Future Tense (4 page)

“Where is he?” said Emma.

“He's a bit spooked,” said the Duck.

I could have throttled him. I saw her dress sweep away.

“Steve? Steve? Where are you?”

I felt hands grip my ankles and yank me free. The Duck hauled me out and gave me a hand up.

“Duckworths do not hide under beds,” he said.

“Why did you have to tell her I was spooked?” I said.

“Steve—there you are!” cried Emma, turning round to see me holding hands with the Duck. “My, you two really are close. Where were you hiding?”

I snatched my hands away from the Duck's. “Hiding? I wasn't hiding—I thought I heard something under the bed.”

“Was it a bogeyman?” smirked the Duck.

“No, I think it was a Death Watch Beetle.”

“He'll be watching your death if you don't grow a spine,” said the Duck, from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” said Emma, and looked down at her hands.

“Er, would you mind leaving us, Duck,” I said.

The Duck remained, grinning at Emma.

“I'd like a word with Emma, Father—alone,” I said, giving him a kick in the ankle.

He kicked me back.

“Will you get lost!” I hissed, in his ear.

“You want me to leave you alone with her?” he whispered. “She might be armed.”

“Don't be ridiculous—get out!”

“It's rude to whisper, gentlemen,” said Emma.

“Yeah, I know, sorry, Em—my father was just leaving.” I gave the Duck a shove towards the door.

At last he took the hint, but as he left us he couldn't resist a parting shot at Emma.

“I hope you have not come to mock my son, Miss Gummer,” he said.

“Of course not!” exclaimed Emma. “You know I haven't!”

“What
is
your problem?” I said.

“Or question his honour—a Duckworth never backs down,” he added. “We Duckworths never waver from the path of honour—our ancestors had more garters than Cheltenham Ladies' College—and they hung onto 'em, too, which is more than can be said for some of those so-called ladies at Cheltenham Ladies'—”

“—Just go,” I said. “I'm really sorry about this, Em.”

“I'll call back before I turn in, Stephen,” said the Duck. “To make sure you're settled.”

“Don't bother,” I said. “I mean, don't trouble yourself, Father.”

The door closed behind him.

“Is that kid really your father?” said Emma.

The door opened and the Duck's head popped back in, before I could answer.

“It's no bother, Son,” he said. “I'll just drop by and tuck you in.”

“Don't be so bloody stu-pendously considerate, Father,” I smiled.

“Are you sure? It's no trouble, Son.”

“Oh, but it will be, Father. Believe me, it's going to be a lot of trouble to you.”

“Very well, dear.” The door closed once more, with the Duck on the other side.

“It must be very strange, having a teenager for a father,” said Emma.

“It's a nightmare,” I said. “I keep hoping I'm going to wake up and find I imagined him, but every time I do, he's always there.” I touched her hair. “You're real though, aren't you, Em?”

“I'm afraid so…” she smiled.

“Don't apologize, Em,” I moved my hand round to brush her cheek. “I'm glad you're here…”

“Stephen, I—”

The door opened and the Duck interrupted:

“I'll bring you some extra candles—I know how scared you are of the dark,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

I could have murdered him.

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “I know just where you can stick them.”

“Don't mention it, Stephen—it's my pleasure.”

“Yes, I can see it is,” I said.

“See you later, Daddy's little soldier.” He closed the door.

“He's just trying to wind me up,” I said.

“Why does he do it? It's so childish.”

“Exactly. He has to have his little joke,” I said.

“Doesn't he realize how nervous you must be feeling about tomorrow?”

I was glad she'd brought that little matter up. I was up for a bit of self-dramatization and false modesty.

“Oh that,” I said. “Drink?”

I sauntered over to the writing bureau where I had seen the Duck take out the decanter of fine Madeira and the two glasses. My back was to her, but I could feel her sorrowful eyes following me.

“No thanks. You don't sound too concerned, Steve. This is serious.”

I lifted the lid of the bureau. “I know it's serious, Em, but what can I do? I just have to accept my fate.” I opened the little letter drawer and slid my hand inside.

“You could apologize to Monsieur De Quipp—I'm sure he would accept your apology,” said Emma.

I felt for the hidden catch, to open the secret compartment. “I hope you haven't been pleading for my life, Em,” I smiled.

“Travis doesn't want to fight you,” she said.

“Doesn't want to kill me, you mean,” I laughed. I was still fumbling for the release mechanism.

“Don't say that.”

I caught my finger on something sharp and spun away in pain.

“Shit!” I sucked my bleeding nail.

“What have you done?” she cried.

“It's nothing,” I held up my hand. “Just ripped the nail off my trigger finger, that's all.”

“Let me see.” She came and took my hand and inspected it. “That looks nasty.”

I pulled my hand away and let it fall to my side. “It's nothing,” I said. “Wouldn't have made any difference anyway—I can't shoot a gun, Em. I don't know one end of a gun from the other. They say De Quipp's a crack shot. I don't stand a cat in hell's chance.”

“You can't fight with a broken nail,” she said. “Call it off, Steve. Please call it off.”

My gaze fell upon her beautiful sea green eyes—those selfsame eyes I had fallen in love with—and I was overwhelmed with emotions. I didn't know whether to kiss her, scream at her, push her away, or plead with her. I smiled and reached up to stroke her cheek.

“Em, that's not the way these things work,” I said. “Some things cannot be undone. And we must bear the consequences of things we did in haste. Like when David Beckham got sent off in that Argentinian game. I'm going to miss football.”

“This is all my fault!” she cried, biting her lip.

I grabbed her hard by the shoulders and winced as the pain shot through my nail. “No it's not! Don't ever say that! This is all my own fault. I asked for this.”

“No, Steve. If I hadn't—”

I quickly put my finger to her lips. Emma kissed it. “This isn't about you, Em. I don't own you. I had no right to treat you like a possession. You chose De Quipp. And I should have accepted your decision gracefully.”

“Oh, Steve, I'm so sorry,” she sighed.

I thought about kissing her, but turned away instead and held my forehead. “My only defence is—but it's too late for all that now. I won't burden you with my—with my—feelings.”

Her arms threaded around my waist and I felt her cheek rest softly between my shoulder blades. “Tell me, Steve. You can tell me now,” she breathed.

Her warmth against my back felt like love returning. I folded my arms and smoothed her hands with mine. “Em, although I know I have no right to ask, will you promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“Will you tell my child about me?”

I felt her gasp.

“Em? Will you tell our child—I'm sorry his father couldn't be around for her, or him? I've always wanted a baby. I wonder what it'll be. Don't suppose I'll ever know now.”

She suddenly wrenched her arms away. “Stop it! Stop it!” she cried, and threw herself face down on my bed, her whole body shuddering with sobs.

“I've upset you,” I said, coming to kneel down by the bed to stroke her hair.

She turned towards me and pulled a stray swatch of hair from her mouth. Her eyes were flooded and looked a little pink.

Suddenly, I felt stung. I hadn't meant to go so far. I hadn't meant to hurt her. I suppose I was just having some revenge. But this was too much. I felt such a rat. But I never let that stop me.

“Don't cry for me, I'm not worth it,” I said. “I never could bear to see you cry. I—I've had a good life—I've lived and loved—but then again—too few to mention—but now the chips are down I'm going to see it through and do it my—do it with a bit of style. What I'm trying to say is, I want to go out with a bang, Em.”

“Oh!” she sobbed, fresh tears overflowing from her beautiful eyes.

“Er, no, I didn't mean that—um—what I meant was: I'll probably just get wounded, knowing me,” I said, trying to wipe a teardrop from the end of her nose, but another one formed and took its place. I wiped that one away, but another one formed and took its place.

“I told Travis you weren't worth it,” she sniffed. “I told him you were from a lower class.”

“Yeah. I know. Thanks for that,” I said.

“I said you were beneath him.”

“Yeah, all right, Em,” I said. “You tried.”

“He comes from such a high class family, you see,” she said, with a big sniff.

“Well, I am a baronet,” I said.

“Please apologize to Travis, Steve. And then he can call the whole thing off.”

“He could withdraw if he wanted to,” I said.

“No, he can't,” said Emma, shaking her head. “That's just it. It's a matter of honour for him, don't you see?”

I stared at her. Dumbfounded. I wasn't pretending anymore. I felt insulted that she thought she could ask me to back down, but not her precious Frenchman.

“What about my honour?” I said.

She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of the pillowcase. “Your honour?” she said, the corners of her mouth betraying a faint smile.

I stood up and studied her for a few moments.

She sat up and made attempts to straighten her clothes and hair.

“I thought you really cared about me,” I said.

She wiped her eyes. “I do,” she sniffed.

“No you don't—you just can't bear the thought of my blood on his hands, because you love him, not me…”

She didn't deny it.

“You came here for him—not me! Didn't you?” I cried. “I think you'd better go now, Emma.”

“I can't leave you like this,” she said.

“Just walk away, Em,” I said. “Just go. Please.”

She slid her legs off the bed and stood up. And tried to embrace me. I dodged away from her.

“You shouldn't have come,” I said.

“It wasn't my idea!”

“No, your snobby boyfriend sent you.”

“It was your father's idea, if you must know!” she said. “I wish I hadn't listened to him now.”

“Are you trying to tell me the Duck wanted me to back down? I don't believe you,” I said.

“Well, why don't you ask him yourself?” she said, bustling to the door.

“He wouldn't have said that—you're lying!” I said.

“Oh, believe what you like!”

And with those words, she flew out the door and slammed it behind her.

I tried to understand why the Duck would want me to pull out of the duel. It didn't make any sense—he'd spent all his time talking me into it. What was he up to? Reverse psychology? I shuddered to think. What I needed was a stiff drink. That reminded me of my fingernail. That made me remember the Madeira. That reminded me of my fingernail. That made me dismiss the Madeira. That made me remember the Duck's offer of a cold beer. That made me think of the bowling alley.

I went out into the long candlelit hall and looked up and down. How did I get up there? I walked all the way to the west wing—about half a block away—before I found a flight of stone stairs, spiralling up into the darkness. A red rope attached to brass cleats fixed to the wall—like the ones in stately homes, across the places where they don't want the general public to go, cordoned them off. There was a little sign hanging off it, which read: NO ADMITTANCE. I removed a lit candle from the wall holder, stepped over the token barrier, and started to ascend.

As I reached the first corner, a sudden draught made my flame wave about precariously. I stalled, shielded it with my hand and carried on up. I rounded a second corner, and saw a faint light above me. I reached a small landing, where there was a round window, letting a little starlight in. I was standing before a big oak door, with a sign painted on it, saying: PRIVATE—KEEP OUT. It was locked. I gave it a couple of firm nudges with my shoulder, but it wouldn't budge, so I went all the way back down to my room, lay on the bed, and rang the service bell.

Presently, there was a light knock on the door.

“Come!” I called.

Bentley the butler, looking rather theatrical in his scarlet and gold livery and white, powdered wig, entered, took a few paces into the room, and halted. He started to open his mouth.

“Yes, I rang!” I said, before he could get the words out.

There wasn't a flicker from him.

“May I be of some assistance, sir?” he asked, not looking anywhere in particular.

“Do you have a key to the attic?”

“The attic door, sir?”

“Yes.”

“No, sir. The attic is off limits to all staff, sir,” he replied.

“But you do have a master key?”

“A master key, sir? Yes.”

“May I see it?”

“Certainly, sir.” He pulled on a long chain, attached to his belt, and fished a bunch of keys out of his trouser pocket, counted through them and held one up. “This is a master key, sir.”

“Let me see that.”

He came closer and brandished the key.

“Take it off the chain,” I said.

“Off the chain, sir? Certainly, sir.” He fiddled with the ring and finally got it off. He held it up.