ShortSmith and the Outtakes

By RAY FRIPP and HARRY DEWULF

The characters of Smith and the Captain were originally created by Harry and a well-known TV comedian.

A novel called ‘I, Smith’ was subsequently written by Ray and Harry from the salvaged sketches and half-finished storyline.

As a taster for the novel, Ray and Harry also came up with this short story as a hypothesis on how the two characters might have met, and what happened when they went on a double date with two women who weren’t all they seemed . . . 

Also included are ‘outtakes’ from ‘I, Smith’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Fripp and Harry Dewulf
• Release date: Mar 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386788300

Book preview

About the Authors

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Ray Fripp writes fiction under different pen names, most noticeably historical fiction as Ray Kingfisher and gritty thrillers as Ray Backley. Writing comedy comes as a welcome bit of light relief. In time there may well be a www.rayfripp.com where you can read more about him, but for now you can email him at [e-mail] if you wish, which would please him immensely, or follow him on his economically used Twitter handle @RayFripp.

Harry Dewulf uses stories to help people, and helps people to make stories – using an encyclopaedic knowledge of language, fiction, and what makes stories good.

I, Smith is his first (and possibly last) foray into yer actual writin’, being a story started by him many moons and grey hairs ago in collaboration with an equally youthful David Mitchell, who has since gone on to find fame and fortune as a regular comedy writer and TV show wit.

Google Harry Dewulf and you will find he has a website, an email address, a Twitter handle, a Facebook page, a YouTube channel, and often a very grand set of whiskers.

ShortSmith

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Smith shut the front door of his luxury Belgravia penthouse apartment, placed his briefcase on the floor and looked in the hall mirror.

He ran a few fingers through his honey-blond, shoulder-length hair, then gave his freeform beard and moustache a thoughtful tweak.

The surprised head of the Captain popped out of the kitchen. Good evening, it said.

Smith was taken aback for a few seconds. Erm . . . good evening.

The Captain stepped out of the kitchen. Busy day?

Smith took off his hair, beard and moustache, laying them carefully on the small table next to the front door. Just the usual, he said. I attended the AGM of my ultra-green power generation company, then had a meeting with my corporate lawyers regarding the amicable settlement of a forty million dollar lawsuit. I had lunch with the Director General of the BBC, after which I pledged another ten million pounds to my African children’s education charity. I rounded the day off by offering advice to the chancellor concerning the fiscal implications of his policies for the UK business community. He drew a breath. And you?

A proud grin exploded onto the Captain’s face and he pointed into the kitchen. I’ve been cooking eggs.

What, all day?

I like them very, very well done.

"No, I mean, is that all you did?"

Of course not. I also arranged dates for us tonight.

Oh. Mmm. Smith grimaced like he’d just trodden in something. Barefoot. The thing is . . . I’m not really that keen on dates.

No?

"I prefer to get to know women . . . organically."

The Captain thought for a moment. I’m fairly sure there won’t be any pesticides involved on this date.

Smith shaped his mouth to speak, but the effort was wasted. He gave his head a dismissive shake and sauntered into the living room, where his eyes surveyed the coffee table.

It was approximately 410mm high, 390mm wide and 975mm long, with wedge-reinforced mortise and tenon joints at the top of each 39mm square leg. But none of that was important. What was important was that the important papers he’d left there for an important meeting with an important local charity had gone missing.

Did you remove some papers from here? he asked the Captain.

I didn’t think they were important. Had a problem with a fly.

You swatted a fly with them?

No, he wanted something to read.

Hmm . . . did he really.

No. Not really. He can’t have been more than ninety minutes old so he probably couldn’t read.

Smith opened his mouth to retort, then realised he hadn’t even torted so couldn’t.

While Smith was busy not retorting, the Captain spoke again. Look, he said. I’m most dreadfully sorry about your papers, old boy. Can I get you a cup of tea or anything?

No thanks, said Smith. But I was wondering . . .

Yes?

There is, in fact, something you could do for me.

Just say the word, old boy.

Would you mind telling me who you are?

Ah.

And also why you’re in my luxury Belgravia penthouse apartment?

The Captain took a sharp gasp of breath. Mmm. Yes. I had an inkling that thorny issue might crop up at some stage.

Well?

Not too bad, thank you. Bit of a clicky forehead. Used to be in my knee but I think it’s one of those wandering clicks.

Stop playing for time, said Smith.

Sorry. The Captain shrugged. I’m only playing for time because I haven’t the faintest clue what to say.

You could try telling me the truth.

"There is