by Ellis Major
“Error?”
“He had a shotgun with him, Lance. Even then, if his eyesight hadn’t been so poor, he wouldn’t have mistaken the porcelain for the foaming mouth of a rabid dog.”
“Don’t tell me he shot it! His eyesight was up to that, was it?”
“A large target, Lance. Hard to miss. Retrievers are fairly big, and this one was hairy too.
‘Mad dog!’ Hargreaves shouts. ‘Mad dog! Stay back!’ BAM and it’s goodnight to Pippikins.’
“Pippikins! Good riddance by the sound of it. Isabel was pissed off though, right?”
Charlie nodded vigorously. “Floods of tears. Hargreaves was a murderer and a bloody butcher! I never liked the damn creature so I was probably grinning a bit over its corpse. Even so, its death couldn’t be laid at my door. I tell you, Lance, the smile soon faded when I saw the expression on Lady Suffrage’s face.
“Fortunately for me, Hargreaves was a stubborn old cuss and he refused to hand over the weapon to mine hostess - at least until I was out of range. I was sprinting for it once I spotted what she was up to. I saw at least two blows from this heavy stick of hers before he went down, poor old soul. She tried one shot but I was round the front of the house by then. I heard the sound of breaking glass and a maid shrieking. It spurred me on. I had my keys out as I ran. I tell you I was in the Bentley and down that drive before you could say don’t shoot me I’m only the piano player. I even missed the gatepost. The adrenalin helped me I guess.” Charlie sighed, then grinned with pleasure as Lance burst out laughing.
Lance had smiled any number of times at things Charlie had said but it was the first time he’d laughed out loud. For a fraction of a second Charlie felt quite emotional. He, Charlie Tiptree, had made this disturbed and unsettling man laugh. This had to be a good thing, didn’t it?
Lance was shaking his head as his laugh subsided. “You live life on the brink, Charlie, you really do. What a load of crap!”
“You can laugh, Lance,” Charlie replied, with great sadness. “But I think the rage was on her. She has Irish blood. I reckon she would have killed me if she could. Might have been sorry afterwards but what use is that?”
“True enough,” Lance chuckled. Such a thought didn’t seem to worry him unduly. “So what time is this infamous Bentley arriving?”
Charlie consulted his watch. “By eleven. We can go out to the links, have an early lunch, rent you some clubs and put in a solid eighteen holes this afternoon. I’ve got my Soirée at Mary’s tonight but I shouldn’t be too late back from that.”
The Bentley arrived in good time, Charlie signed all the paperwork and, having thrown his clubs in the boot, settled behind the wheel.
“Very nice isn’t it,” he said to Lance, who was surveying the interior and nodding appreciatively.
“Beats a sodding snatch Land Rover,” Lance agreed. “Probably safer too, especially if you came up against a tank. I like it, black on black – it’s a kind of mean machine Charlie, suits your moody, smouldering personality.”
Charlie drove around a quarter of a mile before Lance calmly asked him if he would mind pulling over.
“Do you get car sick?” Charlie asked with some concern.
“No, er, it’s not that,” Lance told him. “Look, Charlie, I’m going to be blunt with you, ok. Blame the Army. There’s no time to fuck about so you have to get on and say it.”
Charlie swallowed and gave a cautious nod. “Fire away,” he muttered. “Is the engine too noisy?”
Lance gripped Charlie’s shoulder. “Charlie, fucking hell, you’re a good bloke but you’re a shit driver.”
Charlie swallowed again. “Well, I have been a bit unlucky, recently.”
“Jesus, Charlie, did you notice that pedestrian and aim to make him jump back on the pavement like that? Was the red light you jumped an oversight, or because you think I’m still an adrenalin junkie?”
“There are so many distractions, Lance.” Red light, Charlie was asking himself. Red Light?
Lance was talking again. “Charlie, you have got a Driving Licence, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Charlie was sure he had one somewhere. The test had been a nervous experience but he had actually passed first time. Charlie put it down to calling the Examiner sir a lot. His instructor, who had been anticipating a lucrative long-term relationship with this completely incompetent dickhead, put it down to Charlie having sold his soul to Satan. Since Charlie gave him a huge cheque as a thank you he didn’t curse his own ill-luck for too long.
“Interesting.” Lance frowned and let go of Charlie’s shoulder. “Charlie, I know I’m a nervous sort of bloke right now, so I’m not the best passenger you could have. Here’s an idea. Please let me drive, will you? I don’t want to sit here and watch you kill someone by mistake.”
“What about the insurance?” Charlie asked, reasonably enough.
Lance suddenly grinned. “That’s the least of your worries. You can sort that out when we get back. I’m older than you, anyway, and have a clean Licence. I can’t see it being a problem. Don’t get all offended on me, ok? I can make myself useful by driving us around and I promise we’ll both be more comfortable in this thing if I do.”
Charlie’s spirits had risen steadily. Things were getting better and better. A great oppressive weight had been lifted from him. This was perfect! He could properly enjoy his inherited car at last, without the ever-present frisson of fear.
“Of course,” he cried cheerfully. “Lance, if you like driving, be my guest.”
“Good man,” Lance told him with a sudden smile. “Good man! Most blokes would throw a total strop if you told them they were crap drivers, that or sulk like kids.”
“I think I’m better with something smaller,” Charlie told him. He had a small modicum of pride.
“I’m sure you are,” Lance consoled him. “This is a bit of a brute, but then I’m used to trucks and armoured cars.”
Charlie was over the moon with the outcome. Lance might be a bit bonkers but there was no doubt as to who was in charge of the Bentley. He drove calmly and efficiently and the car immediately seemed calmer. Even the satnav relaxed and provided assistance rather than urgent distraction.
“Baby you can drive my car,” Charlie hummed as the Bentley approached St Saviour’s church. Lance was grinning again. He could sense that he and this wolf in limousine’s clothing had been born for each other. There was something dark and powerful under the bonnet which was yearning to be released. He was seduced by the charcoal upholstery and the gleaming black exterior. Kali, he was thinking to himself. Your name is Kali.
A coffin was being removed from the hearse as they drew closer. Charlie’s humming ceased and he frowned.
“How bizarre,” he remarked. “Did you notice the flowers on top of the coffin, Lance?”
“No, Charlie,” Lance smiled. “I was keeping an eye on what’s in front of me. I do find that’s a benefit when driving, on or off road. You should watch and learn. It used to piss off the locals out there if we knocked their houses down.”
“Oh absolutely. Just wondered if you snatched a quick glimpse?”
“Flowers aren’t that odd are they? We used to have flags over the coffins too. Made sod all difference to the guys inside but the rituals had to be observed.”
“Well they would, of course. The only unusual thing was that the flowers were the spitting image of Artie Brown’s, a mass of dark red roses.”
“Who’s Artie Brown, brother of the more famous Charlie?”
This was turning out to be a very good day, Charlie told himself. Lance is doing jokes, and I’ve thought of another story.
“He was accident prone, Lance – the whole family was really.”
“In what way?”
Charlie was full of admiration as Lance showed that he could drive, talk and already knew how to operate the indicators without having to look down.
“More metal in his body than a scrap yard. Artie had broken almost every bone i
n his body, except his skull. He did for himself when he climbed St Nicholas’ spire with a toy plane he was going to tie on top of the cross.”
“What a nob!”
“Yes, Lance. A steep slate roof, a wet night and patent leather shoes are not a good combination.”
“And I’d bet he was pissed.”
“The Inquest reckoned it was over ten pints.”
“A good candidate for a Darwin Award by the sound of it.”
Charlie laughed. “Probably. It’s amazing that his family were even able to get to the funeral in one piece.”
“Ok, now I know you’re going to bullshit me again, but just tell me whether this guy did actually die?”
Charlie nodded. “He did die,” he confirmed. “He fell off the roof. I don’t know about the shoes.”
“Fine, I’m not going to be pedantic. Go on, then, what was his family like? Accident prone as well?”
“They were. I’m surprised they even noticed he’d gone, though. Ten sons in the family, Lance.”
“Ten is a lot,” Lance agreed, sombrely.
“All but the first one unplanned.”
“Right! I get the picture. They didn’t make mistakes, they mass-produced them.”
Charlie smiled out at the world. It seemed to be smiling back. “And never seemed to learn. Anyway, from the moment the pallbearers arrived at the hearse you could foresee difficulties, one being so much shorter than the other three. It was cunning how the three tall ones bent at the knees to compensate but anyone could see that the steps were going to be their undoing. Whoops a daisy, bit of a lurch and the floral tribute goes off the stern. And then Brown senior splits his trousers bending over to retrieve the roses.”
Lance was chuckling. “Sick, Charlie, really sick! I suppose you laughed.”
“I had my handkerchief out Lance, pretending to cry, but it got worse.”
“Now you’re taking the piss.”
“No word of a lie, ha, ha, ha.” Charlie chortled at the thought. “The Vicar was a bit sloshed and the organist was senile. The Vicar calls out the wrong hymn and we end up singing Ding Dong Merrily on High like a bunch of lemons instead of Abide With Me.”
It was as well that they were stopped at traffic lights. Lance roared with laughter. He threw back his head and really went for it. Charlie felt warm with pleasure. It would make anyone feel good to hear someone laugh like that, let alone Lance. He pushed on. He might be talking rubbish but what did it matter?
“The eulogy was almost as bad, Lance. Artie Brown may have been many things but he was certainly not a seventy year old spinster of the Parish who had loyally polished the church brass for forty years.”
“Ha, ha, ha. This can’t be true Charlie. You’ve got a totally sick imagination, ha, ha, ha.”
Charlie was almost offended. “Swear to God, Lance. It’s true, every word. It all went downhill when the old soak fell out of the pulpit and knocked himself out cold. We had to call an ambulance.”
“Yeah, that’s very sad. Had you wet yourself by then?”
“I was struggling. But the worst moment by far, Lance, was when he woke up just as he was passing Mrs Brown and puked all over her feet.”
Lance showed every sign of having about as dark a sense of humour as it’s possible to have. He found this just as funny as singing the wrong hymn. The vehicle shook he laughed so much.
“You arsehole, Charlie,” he muttered, wiping his eyes. “Go on, then, what did they do with the Vicar throwing up and being taken off in an ambulance?”
“The verger stepped in and finished the service.”
“Is that legal?”
“No one dared ask. By then it was all about not missing the slot in the graveyard so we all kept quiet and tried to ignore the smell of vomit.”
Lance chuckled again and then silence filled the sumptuous interior for a minute or two. It was a contented, comfortable silence.
“Lance.” A thought had risen to Charlie unbidden. “Am I being superstitious if I say things like this go in threes? That’s two deaths I’ve thought about today already.”
“Charlie, just enjoy the ride,” Lance ordered. “If you think of another one as sick as the first two then I look forward to hearing about it.”
Charlie smiled. He was, strangely enough, with his willingness to listen, play the piano and natter away, genuinely helping. You could do good, he suddenly understood, by doing no more than giving up your time, and being yourself. And the great thing was, you could feel better for doing it.
Charlie Tiptree, he thought to himself, the world’s newest altruist. Who else can I help today, and how? A fortnight with Lance round the place and what I’ve got myself into isn’t too bad at all, really. The Army’s made him barmy but it’s never too late to turn the ship around.
Chapter 4 – Mortality II (Year 1 – June)
The answer to Charlie’s question came soon enough.
There had been no more thoughts of death during the course of the day but Charlie still had that old superstition at the back of his mind as he made his way to Mary’s Soirée.
He supposed it was a legacy of his mother. She’d always said that good and bad things go in threes. He was rather more alert and observant than usual, therefore, as he strolled through the streets. He noticed, for a change, how casually people went about risking their lives at every turn – or indeed having them threatened by the equally casual actions of others. There were the cab drivers who swerved suddenly when hailed, regardless of any cyclist they were passing, or any pedestrians who happened to be about to step off the kerb. He saw a couple of charming examples of the abuse the cabby then meted out if a cyclist he had nearly killed happened to remonstrate. Charlie wasn’t a fan of cyclists but he could almost sympathise with them in such circumstances.
Then there were the techniques people applied in crossing the road – suicidal darts between moving traffic or a massively bovine indifference to little red men on traffic lights.
Charlie winced several times during his relatively short journey but there were no casualties on the roads. In fact the nearest he came to witnessing an untoward incident was outside a pub. The customers had occupied the pavement, way beyond the tables and chairs allotted to them and had edged up to the side of the highway. It was impossible for pedestrians to pass without stepping in the road. A passer-by had objected to being forced into such a detour and had pushed on through the melee to the annoyance of a couple of less convivial drinkers whose elbows he had bumped. A lapel grabbing contest had ensued and Charlie was relieved that he was on the other side of the road.
All this drama - I should walk more often, he told himself, then Lance can give me some counselling for a change.
~~~
Mary Goldsworthy, wither whose Soirée Charlie had strolled, was his friend, a woman most emphatically not part of the club scene, however. Mary was the pseudonymous author of such erotic classics as Sixth Form Dorm at St. Monica’s and Miss Willoughby’s Pussy Gets the Cream. Logically, one might have expected her to lead a life of depravity, endlessly fuelled by drugs and drink. But no, hers was a genteel and refined existence! When she chose to entertain, it was in a select way, with cultured conversation and in a generally high-brow atmosphere. The sophisticated environment of her salon was as far removed as it is possible to be from the dramatic passions and insatiable appetites which populated her fiction.
Indeed, she would rather not have to scrape the pennies together in such a sordid fashion, but she did have a talent for it and her efforts sold extremely well. Very few of her guests knew her secret. The overwhelming majority assumed her to be a woman of independent means and impeccable refinement.
Whilst culture and refinement were not concepts that one might immediately associate with Charlie Tiptree, he and Mary were good friends. At Mary’s Soirées he was kind enough to play her excellent piano. They had first met some four years before at a church recital. The pianist was a friend of Mary’s, Mary had been chatting to him, and
Charlie had approached to offer his congratulations and talk about some issue of interpretation. Mary had been rather taken with this pleasant young man, some years her junior, but very friendly and clearly very musically knowledgeable. The three of them had settled down over coffee and Mary had exchanged contact details. When her friend, the pianist, moved to the States, it had seemed only natural to ask Charlie of he would mind playing. Mary felt rather as an affectionate older sister would feel towards a younger brother, and Charlie seemed very comfortable in the relationship.
Charlie had left Lance to his own devices. Lance being very pleased at having almost beaten Charlie during their round that afternoon, this seemed a safe enough option. Charlie had wandered along on the early side in order to sit down with Mary and settle on the tunes for the evening. She generally held strong opinions on the mood of the music she wanted.
As he bounded up the steps to the entrance of her handsome Georgian townhouse in Fitzroy Square he saw her waiting. Charlie was immediately aware that something was up. It was out of character for Mary to greet him in person on the doorstep. Whilst she was unable to run to a butler, Mary could afford a maid. It was the maid who would normally open the door, take Charlie’s coat, and usher him into Mary’s presence.
Mary held a finger to her lips and beckoned Charlie in, before leading him along to her study. From its sedate and clubbish feel, all leather and dark wood, one would never have guessed at the steamy scenes that had been composed at that very conservative desk on that very modern computer.
Mary’s normally lively green eyes were sombre. “Charlie,” she told him, as soon as they were seated in her comfy leather sofa. “Edith Hepple passed away early this morning. The hospital rang at around seven. Poor Rowena, she went straight round.”
Charlie gaped at her. “Mary, how strange! Things really do go in threes. I’ve had two deaths on my mind already today and this makes the third!” He shook his head. “Stupid remark! Sorry! It doesn’t matter. Forget about me and my superstitions. Poor Rowena and poor old you, Mary. You’d known Edith pretty much all your life hadn’t you?”
