The New Client

1.

“Right this way Sir.” Said John as he lead the latest client into the most bizarre habitat he would ever likely encounter. The flat was, different to many others. In fact it would be hard to find any flat similar in the entire world. This was made clear by the sudden gasp let out by the client as he entered the dwelling of the genius he was employing. “Mr Carter.” John announced as they entered the room. To whom Carter did not know.

The first thing that struck him was the ceiling, it had been carpeted and a leather armchair hung down from it upside down. There were globes of varying size and age dotted around the room supported by precariously stacked magazines and newspaper cuttings. An entire wall was covered with postcards from around the world, sandy beaches and clear seas pictured upon them. There was a fireplace which glowed steadily, occasionally spitting embers out onto the rug in front of it. The rug was singed and blackened from the clear disregard of its value. The guest stood in disbelief the rug was an original Persian from nearly three hundred years ago and it was being covered and burnt without a second thought. It had to be a fake, there was no other explanation.

“The rug is real.” came a voice from apparently nowhere. Its owner had been standing by the window studying the latest intruder with great interest. “It was a present from a grateful employer. I, however, utterly despise the colour and am quite happy for it to burn away.” He continued, somewhat amused by his own carelessness and the look of bewilderment etched on his guest’s face.

He spun around with great speed and casually leapt over the side of the sofa. He landed on it sending a pile of old books flying and producing a cloud of dust. He stretched out and put his feet up onto the arm of the settee. He was appearing incredibly unprofessional. The man who had entered turned to leave in disgust. "Wait." said the sofa ridden man. “John fetch our guest some tea, honestly, how could you be so rude as to not offer our guest something to drink.” He continued in a mock serious tone. “Actually I don’t drink tea.” Said the client as he turned and sat on the chair opposite the intriguing human whose services he required. “Really? John, cancel the tea. How about some coffee?” John re-emerged from the kitchen carrying a freshly made pot of tea. “John, coffee man we need coffee.” John sighed and turned back to the kitchen, raising his eyebrows; clearly this was a common occurrence. “Actually I’m okay for coffee as well.” Mumbled the man.

“Oh, my dear fellow why didn’t you say!” cried the host. “Something stronger perhaps? I thought so. John. Forget the coffee.” He yelled, just as John came back out carrying a fresh tray laden with coffee. John rolled his eyes and turned once more into the kitchen. He pounced from the sofa and stumbled towards a drinks cabinet. Grabbed a murky bottle of scotch, pulled the stopper out with a satisfying pop and inhaled the fumes as they wafted into the air. There was a loud crash from the kitchen and the sound of smashed china, clearly John had had enough of his partner’s antics. The guest sat incredibly still, slightly rocking back and forth for reassurance, he may even fear for his safety. Two glasses were soon filled three-quarters of the alcohol. He returned to his seat and with two glasses and offered one to his guest. John had taken a seat on the window ledge and watched in amusement and incredulity as his friend dealt with the newest patron of his assistance.

He offered Carter a glass as he downed his own in a matter of seconds. Carted shook his head frantically. The host shrugged and drank the contents as well. He sniffed and was suddenly wide awake. Carter looked on in sheer terror at the man before him. “Sir, it’s only nine o’clock in the morning.” He stated, whilst pointing to the silver watch strapped to his wrist. “Fascinating.” He said, clearly he wasn’t. “That’s a very pretty watch. Could I please have a look at it?” Carter looked to John for assistance but he just smiled and turned away, opening the window. Letting fresh air into the stagnant room assumed Carter. He turned the watch over to his employee and sat still. The man turned it over in his nimble fingers, the fingers of a musician and detective. “Rolex. Silver. A gift I’m guessing from the engraving on the back and in your possession for quite some time by the scratch marks on the face and dials on the side.” He sighed obviously bored now of knowing everything. “Oh well.” He shrugged and casually tossed the watch over his shoulder and sent it sailing through the window down onto the street below where it surely smashed into pieces beyond repair. Mr Carter sat still quite dumbfounded at the behaviour of this unusual and incredulous being that was presented before him. He did not speak for he feared he would upset the parties present, he had been warned that it was easy to offend him. John offered an explanation.

“He suffers from chronomentrophobia.” John sighed. He was a doctor so had to use medical terminology to ensure his reputation lived up to his standards. Mr Carter looked blankly at him. “An irrational fear of clocks.” He continued. “It is incredibly uncommon so you shouldn’t worry too much about every stranger you meet throwing your time telling devices out of windows.” The chronomentrophobiac stood up and fished around in his jacket pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, hardly waiting for a reply before he lit a cigarette and clamped it between his lips. “I mean,” he went on, “why should you? It’s my house.”

“Our house.” Interrupted John.

“Exactly, my house.”

“It’s not even a house. It’s a flat.” John continued to himself.

“I shouldn’t have to ask to smoke in my own house.”

“Our flat.” John said, although he had given up arguing. “If you could at least keep it in a decent state.”

“I can do what I like.”

“You scared off three cleaners.”

“People just have no respect for other’s personal belongings.”

“Then there was the Prime Minister of France.”

“He was French.”

“Precisely was, You threatened to run him through with a sword. He was in hospital for a week.”

“I said sorry.” He assured Mr Carter, whilst looking lovingly at the antique sword above the fireplace. Carter could not be sure but he was certain there were drops of blood on the blade. He kept quiet.

“Enough!” He leant forward, exhaling his cigarette fumes into the ever more bewildered Mr Carter. He stretched out his arm, Carter took it and they shook hands. “Very nice to meet you. My name is…” 

“Yes, I know who you are. That’s why I’m here.” Said Carter. “It is an honour to meet you Mr Holmes.”