Charlies Good Company.

Charlies Good Company.

By Len Morgan

“Evening Charlie,” said the newcomer sitting on the bench opposite.  “Who were you talking to when I arrived?”

“His name was Henry, I’ve never met him before,  but he gave me these,” I said emptying the leather drawstring pouch onto the table. 

 “Twelve coins?  They look like gold sovereigns, they'll be worth a bob or two, and what did you have to do for them?”

“I don’t rightly know?  I was just sitting here minding my own business when he arrived.   He sat in the shadows where you are now. He wore a dark jacket with the hood pulled up.   I could just see his pale face in the moonlight.   He sat for some time agonising over whether or not he would speak to me, then finally he made up his mind and started to speak.   From memory, he said:"

 I find it harder each day to make sense of this crazy world, so much has changed.    Everyone I ever knew is gone.   I should have gone too, long ago, but I was too clever for my own good.   Indulge me stranger, share this bottle of wine with me, and I will reward you well.   Let me regale you with my tale, for it beggar’s belief.

"He placed two tulip glasses on the table in front of us and carefully filled them.   I sipped the wine, it was good, the best I’ve ever had. We drank slowly savouring it, for a while neither of us spoke.   When I put down my glass he refilled it, and continued his tale:"

You see, I‘ve lived a uniquely privileged life, my family were moneyed, I went to the best schools, belonged to the most exclusive clubs.   I enjoyed the company of many beautiful women.   Life was good!  I had wealth, power, friends, influence and popularity.  Then on the eve of my seventieth Christmas, whilst enjoying the company of convivial companions, I had occasion to visit my cellar to fetch a special bottle of wine.   As I made to rejoin my guests a figure appeared from the shadows.

"Who are you?"  I demanded.

“Henry!   It is your time,” he said in a voice to chill the grave, “come with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous I have company…” I said.

“I am the Dark Angel,” he said.

“You want me to desert my guests?   You would deny me a final drink with my friends?”   I said with incredulity.

“Five minutes” said the spectre.

“Dash it; why not simply grant me leave to consume this fine bottle - in good company,” I appealed.  

“When the last drop is consumed you will come?” said the Dark Angel.

“My word on it,” I said.

‘When he departed, I returned this bottle to its rack, taking another in its stead.   That was in 1854.   A clever ruse I thought but, I grew older, my looks faded as my body aged and I became abhorrent to look upon.   Still, the Dark Angel did not return for me; even though I had long outstayed my time.   It is enough I want it ended.   I know now what I must do.   This is the very bottle of which I spoke.   It has to be consumed, in good company, in order for me to gain my release; am I in good company Charles?”  He asked.

I nodded and smiled so he recharged our glasses until the bottle was empty.

“Your health” he said as we drained our final glass together.   He placed this pouch in my hand, just as those clouds obscured the moon, and when the light returned he was gone, and there you were?  Very strange.   

 “Before he arrived I was about to bed down for the night, now your here,” I said pointedly.  

The constable dipped his forefinger into the glass.   “Ugh, vinegar!” his face wrinkled with distaste.   Then he read the label on the bottle, “Chateaux Lafite-Rothschild 1846,” he examined the coins more closely, “Mmm not one dated after 1854.   They are probably worth about £200 each and that was a damn good story, Charlie,” he smiled benevolently.    “Come on old lad, pack up your things, we're going back to the nick.   It's damn cold here and you could do with a good hot meal.   There’re worse places for a fellow to spend Christmas Eve.   So what if you’re not in ‘The Job’; I have it on high authority that you’re good company to be with,” he smiled.

I nodded “That would be nice,” I said as he picked up my bedroll.

Copyright Len Morgan