by Simon Brett
‘Oh.’ The doctor looked at his watch. There were still more patients in the waiting room who might need his help with terminal cancer, piles or gender reassignment. ‘Look, these are some other organizations you can get in touch with. Some are free services, some you have to pay for. I’m afraid we don’t have sufficient data to make recommendations as to which you should go with, but I suggest you contact them and—’ he handed the sheaf of papers across – ‘the ball’s in your court.’
As he made his way back to the waiting room, Charles felt mixed emotions. There was a level of disappointment that the doctor hadn’t been more impressed by his taking the big step of owning up to a drinking problem. But there was also guilt that he’d been wasting the man’s time with what was, ultimately, a self-inflicted illness.
He gave monosyllabic enquiries to the questions Frances asked him as she drove him back to her flat.
‘So, did the doctor recommend which clinic you should go to?’
‘No.’
‘Well, which one did you think sounded best?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to look yet. I was thinking, when we get back, we could have a look through them and—’
‘Not we, Charles. You. I’ve made the appointment and taken you to the doctor. The next steps are over to you.’
‘Of course.’ He’d somehow hoped Frances would continue her maternal nurturing. As she had done with the surgery, she would make the necessary appointments for him. ‘But you will be supporting me?’ There was a silence. ‘Frances, it was you who said I should do something about my drinking. You got me into this.’
She flared up at that. ‘I did not get you into this, Charles! You got yourself into it!’
‘Yes, I know, but what I meant was … You will help me in my efforts to manage my drinking and—?’
‘I will help you in your efforts to give up your drinking.’
‘That’s what I meant.’ But he didn’t. ‘You will support me, though?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘From a distance.’
‘Are you saying that …?’
‘From a distance.’
He felt pretty wiped out again by the time he got back to Frances’s. ‘I think I need to go back to bed.’
She looked rueful. ‘All right, you can stay tonight. Presumably, tomorrow you’ve got to be back in some kind of shape to rehearse, haven’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You said there was no rehearsal today, but presumably everything picks up again tomorrow.’
‘There will have been a text from the stage management.’
‘Where’s your phone?’
‘I think it’s by the bed in the spare room.’
‘Well then, you’d better find it, hadn’t you?’
He found it. Needless to say, the battery was flat. ‘Oh God, and my charger’s back at Hereford Road.’
‘I’ve got a compatible charger,’ said Frances.
When his phone was plugged in, he checked the text messages. Half a dozen from Kell Drummond, getting ever more peremptory. Basically, there was to be no The Habit of Faith rehearsal on the Wednesday either. There had been a delay on the get-in for the set. And could Charles get back to her to confirm he’d got the message?
Not having received any response to her texts, she had also left a voicemail. Again, could Charles get back to her to confirm he’d got the message?
‘I’d better get back to her,’ he said to Frances, who was still in the spare room.
‘That would seem to be the right thing to do,’ she confirmed.
‘So, there won’t be any rehearsal till Thursday at the earliest.’
‘No. You, nonetheless, will be leaving here tomorrow.’
‘But, Frances …’
She looked at him with a directness that made him avert his eyes. ‘Yes? What?’
He gestured to the bed, where lay the flyers he’d been given by the doctor. ‘I am going to sort myself out.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll start ringing round in the morning.’
‘From your place.’
‘Oh, I thought maybe you might let me—’
‘Charles, I thought I made it clear that, for us to cohabit, you were going to have to give up the booze.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Well, you haven’t made a very good start, have you?’ said Frances, as she sailed out of the room.
Kell answered her phone on the first ring. ‘Charles. Where have you been the last twenty-four hours?’
‘Oh, round and about.’
‘I presume you’re finally ringing because you did get my message?’
‘Yes, yes, I did. Thank you. Problems with the set fitting into the Duke of Kent’s?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Or at least that’s the official line.’
‘What do you mean?’
He took a punt, to hide his ignorance. ‘Just responding to the rumours going round.’
‘Oh yes?’ Kell sounded like it wasn’t the first time she’d heard something similar.
‘Something to do with Liddy Max?’ he hazarded.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But the stage manager’s resistance did not last long. ‘Oh, there’s not much secret about it now, is there? Given the fact that her death’s plastered all over the Evening Standard. Is that where you saw about it?’
Faced with a choice of lies, Charles said, ‘I heard about it from someone in the company.’
‘That figures. Not renowned for keeping secrets, actors, are they?’
‘No.’ Charles moved carefully. He didn’t want to give away how much he knew until he knew how much she knew. ‘I gather there was a break-in at the theatre last night.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘The police. A couple of the Boys in Blue – well, not in Blue, actually, plain clothes – came to see me this morning.’
‘You too?’
‘And you?’
‘Oh yes. They’ve talked to everyone. As if getting a show into a West End theatre wasn’t already complicated enough, now we’re having our schedule rearranged by the bloody police!’
‘So, the set isn’t up yet?’
‘God, no. And that raises all kinds of other complications. The trucks that were transporting the set can’t be left parked in the West End during daylight hours because they block all the traffic and … it’s a bloody nightmare! Made worse by the fact that there’s bugger-all I can do about it. Just sit here twiddling my bloody thumbs.’
‘And having the odd drink?’ Charles suggested.
‘The odd one.’ Kell giggled. ‘Well, I’ve been told there’s no chance of anything happening till Thursday at the earliest, so in that sense, I can relax a bit, yes.’
‘Hm. Do you want any help in your thumb-twiddling and drinking?’
‘What are you suggesting, Charles?’
‘That maybe you and I could meet up for a drink tomorrow lunchtime.’
There was a silence. Then Kell said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
EIGHT
Frances had left for school by the time he woke on the Wednesday morning. The night before, she’d given him a Librium, as well as a Zopiclone to help him sleep. ‘Where’d you get this stuff from?’ he’d asked.
‘My emergency detox kit.’
He had looked puzzled. ‘Surely not for you?’
‘No. Most of the drunks I have to deal with are teenage girls who’re not used to alcohol.’ Of course. Another of the duties which went with the job of being a headmistress. ‘Unlike grown men who should know better.’ He was in no position to argue.
She had put a full litre of mineral water by his bedside. ‘If you do wake up, just drink as much of this as you can.’
‘But if I drink a lot, then I’ll wake up again because I need a pee.’
‘Excellent. Have the pee, then drink a lot more water. Rehydration is the first thing you need, Charles.’
‘Yes.’ He had looke
d at her apologetically. ‘I am grateful to you for doing all this, Frances.’
But the only reaction he’d got had been a ‘Huh’ as she left the room.
He still felt pretty grisly, aching all over, trembling. As he got out of bed the room swayed.
He managed to make it to the kitchen, where he found a note. It had been placed pointedly on top of the pile of flyers he’d got from the doctor, and it read: ‘Keep drinking water. Try to eat something, but something bland. There are eggs for scrambling and soup in the fridge. Make sure you phone up those addiction places and begin to sort yourself out. See you some time.’
No ‘Love’. But then he didn’t deserve love. And, as for the future, just ‘some time’. But then he didn’t deserve anything more specific.
Charles thought he might be ready to eat something, but just opening the fridge made him want to throw up. The only thing he wanted to pass his lips and stabilize his stomach was a large Bell’s. And, though he knew he mustn’t have that, the question did cross his mind as to whether Frances might keep any whisky in the house. He sat down at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.
How had he managed to get himself into this state? Any superiority he might have felt over the other attendees at the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting had by now shrivelled away to nothing. My name is Charles and I am an alcoholic.
He glanced at the flyers on the table. The first one was for a ‘Nurse Specialist – Alcohol and Drug Dependence’. He was qualified as an ‘RMN’ and an ‘NMC’, whatever those might be. For further details, ‘to arrange a consultation or a confidential discussion’, there was a phone number to call or the inevitable website to log on to. Charles seemed blurrily to recall that this was one that the doctor had said would cost money. He shuffled it to one side.
The next sheet was offering Clinical Hypnotherapy. Somehow, Charles didn’t fancy that, either.
The one that offered him help to Grow and Embrace Life sounded impossibly hippyish.
Group Therapy ‘amongst people with similar needs’ sounded impossibly chummy.
And the one that offered him a ‘Ten-Step Program’ was no more appealing. Although there were two fewer steps, it sounded distressingly like Alcoholics Anonymous. And, in the unlikely event of Charles ever wanting a ‘Program’, then he’d prefer one with a second ‘m’ and an ‘e’ on the end. He was distrustful of American psychobabble.
He was surprised by the vehemence of his reaction to every one of the offered solutions.
The sentence that stayed with him from all of this reading was: ‘The first step towards recovery is recognizing that you have a problem which you cannot control without outside help.’ And Charles wasn’t sure that he really had reached that point in his life.
He made himself a large pot of strong coffee, drank most of it, and departed from Frances’s house without having rung any of the relevant numbers. What’s more, he left all the flyers on her kitchen table.
Going on the tube was a big risk. The chances of Charles actually throwing up in the enclosed space seemed strong. There were plenty of seats, but he felt safer standing up. The motion of the carriage, which normally he would not have noticed, seemed vertiginously violent.
On one of the vacant seats, however, was a copy of the previous day’s Evening Standard. He picked it up and flicked through the pages with one hand, while the other clung grimly to the ceiling rail. He soon found what he was looking for.
ACTRESS DEATH IN THEATRE
Actress Liddy Max, familiar to viewers of the TV drama Living by Night, was found dead yesterday in the Duke of Kent’s Theatre, where she was soon to open in the play The Habit of Faith. She is believed to have had a fall. A police spokesman said that investigations into the cause of her death were continuing.
There was a uniformed policeman standing outside the stage door of the Duke of Kent’s Theatre. As Charles approached, a bright shaft of sunlight suddenly found its way through the roofs around Shaftesbury Avenue, and focused a laser of pain on the area behind his eyes. He winced, then identified himself to the policeman as a member of the cast.
‘Didn’t you get a message, sir, to the effect that there’s no rehearsal today? The building is still under police investigation.’
‘Do you mean it’s a crime scene?’
‘I didn’t say that, sir,’ the policeman replied stiffly. ‘I said that investigations are continuing.’
Charles knew he’d be pushing his luck to ask anything else. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I came here because I had a message from the stage doorman. Gideon.’
‘Oh yes, I know Gideon, sir. He is actually here, on duty. In case any of the actors needed access to their dressing rooms. Is that what you require, sir, because we’ll have to get permission from—?’
‘No, no, I just wanted a word with Gideon, if he’s around …’
‘I don’t see that’s a problem. If it’s just something you want to check with him …’ The policeman moved to open the stage door. ‘Gideon! Charles Paris here for you.’
The stage doorman emerged into the opening, blinking like a nocturnal animal in the cold shaft of sunlight. His huge bulk filled the doorway, and there was a scarred bruise in the centre of his forehead.
‘I got your text,’ said Charles.
‘Yes.’ Gideon looked indecisive and uneasy.
Charles felt pretty sure that it was the presence of the policeman causing the awkwardness. ‘If Gideon and I were to go off for a while, would you have any objection?’
‘I can’t see a problem with that, sir.’
‘Thank you. All right, Gideon? A quick coffee or …?’
The stage doorman accepted the offer with alacrity and, as Charles started towards the coffee shop where he’d lunched on the Monday, he was delighted to hear him say, ‘No, let’s go to the pub.’
Fortunately, the stage doorman’s choice of venue was not the one where Charles had fixed to meet Kell an hour later. Somehow, he didn’t want to have a gooseberry for that encounter.
Gideon headed for the bar with the sure step of a regular, and though the Eastern European barmaid was early morning bleary, she recognized him. ‘Large vodka and T, is it, Gideon?’
‘Please. Charles?’
‘Oh, I’ll just have a fizzy—’
‘Thought you were a Scotch drinker.’
‘Well—’
‘Bell’s, didn’t I hear?’
‘Has been known.’
‘No secrets in the theatre,’ said Gideon slyly. ‘Well, maybe some of us preserve a few, but they’re only very secret secrets.’ He grinned at Charles, then at the barmaid. ‘Make it a large one, Roza.’
‘Fine, Gideon.’ She looked at Charles. ‘Water?’
‘Just ice.’
At that hour they were the only customers. Gideon steered the way to a settle, as far from the bar as possible (not that Roza showed any interest in their conversation – or anything else, come to that). They sat in front of a surprisingly convincing fake fire.
Both took long sips from their drinks, as though they were essential medicine. Then Gideon said, ‘Glad you came in, Charles.’
‘Your text made it sound like we ought to meet. And I heard from Kell about the break-in.’ He looked at the bruise, more prominent in the flickering firelight. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Oh yes. Just a bump.’
‘I should mention, Gideon, that I have had a visit from the police.’
The lardy face grew paler. ‘You didn’t tell them you’d been into the theatre on Monday night?’
‘What makes you think I was in the theatre on Monday night?’
‘Oh, you weren’t there?’ Gideon sounded relieved.
Charles trod cautiously. ‘I told the police I hadn’t been there.’
‘Good.’
‘What made you think I might have been?’
‘The fact that you’d come in in the afternoon. None of the rest of the company had – well, none of the actors, and the techie lot all came in t
hrough the scenery dock – but you had come in, and I thought you might already be using your dressing room as, you know, a kind of base in the West End. But if you weren’t there, then it’s not a problem.’
There was a silence. Both men took long swigs from their glasses. Charles was slightly appalled by how much better he felt with a drink inside him. ‘So, about this break-in, Gideon …?’
‘Ye-es.’ Instantly, the stage doorman looked shifty.
‘Must’ve been a shock for you. What actually happened?’
‘It was over very quickly. I was in my cubby-hole, actually having a snooze, if the truth were told … and suddenly I was aware of someone bursting in and they hit me—’ he gestured to his forehead – ‘and I think I passed out for a few minutes.’
‘Did you see who your attacker was?’
‘No, it all happened so quickly.’
‘And what time of the evening was this?’
‘I don’t know exactly. After half-past seven. Like I said, I’d dozed off.’
‘And then? Was it you who discovered Liddy’s body?’
Gideon nodded. ‘But not then. Not straightaway when I come round. Just before midnight, when I was checking the dressing rooms before locking up.’
‘I thought the theatre was open for the get-in of the set.’
‘Yes, but, like I said, the crew were coming in and out through the scene dock. My orders were to lock up the stage door at twelve.’
‘And none of the stage crew saw Liddy’s body?’
‘They wouldn’t, if they were using the scene dock entrance. No reason for them to go near the dressing room stairs.’
‘No. Of course not,’ said Charles thoughtfully. ‘And when you did find her, you called the police?’
‘Called Kell first. She got in touch with the producers, then called me back.’
‘Had they called the police?’
‘No. She told me to. Not much fun, I can tell you, waiting round for them, knowing Liddy was lying there. I was in a bad state.’
‘I bet you were.’ Charles watched as Gideon drained his glass. The ice clinked as he put it back on the table. ‘Get you another of those?’
‘Wouldn’t say no.’
Charles was pensive as he strolled up to the bar and asked Roza for ‘the same again’. When he got back to the table by the fire, he asked, ‘And what you’ve just told me is what you told the police, is it, Gideon?’
