Sicken and So Die

by Simon Brett

  ‘I’ll pay for yours,’ said John B. Murgatroyd, flamboyantly placing a twenty and a ten-pound note on Talya’s side plate.

  ‘Oh, thank you very much,’ she giggled.

  John B.’s proprietorial hand was on her shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s move. See you, Charles,’ he threw back as they strolled to the door.

  Wistfully, Charles watched them across the room. Then Olivia’s Handmaiden walked up to an elegantly dressed woman in her sixties, who was standing by the coat-rack. Introductions were made and the new arrival graciously shook John B. Murgatroyd by the hand. Talya Northcott also shook her host politely by the hand; then she and the woman who was undoubtedly ‘Mummy’ left.

  Charles Paris did not need the explanation John B. gave as he came stomping back to the table; he had read it all in the little pantomime by the door. ‘Only rung up her bloody, sodding mother, hadn’t she? Oh, shit! Fucking, pissing shit!’

  ‘All-round entertainer,’ said Charles.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, shit that can fuck and piss could surely get bookings at any venue in the . . .’ But John B.’s face suggested he was in no mood to pursue verbal fantasies. Charles looked at his watch. ‘Pubs’re still open. Fancy a quick one?’

  ‘That’s what I thought Talya bloody Northcott was going to say,’ John B. Murgatroyd muttered. ‘Oh yes, what the hell? Let’s see how many quick ones we can fit in before they close.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘WHAT WE’RE doing isn’t working, you know,’ said John B. Murgatroyd, as he sat down with their second round of drinks. The pub had been recently refurbished, decked out with all those brass rails, coloured glass lamps and sporting prints which are meant to give character, but are now so familiar they drain it all away.

  ‘It is,’ Charles protested. He took a substantial swallow from his large Bell’s. ‘We are doing the play as Shakespeare intended it to be done. We are making sense of our scenes.’

  ‘We’re still sticking out like sore thumbs in this production.’

  ‘That’s the production’s fault, not ours. Everything else is just flashy theatrical tricks; we are actually telling the story.’

  ‘Still sticking out like sore thumbs.’ John B. Murgatroyd took a reflective swig from his second pint.

  ‘So what are you suggesting – that we cave in, do as Alexandru tells us, make nonsense of the play?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘Listen, I’m not denying he’s talented. He is. He has some very good ideas. Some very good ideas. But not all his ideas are good. And it needs someone to stand up to him and tell him that. He’ll listen.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘He listens to that guy from Asphodel. When he was told he couldn’t change the sets and costumes, OK, Alexandru stamped his little foot, but he accepted it. Thank God he did. Otherwise, no doubt, we’d be doing Twelfth Night in cycling shorts and kimonos. But you see, a firm hand works. We’ve got to stand up to him about the way we play our characters.’

  ‘We just look wrong. I was noticing during the run this afternoon. The two of us looked totally out of place.’

  ‘That’s because the place is wrong, not our performances.’

  ‘Maybe. It doesn’t matter which, anyway. It’s still going to give the audience a strange feeling, as if they’re watching something unfinished.’

  ‘Listen, John B.,’ said Charles. The alcohol had made him more forceful and confessional than he might have been under other circumstances. ‘My career as an actor hasn’t been great. I’ve had my chances, OK. Most of them I’ve screwed up. I’ve never made it to the top rank. At my age it’s very unlikely now that I ever will. I can accept that. I have accepted that.

  ‘But it doesn’t mean I’ve run out of ambition. There are still things I want to do professionally, still things I believe I can do professionally. And playing Sir Toby Belch is one of them. It’s a part I’ve always wanted, and one I know I can play well. Under Gavin I was getting the chance to play it well. Now that’s being threatened. It’s impossible for me to give a good performance with Alexandru directing.’

  John B. Murgatroyd shook his head ruefully. ‘The production was looking pretty good this afternoon. Even you must admit that.’

  ‘Yes, moments looked OK, I agree. Some of the effects are stunning, but it’s all at the expense of the play – and at the expense of the actors. You know, no one in the cast is going to get any decent notices out of this.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I’d have thought –’

  ‘All the notices will be about the production. They’ll talk about “Alexandru Radulescu’s radical new interpretation”, “Radulescu’s brave vision”. Directing for him’s nothing more or less than an ego-trip.’

  John B. Murgatroyd squirmed uncomfortably. ‘But if it works?’

  ‘Do I gather from this, John B., that you’re about to start playing Sir Andrew Aguecheek differently?’

  ‘Well . . . maybe.’

  So Charles Paris had lost his one supporter in the Twelfth Night company. From now on it was just him against the massed forces of Alexandru Radulescu’s creatures.

  There was a morose silence while they sipped their drinks. Charles finally reopened the conversation. ‘Going back to what I was saying about Gavin’s illness . . .’

  His friend groaned. ‘Oh no, Charles! All I want to do for the rest of this evening is to get smashed out of my skull. I don’t think I’ve got the energy for any more conspiracy theorising.’

  ‘No, listen.’ And Charles told John B. Murgatroyd about the book he’d found in the Green Room.

  ‘Well, so what? So, somebody in the company’s interested in British fungi, or possibly in old books; who can say? I don’t think we should drag in the CID quite yet, Charles.’

  ‘But, taken in conjunction with what I heard Vasile say to Alexandru, and the fact that I saw Gavin eating a mushroom tartlet the day before he was taken ill –’

  ‘Pure coincidence.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. I think I’m going to go and have a word with Gavin.’

  ‘Fine. Good. You do that. Give him my love.’ Across the room the landlord, with a lack of charisma that matched his pub’s door, rang a bell and dolefully called ‘Time’. John B. watched him with disappointment. ‘Why do they always do that just when you’re getting a taste for the stuff?’

  ‘Mm, rotten,’ Charles agreed. Then an idea came to him. ‘Tell you what . . . You could come back to my place for a nightcap.’

  ‘Your place? But you’re miles down Westbourne Grove way, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I’m staying in my wife’s flat.’

  ‘Ah.’ John B. Murgatroyd was attracted by the idea. ‘Are you sure she won’t mind?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Charles. ‘She won’t mind.’

  Frances was far too well brought-up to let John B. Murgatroyd see if she did mind, but Charles knew her well enough to detect a slight resentment on their arrival. It wasn’t so much the fact of his appearing on her doorstep at eleven, clearly drunk, in the company of someone she’d never met before, also clearly drunk; Charles got the feeling it might have more to do with his not having been there earlier to take her out for dinner. Maybe what he’d thought of as a to-be-confirmed possibility had been a definite arrangement. That would certainly justify Frances’s frostiness.

  But he admired the way she didn’t let on to John B. His friend was made to feel extremely welcome, and not allowed to sense any edge in her refusal to join them for another drink on the grounds that she had to be up early in the morning.

  Charles watched her go somewhat mournfully. He had a feeling that when he did finally make it to bed he’d find her bedroom door once again closed. All in all, he had made rather a cock-up of the evening.

  ‘Lovely woman,’ John B. Murgatroyd commented as he slumped on to her sofa. ‘You never told me you were married. Recent thing, is it?’

  ‘No, we’ve been married quite a time,’ replied Charles, unsnappi
ng the top of a new bottle of Bell’s. ‘You all right on the Scotch?’

  ‘You bet. Seal in the beer. So, how long?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘How long’ve you been married?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Charles totted it up in his head. Surely it couldn’t be that long. He rechecked the figures. No, it was. He told John B.

  ‘Jesuuuus! Lots of people don’t live that long.’

  ‘No. Well . . .’

  ‘And you’ve actually been together all that time?’

  ‘Mm. Pretty much.’ Charles handed across a large Scotch. ‘I mean, inevitably there have been gaps . . . with me working in the theatre and . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Well, good on you, mate. And good on her too, eh?’ John B. Murgatroyd raised his glass in salutation. He was already too fuddled to ask why, if Charles was locked into an ongoing marriage to Frances, he actually lived on his own in a bedsitter in Hereford Road.

  They drank on steadily, their conversation, in the way of such conversations, circling round the same points and recycling them. They both agreed – many times – that Twelfth Night was a ‘bloody good play.’ They both bemoaned – many times – the fact that they hadn’t been allowed to act their parts as they ought to be acted. John B., who had by now given up all pretence that he was going to continue his resistance to Alexandru Radulescu’s ideas, said dolefully – many times – how little he was going to enjoy the rest of the rehearsal period. While Charles Paris asserted vehemently – and many times – that he was going to continue playing Sir Toby Belch the way Shakespeare had written the character.

  It was about half-past one. They were at that stage when the conversation filled with lacunae as one or the other dozed off. Getting a taxi for John B. had been mentioned at least four times, but the effort of moving to the phone seemed insuperable to both of them.

  Then, suddenly, John B. Murgatroyd sat bolt upright on the sofa. His hand shot up to cover his mouth. ‘My God, I think I’m going to be sick!’

  Charles stumbled to his feet. ‘I’ll show you where the bathroom is.’

  But John B. didn’t make it that far. In the middle of Frances’s neat hall, all over her new oatmeal carpet, he began to spew his guts out. He clutched at his stomach and sank down against the wall, but still the flow spurted from his mouth.

  Charles heard the door of Frances’s bedroom open behind him and turned apologetically. She was standing, belting up her dressing gown, with a hard look in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry. Just a little bit too much to drink. He’s not usually . . .’ Charles babbled.

  Frances moved across to assess the damage to her carpet. Charles followed uselessly behind her.

  ‘Good God!’

  The shock in Frances’s voice made him look down. Amidst the mess that still pumped relentlessly out of John B. Murgatroyd’s mouth he could see bright flecks of blood.

  ‘I’m going to call an ambulance,’ Frances announced.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘THEY WANT to keep me in for tests,’ said John B. Murgatroyd sullenly.

  He looked drained, wrung out like an old floorcloth. Presumably the drip that fed into his arm was part of the hospital rehydration process.

  It was the evening of the following day, the first time the patient had been deemed well enough to have visitors. Anyway, Charles couldn’t have got to the hospital earlier. He’d been locked into a heavy day of hungover rehearsal. Without John B. there for support his own performance had seemed even more at odds with what was going on around him.

  For that day an assistant stage manager had read in Sir Andrew Aguecheek’s lines, but with just over a week till the show opened, a decision about the future had to be made quickly. Alexandru Radulescu had agreed to hold fire on this until the following morning. John B. Murgatroyd’s consultant was going to see him then and would pronounce on the actor’s chances of getting back into the show. Looking at the shrivelled figure sunk into the pillows, Charles Paris didn’t put those chances very high.

  ‘Have they given any suggestion of what they think it might be?’

  John B. Murgatroyd shrugged feebly. ‘Food poisoning’s as far as they’ll go at the moment. They’ve sent off some of my stomach contents to the labs for a biopsy; is that the word?’

  ‘I’m surprised they could find any contents left in there.’

  John B. didn’t even smile. He was very low.

  ‘Still, if it was food poisoning, probably as well you chucked it all out.’ There was a silence. ‘And you’ve no idea what it might have been?’

  ‘You were there, Charles. Your guess is as good as mine. Something in the curry, I suppose. If I’d had the prawns, I wouldn’t have been surprised – I’ve always been allergic to them. Still, chicken can be dodgy if it’s been reheated, can’t it? Or maybe I’ve developed an exciting new allergy to something I’ve never been allergic to before. I don’t know.’ He spoke without interest.

  ‘And the thought hasn’t occurred to you that it might be something else?’ Charles prompted.

  ‘Well, the ward sister puts it down purely and simply to alcohol. I thought I’d flushed most of that out of my system, but apparently I was still reeking of the stuff when I was brought in here. A somewhat puritanical lady, the ward sister – as I’m discovering.’

  ‘We had a lot last night, but not more than we’ve had on plenty of other occasions without worse effects than a sore head.’

  ‘Exactly.’ John B. Murgatroyd nuzzled sideways into his pillow and yawned weakly. It was a fairly unambiguous hint that Charles should leave.

  ‘But you don’t think there’s anything suspicious about it?’

  ‘What, Charles?’ A light of understanding came into the sick man’s eye. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re not still on about that. Leave it alone.’

  ‘But it’s getting more than a coincidence. Gavin Scholes, whose departure opens up the possibility of Alexandru Radulescu taking over, suddenly gets ill with abdominal pains. You, who’re one of the two actors who’s opposing the way Alexandru’s directing the show, suddenly get ill with abdominal pains. Call me a conspiracy theorist if you like, but at least there seem to be grounds for my having a conspiracy theory.’

  ‘Charles, as I said, leave it alone. It’s happened. I’m ill. Whatever the reason, it looks like I’m out of the show.’

  Charles began a token remonstrance, assuring his friend that he’d soon be fine and – ‘Don’t bother. Look at me. There’s no way I’m going to open in Twelfth Night next week, is there?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘So I’ve got to come to terms with that. It’s a real bugger – I was looking forward to doing the show – but there it is.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Surely you want to get even with whoever did this to you.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone did anything to me. It was just bad luck.’

  ‘At the very least, you could sue the restaurant, or get the health inspectors out to them or –’

  ‘Charles, I don’t want to do anything. I want to forget about it, and just get better. OK?’

  Charles Paris looked at his friend’s exhausted face. The freckles stood out unnaturally against the surrounding pallor. It was no longer a sparkling, comical face. John B. Murgatroyd looked crumpled and defeated. And, Charles suddenly realised, there was another emotion also on display.

  ‘You’re frightened, John B., aren’t you?’

  The anaemic attempt to shrug off his suggestion was more telling than an admission.

  ‘But if you’re frightened, that must mean you believe there’s some truth in what I’ve been saying. You wouldn’t be frightened unless –’

  ‘Charles, I’m frightened because I’m forty-four years old, and for the first time in my life I’ve come up against the possibility of real illness. Suddenly losing control of your body like that is a real shock. Abdominal bleeding could be a symptom of any number of extremely nasty conditions, one at least of which begins with
the letter “C”. If I look frightened, I’d say I have every justification for looking frightened.’

  It was a good speech, but it didn’t fool Charles. ‘No, you’re frightened because you think someone in the company poisoned you. That’s why you want to lie low, why you don’t want to argue. You’re afraid if you make a fuss, they’ll try again.’

  ‘Crap, Charles. And please stop going on about it. I’m feeling really shitty. All I want to do is close my eyes and shut out the world.’

  ‘Yes, yes, OK,’ Charles began to feel guilty for hounding a man in such reduced health. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll be off. See if I can make my peace with Frances.’

  ‘Oh. Look, I’m sorry about her carpet. It came on so suddenly, I just didn’t have time to –’

  ‘It’s not her carpet I need to make peace with Frances about.’

  ‘Ah. OK. Right. Well, good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Charles stood up. ‘Hope you sleep well and . . . you know, wake feeling better.’

  ‘Yes. Sure I will,’ said John B. Murgatroyd without conviction. ‘And thanks for coming, mate.’

  ‘No problem.’ Charles moved awkwardly towards the door.

  ‘Of course, there is one thing . . .’ John B. Murgatroyd’s weak voice stopped him.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘If one did go along with your crap conspiracy theory . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘. . . and really believed that someone in the Twelfth Night company put poison on some of the food last night . . .’

  Charles was silent, alert.

  ‘. . . and deliberately targeted the Chicken Dupiaza . . . Well, I didn’t order that. So it wasn’t me they were out to get, was it? They were out to get you.’

  He was determined not to have a drink until Frances came back. She was late. It was agony.

  But he needed to talk to her. And he needed to be sober when he talked to her. In less than a week he’d be off to Great Wensham; then all over the place for more than three months. Things had to be sorted out before then.