I’m not one to drink excessively usually.
On this night though I cannot help it.
What I heard is too much for me to bear.
It seems so surreal.
But I know it happened.
Did it happen.
Yes.
Jim – James – come to grips with yourself.
Reality is a bitch.
But I did not expect this bullshit when I accepted the job of Master of the House – some would call me a mere butler. I’m much more than that.
Nonetheless.
Shit, I can’t stop shaking.
I fumble for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. I don’t care, I took a bottle of the son of a bitch’s finer scotches and I’m pissing it all away.
For what I’m being put through, he can pay for it later.
I pull the bottle to my lips and aim as carefully as I can. I guzzle a generous helping and place it back down on the table, as I sit at the edge of my bed.
It’s about
Morning can’t come soon enough. I need to talk to Simkins.
I don’t know if I can make it until morning though.
What I know is enough to drive anyone mad. I am torn though between loyalty to the man who helped me get this job – and the supposed loyalty I owe my employer. The Duchess of Wessex.
How am I to be loyal to her though.
I have seen too much, heard too much. The transaction I saw on that laptop all those months ago – over a million pounds to some offshore company, which I have found zero information on.
The paintings fiasco – her German artist coming in the middle of the night to take two priceless paintings, but for what goddamn reason?
What I heard from her tonight though was more than any man can stomach. I think I should go to the police. But on what hard evidence?
I only heard a garbled conversation…and surely to God she’d never do such a thing. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
…could she.
They’re both
due to leave the house at
I dare not use the phone until then.
But what the fuck am I being paranoid for? Is the line being tapped?
I wouldn’t put it past her.
I feel imprisoned.
I need to get out of here.
*KNOCK KNOCK*
Oh shit.
“Come in.” I force the bottle of scotch under the bed, hoping to God I corked it correctly. I grab my copy of The Economist and begin to “read” an article about the economy of India or something.
The door opens. It’s my boss.
“Robert.”
He smiles.
“James. Hope I didn’t interrupt.”
He never came by my private quarters, so this was a surprise.
“No sir…Rob…not at all.”
I pray the stink of scotch doesn’t reach his nostrils, as I place the magazine down.
“Just wanted to let you know that Marissah and I are on our way out. Back to the States.”
I nod my head.
“Well do allow me to wish you the best in your matches, especially against that asshole Andrews.”
My hatred for that particular bastard is real, despite my questioning of my own master’s tactics and persona.
A small trace of a smile crosses his lips.
“I’m not worried about him. He’s past his prime and he will undo himself. I just have to let him. What he did to my son – the threat – will never be forgiven. Nobody lays one hand or says one bad word about my son. He will pay. Dearly. And as for the Match Beyond.”
I know the concern he has for that match is genuine – it will be his biggest test ever. Everything in his career – even his past career, pre-Avarice, which he largely disowns - has lead up to this match.
“I will not rely on my so-called teammates. I’m in there alone. And I will win it for myself. And nobody else. Hope you watch.”
I nod.
“I will. Best of luck sir in both.”
“Thanks Jim. Take care.”
He closes the door.
I let out a loud audible sigh. How I managed to go through that whole ordeal without shaking or mixing my words is beyond me. My mouth, Sahara like, is drowned in Johnnie Walker’s finest once more, as I toss the confusing magazine aside.
Nothing left to do but wait. And pray.
I close my eyes and despite having the bedside lamp on, I manage to catch some rest.
I open my eyes.
Fucking sh…
This clearly isn’t going to work.
I have to go to London. Now.
I dress sloppily into jeans and a button up white shirt with a t-shirt underneath, and hurry down stairs, cell phone in hand.
I pass Lili down the Grand Staircase, who is doing the evening shift.
“Jim, where the hell are you off to at this time of night?”
“Never you mind. I’ll be back late.”
She mutters some sort of expletive under her breath and I make it to my car and somehow manage to operate it with some semblance of safety, despite the amount of alcohol I’d imbibed earlier in the night. If there any cops on the road, I’m fucked, easy as that.
May fortune favour the foolish.
Now here’s brilliance. Half intoxicated (and that’s being very generous), and reaching for my cell in the middle of darkness on a country road.
God must be laughing heartily at my stupidity, because so far I’ve not crashed this piece of shit into a tree. Yet.
A half-asleep voice greets me.
“What.”
“Simkins…it’s…”
“Jim what the hell do you want do you know how…”
“Yes I do, but I need to see you. Now.”
“Very well. But you’re buying.”
Drunken old sod.
It’s past
But I still need to drink, badly.
A little while later we are in the pub, with two large pints of beer in front of us – Smithwicks for me, Wellington English Ale for him.
We dispensed with the small talk.
“All right Jim. It’s
nearly
I try to organize my thoughts through the cloud of John Walker and now the first few sips of this Smithwicks.
“Yes. I do have a reason. And as always it…” I look down. “It has to be in the utmost confidence.”
“It always has been Jim. Has it ever been any other way.”
“She’s planning to murder…him.”
I look up just in time to see his skin turn slightly flush.
“What do you mean.”
“I mean…I don’t know what I mean,” I half choke, half laugh.
“For God’s sake Jim,” he leans forward, looking deathly serious. “Clarify. What do you mean. How do you know?”
I try and recall the memories of this past evening in my mind. I fight the scotch. It’s there somewhere.
I
check my watch, just
a minute or so later than Her Grace desired to have this tea delivered
to
her. Shit – she’s going to have my ass
on a plate.
I
straighten my tie
with my free hand and motion my hand to knock.
But I halt.
“SHIT…” she
seems to have caught herself speaking too loud and lowers her tone
immediately. I strain to hear what she has
to say. Luckily, I suppose, I can hear
every word
still.
“You say you had the
perfect chance today and you didn’t take it.
That little shit could be history but instead I have to listen to you
make excuses.”
She
curses under her
breath.
“I know I said we
wouldn’t talk on the phone but I’m getting anxious. I’ve never
done anything like this.”
“Okay, okay, you’re the professional, but just get this bullshit out of the way, I’m begging you.”
She
must have hanged
up because she’s silent now.
Did I hear her correctly? Is she talking about him? What did I just hear?
“And that’s about it Simkins. God…I just don’t know.”
This pressure and strain is more than I can take. Half my Smithwicks vanishes in seconds.
He just sits silently across from me.
“What can I do,” I plead. “I don’t know exactly what she was talking about, I can’t go to the police with this, all I have is a garbled memory of a half-overheard conversation which I’ve now muddled with half a pint or more of scotch.”
Simkins drains most of his pint whilst listening to me.
“You can do nothing. Which is what I’d advise. Don’t get yourself involved in this. Whatever it is.”
I calm. Somewhat.
“It could be nothing. Don’t misconstrue and imagine things. She is your master still – remember that.”
God I hope he’s right.
I’ve always prided myself on being a rational, sensible individual. Irrationalism is perhaps my greatest enemy.
It becomes no man.
Simkins is and always was a man of rationalism. A paramount example of calmness under pressure. I can only imagine the shit he had to deal with working for the Lancasters for fifty years.
But he did it. Loyally.
I admire that.
And
frankly…whatever she is up to, it is none of my concern.
What proof do I
have – concrete proof. Of anything.
None.
I have a duty to fulfill, to the Duke and Duchess, to the Estate, and to everyone else who works there.
“Simkins thank you.”
He smiles and shows his age doing so. “Thank you for doing your duty Jim. You’re making me proud.”
We spend the next hour or so just catching up, and decide to call it a night.
I go home, via taxi cab this time, relieved. My mind is at rest.
However my mind is not.
Jim did the right thing by coming to me.
And she will not be allowed to get away with this.
Duty calls.
