RICHIE STRIKES IT RICH

I.

For most people in English-speaking nations, inheriting an estate worth seven figures would be an occasion worth celebrating, but for Richard Richard it was a time of panic.

Richie, as he was generally known, was in his mid-50s the year he finally came into the small fortune he suspected might be lurking in his family somewhere: Aunt Mabel died and, apart from a few small bequests to longtime servants, he was the only beneficiary of her estate. Essentially an optimist, he nevertheless had developed a saving cynicism on some subjects – one of them being his longtime flatmate, Edward Elizabeth Hitler. After decades of small but valuable objects mysteriously disappearing, Richie had to finally admit to himself that the person he felt closest to in this world was a thief and a liar, definitely not to be trusted. Richie was incredibly angry with Eddie for a long time – he didn't speak to the bald, bespectacled oik for nearly a year (which didn't upset Eddie very much, Richie had to admit), but eventually he decided he could forgive Eddie for the defects of his character without necessarily trusting him. Valuable items were carefully locked up and inventoried. If something went missing, Eddie was the prime suspect – and that suspicion paid off, because the objects were returned, and things stopped vanishing. Oddly enough, despite all his protests, Eddie showed a greater respect for Richie than he used to have.

It was one thing to guard a few heirlooms from Eddie; this multi-million pound estate that was now his threw Richie into a panic. True, Eddie was his most likely heir, in the absence of any blood relations suddenly appearing, but that wouldn't impress Eddie. He might be able to inherit a hundred times as much as he could steal, but he was likely to decide that a hundred times nothing is nothing – so grab what you can.

At the reading of his aunt's will, Richie, when he understood what was happening, panicked. His aunt's solicitor, who had known Richie most of his life (and was therefore aware of his shortcomings) soothed him with a snifter of brandy, then called his financial consultant to see if she was able to take him on as a client.

"Good news, Richie, she has a cancellation this afternoon. Plenty of time for you to get to Marylebone and get started. I'll fax the documents over to her." He scribbled an address on a sheet of notepaper and handed it over.

EC Financial Services occupied a small but luxurious office in a beautiful building. The receptionist, a handsome blond man of about 30, showed Richie into an inner office done up in Georgian antiques with a palette of green and gold, brought him a cup of tea and said it would only be a few minutes' wait. Richie sipped the tea and looked out the window at a small but lovely bit of rose garden. He heard a sharp noise like shears snipping and thought he could hear someone singing softly, but that soon faded.

The door behind him opened and the sweet smell of roses preceded a woman's voice: "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mist—Richie?"

He looked up and started. He knew that voice, and the face was familiar, too. Pale complexion; rich auburn hair swept back into a French twist; large green eyes framed with thick lashes and a few crows' feet he didn't recall, but less than you might expect from the years that had gone by since he last saw them; a small but shapely mouth – he knew that face.

"Ethel Cardew," he said. "Ethel Bloody Cardew."

"Good to see you too, Richie," she said with a trace of sarcasm, laying the flowers on the credenza behind the desk and seating herself. Her velvet suit was a flattering bottle green with a paler green trim. A triple string of pearls encircled her neck.

"You're the principal of this little company?" Richie asked with some disbelief. Last he knew Ethel, she had been a civil servant working for the Hammersmith council.

"That's right, Richie," she said, twisting a diamond ring on her middle right finger. "I'm sure your aunt's solicitor had no idea what he was doing when he referred you to me."

Richie barely heard her. He had sunk into bitter memories: How he had been introduced to Ethel more than twenty years ago by his Aunt Olga, who strongly hinted that it was time he got married. Ethel, about five years younger than he was, was freshly down from Oxford with a 2:1 degree in Mods and had just started working for the council. She was sweet and shy, tended to dress modestly and deferred to Richie in everything. Richie had courted her in the most old-fashioned way, not even daring to kiss her until after they had been seeing each other for a year. He had finally told Auntie Olga he was going to propose, and she had given him a ring that had belonged to his mother – but he had to save up to have it resized to fit Ethel (his mother had been very small-boned, where Ethel was of a medium build), and by the time everything was ready, her patience was wearing thin – but he only knew this in hindsight.

He had kept Ethel away from Eddie the whole time, because he figured she'd think less of him if she knew he had a friend like that. They wouldn't have met on that trip to France and the Low Countries at all except that Eddie invited himself along at the last minute. Eddie had been obviously surprised to find that the woman with the old lady's name was actually young and attractive, and before long he was flirting with her. Richie took Eddie aside and told him to cut it out, that he intended to propose to her. Eddie only laughed and said a woman like that wouldn't ever marry a sad git like him. Richie threw a punch and Eddie ended up with a bloody nose. And that might have been it if Richie had never found quite the perfect moment to propose, while Eddie found a good enough moment to proposition her at Agincourt and then made sure Richie knew every sordid detail – not just then, but many times afterward. They came at Bruges, they came at Agincourt ... talk about the Battle of the Bulge!

Richie, looking at the polished businesswoman across from him, still couldn't help but think of her as a fallen woman, spoiled forever, a champion purebred show dog that had gotten out and mated with a mutt.

"If this is too awkward for you, Richie, I can recommend another adviser to you," she said kindly. "Another firm."

"Yes. No," he said, changing his mind midstream as he did far too often. He figured Ethel would understand at least something about his relationship with Eddie and the urgency of structuring things so Eddie couldn't gain access.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Positive."

"Very well," she said, opening the folder full of faxes. "You just inherited a very large estate ... "

Richie had thought about not telling Eddie anything about his inheritance; however, because he was planning to sell the old flat and buy something in the country, he had to say something. They would be moving house as soon as Richie found the country home. Ethel had counseled him to remodel the pomme de terre before putting it on the market, but Richie just wanted to get rid of it.

"So we're going to live in the country, isn't that exciting!" Richie said over a takeaway curry.

Eddie, being a sad, deformed urban pustule, was not excited at all. "Fuck you, I'm not going anywhere."

"You'll have to. I'm selling this place."

"No you're not."

Richie managed a contrived laugh. "Oh, Eddie, you silly bastard! As if you had anything to say about it. I want to live in the country, I have money to do it now, end of discussion. You don't have to come with me, of course, but who else is going to want to shelter you under their roof?"

"Nasty Linda?" Eddie asked.

"All right, but do you want to stay there?"

"Well, no."

"All right, then."

"I'll find someone."

"And they'll just throw you out into the street when you don't pay rent. You owe me about thirty thousand pounds back rent, by the way, not that I'm ever expecting to see it -- but other people are not as forgiving as I."

Eddie covered his ears with his hands. "La la la, I am not listening to that sweaty martyr and his endless whingeing!"

Richie let it drop. It didn't matter who had the last word anymore. It mattered more that he not work himself into a tizzy arguing with people.

They watched some cricket on the telly that evening. Richie went to bed early and Eddie sat by himself, watching an Emmerdale compilation, drinking vodka and thinking he really hated that certain extra, who was still on the programme, still saying nothing and just drinking all day and getting paid for it. He lit a cigarette, knowing Richie would yell at him in the morning for smoking inside but not really caring. Maybe he should try to find a new place – but even as drunk as he was, he knew he wouldn't. Inertia was too powerful. He knew Richie's moods, knew when he had to butter him up and when it wasn't necessary – and he preferred not to butter him up any more than necessary. Another person might not be so predictable. And, yes, Richie did have a point about the rent. Who else would put up with him not paying year after year after year?

He swayed a little, then controlled himself. He knew he had to be careful or he'd spill his vodka everywhere. He screwed the lid back on the bottle and put it by the telly, where he wasn't too likely to overturn it. Then there were two bottles and two tellys, and the room wobbled a bit back and forth. He tried to get up, but the davenport pulled him back down, telling him just to stay there and get comfy, it would be a while before he was getting up again. He sighed and looked for his cigarette, which had mysteriously vanished, so he lit another. The show stopped making sense, but the lights and sound were soothing, and he let himself drift into a trancelike state where he didn't have to think about whether he had wasted his life or not ...

Upstairs, Richie was half reading "Riders" and half listening for Eddie to come upstairs and go to bed. He had learned not to hover visibly, but the truth was he still felt responsible for his old mate. Co-dependent, the psychologist called it. Leave it to shrinks to take caring for your fellow man and turn it into a mental illness!

Aside from the sex scenes, he was bored with the book, and drifted off to sleep during a boring dinner party or whatever it was without realizing it. He found himself dreaming of the dinner party, chatting up people from the novel who kept bringing up Ethel Cardew, how she was dating some duke, and the smell of cigarette smoke kept getting stronger and stronger until he thought he was going to have an asthma attack –

The smoke alarm on the landing woke him up. "Oh, Christ, Eddie's trying to cook again," he thought, getting languidly out of bed, pushing his feet into his slippers, adjusting his underpants and opening the door –

Where he saw nothing but smoke and hints of a fire below.

"Eddie! Eddie!" he yelled, pounding on his mate's bedroom door. "Eddie, wake up! We got a fire!" He burst through the door, but Eddie was not in bed. Covering his mouth, he ran downstairs, shouting "Eddie! Eddie—"

and tripped over something lying in the entryway. It was Eddie, unconscious. Was he drunk or did he have smoke inhalation? Did it matter?

"Come on, Eddie – aargh, my back! Oh Jesus, what a time to throw my back out! Eddie, wake up, you've got to wake up! We've got to get out of here! The building's on fire!"

"Nah, that's jus' my bird, she's a hot one ..." Eddie slurred.

"Eddie, this is no time for sex! We've got to get out of here! Help me!"

"Help you?"

"The flat's on fire!"

"So, it's finally warm in here."

Richie slapped Eddie several times across the face. "Eddie, just try to act sober for long enough to help get me out the door!"

The door to the lounge burst into flames.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" screeched Eddie. "THE FLAT'S ON FIRE!" He struggled to his feet. "Richie, get up!"

"I can't! I threw my back out!"

Eddie clumsily seized Richie by one leg and dragged him toward the door – but then before he could get it open, he coughed hard, gasped and fell to the floor unconscious. Richie looked over his shoulder and saw flames licking up the wall and toward the staircase. He reached up to the door knob, pulled himself to his feet and got the deadbolt unfastened – but he now had to somehow get Eddie out of here before the alcohol in his bloodstream spontaneously combusted. Ignoring blinding pain and weakness and his own fear, he hauled Eddie over the threshold, lost his footing and tumbled down the steps. Before he could get up, something exploded; the sing-song of sirens slowly insinuated themselves into his fading consciousness, and he hoped he'd managed to get Eddie outside.

Then the sirens faded into the distance again, although the lights were coming closer ...