This time there was a distant sound of a door opening, a muttered curse and the heavy approach of a plaster-cased foot. The door opened and Everard Austick peered blearily out into the shadows of the corridor. He looked a mess. His grey hair stuck out in a series of Brylcreemed sheaves as he had slept on it. He had only shaved sketchily for a few days and the areas he had missed sprouted long bristles. A dilapidated camel dressing-gown was bunched around his large frame. His right leg was grotesquely inflated by its plaster. He was probably only in his fifties, but he looked an old man.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked in a public school voice furred with alcohol.
‘Yes. I’m sorry to trouble you. My name’s Charles Paris.’
Fuddled incomprehension.
‘We worked together once for a season in Glasgow.’
‘Ah. Ah yes, of course.’ But he didn’t remember.
‘Look, I’ve taken over the part you were playing in Lumpkin!’
‘Oh. Do you want to come in?’
‘Thank you.’ Everard Austick backed away and Charles moved past him into the dim hall. A door gave off on to a large sitting-room and he made towards it. ‘Er, not in there if you don’t mind.’
Charles had seen the smart decor of the room and looked back quizzically at Everard. ‘Fact is, old boy, I don’t use all the flat. No point in using it all when I’m away so much… I… er, there’s a young couple who also live here. Just on a temporary basis. Helps out with the old rent, what?’ The jovial tone could not hide the facts. Everard Austick was so hard up that he had to rent out almost all his flat to keep his head above water.
This impression was confirmed when Charles was led into Everard’s bedroom, obviously the smallest in the flat. The air tasted as if it hadn’t been changed for a fortnight. A pile of dusty magazines against them showed that the windows hadn’t been opened for months, and the bed was rumpled not just by one night’s occupation, but by long days and nights of simply lying and staring at the ceiling rose.
A half-empty bottle of vodka on the dressing-table was evidence of the only activity the room had seen for some time. ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a tip,’ said Everard, attempting to play the line with light comedy insouciance. ‘Can I offer you a drink? There’s only the vodka, I’m afraid. Well, I suppose I could make some coffee, but…’ His mind was unable to cope with the incongruity of the idea.
‘A little vodka would be fine.’ A hair of the dog might possibly loosen the nutcrackers on Charles’ head.
He received a clouded tooth mug half-full of vodka. Everard Austick’s hand shook as he passed it over and topped up his own tumbler. ‘Down the hatch, old boy.’ The long swallow he took was not an action of relish, but of dependence. He grimaced, shuddered and looked at Charles. ‘Now, what can I do for you, old man? Want a bit of help in your interpretation of the part, eh?’ Again the cheerfulness sounded forced.
‘No, actually I just wanted to pick your brains about something.’ Charles paused. It was difficult. He did not want to reveal his role as an investigator into the show. He realised that he had not done enough preparation for the encounter; he should have worked out some specious story to explain his interest, or even made the approach in some other identity. Still, too late now. Better to try the direct question and hope that Everard’s bemused condition would prevent him from being suspicious. ‘You know when you broke your leg — what happened?’
‘I fell down the stairs.’
‘Just an accident?’
‘Oh, God knows. I’d had quite a skinful the night before, met a few chums, celebrating actually being in work, it had been a long time. And I had a few more in the morning, you know, to pull me round, and I managed to leave late, so I was hurrying, so I suppose I could have just fallen.’
‘Or?’
‘Well, there was this chap on the stairs, ran down from behind me, I thought he sort of jostled me. I don’t know though.’
‘And that’s what caused you to fall?’
‘Could have been. I don’t know.’
‘Did he stop to help you when you fell?’
‘No, he seemed to be in a hurry.’
‘Hmm. Did you see what he looked like?’
‘No.’
‘Not even an impression?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘No. Who’s going to believe me? I’m not even sure it happened myself. Could just have fallen.’
‘Yes.’ The interrogation did not seem to be getting anywhere. Everard Austick was so fogged with alcohol that he didn’t even trust his own memory. No one was going to get anything else out of him. Charles drained his glass and rose to leave.
‘You’re off?’ Everard seemed to accept the departure with as little surprise as he had the arrival. Nothing seemed strange in his half-real world. ‘Actually, there is one thing, old boy.’
‘Yes?’
‘This damned leg, I find it so difficult to get about, you know, get to the bank and so on, a bit short of cash, for the… er… you know, basic necessities of life.’
The expansive gesture which accompanied the last four words was meant to signify a whole range of food and domestic essentials, but it ended up pointing at the nearly-empty vodka bottle.
Out of guilt or something, Charles gave him a fiver. Then a thought struck him. ‘Everard, why didn’t you use the lift that morning?’
‘Wasn’t working.’
‘Sure?’
‘I pushed the button for it and it didn’t come for a long time. I told you I was in a hurry.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Charles walked slowly along the dim corridor until he came to the lifts. He looked at them closely. Both were the old sort with sliding doors. A notice requested users to close both doors firmly. Otherwise the lifts would not function. So it would be possible to immobilise both by calling them to another floor and leaving them with their doors ajar. It would then be possible to linger in the gloomy corridor until Everard Austick staggered out of his flat, watch him call unsuccessfully for the lift and then help him on his way when he started downstairs. Unlikely, but possible.
‘Hello, Gerald, it’s Charles. I got your message at the rehearsal rooms and I’m afraid this is the first chance I’ve had to call.’
‘Okay. How’s it going?’
‘Nothing to report really. Nothing else has happened.’
‘No tension in the company?’
‘No more than in any show with Christopher Milton in it which starts its pre-London tour in a week.’
‘Hmm. Maybe I was being alarmist’
‘Maybe. Anyway, thanks for the job.’
‘Any time. Keep your eyes skinned.’
‘Okay. Though I don’t know what for. There’s nothing to see.’
‘Unless something else happens.’
‘Hello, is that Ruth?’
‘Yes. Who’s speaking?’
‘Charles Paris.’
‘Good God. I thought the earth had swallowed you up long ago.’
‘No. Still large as life and twice as seedy.’
‘Well, to what do I owe this pleasure? Tidying out your room and just found a seven-year-old diary?’
‘No.’
‘Joined Divorcees Anonymous have you, and they gave you my number?’
‘Actually I’m still not divorced.’
‘Separated though?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And you just phoned for the Recipe-of-the-Day, did you? It’s stew.’
‘No, the fact is, I’m in a show that’s about to start a pre-London tour and our first week’s in Leeds and, with true actor’s instinct, I thought, well, before I fix up any digs, I’ll see if I’ve got any old friends in Leeds…’
‘You’ve got a nerve.’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll — ’
‘No. It might be quite entertaining to see you after all these years. At least a change from the sort of men who hang around divorcees in Leeds. When do you arrive?’
‘Sunday.’
As Charles put the phone down, Ruth’s voice still rang, ominously familiar, in his ears and he had the feeling that he had done something stupid.