’

  Charles laughed. ‘Actually, I’d better get Hugo home. I hate to think how much alcohol he’s got inside him.’ He moved over to the bar. ‘Hugo, time to go, don’t you think?’

  Once again this suggestion touched some trigger of violence. Hugo shouted, ‘Just keep your bloody mouth shut!’ and dashed his glass of Scotch in Charles’ face.

  Charles was furious. Unaware of the shocked gaze of the remaining Backstagers, he turned on Hugo. ‘You’re drunk and disgusting!’

  ‘Get lost!’

  ‘You ought to go home. You’ve had enough.’

  ‘I’ll go home when I bloody choose to. And that won’t be before closing time.’ Hugo banged his glass down on the bar and then, as if to deny the force of his outburst, asked politely, ‘May I have another Scotch, please?’

  As Robert Chubb obliged with the drink, Charles stormed out. In the lobby he found Geoffrey Winter had followed him. Geoffrey offered a blue and white handkerchief to mop up his jacket. ‘Thanks. Is there a phone?’

  ‘There. Just behind the door.’

  Charles got through to Charlotte. ‘Look, I’ve just left Hugo. He’s in the Backstagers’ bar. Says he won’t be leaving till it closes. He’s extremely drunk.’

  ‘Won’t be the first time,’ she said dryly. ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  Geoffrey Winter was still waiting outside. ‘I’d offer you a lift, but we don’t run a car. Still, I can show you a quick way down to the station. There’s a footpath.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘They walked past a large house next door to the Backstagers. It was neo-Tudor with diamond window panes. No light on. Outside the porch, horrible out of period, a pair of grotesque stone lions stood on guard.

  Charles drew in his breath sharply with distaste. Geoffrey followed his glance and chuckled. ‘The Hobbses. Mr. and Mrs Arkadina. Advertising their money. Ostentatious buggers. But, nonetheless, a good source of free drinks.’

  Charles laughed, though inwardly he was still seething from the encounter with Hugo.

  ‘By the way,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I gather we see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Vee invited me down for a meal. If that’s still okay.’

  ‘Fine. Love to see you. I’ll show you the way when we get to the main road.’

  They walked across a common where a huge pile of wood and rubbish announced the approach of Bonfire Night.

  ‘Good God, November already,’ observed Geoffrey. ‘Guy Fawkes to be burnt again on Friday. How time flies as you get older.’

  ‘You think you’ve got problems,’ Charles mourned. ‘It’s my fiftieth birthday this week.’

  They talked a little on the way to the main road, but most of the time there was silence except for
the soft pad of their rubber soles on the pathway. Charles didn’t notice the lack of conversation. His mind was still full of hurt after the clash with Hugo.

  He didn’t really notice saying goodbye to Geoffrey. Or the train journey back to Waterloo. He was still seething, almost sick with rage.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHARLES SPENT AN unsatisfactory Tuesday mooching round his bedsitter in Hereford Road, Bayswater. It was a depressing room and the fact that he stayed there to do anything but sleep meant he was depressed.

  He was still fuming over the scene with Hugo. No longer fuming at the fact that Hugo had hit him, but now angry with himself for having flared up. Hugo was in a really bad state, possibly on the verge of a major breakdown, and, as a friend, Charles should have stood by him, tried to help, not rushed off in a huff after a drunken squabble.

  As usual, his dissatisfaction with himself spilled over into other area of his life. Frances. He must sort out what his relationship with Frances was. They must meet. He must ring her.

  Early in the afternoon he went down to the pay-phone on the landing, but before he dialled her number, he realized she wouldn’t be there. She was a teacher. Tuesday in term-time she’d be at school. He’d ring her about six, before he went down to Breckton.

  To shift his mood, he started looking through his old scripts. How’s Your Father? He read the first few pages. It really wasn’t bad. Light, but fun. A performance by the Backstagers would be better than nothing. Rather sheepishly, he decided to take it with him.

  He left without ringing Frances.

  Vee Winter opened the door. She had on a P.V.C. apron with a design of an old London omnibus. She looked at him challengingly again, part provocative, part exhibitionist.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit early, Vee. The train didn’t take as long as I expected.’

  ‘No, they put on some fast ones during the rush-hour. But don’t worry, supper’s nearly ready. Geoff’s just got in. He’s up in the study. Go and join him. He’s got some booze up there.’