Endgame

He was still on the sofa when I got back from the shops, of course.
Filling up the ashtrays, generating washing-up, ready with a cheery
greeting.
"Did you get my prescription?" He never tired of telling me that those
pills were the only things keeping him alive.
" As if I'd forget," I said, adding casually. "I saw an old
school-friend of yours in the chemist's."
"What old school-friend?"
"Gerry Palmer," I explained. "He said he might pop round."
Charlie looked up in alarm.
"People always say that, don't they?" I said. "But I don't suppose he
will."
"How did he know who you were?" he asked.
"Perhaps I said something."
"Oh,sure, like: 'Good morning, Mrs Graham I want this prescription for
my husband Charlie Sutton who went to school with Gerry Palmer.' It's
not likely is it?"
I decided to let him run with his thoughts. It was the only running he
was ever likely to do.
"Palmer must have found out where we lived, waited until you went out,
followed you and then struck up a conversation so that he'd have an
excuse for coming round here," He looked so pleased with himself.
"Why didn't he just call?"
"Too obvious. He was always the sneaky, devious type. That sort never
changes."
"He didn't look as if he'd changed much. He looked like he'd taken
great care of himself."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He obviously hadn't spent years slumped on a sofa. Eating. Drinking.
Smoking."
"I can't get about as much as I used to."
"You don't get about at all. Downstairs in the morning, upstairs at
night. That's your limit."
"I need to take a tablet," he said, adopting the pathetic tone that
never failed to annoy me.
"'Thank you for fetching them.' 'Thank you for the glass of water.'
'Thank you so much'."
"What are you on about?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.
"Gerry Palmer was so polite this morning."
"Then he's after something, that's for sure."
I decided it was time for a tactical withdrawal and made for the
kitchen.
"Pass me the local paper before you go."
Predictably, he turned to the classifieds first.
"Come and look at this!" he called. When I went back into the living
room he was reading from the paper.
"Gerald Palmer, son of Terry and Pam Palmer of Belmont Street, ex-pupil
of King Edward VII School, died suddenly - "
"But he can't have," I protested.
"Funeral on Thursday. Immediate family only. No flowers."
"If it wasn't him, then who was it?"
" A practical joker - someone who knew both Palmer and me. There's no
other explanation. One thing's for sure, Gerry Palmer's too busy
knocking at the Pearly Gates to come to our door in the near future.
So, we've nothing to worry about, have we?"
Right on cue the doorbell rang. I waited, knowing there was no
possibility of him answering it but just wanting to savour the
suspense. The bell sounded again and eventually I answered its
command.
"There's someone to see you," I announced, showing the visitor into the
room.
"Hello, Charlie, remember me: Gerry Palmer?" he said amiably.
Charlie stared at the visitor, all colour draining from his face.
"What's up old man? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"We were just talking about you, Gerry," I said as Charlie crashed to
the floor, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.
And that was it. After all those years on that sofa it knew it wouldn't
take much to polish him off - just an old friend and a classified ad.
Such simplicity.