Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  Because it can. Because stuff happens that way. Cassini, I think. The beckoning rings of Saturn. And next week, the final dive into oblivion. Before I left Mitch last night, at my request, he gave me contact details for Hayden Prentice. He did it with a show of reluctance which I took at the time to be phoney.

  Waiting for the Uber, I asked him to be straight with me. He knew I’d once slept with Saucy. His precious book, as far as I can gather, badly needs an inside source a great deal closer to its subject. Everything he’s told me about the man suggests his mates are family: tight-lipped, suspicious of outsiders, paranoid about journalists. Hence Mitch’s bid to tune in on a different frequency. This happy phrase was his. Whether he admits it or not, he wants me to try and rekindle whatever brief spark existed in the first place. And after that he wants me to listen, and ask a playful question or two, and report back. That’s what last night, and all our other encounters, have really been about.

  Mitch hadn’t foreseen my tussle with cancer, and neither had I, but sitting on the bed I begin to wonder what difference it makes. Back in my old life, when I was well, I’d have dismissed the proposition out of hand. I was an actress, moderately successful, not a bloody spy. My life was full of opportunities and the only cloud in the blueness of my sky was Malo. His absence from my life was a running sore. On screen I could more than hold my own but as a mum I was rubbish. That hurt badly.

  Now, the tide appears to have turned. Washed up on the beach is my wayward son and his bankrupt father plus a journalist I happen to respect as well as like. As long as I can remember I’ve always believed that things never happen by accident. Stare hard enough at the bottom of any cup and the tea leaves will send you a message. Thanks to my neurosurgeon and his team, I seem to have been granted a second chance at life. So what now?

  First things first. I try Eva again on the off-chance that she may have been on another call. This time she answers. It takes several attempts on my part before she realizes who she’s talking to. Her English is near perfect.

  ‘You mean you’re Malo’s mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then how can I help you?’

  ‘I understand you’re coming to London. I’m just phoning to say you’re more than welcome to stay.’

  ‘London?’ She sounds surprised.

  I repeat the invitation. My son has moved in. She’s welcome to join him. She begins to laugh, then apologizes.

  ‘Malo told you this? About me coming to London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not true. Why would he say such a thing?’

  I stare at the phone. I’m beginning to feel foolish. Maybe we should start this conversation again.

  ‘Malo tells me that you and he are …’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Yes. And maybe more than friends. Have I got that right?’

  ‘No. We have coffee together sometimes. He likes to talk. Once we went to a party together because he had no car. But no, nothing more.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  I’m about to hang up but she hasn’t finished.

  ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘How is he? Your son?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I know he has problems. He tells me about them. For a boy his age he’s very open, very honest. Maybe too much honest.’

  A boy his age.

  I swallow whatever pride I have left and ask her to be more precise. What kind of problems exactly?

  ‘I know he found it hard. The break-up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Kids can do silly things. Go looking in the wrong places for help.’

  ‘You mean drugs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cocaine?’

  ‘No. Cocaine is expensive here. He couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘Then what?’

  There’s a long silence. I’m praying that we’re not talking heroin. Then she’s back on the phone.

  ‘This is difficult,’ she says.

  I shut my eyes, trying hard not to lose my temper. This woman is playing the professional counsellor, hiding behind client confidentiality. Grotesque.

  ‘He’s your friend, not your patient,’ I point out. ‘And he also happens to be my son. Of course he’s had a hard time. We all have. But he’s arrived with a cannabis habit and he’s taken to staying out all night. He says he bought cocaine. That may or may not be true. A couple of days ago I thought I knew him. Now I’m not so sure. As we speak, he’s unconscious on the sofa. He’s not well, Eva. Even I know that. All I want to know is why.’

  Another silence. I’m trying to be patient, trying somehow to bond with this image on Malo’s phone. Finally she seems to have made a decision.

  ‘There’s a form of cannabis around here we call Zombie. I think you call it Spice. It’s very strong, very dangerous. It’s synthetic, not from a plant. Malo uses it all the time. Say hi from me, ja?’

  Malo uses it all the time. The drooling figure on the sofa. Zombie. The perfect description. I blink, fighting the tears. I try hard to focus on the window, on the door, on anything that will clear my vision. I have a thousand questions to ask, a thousand reasons to keep this woman on the line, but then I realize that the phone has gone dead and it’s far too late.

  Malo. Zombie. Spice.

  I curl up in a ball, bury myself under the duvet, and try – just for a moment – to shut out the rest of the world. Hopeless. My mobile is ringing. I surface to find a text from Mitch: Ring me soonest. Urgent.

  He answers on the second ring and senses at once that something’s wrong. In this respect, as in many others, his instincts never let him down. He doesn’t need to be face-to-face. Just something in my voice prompts the inevitable question.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You should.’ I tug at the duvet. ‘So what’s so urgent?’

  There’s a silence. He’s evidently in two minds whether to continue this conversation. What little I know about investigative reporters suggests they have no conscience. In any kind of ethical toss-up, the demands of the story win every time. Wrong.

  ‘Just tell me,’ I say. ‘Maybe I can help. Maybe I can’t. It’s about Saucy?’

  ‘Prentice, yes.’

  ‘So what’s happened?’

  ‘He’s had an accident. He’s in hospital in Dorchester. It’s not life-threatening and he’s not going to die but he’ll be in there for at least a week. Dislocated shoulder. Suspected damage in the neck area. Broken ribs. Suspected fracture in the pelvis.’

  He fills in the details. It seems that Saucy is a big supporter of Front Line, a charity that looks after injured or traumatized ex-servicemen. Yesterday he’d organized a motocross event at his Dorset estate and charged punters ten quid a head to watch. He’d called on mates and a bunch of minor celebs to turn up for the afternoon. Saucy had once ridden bikes and put himself down for the last race of the day. Cocky as ever, according to Mitch, he’d borrowed something called a Racing Warrior and come to grief on the third lap. For full coverage, I’m to go to YouTube and tap his name in.

  ‘He’s got a private room on the second floor.’ Mitch is telling me about the hospital. ‘The nearest ward is called Little Bredy.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I thought you might pay him a visit.’

  ‘Out of the blue? Just like that?’

  ‘You could say you’ve picked up the story somewhere, seen the YouTube clip. Old mates. Bunch of flowers. Whatever.’

  ‘It’s eighteen years ago,’ I point out. ‘He won’t have a clue who I am.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  Something in his voice prompts me to pause. He knows more than he’s letting on.

  ‘Why do you doubt that?’

  ‘Because he’s never forgotten you. And that’s according to people who know him very well. Your name comes up more than you might imagine.’

 
; ‘Trophy fuck?’

  ‘I doubt it. Apparently he’s seen all your movies. That makes him more sensitive than we might imagine.’

  Despite everything, I’m beginning to feel better. The thought of Saucy sitting through some of my more obscure films makes me smile.

  ‘And supposing I go down there, supposing I get in, what do I say?’

  ‘You empathize. You make friends again. You cosy up.’

  ‘But what do we have in common?’

  ‘Hospitals.’

  Coming from Mitch, this is uncharacteristically blunt. Maybe, after all, he’s just like every other journalist. Maybe he’s as hard-boiled as the rest of them. Oddly enough, I don’t protest, don’t end the call. Instead I enquire what might lie further down the line.

  ‘That’s what you asked me last night,’ he says. ‘and to be frank I’ve no idea. Which is rather the point. I know a great deal about this guy. I’ve gone as far as the cuttings and conversations with some of his rivals will take me. What I don’t know is what he’s really like because only his mates and his ex-missus would know and they’re not telling.’

  ‘Which leaves me.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Your precious source.’

  ‘Yes.’ Another silence. ‘So what do you think?’

  I keep a pad and a pencil on the carpet beside the bed. I roll over, the phone still to my ear.

  ‘Give me the name of the hospital again,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll go?’

  ‘I might.’

  I spend the rest of the morning keeping an eye on Malo and having a think. Once he’s woken up and I’ve put something legal inside him, we watch the YouTube clip together. The footage must have been posted by one of Saucy’s army of punters. The opening shots show a decent crowd, hundreds certainly, massed at the start. Most of them are men and many of them are wearing an assortment of what I can only describe as combat gear: camouflage smocks, heavy lace-up boots, the whole military shtick. It’s raining and the up-and-down race track is plainly a nightmare but the first couple of races come and go without a major incident. Faceless riders in huge helmets lose control and fall off but no one seems seriously hurt.

  Then the guy with the camera changes position and we find ourselves looking down on a sharp right-hand bend at the end of a long descent. It’s obvious from the skid marks that this bit of the course has seen a good deal of action already but nothing prepares us for the compact little figure in black leathers who comes hurtling down the slope at least ten metres ahead of the rest of the field.

  In retrospect it’s obvious that he’s lost control already but watching the footage for the first time is like watching a movie. You know that something ugly and probably very painful is about to happen because the laws of physics tell you so, but at the same time you assume that the god of good intentions will somehow intervene. Alas, he doesn’t. The figure in black goes sideways into the corner, hits the raised bank, and parts company with the bike. The riders behind him desperately try to take avoiding action but it’s far, far too late. Bike after bike piles in and a second or two later we’re looking at a major incident. The soundtrack alone is truly alarming, impact after impact, but in the silence that follows there comes another sound and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. Laughter.

  The footage cuts to a final sequence. We’re down among the wreckage. Wherever you look there are men in muddy leathers limping around, nursing their wounds. In the distance, I can hear the approaching clatter of a helicopter. Then the camera pans down to a lone figure sprawled on his back on the wet grass. His helmet lies beside him. His left hand is clutching his right wrist and there’s something badly wrong with the set of his shoulder. There’s blood on his face and he’s obviously in pain but he’s summoned a grin for the punters. Even eighteen years can’t erase the memory of that grin.

  Malo wants to know who he is.

  ‘His name’s Hayden. Hayden Prentice. His friends call him Saucy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s to do with his initials.’

  ‘HP? The sauce?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I nod at the screen. ‘This whole place belongs to him. He owns it.’

  Malo is impressed. Both by what we’ve seen of the estate and by the little man’s courage. I explain about the fund-raising, about Front Line. Malo has rewound the footage for another look at the crash and has now freeze-framed the face on the wet grass.

  ‘You know this Saucy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No. I met him once a while back. Before you were born.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He was OK.’

  ‘Rich? Then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very rich?’

  ‘Probably, yes. I don’t know. Does that matter?’

  Malo doesn’t answer. He seems fascinated by Saucy. He can’t take his eyes off him.

  ‘He’s mad,’ he says at last. ‘Coming down that hill at that speed was crazy.’

  ‘You’re right. But that’s the way he’s led his whole life.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  The question is sharp, proof that my poor damaged Zombie isn’t quite as lost as I’d thought. I bluff about keeping up with the news but I can tell he isn’t convinced. Then an idea begins to shape itself deep in my head.

  ‘Would you like to meet him?’ I ask. ‘Saucy?’

  ‘Yeah, I would.’ Malo lifts his head at last and glances round at me. ‘Like when?’

  NINE

  The next day we take a mid-morning train from Waterloo. Malo has spent the rest of Sunday searching the internet for more clues about Saucy, something I should have done myself. Among his findings are shots of his ex-wife, who happened to have been an actress. I’ve never heard of her but the eye-popping cleavage and split skirt are all the clues you’d need. Her name was Amanda and even without heels she must have been three inches taller than her husband, but I can’t imagine physical odds ever putting Saucy off. He’d have treated his new bride exactly the way he treated Saturday’s race: full throttle and fuck the consequences.

  Other gems from Malo’s trawl include a series of contributions from fellow tycoons he’d bested in various deals. All of them were rich and all of them were cross and when you boiled down what they had to say you ended up with the same basic complaint: that Hayden Prentice was a rogue operator who’d never encountered a rule or made a promise he didn’t break. The guy was a force of nature. The guy belonged in a zoo. The guy, to be frank, was impossible.

  Beyond Woking, Malo wants to know how I’m going to explain our presence at Saucy’s bedside.

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re my son,’ I say.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know it isn’t.’

  We’re sitting beside the window with a table between us. I put my hands briefly over Malo’s. He doesn’t flinch. Last night, to my immense relief, he seemed happy to spend the evening with me in front of the TV. We even had a chat about the nonsense we were watching and when I deadlocked the front door and kept the key he didn’t say a word.

  Now he wants to know how I’ll be handling Saucy. It’s a good question, one I asked Mitch. Mitch was worse than vague but overnight I’ve had a thought or two.

  ‘Your father spent some time in Angola a while back,’ I say lightly. ‘He may have mentioned it.’

  ‘No.’ Malo shakes his head. ‘Angola?’

  ‘It’s in Africa. There was a civil war in the Nineties and the place was full of minefields. There are lots of kids in Angola and some of them got badly injured. Your dad wanted to set a film there. He spent time in the minefields to research a script.’

  ‘It got made? This movie?’

  ‘It did. It was called Campos dos Sonhos. That’s Fields of Dreams in Portuguese. It’s ironic. It’s what the kids called the fields where the soldiers buried the mines.’

  I made a point of finding a copy of Campos after Berndt and I first
met. It was one of the reasons I married him. The film, shot in Angola with a Swedish crew, was a revelation. Powerful was too small a word. Kids with no arms, no legs. Primitive hospitals. Tens of thousands of crippled street orphans in Luanda with nowhere to sleep. Watch a movie like that and you despaired of the human race.

  Afterwards, at Berndt’s prompting, I got involved with a charity set up by a bunch of ex-squaddies who’d worked in mine demolition all over the world. They wanted profile and I was happy to add what little I could. The charity is still out there, still effective, and I still give them whatever help I can. In the earliest days of our relationship, Berndt and I had toyed with adopting a couple of these kids but then Malo had turned up, and life had bustled on, and we’d never even completed the first set of forms.

  ‘What’s the name of this charity?’

  ‘MAG. Mines Advisory Group.’

  ‘And Saucy?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  We take a cab from Dorchester station. Stepping into a hospital again is something that’s been bothering me for the last hour or two – the same bustle of nurses with too many patients and not enough time; the same brief glimpse of impossibly young doctors; the same drawn faces of anxious relatives waiting for news – but the experience is oddly comforting. I owe my life to a place like this. Why should I feel anything but gratitude?

  It’s Malo who steps out of the lift on the second floor and leads the way to the nursing station. The sister in charge is sipping a mug of tea while she scrolls through endless emails on her PC. She barely looks up when Malo enquires about Mr Prentice.

  ‘Does he know you?’

  ‘He knows my mum. They were big friends once.’

  ‘Really?’ This time she spares me a proper look.

  I nod. Smile. Me and Mr Prentice? Best buddies. Malo gives her our names. She gets up and disappears into a side room at the other end of the open-plan ward.

  A minute or so later, she’s back.