Future Tense (7 page)

“You will stand back to back with Monsieur De Quipp, sir,” commanded the Duck.

“Old friends, bookends…” I sang, as I passed him. “Get me out of this!”

“Take up your positions, gentlemen,” said the blank-faced Duck

I reversed into place, shoulder blade to shoulder blade and backside to backside with my adversary, only my backside must have bumped a little too firmly against his, because he instantly responded by giving mine an even bigger bump right back. I, of course, being at the seat of the Duckworths, so to speak, and thinking of the family honour, responded doublefold. The bum bumping escalated from there really and soon we were smacking backsides with huge exaggerated thrusts, neither of us prepared to give an inch, although, I'm sure De Quipp would have insisted on using centimetres.

“Stop it! Stop that! Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” flapped the Duck.

But De Quipp and I were well out of control, taking run ups and locking bums—like two confused stags—and then De Quipp lost it and turned on me, sticking the barrel of his Wogdon right up my nose.

“You try my payshaunce, Monsieur!” he snarled.

Aleman grabbed me from behind and dragged me out of harm's way, while the Duck tried to placate the mega-passionate Frenchman.

The Duck quickly arranged a compromise and got us to stand back to back, one pace apart, like two naughty schoolboys.

“Now, gentlemen,” he quacked, “on my command, you will take six paces, stop, turn and fire at will. Remember, if you should discharge your weapon and miss, you must remain where you are on the field of honour until your opponent has discharged his weapon.”

I turned my head towards him and mouthed the words: “Do something.”

He merely blinked complacently. “Are you ready, gentlemen?”

“Oui.”

“Nope.”

“I am going to count to three, on three, you will slowly commence walking to your firing positions,” continued the Duck, in a monotone voice he had adopted, because he probably thought it made him sound important and dramatic. It just made him sound like a pompous ass.

“Get on with it,” I said.

“One…two…three,” said the Duck, thus making the only contribution to the whole sorry proceedings he hadn't messed up.

I set off along the path, swinging my gun down by my ankles and looking around me at the purling stream, and up into the beeches and the green hills and the house beyond, wondering if these scenes were really the last I would ever see. I totally forgot to count! So, I just turned. De Quipp was already facing me, some fifty feet away, his arm outstretched, aiming directly at me.

“Oh, shit!” I exclaimed, got my gun up as far as my hip and it went off.

I felt the dull percussion reverberate through my hand and all the way up my arm to my skull. There was a blinding flash, followed by a shower of sparks and a very loud resounding bang. I was immediately enveloped in a pall of thick grey, choking smoke. I tried to stagger out of it, clutching my throat and coughing, my ears ringing with the deafening explosion, which I was so sure I could still hear, I thought De Quipp must be firing at me. I tried to dodge imaginary bullets by stooping low and weaving my head from side to side, as though I were doing some funky new dance. And then my ears popped and I could hear the horses snorting and the rooks shrieking from the trees like a coven of witches.

“Stand your ground, sir!” cried my father, who had retreated behind a tree on the brook side of the path.

“I can't bloody breathe!” I spluttered. The smoke was slowly dispersing in the wind, but somehow the pungent gunpowder smell was still hanging in the air.

Suddenly, Aleman ran up to me and started slapping my arm.

“Monsieur, Monsieur!” he snorted.

“Did I win?” I said.

“Non—you are hon fireur!”

He was right! The whole of my right arm was alight. I leapt up and down and blew at the flames, which only made matters worse. The sparks had clearly sprayed over my sleeve and burnt through to the lining, and now the fire was spreading—inside the garment! Aleman was pummelling me so madly I had to push him off before he broke my arm.

“I'll take it off!” I shouted—pulling my left shoulder and arm out and letting Aleman wrench the whole coat off my back.

He ran with it down the bank, dragging it behind him like a wacky firework display, and flung it into the stream.

I rolled my billowy white shirtsleeve up and rubbed my scorched arm, and checked for any blood on the rest of me. I was okay. I looked over at the Duck, who was leaning against a tree, with his arms folded, shaking his head.

“You could have told me,” I said.

The Duck pointed up the path.

I turned round to find De Quipp still standing, side-on to me, in the classic duellist pose, with his arm fully extended, aiming his pistol straight at my heart.

“When you planned all this,” I said to the Duck, “tell me, was this the worst case scenario, or did you think of anything else that could go wrong?”

“Don't worry,” said the Duck. “I'll have you in Bristol Frenchay Hospital in under five minutes.”

“Can you make that five seconds?” I said, closing my eyes.

There was a loud report and something punched me in the left arm, just above the elbow, and spun me round in a complete circle, only my feet stayed put and I tripped over them and fell to my knees. I opened my eyes and saw De Quipp running towards me through a swirling cloud of grey smoke. But stronger arms reached and held me first, before I pitched forward and smacked my nose into the dirt.

“Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!” snuffled a gruff voice.

“Mon Dieu!” cried another voice. “I neveur miss! Such braveury, Monsieur!”

“Is he dead?” said the Duck.

Aleman was sitting on the path with me, cradling me in his arms. De Quipp took one look at me, dropped to his knees, and hung his head, uttering a prayer under his breath. Next, the Duck's big red spectacled face loomed into close view.

“Oh, Christ!” he exclaimed.

“It's just my arm,” I said, trying to point.

“Shh. Don't move, Monsieur,” croaked Aleman.

“It's more than that!” quacked the Duck. He reached inside his frock coat and whipped out a tiny mobile phone. “Get that bloody helicopter down here quick!” he quacked. “Yeah, to Frenchay!”

“Vite! Vite!” urged Aleman.

I looked down at my shirt. Aleman's hands were clasped around my chest, soaked in blood. I passed out.

Chapter 4

I think I remember being in the helicopter and the thump-thump-thump of the rotor blades.

I also think I remember opening my eyes fleetingly when the crash team were charging me through the hospital corridors on a trolley.

The last thing I remember was some doctor standing over me with a pair of those electric shock paddles, and some guy saying: “Okay, we have a pulse.” But I might be being over-dramatic there.

Anyway, these were just fragmented memories. I believe there was also a giant squid in there somewhere, so they may not be that reliable. The next thing I really knew for sure was waking up and seeing the Duck's ugly mug, grinning down at me.

“How you feeling?”

“Nearly got me killed,” I said, softly.

“Sorry. You needed six pints of blood,” he said.

“A six pack,” I said.

“Yeah. You were lucky, mate. Travis just missed your heart.”

“Thought it hit my arm.”

“Yeah, it did, but that's just a scratch. It did all the damage when it hit your rib and sheared off, came out your side and lodged in your arm. I reckon you put that sight out of line when you were messing about with it,” said the Duck. “That's how he missed.”

“I owe me my life,” I said, forcing a smile.

“You owe Aleman, too. He stuck his fingers in the holes and stopped you bleeding to death,” said the Duck.

“Little boy and the dyke. Thank him for me.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Is he here?”

“No, I took him home. His wife's got another nipper on the way. He sends you his best.”

“Betha's pregnant?”

“Yeah. Here, it's not yours, is it?”

“Get stuffed. Aleman's a good man. What about Emma?” I said.

The Duck helped himself to a grape. “All you've got to do is concentrate on getting better, mate,” he said.

“Where is she?” I said.

“She's, er, still at Duckworth Hall. What do you think of your suite? Nice, innit? Nothing but the best for a Duckworth—you've got everything in here—cable TV, movie channel, your own nurse, you can even go online, if you want. Er, when you can move again. This is the luxury deluxe package—none of your NHS rubbish.”

“Why isn't she here?”

“Who?”

“Tooth Fairy—Emma!”

“If that chick don't wanna know, man—forget her,” he said.

“Get her here, Duck.”

“I can't.” He lowered his voice and looked over his shoulder. “I can't. She's back in 1803. Anyway, she doesn't want to see you. She and Travis are—”

“—De Quipp's with her?”

“I had to take him back, didn't I? He thought it was 1803. I couldn't let him stay here, could I? He'd be chasing cars up the motorway on his horse and having duels with traffic wardens.”

“Get me out of here,” I said. “I have to go back.”

“I can't. The doctors say you're going to need at least another ten days to recover,” said the Duck.

“I have to see Emma. You could get me out if you wanted to.”

“But I'm not going to,” he said. “It's for your own good.”

I turned my face away from him. “Thanks a lot.”

“Give it up, mate. Emma said your relationship was past tense. She and Travis got engaged. I'm sorry. Here, these grapes are nice, try one.”

“Tired. Go away.”

“Yeah. You get some sleep now,” he said. “Anything you need, just tell the nurse, she works for me.” I heard him get up. “I'll come and see you again tomorrow, hey? We'll soon have you back on your feet. See you, mate.”

I heard him go out.

I stared up at the ceiling. I didn't know what to think anymore. The whole business with Emma and De Quipp was beyond belief. I kept thinking it wasn't serious, that I could sort it out and get her back, but now it seemed I was too late. I was stuck in a hospital two hundred years away, by the time I got out she and De Quipp could be in Napoleonic France saying their wedding vows. Our relationship wasn't just past tense—it was future tense, too! How could a stupid argument in a restaurant over nothing have ended up like this? That's how it all began, an argument over a stupid holiday. I just said I fancied going to the Far East to do a bit of backpacking, before we were both past it, and she went crazy. Why didn't she tell me she was pregnant? Did she really think I would make such a lousy father? I kept coming back to two things. What had really made her storm out of that restaurant and end our relationship after nearly three semi-blissful years? And how could she have fallen so deeply in love with a pratt like Travis De Quipp in just three weeks? Lying there, analysing it all, I came to a startling conclusion, and the only one that made any sense to me. The Emma who left that restaurant had not terminated our relationship, we had merely had a row, like all couples who've been around the block do from time to time—it was just a tiff and she'd walked off in a huff, that's all. It should have been no big deal. But what, I hypothesized, if the Emma in the restaurant and the Emma I met at Duckworth Hall were not one and the same? I was excited—my mind was racing—it was all starting to fit together. How could the real Emma behave like the Emma who was running around after a guy like Travis De Quipp? I knew Emma better than anyone and De Quipp was definitely not her type. He was too—too corny, too—tall, dark and handsome—too bloody Latin-looking!

“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.”