The Stars' Tennis Balls

by Stephen Fry

  ‘For fuck’s sake . . .’

  ‘The journey will be painful. But no more painful than was mine. My driver John, his two friends the Draper brothers and ex-Superintendent Floyd will take you over the water. My driver John – you’ll remember him as Mr Gaine, he’s put on a bit of weight, but you’ll find he’s lost none of his charm – will dislocate your shoulder which will cause quite shattering pain. It will unbalance your walk, which we can’t have, so Rolf will dislocate the other one for you.’

  ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘If I’m insane then so are you. Nothing will happen to you that did not happen to me. You are a grown man. I was a frightened child.’

  ‘My family! I have a family. You’ve sat with my children.’

  ‘I had a family, Oliver. The Fendemans had a family. When you had me recite the name of Peter Fendeman into a tape-recorder, did you consider Portia’s family?’

  ‘But her father is fine! He was released after a week. Special Forces had been a little rough when they arrested him, but he was soon released. He’s alive, isn’t he? He’s happy? And think . . .’ Oliver was clutching at straws now. ‘Why did he name his daughter Portia? Remember Portia in The Merchant of Venice? “The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed. It blesses him that gives and him that receives.”’

  ‘How perfectly marvellous that you should mention Shakespeare’s Portia. A happy coincidence, I was about to come to the one option left open to you if you really do wish to avoid a lifetime as a guest of Dr Mallo.’

  ‘Yes? What? What is it?’

  ‘There are, in case you have forgotten, two Portias in Shakespeare. One, as you rightly pointed out just now, in The Merchant of Venice. But have you forgotten the other Portia. The Portia in Julius Caesar?’

  Oliver’s head was dizzy. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘She chooses to take her own life, if you recall, by swallowing hot coals. Always used to fascinate me as a child. How could it be done? Well, the Aga there is old-fashioned. The solid fuel type. There’s no other means of self slaughter in the room, I’m afraid. I’ve checked thoroughly and I know something about how rooms are furnished to prevent suicide. The floor and walls are rubberised, nothing metal, stone or wooden here. You could bash your head against the Aga I suppose, but I doubt it would kill you and it would certainly annul our agreement. It’s up to you. The plastic of your cuffs will melt against the stove very nicely. Agony, I should imagine, but it will work. You simply lift up the lid and help yourself. Basically, Oliver, it’s up to you. Swallow fiery coals like Portia or face the rest of your life in an insane asylum. You have ten minutes to make up your mind.’

  ‘You are mad.’

  ‘So you keep saying. I don’t understand how repeating it makes any difference. If it’s untrue then you can hardly expect me to be swayed by insult. If it’s true then I should have thought that it is even more useless to appeal to me. God have mercy on your soul either way, about sums it up. Nine minutes and forty-five seconds.’

  The others were in the sitting-room, clustered around Mr Gaine, who was having difficulty with a crossword. Ned helped them finish it.

  ‘That should be owl. “Tight as an –” Owl. You’ve put “eft”, John.’

  ‘Oh, well. Yeah. I reckoned, you know. An eft is a type of newt. Pissed as a newt, pissed as an eft.’

  ‘Mm,’ marvelling at Gaine’s thought processes, Ned checked that everything was ready.

  ‘Van warmed up? Good. The boat is ready. Everyone knows what they have to do.’

  ‘Everything ready, sir,’ said Floyd, smartly. ‘When we arrive at Levington it should be dark enough to –’

  The screams were like nothing anyone in the room had ever heard before. Mr Gaine and the Drapers had seen violence. Floyd had witnessed enough to last a lifetime, but this . . . this was something new. He started towards the kitchen, but Ned held his hand up to detain him.

  ‘Give him a moment,’ he said. ‘This is his choice.’

  The Drapers looked at each other with wide eyes. Gaine looked down at the carpet and Floyd stared at Ned. The screaming stopped.

  ‘Now I think,’ said Ned, who was the first to reach the kitchen door.

  Delft’s hair and clothes were on fire, blisters the size of oranges had ballooned from his lips and his mouth was screaming. He had no tongue and no vocal chords with which to make a sound. He was hurling himself against the wall, clawing at his body.

  He caught sight of Ned and lurched towards him. Ned smartly closed the door and bolted it. They heard the body bang against the rubber surface of the door.

  ‘We’ll give him another five minutes,’ he said. ‘He’ll be done then.’

  Floyd put a hand on Ned’s chest. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cotter,’ he said. ‘I don’t care how much you’re paying me. Someone’s got to go in there and put him out of his misery.’

  Ned slipped aside and led the way back into the sitting-room. ‘A word,’ he said. He stood and faced them with his back to the fireplace. ‘Now, let’s just sort ourselves out shall we? Mr Floyd, you arranged the lease of this house?’

  ‘You know I did, but what –?’

  ‘You paid in cash. The same with the car and the van?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No one knows you’ve been here. Once we’ve wiped all the prints, the place will be clean.’

  ‘That’s not the point, sir . . .’

  ‘Oh but it is, Mr Floyd.’ Ned took a small revolver from his pocket and shot Floyd through the throat. Moving round anticlockwise, he shot Gaine and the Drapers in the head. He dipped the end of the revolver in Gaine’s cup of tea on the table by the sofa and it hissed pleasingly. Ned drank the tea and dropped down to Gaine’s body. He pulled a set of car keys from the jacket, put them in his own pocket and moved to the kitchen.

  Delft was lying on the floor writhing and twitching.

  ‘One,’ whispered Ned, administering a final kick to the charred ruin beneath him.

  He drove the car as far as Peterborough, where he left it in the station car park, right next to the Lexus that he and Gaine had left there eight hours earlier. A busy day and still not over yet.

  Ned was surprised that he was trembling, for he knew that he was calm. He had that true calm that can only come to those who have earned their night’s repose. The peace that flows from true achievement.

  Now he was ready to turn his mind to good things. The memory of Babe would be celebrated in every major city from Copenhagen to Canberra. Libraries, schools, hospitals. An international university. Research centres. Orphanages run on new, enlightened principles. The children of the world would be enriched in mind and body. Portia would be by his side. Together they would rule the greatest charitable empire on earth. All the good that would flow from them. Maybe, in some extraordinary way, everything that had happened to him had been part of a great plan. How dull his life would have been without this great cause that had lit him from within for so many years. The stars had guided him well. They had led him to this great point.

  He looked across the street to the house. Through the darkness he saw that the lights were on in one room only. Portia and Albert would be sitting in the kitchen, perhaps, talking quietly.

  He rang the doorbell, but there was no reply. He rang again. A cat leapt down from the wall and rubbed itself against his ankles, mewing plaintively. Ned heard another plaintive sound from within, a low whining chant that he could not understand. He pushed against the door which swung open on its hinges. The cat jumped in ahead of him.

  ‘Portia? Are you there? Portia, it’s Ned.’

  The chanting grew louder. Ned saw a light shining through the kitchen hatch and walked round into the dining-room.

  ‘Portia, it’s me. What are you doing here?’

  A black cloth had been hung over the mirror above the sideboard and on a low stool sat Peter, his jacket and tie ripped. His eyes were cast down to
the floor and he was chanting a Hebrew prayer.

  ‘Peter? It’s me. You remember me?’

  Peter lifted his eyes. ‘Ned. I remember you. It’s Ned.’

  ‘Where are Portia and Albert?’

  ‘Gone. They are gone. My brother’s son is dead, did you know?’

  ‘Where? Where have they gone?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Ned left the room and ran upstairs. Clothes trailed across the floor, wardrobes hung open, bottles of shampoo and tubes of toothpaste had fallen into the basin under the bathroom cabinet and the floor was littered with pill-bottles and combs and bars of soap. They had left in a hurry, in a terrible panic. Did they think they had something to fear from him? From Ned?

  He rushed downstairs again. The old man’s moaning was driving him crazy.

  ‘Where did they go? They must have told you.’

  Peter said nothing but continued to rock backwards and forwards, singing his prayers. Ned went into the kitchen to find some milk. The light of the fridge shone onto the table and that is where he saw the envelope.

  Ned Maddstone

  He remembered her handwriting! From all those years he remembered her handwriting. He held the envelope to his cheek.

  ‘Now go,’ Peter’s voice came through the hatchway. ‘Go and never come back. You’ve done enough. Go.’

  He sat in the car and wept. Nothing for him. Just the old letters. Not even a note. She couldn’t hide from him. His power would uncover her wherever she was in the world.

  What then? Suppose he found her. What would he do then? Keep her prisoner? Force her to marry him? It was too late. It had always been too late.

  Ned knew exactly what he had to do. He had to go home. It was so simple. So obvious. He must go home, away from the noise and terror of the world. Home, where it was either light and bright, or cosy and dark. Home, where they understood him. Home, where there was peace and ease and gentleness and love. Home, in every language that he spoke, it was the best and strongest word. Home. His Swedish island. Where his friends lived and where the ghost of Babe would come to him and teach him more.

  *

  He stood on the deck looking back towards England. He let the pieces of paper fly from his hand and dart like butterflies in the wake. They came from the last century, an age when lovers wrote letters to each other sealed up in envelopes. Sometimes they used coloured inks to show their love, or they perfumed their writing-paper with scent.

  He slowly ripped the last of them, just glimpsing down at a halved sheet.

  I picture your hair flopping down as you write, which is enough to make me writhe and froth like a . . . like a . . . er, I’ll come back to you on that one. I think of your legs under the table and a million trillion cells sparkle and fizz inside me. The way you cross a ‘t’ makes me breathless. I hold the back of my envelope to my lips and think of you licking it and my head swims. I’m a dotty dippy dozy dreadful delirious romantic and I love you to heaven.

  Ned let the wind whip it from his hand.

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  Epub ISBN 9781409022350

  Version 1.0

  Published by Arrow Books 2001

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  Copyright © Stephen Fry 2000

  Stephen Fry has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Hutchinson

  Arrow Books

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099471554