Charlie Had His Chance Page 2

  “You don’t fucking understand!! You have no fucking idea!! You have no fucking idea, all you fucking people, you just don’t fucking get it! I’m fucking sick of your smug fucking faces staring at me. Fuck off, FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF!!!”

  “Call the Police, mate! ‘e’s a bleedin’ nutter!” Cab drivers, it arbitrarily occurred to Charlie, can be so free with their advice or, more often, abuse. They’re especially free if they have a clear road ahead of them and can drive rapidly into the distance, and safety. One of Charlie’s friends had even once ventured the opinion that taxi drivers have the largest mouths and smallest testicles of all humanity – the latter being an evolutionary quirk attendant on the body’s innate desire for a comfortable working environment in a confined space.

  Charlie had no time to hurl any Darwinian insults after the cabbie. Had one even occurred to him, he wouldn’t have wanted to draw the attention of this large, deranged person to him.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t be noticed. He froze and smiled glassily at the side of the madman’s head. This person had to be mad, didn’t he? All that shouting and swearing! No one sane would do that. Only cyclists swore that much, usually at people who had the effrontery to use a zebra crossing for its intended purpose or were in their way when they mounted the pavement. Everyone knew cyclists were mad. Individuals hailing cabs from the wrong side of the road might shout, with good reason, but seldom swore. Malcontents yelling on a protest march hardly counted - they had to be mad to bother protesting in the first place.

  The loony turned his head in Charlie’s direction. This was bad. This was very bad. Charlie began to edge backwards. The man was big, burly and dangerous. Charlie prepared himself for precipitate flight. Fighting was not in his nature.

  Only; what was this? Charlie’s frozen smile faded and his mouth began to drop open. He knew the man! He may not have seen him for twelve years but he knew him instantly! The eyes were crazed, bloodshot and darkly ringed. The face had more lines, but there was no doubting it was him. This was not good at all. The day had gone from fine, to ok, to good, to really, really dark in such a short space of time.

  And the day hadn’t even started that long ago, little more than two hours in fact.

  ~

  As he’d finished dressing and picked up his watch Charlie had noticed it was two thirty. That wasn’t bad. Charlie had thanked his lucky stars that his sandy hair was like a well-trained sheepdog. It instantly obeyed all reasonable commands and was unswervingly loyal. No more sign of it thinning than there was of Cole Porter writing a bad song, or rabbits turning celibate. He’d run a comb through it twice and promptly turned his thoughts to breakfast.

  In the mirror he’d looked ok, from a distance anyway, and he’d felt fine. There was a new Tiptree approach to alcohol in place. Drink responsibly, and touch nothing but champagne or vodka martinis. So far, on that front, so good. Liver permitting, your body will scarcely notice the impact and your head will never protest too loudly when you eventually wake up.

  Charlie had sauntered into the kitchen and reviewed the short note his maid of all work had left for him. It sat in its usual place by the kettle. Since she was booked for three hours in the morning, he and Magda met each other infrequently. Her system suited both of them. Magda, being a highly qualified biochemist in her native Lithuania, and therefore on the logical and analytical side, had rightly judged that something very simple was needed. She knew that Charlie could read and write, even if his ability to use any more sophisticated means of communication was limited.

  A single page of instructions and information therefore awaited Mr Tiptree at whatever hour his day began. She told Charlie, for example, which bedroom to use so she was able to clean the others in rotation without disturbing his hard-earned rest. She listed what ready meals were in the freezer and wrote down what she was planning to purchase over the next couple of days. Charlie simply ticked his preferences and left cash to pay whatever receipts Magda had provided.

  Magda enjoyed working for Charlie – it was highly lucrative for one thing. Charlie hated coins and rarely seemed to have small denomination notes. He merely scribbled ‘keep the change’ on the sheet. Magda’s Granny was well on the way to becoming the best-dressed pensioner in her village on the back of Charlie’s generosity.

  Furthermore, Magda liked Charlie on a personal level, more for his invisibility than any special quality in his character. Magda was an attractive girl, and many of her clients spent too much time getting under her feet and gawping at her. Their eyes notified her, none to subtly, that they would like to do sex with her. Strangely, she wouldn’t have minded if Charlie had shown some interest in that direction. He was hardly the most handsome man she’d ever met, but he was tall and his frame was wiry. He also had a very pleasant smile. When amused, Charlie’s dark brown eyes lit up and his slightly dazed or confused expression vanished entirely.

  Charlie had brewed his tea and popped the bread into the toaster before wandering to collect the post from his doormat.

  There were those fellow lessees in his Mayfair block who muttered darkly at the colossal level of the Service Charge required to support twenty four hour porterage. They complained bitterly that it was too high a price to pay for having one’s post placed outside one’s door and being greeted respectfully by name on entering the building. There were even those who went so far as to say that the porters swarmed and became a plague at around Christmas time - when the tipping season was at its height.

  Charlie had no time for such carping. There were innumerable occasions when he’d struggled home at four in the morning and the night porter had been on hand to steady him as he negotiated the entrance. The man was generally also good enough to escort Charlie to his flat and admit a chap to his premises. This avoided any more of those awkward scenes if Charlie happened to lurch out of the lift on the wrong floor. It was not unknown for him to spend a few minutes cursing as his key failed to open what he thought was his door. There had been complaints, many from Mrs Fotherington on the floor immediately above him. As all were aware, and were never permitted to forget, she had infested the building for a great many years and treated any disturbance with a painful disdain.

  Charlie had scooped up two envelopes. One, being junk mail, was consigned promptly to the shredder – given his costly brush with identity theft, it was a case of once bitten...never again you bastards!

  The other he had read with a deepening frown. “Cheeky buggers,” he told the toaster indignantly.

  Charlie had a deeper voice than one might expect of his appearance. One or two young ladies of his acquaintance had even been heard to comment, in some surprise, that it was quite masculine.

  “Specialists in young and problem drivers they tell you,” he muttered. “Utter crap!

  Dear Mr Tiptree, We are concerned by the third incidence of an accident involving an inanimate object during the indemnity period, bla, bla. They should try driving the damn thing and reading a map!

  Though the speed of the impact was relatively low, your Bentley is an expensive vehicle to repair. As if I wouldn’t know that! And what’s insurance for then? Accordingly, we have to warn you that a further incident prior to the expiration of the indemnity period will leave us no option but to refuse to offer a renewal proposal. Brilliant! Oh, great! And they won’t even pay to fix the fridge.

  Our loss adjusters have tested the system and find it to be adequate. They suggest your champagne may be too warm if the refrigerator is loaded above its design capacity – as noted during their inspection. Oh, ha, ha! We await your written agreement to the withdrawal of this element of your claim prior to authorising the works. Heaven has to wait!”

  Charlie had sighed as the toaster delivered the goods.

  “You have to do everything for them on the Internet,” he complained. “But when it comes to a claim e-mails are ‘unacceptable’. Whatever I do, it won’t be fixed for the weekend so how am I going to get to Brighton? That is the question.”

  Kitc
hen gadgets and fittings are useful for their designated tasks but journey planning is not one of them, not yet at least. Charlie, perforce, had to fall back on his own resources.

  He’d considered hiring a car, but it was such a hassle; proofs of address and Driving Licences were required, then there was the faff of going to collect it, or being awake and then parking it downstairs without scraping it if they dropped the damn thing off.

  A cab, he thought, might be on the pricey side and not wildly comfortable for a long journey - and you’d have to listen to the driver all the way. What about, he wondered, the train – avoid the traffic, probably quicker than travelling by road into the bargain. He had heard horror stories of rail replacement buses and delays due to late running of engineering works but he was planning to travel on Friday and return late on Monday. Perhaps he could avoid all those nightmares if he avoided travelling over the weekend itself.

  “Charlie,” he’d told himself. “It’ll give you something to do with the rest of the afternoon.” He’d glanced out of the window. The weather was dry. Yes, he could stroll down to Victoria and check that trains ran from there to Brighton. Better to do that than rely on assurances from some of his friends. He recalled only too vividly the incredulous face of the man in the ticket office at Waterloo when he asked, after fifteen minutes in the queue, which platform he needed for trains to Durham. Charlie didn’t mind laughing at himself just as much as other people did, but there was only so much of it he wanted to volunteer for.

  Many terms have been coined for Charlie Tiptree and his ilk. They include ‘gainfully unemployed’, ‘funemployed’, ‘leeches’,’ parasites’ and so on, but ‘idle rich’ has seldom been bettered.

  It was his parents’ trust fund, and that of an aunt, which had allowed Charlie to party away much of the previous night. A small army comprising lawyers, accountants and fund managers laboured long and hard so that Charlie Tiptree could spend ten minutes deciding whether or not a jacket was essential, or merely desirable, before emerging from his block.

  At three thirty in the afternoon the evening commute had been far from starting its urgent and aggressive business. It had, therefore, been a pleasant stroll down to Piccadilly, across Green Park and thence to Victoria. That unseen army dedicated to Charlie’s continued life of leisure would, no doubt, have been gratified that one, at least, of those for whom they strove was so enjoying the fruits of their labours.

  Charlie had congratulated himself on the success of his mission. Yes, indeedy, trains did depart for Brighton from Victoria and he could, if he was up to it, even book a ticket online. He thought Magda might help him on that front – if he left her a note. Charlie was now able to contemplate the possibility of a Bentley-free trip to Brighton with far greater equanimity – possibly even a certain relief. Charlie did love the vehicle as a concept, did enjoy sitting in it when it was at rest with the keys securely in his pocket. It was opulent, comfortable and had a timeless sense of solidity. The real problem was that once in motion he was never entirely clear who controlled the direction and velocity.

  And all that joy had turned to ashes and wormwood in an instant. He knew the madman in front of him!

  Worse still, one might think, Charlie spoke up. “Lance Savage?” The words were out before Charlie could even contemplate putting a stop to them.

  Lance stared back blankly. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Charlie stuck out his hand. “Charlie Tiptree. I don’t suppose you’d remember me.”

  Lance took Charlie’s proffered hand mechanically. “Tiptree. Remember the name. Can’t say I recognise you.”

  “I was very young.”

  “Yeah, looks like you still are.”

  “What’s the matter, Lance; why were you shouting?”

  “Toe-rags,” muttered Lance, with a sidelong glance at where his escort would have been, had this gentleman not deemed his task to be done and disappeared – there’s nothing that makes a man’s day more than leaving a large, unstable thug in someone else’s care.

  “Bit of trouble. Some toe-rag was going on about something. I don’t know. Bit of a mess at home. Nightmare, really.”

  “Where’s that, where’s home?” Charlie thought it best to steer clear of ‘trouble’ and to keep Lance talking – then he might not shout.

  “Godalming. Walked out. Got fucking fed up with it.”

  “Must have been a massive row if you came all the way to Victoria.” Charlie was keeping his voice calm and neutral. He always did that with drunken girls and had found it fairly effective. They usually fell asleep then, which was the best thing they could do - unless they lapsed sloppily from slumber into a coma and death.

  Lance stared blankly at the nearest wall. “Is that where I am?”

  “Victoria it is Lance. You’re not really yourself are you? Have you been arguing a lot at home then?”

  “I think so. I’m so fucking tired. I can’t sleep and it’s pick, pick, pick all the time.”

  “Well women can go on a bit, sometimes.”

  “What? Women? What the fuck do you mean? My father’s the worst. What does he know?”

  “Sorry Lance, I thought you might have had a row with your wife. Look, you’re out on your feet. Why don’t we grab a cab back to my place, I’ll knock up a coffee and see what I can do.”

  “Got any Scotch? I need a fucking drink, Tiptree.”

  “I think so; not my favourite tipple but I’m sure there’s a bottle somewhere.”

  The cab ride was short but the cab driver was nervous. He assumed, not without some justification, that Lance was drunk or spaced out.

  “E frows up you clean it up or pay a fine,” he kept muttering, initially unmoved by Charlie’s reassurances. It was only Charlie’s mention of immigrants which distracted their driver’s attention and ensured a warm and marginally more varied ten minute monologue.

  Throughout the journey Lance alternatively stared unseeingly at the passing scenes or at the back of the cabby’s neck, his head nodding very slightly but continuously. Charlie thought it best to leave him in peace rather than risk provoking any further outburst. The cabbie was, after all, making enough noise for three.

  It had to be his luck, thought Charlie, as the porter opened the door to his block with the faintest of smiles. Mrs Fotherington was at that very moment leaving the building.

  “Afternoon Mrs Fotherington,” Charlie greeted her, as respectfully and politely as he knew how.

  She gazed reprovingly upon Charlie and turned up her nose at Lance. “Mr Tiptree,” she sniffed. “This has to be a record, even for you.” The porter smiled dutifully.

  Charlie smiled nervously. “Oh no, I’ve been up for hours, I’m sure. I just bumped into someone I knew at school. He’s not all that well, not sleeping so…”

  “Young people fail to understand that partying into the small hours and beyond will disrupt sleep patterns,” Mrs Fotherington announced, grandly. “You and your friend should learn that simple truth, Mr Tiptree. If you could make an effort to do so, then your fellow lessees will not be disturbed by your antics at ungodly hours of the night and morning.”

  Charlie nodded. “I’m doing my best, Mrs Fotherington, trying to cut back a bit, you know.”

  “I do not know, Mr Tiptree, but I am delighted to hear that you are pursuing more sober habits. I trust this means that I will be able to sleep securely in my bed in future. Good afternoon.”

  Lance had stared unblinkingly at Mrs Fotherington throughout the exchange. She had been concentrating on Charlie as she spoke and only darted a glare at Lance as she was about to leave. Whatever it was she saw in his stare had her scuttling out of the front door of the block faster than a photon torpedo.

  “Could ‘ave been worse, Mr Tiptree.” The porter winked as he summoned the lift.

  “Yes, George it could.” Charlie stared for a moment at the door through which Mrs Fotherington had so precipitately departed and then turned thoughtfully to Lance.

  “In we go,�
� he called cheerfully. “Third floor.”

  Almost anyone who knew Charlie would have been perplexed by his behaviour thus far. In fact, at that point in his life, it would have been everyone in London who knew him. He was generally regarded as averse to a confrontation where it could possibly be avoided. He was therefore considered to be weak. He would rather ask for something politely than demand it as of right. He preferred not to snap his fingers at waiters or shout to bar staff. This attitude gave him the impression of being somewhat ineffectual and flaky – a less than commanding presence in fact. Charlie might also be altruistic to the extent of handing over his change and making donations to charity. However, his prissy reluctance to have his flat expensively trashed for parties after the first three incidents seemed to betray a lack of any deeper love for his fellow man.

  Accordingly, his prompt invitation to Lance would have seemed completely out of character. Would he be expected to invite homeless drunks back to his spacious and immaculate home? Emphatically not!

  The story of how Charlie and Lance had first met was not something that Charlie had ever chosen to share with anyone, but it was the principal explanation for his actions.

  Charlie, aged eleven, had not been at his boarding school for long before he attracted the attention of a very nasty little trio of fourteen year olds. These odious creatures were led by one Douglas Klarte. Their aim, put simply, was to scare the living daylights out of anyone younger or weaker than them. Any money or influence they could extort was almost incidental to the mildly erotic thrill derived from drooling over the abject fear in another boy’s eyes.

  Charlie recalled the incident as if it was yesterday. He’d never been as terrified before or since. He’d been snapped up, unsuspectingly, at the edge of the playing fields and pinioned to the ground. His shirt was ripped open. Douglas Klarte, lock knife in hand, was running the weapon up and down Charlie’s naked chest and stomach, almost not managing to break the skin. The most disturbing part of the whole assault was the silence in which it was carried out. Klarte kept one finger to his lips to indicate all too clearly that Charlie should not make a sound.