A Deadly Habit

by Simon Brett

  In fact, he couldn’t remember much of what had happened between his visit to Alcoholics Anonymous and his discovery of Liddy Max’s body. The Bell’s had blanked it out. From the self-righteous attitude with which he had separated himself from the other attendees at the meeting, his mood had spiralled down into despair and self-loathing. My name is Charles and I am an alcoholic.

  He would have to ring Frances. She had sounded really worried about him. But as he had the thought, with it came a realization of the full awfulness of his behaviour. They had had a date at the Italian place in Hampstead. He had stood her up. He had left her sitting at a table on her own to suffer the pitying expressions of the waiters and other diners. In one evening of stupidity, he had undone all of the groundwork he had put into their rapprochement. There was no way now that Frances would reiterate her invitation to cohabitation.

  He must ring her. But, as his trembling fingers reached towards the keypad, he was interrupted by the buzzing of his entry phone.

  He lifted himself up to the vertical, realizing for the first time that he was still dressed as he had been the day before. He had no recollection of his taxi journey or of paying the driver, but he must have done it somehow. When he got back to the flat, presumably he’d just slumped on to the bed and passed out.

  Standing up had not been a good idea. The room swam around him. The dried-up components of his brain shifted themselves into new contours of pain. He felt he was about to throw up. He wondered whether the contents of his mouth would smell as noxious to someone else as they did to him, and rather feared they would.

  He picked up the entry phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Charles Paris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Police.’

  There were two of them. Both male, neither in uniform. One tall, one short. They introduced themselves at the front door, but Charles didn’t retain their names. He invited them in. Having moved books, papers and clothes off the only two chairs, he asked them to sit down. He perched on the edge of the bed. He had never felt less like being interrogated.

  They told him they were investigating an ‘incident’ at the Duke of Kent’s Theatre the night before. Charles had sufficient wits about him not to say something like, ‘Oh, you mean what happened to Liddy Max?’ No need to give them any more information than he had to. See how much they knew first.

  ‘We gather,’ said the short one, ‘that rehearsal in the theatre finished around two yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘That’d be about right, yes.’ Charles had the feeling that he was on the verge of throwing up over both of them. That, he recognized, would not have helped his cause.

  ‘But you went back into the theatre later.’ He looked at them, trying to work out how much they knew, as the short one continued, ‘The guy on the back door told us.’

  ‘The stage door.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘His name’s Gideon.’

  ‘Yes, I know who you mean.’

  ‘According to him,’ said the tall one, consulting a notebook, ‘you came back into the theatre round three.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I had some time to kill.’

  ‘“Time to kill”,’ echoed the short one, as though Charles had expressed the intention to murder someone. ‘Why?’

  ‘I was due to meet my wife in Hampstead at eight o’clock. It wasn’t worth coming back here and then going out again.’

  ‘No, I suppose it wasn’t,’ the short one conceded.

  The tall one looked back at his notebook. ‘And you left the theatre again at about a quarter to six.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Leaving yourself plenty of time to get to Hampstead by eight o’clock.’ The short one made it sound like an accusation.

  ‘I didn’t go straight to Hampstead.’

  ‘No? Where did you go?’

  There was no point in lying. There had been enough witnesses in the church to testify as to where he was at six o’clock. ‘I went to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.’

  ‘Oh?’ The taller policeman looked at the empty bottle of Bell’s on the mantelpiece, and sniffed the air pointedly. ‘Well, it doesn’t seem to have done much good, does it?’

  The short one, who seemed to be the senior of the pair, gave his partner a look of reproof. Clearly, accusing people you’re interrogating of drinking too much did not conform with police guidelines.

  ‘So, after the meeting, you went to Hampstead?’ asked the short one, getting the questioning back on track.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I didn’t go to Hampstead.’

  ‘Did your wife ring you to cancel the arrangement?’

  ‘No. I just didn’t go to Hampstead.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the tall one.

  ‘So, what did you do?’ asked the short one.

  ‘I stayed in the West End, drinking.’

  ‘And where did you do your drinking? In pubs? Clubs? Or did you go back to the Duke of Kent’s Theatre?’

  Faced with the direct question, Charles knew he had a choice. Gideon hadn’t been on the door, either when he’d arrived at the theatre the second time, or when he’d left it. Not being involved in the investigation into Liddy Max’s death seemed a much more attractive proposition than being involved in it. Charles had unpleasant experience of being questioned by the police. And his recollections of the evening were so hazy that he’d make a very unreliable witness.

  ‘Just drank in various pubs,’ he lied. ‘Then came back here.’

  The minute the words had come out, he knew he’d made a seriously wrong decision.

  But neither of the policemen questioned his assertion. Instead, the tall one said, ‘There was a break-in at the theatre last night.’

  Again, the short one clearly disapproved of his colleague volunteering information.

  ‘A break-in?’ Charles echoed.

  ‘The man on the back door was attacked.’

  ‘Gideon?’

  ‘That’s his name, yes.’

  ‘Is he seriously hurt?’

  ‘Bruise on his forehead. He’ll live.’

  The short one chipped in, ‘You didn’t see the attack, Mr Paris?’

  Having started out on the lie, he couldn’t now go back on it. ‘No. As I say, I wasn’t at the theatre last night.’

  ‘No.’ There was a long silence. Charles was afraid his lie was about to be challenged, but instead, the short one asked suddenly, ‘How well did you know Liddy Max?’

  ‘Met her for the first time at the read-through for The Habit. That’s the play we’re doing. The Habit of Faith.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you seen much of her since?’

  ‘Rehearsed with her a bit. Not much, because we don’t have many scenes together.’

  ‘But no contact outside work?’

  Charles shook his head, not the best idea he’d ever had. As the contents of his cranium resettled themselves, he felt he ought to ask, ‘Why? Has something happened to her?’

  The policemen exchanged looks, and the tall one closed his notebook. The short one said, ‘I don’t think we need trouble you any more this morning, Mr Paris, but it’s possible – even likely – that we’ll need to talk to you again at some point.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Here’s a card with our contact details. Don’t hesitate to call us if you think of anything relevant.’

  ‘Relevant to what? You haven’t told me what it is you’re investigating. Can’t you tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘I think at this stage,’ said the tall one, ‘the less anyone knows about the detail, the better. Actors are, I’ve been led to believe, a gossipy lot.’

  That earned another look of reproof from his superior. What had been said might be true, but this wasn’t the moment to say it. The two turned to leave the cramped studio flat. Then the short one
looked back. ‘Oh, one thing, Mr Paris …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do let us know if you have any plans to leave the country.’

  ‘I’m hardly likely to do that. I’m just about to start a three-month run in the West End.’

  ‘True. But, if your plans change, let us know.’

  He managed to see the two policemen out at the front door and then rushed up to his bathroom to throw up. But nothing came. Just dry retching that shook his body like an old bedframe.

  He thought teeth-cleaning might improve the taste in his mouth, but his hand was shaking so much that he ended up with white paste all over his lips and chin. He wiped it off with a towel.

  And next he knew he had to ring Frances.

  But, before he could put that plan into action, his mobile bleeped to tell him a text had arrived.

  ‘If asked by police don’t tell them if you came into the theatre yesterday evening. Please. Gideon.’

  His first question, in his fuddled state, was how the stage doorman had got his mobile number. But that was quickly rationalized. Kell Drummond would have given him contact sheets for all the company.

  The text was still puzzling. Presumably Gideon didn’t know that Charles had already spoken to the police. For reasons of his own, the stage doorman was warning him off disclosure of his movements the night before. In fact, requesting him to give the police exactly the mendacious account that he had given them. Why Gideon wanted him to do that, though, Charles had no idea.

  There was another point, though, which might be a slight source of comfort. The second ‘if’ in the text message implied that the stage doorman didn’t know that Charles had been in the Duke of Kent’s Theatre the previous evening. Which removed a potential witness to his presence there. And opened up the possibility that Charles might get away with his lie.

  The reassurance that thought provided didn’t last long. He soon thought of CCTV cameras. The West End was so full of the bloody things that, even if there weren’t dedicated ones outside the stage door, there was a strong chance that Charles’s movements had been recorded by cameras in the nearby streets.

  ‘How much did you drink last night?’ asked Frances.

  ‘A bottle,’ Charles mumbled in reply.

  ‘A bottle of wine?’

  ‘Scotch.’

  ‘God. I’m going to come and pick you up.’

  ‘There’s no need. I was just ringing to apologize for standing you up and hurting your feelings yet another time and—’

  ‘This is more important than my feelings. It’s your health that’s at risk.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve just been bloody stupid and—’

  ‘I’m coming to pick you up.’

  It was only after Frances had ended the call that Charles realized how seriously she was taking the situation. He had phoned her in the middle of a school day. She had taken the call, even though she had actually been in a classroom when he got through. And now she was giving up the rest of her working day to rescue him.

  He had expected recriminations as she drove him in her new Skoda back to Highgate, but her obvious concern made him feel even more guilty than a serious bawling-out would have done.

  When they arrived, Frances decanted him into a hot bath, and put his previous day’s clothes in the washing machine. She brought a large mug of scalding black coffee and placed it on the rack across the bath.

  Then she fetched the pair of his pyjamas which had been under the pillow on his side of her bed since the Monday morning. Even through his pain and discomfort, Charles knew it would be a long time before he himself ever regained that coveted position. He was directed to the spare room, made to finish up the coffee, drink a lot of sparkling water and swallow down two paracetamol.

  He didn’t know how long he slept, but woke up feeling worse than ever. The shattered, hard components of his brain seemed to have expanded and were now pressing against the interior of his cranium. He felt sick, but in the bathroom once again nothing came up. Just the skeleton-rattling dry retching.

  As he wiped his mouth, the mirror showed Frances framed in the open door behind him. ‘Get dressed,’ she said. ‘I’ve got you a five-forty appointment with the GP.’

  ‘Well, congratulations. I thought these days you had to wait three weeks to get an appointment with your GP.’

  ‘They’ll always fit you in,’ said Frances, ‘when it’s an emergency.’

  SEVEN

  Frances drove him to the surgery, and sat with him in the waiting area. Charles wasn’t aware that he was registered with a doctor, but apparently she had kept him on the books of hers. In different circumstances, he might have seen that as an indicator that she considered they had a future together.

  He still felt ghastly, but comforted by the fact that Frances had taken over. He knew it was a shameful thing to admit, but he always liked being absolved from responsibility. Maybe that was part of the appeal of his profession. Different for stars, perhaps, but being a jobbing actor is a very passive role, dependent on producers and casting directors to get any work. And, once employed, basically having to do what the director tells you.

  That afternoon in the surgery he had no responsibility. He felt like a child again, taken to visit the doctor by his mother.

  So, when his name flashed up in red on the screen, it seemed natural for him to ask Frances if she was going to go into the consulting room with him.

  ‘For God’s sake, Charles!’ she responded. ‘In spite of appearances, you are a grown man.’

  The doctor, male, had the resigned look of someone who had already decided to take early retirement. And it was the end of a long day. He was looking at the screen of his laptop, presumably checking Charles’s details, when his patient entered.

  ‘So,’ the doctor said, managing to come up with a smile, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m drinking too much,’ Charles confessed.

  ‘Alcohol?’

  It hadn’t occurred to him that there might be medical conditions that involved drinking too much of anything else. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Alcohol.’

  ‘How much is too much?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  The doctor’s hands were busy on his keyboard. ‘The latest government guidelines recommend a maximum of fourteen units a week for both men and women.’

  ‘And what’s a unit?’ asked Charles blearily.

  Again, the doctor had to resort to his screen. Charles felt some level of sympathy. Funny job, not knowing whether the next person through your office door will be talking about terminal cancer, piles or gender reassignment. No time to prepare. Bit like improv for an actor.

  The online crib sheet revealed that ‘one unit equals 10 ml or 8 g of pure alcohol’.

  Charles had to admit he didn’t find that very helpful. ‘So, how much alcohol would there be in, say, a glass of wine?’

  ‘It would depend on the size of the glass of wine,’ said the doctor, in the manner of someone who could think of preferable ways to spend his early evening than doing mental arithmetic. Another look at the screen. ‘Well, a pint of strong lager contains three units of alcohol, and a pint of low-strength lager contains two.’

  ‘I don’t drink lager. Could you do wine?’

  The doctor scrolled down wearily. ‘Fourteen units is equivalent to ten small glasses of low-strength wine.’

  ‘Ten? A week?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They are joking, aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t think humour is the primary purpose of the NHS Choices website.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  The doctor moved a pad of paper to the centre of his desk, and picked up a pen. ‘So, Mr Paris, if you could tell me what your daily intake of alcohol is …?’

  ‘In units?’

  ‘Tell me in the number of glasses. I’ll work out the units.’

  ‘Very well.’ And so Charles started to quantify his habit. He had heard somewhere that people te
lling doctors about their intake of alcohol is one of the most common areas of mendacity in all human activity, so he didn’t feel too guilty that his answer probably represented an underestimate.

  At the end, the doctor said, ‘Hm.’ He pressed a key on his laptop. ‘Yes, well, you do certainly seem to have a problem, Mr Paris.’

  ‘Maybe. That’s just the wine.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I haven’t included the amount of whisky I drink.’

  ‘Ah.’ They went through the ritual again. Again, Charles probably underestimated. If the past twenty-four hours had been taken into the calculation, then he certainly would have underestimated.

  The doctor produced another jaded ‘Hm. Well, you certainly need help.’

  ‘That’s why I came to see you, doctor,’ said Charles piously. He had kind of erased from his mind that the visit had been Frances’s idea.

  ‘Yes, well, obviously we don’t run any addiction clinics here at the surgery. Hang on a minute, I’ll just check with a colleague who specializes in this area.’ And the doctor hurried out of the room.

  Charles didn’t like the sound of an ‘addiction clinic’. It categorized him as a member of a club he had no wish to join.

  He looked at the laptop, and felt a strong temptation. He hadn’t made many visits to surgeries over the years, but no doubt his records were all there. He rose guiltily from his chair and moved round to look at the screen.

  The only word he saw clearly was ‘depressive’, before the click of the door handle made him shoot back to his seat. He winced. Fast movements were still not a good idea. His brain appeared not to be moving at the same speed as his body, and took a few moments to resettle in his cranium.

  The doctor had a selection of printed flyers in his hand. ‘Obviously, the best-known organization for your problem is Alcoholics Anonymous.’

  ‘Yes, I have tried that and …’ God, it was only yesterday. Exactly twenty-four hours before, he’d been sitting in acute discomfort in that Soho church.

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And it didn’t really work for me,’ he understated.