Corporate Bodies by Simon Brett Page A

had included surprisingly little drunken brawling, and he had to think back to playground fights of his schooldays for comparable injuries. But he had no problem in recognising the pain.
    The trouble was, the way it made him walk instantly identified the cause of his problem, and he’d found the short trip from the warehouse to the office of his saviour, Ken Coleboume, extremely embarrassing. Delmoleen workers – both male and, to his surprise and mortification, female – provided a range of ready, if unoriginal, witticisms as he passed.
    In the office – thank God – the Marketing Director kept a secret supply of liquor, and a couple of medicinal brandies slightly dulled the grinding agony in Charles’s testicles – so long as he didn’t try to do anything clever, like moving. He felt a sudden, totally irrational desire to sneeze, and prayed that he would be able to control it.
    On the other side of the desk, Ken Colebourne looked serious. ‘I’m extremely sorry about what’s happened, Charles, but I’d really be grateful if you could keep quiet about it.’
    Yes, of course. The Delmoleen name mustn’t be tarnished by any adverse publicity. The company must be kept smelling of roses, just as it had been after Dayna’s death.
    As it happened, Charles didn’t want any enquiries into what he had been doing to provoke Trevor’s attack, so he had no intention of making a fuss. He told Ken as much.
    The Marketing Director didn’t look totally reassured. ‘It really is very important that this is kept quiet.’
    â€˜Don’t worry. It will be.’
    â€˜Good.’ But a note of doubt remained in his voice. ‘Why did you want to talk to Trevor?’
    â€˜I didn’t. I was just down there, and he started talking to me.’
    â€˜I’d keep well away from him if I were you. He’s a nasty piece of work. Can be quite violent.’
    Charles made the mistake of moving. ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ he agreed through gritted teeth.
    â€˜No.’ Ken still seemed uncertain, as if there was something else, some further reassurance, he wanted from Charles. ‘If you had been thinking of having any dealings with Trevor,’ he went on awkwardly, ‘I’d give up the idea. It won’t do you any good. You won’t get anything out of him. He’s trouble, you know.’
    â€˜I do know.’
    â€˜Hm.’ But the Marketing Director couldn’t leave the subject alone. ‘You weren’t asking him about what he and Dayna got up to, were you?’
    â€˜No. As I say, he just came up to me and started getting aggressive. I think he was probably still miffed that I was substituted for him in the video.’
    Ken Colebourne nodded, not believing the explanation any more than Charles did. ‘Yes, that was probably it. Anyway, as I say, Charles, I’d leave it. Difficult for an outsider to understand quite how things work in a place like Delmoleen. I’d just steer clear of Trevor and forget the whole business, if I were you.’
    Charles nodded. That was unwise; the movement jolted right through his body and ripples of pain lapped outwards from his groin.
    The Marketing Director looked at his watch. ‘You going to be all right to get back on the train? I could lay on a car for you if you like.’
    â€˜Oh, I’ll be fine.’ Then Charles thought of the gleeful pleasantries with which Will Parton was likely to greet his affliction. The prospect of the writer’s wit working overtime all the way to St Pancras was more than he could face. He winced. ‘Well, actually, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’
    Ken Colebourne got on the phone to his secretary and organised transport. He proffered more brandy. Charles was at first inclined to refuse, but then thought, what the hell, I’m not going to be in any state to do anything else today, may as well succumb. He