‘And Aleppo? The state of the place? Now?’ I ask.
‘Gone.’ Sayid makes a soft, sideways motion with his hand. ‘You never think it possible until it happens.’
He’d fled with his cousin and her family. I get the impression it had cost them all a great deal of money, probably his money, but he’s far too classy to go into the details. At the coast they took a boat to one of the Greek islands. Waited weeks to find a place on the ferry. Walked and trained it north through the Balkans. A life of queues and freezing rain and shitting in the fields and untold misery. When we get to Calais the story stops. I assume he jumped a lorry but he isn’t saying. Instead he tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling.
Mitch pours me more champagne and raises his glass.
‘Cassini,’ he says.
I’m home shortly after eleven. I let myself in very quietly, not wanting to disturb my sleeping son, but when I peek round his bedroom door the room is empty. Quickly, I check the rest of the flat but there’s no one there. Malo has disappeared.
ELEVEN
I collapse on the sofa, close to tears, regretting the wine and the champagne. I can’t think straight. All I can imagine, all too clearly, is the moment when the emptiness of the flat and his own inner demons crushed my poor benighted boy and sent him back to the streets. He’ll have got money from somewhere. He’ll have bought papers and tobacco and scored another sachet of Spice. He’ll have rolled himself a big fat spliff, liberally dusted with the Zombie powder, and stumbled back into his cave. I should never have left him, I keep telling myself. Either that, or he should have come with me. My fault. My fault again. So much for motherhood.
I reach for my phone, checking in case he’s left a message. My agent’s been in touch about the radio play. Heal’s have an autumn sale. Flights to Alicante and Murcia are mine at a knockdown price. No word from Malo. I shut my eyes, pull my knees up to my chin, rock softly to and fro. Should I get out there? Start looking for him? Start asking strangers whether they might have seen a thin seventeen-year-old with black curly hair and trouble walking straight? Or should I cut to the chase? Go to the police? Tell them I’ve tried and I’ve tried but that nothing seems to keep my precious son out of harm’s way? I shake my head. None of the above, I think. Not if I’m to hang on to a shred of self-respect.
Moments later, I think I catch a noise at the front door, a strange scuffing sound. Then comes a knock, soft, then another. I get to my feet, checking the time. 23.19. Malo, I tell myself. He knows the combination to the main door downstairs but he hasn’t got the key to the apartment. Another knock. I’m at the door now. I pull it open. I’m right. It’s Malo.
I stare at him, not quite knowing how to handle this scene. Part of me is swamped with relief. But the rest of me is very, very angry. He’s wearing jeans and the usual Einstein T-shirt. His eyes are moist and he’s swaying a little. But what draws my attention is the state of his right hand. It’s wrapped in a loose crepe bandage and blood is seeping through.
‘You’ve been in some kind of fight?’
‘Fight?’
I don’t bother answering. The possibilities are endless. A quarrel over the deal. A fall in the street once he’d scored. A hand through a window. Any fucking thing.
I take him into the bathroom and remove the bandage. There are cuts on his palm and two of his fingers, nothing deep, nothing serious. He watches me sponge the blood away. He shows no traces of guilt. Neither, I realize, does he smell of tobacco.
‘So where did you go?’
‘Next door.’
‘You mean Evelyn’s?’ I’m staring at him.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘She came round, knocked on the door. She needed help.’
He begins to explain about her oven. It’s electric and it has a special bulb that lights up when she needs to check on what’s happening. The bulb goes phut from time to time and it’s tricky to get out. I know this because Evelyn has arthritis in both hands and it’s normally me who has to unscrew the thing.
‘So what happened?’
‘I got it out but I broke it in the process.’ He’s looking at his hand. ‘I put another one in but there was glass everywhere so I ended up cleaning the whole oven.’
‘You did that?’
‘Me. Yeah. She wanted to give me money afterwards but I said no. She had some wine. We split a bottle.’ He smiles at me. ‘Maybe two.’
I gaze at him a moment and then give him a hug. My junkie son cleaning my precious neighbour’s oven. When will I ever learn to trust him? When will I ever learn to trust anyone?
‘Why are you crying, Mum?’
‘Because I’m useless. Because I get everything wrong. But you’re back. And that’s all that matters.’
After I finish with his hand we celebrate with the remains of a bottle of Crianza I’ve got lurking in the kitchen. Malo is normally quick on the uptake but it takes him a while to realize that I’d jumped to the wrong conclusions.
‘You really think I’d gone to score again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because …’ I shrug hopelessly. ‘Just because.’
‘Because you don’t trust me?’
‘Because I know how evil this stuff is.’
‘And you think I don’t know that?’
‘Of course you know that. But knowing isn’t enough. Not at your age. Not at any age. It doesn’t matter. Come here.’
I give him another hug, clumsy this time, and spill red wine down his T-shirt. It looks bloodier than his poor hand. Poor Einstein.
‘Crime scene.’ I’m laughing now. ‘I’ll buy you another one.’
Malo wriggles free and holds me at arm’s length. For the first time in years, looking at the expression on his face, I get the feeling that he might like me. Not as his mother. Not as his scold. But as a friend. He seems to be taking responsibility here, not for his own life but for mine.
‘You’re pissed,’ he says gently. ‘You need to look after yourself.’
We both surface late next day. Still in bed, I spend half an hour on my iPad trying to get to grips with DNA tests. If I want to be sure about Malo’s real father then I need to submit two samples to a specialist laboratory for testing. For a very reasonable £59, an outfit called Paterfamilias will look for a match. I already have strands of Saucy’s hair, all with follicles. What I need now is something from Malo. He’s just got up. I can hear him in the bathroom. I wonder about stealing his toothbrush after he’s used it but then I remember last night’s encounter. You need to be bigger than this, I tell myself. This needs to be a team effort.
I table the proposition over a late breakfast. Malo loves the idea of Paterfamilias. He hasn’t trimmed his nails for a while. Might I like to help myself?
Malo has shortish fingers, Saucy’s fingers, and I use my nail scissors for the trim. I store the cuttings in an envelope and then return to the Paterfamilias website to order a DNA kit. I’m about to supply my credit card details when I notice that an extra £99 buys you a premium service: collection within two hours, a three-day turnaround, and courier delivery of the results. I hesitate for perhaps a second. £156? For acquiring a new dad for Malo? A bargain.
Back in the kitchen, Malo is looking troubled. ‘What if it doesn’t work?’
‘You mean a negative result?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re lumbered with Berndt.’
‘Ah …’ He’s frowning. ‘You didn’t fuck anyone else around that time?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
The courier with the DNA kit turns up within the hour. She’s outside in the sunshine at the front door and Malo, after a double take, buzzes her in. Thirty seconds later she’s up on the fourth floor. Malo already has the door open and stands aside to let her in. She’s on the short side. She’s wearing a t
ight jacket in dark red leather and trousers to match. Her short cropped hair is jet black, similar to Malo’s, and there are hints of Aztec Indian in her face. A big helmet dangles from one hand and she has the sample kit in the other. Saucy, I know, would eat her alive.
She’s given me the DNA kit. I’m in the kitchen with the door open while Malo talks to our visitor. I’m in the process of choosing a couple of his nail cuttings for one of the sample envelopes when it occurs to me he’s chatting her up. He’s asking her about the helmet. She says it’s state of the art. Her English is perfect but heavily accented. It seems her father has connections in the world of Formula One and the helmet has come from one of the race teams. She’s unzipped the jacket and she’s standing in front of him, showing him how the helmet works. You input an address and it gives you audio directions via Bluetooth plus a head-up display on the visor.
Malo is impressed. He wants to put it on. She reaches out, making adjustments, telling him how to lower the visor. From where I’m standing it’s hard to judge her age – early twenties, maybe younger – but there’s a gleam in her eyes that tells me my son has touched a nerve. She’s laughing at something he’s just said. Good sign.
I’m finished with the samples. I pack them carefully into the kit, add my personal details, and seal the Jiffy bag. Next door, to Malo’s visible disappointment, our courier is getting ready to leave. She takes the Jiffy bag and then checks a document. The results, she promises, will be back in three days, maybe even earlier. She does jobs for these people all the time. They’re very good.
Malo wants to know whether she’ll be delivering personally.
‘Would you like that?’
‘I would.’
‘Then maybe yes.’
They lock eyes for a moment, then she’s gone.
Malo and I spend the day together in town. We go to Fat Face, and one or two other stores, and I buy my son two new pairs of 501s, a rather stylish North Face jacket, a selection of T-shirts, and a pair of heavily discounted Nike trainers. In every store he seems reluctant to see me parting with money on his behalf, a trait I find oddly endearing, and when we pause for a late lunch at a Nandos he goes for the cheapest option on the menu. When I ask him why he needs to be so mean with himself he says he doesn’t know. One day, he tells me, we’ll go somewhere really posh, really expensive, and he’ll pick up the bill. I smile. I can hear Saucy in his voice. Who needs DNA tests?
Late afternoon, I have an appointment with my agent. Malo is reluctant to come with me but I insist. She’s often heard me talking about you, I tell him, and now she can meet the real thing. ‘The real thing’ is a phrase that seems to amuse him. We take a cab to Camden Town.
Rosa has been my agent for longer than I care to remember. She’s nearing retirement now, a prospect which most people in the industry dismiss out of hand. A big woman, brisk, funny, fearless, she began life as a continuity girl out at Shepperton Studios. In time she worked on some huge movies under directors with brutal reputations but survived intact. For a while after that she ran an agency for camera crews, chiefly working for the big network TV companies, but she missed what she calls ‘the talent’ and started to represent us thesps. I’ve known her all my working life and trust her implicitly. She’s done me some eye-watering deals but most of all I treasure her contempt for the vainer side of our profession. Like Saucy, she has no time for people who take themselves too seriously. And, like Saucy, she makes me laugh.
This is the first time she’s seen me since I left hospital. She gives me a big hug, and then looks Malo up and down.
‘He’s looking after you? Your boy?’
‘He is.’
‘Glad to hear it. You’re either lying or you’re lucky. Either way it’s five o’clock. Vino, or something more interesting?’
I settle for a gin and tonic. Malo asks for water. Rosa shoots him a look.
‘Something the matter? You’re ill?’
‘Thirsty.’
‘Lager, then? Peroni?’
‘Water, please.’
She shrugs and sorts out the drinks. We talk briefly about the Montréal project and agree that the script looks deeply promising. When she asks me how soon I could be ready for the rigours of location work I tell her there’s nothing I couldn’t face with a decent wig. She’s been eyeing my beret for some time.
‘Do you sleep in it?’
‘I sleep alone. The beret lives on the hook on the back of the door.’
‘No plans in that direction?’
‘None at all. I like my own company. And I have Malo.’
‘Very sane. You see Berndt at all these days?’
Rosa knows Berndt well. When we were a couple we’d all run into each other at various industry get-togethers and as the years went by I had the tiniest suspicion that she quite fancied him. Something about the way she’d trap him in a corner and make sure his glass was always full. My husband, she once told me, was every thinking woman’s fantasy.
‘He’s hit a rough patch,’ I tell her. ‘Shit happens. Even in Sweden.’
‘Shame. I’m hearing the same stories. In his part of the wood creative talent isn’t enough. You have to be clever with money, too.’
‘And he isn’t?’ Malo is looking at Rosa.
‘No, my precious, he most definitely isn’t. I shouldn’t be the one telling you but you’ve probably worked it out already. You should be proud of his work, though. He’s made some fine films.’
Malo nods and then studies what’s left of his fingernails. On the subject of Berndt, he has nothing more to say.
Rosa wants to talk about the BBC radio commission. The script has been adapted from a novel. It’s called Going Solo and I get to play the wife of a pilot, widowed after he disappears mid-Channel while flying his light aircraft to France. The husband owns a couple of classic World War Two fighters, a Mustang and a Spitfire, both two-seater conversions. Between them, they’ve run a business offering flights of a lifetime, mainly to WW2 veterans, and now she determines to step into her husband’s shoes and learn to fly.
All this, to be frank, is a bit techie for my taste, but the script brightens when she begins to suspect that her husband’s death is no accident. The more questions she asks, the more troubled she feels, and as she begins to master the Spitfire she realizes that her fate rests entirely in her own hands. The play ends – improbably – with a winner-takes-all dog fight over a major air show, but by this time she’s found a kind of redemption. Given the events of the past few weeks, this is something I can relate to. As one of Berndt’s characters once said, we are all – in the end – totally alone.
Rosa wants to know what I think of the script. The writer, Pavel Sieger, has a growing reputation.
‘I like it. I like it a lot. We’re not talking Pinter or something super-edgy but just now that’s a bit of a bonus. It feels quite old-fashioned but in a good way. Boys’ Own with a splash of feminism. Plus I don’t have to learn a word.’
This, of course, is the crux. Given my recent medical history, and all the stress of location work, it’s been clever of Rosa to think of radio. She reminds me of the rehearsal dates, and the two days set aside for the recording. I assure her they’re all in the diary.
‘Anything else out there?’
‘Not so far, sweetness. You’ll be the first to know. Take it easy for a while. Watch some of those Battle of Britain documentaries. Get yourself in the mood.’
We say our goodbyes after the second gin. Malo, who’s known nothing about Going Solo, is full of questions but I can only disappoint him. ‘This is radio,’ I keep insisting. ‘If it was a movie you could have the time of your life on location. All those planes. All that hardware. But a radio studio is a shed with thicker walls and the closest you’ll ever get to the real thing is a whole bunch of sound effects. It’s all about language, dialogue, timing. Come and watch by all means. But prepare to be bored.’
We’re back in Holland Park as the daylight begins to fade. I stand in t
he living room for a long moment, watching the big jets hanging in the dusk as they descend into Heathrow, thinking of nothing in particular. I’m still basking in the soft glow of that second gin. I’m still telling myself how lucky I am that Malo is still around, still clean, still interested. When the buzzer goes on the entry video I barely hear it. Malo leaves the room to investigate. He’s back within seconds.
‘It’s Dad,’ he says. ‘What shall I do?’
TWELVE
Berndt says he’s come straight from the airport. It’s raining now and his hair is plastered against his skull. He says he’s spent his last five hundred krona on the taxi fare and a bunch of flowers from the shop on the Bayswater Road. Malo has put the flowers in the washing-up bowl in the sink. He seems in no rush to find a vase.
Berndt looks wrecked. Worse still, he looks plaintive. This isn’t the man I fell in love with, the man I was crazy about, the man I married. His spirit has gone and so has the faint air of mystery that made him so irresistible. It took me years to realize just how hard he’d worked to perfect this look but even towards the end – with a half-smile or a duck of his head – he could still take me by surprise. No longer. The man sitting alone on the sofa belongs in one of Berndt’s early noir scripts. He’s become one of life’s losers, deflated, defeated, awaiting the knock on the door that will finish him off. I go to the bathroom and get him a towel.
‘So what do you want?’ I ask for the second time.
‘Help. Money. Time.’ He’s knotting the towel between his hands. ‘Maybe a bed?’
I tell him there’s no chance he can sleep here. Both bedrooms are occupied.
‘The sofa?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we don’t want you here.’
The ‘we’ hurts him. I can see it in his face. Is he acting? I can never be sure. I steal a glance at Malo. He’s watching this little drama carefully, his face impassive. Dialogue, delivery, timing, I think. My boy is learning fast.
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