Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  ‘This is about Malo, right?’ He gestures at the chair I’ve just abandoned. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  I stare down at him. Then I shake my head.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t.’

  SEVENTEEN

  I’m back at Flixcombe Manor by mid-afternoon. H has spent most of the day in his office conferring with his accountant on a business plan for new insurance products for the over-sixty-fives. Two recent developments, he tells me, have told him there’s squillions of quid to be made. One of them is the fact that older souls – both men and women – are a great deal fitter than they used to be. They still want to push themselves. They’re still hungry for physical risk. Yet older bodies break more easily, hence the call for extreme sports insurance cover to put them back together again without, he says, costing an arm and a leg. Ho ho.

  ‘Did you dream that up in hospital?’

  ‘Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. If you hurt yourself in this country it’s not too bad. If it happens anywhere else, you’re stuffed. I might call it Easy-Mend. What d’you think?’

  I laugh dutifully and enquire about his other wheeze. This also has a great deal to do with abroad. The day after we leave the European Union, millions of ex-pats are going to find themselves suddenly stripped of medical care. For the elderly, he says, this is going to be a real problem. Accessing the local clinic in Provence or Malaga won’t be cheap but H and his accountant are busy cooking up ways these orphans can avoid selling up and coming home.

  ‘I’ve been in this business years,’ he says. ‘I’ve got the contacts. I know what I’m about. Brexit is a big fat pay day if I get it right.’

  A big fat pay day if I get it right.

  I’m suddenly thinking of Mitch. For weeks now he’s been telling me what a disaster awaits millions of Brits both here and abroad. How bits of the country will implode post-Brexit. And how the likes of Hayden Prentice are lurking in the shadows, waiting for the dust to settle, making their plans. Now I’m hearing it from the horse’s mouth. Easy-Mend. Very funny.

  H is watching me carefully. He’s abandoned the paperwork on his desk.

  ‘Go well, did it? That little lunch of yours?’

  ‘It was lovely. Girlfriend I haven’t seen for years. Bit of a catch-up really.’

  ‘Great.’ His hand lingers briefly on mine. ‘Jessie’s finished that list of hers for the weekend. You want me to talk you through it?’

  Jessie has typed the list out and sent it to H. A couple of keystrokes and it hangs on his PC. Nearly sixty names, not one of which I recognize. H is scrolling slowly through them, a smile on his face, and it occurs to me that in some respects this little gathering – assuming they all come – will be like one of those regimental reunions.

  My stepfather’s dad was in the army and saw service in Korea. His regiment had a hard time in a particular battle at some river or other. I remember him telling me they were holding a hill against the Chinese. A third of them were killed or wounded and the rest of them spent the next two years behind the wire. At the war’s end they made it back to the UK, all damaged to various degrees, and every year that followed – on St George’s Day – they got together to pay their respects to the dead and get roaring drunk.

  Is H doing something similar? Am I in for a night of war stories and a monster hangover?

  H has settled on a particular name. Mick Pain.

  ‘Top bloke,’ he says fondly. ‘Hard as you like. I dug him out of the shit the morning we got ambushed by the Millwall. Waterloo fucking station. Just down that little alley behind the arches. Cunts were waiting for us. Hundreds of them. Mick was out front. Chinned one of their generals. Huge bloke. Went down like a sack of cement. Bad move on Mick’s part because the Millwall never liked us taking the piss. There were some nasty bastards there but we still gave them a hiding.’ He shakes his head. ‘Brilliant.’

  Another name. Tony Morse.

  ‘Classy guy. Still is. You’ll love him. Clever as fuck and likes you to know it. Once we started making serious moolah we couldn’t do without him. Wised us up. Taught me stuff I’d never have known otherwise.’

  ‘Another hooligan?’

  ‘Fuck, no. Bloke was a solicitor. Retired now, thanks to us. Lovely guy but silly around women. Three wives? That’s fucking careless.’

  The list goes on. A woman called Leanne who rose to the challenge of running a string of themed wine bars, all funded by cocaine loot. A planner, Alan Ransome, who knew every short cut in the book when it came to making development applications. And a streetwise bodybuilder, Wesley Kane, who H still calls The Prefect.

  ‘Wes kept things nice and tidy,’ H tells me. ‘Any problems, Wes would sort them out. We bought him a house in Fratton for the day job. The sound insulation cost us a fortune but an hour with Wes in that back room and you wouldn’t fuck about any more.’

  I edge my chair back an inch or two. I’m beginning to get the picture here: a bunch of football thugs with a limitless appetite for violence discover the joys of drug dealing and hit the mother lode. The money rolls in and sensibly they use some of it to buy proper advice. Solicitors. Accountants. Planners. All helping themselves.

  ‘And the police?’ I wonder aloud.

  H shoots me a look and reaches for the mouse again. Scrolling backwards he settles on another name. Dave Munroe.

  ‘Fat Dave,’ he says. ‘DC on the drugs squad. Kept us abreast of events. Most of the time the Filth had their heads up their arse, totally useless, but times when they became a nuisance Dave would mark our card.’

  ‘And you paid him?’

  ‘We did. Money mostly, because Dave had a bit of a gambling habit, but women too. Dave loved big black women. We could help him out there. Jamaican called Gloria who ran a couple of knocking shops.’ He laughed. ‘We’d bought one of those big seafront hotels by then. Dave had screwing rights in a room on the top floor. She used to eat him alive.’

  ‘And the police never realized?’

  ‘About Dave? Never. In the end he retired on full pay. These days he’s on the Isle of fucking Wight drinking himself to death but once he knows our booze is free he’s bound to turn up. Here’s someone else you might meet …’

  Marie Mackenzie. H is staring at the name. His mood has darkened.

  ‘Lovely woman,’ he says softly. ‘Real class.’

  ‘So how come she liked football?’

  ‘She didn’t. She married into it. Worst decision she ever made except she loved him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bazza. Bazza was our top guy. Bazza was King. Bazza was someone you’d never fuck with. Mad cunt but clever. The Filth spent years trying to nail him but never got close. The way these things work, you need a leader, someone with a brain in his head, someone who knew the difference between taking a risk and pissing it all away because you’ve made the wrong fucking call. Bazza was on top of that, all day, every day. He was the one who took us all legit. He was brilliant in business, brilliant in everything. Fucking sad.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He made one mistake. Just one. Bloke called Winter. Paul Winter. He was Filth to begin with, drugs squad again, and a real pain in the arse because he was the only cunt who knew what he was doing. They stuck him undercover and then got him blown because they were so fucking useless, so he had a meet with Bazza and told his bosses to fuck off. Bazza thought that was funny. So funny, he offered him a job.’

  ‘With you lot?’

  ‘Yeah. Some of us thought Bazza had lost it. Big mistake. And in the end we were proved right.’

  ‘He was still undercover?’

  ‘Not at all. He did the biz for us for years. He was good. And he was funny, too. Then Bazza got ideas above his station, stood for parliament. Daft move. Absolutely insane. He was king of the city already. Why become a fucking politician?’

  ‘He went through with this? Campaigned?’

  ‘Yeah. And didn’t do bad, neither. But that wasn’t the point. Him and W
inter fell out, big time, and the next thing Bazza knows Winter’s grassed him to the Filth. That was the end of it. Even Bazza couldn’t survive that. Served him right in a way. He should have listened to us.’

  ‘He’s still around? Bazza?’

  ‘No.’

  I want to know more. I want to know exactly what brought this stellar career to an end, but H won’t tell me. All I need to know, he says, is what I see around me. The house. The estate. The cars. The bikes. All the other toys that make life so sweet. Not just for him, not just for Hayden Prentice, but for so many of the names on Jessie’s invitation list. All this, he seems to be saying, is down to Bazza and there isn’t anyone on the planet that can touch any of it. That’s how fucking good he was.

  He’s staring at the PC screen. Marie Mackenzie.

  ‘You think she’ll come?’

  ‘I doubt it. She hates us now.’ He falls silent, shakes his head, rubs his face. ‘We’ll have a minute’s silence on Saturday night,’ he says. ‘Before we all get too pissed.’

  While H tidies the last of his paperwork, I go for a walk. Through no fault of my own, unless you count Antibes, I appear to have ended up in a weird cult of ex-gangsters who’ve made their money but still can’t quite believe it. I know very little about drug dealing and even less about putting all that loot through what H quaintly calls ‘the laundromat’ but I can only take H at his word.

  We live in a free market. You source something that people need badly. You charge the earth, watch your back, and make a fortune. Everything you do, everything you touch, is illegal but if you hire the right advice and pay the right money you’re home free. This is the kind of conjuring trick that makes good guys like Mitch Culligan froth at the mouth – and I don’t blame him because even to me the implications are troublesome.

  It can’t be just Portsmouth. This must be happening all over the country. Name any city and you’ll find a Bazza, and an H, and a bent solicitor or two, and rogue cops, and corrupt accountants, and a bunch of crazies with far too much money. That’s how the trick works. That’s why capitalism is such a lovely word.

  Should I phone Mitch? Should I apologize for walking out on him at lunchtime? Should I tell him he’s right? That Brexit is a disaster in the making? That the entire country has suddenly found itself at the mercy of Hayden Prentice and his brethren? Or should I wait until Saturday, and put on my best dress, and settle in for the Command Performance? Make a few notes, keep my phone on Record, play the spy for real?

  In truth, I’m out of my depth. This is a role I’ve never been offered before, and don’t much want, but I am where I am and there’s something shaping in the wreckage of my poor brain that feels suspiciously like duty. I owe it to a number of people to try and figure out what’s really going on here. One of them is obviously Mitch. Another, far more important, is Malo. I pause to phone him. I need to get my bearings. Or, more precisely, his.

  When he finally answers, he tells me he’s busy. A local farmer has lost his stockman to an attack of flu and after a call to Andy, Malo has been drafted in to help get his cows to the dairy.

  ‘You’re OK with that?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s fine. Cool. Cows? You’ve no idea how big they are. Amazing.’

  I can hear cattle lowing in the background and the slow clop-clop of hooves on a tarmac road. An act of simple neighbourliness, I tell myself, has opened yet another door in Malo’s young life and who am I to get in his way?

  Standing in the middle of this huge estate, listening to my son trying to get some action out of a cow, it’s hard not to remember that moment on the video phone that still haunts me, his thin body bent over a Spice-filled spliff. Down here he has a million distractions, a trillion million better things to do, and that very definitely matters. On the other hand, although he doesn’t know it, we owe this sudden whiff of redemption to the narco biz, to drugs money.

  Impossible, I tell myself. Just what does a girl do?

  I allow myself the beginnings of a smile. This little irony would be music in my ex-husband’s ears. Berndt would be on it in seconds. He’d block out the story, add a cast of low-life characters, write a trial scene or two, hone the dialogue, and doubtless find a backer. And within less than a year, if all went well, I’d find the resolution to my little dilemma on screen.

  I shield my eyes against the low sun. I’m probably kidding myself but several fields away I think I can hear cattle.

  ‘Mum?’ It’s Malo. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I tell him. ‘As long as you’re OK.’

  That evening, H gets Jessie to drive us to a gastropub he likes in a village down the road. This is excellent news, partly because there are questions I need to ask, but mainly because I’m starving hungry.

  The pub is full but H has made a reservation. The woman in charge of the restaurant gives him a careful hug and asks how he’s getting on. H’s accident has evidently been the talk of the village and she tells me to take great care of him.

  ‘Boys will be boys,’ she says. ‘But there are limits.’

  Quite. Our table is beside the fire, which is mercifully unlit. The nearest couple to us are locked in a fierce debate about the Tory party conference which takes place next week. The husband – tweeds, brogues, fine-spun hairs on the backs of his hands – thinks Theresa May’s useless. His wife predictably disagrees. Our PM, she says, has the measure of the cabinet rebels. She’ll see them off without any great fuss, exactly the way she glided into Downing Street in the first place.

  ‘Stole,’ the husband says. ‘She stole into Downing Street like a thief in the night. I give the bloody woman until Christmas. And that’s if she’s lucky.’

  H is rolling his eyes. When he reaches for the menu I ask him just how much of this stuff really matters to him.

  ‘You mean politics?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Most of it’s bollocks. Most politicians are on the make except for the Labour lot and they’re fucking lunatics. The steak here is brilliant. Fill your boots.’

  I order fish with hand-cut chips and a dish of veggies. H sorts out a bottle of Chablis largely, I suspect, for my benefit. While we wait for the wine, I go back to the matter in hand. The couple next door, mercifully, have paid up and gone.

  ‘You told me this Bazza stood for parliament. You give loads of money to UKIP. If most of it’s bollocks, how does that work?’

  He’s dismissive. ‘It’s a game. Sometimes you like seeing these people dancing for your money. Toss them a quid or two and they’ll do anything.’

  ‘What about Bazza? Standing for parliament takes some doing.’

  ‘He was taking the piss. Seeing how far he could get.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t?’ I’ve caught his interest at last. ‘So what’s your take, then? You don’t think I’ve got better things to do than ponce around in suits all day?’

  ‘I think you want power.’

  ‘I’ve got power. It’s called money.’

  ‘But political power. Calling the shots. Making the odd law.’

  ‘Law?’ He’s laughing now. ‘Laws are there to be broken. I’ve built a whole career on that. You might have noticed.’

  ‘So why UKIP?’

  ‘Because they were the underdogs. Because they were a load of old dossers in ties and blazers with lots to get off their chests. If my dad had ever been into politics he’d have been a Kipper. I know these people. I know the way they think. I know what gets under their skins. They’re not toffs like the Tories and we’re not talking Nazis like the English fucking Defence League. They just wandered into politics like you or me might go shopping and they decided to make a noise. They don’t much like abroad, and they definitely don’t like Pakis nicking their seat on the bus, and given half a chance they’d shut their doors and spend the rest of their lives listening to the fucking Archers. Do I have a problem with any of that? No. Do I think the country’s going to the dogs? Yeah. And the sooner the bett
er. Because then we can have a proper sort-out.’

  I nod. I’ve heard Mitch say something similar, especially the last bit. He called it anarchy.

  ‘So did you give them the half million in the end? UKIP?’

  ‘No way. I wrote them a cheque for five hundred. That’s bye-bye money for old times’ sake. Spencer Willoughby is a twat. Even the Kippers can do better than that.’

  The waiter arrives with the wine. After he’s gone, H raises his glass.

  ‘Let’s talk about something interesting,’ he says. ‘Here’s to the boy.’

  ‘To Malo.’ We touch glasses.

  H leans back in his chair, trying to ease his shoulder. He’s been with his son a lot these last few days and he likes what he’s seen.

  ‘He loves it down here,’ he says. ‘He really does. It’s opened his bloody eyes. He’s even put a bit of weight on.’

  ‘I know. I’ve noticed.’

  ‘You’re telling me that’s a bad thing?’

  ‘Not at all. Far from it. He hasn’t been in a good place recently.’

  ‘Really? You want to tell me more?’

  I explain about the fall-out with Berndt, about the phantom affair with Eva, about turning up in London with a stash of cannabis and a Spice habit.

  ‘Spice?’ H looks horrified. ‘That’s low-life. That’s B fucking wing. You’re serious?’

  ‘I am. He could have been one of your customers back in the day. How does that make you feel?’

  This sounds more aggressive than I intended but it was hard to resist the temptation. Live by the sword, die by the sword.

  ‘Nice one. It wasn’t around at the time but we’d never have touched Spice. Nor smack. Nor a whole load of other rubbish. We were there to spread a little happiness. We wanted people to love each other up. That was always Bazza’s line.’

  H is grinning at me. Uppers, not downers, he says. Loads of ecstasy and as much of the laughing powder as Pompey could handle. I smile back. He rides the punches well. But he still wants the full story.

  ‘About what?’ I enquire.

  ‘Malo.’