Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Your father is very disturbed.’ Mr Wu is looking at Malo. ‘This virus can trigger hallucinations. You get an idea in your head, it can be anything, come from anywhere, but there’s no letting it go.’

  ‘Something real?’ I ask. ‘Something from his past?’

  ‘Only you would know that. Sammy? Have I got the name right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know who this person might be?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ll ask around, make some enquiries. He’s certainly never mentioned any Sammy to me.’

  Mr Wu nods, trying to be sympathetic, but I sense there’s something else that’s bothering him.

  ‘Naturally, I’ve talked to all three nurses separately, just to make sure we’re all absolutely clear about this thing. One of them was very upset. She told me she’d felt the violence in your Mr H. That was the word she used. Violence. Is this something you recognize, Ms Andressen?’

  The question is troubling, and very direct. Of course, H can be violent. That’s where all his money came from.

  ‘That’s news to me.’ I muster a smile. ‘He’s always been the sweetest man.’

  ‘So, can you account for my nurse’s apprehension?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I can only apologize. If it’s a question of blame, maybe we should be thinking about the virus. Once he gets back to normal I’m sure he’ll try and make amends. The last thing he’d ever want to do is frighten anyone.’

  ‘Good to hear, Ms Andressen. I’d be foolish to downplay an incident like this. Nurses are trained to take account of the unexpected, but it would be irresponsible on my part to put any of my nurses at physical risk, as I’m sure you’d agree.’

  ‘Of course.’ I force another smile. Mr Wu, with his perfect manners, is telling me that H is on a final warning. Any more lashing out, and he’ll be in the back of an ambulance, heading for the ICU. ‘More sedation?’ I suggest lightly. ‘Might that be a good idea?’

  Malo and I spend the rest of the morning revisiting the figures we discussed last night. By midday, there’s no room left for argument. Unless we can put H’s money to work, his care will run out before the end of the month. And that date makes no allowances for anything unexpected that might fatten the bill.

  It’s at this point that I feel an overwhelming need for outside advice. I’m the last person to underestimate the challenge of becoming a player in the Pompey cocaine game, and the person I should be talking to is Tony Morse. He knows this city better than anyone. And more to the point, he’s been looking after H’s best interests for most of his working life.

  I find him at home, here in Pompey. I’ve no appetite for sharing the contents of this call with any of our three nurses who might be listening, so I suggest a discreet meet.

  ‘En plein air?’ he says at once. ‘No can do.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful day.’ I’m standing beside the window. ‘Half the city’s on the prom.’

  ‘Then bless them. Me? I have a tiny problem. The last time I caught flu wasn’t pleasant. This is far worse.’

  ‘You’ve got it?’ I’m horrified. ‘Headache?’

  ‘Tick.’

  ‘Temperature?’

  ‘Tick.’

  ‘That horrible dry cough?’

  ‘Thankfully not. I’m telling myself it’s something else. You’re right, it’s a lovely day. I’ve got a pile of fresh veg here I’ll never eat. Come round and pick it up. I’ll leave it in a bag on the front doorstep. We can talk on phones. I’ll pose in the window in the silk jim-jams I stole from the Hong Kong Mandarin. It won’t tell you anything you didn’t suspect already, my darling, but I like to think it’s still a good look.’ He laughs rather mirthlessly and gives me an address.

  ‘Craneswater Park?’ I query.

  ‘It’s the closest this town gets to posh. Beware of the dog.’

  Malo and I set out in the early afternoon. He’s found the address on his phone and we set off along the seafront and around the grey spread of Southsea Castle. I’m trying to remember Sean telling me about the Mary Rose coming to grief under the gaze of Henry VIII, but Malo knows all about it already.

  ‘Too many people on board,’ he says briskly. ‘Too much weight. Capsized without firing a shot. Christ, look at that.’

  We’ve skirted the castle now, and he’s pointing at the long stretch of beach below us. Little clots of people are gathered on rugs, enjoying the sunshine. Blue smoke curls upwards from dozens of barbecues, and up on the prom a litter of empty cans surround a brimming waste bin. For early April, this is truly remarkable. Pompey is in the rudest health. Bugger the virus.

  Ten minutes later, we’ve reached the pier in time to watch half a dozen police officers getting out of the back of a van. The sergeant in charge bends to his radio and then sends his troops into battle. They disperse among the alfresco picnics, taking names, dousing fires, breaking the party up.

  ‘Shame,’ Malo says. ‘This feels almost normal.’

  Tony Morse’s place is round the corner from a pitch and putt course, a little further on. It’s a handsome Edwardian villa, an essay in red brick and impossibly tall windows. There’s one of those cutesy French warnings hanging on the double gates – Attention aux chiens – and looking at the house, I can only wonder how many people live here.

  Tony has always been discreet about his private life. H swears there were at least three wives, and he thinks there might be a couple more tucked away somewhere, but even he was never really sure. In any event, it doesn’t matter. The moment we step on to the brief crescent of gravel drive, a woman stirs at one of the front windows. She’s young enough to be Tony’s daughter, and she’s extremely pretty, and moments later my phone begins to ring. It’s the man himself. He promises he’s on his way.

  He appears within minutes. By now, I’ve retrieved the Waitrose bag from the front door step, and taken a peek inside. New potatoes, salad stuff, celeriac, new season carrots. Brilliant. Tony’s standing at the window, his phone to his ear. He’s wearing a three-quarter-length dressing gown, with a lively dragon motif, and he looks a bit unsteady before he sinks gratefully into a rather nice 1940s-style wingchair his companion has brought over. She gives us a little wave, and then disappears.

  ‘Corinne,’ Tony says. ‘Don’t ask, don’t get.’

  This could mean anything, which is probably the point, and when I ask how he’s feeling, he’s equally unhelpful.

  ‘Malt whisky and hot lemon,’ he says. ‘Never fails. How’s H?’

  I tell him the truth. I tell him that H has left us.

  ‘Left?’ He looks startled. ‘Died, you mean?’

  ‘Taken his leave. Moved temporarily on. I get the impression this Covid thing wants your undivided attention. H was raving last night. Lost it completely, poor man. Thank God for your Mr Wu.’

  ‘He’s looking after you?’

  ‘Absolutely. You’ve done us all proud, Tony. Mr Wu’s the perfect gentleman. Unlike H.’

  ‘You mentioned money on the phone.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  I run through the math. These figures originally came from Tony himself, and nothing seems to surprise him. Not going into hospital was always H’s choice, and – as he points out – every decision has consequences.

  ‘So H may have a liquidity problem?’ he suggests. ‘Is that what I’m hearing?’

  ‘If you’re asking whether he’s going to run out of money, the answer is yes. That first invoice you picked up from Mr Wu is covered, Tony. The cheque’s in the post.’

  ‘I’m obliged, my darling. And the rest?’

  This, of course, is the crunch. Do I play coy? Do I artfully seed the conversation with hints that H might be tempted to revive an old association or two? Or do I simply tell him the truth? Tony already looks like he wants to be back in bed, so I opt for the latter.

  ‘H wants to set up a cocaine deal,’ I say carefully. ‘He thinks that’s the best way of settling his debts.’

/>   ‘He’s still got the contacts?’ Not a flicker of surprise on Tony’s part.

  ‘He says he has.’

  ‘Locally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And precisely how does he plan to do this? Given the state he’s in?’

  ‘We handle the details.’

  ‘And you think you can do that?’

  ‘I think we have no choice.’

  ‘So why talk to me about it?’

  ‘Because you understand the way these things work, Tony. That dressing gown, incidentally, is sensational.’

  Tony smiles, and gives us a slightly wobbly twirl. Then he reminds me that the drugs biz in Pompey, like everything else, has moved on.

  ‘For the record, my darling, this is a conversation between friends. Whatever advice I might offer is just that, a conversation. If you were coming to me professionally, you’d never get past the door. I know that’s lawyer talk for covering my arse, but I mean it.’

  ‘Of course. And?’

  ‘Be bloody careful, the pair of you. I’m not going to ask who you’re dealing with, and I don’t want you to tell me, but this place is a swamp now, new players on the block, and if your guys get it wrong, the consequences could be ugly.’

  ‘For us?’

  ‘Of course. But for H, too. Our friends in blue haven’t closed the file and they never will. H led them a dance, and they have very long memories. So if you or your new friends fuck up …’ Another smile, chilly this time. ‘Attention aux flics, quoi?’

  I nod. I think I know exactly what he’s saying. Don’t go near any drug deal. Find some other way. I’m about to say our goodbyes but I’m distracted by my phone. It’s the nurse in charge on the current shift back at the flat. With a sinking heart, I signal an apology to Tony, and ask her what’s up.

  ‘Bit of a crisis,’ she says. ‘The electric has gone off.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Yes. Lights. Sockets. The lot.’

  ‘What about the oxygen?’ I’m trying to think this through.

  ‘That, too. The pump’s gone.’

  ‘And H?’

  ‘Short term, he may be OK, but if we can’t get the power back on we’ll have to call an ambulance.’

  ‘You mean ICU? The whole deal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I’m panicking and for a brief moment I don’t know what to do. Then Malo steps in. He’s heard the whole exchange.

  ‘Ask Tony Morse about the control board. It’s his flat. He should know.’

  Brilliant. I make contact with Tony again. He’s disappeared from the window and when he picks up, I can hear him wheezing.

  ‘I’m halfway up the stairs, my darling. Going to bed should never be this tough.’

  I explain about the power failure. The meters and control boards for all the flats, he says, are in a cupboard on the ground floor just inside the main door.

  ‘I imagine you’ll need to get back sharpish. Borrow my car. Corinne’s got the keys.’

  Tony drives a BMW. Malo takes the wheel and we’re back outside the flat within minutes. The front door is open, as is the big cupboard with all the control boards. There appears to be no one around.

  Malo has already located the board for Flat 7. He squints up at the rows of switches but can see no problem.

  ‘They’re all down.’ We’re on the stairs now, heading upwards. ‘That’s the way they should be.’

  The door to the flat is also opened, and the moment we step inside I can hear H. He’s yelling for Malo. Not me, Malo.

  We’re standing in the open bedroom door. We have no time to bother with PPE, but it’s a relief to hear the mutter of the oxygen pump. All three nurses are gathered around the bed, trying to get the mask on to H’s face, and the one who phoned me glances round.

  ‘Thank God.’ She’s looking at Malo. ‘He thinks we’re taking him to hospital. Just tell him everything’s going to be OK.’

  Malo joins them around the bed. One of them hands him a paper mask. He bends to his father and tells him that everything’s going to be all right. No ambulance. No blues and twos. No ICU. H stares up at him, his big face shiny with sweat, an old man now, befuddled, witless, frightened.

  ‘Yeah?’ he mutters. ‘You called the bastards off?’

  ‘There were no bastards, Dad. Everything’s fine. Maybe you’ve been dreaming. Here, let’s get that mask on you.’

  H succumbs without further protest. His head is back on the pillow. His eyes are closed. His lungs are filling with the precious oxygen. Malo looks down at him, and then kisses him lightly on the forehead. Two of the nurses are smiling. The other one is on the phone to the agency.

  ‘We need someone to take a look at the electrics here,’ she says quietly. ‘This place is a nightmare.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Back in full PPE, I sit with H for a couple of hours, partly to offer comfort if he gets agitated again, but mainly to keep abreast of the situation with the nursing agency. I suspect that their patience with us is beginning to wear thin, and this latest near disaster with the electrics won’t have helped.

  It hasn’t. In the mid-afternoon, a face I’ve never seen before appears. She introduces herself as Natasha, and says she’s the agency’s relief manager, holding the fort over the weekend.

  ‘You have a minute, Ms Andressen?’

  I peel off my visor and mask and join her in the front room. She comes straight to the point. A call to Southern Electric has brought an emergency call-out crew to the flats. They’re downstairs now, checking the control box. According to the nurses, the power was off for around six minutes, then restored itself. As soon as extra PPE arrives, the engineers will be doing a sweep of the apartment. So far, she says, they haven’t been able to locate a fault downstairs. Do I have any idea what might have gone wrong?

  I say I can’t help her. I’ve talked to the nurses and they’ve all told me that the power simply failed, no warning, no fizzing from a dodgy socket, no sign that they’d overloaded any of the circuits. Just the sudden realization that all the bedside equipment had stopped, and that the unwavering green digits that track H’s vital signs were no more. And then, equally unexplained, the power went on again.

  ‘It’s the oxygen that bothers us most,’ she says. ‘That’s something we can’t afford to lose.’

  The call-out crew from Southern Electric appear, full PPE plus lots of diagnostic equipment. They test every socket, every circuit, and while much of the wiring is old-ish they can find nothing wrong. This appears to appease Natasha.

  ‘Just one of those things?’ I suggest.

  ‘Must be.’ She’s checking her watch. ‘One of the girls thinks there’s a ghost here. Maybe that’s the answer.’

  A ghost. She might be right. Since we all moved in, and both I and H sensed a presence in the place, it’s gone a bit quiet on the poltergeist front. But I know that ghosts thrive on attention, and this one’s certainly got ours. Either way, Natasha seems happy enough, which is a blessing, and once she’s gone, I settle down with Joseph Conrad, wondering vaguely what might have happened to Malo.

  He’s back at dusk, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Taalia?’ I query.

  ‘Shanti. Your friend from the restaurant. I managed to track her down.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘You said she wanted fifty grand. I got her down to forty.’

  ‘I see.’ I’m starting to get angry again. ‘So, am I redundant here? Have you taken over completely?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s for Dad’s sake, really. I don’t want to see him ripped off.’

  ‘Getting ripped off isn’t the issue. Weren’t you listening to Tony Morse? Any drugs deal is a bad idea. Ripped off would be the least of his worries. The moment we say yes is the moment we put his life in someone else’s hands.’

  ‘His life? That’s why we need the money, Mum. To keep him alive.’

  ‘I meant his freedom. You know what Tony said. There are animals out there,
reptiles in the swamp, anything could happen. Just suppose he gets through this. Just suppose we all do. He’s getting better, he doesn’t need this kind of care any more. We all start leading a normal life again. Then it turns out that one of those deals has gone wrong, someone’s been hurt, the police have started sniffing around, and guess whose name is on the cheque?’

  ‘There is no cheque. I’m not stupid, Mum.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘I talked to Jessie today, explained everything. It turns out that Dad’s rainy-day fund is in cash, fifty-pound notes, a whole stack of them. I told Jess about the agency bills. She’s bringing fifty-five grand down tomorrow. Fifteen goes to the agency to keep them sweet. That’s what we’ve agreed.’

  ‘And the rest? The forty grand?’

  Malo doesn’t answer. In certain situations he can be utterly shameless and this is definitely one of them.

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘No way are you giving that woman that money.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’ve taken the best advice, and the best advice says don’t.’

  ‘Tony’s off the pace. He’s also ill.’

  ‘So that makes you some kind of expert? Do you remember anything about your last dealings in the cocaine trade?’

  This is ruthless on my part, but I don’t care. Getting Clemmie kidnapped should have taught my son a thing or two about career gangsters, but I’m obviously wrong. By now, alas, he’s as angry as I am.

  ‘Let’s get real, Mum. When it comes to making the decision you can’t stop me.’

  ‘I can’t? How does that work?’

  ‘Because I’m Dad’s nearest next-of-kin.’ He shrugs. ‘And you’re not.’

  That night, in silence, we watch the Queen addressing the nation. She’s speaking from Windsor Castle. The turquoise dress is offset by three rows of pearls and a rather nice brooch, and there are few surprises in what she has to say. The debt we owe to the NHS and care workers. The need to look after our families and neighbours. The place the nation should make in its heart for something she terms ‘a quiet, good-humoured resolve’. And finally, her personal conviction that we shall all, surely, meet again. This dignified nod to Vera Lynn brings the address to an end, and live pictures show cul-de-sacs erupting around the kingdom.