Play to the End

by Robert Goddard

  Brian sighed. “That’s something, I suppose.”

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “Just don’t expect any offers from Leo in the near future.”

  “I won’t.”

  Brian frowned at me. Good-hearted fellow that he basically is, he’d worked off his anger, leaving space in his mind for gentler thoughts. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you, Toby?”

  “None you can help me with.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know.” I summoned a smile. “Generalized mid-life crisis. Plus pending divorce from a woman I’d very much like to stay married to. Troubles enough, without pissing off one of the West End’s leading impresarios for good measure.”

  “You said it.” Brian pondered my litany of woes for a moment before continuing. “Does this have anything to do with Jenny? I gather she lives in Brighton now.”

  “So she does.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Tell me how the show went…without me.”

  “Since you ask, Denis rose to the challenge magnificently. He turned in an excellent performance.”

  “Maybe I did him a favour, then.”

  “Maybe. But let’s be clear. This was a one-off. Any repetition…and I couldn’t answer for what Leo might do.”

  “There’ll be no repetition.”

  “Officially, it was twenty-four-hour flu.”

  “I’ve recovered ahead of schedule, then.”

  “Just make sure there isn’t a relapse. I’d like you at the theatre early tonight. Let’s say six thirty.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Until then…”

  “Yes?”

  “Stay out of critical situations.”

  “I’ll be sure to.”

  “OK.” He began a tentative jog on the spot. “You should take up running, Toby. It might help with those troubles.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “See you later, then.” He turned and started off towards Hove.

  “You will,” I shouted after him.

  My evening performance as James Elliott was in truth the only certainty in the day that lay ahead of me. Last night, light-headed after whisky on an empty stomach and overtired to boot, I confidently asserted that I’d prise my way into Roger Colborn’s secrets in the hope of finding some that would sour Jenny’s relationship with him. Easier said than done, of course. Walking slowly in the direction Brian Sallis had run off in, I admitted to myself that I had no good reason to suppose such secrets existed, let alone any obvious method of penetrating them.

  I stopped and leaned against the railings, staring out glumly at the grey, listless motion of the sea. It wasn’t too late to talk Eunice into rustling up some breakfast. Nourishment might even prove inspiring. I decided to head back to the Sea Air.

  My mobile rang before I could act on the decision. I guessed the call would be from Moira. I suspected word of my misdemeanour might already have reached her. But it wasn’t from Moira. Nor from anyone else I’d have expected to hear from.

  “Ah, Toby. Denis here.”

  “Denis? What are you doing up? You should be sleeping the sleep of the just after standing in for me so valiantly—and so impressively, Brian tells me.”

  “The play went all right, no question. It was good…being out there again.”

  “Why do you sound so down in the mouth, then?”

  “Could we meet…for a chat, Toby? Like…now?”

  “All right. But…what’s this about? I can assure you I’ll make it on stage tonight.”

  “It’s nothing to do with the play.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’ll tell you when we meet.”

  I had to be satisfied with that and we agreed to meet at the Rendezvous in a quarter of an hour. Denis, of course, had no reason to think the choice of venue significant. I told myself it made sense to check that Derek Oswin really was laying off Jenny. But maybe the proximity to Jenny it offered was its real appeal.

  I was the first to arrive and had guzzled a Danish by the time Denis put in an appearance. Happily, there was no sign of Derek. I stood Denis a coffee and we sat down at a corner table, where he lit up with ill-disguised urgency.

  “I thought you’d given up,” I remarked with studied neutrality.

  “So did I.”

  “I hope this isn’t a reaction to performing last night. I never intended to put any undue—”

  “Forget the play, Toby. This is about what happened afterwards.”

  “Afterwards?”

  “I’ve been in two minds about whether to tell you. But I think…you really had better know.”

  “Know what?”

  “I’m ashamed of myself, to be honest. I should never have allowed the situation to develop. But…the evening had gone so well. I just thought it was getting better and better.” He shook his head. “Stupid. Bloody stupid.”

  “What are you on about, Denis?”

  “All right. I’ll get to the point.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward confidentially. “Several of us went into the Blue Parrot for a drink after the show. You know the place? Just along from the theatre. Anyway, I’d not been there above five minutes when this girl—a real looker, she was—sidled up to me and congratulated me on my performance. She called me Toby and said what an honour it was to meet me. I assumed she’d missed the announcement about me standing in for you and, I don’t know why, but I didn’t…point out her mistake. Well, I do know why, of course. I was afraid it might put her off. I mean, she was just gorgeous and…she was giving me the eye and…”

  “You thought you were onto a good thing.”

  “Yeah.” Denis nodded in dismal agreement. “That’s about the size of it. She didn’t speak very good English. She clearly wasn’t English. I reckoned that accounted for the misunderstanding. But I wasn’t bothered. Why would I be? It’s not often I get luscious young lovelies coming onto me. She suggested going to some club she knew. I was half-cut and…pretty pleased with myself. So, I left the others to it and Olga—that was her name—and I went to some basement jazz joint this side of North Street. We weren’t there long. I mean, she was all over me, Toby. Starstruck and…randy with it.”

  “Why do I have the feeling this ended badly?”

  “Because I wouldn’t be telling you about it otherwise. Next stop after the jazz club was her flat. She lives in Embassy Court. Well, that’s where she took me. You know it? Art Deco block on the sea front. Seen better days. A lot better, let me tell you. Outside it’s just dilapidated. Inside…it’s a rathole. I should have turned round and walked straight out.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No. We made it to her flat. I was…pretty high by then. I reckon she must have spiked my drinks. I was…up for anything. And so was Olga. Before I knew what was happening, she started taking her clothes off. Well, I gave her a helping hand. Who wouldn’t in the circumstances? It seemed like my lucky night. Turned out to be anything but. I’d just got her down to her G-string when a door from an adjoining room burst open and this big bloke—I mean, seriously big—was suddenly pulling us apart. He was frighteningly strong. And angry. But angrier with Olga than with me. “‘This is the wrong man,’” he shouted at her. “‘This isn’t Toby Flood, you brainless tart.’” Then he threw me out. Literally threw. I’m lucky not to have some broken ribs to add to the bruises. I remember bouncing—yeah, actually bouncing—off the wall on the other side of the corridor and seeing the door of the flat slam shut behind me. I heard Olga screaming inside. I think…he was hitting her.” Denis’s head drooped. “I got the hell out.”

  I couldn’t find anything to say at first. The implication was clear. Somebody had put up the girl to lure me back to a flat in Embassy Court. Why? What exactly were they planning to spring on me? And who were they? More to the point, who were they working for?

  “Perhaps I should have tried to fetch help,” Denis went on. “I feel respons
ible for whatever man mountain did to Olga after I’d slunk away. I did mislead her, after all.”

  “You also think she spiked your drinks, Denis. Remember that.”

  “Even so…”

  “And where would this help have come from? The police?”

  Denis rolled his eyes. “Seemed wiser to crawl back to my B and B and pretend it had never happened.”

  “I’m sure it did.”

  “Thought I’d better fill you in on it, though. Somebody targeted you, Toby. No question about it. Maybe Olga’s under age. I mean, you just can’t tell these days, can you? Specially when you’re not thinking straight to start with. It could have turned nasty. Very nasty.” He smiled grimly at me through his cigarette smoke. “Except you’d probably have had the good sense to give her the brush-off at the Blue Parrot.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “Did you see something like this coming? Is that why you didn’t do the show last night?”

  “Absolutely not. Believe me, Denis. I had—I have—no reason to think I’m being…targeted.”

  “But you are, old son. Take my word for it.”

  “I don’t suppose Olga gave you her surname?”

  “No. Nor her national insurance number. She’s probably an illegal. And, before you ask, I didn’t think to note the flat number. I can’t even be sure which floor we were on. I wasn’t at my most observant. Even if I had been, it’d probably do you no good. As for man mountain, I’d go a long way to avoid meeting him, if I were you.”

  “Yes, but—” Interrupted by the trill of my mobile, I snatched it out of my pocket. Moira this time? Wrong again.

  “Hello, Toby.”

  “Jenny. Hi.”

  “What are you doing over there?”

  “Oh. You, er, spotted me, did you?” I craned for a view of Brimmers through the window, but could discern little beyond smoke, condensation and assorted passers-by. “Well, I thought I ought to check that Derek Oswin’s playing ball. And I’m glad to say he is.”

  “So I see.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to make a habit of it.”

  “Is that Denis Maple with you?”

  “Yes. Do you want a word?”

  “No, no. But…give him my love.”

  “OK.”

  “Goodbye, Toby.”

  The call ended. Denis raised an eyebrow at me. “Jenny?”

  “She lives in Brighton. Runs the hat shop opposite here, actually.”

  “Really?” He peered towards Brimmers. “Is that why you chose this place to meet?”

  “In a sense. She sends her love, by the way.” A strange commodity, love, I thought. Ample to share among friends and acquaintances, yet it can’t be dispensed, even on a token level, to an estranged spouse.

  “You should never have let her go.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “Is it too late to…repair the damage?”

  “Probably.”

  “But not definitely.”

  “No. Not definitely.”

  “You’ve got the rest of the week to work on it.”

  “So I have.”

  “Ah!” Denis seemed suddenly to have glimpsed the truth. “Is that what you were up to last night?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Just as well Olga got the wrong man, then. Wouldn’t have looked too good to Jen, would it, if the police had been after you for whatever was planned to happen in that flat?”

  “No, Denis. I think we can safely say that it wouldn’t.”

  I left Denis to chill out as best he could after his experiences of the night before, walked back down to the front and made my way along to Embassy Court. I remembered it vaguely as a visually striking chunk of thirties Art Deco: white-plastered balconies tiered like a sleek-lined wedding cake. But the only wedding cake it resembles now is Miss Havisham’s. Lumps of plaster have fallen off. Some of the windows are boarded up. Rust is leaching through the balconies.

  I stood by the Peace Statue on the seaward side of the road, looking up at the building, wondering if by any chance Olga was looking down at me. Perhaps it was just as well Denis couldn’t remember which flat she took him to. There was no telling what might happen if I succeeded in tracking her down.

  Someone had put her up to last night’s mischief, though. That was obvious. Who stood to gain from blackening my name? I could only think of one candidate. But he wasn’t supposed even to be in Brighton, let alone have any reason to believe I posed the slightest threat to him.

  Then another thought struck me, as disturbing in its way as it was also weirdly comforting. Why had I missed the show? Because Derek Oswin had forced me to. As an earnest of my good intentions, so he’d said. But could he actually have lured me out to Hollingdean Road to ensure I came to no harm elsewhere? Was it possible that he’d appointed himself my guardian angel?

  If so, it suggested he knew who was gunning for me. I hotfooted it up to Western Road and boarded the next number 5 bus to come along.

  My mobile rang just as the bus was pulling away from the Royal Pavilion stop. At the third time of asking, it was Moira.

  “A very good morning to you, Toby. How’s the head?”

  “Clear as a bell, Moira. Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “Not hung in shame, then? Nor topping off a spike outside the Theatre Royal?”

  “Ah. Leo’s been on to you, has he?”

  “Yes. And I fully expect his lawyers to be on to me sometime today as well.”

  “No, no. He’ll call off the dogs when he hears I’m back on board. The box office would take too big a hit without me. I’m in sackcloth and ashes. But I’m still in a job. You don’t need to worry about your commission.”

  “I’m actually more worried about you, darling. You’ve not previously been noted for an artistic temperament. What happened? Did everything get too much for you?”

  “A personal crisis blew up. Now it’s blown over. Simple as that.”

  “Doesn’t sound simple.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it next time we have lunch.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ve, er, a favour to ask of you.”

  “Apart from salvaging your professional reputation, you mean?”

  “Yes, Moira. Apart from that.”

  By the time I got off the bus near the top of London Road, Moira had agreed, albeit bemusedly, to have one of the agency’s literary specialists give The Plastic Men prompt and serious attention as soon as she received it. She had also urged me to put in a mea culpa call verging on the obsequious to Leo Gauntlett, in the interests of papering over the cracks in his opinion of me. I reckoned I’d need a few stiff drinks before making such a call, which was one of several good reasons for postponing the task.

  The chance of an illuminating chat with Derek Oswin was another. But no answer came the stern reply at 77 Viaduct Road. Whatever he was doing in lieu of camping out at the Rendezvous, it evidently didn’t involve staying at home. Nor did I have a mobile number for him. In fact, I rather doubted he possessed a mobile. Even a land-line was touch and go. I’d not noticed a phone in the house. It would be entirely like him to be technologically incommunicado.

  I found myself walking back into town along Ditchling Road, past the Open Market. Remembering Derek’s account in his introduction to The Plastic Men of his grandfather’s route to work, I cut through to London Road along Oxford Street. The vast, soaring flank of St. Bartholomew’s Church was dead ahead. I began trying to imagine the area in the old man’s day. Trams, gas lamps and as many horse-drawn vehicles as petrol-driven. All the men in hats, all the women in skirts. It wasn’t so very different. Not really.

  Standing outside St. Bart’s, though, I realized that wasn’t true. Where had all the houses gone? Where were the rows upon rows of “artisans’ dwellings”? Vanished. Swept away. Erased. Such is the reach of municipal dictate. But its reach isn’t limitless. It can’t alter the past. It can only rewrite the pr
esent. And pay lip service to the future.

  Suddenly, I remembered Syd Porteous. “Anything I can do for you while you’re here—anything at all—just say the word.” And for him I did have a mobile number. Why not tap his allegedly compendious local knowledge? Why not indeed? I tugged the beer mat with his number on it out of my coat pocket and gave him a call.

  “Hullo?”

  “Syd Porteous?”

  “Hole in one. That sounds like…hold on, hold on, let the grey matter work its magic…Toby Flood, the errant actor.”

  “You’re right.”

  “But are you right, Tobe? That’s the question. My contacts in the usheretting community tell me you let down the punters last night. I’ve got a ticket for tonight, you know. Should I be asking for my money back?”

  “No, no. I’ll be on tonight.”

  “Great news. And I’m more than appreciative of this personal reassurance. Nice one, Tobe.”

  “That’s not…the only reason I rang.”

  “No?”

  “You said…if there was anything you could do for me…”

  “Any assistance, small or large, a pleasure and a privilege. You know that.”

  “I wondered if we could…meet up again. Run over a few things.”

  “Absolutely-dootly. When did you have in mind?”

  “As soon as possible. This lunchtime, perhaps?”

  “Fine by me. The Cricketers again?”

  “Why not?”

  “Okey-dokey. Noon suit you?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Grrreat.” Whether Syd was genuinely trying to impersonate Tony the Tiger of Frosties fame I wasn’t sure, but it certainly sounded like it. “See you there and then.”

  I had just over an hour to concoct a cover story for the questions I planned to run past Syd. I went into the church in search not so much of inspiration as of a quiet place to think and found myself in a vast and curiously empty space more like a Byzantine ruin than an Anglican church. Father Wagner had cleverly supplied the parishioners with as complete a contrast to their domestic circumstances as could be imagined. I wondered if little Derek had come here of a Sunday with his parents and grandparents. I wondered if he’d gazed up at the distant roof and dreamt of touching the sky. I decided then to abandon the cover story before I’d invented it. I decided to ply Syd with an approximation of the truth.