Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  Again, much to my surprise, he has the strength to carry my weight. I’m totally relaxed, staring up at the shape of his hoodie.

  ‘Brilliant, yeah?’ He’s grinning fit to burst and the torch beam spills briefly across the wreckage of his mouth. ‘I knew you’d fucking love it.’

  We say our goodbyes at two metres distance back outside. I can see the Common from here and, thanks to H, I know my way home.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ I say. ‘Do you really sleep in that van?’

  ‘Yeah, some nights.’ He gives me a strange smile. ‘Next time, eh?’

  FOURTEEN

  Malo is still awake by the time I get back. I let myself into the building, negotiate the six flights of steps with some difficulty, and turn the key in flat number seven as quietly as I can. The place smells even more like a hospital than I remember from only hours ago, but I manage to make it to our new bedroom without meeting any of the nurses. H’s door is closed, and I can hear a low murmur of conversation from inside.

  Despite my best efforts, Malo knows at once that I’m drunk. The light is on and he’s reading a copy of Top Gear magazine.

  ‘You’re pissed,’ he says. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Yeah. I get that. But where?’

  I shake my head. He’s still wearing his PPE gown, his mask and visor lie beside his sleeping bag and there’s no mistaking the reproach in his voice. While H is fighting for his life, I’ve been out partying.

  ‘How is he?’ I’ve shed my wet anorak and I’m trying to unbutton my top. I feel about twelve.

  ‘He’s out of it. Has been all evening.’

  ‘You were with him? All that time?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I nod. I don’t know what to say. Hopeless. I manage to wrestle the rest of my clothes off, and collapse into bed in my knickers and bra. Malo has gone back to his magazine, which is a blessing of sorts, but as my eyes close and I drift away I’m starting to wonder where this bizarre spell of incarceration, a prison sentence with no release date, will leave us all.

  Next thing I know, it’s the middle of the night and the room is in darkness. I lay perfectly still for a moment. The wind seems to have dropped outside the window and I can hear the steady breathing of my son on the floor beside the bed. Then, with a sudden gust of nausea, I realize my head is bursting, along with my bladder. This is urgent.

  I manage to get out of the room without waking him and make my way, still semi-naked, to the bathroom. After I’m done on the loo, I look in the cupboard over the sink in the hope of finding tablets. Nothing. Maybe the kitchen, I think. Ibuprofen, paracetamol, aspirin. Anything to stop me throwing up.

  I’m on my knees in the kitchen, searching a cupboard full of assorted crockery, when the door opens. It’s Julia, the American nurse. She looks surprised.

  ‘You OK down there, Ms Andressen?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have a tablet, by any chance?’

  ‘For what? Precisely?’

  ‘A headache?’

  I can tell at once from the expression on her face that this is a big mistake, and I’m right. She wants to know what else is going on with me. Do I feel hot? Have I been coughing at all? Is my sense of smell impaired? In short, should I be tucked up next door with H?

  ‘I’m afraid I had too much to drink. My fault. Let’s call it self-abuse.’ I force a smile. ‘Ibuprofen? Maybe two?’

  Judgemental is generally a word I try to avoid but looking at Julia, here and now, I can think of no other. I’m employing this woman. However temporary, this is our territory. Yet the way she stares at me, that tiny, unforgiving shake of the head, tells me I’m completely out of order. Lockdown means lockdown. Just who do I think I am?

  She steps out of the kitchen and returns with a packet of ibuprofen.

  ‘These are two-hundred-milligram capsules,’ she says briskly. ‘Never more than two at a time, and never more than six in twenty-four hours. Drink lots of water and we’ll see how you are in the morning.’ She begins to back out of the room as I reach for a glass, but then stops. ‘He’s awake, by the way. Shall I give him your best?’

  Bitch, I think, swallowing the tablets. I stay in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, letting my guts settle down, then make my way back to bed. Malo, thank God, is asleep. Suddenly cold, I slip between the sheets and pull the duvet up around my neck. Moments before I drift off again, I hear laughter from next door.

  Next morning, I sleep late and awake to find myself alone. Last time I checked, Malo’s runners were tucked away beside his sleeping bag. Now, they’ve gone. My phone tells me it’s nearly ten o’clock. My headache has disappeared, but I’m left with a shaky sense of not knowing exactly what to do next. I feel nervous, adrift from my moorings. I used to have a life, a place to call my own, little freedoms I took for granted. Now I’m never living with less than six people, in a tiny space, and four of them think I’m a drunk.

  I find Taalia on the sofa in the front room, half-watching TV while she makes notes on an important-looking form. She confirms that Malo has gone out for a run.

  ‘Nice boy,’ she says. ‘You must be proud.’

  ‘And H?’

  ‘He’s asleep again.’ She flips back through what appears to be an hourly log. ‘His sats were better last night. Julia was pleased with him.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Not so great.’

  ‘But OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘Sort of.’

  Sort of. Her tone of voice does nothing to raise my spirits, but I’m still too jumpy to push her for the details. Good days and bad days, I tell myself. And three of these scary nurses to keep H alive.

  I make myself a cup of tea and retire to the privacy of our bedroom. I need, very badly, to talk to someone who represents the other bit of my life, the part I realize was so precious. Rosa, my agent, normally reserves Saturday morning for a tour of her favourite café-bars, mainly around Covent Garden, but like everyone else in the world, she’s banged up.

  It’s her husband who answers the phone. His name is Kurt. He’s German, a huge bear of a man. He trained as a lawyer but now helps Rosa at the agency, taking care of the legals.

  ‘Alles gut?’ I enquire. This more or less exhausts my store of German and he’s kind enough to stick to English.

  ‘Never better,’ he says. ‘We managed to get down to the coast. Snuck under the wire and avoided the Fun Police by the skin of our teeth.’ This, coming from a German, I find seriously amusing.

  Kurt and Rosa have a beautiful house in Deal, as well as a pied-à-terre in Camden, a tribute to her earning power. She made her fortune years back, feasting off the meteoric rise of a handful of young actors who – thanks in part to her canniness – truly made the big time. I was never one of those, but we’ve always been close.

  ‘My precious?’ It’s Rosa.

  ‘Me,’ I agree.

  ‘All well?’

  ‘No. Since you ask.’

  I bore her with a brief account of life in Southsea. Nurses. PPE. Covid-talk. Plus the company of umpteen strangers, most of them foreign.

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ Rosa says. ‘I hope you’re keeping notes.’

  ‘Sadly not. Any news from Paris?’

  ‘None, my precious. I gather things are even stricter over there. Macron plays Napoleon in this production and everyone hides behind their shutters. I’m afraid we might have to brace ourselves for a bit of a wait.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘So I’m told. Everything’s come to a halt. We might even be talking about next year, assuming they OK the series.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I knew you’d be pleased. Anticipation is everything, my precious. Look on the bright side.’

  I nod, unconvinced. I phoned for a bit of a lift. Now this.

  ‘And you?’ I say brightly. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Brilliant, since you ask.’

  ‘Brilliant how?’

  ‘Everyt
hing’s so quiet. No tourists. No boy racers. No pollution. On a clear night, like last night, we can put on our coats and sit on the balcony and see the lights of France. Just think of all those French punters just gagging for Dimanche. Fear not, my precious. All will be well.’

  With that, and a cheerful aside about the imminent collapse of live theatre, she’s gone.

  Deflated, I lie back on the bed, wondering who else to phone. Tim, I think, my actor friend who aced the 4x4 commercial on the rock face. He, at least, understands the darker side of Portsmouth.

  Moments later, I find myself talking to his mum. Tim, she says, is in the garden transplanting rows of early peas. For some reason, I find this seriously impressive, so rural, so real, so un-Pompey.

  His mum hands the phone over. Not just peas, it turns out, but broad beans, and cabbage, and some promising heads of romaine lettuce.

  ‘Sounds idyllic,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll never come back.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ve worked this bastard virus out. It thrives in confined spaces. It hates fresh air. I read yesterday that the Vietnamese haven’t had a single death. And you know why? Because they’re all out there in the paddy fields, doing the rice thing. Covid’s payback for living indoors. Where did we go so wrong?’

  The question floors me, so concise, so right. Not just where but why, and how, did we go so wrong? I start to tell him about H, about the agency, about a new set of faces every eight hours, and finally about me and my son negotiating a new relationship in a bedroom no bigger than a prison cell. Tim, bless him, understands exactly where I’m headed.

  ‘You should get out more,’ he says at once.

  ‘I did. Last night.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Gunwharf. You know a place called Casablanca? It’s a resto, newish, Moroccan cuisine.’

  ‘Yeah. And the woman’s off her head.’ Tim’s laughing. ‘Good cook, though. And decent weed.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Yeah. Everyone knows her. She’s become a bit of a legend. Shanti. Keeps rough company but you’d never blame her for that, not in Pompey. I once saw her drink an old 6.57 hooligan under the table. They were celebrating his divorce and there was nothing but Bourbon on offer. This was a couple of years back. She once tapped me up for tennis lessons, but she didn’t want to pay. Not in money.’

  ‘She’s been around for a while?’

  ‘Off and on, yeah. The way I heard it, she had some minted bloke in London, but I’m guessing that’s history now.’ He pauses. ‘You’re telling me you met her last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what did you make of her?’

  ‘Crazy, like you said. We drank far too much. Way over the top. I met another guy, too. Sean? Thin, terrible teeth, drives a white van? Calls himself an electrician?’

  ‘Could be anyone in this city.’ Tim’s laughing again. ‘Especially the teeth. What was he like?’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Strange interesting? Strange horrible? Strange scary?’

  ‘Just strange. I haven’t made my mind up yet.’

  ‘You’re seeing him again?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He’s got a surname, this Sean? You want me to ask around?’

  For a moment, I don’t answer. Then I hear footsteps outside and the sound of Malo’s voice. He’s talking to Taalia, the Asian nurse, telling her what a brilliant day it is, how they might get a run together, when she has time off.

  ‘Gotta go,’ I tell Tim.

  ‘And this Sean?’

  ‘Sure, by all means ask around.’

  ‘No problem. Listen, something else, this khazi of a flat you’re all in. If you need to escape, to get your head down someplace else, just ring.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Chez moi. I’m round the corner from you. The woman next door has a spare key. I can always phone her if things get heavy.’

  Heavy? I want to know more, but Tim’s gone already and it’s Malo’s face at the door.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ he says coldly. ‘You’re awake.’

  FIFTEEN

  The rest of the day, I’d prefer to forget. Within minutes, Mr Wu has arrived. He goes in to see H, and emerges a while later. I’m dressed by now, waiting for him in the front room. He says that H is pretty much the same, no real change. The good news is that there’s no sign of the infection spreading to his liver and kidneys, which appears to be happening in ICUs up and down the country.

  ‘And the bad news?’

  ‘He’s exhausted. He’s a strong man, but he’ll need our help for a while yet.’

  ‘Are you telling me he’s getting better?’

  ‘Not at all. He’s holding his own, and believe me, Ms Andressen, that’s a compliment. Twenty years older, he might be dead by now. We have to be very careful, one day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time. The virus never gives up. And neither will we.’ He might be smiling behind the mask and the visor, I can’t tell, but either way it doesn’t matter because Mr Wu has something else on his mind. ‘We’ve been here three days now, Ms Andressen. I understand the nursing agency delivered an envelope last night.’

  ‘They did?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a note on the log. Your son signed for it.’

  ‘Malo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what was it? In the envelope?’

  Mr Wu doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he suggests, in all our interests, that we have a conversation.

  ‘All three of us?’ I’m lost.

  ‘Yourself and your son, Ms Andressen.’ He checks his watch. ‘I’m late for the ICU already.’

  Malo always takes an age in the shower. I’m still on the lumpy sofa in the front room when he finally emerges. He’s wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a Womad T-shirt I’ve never seen before. He looks wonderful, and I’d normally tell him so, but not this morning.

  ‘The agency sent us a letter last night, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘In the bedroom.’

  He’s staring down at me. I can smell toast from the kitchen and there’s a smear of butter on one corner of his mouth. He doesn’t move.

  ‘Are you going to get the bloody thing?’ I’m staring up at him. ‘Or what?’

  He shrugs and leaves the room. Seconds later, he returns with a white envelope and drops it on my lap.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this last night?’

  ‘Read it, Mum.’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘You were off your head. Just read it.’

  I do his bidding. The letter comes from the agency’s financial director. As Tony Morse has already warned, we’re running up a substantial bill. The daily roster of nurses is costing us £3,600 per day. Other charges, including medical supplies, oxygen, and the new hospital bed, so far total £4,567. The deep-cleaning company have yet to invoice for their services, and this sum will appear in the next account. Under normal circumstances the agency would have asked for a deposit before the commencement of care, but time was short. Now, having talked to Mr Wu, they would appreciate an initial payment of £20,000, with ongoing care to be invoiced at the end of every week, the first payment due on Friday 10 April. Should the patient stage an early recovery, or be transferred to hospital, any outstanding monies will, of course, be reimbursed, but in the meantime, early payment – preferably by BACS or a credit card – would be much appreciated.

  I look up. I knew a reckoning like this was inevitable, but I feel physically sick. The £20,000 I could just about manage myself, but these are early days. What happens when the next bill arrives on Friday? And all the Fridays thereafter?

  ‘You should have told me, Malo.’

  ‘Last night, you mean? Why? What would have been the point?’

  ‘This morning, then. Before you went for that run of yours.’

  ‘You were
asleep. And in any case, it’s sorted.’

  ‘Sorted? How?’

  ‘I talked to Jessie last night. She’s got access to Dad’s rainy-day fund, and she also got on to the people at the agency first thing. You never pay their first demand, ever. That’s just the starter for negotiations. Taalia told me the block-rate they get for ICU nurses from the NHS. It’s way below what they’re charging us, so they’ve got every incentive to keep us on the hook. In the end we settled for fifteen.’

  ‘Fifteen thousand?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And your dad? What did he have to say?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s out of it.’ He shrugs. ‘Just like you, Mum.’

  With this parting shot, he retrieves the letter from my lap and leaves the room. I hear the slam of our bedroom door, and then the opening bars of an Ed Sheeran song, first very loud, then softer. Malo, like me, needs time to calm down.

  I get up and go to the window, fighting to get a grip, to get everything back into some kind of focus. Jessie we can depend on. Jessie, I know, will do Malo’s bidding and come up with whatever sum he thinks we’ll need to keep the agency sweet. She has a lot of time for this son of ours. Hence, I assume, last night’s conversation.

  Twenty thousand pounds. Fifteen thousand pounds. Four thousand five hundred and something pounds. Plus the deep-cleaning bills. Plus whatever we owe Tony Morse for taking care of Mr Wu.

  I’m trying to compute all these figures, trying to understand the sheer scale of what all this will cost us. H’s bid to turn his rainy-day fund into cocaine is, I realize, the purest fantasy, the old Pompey reflex, and it’s a relief that Malo’s taken charge. I’m also impressed by how savvy he is. I would never have bargained on the phone like that, never have saved us five thousand pounds on the deposit. If I ever wanted proof that Malo carries H’s DNA, then here it is.

  But what about H himself? Shouldn’t someone have a word? Share what’s going on? I’m still at the window, still staring out, still hearing the contempt in my son’s voice. Out of it, he’d said. You’re out of it. Drunk. Pissed. Incapable. MIA. Missing in action. A video game gone hopelessly wrong. No, I think. I’m better than this. That someone has to be me.