Carruthers' Demise, Chapters ten and eleven (standard:drama, 2434 words) [6/24] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Jul 22 2011	Views/Reads: 2457/1636	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Carruthers suspects his wife of having an affair with his publisher, but are his suspicions well-founded? Continuation of my drama.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

going to be witnessed by all and sundry, and who knew what influential 
literary figures he'd find inside. 

But the stark realisation did little to pour water on his fire of
certainty that he'd find Chelsey inside. He'd gone too far now, his 
indignation knew no bounds – 

Carruthers rang the bell, his heart beating the drum in grim contrast –
he needed to ring twice before a dinner-suited male sporting a black 
bow-tie answered the door. 

‘I'm looking for Alexander Goldhawk – and my wife.' Carruthers used the
flat of his hand to force the unyielding figure aside and the man 
tottered backwards, upending an oval table and sending the tray of 
glasses he'd laid upon it crashing to the hardwood floor. 

The commotion it caused was enough to bring Goldhawk hurrying from the
main reception room. ‘What on earth – Martin...' Goldhawk clapped his 
hand on brow. ‘There was no need to make such a dramatic entrance old 
chap – I would have invited you only...' 

‘I'm sorry Mr. Goldhawk, this man simply barged in...' 

‘Yes, I can see that, Bolton,' Goldhawk said, keeping his eyes on the
approaching Carruthers. ‘Get yourself cleaned up and attend to the 
mess.' 

‘Where's my wife, you louse – where's Chelsey?' ‘I beg your pardon?
Martin what are you on – what's this all about?' 

‘My wife, where is she?' Carruthers stormed past Goldhawk, heading for
the room he'd seen him exit, turning and thrusting a finger as he went. 
‘I'll find her and then I'll account for you.' 

But Carruthers' advance was halted as he reached the arched doorway
leading into it. Five, maybe six males attending the gathering had 
rushed to Goldhawk's aid, and Carruthers, his arms pinned behind him, 
was bundled towards the door. 

‘I want my wife, you lecherous old bastard,' Carruthers screamed. ‘I'm
not going until I find her.' 

Goldhawk brushed his silver hair, took a nervous look back along the
passageway. ‘She's not here, Martin – I promise you – now look try to 
calm down and we'll talk about it in private – I don't know what's got 
into you but...' 

‘Alexander, what's happening, why all the rumpus?' It was Jacqueline,
Goldhawk's wife, demure, soberly dressed in a beige, calf-length frock 
who emerged from the reception room – ‘Why, Mr. Carruthers, what on 
earth's going on?' 

‘Mr. Carruthers has himself slightly confused, my dear; I feel he is a
little the worse for wear. I'll find him a quiet place to rest, it's 
perfectly alright Jacqueline.' 

‘Well – if you say so.' Goldhawk's wife sighed and fixed Carruthers an
assessing stare. ‘I'll help out in the kitchen.' 

Carruthers hung his head as Goldhawk looked to the group restraining
him. ‘It's okay, you can let him go.' The host watched the congregation 
slowly disperse and approached Carruthers cautiously. ‘I don't know 
what's got into you old chap, but we'd best have a quiet chat.' 

Goldhawk led Carruthers to the rear of the house, into a small, richly
carpeted parlour, closing the door behind them. 

‘Now, what's got into...' 

‘This!' 

Carruthers thrust Chelsey's mobile into Goldhawk's unwilling hands –
‘Read it. This is Chelsey's phone and your message to her, asking to 
meet and telling her she doesn't know what she's missing – and then of 
course she dropped the damned thing when you picked her up in your grey 
Jag...' 

‘No, no – this is madness, please keep your voice down, Jacqueline is
very... look.' Goldhawk raised his hands, backed away. ‘Yes, it is – 
was my message, but I sent that text, two – possibly three months ago. 
Sit down, Martin, please. I'd rather we deal with this cordially.' 

‘Cordially, you expect me to be cordial – damn you...' but Carruthers
sat down with a vast exhalation of breath. Slowly, through his enraged 
senses, it was becoming clear to him that whatever had happened to 
Chelsey, Goldhawk hadn't been involved. 

‘But you are telling me that you had an affair with my wife.' 

‘No, no, no!' Goldhawk turned to the drink cabinet, poured himself a
whisky, offered a glass to Carruthers receiving only a glare. 

‘Look I'll admit I tried it on – no hear me out...' Carruthers seemed to
Goldhawk as though he would spring from his chair. ‘I'm sure you must 
know the way Chelsey comes across to men – I did what any red-blooded 
male would do – I sent her a text, that text. It was following an 
afternoon function, she'd been funny, amusing – good company – I 
thought I'd go for it. Sorry if it distresses you old chap but it's the 
oldest game known to man, and I'm as much of a player as anyone else. 
Only it didn't work. I didn't even get an answer. I regret doing it 
now.' Goldhawk gave Carruthers a long look. ‘I don't know what's 
happened to Chelsey, Martin, but I can see how stressed out you are. I 
wouldn't blame you for...' 

‘Okay, okay.' Carruthers cupped his face in his hands, perched awkwardly
forward in his seat. ‘I jumped to conclusions, but tell me something 
honestly; I don't know what's happened to Chelsey – and right now it's 
driving me out of my mind...' he fixed Goldhawk with a hard stare,  
‘but I'd call that a rejection. Was that why you rejected her novel?' 

Goldhawk swallowed, remained silent. 

‘Was it, damn you?' Goldhawk threw his hands in the air, forgetting the
whisky in his grasp. It showered him, made him cough. ‘I don't know,' 
and then flinching from Carruthers' gaze he said, ‘Yes – I think 
possibly it was, I suppose I gave the final thumbs down. Once again, 
we're all susceptible to rejection; it doesn't apply solely to 
writers.' 

‘In which case, I've nothing more to say.' Carruthers strode past
Goldhawk as though he was heading for the door and then stopped dead. 
He swung his right arm, catching the editor flush on the chin. ‘Take 
that from both of us.' 

Out in the night air, Carruthers shivered. The humidity had finally
gone, at least in these parts. His conscience though, was prickling him 
big time. He'd commenced a two hundred and fifty mile round journey in 
the belief that Chelsey and Goddard were having an affair. He should 
have known that she wouldn't have betrayed him. 

Now all he could wonder was what had happened to her, and to go right
back to Lyndhurst and hope to find her safe and well. 

*                   *                  * 

He'd used her, acted as though it was a privilege of his position – and
she'd gone along with him, because if she hadn't, maybe he wouldn't 
have published any more of her work. After all, he was the publisher – 
her agent wasn't the one pulling the strings. 

But it went deeper than that – it cut deeper, because he'd been getting
greedy, more demanding, creating more pressure – and all the while he 
was doing that he was selling her work at exorbitant profit; in effect 
stealing it. Her mind whisked into fury; whirling her back to a time 
when in adolescence she'd effected retribution for that overriding 
reason. And the thing was – She'd have to effect it again. 

Chapter Ten 

Alexander Goldhawk felt his chin, painful where Carruthers had struck
him; quite some temper that man, not unlike his wife, who he doubted 
would be seeing him today. Despite the blow, he regarded Carruthers as 
a decent enough chap as things went, though too gullible by half.  
Crossing the room he examined his jaw line in the mirror, only the 
faintest trace of a bruise there, nothing to mar his appearance, thank 
heavens for small mercies. 

Closing the imposing oak double doors behind him, Goldhawk then slung
his heavily laden briefcase into the boot of the car and slipped behind 
the wheel. The case and its contents could wait until later, until 
afternoon in all probability, because he had a surprise engagement 
which took priority over his day's publishing agenda. He'd called his 
secretary, Joyce Wainwright, and informed her that the weekly 
production meeting would need to be postponed for two hours at least – 
in all probability it would be four. These things happened, they were 
unavoidable. 

Goldhawk smiled; both unavoidable and desirable. Well, every so often
one of his favourite writers would return his favours, as had happened 
on this occasion. Out of the blue it was too, and overdue. He'd almost 
given up on this case, had been practically convinced he'd been getting 
nowhere, that his overtures hadn't been receiving the attention they 
deserved, and so he'd resigned himself to pulling the plug on this 
particular author's ambitions – at least where Goddard and Co were 
concerned. 

But now they had borne fruition, his endeavours hadn't been in vain,
even though the chosen location had surprised him. It was the towpath 
at Chiswick – a quaint, refined and attractive spot, but rather close 
to his conquest's abode, although when all said and done he wasn't 
unduly concerned by that. 

He whistled a tune subconsciously, pleased with himself. A publisher's
lot wasn't such a bad one, all things considered. He made plenty of 
money, that was the thing. A glossy cover, a bit of patching up by a 
decent copy-editor, a shrewd and astute advertising campaign and 
publishing program and bob's-your-uncle. If one author didn't comply 
with his demands there was always one that would. His conquest was a 
reasonable writer, he'd give her that, but it was his own 
professionalism in producing the finished article that she owed him 
for. Well, to be frank they all owed him. That was his justification, 
in that there was no remorse. 

He reached Chiswick, turned off the high street and approached the
Thames, parking his car in a quiet side street and strolling down to 
the towpath. He didn't see her at first; she hadn't been quite in the 
arranged location. He crooked his head when he heard her call; she was 
walking down a steep alleyway towards him. She looked a picture; he 
could scarcely contain his delight. 

*                                  * 

Greedy, good for nothing Goldhawk; she'd seen his approach even though
he hadn't seen her. He thought she was going to guide him to some seedy 
hotel for a few hours and let him have his disgusting way with her. 
Well, not any more buster, the game was over, at least for him. Her 
plans for today, for the foreseeable future were pointing in a whole 
new direction. Corrupt guys such as Alexander bloody Goldhawk got their 
comeuppance in the end, and his was nigh. 

He amounted to step one in her new direction; she was already planning
step two. 

She strode to the top of the alleyway, through gaps in the cottages she
could follow his approach, and although not close enough to focus, she 
could imagine his leer of anticipation. 

She allowed herself a smirk and then heart pumping blood ever quicker
through her veins, trod lightly down to meet him. 


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