by Robyn Elliot
“Come on,” Annelise said, and Stephane got up, followed her into the living room, giving his brother a dark look before he did.
Stephane slumped in the armchair, aware Annelise was staring at him.
“What’s up, doc?” she asked, and Stephane slowly relaxed, smiling, seeing her expression.
“Do you think you’re the first person to ever say that to me?”
“No, but I still enjoyed it.”
Stephane held Annelise’s gaze for a few moments, then relented. “He’s always taking the piss.”
“He doesn’t mean it.”
“I know…it’s just, you know, sometimes…”
“Yes?”
“Well…for a start, I’m not a complete cock rat.”
“I know that, babe.”
Stephane noted the endearment. And the belief in him.
He really liked Annelise. He thought she was the best thing to happen to his pain of a brother for a long time. Guillaume had been his equivalent for a while, in the heterosexual stakes. They’d compared sexual experiences, both brothers chronically frank with each other about the ins and the outs. Stephane had seen the change in his brother with Annelise right from outset. All that angst and frantic sleeping around had stopped the moment Guillaume had met her.
He had told Stephane he was hopelessly in love, and Stephane had dampened down his own feelings of wistful jealousy as he had hugged him to wish him well. Annelise made it easy to keep the jealousy at bay. If anything, Stephane was wishing he could find the male counterpart of the sweet-natured, lovely looking girl sitting in front of him.
“What are you thinking?”
“How great you are,” Stephane said, quite seriously.
They stared at each other, then laughed.
“What happened this morning? And is that coat in the kitchen his? I thought I didn’t recognize it, too sensible for you.”
“Yes, it’s his; looks like some sixty-year old’s, doesn’t it?”
They looked at each, paused, then laughed again.
In the kitchen, the soft whirr of the dishwasher struck up its reassuring cadence, and Guillaume padded off to his study to do some paperwork. Discreet, thoughtful, despite the piss taking; he knew his kid brother liked to talk to Annelise and gave them time and space to do so.
“Just this guy…he took a panic attack, and I helped him get through it...that’s it…”
Annelise watched him, as Stephane rubbed at his beard, pondering.
“He might need his coat back, Stef.”
With that, Stephane got up and disappeared for a few moments. He came back in with the coat. Annelise could see it was very good quality. And that it really would look good on a sixty-year old man. Somehow, she knew this guy was nowhere near that, and the whole idea intrigued her. That, and Stephane’s defensiveness.
“Let me have a look,” and Stephane passed the coat into her outstretched hands. It was heavy, soft, and she could smell the faint aroma of aftershave, an astringent smell that reminded her of antiseptic.
“Control freak,” she delivered her judgement.
“Hmm,” Stephane raised his brows in remembrance, “you’re so right.”
“Really?” Annelise asked, pleased with herself. ” It’s the aftershave, very…’safe’. “
Stephane blew out his cheeks, thinking about typhoon Danny. In fact, he had been thinking about him for most of the day. The train of his thoughts were increasingly alarming him. The mad scientist was not – repeat not – Stephane emphasized to himself, as he had been doing mantra-like all day – his type. No. Definitely not. Without a shadow of a doubt. Not his type. No, siree. Too skinny, for a start. Too pale. Well, too weird, actually. Looking up at me this morning, thought Stephane, in a huff because he hadn’t got his cwoffee, and wow, I could have skied down those amazing cheekbones – correction, those weird cheekbones. And there I was, thought Stephane with even more alarm bells sounding, looking right back at him, Einstein’s long lost nephew, and had felt my cock stirring.
“So?”
“He’s a regular, so I’ll just take the coat back with me tomorrow.”
“Hmm, it’s a bit of him, here, right now, isn’t it?” Annelise suggested, pointedly, staring at Stephane, who, to her amazement, colored slightly. She started to rummage through the pockets.
“What are you doing?” Stephane asked her, leaning forward, trying to retrieve the coat in vain.
“You mean you haven’t gone through his pockets?”
“No!”
Annelise made a snorting sound. “Men!”
Stephane watched her, her fingers plunging in the deep pockets seeking clues to the life story of the coat’s owner. The bounty gave forth a linen handkerchief. She held it aloft, waving it in the air as if by doing so, she’d believe what she was seeing. At one of the corners of the material, the initials DH.
“God, he isn’t actually 60, is he? Who has real handkerchiefs these days? So Dickensian!”
Stephane took the linen handkerchief into his hands, and was relieved it hadn’t been used. There were no tell-tale stains of nose blowing – or any kind of blowing - thankfully. Danny! He didn’t register a moment’s surprise, to learn that Danny used linen handkerchiefs. Listen to yourself, he thought, like I’ve known him half my life. The white face of the mad scientist flooded into Stephane’s senses again, and he glanced quickly at Annelise. She was too busy peering at the linen handkerchief.
“What’s the initials stand for? Did you get his name?”
“Danny,” advised Stephane, and the name sounded slightly sugary on his tongue. That didn’t strike a chord at all. Stephane saw him as an Edward, or even more accurately, a Tarquin. Yes, definitely a Tarquin who works in a laboratory completely on his own, with only test tubes for conversation.
“That’s a nice name,” Annelise said, her eyes moving over Stephane’s face.
“U-huh,” Stephane affirmed, seeing her knowing look.
With Stephane not giving anything away, Annelise resumed her rummaging. She paused, fiddled a bit in the lining of the pocket, and plucked out a business card. Stephane watched as she waved it at him triumphantly.
“And what do we have here?” She read it, Stephane watching her eyes skim over the small, laminated card. Wordlessly, she passed it to Stephane.
‘Daniel P Hastings, Barrister at Law, Morton Chambers, Lampeter Row, NW19. E: [email protected] t: 020 379888443798.’
Stephane stared at the card, disbelieving what he was seeing. You’ve got to be kidding, came the thought.
“Danny, the lawyer, then…” Annelise murmured, and lay the overcoat gently over the arm of the sofa. She watched Stephane, still staring at the card, holding it tentatively.
Barrister? An image suddenly swam before Stephane’s eyes of Danny in his long black court gown, wig perched on his fair, wavy hair. That’s another thing, thought Stephane; there was a distinct suggestion of redhead in that hair, and I like my guys nice and dark, thanks. There I go again, he went on, and he’s not my type. Geeks do nothing for me, oddly enough.
The renewed stirring in his cock set off more alarms. The thought of Danny – the idea of Danny in a court gown – seemed to be making Stephane and cock have a divergence of opinion.
“I can’t believe the guy I saw this morning is a barrister…he was all over the place; flapping about, panicking, throwing papers all over Guillaume's desk…you know, he reminded me of a mad scientist, very eccentric, weird. “
“You never answered my question,” Annelise remarked, noting how Stephane was keen to retrieve the overcoat and lay it across his knees.
Guillaume was on the phone, evidently. To France. His rapid French filtered into Stephane’s awareness, distracting him, and he called something back in French to Guillaume.
“C'est Delphine!” his brother confirmed, and Stephane nodded, satisfied. As long as it wasn’t Papa, checking up on him, like he was still a kid.
“Stef?”
“Hmm?” St
ephane laughed, seeing her frustration. “He was weird looking, okay?”
That didn’t head Annelise off at the pass. “Weird good? Or just plain weird?”
“Is there a weird good?”
“Well, yes, he might be quirky, or his looks might be unconventional; that doesn’t mean you weren’t attracted to him…and you were, weren’t you, you love machine, you!” Stephane gave Annelise one of his smoldering looks. “Don’t try that on with me, I’m as good as married to your brother; and anyway, I’m not your type, babe.”
“Neither’s he, promise…”
“Really? Is that why you nicked his coat?”
“I didn’t ‘nick’ his coat, as you say, and you know I hate those English slang words.” Stephane decided to be sniffy – he had been brought up in a chateau, after all.
“You’re half English, and you talk slang yourself, doc.”
Annelise knew that would infuriate him. His dark gray eyes showed briefly a flare of temper.
“I’m French, and don’t forget it!”
“I wonder if Danny would like that short fuse of yours,” Annelise mused, and glanced at Stephane’s crotch for effect. Guillaume had told her his brother had been not only in front of the queue on the day the penises were being distributed, but that Stephane had been the queue.
She got up, and swept past him, ruffling his hair.
“Coffee?”
He nodded, still looking at the card.
“You’re not off the hook yet, by the way,” Annelise shouted from the kitchen, “I want to know everything about your lovely Danny; star sign, inside leg measurement, dietary habits – that, definitely, when you invite him over for dinner.”
“He’s not my Danny!” Stephane insisted.
The overcoat felt heavy over his knees, and he lifted it to rest over the back of the armchair. The aftershave – astringent indeed – caught his nostrils, making them wrinkle. He wondered if Danny’s court gown would have the same aroma clinging to it. Or his skin, very pale, smooth skin, Stephane had noted; his neck, with the pulse beating furiously as Danny had reached melt down, was lean and white too. Stephane liked his lovers nice and toned, preferably lightly suntanned. Not white and bloodless, he thought, like Nosferatu’s cousin, of Morton Chambers.
Stephane mark II was at it again. Look, I call the shots, Stephane grimacing, shifted in the chair, as his already tight cotton shorts started to become uncomfortable. Stephane mark II was one of the names Guillaume had kindly given to his brother’s rampant cock. Among others, though He Who Must Be Obeyed, was Stephane’s favorite. Whatever epithet for the straining against his pants now, Stephane had an erection situation going on that required immediate negotiation. For the second time today, down to that weird guy who masqueraded as a barrister, Stephane had been required to attend to the beast in the cellar of his pants. He’d managed a quick one mid-morning in the lavatories at Guillaume’s, between the late breakfasts and brunches. As customers had blissfully crunched at their honeyed toast, the new handsome waiter had been producing his own nectar to a rapid conclusion.
He usually wasn’t that bad. Much.
“Stef?” Annelise called out, the delicious aroma of coffee drawing Guillaume from his study instead.
He poked his head around the door, winking at his kid brother. “Okay, Stef?” he asked, wanting to make up for earlier.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” Stephane assured.
Whilst Annelise and Guillaume sat and drank their coffee, Stephane was as good as his word. His coffee sat on the table, cooling from neglect, as upstairs in the temple of masturbation, occasionally passing for Stephane’s bedroom, Stephane and He Who Must Be Obeyed reached a pleasing outcome to their negotiations over the lawyer of the year.
Chapter Two
“Mr. Hastings, approach the bench, please.”
The words brought Danny back from his fumbling of his papers. Junior barrister Maria de Luis, his assistant this morning, made a sound under her breath, denoting her increasing irritation with the so called more experienced barrister. Unbeknownst to Danny, she had already spoken to Hugo de Colonna about her concerns; that her pupillage was being compromised even by her very occasional court sessions with the unpredictable Mr. Hastings. Hugo told her to be his eyes and ears, and had tapped the side of his nose dramatically, to emphasize the range of his sensory expectations.
She was proving an adept Mata Hari, even if she was Hugo’s unknowing foil. Saying that, the word was already out. Hugo didn’t need to load the gun. Danny was in charge of his own arsenal, and assiduously making the bullets while he was at it. Danny Hastings was falling apart. Publicly. It was sweeping through Chambers and Law Courts quicker than a forest fire in the outback. Some judges always went for the kill, even when there was just a hint of blood. This particular judge’s olfactory ability was legendary.
Danny glanced at Bob Winter, a furious look exchanged between them. That they detested each other was a given. Danny knew Bob Winter had been continuing to bullshit him right up to the point he had to start presenting the case this morning. Danny required full control of all his cases, and that included his clients not feeding him lines. If Danny had been a space commander in this instant, he’d have been Scotty at warp speed, unable to hold onto his nerves for much longer.
Danny made the long walk, his shoes echoing on the polished wooden surface of the floor, floorboards creaking under him, as he approached the jaws of Purgatory. Aka Mr. Justice Hargreaves’ bench. The hunted approached the hunter.
Philip Hargreaves drummed his fingers resoundingly, as the tall figure, bewigged, begowned, bedraggled, obeyed his instruction. His piercing blue eyes bore into Danny’s pale ones, saw there what he despised in anything and anyone. Weakness. Seek out and destroy, his motto, according to court wags.
Prosecuting counsel stood up, to follow Danny, but Justice Hargreaves waved his hand dismissively at Josephine Lamond. This wasn’t about a point of law. This was about the erratic behavior of the defendant’s barrister who, for the past hour, had floundered his way through questioning, had got his papers mixed up repeatedly, and then indulged in a five minute highly vocal discussion with Maria de Luis and Peter Hines, Bob Winter’s solicitor, about missing documents.
Justice Hargreaves leaned forward, less judge, more wolverine.
“Are you all right, Mr. Hastings?” came the fatal words. Quietly uttered, but portentous in their simplicity. The translation was straightforward for Danny. You’re just not up to it, Mr. Hastings, and I am making that perfectly clear now, before the court, in my courtroom.
Danny rubbed his hand distractedly over his brow, turned around briefly to glance at a glowering Josephine Lamond. She was whispering something to her coven, as her junior, solicitor and clerk, all returned Danny’s flickering look as one.
No, thought Danny, you bastard, of course I’m not all right. I woke up this morning – well, got up, seeing as I was awake all night – with a pain in my chest that is getting worse every time I breathe out. I’m okay as long as I can breathe in. Breathing out? Not so good. So there was an obvious imbalance here, that might cause a few problems in the long term. Like remaining alive.
“It’s anxiety,” Katharine had assured him earlier, as Danny had insisted she take his pulse. Kevin Leary, clerk of Chambers, had walked in on them, saying nothing, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
“But the pain in my chest?” Danny had objected to her common sense diagnosis “I know, I know, you can get aches and pains with anxiety, I know all that…but really, this pain is different.”
Kevin hadn’t been able to keep schtum for long. “What, like the headache that was a brain tumor?”
“It was one hell of a headache, and the doctor did not discount one,” Danny had snapped, rubbing at his wrist from Katharine's less than gentle pulse taking technique.
“Danny, you’re a bloody hypo, you really are,” Kevin had affirmed. Danny had ignored the subtle piece of insight offered him, and started to take his own
pulse.
“I’m perfectly well, your Honor,” Danny said now, with a calmness he assuredly wasn’t feeling. He saw the beak’s eyes move over his features, as if examining him for tangible traces of insanity.
“You do seem,” Justice Hargreaves paused, raising his eyes to the court, briefly but effectively, before delivering his verdict, “somewhat ill, Mr. Hastings.” Behind him, there was a cough, masking a snigger. Danny stopped rubbing his brow, and began rubbing his chest. The fierce eyes followed the movement of Danny’s lean fingers. “Mr. Hastings, I think a brief recess is in order; I’ll speak to you in my chambers.”
Danny nodded in defeat. There was no point arguing. He’d already lost the argument with himself. He walked away from the bench, and listened to the gavel’s thunderous herald as recess was called for one hour.
“What the fuck is going on now?” Bob Winter asked Danny, clutching at Danny’s black robed arm. Danny thrust him off. Collecting his papers, stuffing them in the leather, battered briefcase that bore the initials PDH, Danny started to march his way out of the court. Maria de Luis he left to deal with Bob Winter, whilst Peter Hines caught up with Danny outside in the marble floored foyer. Danny emerged from Court Three, blinking in the bright light, Peter Hines sidling up to him with the unwelcome insistence of an impetigo rash.
“Danny?” Peter muttered, as Danny started to stride towards Justice Hargreaves’ Chamber, which was tucked away behind Court Three. To get to it, Danny had to run the gauntlet of groups of solicitors, clerks, a few barristers conversing in huddles, all of them turning to see the maelstrom hurtling past them. Court gown streaming behind him, wig slightly askew, Danny ignored Peter Hines’ request to tell him what the hell was wrong with him.
“Mr. Hastings!” Peter stopped short, and shouted out Danny’s name, for everyone to stop and stare. A pin dropped and the sound reverberated like thunder. Danny paused, then turned, ashen faced, his pale eyes blazing at the squat figure of the solicitor.