Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  By now, as moody as ever, our boy was back in my apartment in Holland Park. H was convalescing at Flixcombe Manor, and to my delight he took our delinquent son in hand. No more drugs. No more dossing all day in bed. Tuition in rough shooting and trials riding. And finally, once Malo was clean and eager, the key role in a wild but canny bid to ship half a dozen high-rollers across the Channel in an antique trawler to the D-Day beaches to raise funds for Help for Heroes. In my view, this was a near-impossible gig, but Malo well and truly nailed it. Charm? In bucketloads. Nerveless, like his father? Definitely. Our son, I told H, has real talent.

  Four years later, that judgement of mine remains incontestable. Recently, Malo has been seeing quite a lot of his dad and something he told me the other day, strictly in confidence, has snagged in what remains of my poor, feeble brain.

  It’s still only half past ten. Malo and his partner, Clemmie, are night birds. I reach for my mobile and give my son a ring. After years living together in a Kensington mews cottage, they’re now sharing a rather nice semi in Twickenham.

  We play catch-up for several minutes and then I mention H.

  ‘The other day, you told me he was worried,’ I remind him.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Why might that be? You mind me asking?’

  The silence that follows suggests he does. I’m about to change the subject when he’s back on the line.

  ‘Money,’ he says. ‘I think he’s overcooked it.’

  ‘Overcooked it’ is Malo-speak for finding yourself in a very bad place, and I have some difficulty believing him. H has always been clever with money. Fresh from school, he trained as an accountant, a priceless qualification when it came to securing his place in the Pompey drug world. He understands money, makes friends with it, treats it with considerable guile as well as affection, and some of his more arcane laundering schemes, Fat Dave once told me, have been adopted by other gangs in dozens of cities nationwide. Had H stayed legit, in Dave’s opinion, he’d have made himself a tidy career. As it was, thanks to cocaine, he got very, very rich.

  ‘Overcooked?’ I’m reaching for a pen and a scrap of paper. ‘Tell me more.’

  Malo grunts something about the Netflix movie he and Clemmie are watching. Maybe he can call me back. I shake my head. While I respect Malo’s loyalty to his father, now is not the time for reticence.

  ‘Your dad’s in a bit of a state,’ I tell Malo. ‘Just give me a clue or two.’

  ‘I can’t, Mum, it’s difficult.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know what he’s like. Too proud for his own good. If he thought we were having this conversation, he’d go mental.’

  ‘We’re not having this conversation,’ I point out. ‘And when we do, I guarantee he’ll never know.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘How can I be sure?’

  ‘You can’t, Malo, but don’t insult me. You’re sounding like H. I’m your mother. Just believe me.’

  ‘OK,’ he says uncertainly.

  All this time I can hear a movie soundtrack in the background, but then comes a mumbled exchange with a voice I recognize as Clemmie’s and suddenly the movie’s on pause.

  ‘You remember that insurance business of Dad’s? The one he called Easy-Mend to begin with?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s gone tits-up.’

  ‘You mean it’s failed?’

  ‘Big time. He got major buy-in but then splurged on the advertising. That was one nasty. Then there was a rash of claims last year he couldn’t cope with. Brexit isn’t helping. He told me he’d factored all that shit in but now it turns out he didn’t. Bad place doesn’t cover it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Seven figures. He’s fighting it, of course, and it’s in the hands of the lawyers, which he hates. To make it worse, he tried to offset with a couple of other investments which turned sour, good money after bad. Worst case, he might have to sell.’

  ‘The company?’

  ‘Flixcombe.’

  ‘You’re serious?’ I put the pen to one side. ‘And he told you all this?’

  ‘He did. But that’s because I kept asking the right questions which really pissed him off. He’s been a dickhead, Mum. He should have asked for advice.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘Me, for starters.’

  ‘You said that? You told him that?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Like I say, mental, frothing at the mouth, completely out of control. I’m just glad you weren’t there. At one point I thought he was going to batter me. You remember those times with Berndt? When things were really bad between you?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Worse, Mum. Thank God we weren’t in the kitchen.’

  ‘What?’ For a moment, this son of mine has lost me.

  ‘Knives, Mum. Think knives. I’ve never seen him like that. He can be scary, sure, but never homicidal.’

  This is sobering stuff. I tell him I’m sorry.

  ‘Don’t be, Mum. I can handle it.’

  ‘I meant H. He’s no angel but he doesn’t deserve this.’

  Malo grunts again, which I suspect might signal agreement. As briefly as I can, I describe what’s happening down in Pompey.

  ‘Fat Dave?’ Malo sounds shocked. ‘Fat Dave Munroe? You’re serious?’

  ‘I am, yes. According to H, he’s dying. In fact, he might be dead already.’

  ‘And Dad?’

  I pause for a moment, searching for the right word. ‘Crushed’ would be too harsh. ‘Upset’ wouldn’t begin to cover it. In the end I settle for ‘Lost’.

  ‘Lost how?’

  ‘He’s all over the place. He can’t believe it. Normally he takes these things on the chin, sorts them himself, wouldn’t dream of asking for help. Not on this occasion, though. Not now.’

  ‘That’s not Dad at all.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m going down there to lend a hand. I’ve no idea what difference I can make, but it might help.’

  ‘You want me to come?’

  ‘No. Hunker down. Look after Clemmie. Did you hear Johnson tonight? Stay at home, all that?’

  ‘I read it on my phone. He has to be joking, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I doubt it, Malo. What’s happened to Fat Dave tells me we should take this thing seriously. And I imagine there must be lots of other Fat Daves.’

  This brings the conversation to an end – my decision – but before I bow out, my son has a final question.

  ‘What about you, Mum? That scan last week?’

  ‘Still clear,’ I tell him. ‘I get another six months, lucky me.’

  TWO

  Next day, I’m on the road by mid-morning. Already, our prime minister’s address to the nation appears to have emptied the Bayswater Road of traffic. Purring from traffic light to traffic light, I catch glimpses of people hurrying along the pavement, heads down, hands thrust in their pockets. A couple of them are wearing face masks as they pass locked shops and shuttered pubs. Post-nuclear, I think, remembering the copy of Nevil Shute’s On the Beach I devoured last year. The bomb’s dropped, the radiation levels are climbing and we’re all doomed.

  The M25, if anything, is even creepier, just a scatter of supermarket trucks and white vans hogging the lane of their choice, and by the time I get to the A3 turn-off I realize how much I’ve taken yesterday’s London for granted. I’d assumed that traffic jams, bursting cafes, and the long queue of jets descending into Heathrow were forever. How wrong can a girl be?

  I’m a couple of minutes north of the Hindhead tunnel when I register the flashing blue lights in my rear-view mirror. There are two uniformed police in the front and one of them is motioning me on to the hard shoulder.

  Shit.

  The two officers circle the car, note the registration. Then the younger one asks me to get out. I’m desperately trying to remembe
r Boris Johnson’s very short list of excuses for breaking what the media are already calling ‘lockdown’, when the officer asks me where I’m going.

  ‘Portsmouth.’

  ‘You live there?’

  ‘No.’

  He wants to see my driving licence.

  ‘W4 is London,’ he says. ‘So why Portsmouth?’

  ‘A very good friend of mine is dying.’ I bite my lip. ‘His partner needs support.’ This, at least, has the merit of being true.

  ‘She has an address, this lady?’

  ‘Yes.’ I give him the address. He studies it for a moment, makes another note, and then checks his watch.

  ‘So here’s how it works.’ He nods down the motorway. ‘If you carry on, there’s no coming back.’

  ‘Ever?’

  The two men exchange glances. At last, I’ve coaxed a smile.

  ‘Ever,’ he agrees. ‘Life sentence, madam. In Pompey? Your call.’

  Cynthia, when I finally make it to Baffins, takes me by surprise. I’ve been expecting someone more motherly, plumper, more Fat Dave. Instead, I’m looking at a tall woman, probably in her late fifties, well preserved, immaculately turned-out, and the house, when I step inside, is a perfect match: subtle greys and dark blues on the walls of the narrow hall, a stand of lilies on an occasional table, and an artful pattern of beautifully framed photographic prints that bring me to an admiring halt. On first sight, this place – unremarkable from the outside – has the feel of a decent art gallery. Intimate? Yes. But elegant, too.

  ‘They’re all Portsmouth.’ Cynthia is nodding at the closest of the photos. ‘And all Dave’s work.’

  I’m standing in front of a black and white shot of a landscape I don’t recognize. The tide is out, and a steely light is gleaming on the exposed mud banks. On the left, the photo is framed by a crescent of footpath that skirts a two-storey clapboard house set slightly back. A Union Jack flies from the flagpole in the garden and on closer inspection, out over the water, I can see a flight of what look like mallards.

  ‘Langstone Harbour,’ Cynthia murmurs. ‘You know it at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dave’s favourite place. I used to wheel him across there whenever the light was good. It’s a bit of a trek but he loved it.’

  I nod, inspecting another shot, a shingle beach this time, the camera low, the pebbles shiny with recent rain. Cynthia’s use of the past tense is slightly disturbing. In H’s world, and increasingly mine, no one ever gives up.

  ‘They’re great,’ I say. ‘Dave’s got a real eye.’

  Cynthia spares me a glance. She looks wistful, under-nourished, and judging by the darkness under her eyes, she’s not getting much sleep.

  ‘In there.’ She nods at the door at the end of the hall. ‘And thank you for coming down.’

  H is waiting in what turns out to be the sitting room. He’s slumped in an armchair that must belong to Fat Dave because it’s enormous, and he’s staring into nowhere, scarcely aware of my presence.

  ‘Trip down OK?’ he mumbles.

  ‘Fine. Perfect. I had the road to myself.’

  ‘No Filth?’

  ‘One stop halfway down the A3. They were charming.’

  ‘Really?’ At last, he looks up at me, then gestures loosely towards the window. ‘Fucking sad, eh?’

  The back garden is on the small side. A froth of early blossom brightens the single tree, and a tabby cat sprawls on a weathered wooden bench.

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Under the blue tarpaulin. See them?’ I shake my head, then look harder.

  ‘You mean the wheels?’

  ‘Yeah. Dave’s chair. Poor bastard.’

  We have lunch around a circular table in a corner of the room. Cynthia serves a fish soup, chunks of cod floating in a thick bouillabaisse, with warm crusty bread and a light green salad on the side. The fish is delicious, perfectly cooked, and while H presses her for more details about Dave, my eyes keep straying to the picture that hangs over the mantelpiece. I can’t make up my mind whether it’s a photo or a clever piece of artwork, but either way there’s no contesting the face. David Bowie, in his prime. Gelled locks, heavy mascara, killer eyes, with a deep crimson wound that seems to slice the image in half.

  This, for whatever reason, comes as another surprise. My take on H’s world has been based almost exclusively on mates of his who’ve turned up from time to time at Flixcombe. Fat Dave was one of them. Others had the same tribal markings: fading tattoos, bellies out of control, plenty of Pompey swagger. But barely an hour in the company of this woman tells a very different story, as does her quiet nod to a relationship that plainly means the world to her.

  H has brought a bottle of dry sherry to break the ice. By the time we’re done with the fish, the bottle is nearly empty. At this point, I’m bold enough to ask how she and Dave Munroe first met.

  ‘Ventnor.’ She holds my gaze across the table, her eyes already glassy. ‘Dave was on a job on the island all week and had booked himself in, he and another guy.’

  ‘Dessie.’ This from H. ‘Dessie Wren. Good bloke for a Filth. Clever, too.’

  ‘And?’ I’m still looking at Cynthia.

  ‘He was a lovely man, Dave, you sensed that from the start. He could talk to anyone, and that’s a real talent. He listened, as well, which was unheard of in my world.’

  Dave, she said, was especially partial to kippers for breakfast and by mid-week she’d managed to lay hands on a supply of Arbroath smokies.

  ‘After that, I could do no wrong. The other guy, Dessie, was out most evenings, but Dave would stay with me and we’d sit in the back parlour after I’d sorted all the other guests. There was always a lot to Dave, literally as he got fatter, but the more we talked the more I realized how unusual he was.’

  ‘Like how?’ I steal a glance at H. His eyes are half-closed, his face clouded by a frown.

  ‘Birds, for one thing. He was mad about them, knew everything, where they came from, when to look out for them, how to recognize their calls, who they were afraid of, everything you’d ever want to know. After that first week, he’d come back when he had time off. We’d drive over to the nature reserve at Brading, spend all afternoon on the marshes. He taught me so much. He knew so much. And he was mobile in those days. The world …’ She shrugs, a gesture of near despair. ‘Our oyster.’

  ‘That Dessie,’ H grunts. ‘He nearly had us a couple of times. Canny bastard. Ex-skate. Blokes like that are nearly human beings, easy to take for granted. We saw him off in the end, but only thanks to …’ He nods towards the shrouded wheelchair in the garden. ‘Dave.’

  If Cynthia is thrown by this abrupt intervention, it doesn’t show. Instead, at my invitation, she describes where the relationship went next, in particular the holidays they began to take together. Dave, it seems, was still married, with two young daughters, but the Job gave him every excuse in the world to cover his tracks. That first summer, allegedly in pursuit of a suspected kidnapper, Dave decamped to Greece. With Cynthia in tow.

  ‘Corfu,’ she says. ‘Dave got wind of an apartment for rent in Roda. There was a little beach, tavernas to die for, music and dancing in the evenings.’

  ‘Dave?’ H looks up. ‘Dancing?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Cynthia’s smile is unforced. ‘Hidden talents, my Dave. He knew the moves, no problem, and if something new came along he made it up. I think “resourceful” is the word. A couple of ouzos and he’d dance all night.’

  H is staring at her the way you might stare at a stranger, and I realize that this woman has the measure of him. My Dave. Not yours.

  ‘And now?’ I reach for my glass, knowing only too well where this conversation has to lead.

  ‘Now is horrible. You want to see him? You want to know how bad, how evil, this thing is?’

  Without waiting for an answer, Cynthia leaves the room. Moments later I hear footsteps overhead, then she’s back with a big iPad.

  ‘Dave’s,’ she explain
s as she opens it up and stations it between H and myself. ‘He used to put all his bird shots on it.’

  She stabs a finger at the screen and for the next few minutes we cycle through a series of photos while she provides a commentary. Redshanks. Tufted ducks. A lone marsh harrier. And, just look, a black-crested night heron. Then her finger strays to another icon and suddenly the sunshine and the bird life have gone. Now, H and I are looking at a hospital ward crowded with bulky figures. Masked, visored, gowned, they attend busily to patients fighting – I imagine – for their lives. They could be nurses, doctors, porters, anyone. The only clues are the names in heavy black Pentel, pinned to their gowns.

  ‘ICU,’ Cynthia mutters. ‘Three days ago. These people are incredible, believe me. Twelve hours at a stretch, wearing all that? This is war. This is their armour. We’re back in the Dark Ages.’

  The Dark Ages. Like every other next of kin, Cynthia has been denied access to the ICU, and like every other wife, husband, mother, or lover, she’d pleaded for some kind of conversation, just a word or two, and a squeeze of the hand – anything to reach across this terrifying abyss.

  ‘They do their best,’ she says. ‘You phone up and ask for the latest news, and they’ll tell you straight out, no flannel, just the facts. At the start of the weekend Dave was still conscious, just. The ventilator makes proper conversation impossible, but I knew he could hear me, and that’s what mattered.’

  I nod. H doesn’t move. He can’t take his eyes off the frozen image of the ICU, and the sight of Fat Dave, already diminished, propped up on a bank of pillows. The ventilator tube disappears down his throat while a thousand other leads tether him to what’s left of his life. His head is half-turned towards the camera, pale, drawn, a poor-quality version of the face I remember from H’s fiftieth.

  ‘Go on then.’ H nods at the screen.

  Cynthia hits the Play arrow, and then looks away. I’m guessing she must have seen this sequence dozens of times, playing and re-playing it, her last contact with the man she’d shared so many happy years with. Someone at the bedside is obviously holding up a phone or a tablet for Dave’s benefit, and the moment he recognizes Cynthia he tries to muster a smile. I can see he’s doing his very best, but the result is grotesque, the grimace of a man who knows the darkness is coming for him, and all the time I can hear the steady, remorseless suck and wheeze of the ventilator, Dave’s chest rising and falling in tune with the machine. This is dancing with a difference, I think.