9

  Humphrey’s Yuletide reminiscences had, rather swiftly, given way to forty dream-laden winks.

  Catweazle had joined the line-up of ‘The Village People’, his smock having been adjusted, in various important places, in order to make his body shape all the more tantalising. Jennifer Aniston looked on, obviously hugely impressed by the genius of the man who had come up with such an idea. But that man couldn’t quite reach her, because his path was repeatedly blocked by Monty Price.

  Or was that Anthea?

  Whoever the lighting director for the production was, he’d done such a poor job of things that it was extraordinarily difficult to tell.

  It was the height of the figure that decided it in the end.

  A good six foot four.

  It had to be Monty. Anthea was only ever six four in her heels.

  And she never wore those.

  But she was there though.

  With a shotgun.

  Hell’s bells: he wasn’t going to have to make love to her, surely?

  Not here.

  Not in front of Catweazle!

  Christ, all of Humphrey’s childhood innocence could evaporate in the space of ten seconds.

  Or perhaps a little longer, since Monty would probably distract him – ever so slightly – from his, rather horrifying, primary task.

  What on earth would Jennifer think of him?

  All over and done with before he could even make the vaguest promise that he would be there for her.

  And she would never find herself there for him too.

  Not within the space of ten seconds.

  It was almost a blessed relief when Anthea took aim at him.

  And fired.

  Humphrey woke with a start.

  There, facing him across his desk, was his father.

  His hand rested firmly in the centre of that desk, right where he must have brought down the full weight of his failed expectations. In which case, it was surprising the thing hadn’t been cleaved in two.

  The old git could’ve woken him up gently or decided to come back later.

  But no.

  Although, given the imminent encounter he’d been facing thanks to Mr Sandman’s evil sense of humour, Humphrey perhaps ought not to have been quite so ungrateful.

  In fact he ought to have jumped up and kissed him.

  If either one of them could ever have stomached such a thing.

  So, his father had decided to pay him a visit, had he?

  This day really did have ‘disaster’ written all over it.

  If only he’d received warning of his plans he could have worn something a little bit special, just for Michael. The man was obsessed with what he wore. Even now, years later, he seemed to be able to vividly recall whole outfits that Humphrey had donned as a boy.

  The colour; the material.

  Even the number of sequins.

  More likely though, he’d have simply exited the premises as fast as Einstein’s calculations would’ve allowed.

  And where would he have gone?

  Anthea’s shop, that’s where.

  Great stuff, another good reason to go round and see her!

  However much she might claim to hate Humphrey, she hated Michael far, far more. That was what a winner the man was. Anthea had been an invaluable weapon over the years, in the constant fight against that man.

  And his ego.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Don’t call me “sir”.’

  They stared at one another for some moments. In fact, an enterprising entrepreneur could have made a fortune, bagging and selling the contempt in that room.

  ‘How are you, boy?’

  ‘Fine thanks. Sir.’

  Humphrey watched his father’s face, carefully. It betrayed no outward irritation but he was definitely clenching his teeth.

  Good.

  Michael glanced, loftily, around the office.

  ‘What is it you actually “do” here, boy? I still don’t know.’

  Humphrey smiled, cheerfully, back at him.

  ‘Not much. But since you’re standing here and talking to me at half past three on a Tuesday afternoon, whatever it is I do must be more important than whatever it is that you do.’

  Michael felt one of his gold fillings shift.

  Damn boy.

  But wait though: he still had the upper hand in any negotiations.

  This damn office belonged to him!

  That gormless-looking fool over there had no idea about that, did he?

  Stolen novel; please report.

  ‘I wanted to make sure everything was all right with you. You know, since the divorce.’

  Michael watched his son’s face, carefully. The smile had surely sagged a little and he’d definitely gulped.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine, thanks. It was nice to see you, as always. Anyway, can’t stop.’

  With an elaborate flourish, Humphrey got to his feet and then strode towards the door.

  What he’d do when he got there he hadn’t yet decided. He’d look a bit daft if he didn’t actually leave the building though. Thank goodness he’d remembered to bring his wallet with him.

  Not that there was any money in it, of course.

  Not any more.

  He might just go and look in the window of the travel agent actually. After all, if he was indeed serious about calling in on Anthea. it was highly unlikely she was ever going to let him leave without buying something.

  Certainly not in one piece.

  In which case, he was going to need to check on the latest moth to sterling exchange rate.

  Or paper clips.

  He had plenty of those, too.

  Except they were all in his desk.

  And he couldn’t very well go back and get them, not with that pompous git still stood there.

  Bastard.

  That was fine though. He was the one leaving the scene.

  Humphrey was in control of the situation now, not him.

  He won.

  ‘I expect you’re going off begging now, are you? Yes, well… at least you’re appropriately dressed for it.’

  Not so much a throwaway remark as one weighted down with a heavy rock.

  Humphrey’s ‘victory’ hadn’t lasted long then.

  He couldn’t leave now.

  The cheeky bugger!

  It was his bloody fault Humphrey was broke!

  Well, Anthea’s bloody fault.

  Well, OK then, his own bloody fault.

  Yes, OK. It was his own sodding fault.

  Fine. No problem.

  He could wreck his own life, quite satisfactorily, without giving that bastard any of the credit.

  His current situation was merely a means to an end anyway.   He had to keep hold of that fact.

  It was his own fault, at least that was some consolation. It wasn’t going to keep any wolves from his door, but it was some consolation. Mind you, the neighbourhood wolves on the path up to his door had all been moved on already by his ex-wife. And she, along with his father, had simply broken the door down themselves and proceeded to use it to knock him straight into the poorhouse.

  ‘I hope there are no hard feelings, boy.’

  His father looked at him. It was a very strange expression.

  Condescension – check.

  Arrogance – check. But was that sympathy?

  Impossible, surely?

  ‘I mean, obviously “divorce” does not generally fall within my sphere of extensive legal expertise. But I can assure you, it was an absolute pleasure to put all that to one side, in order to play such an important part in yours.’

  Michael Lovewell, QC, was the ultimate lawyer machine.

  He could beat anyone.

  Including his own son.

  There remained, however, a distinctly bitter taste in his palate with regard to the entire experience.

  Humphrey had initiated the divorce. The grounds had seemed more than reasonable.

  It ought to have been an open and shut case.

  Assets divided fairly, wedding photos torn up and twelve years of their lives consigned to the dustbin.

  That was what was supposed to have happened.

  But Michael had panicked.

  What if they’d realised – for whatever reason – that they perhaps didn’t really want to get divorced after all?

  He’d seen a way of finally getting his son away from Anthea’s influence.

  And nothing – at all – was going to stop him.

  So, he’d volunteered his legal services; as any good father would.

  Any good father who was keeping a bunch of ulterior motives under his barrister’s wig, that is.

  The fact that his services had ended up benefiting – to a rather large degree – the woman he had – so desperately – wanted to be rid of, was something he didn’t particularly care to dwell on.

  The fact that it had been Humphrey’s own idea, and that Michael must, presumably, have been outwitted in some way by him, was an even more painful consideration.

  It had, therefore, been something of a hollow victory.

  All victories counted of course, but some of them almost cheapened the very word.

  And the boy’s reaction to the whole thing had been nothing short of gobsmacking.

  He’d just been told that, due in no small part to the brilliant legal arguments of Mr Michael Lovewell, QC, he would be losing his house; his lawnmower; his collection of vintage brooches and most of his immediate future’s earnings to this paragon of bloodthirsty womanhood and what had he done?

  He’d marched forward and offered his hand, that’s what he’d done.

  With a warm and courteous, ‘Well done, sir,’ thrown in there for good measure.

  He always called him that.

  Never ‘Dad’; not even ‘Father’.

  ‘Sir.’

  It had been like that since he was fifteen. When he’d first started being so bloody difficult.

  It hadn’t even been a particularly masculine handshake he’d offered either.

  In fact, it was so limp-wristed that – initially – Michael had failed to see the scarlet red fingernails that had accompanied it.

  ‘Tell me one thing. Just one.’

  ‘Is this about the nail varnish? I know, I know – red nails can look really trashy. But even you have to admit, they did match my dress, beautifully.’

  Michael felt one of his gold fillings dislodge itself completely.

  He considered his next move, very carefully.

  Gold was a rare commodity. A replacement filling was going to cost him a fortune. However, even if money had been relevant to the argument, there was no way he could spit that gold out. Humphrey would get too much satisfaction.

  There really was only one option.

  He swallowed.

  There.

  Humphrey would never know how much he’d just managed to annoy him.

  Michael won.

  ‘I reckon I probably looked a bit too glamorous though. That’s probably why the divorce cost me so much. What do you think, sir?’

  ‘The divorce cost you so much because your ex-wife had the benefit of my advice and my immense legal experience.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘So why didn’t let me advise you?’

  Humphrey thought for a moment.

  Then he smiled, gently.

  ‘I think we did it the right way. What do you do for your clients?’

  ‘I win!’

  ‘At all costs?’

  Michael thought, wistfully, of the lump of gold that was just beginning its unenviable journey towards the sewers.

  Did he really, really have to win?

  ‘Yes. At all costs.’

  Humphrey smiled again.

  ‘And what do you do to your opponents?’

  ‘I crush them. I annihilate them!’

  ‘You see? We did it the right way.’

  Michael looked on, dumbfounded.

  This boy was serious!

  ‘You’re an idiot. Do you know that?’

  ‘Oh yes. I mean, you’ve told me so, so many times.’

  How did he do that?

  Ostensibly that sentence, there, acknowledged Michael’s obvious superiority, yet it had been delivered in such a manner that the contempt literally dripped from it.

  Humphrey smiled at him yet again, only much more broadly this time.

  How could a smile provoke such feelings: the burning desire to track down the name and number of a reliable hitman, for example?

  ‘Don’t push me, boy. That’s all.’

  Michael was losing this situation, that was obvious.

  He clasped his hands firmly behind his back, just in case they were tempted to reach for the buckle of his belt. It would – no doubt – have been completely misconstrued, an action like that.

  He’d only have been hitching up his trousers though, honestly.

  Nothing more.

  ‘No, of course not, sir. Because it’s always me that pushes you, isn’t it? Nothing to do with you at all.’

  Nearly.

  Nearly.

  It was a damn good thing he’d got those hands well and truly clasped.

  The belt would have worked in the old days.

  There’d been no arguments then.

  Not for long, anyway.

  But this was utterly absurd! Were the pair of them really destined to live out this same feeble power struggle until the world’s end?

  They were hardly Frazier and Ali.

  More like Frasier and Niles.

  He wondered, in horror, what any of his golfing chums might have made of the situation. Remotely speaking, he imagined how people who had never had to put up with Humphrey themselves might have viewed the pair of them.

  No doubt they’d say they were both arrogant.

  Both pig-headed.

  Both pathetic.

  Both even, probably, deserved one another. That would’ve been the closing statement from any impartial observer, before he escaped from the scene altogether and left them both to it.

  Left them to fight over who was the least pathetic.

  Or perhaps it would be the most pathetic who would take all the prizes?

  Was it really worth winning under those circumstances?

  The answer was an unequivocal – but slightly uncomfortable – ‘affirmative’. And he saw a way to win the current battle too, if he could only get himself out of that office.

  He didn’t even say goodbye but merely turned on his heels and made for the door, leaving a pile of perpetually unfinished business in his wake.

  He was calm; controlled.

  He’d been challenged, antagonised even and yet he’d managed to walk away.

  He won.

  And now he was going to the pub.

  Via the dentist.

  That damn boy.

  Humphrey strode, majestically, back to his desk, opened his bottom drawer and retrieved, from its depths, a large packet of chocolate biscuits.

  There was no doubt about it, his own hollow victories were insatiable in appetite.