Cast in Order of Disappearance Read Free Page A

Charles.’
    â€˜Yes, just.’
    â€˜Were you rude to anybody?’
    â€˜Not very. Not as rude as I felt like being.’
    â€˜Who to?’
    â€˜The producer.’
    â€˜Charles, you can’t afford it. Already you’ll never get another job on Doctor Who .’
    â€˜I wasn’t very rude. Anything coming up?’
    â€˜Some vacancies on the permanent company at Hornchurch.’
    â€˜Forget it.’
    â€˜Chance of a small part in a Softly, Softly .’
    â€˜Put my name up.’
    â€˜New play at one of these new fringe theatres. About transvestites in a prison. Political overtones. Written by a convict.’
    â€˜It’s not really me , is it, Maurice?’ in his best theatrical knight voice.
    â€˜I don’t know what is you any more, Charles. I sometimes wonder if you want to work at all.’
    â€˜Hmm. So do I.’
    â€˜What are you living on at the moment?’
    â€˜My second childhood.’
    â€˜I don’t get ten per cent of that.’
    â€˜No. What else is new?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Come on. Give us the dirt.’
    â€˜Isn’t any. Well, except for the Sally Nash business . . .’
    â€˜Oh yes?’
    â€˜Well, you know who the disc jockey was, for a start . . .’ And Maurice started. He was one of London’s recognised authorities on theatrical gossip. Malicious rumour had it that he kept a wall-chart with coloured pins on who was sleeping with who. The Sally Nash case gave him good copy. It was the Lambton affair of the theatre, complete with whips, boots, two-way mirrors and unnamed ‘show-business personalities’. For half an hour Maurice named them all. Eventually, he rang off. That’s why he was such a lousy agent. Spent all his time gossiping.
    By the Thursday morning Charles’ mellowness felt more fragile. When he woke at nine, Frances had already gone to school. He tottered downstairs and made some coffee to counteract the last night’s Beaujolais. The coffee tasted foul. Laced with Scotch, it tasted better. He drank it down, poured a glass of neat Scotch and went upstairs to dress.
    The inside of his shirt collar had dark wrinkles of dirt, and his socks made their presence felt. Soon he’d have to get Frances to wash something or go back to Hereford Road and pick up some more clothes.
    He sloped back downstairs. Frances’ Guardian was neatly folded on the hall chest. No time to read it at school. Organised read in the evening. It had to be the Guardian .
    Charles slumped on to the Harrods sofa and started reading an article on recycling waste paper. It failed to hold his attention. He checked the television times and switched on Play School. The picture was muzzy. He started fiddling with the UHF contrast knob. The phone rang.
    â€˜Hello.’
    â€˜Charles.’
    â€˜Jacqui. Where on earth did you get this number?’
    â€˜You gave it me ages ago. Said you were contactable there in the last resort.’
    â€˜Yes. I suppose it is my last resort. What’s up?’
    â€˜It’s about Marius.’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜I tried to contact him again. Went to the house in Bayswater. It was a stupid thing to do, I suppose. Should’ve left him alone. Should be able to take a bloody hint. I don’t know.’
    â€˜What happened?’
    â€˜He wasn’t there. But this morning I had a letter.’
    â€˜From Marius?’
    â€˜Yes. It wasn’t signed, but it must be. It’s horrid. Charles, I’m shit-scared.’
    â€˜Shall I come round?’
    â€˜Can you?’
    â€˜Yes.’ A pause. ‘Why did you ring me, Jacqui?’
    â€˜Couldn’t think of anyone else.’
    After he had put the phone down, Charles switched off Play School . He took an old envelope from the table and wrote on it in red felt pen, ‘THANKS. GOODBYE. SEE YOU.’ Then he left the house and set out for Highgate tube