Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘The man himself.’

  To no one’s surprise, Tony Morse is wearing a beautifully cut cashmere overcoat, full-length, and he must have spent hours raising the shine on his black Italian shoes. The two men, against all the rules, give each other a hug. Then it’s Tony’s face at my window.

  ‘H?’ he mouths.

  I pull a face and flutter one hand to signal 50/50. Then Dessie gives him his phone.

  ‘Not coming over to join us?’ Tony nods across the car park. ‘Pay your respects before the coffin arrives?’

  I gaze towards the knot of people gathered awkwardly in front of the crematorium. Cynthia, I recognize at once. She’s made a big effort for the occasion: a small, stylish hat in what looks like raffia, even a veil. Her black two-piece suit has a single red rose pinned to the lapel and she’s doing her best to engage with the rest of the party, an assortment of kids and adults who must belong to Dave’s previous life. Despite her best efforts, conversation appears to be strained, and the thesp in me gets the impression they’ve all lost their place in the script.

  ‘Well, darling?’ Tony again.

  I hold his gaze for a moment, the phone still to my ear.

  ‘Can’t,’ I say at last. ‘Your Mr Wu would have me arrested.’

  TWELVE

  The funeral over, I drive away, feeling utterly empty, exhausted, my duty done. I give Cynthia a little wave as I pass the thin straggle of mourners heading for their cars, but I don’t think she sees me. Making my way back into the city – empty road, shuttered shops, very few people about – I’m trying to work out what to say to H about the funeral, but then I realize there’s no point. Like poor Dave Munroe, he’s probably past caring.

  I park outside the flat and phone the number Jessie has given me for H’s parents. After a while, a woman’s voice answers. She sounds younger than I’d somehow expected, a Pompey accent, impatient, almost aggressive.

  ‘Mrs Prentice?’

  ‘Doris. And you are?’ I give her my name and there’s a moment’s pause before she makes the connection. ‘The film star? Hayden’s friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jessie, it seems, has mentioned me in some conversation or other. Now Doris wants to know why I’m calling. I explain as best I can. H, I know, is an only child. The news that he might be dying is something I sense I have to handle with great care, but within seconds it turns out I couldn’t be more wrong.

  ‘You’re telling me he’s got it? The virus?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  ‘QA?’ The Queen Alexandra is the city’s main hospital.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘He’s gone private? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Sort of, yes.’

  ‘Typical. Show that boy a queue, and he’d either jump it or make other arrangements. So where is he?’

  I explain about the flat, the nurses, and do my best with his prognosis. Doris’s take on the likelihood of her son dying is remarkably brisk.

  ‘Not a chance, dear. If that’s what God had in store for him it would have happened years ago. He’ll get through it, just like he’s got through everything else in that life of his. How well do you know him, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘Well-ish. He’s the father of my son, which means we meet from time to time.’

  ‘That Malo?’

  ‘That Malo.’

  ‘So, when do we get to meet him? Or you for that matter?’

  Talking to this woman is like trying to cope with a force-eight gale. Her bluntness, questions delivered like physical blows, leave no space for negotiation or wit or any of the other little tricks that can soften a conversation, and already I begin to understand why H has chosen to keep her at arm’s length. After barely a minute I badly need shelter, and I fancy a younger H might have felt the same. Nonetheless, whatever she might think about H battering the virus and sending it on its way, I still think it’s my duty to effect some kind of rapprochement. If H happened to die tonight, both his mum and dad deserve the chance to say adieu.

  ‘You live in the city? Am I right?’

  ‘Cosham, dear. Up on the hill. You might think it’s Portsmouth but you’d be wrong. Look out of our bedroom window and you’ll know exactly why we left. Filthy place. We would have gone to Chichester, if we’d ever had the money.’

  I swallow hard, trying to imagine what H would make of this conversation, and then I suggest she might drive down this afternoon. We could meet beside the Common. I could fix some kind of video link and she could stay in her car, and if H happened to be conscious, they might even have a conversation.

  ‘And you, my dear? You’d be there?’

  ‘Of course. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘And the boy? Malo?’

  ‘Him, too. We’d stay outside the car, obviously. We could talk like this, by phone, after you’d made contact with H.’

  ‘You mean Hayden.’ Statement, not question.

  ‘Of course, Hayden. Does that sound like a plan? Only I’ll need to make arrangements for the video.’ I glance at my watch. ‘Half past four this afternoon? Would that be OK?’

  After a grunt of what might be assent, I give her the address. Then, without bothering to say goodbye, she’s gone.

  Back in the flat, I discover that Mr Wu has had a brief discussion with Ela, the oldest of the two Polish nurses, and agreed that H should be transferred into the bigger of the two bedrooms. He’s also ordered a proper hospital bed, fully motorized, to make nursing easier. This will come with a state-of-the-art mattress, specially designed to minimize the possibility of pressure sores. These, Ela tells me, can easily develop into ulcers, a complication H can definitely do without.

  The bed and mattress arrive in the early afternoon, conjured from God knows where. It has already been partly dismantled but it still takes three men, all wearing full PPE, to wrestle it up the endless flights of stairs. I’ve cleared my few possessions from H’s new bedroom, and between us Malo and I haul the old bed through to the front room. A call to Tony Morse confirms that we can chuck it away, and after they’ve finished installing the new bed, the guy in charge of the delivery crew sweetly agrees to get rid of it. This costs me seventy pounds, but I’m in no position to bargain. The shops that are still open locally are only accepting bank cards, but my saviour has no qualms about stuffing the money away beneath his PPE and heading for the door.

  Newly configured, the flat settles into the old routines, with Ela’s day shift looking after H. For the time being, he’s still holding his own and for that Malo and I are grateful. I despatch my son to hunt for flowers to brighten the place up and he returns with an armful of daffodils, stolen from the ornamental garden beside the tennis courts. These I arrange in a couple of jam jars I’ve found in a kitchen cupboard, one for the living room, and one for the new nest I’m sharing with Malo. Here, I clamber into a new set of PPE, and then go next door to pay H a visit. My recent conversation with his mother is still ringing in my ears and as yet I’ve no idea how to broach the prospect of a virtual visit.

  Much to my relief, H appears to be a little better. He’s still coughing, still breathless, but for the time being Ela has turned off the oxygen. The mask lies on the pillow beside his head. All he has to do, he mutters, is ask.

  I settle beside the new bed, which looks enormous. The agency has supplied fold-up chairs and re-stocked the kitchen fridge, and now H wants to know about Dave’s funeral. I do my best to describe it but in truth there’s very little to say. A tiny handful of people. Cynthia looking brave. No one talking to each other. Then home.

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘I stayed in the car.’ I touch my visor. ‘No choice.’

  ‘Tony Morse there?’

  ‘Yes. And another guy. Dessie?’

  ‘Dessie Wren? Dave’s oppo back in the day?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  H nods, says nothing. Over the past couple of years, I’ve learned to read his sile
nces.

  ‘There’s a problem with Dessie?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a clever bastard.’

  ‘He seemed very nice.’

  ‘Exactly. And that’s why you shouldn’t trust him. He’s a shagger, too. Women love him, but I’ve never worked out why.’

  ‘Maybe he makes them laugh.’ I’m remembering the big face at my car window. Dessie Wren. Cursed with the surname from hell.

  H begins to cough again, signalling for Ela. She arrives with a moist flannel, bathes his face, then uses the bed’s remote to bring H’s upper body to near-vertical. This reminds me powerfully of Pavel, whom we nursed after he was stricken with paralysis. The same reliance on technology, the same surrender to the comfort of strangers.

  H is trying to hoist something from the depths of his lungs. Ela has readied a kidney bowl and H leans forward, gasping like a fish out of water, his mouth open, his head hanging over the bowl.

  ‘Good boy.’ Ela is playing Mum. ‘Again, please. We need to get rid of this stuff.’

  H looks at her for a moment, his eyes watering with the effort, the thick veins in his neck beginning to bulge, and then he makes a final effort, a long spasm of coughing that clearly hurts before a thick green ball of phlegm and God knows what else appears, hanging briefly from his mouth. Ela puts her arm around him, helpless child that he is, and catches the gunk in the bowl before handing it to the other nurse. H watches her leave the room.

  ‘Fuck,’ he gasps. ‘Fuck, fuck.’

  Ela mops his face again with the flannel. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Very good.’

  H, exhausted, lies back against the pillow. His face is grey, and when Ela asks about the oxygen mask he nods. She reaches across for it but his eyes have found mine again and when she tries to put the mask on his face, he shakes his head. Not quite yet.

  ‘Anything else?’ he wheezes.

  ‘Yes. I talked to your mother.’

  ‘My mother? About what?’ He’s staring up at me.

  ‘You, H.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said she’d like a word or two.’

  ‘Before I croak, you mean? Sort the will? Get me into the nearest fucking church? Stack up a few credits?’ He’s gasping for air again.

  ‘She might love you, H.’

  ‘No fucking way. I’d have sussed that earlier. You think I’m stupid?’

  ‘Please? For me? And maybe Malo?’

  ‘I wouldn’t let the boy anywhere near her. She’s done far too much damage already. I’m getting better. Tell her that. Fucking make her day, stuck-up bitch.’

  ‘Your dad, maybe?’

  ‘My dad’s a lovely guy. Deserved better.’

  ‘You mean he’s dead? Gone?’

  ‘Yeah, in every way that matters. She killed him off years ago. Husk of a man.’

  ‘You’ve seen him? Recently?’

  ‘Yeah, couple of times these last few years,’ he whispers. ‘Bought him a drink. Bunged him a few quid, poor bastard that he is, banged up with someone like that.’ He shakes his head, leaving wet stains on the pillow slip. ‘No, tell her to fuck off. Else she’ll walk all over you.’

  I gaze down at him for a long moment, trying to imagine a younger H staking out his territory in the badlands of Pompey. Maybe he had no choice, I think. Maybe his entire criminal career was simply a conversation with his tyrannical mother. H, in any event, has once again dismissed her. Because life, as ever, moves on.

  ‘Wes?’ He’s exhausted now. ‘You met him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ He gestures weakly round: the bed, the staff, the oxygen, Mr Wu, all that expense. ‘Best to get on with it, eh?’

  Best to get on with it. Ten minutes later, having shed the PPE, I phone Shanti’s number from the front room and get through within seconds. I’m still introducing myself when she interrupts.

  ‘T’as faim?’ She wants to know whether I’m hungry.

  ‘Oui, un peu.’

  ‘T’as déjà mangé?’ Have I eaten already?

  ‘Non.’

  ‘Six heures et demi. Casablanca. Chez moi.’ Half past six. Be there.

  With a chuckle, she rings off. I’m still studying the phone. Tu already? When we haven’t even met? Remarkable.

  Sunil is sitting beside Malo, watching him on his PlayStation. Malo has abandoned Grand Theft Auto for another game which features hang gliders, guided missiles, and a spectacular series of sudden deaths, and Sunil is transfixed.

  ‘Where do I find a restaurant called Casablanca?’ I ask him.

  ‘The Moroccan place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes behind the visor never leave the screen. I’m to get myself to Gunwharf. Walk towards the waterfront. I’ll find it next to a bar called Dukes.

  ‘It’ll be closed,’ he says. ‘Like everything else.’

  By now it’s mid-afternoon, and I owe H’s mother another call. This time, a male voice answers the phone.

  ‘Harry?’ I know his name from H.

  ‘That’s right. And you’re …?’

  ‘Enora. I talked to your wife earlier.’

  ‘I know. So how is he, pet? That boy of mine?’ Just the hint of a Geordie accent.

  ‘A little better, but I’m afraid there’s a problem with this afternoon.’

  ‘The boy doesn’t want to see her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise. And me? Did you ask him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just as well. White Vauxhall Astra. Half four still OK?’ He chuckles. Then he’s gone.

  I now have a problem. Do I forewarn H? Spark another outburst? Raise his temperature to boiling point? Risk a seizure, or worse? Or might there be another way? In the event, all too typically, I decide to defer a decision until the two of them arrive. Malo, if it comes to it, can get into PPE and settle beside H with his smartphone. Mum and Dad, if they so wish, can make contact from their car. And afterwards, my obligations discharged, I can spend the evening in Gunwharf with a clear conscience.

  By half past four, I’ve stationed myself beside the window in the front room, gazing down at the occasional passing car in the big road below. The white Astra appears a minute or two early and pulls into a parking bay opposite the flats. Looking down, it’s impossible to see the two figures inside, but I’ve briefed Malo about the impending visit, and he’s already getting himself into his PPE. H, according to one of the nurses, is asleep, which may be a blessing.

  I check for my phone and take the stairs down to the street. The moment I step into the road, I realize that the Astra has only one occupant. A tall figure, slightly bent, is sitting behind the wheel. He’s wearing the flat cap I’ve seen in dozens of black and white archive shots from the Portsmouth News, and he doesn’t move as I cross the road. Beside the car, I crouch like Dessie Wren, and show him my mobile phone. I can see H in his face. His grey hair is beginning to thin but he still has H’s curls. These last few years, H has put on weight, a tribute to Jessie’s cooking. His dad, au contraire, is skin and bone, not an ounce of spare flesh, but the moment he smiles at me I can see H in his softer moments. Once, I suspect, this man was handsome, and the longer I look, the greater the temptation to think of another name. Malo.

  H’s dad has scribbled a mobile number for me. Moments later, we’ve established contact.

  ‘You mind if I call you Harry?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m honoured, pet.’ Definitely a Tynesider. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Asleep.’

  ‘That’s for the best.’

  ‘You want to talk to him?’

  ‘You mean wake him up? No. I’ve come for a look at you, and that boy of yours. He’s around? Our Malo?’

  ‘Our’ is a revelation. Harry Prentice may be a husk of a man in H’s eyes, soaking up a lifetime of punishment from his scary wife, but he knows exactly how to make a friend of yours truly.

  ‘You want me to get him down? Malo?’

  ‘I do, pet, yes, but tell m
e about the boy, first.’

  ‘Your boy?’

  ‘My boy. He always had luck, young Hayden, and cheek, too, and looking at you I know he’s in good hands. Don’t get me wrong, pet. I know you’re just friends. But he thinks the world of you, because he’s told me so, and that says to me there must be just a little tiny candle in there somewhere.’

  ‘Candle?’

  ‘Between you. Heat and light. That’s all we ever need, pet. And you’re talking to someone who knows.’

  I nod. Despite the window between us, and Covid, and the larger madness of the pandemic, this lovely man has kindled a real warmth. This, in its way, is a kind of magic, increasingly rare in most conversations that come my way, and within minutes he’s sharing memories of an H I’ve only so far been able to picture from drunken exchanges with his Pompey mates. How he was a replacement for an earlier son who sadly miscarried. How well he did at junior school. How fearless he was when it came to scrapping. How he drove his mother crazy with his refusal to knuckle down. How a longing for bad company and the main chance finally drove him out of the family home.

  ‘We lost him at sixteen,’ he says. ‘And he never came back. The little tyke would never say sorry, never apologize for any of the mess he left behind him, but he’d phone me from time to time, and you know why? Because he wanted me to understand.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ He nods up at the windscreen, and for the first time I notice the little wooden cross dangling from the rear-view mirror. ‘I had to live with it. He never did. Did I ever blame him for baling out? Of course I didn’t. Did he lead us both a dance? Yes. Would I ever have wanted him any other way? Never. Because the lad had spirit. And he made me laugh. Fetch that Malo of yours. D’you mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’ After a final check that Harry doesn’t want sight of his invalid son, I return to the flat. Malo, bless him, is still beside H, and H is still asleep. I beckon my son out of the bedroom and tell him to get rid of the visor and mask. Still gowned, he accompanies me down to the street. We cross the road, and the pair of us squat beside Harry’s door.

  Harry looks Malo up and down, his whole face creasing into a smile. Then comes a whirr as he lowers the window and extends a bony hand. Malo peels off his glove, and for a long moment the two men share a lingering handshake.