An Amateur Corpse by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online

blearily. “S find a cab, Charles. Get the six-forty-two from Waterloo.’
    They were lucky to find one and got to the station in good time. Charles went off to buy a ticket and returned to find Hugo on the platform with a copy of the Evening Standard tucked under his arm. Charles made to move a little further down the platform. ‘No, Charles, here. Right opposite the barrier at Breckton.’
    Sure enough, twenty minutes later they got out of the train opposite the ticket collector. Hugo showed his season ticket with an unconscious reflex movement, turned right out of the station and started to walk along a footpath by the railway line. After a few steps he stopped.
    â€˜Come on, Hugo, let’s get back to your place. See Charlotte.’
    â€˜Charlotte.’ There was a deep misery in his echo.
    â€˜Yes, Come on.’
    â€˜No,’ Hugo dithered like a recalcitrant two-year-old. ‘No, let’s go up to the Backstagers and have a drink.’
    â€˜Haven’t we had enough drinks?’ Charles spoke very gently.
    â€˜No, we bloody haven’t! Don’t you try to tell me when I’ve had enough!’ Hugo bunched his fist and took a wild swing. Charles was able to block it harmlessly, but he felt the enormous strength of frustration in the blow.
    Hugo went limp. ‘I’m sorry, Charles. I’m sorry. Silly. Come on, come to the Backstagers – just for a quick one. Often go there for a quick one on the way home.’
    â€˜All right. A very quick one.’
    In the Back Room bar (manned that evening by Robert Chubb) Hugo recommenced his silent, systematic drinking. Charles, himself no mean performer with a bottle, was amazed at his friend’s capacity. What made it unnerving was the fact that after the outburst by the station, it no longer seemed to have any effect. Hugo spoke with great care, but without slurring. And still the alcohol poured in, as if fuelling some inner fire, which must soon burst out into a terrible conflagration.
    There were a good few Backstagers about. Apparently, this was one of their rare lulls between productions. The Critics’ Circle for The Seagull the next day and then, on Wednesday, rehearsals for The Winter’s Tale would start. Charles visualized Shakespeare getting the same perfunctory treatment as Chekhov.
    Hugo introduced him liberally to everyone in sight and then left him to fend for himself. Geoffrey Winter was lounging against the bar with a middle-aged balding man dressed in a navy and white striped T-shirt, white trousers, plimsolls and a silly little blue cap with a gold anchor on it.
    This refugee from H.M.S. Pinafore turned out to be Shad Scott-Smith, director of The Seagull . ‘Now, Charles,’ he emoted when they were introduced, ‘promise me one thing – that when you do the Critics’ Circle you will really criticize. Treat us just as you would a professional company. Be cruel if you like, but please, please, do be constructive. There’s an awful tendency for these meetings to end up just as a sort of mutual admiration society, which really doesn’t help anyone.’
    â€˜I’ll do my best to avoid that.’
    â€˜Oh, super. I’m just here actually buying the odd drink of thanks for members of my hardworking cast – libations to my little gods, you could say. Oh, the whole gang did work so hard. I tell you, I’m still a washed-out rag at the end of it all. Still, I at least get a bit of a break now. Do you know, Geoff’s going straight on to play Leontes in The Winter’s Tale . Honestly, I don’t know where he get the energy. How do you do it, Geoff?’
    Geoffrey Winter shrugged. Charles thought that was a pretty good answer to a totally fatuous question. He warmed to the man.
    Shad went on. ‘Oh, something happens, I know. The old adrenaline flows. Leave it to Doctor Footlights, he’ll sort you out.’
    He breathed between gushes and