Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  Carol was unable to hide her distress when Michael was let go for the fourth time. They could have used the extra cash now that their daughter had been offered a place at art school.

  Philip was the girl’s godfather.

  “What are you going to do about it?” asked Carol anxiously, when Michael had told her what had taken place at the club.

  “There’s only one thing I can do,” he replied. “After all, I have my reputation to consider. I shall sue the bastard.”

  “That’s a terrible way to talk about your oldest friend. And anyway we can’t afford to go to law,” said Carol. “Philip’s a millionaire and we’re penniless.”

  “Can’t be helped,” said Michael. “I’ll have to go through with it, even if it means selling everything.”

  “And even if the rest of your family has to suffer along with you?”

  “None of us will suffer when he ends up paying my costs plus massive damages.”

  “But you could lose,” said Carol. “Then we would end up with nothing—worse than nothing.”

  “‘That’s not possible,” said Michael. “He made the mistake of saying all those things in front of witnesses. There must have been over fifty members in the clubhouse this morning, including the president of the club and the editor of the local paper, and they couldn’t have failed to hear every word.”

  Carol remained unconvinced, and she was relieved that during the next few days Michael didn’t mention Philip’s name once. She hoped that her husband had come to his senses and the whole affair was best forgotten.

  But then the Haslemere Chronicle decided to print its version of the quarrel between Michael and Philip. Under the headline FIGHT BREAKS OUT AT GOLF CLUB came a carefully worded account of what had taken place on the previous Saturday. The editor of the Haslemere Chronicle knew only too well that the conversation itself was unprintable unless he also wanted to be sued, but he managed to include enough innuendo in the article to give a full flavor of what had happened that morning.

  “That’s the final straw,” said Michael, when he finished reading the article for a third time. Carol realized that nothing she could say or do was going to stop her husband now.

  The following Monday, Michael contacted a local solicitor, Reginald Lomax, who had been at school with them both. Armed with the article, Michael briefed Lomax on the conversation that the Chronicle had felt injudicious to publish in any great detail. Michael also gave Lomax his own detailed account of what had happened at the club that morning, and handed him four pages of handwritten notes to back his claims up.

  Lomax studied the notes carefully.

  “When did you write these?”

  “In my car, immediately after we were suspended.”

  “That was circumspect of you,” said Lomax. “Most circumspect.” He stared quizzically at his client over the top of his half-moon spectacles. Michael made no comment. “Of course you must be aware that the law is an expensive pastime,” Lomax continued. “Suing for slander will not come cheap, and even with evidence as strong as this”—he tapped the notes in front of him—“you could still lose. Slander depends so much on what other people remember or, more important, will admit to remembering.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” said Michael. “But I’m determined to go through with it. There were over fifty people in the club within earshot that morning.”

  “So be it,” said Lomax. “Then I shall require five thousand pounds in advance as a contingency fee to cover all the immediate costs and the preparations for a court case.” For the first time Michael looked hesitant.

  “Returnable, of course, but only if you win the case.”

  Michael removed his checkbook and wrote out a figure that, he reflected, would only just be covered by the remainder of his severance pay.

  The writ for slander against Philip Masters was issued the next morning by Lomax, Davis & Lomax.

  A week later the writ was accepted by another firm of solicitors in the same town, actually in the same building.

  Back at the club, debate on the rights and wrongs of Gilmour v. Masters did not subside as the weeks passed.

  Club members whispered furtively among themselves whether they might be called to give evidence at the trial. Several had already received letters from Lomax, Davis & Lomax requesting statements about what they could recall being said by the two men that morning. A good many pleaded amnesia or deafness but a few turned in graphic accounts of the quarrel. Encouraged, Michael pressed on, much to Carol’s dismay.

  One morning about a month later, after Carol had left for the bank, Michael Gilmour received a call from Reginald Lomax. The defendant’s solicitors, he was informed, had requested a “without prejudice” consultation.

  “Surely you’re not surprised by that after all the evidence we’ve collected?” Michael replied.

  “It’s only a consultation,” Lomax reminded him.

  “Consultation or no consultation, I won’t settle for less than one hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Well, I don’t even know that they—” began Lomax.

  “I do, and I also know that for the last eleven weeks I haven’t been able to even get an interview for a job because of that bastard,” Michael said with contempt. “Nothing less than one hundred thousand pounds, do you hear me?”

  “I think you are being a trifle optimistic, in the circumstances,” said Lomax. “But I’ll call you and let you know the other side’s response as soon as the meeting has taken place.”

  Michael told Carol the good news that evening, but like Reginald Lomax she was skeptical. The ringing of the phone interrupted their discussion on the subject. Michael, with Carol standing by his side, listened carefully to Lomax’s report. Philip, it seemed, was willing to settle for twenty-five thousand pounds and had agreed to paying both sides’ costs.

  Carol nodded her grateful acceptance, but Michael only repeated that Lomax was to hold out for nothing less than one hundred thousand. “Can’t you see that Philip’s already worked out what it’s going to cost him if this case ends up in court? And he knows only too well that I won’t give in.”

  Carol and Lomax remained unconvinced. “It’s much more touch-and-go than you realize,” the solicitor told him. “A High Court jury might consider the words were only meant as banter.”

  “Banter? But what about the fight that followed the banter?” said Michael.

  “Started by you,” Lomax pointed out. “Twenty-five thousand is a good figure in the circumstances,” he added.

  Michael refused to budge, and ended the conversation by repeating his demand for one hundred thousand pounds.

  Two weeks passed before the other side offered fifty thousand in exchange for a quick settlement. This time Lomax was not surprised when Michael rejected the offer out of hand. “Quick settlement be damned. I’ve told you I won’t consider less than a hundred thousand.” Lomax knew by now that any plea for prudence was going to fall on deaf ears.

  It took three more weeks and several more phone calls between solicitors before the other side accepted that they were going to have to pay the full one hundred thousand pounds. Reginald Lomax rang Michael to inform him of the news late one evening, trying to make it sound as if he had scored a personal triumph. He assured Michael that the necessary papers could be drawn up immediately and the settlement signed in a matter of days.

  “Naturally all your costs will be covered,” he added.

  “Naturally,” said Michael.

  “So all that is left for you to do now is agree on a statement.”

  A short statement was penned and, with the agreement of both sides, issued to the Haslemere Chronicle. The paper printed the contents the following Friday on its front page. “The writ for slander between Gilmour and Masters,” the Chronicle reported, “has been withdrawn with the agreement of both sides but only after a substantial out-of-court settlement by the defendant. Philip Masters has withdrawn unreservedly what was said at the club that morning and ha
s given an unconditional apology; he has also made a promise that he will never repeat the words used again. Mr. Masters has paid the plaintiff’s costs in full.”

  Philip wrote to the colonel the same day, admitting perhaps he had had a little too much to drink on the morning in question. He regretted his impetuous outburst, apologized, and assured the club’s president it would never happen again.

  Carol was the only one who seemed to be saddened by the outcome.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” asked Michael. “We’ve won, and what’s more it’s solved our financial problems.”

  “I know,” said Carol, “but is it worth losing your closest friend for one hundred thousand pounds?”

  On the following Saturday morning Michael was pleased to find an envelope among his morning post with the Golf Club crest on the flap. He opened it nervously and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It read:

  Dear Mr. Gilmour,

  At the monthly committee meeting held last Wednesday Colonel Mather raised the matter of your behavior in the clubhouse on the morning of Saturday, April 16.

  It was decided to minute the complaints of several members, but on this occasion only to issue a severe reprimand to you both. Should a similar incident occur in the future, loss of membership would be automatic.

  The temporary suspension issued by Colonel Mather on April 16 is now lifted.

  Yours sincerely,

  Jeremy Howard (Secretary)

  “I’m off to do the shopping,” shouted Carol from the top of the stairs. “What are your plans for the morning?”

  “I’m going to have a round of golf,” said Michael, folding up the letter.

  “Good idea,” said Carol to herself as she wondered whom Michael would find to play against in the future.

  Quite a few members noticed Michael and Philip teeing up at the first hole that Saturday morning. The club captain commented to the colonel that he was glad to observe that the quarrel had been sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction.

  “Not to mine,” said the colonel under his breath. “You can’t get drunk on tomato juice.”

  “I wonder what the devil they can be talking about?” the club captain said as he stared at them both through the bay windows. The colonel raised his binoculars to take a closer look at the two men.

  “How could you possibly miss a four-foot putt, dummy?” asked Michael when they had reached the first green. “You must be drunk again.”

  “As you well know,” replied Philip, “I never drink before dinner, and I therefore suggest that your allegation that I am drunk again is nothing less than slander.”

  “Yes, but where are your witnesses?” said Michael as they moved up on to the second tee. “I had over fifty, don’t forget.”

  Both men laughed.

  Their conversation ranged over many subjects as they played the first eight holes, never once touching on their past quarrel until they reached the ninth green, the farthest point from the clubhouse. They both checked to see there was no one within earshot. The nearest player was still putting out some two hundred yards behind them on the eighth hole. It was then that Michael removed a bulky brown envelope from his golf bag and handed it over to Philip.

  “Thank you,” said Philip, dropping the package into his own golf bag as he removed a putter. “As neat a little operation as I’ve been involved in for a long time,” Philip added as he addressed the ball.

  “I end up with forty thousand pounds,” said Michael grinning, “while you lose nothing at all.”

  “Only because I pay tax at the highest rate and can therefore claim the loss as a legitimate business expense,” said Philip, “and I wouldn’t have been able to do that if I hadn’t. once employed you.”

  “And I, as a successful litigant, need pay no tax at all on damages received in a civil case.”

  “A loophole that even this chancellor hasn’t caught on to,” said Philip.

  “Even though it went to Reggie Lomax, I was sorry about the solicitors’ fees,” added Michael.

  “No problem, old fellow. They’re also one hundred percent claimable against tax. So as you see, I didn’t lose a penny and you ended up with forty thousand pounds tax free.”

  “And nobody the wiser,” said Michael, laughing.

  The colonel put his binoculars back into their case.

  “Had your eye on this year’s winner of the President’s Putter, Colonel?” asked the club captain.

  “No,” the colonel replied. “The certain sponsor of this year’s Youth Tournament.”

  THE HUNGARIAN PROFESSOR

  Coincidences, writers are told (usually by the critics) must be avoided, although in truth the real world is full of incidents that in themselves are unbelievable. Everyone has had an experience that if they wrote about it would appear to others as pure fiction.

  The same week that the headlines in the world newspapers read: RUSSIA INVADES AFGHANISTAN, AMERICA TO WITHDRAW FROM MOSCOW OLYMPICS, there also appeared a short obituary in The Times for the distinguished professor of English at the University of Budapest: “A man who was born and died in his native Budapest and whose reputation remains assured by his brilliant translation of the works of Shakespeare into his native Hungarian. Although some linguists consider his Coriolanus immature they universally acknowledge his Hamlet to be a translation of genius.”

  Nearly a decade after the Hungarian Revolution, I had the chance to participate in a student athletics meeting in Budapest. The competition was scheduled to last for a full week so I felt there would be an opportunity to find out a little about the country. The team flew in to Ferihegy Airport on a Sunday night and we were taken immediately to the Hotel Ifushag (I learned later that the word meant “youth” in Hungarian). Having settled in, most of the team went to bed early since their opening-round heats were the following day.

  Breakfast the next morning comprised of milk, toast, and an egg, served in three acts with long intervals between each. Those of us who were running that afternoon skipped lunch for fear that a matinee performance might cause us to miss our events completely.

  Two hours before the start of the meeting, we were taken by bus to the Nép stadium and unloaded outside the dressing rooms (I always feel they should be called undressing rooms). We changed into track suits and sat around on benches anxiously waiting to be called. After what seemed to be an interminable time but was in fact only a few minutes, an official appeared and led us out onto the track. As it was the opening day of competition, the stadium was packed. When I had finished my usual warm-up of jogging, sprinting, and some light calisthenics, the loudspeaker announced the start of the 100m race in three languages. I stripped off my track suit and ran over to the start. When called, I pressed my spikes against the blocks and waited nervously for the starter’s pistol. Felkészülni, kész—bang! Ten seconds later the race was over and the only virtue of coming last was that it left me six free days to investigate the Hungarian capital.

  Walking around Budapest reminded me of my childhood days in Bristol just after the war, but with one noticeable difference. As well as the bombed-out buildings, there was row upon row of bullet holes in some of the walls. The revolution, although eight years past, was still much in evidence, perhaps because the nationals did not want anyone to forget. The people on the streets had lined faces, stripped of all emotion, and they shuffled rather than walked, leaving the impression of a nation of old men. If you inquired innocently why, they told you there was nothing to hurry for, or to be happy about, although they always seemed to be thoughtful with each other.

  On the third day of the games, I returned to the Nép stadium to support a friend of mine who was competing in the semifinals of the four-hundred-meter hurdles, which was the first event that afternoon. Having a competitor’s pass, I could sit virtually anywhere in the half-empty arena. I chose to watch the race from just above the final bend, giving me a good view of the home stretch. I sat down on the wooden bench without paying much attention to the people on
either side of me. The race began, and as my friend hit the bend crossing the seventh hurdle with only three hurdles to cover before the finish line, I stood and cheered him heartily all the way down the home stretch. He managed to come in third, ensuring himself a place in the final the next day. I sat down again and wrote out the detailed result in my program. I was about to leave, as there were no British competitors in the hammer or the pole vault, when a voice behind me said:

  “You are English?”

  “Yes,” I replied, turning in the direction from which the question had been put.

  An elderly gentleman looked up at me. He wore a three-piece suit that must have been out of date when his father owned it, and even lacked the possible virtue that someday the style might come back into fashion. The leather patches on the elbows left me in no doubt that my questioner was a bachelor, for they could only have been sewn on by a man—either that or one had to conclude he had elbows in odd places. The length of his trousers revealed that his father had been two inches taller than he. As for the man himself, he had a few strands of white hair, a walrus mustache, and ruddy cheeks. His tired blue eyes were perpetually half closed like the shutter of a camera that has just been released. His forehead was so lined that he might have been any age between fifty and seventy. The overall impression was of a cross between a streetcar inspector and an out-of-work violinist.

  I sat down for a second time.

  “I hope you didn’t mind my asking?” he added.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “It’s just that I have so little opportunity to converse with an Englishman. So when I spot one I always grasp the nettle. Is that the right colloquial expression?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to think how many Hungarian words I knew. “Yes,” “no,” “good morning,” “good-bye,” “I am lost,” “help.”