Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  Nobody drinks the punch, I recalled her saying, as Walker, having shrugged his cuffs, reached forward, slowly, dramatically, reached for the hook on the top of the cloche, and, at that moment, behind me, the pub door opened, and everything got very interesting.

  “She used to say I’d be late for my own funeral, you know,” said a man’s voice, “but Maggie was wrong: I was late for hers. Hello Olivia. You’re looking well.”

  There came – from some of the guests – a communal gasp, someone – I couldn’t tell who - let loose a half strangled squeak that might have been a shriek, and a glass was dropped and smashed.

  Standing in the doorway was a tall, slim, rather dishy proposition. His hair was dark, curly on top, cropped tightly on the back and sides, and his tan was deep. By his side stood a small Louis Vuitton suitcase.

  Olivia stood frozen for a moment, as her face flickered from horror to happiness, on to confusion, back to horror, and then settled on something that looked like gastric problems.

  “Anthony. What. The hell. Are you doing here?” She asked, through a smile that didn’t look forced, so much as superimposed.

  “Me?” He arrived at her side, leaned forward to plant an air kiss on each of her cheeks, and she visibly recoiled for a second, before leaning in to the greeting. “I wanted to say goodbye to the old girl. She was almost the only good thing that ever happened to me here, you know. Almost.”

  He straightened up, looked around the room, and I noticed that the smile on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes, then turned back to Olivia.

  “I would have been here sooner, except I had a stopover in Bangkok, and the bloody plane broke down, so, well, you know how it is: when in Bangkok…”

  Olivia pulled back from him. “Same old Anthony,” she muttered.

  “Same,” he acknowledged, “but even older. So: what have I missed?” His coy gossipy manner failed – nor did I think it was ever intended - to mask his disdain.

  “Mr Bird,” Dave Walker appeared at my side. “We have a problem.”

  I turned, and followed his eyes to the punchbowl. In the drama that was unfolding, all eyes seemed to be fixed on the central tableau, which was a good thing, as it meant that nobody had looked at, or – thank Christ – attempted to drink from the Punch Bowl.

  Because, even from where I was standing, I could clearly see half a dozen fag butts floating on top of the punch, and a thick layer of fag ash collecting at the bottom of the bowl.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I never touched it.” Elaine spat the words out, her face a little pinched mask of fury.

  “Look, I get it: You didn’t want to be here; you don’t want to be spending your summer holidays working here. Well get this, Elaine: We didn’t want you here either, but your dear old Nannu wants this to happen, so unless you want me to call him right now and tell him why I won’t have you round here anymore…”

  I didn’t get to finish the sentence. Elaine’s eyes blazed furiously. “Listen, you fucking loser,” she said, “I don’t give enough of a fuck about this fucking place to sabotage your fucking Poofy Punch. Yeah, you’re right: I don’t wanna be here. But I am. And if I wanted out, I’d torch the fucking place and go off shopping. But I haven’t.”

  I looked around the kitchen, which appeared scarily huge, and oddly empty. I’d dragged Elaine straight back here, while Dave Walker had quietly removed the punch bowl, and Ali had – with much grumbling over the cost of the diversion – started opening and serving more champagne.

  “It’s not in the budget,” she’d muttered darkly.

  “Well neither was having our own fucking barroom Jihadist,” I’d snapped back.

  “It’s fagash, mate; not fucking decapitations,” she answered, before instructing the ASBO twins to get pouring.

  And so here I was, alone with Elaine, whilst – from the sounds of it – the wake matured into a full on party.

  Alone.

  With Elaine.

  Who was now giving me such evils that I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d lunged at me and attempted to throttle the life out of me.

  “No,” I admitted, “you’ve not torched the place. Cos that would hit Chopper in the pocket, and you wouldn’t want that. But you’ve done everything to fuck up my chances.”

  “Your chances?” She stage laughed. “Don’t make me fucking laugh. You’re running this fucking pub for my Granddad. You aint got no fucking chances. Cos as soon as he wants you out and some other nonce in here, you’ll be gone.

  “If I wanted to fuck up your chances, I’d make a call, sweet talk the old man, and you’d be out of here and straight into casualty at Saint Thomas’.”

  I had to admit that – chilling as her words were – she had a point. But Elaine, since arriving here with a snarl and an introductory announcement that “This place mings to Fucking Heaven,” which was not entirely untrue, but which, nonetheless, set a tone of anger, disdain and barely supressed menace, hadn’t exactly entranced me with her natural sweetness.

  “Listen,” she said, her pinched little face going a rather alarming pink, “you want to know who fucked up the punch? Check out that long streak of piss you got pushing it round like a fucking nanny. He had the stuff all to himself for ages. He could have dumped the fag ash in there himself.”

  I shook my head. “Why would he do that?”

  “Cos he’s already tried to make me look bad today and failed, so he decided to have another go.”

  Motive and opportunity. “Why would he do that?”

  Elaine threw herself back in her chair, exasperation making her throw her hands up, “’Cos he’s fucking mental, you twat! You all are. You got Dikearella stomping round behind the bar out there like it’s Stalag Fucking Southwark, the Queen of Sheba slumming it like she’s Princess Margaret, and them two numpties behind the bar.”

  “Danny,” I looked up. One of the numpties in question was standing in the doorway. “She’s right,” Dash said. “She couldn’t have sabotaged the punch. Elaine’s been behind the bar for the past hour. I’ve been watching her. She didn’t get back here.”

  Elaine turned her face towards him, a look of confusion softening the anger for a moment, before she turned back to me.

  “See?” she spat, and, kicking back the chair, she flounced out of the room, stopping only long enough to say, “You fucking watch me again, you nonce, and I’ll cut you,” to Dash, who blushed to his roots and, turning on his heels, followed her like a lap dog.

  I sat in silence, wondering what the fuck I was going to do with Elaine, whose dear old Nannu had – whenever he got angry – a tendency to make people – or at least various parts of them – disappear.

  He’d been running his empire with an iron fist for several decades now, and clearly some of his character had rubbed off on the third generation.

  But I was still fed up babysitting the grim granddaughter, and I determined to call him the next day and tell him she’d have to go; I’d had enough of her tantrums and her sabotage.

  Because what had just happened had to have been her. Hadn’t it? I mean: why on earth would Dave Walker have wanted to get her in trouble? What could she have possibly done to a middle aged waiter to piss him off enough to set her up?

  No, it didn’t make sense.

  I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t even realise someone had entered the kitchen and was advancing towards me until I looked up and started.

  Which, of course, since I’d been so still, caused Monica Vale to shriek and jump backwards.

  “I’m so sorry,” I rushed to my feet, arms held out to steady her.

  “You scared the living daylights out of me!” She stammered, still gasping for breath. “What the hell are you doing sitting alone in here.”

  “It’s,” I glowered, wondering why on earth I was about to justify my presence in my own kitchen, “My kitchen. I was thinking.”

  “Thinking?” She said in a tone that suggested she considered it an unsanitary and possib
ly unhealthy pastime. “Don’t think,” she shook her head, as though trying to clear the clouds that a trayfull of cocktails had placed there, “Do. That’s what I believe. Thinking is overrated. Action; that’s what counts.”

  “Okayyy,” I moved slowly towards her, as though attempting to snare a skittish dove, all the time wondering whether it was the heat that was making everyone a little weird today.

  “And why are you here?” I asked.

  “Oh,” she focussed on me, as though something had just registered, as though she was seeing me for the first time, and smiled a weary gap-toothed smile. “I’m looking for the loo. They said the ladies is closed. Out of order, or something.”

  “Ah,” I nodded, and, guiding her gently from the kitchen, directed her towards the loo at the end of the corridor.

  Monica glanced back over my shoulder at the chaos on the kitchen table. “Are they,” she asked “Chicken fingers?”

  “Thins,” I answered, thinking just fucking say yes, and get rid of her before she hurls all over the floor, “Chicken thins.”

  She nodded absently. “Thin’s good. They say. Make sure you keep me some,” and, smiling that gap-toothed smile again, she tottered off towards the loo.

  I went back into the kitchen, placed a tray of olives into the oven to warm while I piled the chicken fingers (goujons, thins, whatever) on two platters with bowls of home-made mayonnaise and Caesar dressing, and was just removing the olives from the oven when Dave Walker came in.

  “I know it’s not my place to say,” he said, deciding to say it anyhow, “But there’s an atmosphere in there you could cut with a knife. The way half of ‘em are looking at each other, I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t a punch up before the night is out. And as for them three useless kids you’ve hired…”

  I handed him the first of the platters, nodded wordlessly in the direction of the bar, and hoisted a tray with the bowls of warmed olives on it, following him out of the room.

  As we left, I heard the loo door slam shut, and, just as we reached the door to the bar, it opened, and the floppy-haired, chinless wonder that was Desmond Everett stood blocking my way.

  “Oh,” he blinked from behind his round horn rimmed glasses, looking, for all the world, like Harry Potter the Later Years, and said, in a tone that suggested he expected to be snarled at, “The Loo?”

  “Back there,” I jerked my head down the corridor, “But be prepared for a wait; I think there’s a queue.”

  “A wait,” he sighed as he stood aside and we passed into the bar. “Oh I can wait. I’ve been waiting most of my life.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the bar, the heat had built. Most of the male guests had taken their jackets off. The juke box had been switched on, albeit that the volume had been turned down so that the dulcet tones of late 80s Kylie Minogue were almost unheard under the rumble and chatter.

  Caz sidled up to me as I placed the last of the bowls of olives on the bar, and pulled me to one side.

  “It’s all going terribly well, but you really need to spend a bit more time out here with this lot. They’ve all been asking about you.”

  “Odd that, since you’ve painted me as something between Julia Childs and Taggart.”

  “Oh, dear heart,” she chuckled, tickling me under the chin, “You’re not that butch. Julia would have drunk you under the table. Now get out there,” she patted my behind, “And socialise.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  Caz paused, as though uncertain of where, exactly, she was going. “The loo,” she finally announced, smiling nervously. “Now, go,” she shooed me away, “Schmooze.”

  Lifting a glass of champagne from a passing tray, I strolled into the throng, desperately looking for someone I could stand and talk to. Everyone seemed to be in groups already, except for the latest arrival, who, curly hair glistening with pomade, stood, back to the bar, a glass of clear liquid in his hand.

  I strolled over, and introduced myself. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, looking sardonically around.

  “You think?” I was, quite frankly surprised. He didn’t seem the spit and sawdust type. Not, of course, that The Marq was a spit and sawdust pub. We were several notches below that.

  “Honest,” he smiled, turning his attention to me. “I’m Anthony Taylor. Maggie – the dearly deceased – was my aunt.”

  “So that would make you,” I guessed, gesturing at the figure of Olivia Wright, “Miss Wright’s cousin?”

  “Second cousin,” he clarified. “Maggie had a penchant for waifs and strays, and when my parents died, she adopted me. Livvy and her brother were always around the place, so we sort of grew up together. Then, when Olivia’s family was killed, Maggie sort of added her to the fold, so we were even closer for a bit.” He stared sadly into the middle distance.

  “Killed?” I found the choice of word odd.

  “Well, how else would you describe it? They were in a car – Livvy, her brother Damien, and her parents. It went over a cliff near Cap D’Antibes. Livvy was the sole survivor. She spent years in and out of hospitals having the scars dealt with.”

  He glanced, almost fondly, across the room. “Looks beautiful now, but you should have seen her before the accident. She was…” he searched for the words, and finally settled on “A vision. Mine was far less dramatic: Cancer and alcoholism within the space of three years.”

  “And you’ve been away,” I noted, gesturing at the suitcase by his side.

  “Mmm,” he said noncommittally, “And now I’m back. And not, it seems, a moment too soon. The vultures are already circling. Speaking of which…”

  He switched on a thousand watt smile and gestured expansively, splashing me, as he did so, with his drink The object of his enthusiasm, a tall, thin elderly gentleman with grey hair that had been backcombed and boufannted to a shape that could only be described as meringue-like, paused in his journey to the bar, and squinted suspiciously at Taylor.

  “Well, well, well,” Taylor smiled at him, though there was little – if any –warmth in the smile, “If it isn’t filthy Freddie. Freddie, have you met my new friend – heck, in this place, he feels like my only friend. Freddie Rosetti, this is Danny Bird. Danny runs this delightful establishment. Danny, this is Freddie. Freddie leeches off old ladies and – well, what do you do nowadays Freddie? You still talent spotting for Vogue?” Taylor tittered, and toasted silently to the elderly man, who, if looks could kill, would have been looking at a ten stretch.

  “Still the same old Anthony,” the older man managed to spit even though he was furiously chewing a wad of gum. “The angry angel to the end.”

  “Oh not angry, Freddie. I got over the anger long ago. No, nowadays, I like to think of myself as the, shall we say, avenging angel.”

  “Avenging?” Rosetti pulled himself up to his full height, which was considerably taller than Taylor’s, and looked haughtily down his nose at the other man, “I would have thought you were due some avenging on, surely?”

  “Sins of the past, Freddie,” Taylor replied, sipping from his glass, “We’ve all got ‘em. And we all need to atone for them. Isn’t that true, Danny?”

  I was mortified to have been dragged into what had felt like a standoff between two Tom Cats, and made various noises that said absolutely nothing, before Rosetti, still oozing sarcasm, nodded at each of us, “it’s been so nice talking to you Anthony. Now, I’ll let you crawl back inside your gin, while I go and spend a penny.”

  “Oh, I think there’s a queue,” I said to his back, but he was already gone.

  Taylor drained his glass. “Daniel,” he said conspiratorially, I don’t suppose you could be a gem and ask your bar staff for another Perrier for me. Only, they seemed keen to push the booze, and, well frankly, I don’t drink these days.”

  I called Dash over, instructed him to keep the soda water rolling for Mr Taylor, and, murmuring something about needing to check on the rest of the guests, rambled off into the crowd, only to be sna
gged by Olivia Wright herself.

  “What does he want?” She demanded.

  I was puzzled, before she nodded surreptitiously in Taylor’s direction, “Anthony. You’ve been speaking to him. What does he want?”

  Beside her, Kent Benson’s phone rang, and, excusing himself, he stepped away from his fiancée to answer it. Left alone, Olivia linked her arm through mine, and pulled me into a corner. I looked, worriedly, over her shoulder towards where I had last seen Anthony Taylor, but he was no longer propping up the bar.

  “So?” Olivia asked, “Why is he here?”

  “Um…” I racked my brains, “He.. Well, I don’t really know.”

  “What was he saying to you?”

  “To me? Um,” I prevaricated, knowing I was beginning to sound like an echo chamber, “He was talking.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  Oh shit. He was discussing your family history and how you were orphaned in a car crash. I really didn’t want this important customer thinking I’d been gossiping about her with her clearly estranged cousin. “He said how you and he had grown up together,” I blurted, deciding to skip the whole how you ended up growing up together bit.

  Olivia’s face clouded. She drained her champagne flute. “I think I loved him a little, you know,” she said, though I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or not.

  “Anthony was the most exciting person I’d ever met. He was,” she searched for the word, “wild. Maggie used to call him her angry angel.”

  I’d heard the phrase coming out of Rosetti’s lips just a few minutes earlier. Then, the angry had been stressed.

  “She’d tried so hard to help him, but Anthony as a child just seemed to have a self destructive streak. You name it, he did it. Drugs, drinking; he graduated from stealing from the tuck shop at school to stealing a Maserati from one of his school friends father’s, and using it to ram raid an off licence.”

  “It must have been difficult for your grandmother,” I mused.