Future Tense

by Frank Almond

  “Well, she had me fooled,” I said aloud.

  “Mr Duckworth? Are you awake?” said a husky voice.

  I lifted my head and looked down my bed. A slim young nurse, wearing a pale blue and cream uniform, was sitting in an armchair on the other side of the room, her long legs elegantly crossed.

  “Uh, hi,” I said.

  “Hello, Mr Duckworth—I’m Brie, your nurse. Can I get you anything?” She laid the paperback book she had been reading down on the floor.

  “Yes, can you get me a platinum MasterCard and a hire car, please?” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know, Mr Duckworth, I’ll have to check with the other Mr Duckworth,” she said. “But, I mean, why would you need a hire car, Mr Duckworth?”

  “I want to drive it,” I said.

  “Oh, no, Mr Duckworth—you can’t drive, you’re still on medication.”

  She was off her chair and at my bedside, feeling my pulse, in the twinkling of an eye. I looked her up and down as she bent over me and counted my beats. Twenty to twenty-five, medium height, natural blonde, cupid bow lips, hair raked back in a neat French knot, slate blue eyes, no wedding ring. I knew my beats would be up.

  “Maybe you could drive me,” I suggested, raising my eyebrows.

  She gave me a flirty look. “You’re not well enough to be sitting up, let alone going for drives, Mr Duckworth.” She took out her thermometer and gave it a shake. “Open wide.”

  I opened my mouth and she inserted it under my tongue and began timing it with her nurse’s watch, which was still clipped to her breast pocket. A strangely erotic act.

  “Do you have any idea how rich I am?” I said, appealing to the only part of her I thought I could reach quickly.

  “I know this place isn’t cheap,” she said. “Now, please keep your tongue still a moment.”

  I stopped talking. She timed it a little longer, took it out, gave it a quick check, then another shake, and put it away in her pocket.

  “You’re running a temperature, Mr Duckworth.”

  “Think of a lot of money,” I said. “Now double it. No, treble it. Think of Bill Gates. Even he doesn’t have our assets.”

  “Oh, Mr Duckworth, behave yourself,” she smiled. “Look, why are you telling me all this? I’m just a nurse, your brother hired me to—”

  “My brother? Is that what he told you?” I laughed.

  “Well, yes, he said—”

  “Brie, that is so funny, I just can’t tell you how funny that is. If you only knew. But you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so let’s just stick to money. I’ve gotta go to Gloucestershire and I might have to go to France. Help me to get out of here and be my driver and I’ll give you any amount you want.”

  She smiled, all wide-eyed. “Are you a prisoner, Mr Duckworth? This is some cell!”

  “No. I’m not a prisoner. I just need to be places and the Duck—I mean, my kid brother, Julian—won’t let me leave this hospital. You understand?”

  “No, Mr Duckworth, I don’t think I do. But your brother warned me you might try something like this.”

  “I bet he did. The rat. Ignore him.”

  “But I may lose my job and, anyway, you’re really not well enough to be discharged yet, Mr Duckworth.”

  “Okay, Brie. Let’s play it your way,” I said. “Do you know the nature of my injury? How I got it?”

  “There was a shooting accident on the Duckworth family estate—an old sporting gun went off—and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she said.

  “Yes. That’s about what happened. I just want to go back there and recover in my own bed. That’s all I’m asking. You can come and take care of me. How soon can we leave? I mean, if you want me to wait, say, while you hire the car, that’s okay. But do you think you could get me there, to Duckworth Hall, without my brother knowing? I want it to be a surprise.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something, Mr Duckworth?”

  “Yes. I want to go home.”

  “Did your brother shoot you?” she asked.

  “No, not exactly. I mean yes. Which answer do you want me to give?”

  “You blame him for your accident?”

  “Let’s cut the amateur psychoanalysis, Brie—I just want to go home. My brother’s a pain in the ass, but I don’t hate him or want to shoot him because he tried to kill me, or anything that interesting. In fact, we’re very close.”

  “You mentioned some money,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, lots of money. How much do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shyly. “You say a figure, Mr Duckworth.”

  “No, you say one,” I said.

  “I don’t know how much to say.” She bit her bottom lip. “All I have to do is drive you to Duckworth Hall?”

  “Well, maybe France. But no. Just Duckworth Hall, if you want.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No strings, Brie. I swear. Name your price,” I said.

  “Ten.”

  “Ten thousand?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll make it fifty if you don’t drive over any bumps.”

  She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me on the cheek. “Fifty thousand pounds!” she cried. “Do you mean it?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Now, how soon can we leave? Now?”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll take another look at your wound in the morning. But how are we going to get a platinum MasterCard in one day?”

  “Leave that to me—in fact, I’ll do it now. Do you have my brother’s new mobile number?”

  “Yes. It’s in my bag somewhere,” she said.

  “Go and get it and push that phone over here,” I said.

  She bustled away and rummaged in her handbag, which she had left over by the chair. I felt around my rib. It was well padded but very sore. I thought I could stand up, if push came to shove, but a wheelchair would be a top idea.

  Brie wheeled me over the cumbersome hospital phone and handed me her address book, pointing a nicely manicured finger at the number of Mr Julian Duckworth.

  I punched it in and let it ring. Brie sat on the corner of the bed and began massaging my shoulder.

  “Where did my brother find you?” I said.

  “He just called the agency,” she said, her tongue just protruding enough through her soft full lips.

  “What sort of agency?”

  She pinched me. “A nursing agency! This is just physio, Mr Duckworth.”

  I heard the Duck’s unmistakable quack on the line.

  “Duckworth—speak—I’m in a hurry!”

  “Hi, bro,” I said.

  “Who is this?” he snapped.

  “Big brother,” I said.

  “Stephen?”

  “I’m feeling better,” I said.

  “Good, good,” he said. “I thought you might.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m, er, in the car—the hospital wouldn’t let me land me helicopter.”

  “I thought I’d do some entertaining,” I said.

  The Duck quacked, in that annoying way he has. “So, you’ve met Nurse Parker? You dog.”

  “Yeah. I need some wherewithal, man.”

  “Wherewithal?”

  “Yeah, you know—folding.”

  “Folding?”

  “Dosh—readies—money!”

  “Oh, you mean plastic!”

  “Yeah, I need a card,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll order one,” he said.

  “How long will that take?”

  “Seven working days,” he replied.

  “I can’t wait that long—give me one of yours.”

  There was a long pause while my miserly father tried to bring himself to part with one of his many MasterCards.

  “Think of it this way,” I prompted. “If I had my own, you wouldn’t have any control—but if I’m using yours, you can keep tabs on my spending and put a stop on it any time you like.”

  “No, it�
��s not that,” he said. “I was just wondering how to get it to you. We’re on the motorway and I’m in a hurry, mate. Do you need it today?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Just send it over by courier—and don’t forget the PIN number. Cheers.” I hung up. I winked at Brie. “We’re doing a MasterCard transplant and my brother’s going to be the donor!”

  Brie smoothed my cheek with the backs of her fingers. “Are you really as rich as you say?” she purred.

  “Down, girl,” I said. “This is strictly business. I mean, don’t get me wrong—you’re very attractive and under different circumstances, I would be more than interested, but right now I just need your help to—”

  “—What’s her name?” said Brie.

  “Emma,” I said. “It’s Emma.”

  “She’s a lucky girl. You’re amusing, stinking rich, passably good-looking—did I say, stinking rich? A girl could do a lot worse.”

  “Yeah, well, she did, in my opinion—she’s, uh, not herself right now, but I think I know how I can talk her round,” I said. “Yes, I think I can do that,” I added, more to convince myself than my nurse.

  “What’s the other guy’s name?” she said.

  “The other guy? Oh, you mean Travis—his name’s Travis.”

  “Hm. Nice name. What’s he like?”

  “Oh, you know, tall—”

  “—Dark, handsome, sexy voice?” she nodded. She reached behind her head with both hands to fiddle with her knot, which had the pleasant effect of making her breasts present themselves like two propositions, and since she was sitting up higher than me, I got the, um, points, which I think was the, um, ideas. Now, I’m getting confused.

  “Er, that’s right,” I said. “You know the type. You know, you’re very easy to talk to, Brie—you have a nice, uh, personality. I feel as if I’ve known you all my life and I could tell you anything—you’re a journalist, right?”

  “With these nails?” she said.

  “Yes, I see what you mean, they are very long, and, uh, pink, it would be kind of hard to—but you could be working undercover.”

  “Undercover?” she smirked. “That could be fun.” She pulled back the corner of my sheet.

  “No—that wasn’t code, Brie!” I said. “Just be a nurse for me—what other uniforms do they have at that agency of yours?”

  “Mr Duckworth! I’m a fully qualified nurse!”

  “Yeah, and I’m Squadron Leader Biggles,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Look, why don’t you bring that paperback I saw you reading over here and read to me?” I said. “I like books.”

  She slipped off the bed and sauntered over to her chair to pick up the book. Her nurse’s uniform didn’t look regulation, the skirt was half way up her thighs and the rest was skimpy enough to cause a cardiac arrest.

  “Yes, I got a second in English Lit at Oxford,” I said. Actually, I got a third, but second rate sounded better than third rate. Yes, I did go to Oxford, but I think I went under it, or it went over me.

  She waved the lurid cover of her paperback at me, as she retouched her lips with her lipstick.

  “This isn’t exactly Jane Austen,” she said.

  “Jane Austen?” I said. “What made you say that?”

  She came back and sat on her spot, but this time wrapped her free arm around my neck.

  “I don’t know. Didn’t she write books?” she said. “Where would you like me to start?”

  “Chapter one—yes, she did, but—it doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “Are we sitting comfortably?” said Nurse Brie, languidly raising one of her legs onto the bed and crooking it up.

  She was wearing suspenders! Yes, I knew the Duck was setting me up, but what for? Did he think I was going to fall in love with his nurse and forget about Emma? Why was he so keen to make me forget about Emma? Unless he was just being kind. Like I said—why was he so keen to make me forget about Emma? There had to be an ulterior motive.

  Brie began reading, in a talented voice—the kind guys would have paid premium rate call charges for, just to listen to her tell them what she did at the gym. I nestled back in my pillows and closed my eyes.

  “Chastity Adams was the kind of girl who had never made a habit of sleeping around,” whispered Brie, huskily, “but she decided in her sophomore year at college to experiment with every sexual experience, at least once, before going on to do missionary work—”

  “—What’s this book called?” I smiled.

  “What Chastity Did by Prudence Withers,” said Brie.

  “Prudence is a guy,” I said.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “Well, he knows a lot about multiple female orgasms,” she said.

  “Please, read on,” I said.

  Chapter 5

  The courier arrived at six thirty p.m. Brie woke me up. I found myself so firmly tucked in that I couldn’t move my arms to sign for the package. My nurse had to loosen the sheets to release me.

  “Into a bit of bondage is he, luv?” grinned the motorcycle courier.

  “Give me that thing!” I said, reaching for his electronic notebook. “Where do I sign?”

  “Just sign at the bottom with this pen, mate,” he said.

  I scrawled my name with the light pen, started to write Sloane, scribbled it out, and wrote Duckworth. “Here.”

  “Thanks, mate—forget your own name?” he laughed. He gave me my package and loitered, looking round at the room. “What’s this then—the penthouse ward?”

  I tore open the wrapping and found my card and a note from the Duck inside a cardboard gift box. I looked up at the courier and tilted my head to one side. “Yes?”

  “Any reply?” he said.

  “No.” I turned to Brie. “Tip him, Brie.”

  “Cheers, mate.”

  He followed Brie over to her handbag and I read the note, it said:

  Dear Stephen,

  Guard this triple platinum MasterCard with your life.

  The PIN number is on the other sheet of paper.

  The upper limit is 100K, but don’t go mad, as I am

  not made of money. Tell Miss Parker not to let

  you let her out of your sight. Have fun.

  See you soon.

  Love,

  Julian

  I ripped it up while I memorized the four-number code on the other sheet and then tore that up and dropped all the pieces back in the box.

  Brie finished seeing our courier out and came back to me.

  “What was that thing with the bed?” I said. “I was trussed-up like a kipper.”

  “Just habit,” she smiled. “You fell asleep. I didn’t want you to pull your stitches out.”

  She sat on my bed and smoothed my hair back off my brow. “Did you get it?”

  I held up the box.

  “Will it be enough?”

  “Plenty and some,” I said.

  She kissed my temple and was up for a full one on the lips, but I turned my head away. “We have an arrangement,” I said. “Let’s stick to it.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I just thought we might fool around. You enjoyed the book.”

  “You were making most of that up,” I said.

  “No I wasn’t,” she said.

  “Yes you were, you weren’t even looking at the pages half the time,” I said.

  “Well, what if I did?”

  “You should write one yourself, Miss Parker,” I said.

  “What happened to Brie?”

  “I think I like Miss Parker better,” I said.

  “It makes me sound like a dominatrix,” she said, in her huskiest voice.

  “Hey, stop that! If you want that fifty K, you have to promise to stop trying to seduce me.”

  “Miss Gummer must be very special,” she said.

  “Miss Gummer? I never told you her second name. How did you know that?”

  “Your brother must have mentioned it.”

  “He
wouldn’t have told you that,” I said suspiciously. I was suddenly seeing Miss Parker in a whole new light.

  “I want to know how you knew Emma’s surname. I didn’t tell you. So, how come you knew?”

  “All right. Your brother did tell me,” she said. “And that’s the truth. I’m not a real nurse, well, I did some of the training, but the agency I work for is not a nursing agency, strictly speaking.”

  “So what is it—strictly speaking?” I said.

  “You know—you already guessed—I’m from an escort agency. Your brother wanted me to show you a good time—to make you forget this Emma Gummer, but I’m obviously not good enough and don’t come anywhere near the perfect Miss Gummer.” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “Brie, my brother means well, but he sticks his big nose into things that are none of his business,” I said. “You had a deal with him, but now you have a deal with me, and I bet I know who’s paying you more.”

  “You are, Mr Duckworth,” she sniffed.

  “Then consider your arrangement with my brother terminated. It’s just good business, Brie,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s move on.”

  “Yes, Mr Duckworth.”

  “Good. Now, why did you stop playing with my hair? Playing with the hair is permitted,” I said.

  She ruffled my hair and looked at me in a special way, the way someone else used to look at me.

  “But don’t fall in love with me—it’s forbidden,” I said, only half-jokingly.

  I flinched. I had detected something deep within her eyes, which I can only describe as an angry flaring of the pupils. Like a frustrated child who has promised to behave, but still resents the telling off. But I might have been imagining things, because it passed so quickly and then she was smiling indulgently at me again.