Future Tense Page 2

  “Hm, very convenient. So, what does this guy want, apart from a smack in the mouth?”

  “Now, now,” said the Duck. “Travis is all right.”

  “It’s easy for you to say—you’ve got dozens of women,” I said. “What happened to that one you were going to marry—whatshername—the Viscount’s daughter?”

  “Henrietta? She dumped me,” said the Duck. “I need to build up a bit more cred around here before I crack the posh crumpet market. Seems her old man didn’t think I was good enough for her. Said I was only after her for her heirlooms. Heirlooms? I said, I’ve had more heirlooms than you’ve had hot dinners, mate—you can keep your family silver—I was after your bloodstock!”

  “Yes, well, you’ve still got Emily,” I said. “I like Emily.”

  “Yeah. Why don’t we take a turn around the garden?” The Duck put his arm around my shoulder and walked me through to a back drawing room, which led out onto the terrace. “And I can tell you all about it over a spliff.”

  “I’m not leaving Emma alone with him,” I said, holding back.

  “Not much of a basis for marriage, is it, mate?” said the Duck, with a lopsided grin. He took out some papers and started patching them together.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “A serious deficiency in the trust department, if you ask me.”

  “Well, I didn’t. Anyway, I do trust her, it’s just—she’s acting very strangely. It’s as if she doesn’t care about us—but I know deep down inside she does.”

  “You don’t think you’re being a bit, you know… now, how can I put this, without sounding offensive—pathetic and self-delusional?”

  “Do you want a smack in the mouth as well?” I said.

  “Face it—she blew you out, man.”

  “She doesn’t mean it—wait a minute, how do you know? You’d better not have anything to do with this?”

  “Me? As if.”

  “If I find out this is all your doing, I’ll—” I scratched my ear. “I don’t understand it—I’m the father of her child.”

  “It’s not uncommon,” said the Duck.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Rejection of the biological father.”

  “And you’d know all about that, dad,” I nodded.

  “The mother conceives by mistake with an unsuitable partner, then rejects him and seeks a superior substitute,” said the Duck. “Happens all the time.”

  I grabbed him by the collar of his floppy white Byronic shirt. “If I find out you’ve been poisoning her mind against me, I’ll tear that evil little forked thing you call a tongue right out of your lying mouth!”

  “Get off!” He broke free and straightened his matching white silk neck scarf. “You want to watch that, mate. Jealousy is a very ugly emotion. No wonder your bird’s playing away from home.”

  “She is not a bird and she is not playing away from home! We are in love—with each other!”

  The Duck nodded through the window. “You’d better tell her that. Doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing, mate.”

  I followed his gaze. My heart sank. There, standing on the terrace, was Emma, in the arms of Monsieur De Quipp.

  “What is she playing at?” I gasped. “She’s killing me.”

  The Duck stifled a laugh. “I think we know what her game is, mate.”

  I grabbed him by his lapels and swung him round to face me. “I don’t know how and I don’t know why yet—but you’re behind this—and when I find out what your game is, you are going to be very sorry! And I’m not playing games. Got that?”

  He shrugged me off. “Charming. I got the blame for everything last time!” He jumped up on a card table and swung his feet onto a Chippendale chair, to continue rolling his spliff.

  “That’s because you were to blame for everything,” I said, not taking my eyes off the loving couple out in the garden. “You’re always to blame for everything. I’m going out there.”

  “You’re wasting your time, mate. Besides, it won’t last.”

  “No, it won’t, because I’m going to put a stop to it right now,” I said, lurching towards the French windows. I lurched back. “You see, once again you seem to know everything—this is how I got into trouble last time. How do you know it won’t last?”

  “Well, stands to reason, doesn’t it?” said the Duck, sealing his spliff with a single lick. “His sort are only after one thing—once he’s had his wicked way with her, he’ll be off like a shot.”

  I knocked the spliff out of his mouth.

  “Mind the gear, man!”

  “Travesty De Creep, or whatever his name is, is not having his wicked way with my Emma!”

  “Your Emma? You really are an emotional dinosaur, aren’t you, Stephen? When are you going to realize that you can’t own people? Emma has free will, if she wants to give you the old heave-ho, you just have to respect her decision, and let her get on with it, mate.”

  I was speechless.

  He picked his spliff up off the floor and inspected it for damage. And then, satisfying himself that it was still intact, stuck it back in his mouth and lit up. “You don’t have much luck with birds, do you, Son?”

  I pointed at him through the cloud of marijuana smoke. “You’re behind this. And I will find out what you’re up to. That’s a promise. But, right now, I’m going to go out there and give that cheesy Frenchman a piece of my mind!”

  “Watch yourself,” said the Duck.

  “Don’t worry about me—I can take care of myself.” I reached the glass doors and turned back. “Why?”

  The Duck expelled another cloud of thick grey smoke. “Well, he’s from the eighteenth century.”

  “So?”

  The Duck sniffed. “Code of honour and all that, innit.”

  “Code of honour?” I laughed. “Don’t give me that. I know his sort—bloody gigolo—he’ll probably hide behind Emma when I lay into him.” I made for the French windows again.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” called the Duck.

  I swung open the doors and stepped out onto the terrace. Both parties looked suitably compromised and released each other from their embrace. Emma primped her hair. The Frenchman coughed into one hand and looked skyward.

  “What exactly do you think you’re playing at, Em?” I said.

  “We were just—nothing—” she began, momentarily caught off-guard, but then she recovered and her face hardened. “What business is it of yours, anyway? I can do what I like. Travis and I have become—we’ve become very close and—”

  “Very close? You’ve only known him five minutes—wait a minute!” I took her by the shoulders. “How long have you been here?”

  “How long have I been here?” said Emma, looking puzzled. “You know how long I’ve been here—I just spoke to you a minute ago.”

  “No. I meant actually staying here, at Duckworth Hall?”

  “Three weeks, of course.”

  “Three week—? Don’t move,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I stomped back into the drawing room, where the Duck was still lounging on the card table, enjoying his spliff.

  “You, have done something!” I said, jabbing my finger in his face.

  “Moi?”

  I grabbed him by the lapels of his frock coat and shook him. “She has been here three bloody weeks! When we got back from your last little prank she’d only just arrived—what happened to my three missing weeks? I lost them somewhere between here and the bedroom.”

  He pulled my hand away and jumped down. “Get off me—what’re you on about? You’re rambling.”

  “Yeah, I’m not rambling, mate—but you will be in a minute—rambling straight through that window—if I don’t get some answers!”

  “All right—all right,” said the Duck, straightening his coat and then holding up his hands. “I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “And I want the whole truth. Every detail. Not the Duckworth version—with all the dodgy bits lef
t out. I might be able to repair some of the damage you’ve done.”

  “All I did was give her a little time to think. I could see she was upset and I just wanted the two of you to step back and have a cooling off period—”

  “Cooling off? She’s iced over!”

  “I was only trying to help.”

  “Yeah, you helped all right—helped her into the arms of that smarmy French Casanova! I want to know exactly what you did and said—and why—the real reason this time—you scheming little rat!”

  “Well, that’s the last time I try to play matchmaker. In future, you can sort out your own love life.”

  “What love life? You have single-handedly destroyed my love life. She’s in love with Travis De Generate out there—he’s had three weeks to work on her—three weeks to break down her defences and worm his way into her pant—affections. If I’ve lost her, I’ll—”

  “You haven’t lost her,” said the Duck. “Don’t be wet—she’s expecting your kid. She’ll come to her senses. What you see out there is just a—just a wild, passionate fling—the mere overture to a mad sex romp—when the fires of his ardour have been quenched, he’ll soon lose interest and move on to the next one. Mark my words. And you’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”

  “Have you finished? I don’t want to pick up the pieces—she’s pregnant for Pete’s sake—what kind of a man preys on a pregnant woman?”

  “Some men find it a turn on,” said the Duck, suppressing a smutty grin.

  “Well, you’d better turn him off, because I know you started all this, you’re trying to pull one of your devious little strokes—and you’re not going to get away with it!”

  I barged him aside and rushed out to rescue Emma from the clutches of her French seducer.

  “All right—break it up,” I said. “This has gone far enough.” I dragged Emma out of De Quipp’s arms and pushed him away. “Emma,” I said, looking her square in the eyes, “this gigolo is only after one thing, he’s getting some perverted kick out of all this, and I am not going to stand by and watch you make a complete fool of yourself.”

  Emma brought her knee up sharply into my groin and I doubled up and turned away on my toes.

  “Bloody Nor-”

  “Don’t you dare speak to me like that!” she cried. “I don’t want anything to do with you ever again—come, Travis.”

  I shuffled round and saw the disgustingly handsome Frenchman gallantly offering Emma his arm. It was all too much to bear.

  “You are the pits!” I shouted. “The lowest of the low. You pervert!”

  “What doze hee say?” said my rival.

  “Don’t listen to him, Travis,” said Emma.

  “I said you’re the pits—you piece of dog turd!”

  “What ees thees bitz of docteur?” said De Quipp, with a Gallic shrug.

  “Just ignore him, my love,” said Emma. “He’s only jealous.”

  To hear her call him “my love” knocked the breath out of me.

  “Vous merde de chien!” I gasped, in my best Franglais.

  De Quipp merely laughed when he realized what I had been calling him. They both turned their backs on me and walked towards the steps, which led down into the formal garden.

  “He doesn’t love you, Emma,” I called. “He’s lying through his teeth, just to get in your bed! He’s a dirty rotten liar!”

  The Frenchman suddenly froze to the spot and then slowly turned to face me, with an expression of injured disbelief on his face. He retraced his steps the half dozen paces and looked me up and down.

  “What deed you call mee, seur?” he said.

  “Dog turd?”

  “Non, not thee docteur—thee otheur,” he said, holding his chin and looking at me sideways.

  “The pits?”

  “Non-non.” He clicked his fingers. “Thees otheur thang.”

  “Liar?”

  “Ah! Mon Dieu! I thought that was what I heurd.” He reached inside his little tailed jacket. I thought he was feeling his mortified heart—but he pulled out a card and snapped it against my chest, letting it fall to my feet. “My card, seur! My second wheel call to make the necesseuree aurrangemaunt. I shall have my sateesfaxsheon. Do not disappoint mee, seur.”

  And with that, he gave me a curt bow, turned smartly on his heels and marched back to rejoin Emma. I picked up the card. There was just his name printed on it.

  “Yeah, and up yours!” I said. “I’ll be having my satisfaction and all, mate!”

  The Duck stuck his head out of the door to see what all the shouting was about.

  “What’s up, man?”

  “That guy’s right up his own arse,” I said. “One dark night he’s going to hear something go bump—right on the back of his head.”

  “What you got there?”

  “His card.” I tore it up and threw the pieces down on the ground. “I am going to so enjoy punching his lights out.”

  “What did he give you his card for?” said the Duck, pulling a face.

  “I don’t know. The ponce. But I do know he’s going to come to a sticky end the way he’s carrying on,” I said.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Oh, I let him know I was onto him all right. And he says: I shall have my sateesfaxsheon, seur—who does he think he is—Mick bloody Jagger!”

  “Oh—no!” cried the Duck.

  “What?”

  “He’s only gone and challenged you to a duel.”

  I laughed—a bit nervously. “You what?”

  “With shooters—pistols at dawn, mate,” said the Duck.

  “Yeah, well, bring it on—that’s what I say, I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Well, you should be, mate. They say he’s one of the finest shots in all France,” said the Duck.

  “Now he tells me!”

  “Don’t worry,” grinned the Duck, “I’ll give you some coaching.”

  “Oh great!” I said. “First I get dumped, now I’m going to get shot. You’ve done it to me again!”

  “Believe me, man,” said the Duck, hand on heart. “I had nothing to do with any of this. Honest.”

  Reader, I hit him.

  Chapter 2

  “What month is it?” I said, as my father’s old butler vigorously brushed down the mourning suit I had been loaned. It was a snazzy little black velvet number.

  “March. St Paddy’s Day, as it happens. Why?” said the Duck.

  “I always wondered what month I’d die in. I mean, it’s strange to think, innit? Every year we pass over the exact day, the exact hour—moment of our death, and we don’t even know it. It’s just waiting there for us. Waiting for the right year. I wonder if it gives us a sign. You know, a shiver up the spine or a sudden flash of light. I wonder if there’ll be something to mark my death day…”

  “Yeah, a tombstone—the way you’re going on. Shape up—you’re a Duckworth!”

  “I don’t wanna die. I’m not ready.”

  “You’re not gonna die. Stand up straight. Be a man.”

  “I could be a corpse by tomorrow morning. This could be the suit they lay me out in.”

  “Steady, Bentley,” said the Duck, “that frock coat set me back three guineas.”

  The butler dug a little less deeply into the nap.

  “I don’t see why I have to wear it anyway,” I said, but rather admiring myself in it, in the full-length mirror.

  “As I’ve already told you,” sighed my father, who was sitting on a Hepplewhite chair, looking me up and down with a critical eye. “It’s in the Duelling Code of Honour: the challenger and challenged shall wear similar apparel and be equipped with matching pistols, so that neither shall gain unfair advantage. And don’t get any holes in it.”

  I shot him a sour look. “This is bloody stupid,” I said. “I don’t know how to shoot a pistol. I’ve got no chance.”

  “Leave us, please, would you, Bentley,” said the Duck, looking rather ruffled.

  Bentley gave my back one last st
roke with the hog bristles and bowed out.

  The Duck stood up, tugged his waistcoat tightly down over the top of his breeches, from where it had ridden up, and started strutting. I watched him in the cheval mirror. I hated it when he strutted, with his hands stuck behind his back, flicking his tails up as he talked, like a duck preening its feathers.

  “Stephen, I make no secret of the fact that you are not the son I had hoped for—” he began, in a grave tone.

  “And you’re not the father I’d hoped for,” I said, fiddling with my silk cravat. “I thought you’d be taller.”

  “You will hear me out, sir!” he quacked. “I will brook no defeatist talk in front of the servants.”

  “Oh, shut up, Shorty.”

  “Sir, I will not stand for your damn impertinence!” he insisted.

  “Siddown then,” I said.

  “Remember,” he said, puffing out his chest, sticking out his chin and gazing off into his own little dream world, “you are a Duckworth, sir. Need I remind you, the family honour rests on your shoulders in this matter?” And then his voice became almost Churchillian: “And never, nay, never, forget the Duckworth family motto: ego amo adversa.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s hope I don’t run out of ammo. How many bullets do I get?”

  “Ammo? Bullets? I’m talking about honour, sir. We Duckworths thrive on adversity,” said the Duck.

  “You might, mate. I just want to thrive on,” I said.

  “It’s in our blood,” said the Duck, drifting off into that dream realm of honour and noblesse oblige again.

  “Just as long as I don’t get any lead in mine, I’ll be happy,” I said.

  “Do your duty, sir—that is all I ask,” said the Duck.

  “I’ll do a runner if you don’t put a sock in it,” I said. “And how come I’m always the one who has to defend the family honour? Why don’t you get stuck in for a change?”

  “She’s your bird!” he cried. “You’re the one he challenged!”

  “You could have warned me he was the Clint-bloody-Eastwood of Versailles!”

  “I tried! You wouldn’t listen!”

  “Yeah. Right. You’re loving every minute of this. If I should die in a corner of some farmer’s field, think only this of me: it’s all your bloody fault!” I said.