Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Very wise. These men like to take scalps. There comes a day when you realize they’re all dogs. They still follow their dicks, believe it or not, and you’re talking to someone who knows.’

  ‘You’re still fighting them off?’

  ‘I am. The professionals are the worst. Give a man a law degree and he thinks you can’t resist him. There’ll be some of them here tonight so don’t say you weren’t warned.’

  ‘You still live in Portsmouth?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So why don’t you move, if it’s so awful?’

  ‘Why should I? It’s my home. My kids are there. And their kids. Maybe it’s become a habit. Maybe I’ve become too idle. But I happen to like it.’

  ‘And now? Here? Why make an appearance?’

  ‘Good question.’ She walks across to the big window where H probably stands every morning, surveying his estate. She looks out at the view, silent, reflective. Then she turns back to me.

  ‘My husband would have wanted me to be here,’ she says. ‘This is for his sake, not mine.’

  I nod, say nothing, trying to weigh whether or not to put the obvious question. In the end I realize I have no choice. I may never get the chance again.

  ‘So what happened?’ I ask. ‘To your husband?’

  She looks me in the eye. Not a flicker of emotion.

  ‘The Filth killed him,’ she says.

  ‘Filth?’ I’ve heard H use this word, but somehow I don’t expect it from Marie.

  ‘The police. Down in Portsmouth. Bazza should have paid a little more attention. He could be a lovely man sometimes but he never listened. He was hopelessly outnumbered. He could have surrendered, handed himself in, but that was never his style. I understand that one bullet was all it took. Not that anyone ever tells you the truth.’

  She shoots me an icy smile and moments later she’s gone. I hear her footsteps on the staircase. Then comes a murmur of voices in the hall before the front door closes behind her. H struggles up the stairs and appears at the open door.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asks me. ‘Why won’t she stay?’

  I wonder whether to be honest, to tell him that her take on the last thirty years might be at odds with his, but then I decide against it. Tonight is, after all, his party.

  ‘Previous engagement,’ I say lightly. ‘Early drinks with friends.’

  By mid-evening, the party is beginning to rev up. Malo, chastened by last night’s Krug, is taking it easy on Pepsi with a splash of bourbon. I’m doing something very similar, except I won’t let anything alcoholic near my lime juice. I drift from room to room with H in attendance, trying to put faces to the names on Jessie’s list. One of the earliest guests to arrive has been Dave Munroe, the bent cop. He’s easy to spot because he’s in a wheelchair, testament – I imagine – to his failing liver. He’s a balloon of a man, tiny head perched on a huge body, affable, garrulous, with a winning smile and a habit of patting everyone’s extended hand. Once captured, it’s difficult to get free but I squat beside his chair for a minute or two while he quizzes me about exactly what I’ve seen in H.

  ‘He’s the man of my dreams,’ I tell him. ‘Everything a girl could ever want.’

  I get a special pat for that and a big wink. This is someone, I suspect, who loves complicity and can spot a lie a mile off. I fetch him a couple of sausage rolls and we agree to have a proper chat later.

  By now, the big rooms downstairs are filling up as more guests pile in. Malo is manning the bar in the entrance hall. So far the gender balance is heavily skewed, men everywhere, middle-aged, heavy-set, baggy jeans and a variety of eighties T-shirts, and most of them go for the Stella. None of them seem to have wives or partners but according to H this is deliberate. They’ve left their women at home. Tonight, like the old days, is strictly for the blokes.

  H introduces me to Mick Pain, his comrade in arms when they battled rival hooligans the length and breadth of the kingdom. Mick has a can of Stella in either hand and looks truly scary. He has a deep scar along the line of one cheekbone and far fewer teeth than the usual complement but in conversation he turns out to be a real softie. On weekends he works as a volunteer, helping to maintain an old fishing boat moored in a Pompey dock. He also has a passion for bird watching and he’s telling me about a nature reserve on the Isle of Wight which is dreamland if you happen to like little egrets.

  It’s at this point that someone cranks up the music. Mick taps his ears and shakes his head, a clue that further conversation is impossible. Other guests are having the same problem so I set out to look for Andy, who spent most of the afternoon setting up the audio.

  I find him DJ-ing in a corner of the hall towards the back of the house. He lifts one earphone and asks me what I think of his playlist. To be honest I’m no expert when it comes to Eighties indie music, headbanging or otherwise. I’ve never heard of The Beat nor The Pixies. Neither can I hear what Andy’s trying to tell me unless I get very close indeed. I’m pressed up against him, trying to suggest that a little less volume might help the party along, when I catch sight of a face through a mill of guests. It’s Jessie with a plate of sausage rolls. She’s moving from group to group, trying to exchange banter, share gossip, catch up, but every now and then she shoots us the kind of look that leaves little room for ambiguity. She plainly doesn’t trust Andy. And neither, after a promising start to our relationship, does she much like me.

  A minute or so later, the sausage rolls gone, she’s at our side.

  ‘Hate to break this up,’ she yells, then whispers something to Andy and disappears. This turns out to be a cue for H. Andy at last winds down the volume until the music dies under the buzz of conversation. Then comes a double blast on an air horn and H mounts an antique dining chair in the middle of the hall. He’s calling the party to order. First he wants to introduce someone very special. I’m trying to attract Malo’s attention, to warn him to take a bow, but it turns out that H means me. This is something I haven’t expected. Whistles and cheers greet my name. I imagine that most of the people in this room haven’t got a clue who I am but it doesn’t seem to matter. Listen to H, and you might think I’m the toast of Hollywood.

  ‘She’s come to raise the tone,’ he says. ‘And about fucking time.’

  At this point the main door opens and Gloria appears. This is the woman who’s been making Dave Munroe so happy all these years. She’s very black, with a huge chest and a Caribbean dress the colour of sunset that’s probably visible from the moon. In tow, behind her, come a bevy of girls, mainly Asian, laid on as a present for H. The fact that they’re all dressed in Pompey strip – red, white and blue – raises another storm of applause. Gloria blows H a kiss and says she’s sorry for being late. Borrowed minibus. Puncture on the motorway.

  The girls begin to circulate while H gets on with his speech. This time it’s Malo’s turn. H doesn’t bother to gild the lily.

  ‘Nearly twenty years ago,’ he says, ‘I had the pleasure of sharing an evening with this lad’s mum. Fuck knows how but he turns out to be the junior version of me. Malo, son, you’re very welcome in our house. And you know why? Because it’s your house as well. And these people here tonight will be your mates forever. Because they’ll make it their business to look out for us both.’

  This might not play well in cold print but tonight, in this company, H’s little announcement truly touches a collective nerve. His mates aren’t used to seeing H so natural, so sincere. There’s a kind of humility, as well as pride, in the way he doffs his cap to our son and I know from the expression on his face that it means the world to Malo. At the news that H has become a dad, there’s a stir among the watching faces, first astonishment, then delight. Dave Munroe calls for three cheers for Malo. The roar that follows fills the house.

  But H hasn’t finished. He has one last thing to say.

  ‘Not everyone has turned up.’ He’s looking round. ‘And that’s their fucking loss. But there’s one guy that should be here and wil
l never make it. So a minute’s silence, boys and girls, for the one man among us that we’ll never forget.’

  ‘Bazza.’ This from Dave Munroe.

  Heads bow. Feet shuffle. The Asian girls stop giggling. Then there’s total silence. I’m still thinking about Marie, and her errant husband’s private Alamo, when H’s head comes up. This is a signal to Andy. He hits a button on his master board, pushes the volume paddle to its limits, and suddenly we’re listening to Tina Turner.

  I nod. I never met Bazza but it’s hard not to choke up. Simply the best. What could be more perfect?

  People are singing now. They’re world class on the lyrics. They belt it out, line after line, linking arms, swaying with the music, punching the air as the song explodes towards the big finish, and then they throw their arms around each other as the music dies.

  ‘Fucking wonderful,’ H says, as he dismounts from the chair. And he’s right.

  Much later, past midnight, I find myself alone in the barn with Tony Morse. Tony is the gang’s solicitor, the sleek legal eagle charged with transforming decades of Bazza’s narco-loot into money he can safely spend without courting arrest. In his prime, I suspect, Tony was a real looker. He’s still attractive – tall, nearly slim, with a mane of greying hair and greeny-blue eyes he uses to some effect. He’s also wearing a beautifully cut tuxedo with a red velvet bow tie, which certainly marks him out from the sea of denim we’ve left behind in the house. I especially like his cuff links, solid gold, weighty, yet somehow discreet.

  ‘Why the dolphin motif?’

  ‘They were a present from Bazza and Marie. Marie was the one with the taste. Bazza wanted her to find something that would appeal to me and this is what she came up with.’

  ‘Was she right?’

  ‘She was. I like company, just like dolphins. I’m also partial to crowds. If you’re practising as a criminal lawyer you have to be a bit of a performer. You’re in court. Whether it’s the magistrates or a jury you have to make an impact, you have to get people onside. It’s persuasion. It’s hearts and minds. It’s what dolphins do. Am I ringing any bells here?’

  ‘Of course you are. It’s exactly the same in my business. Except no one’s life hangs in the balance.’

  Like me, this man is stone-cold sober. It was his idea to get out of the house, mine to wander into the barn. Buy enough booze, play the right music, invite like-minded people, and there always comes a moment in any party when things start to get out of hand. Judging by the noise we can still hear through the open windows, we’ve made exactly the right decision.

  ‘You’re driving back tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ve got a room booked in a hotel in Shaftesbury. You’re more than welcome if it appeals.’

  It’s a civilized invitation and I appreciate the absence of pressure. Stepping away from the house I’d briefly watched two of the Asian girls servicing a lone partygoer in the back of Gloria’s minibus. I suspect that H would have preferred them to use one of his many bedrooms but old Pompey habits obviously die hard.

  Now I ask my new friend about the wilder extremes of Bazza-land. People, I say carefully, talk about serious violence. Are they making it up? Or did the likes of Wesley Kane really play the Enforcer?

  The question seems to amuse him. He lights a cigar, looks for somewhere to lose the match among the loose hay without setting the barn on fire.

  ‘Wesley was an animal,’ he says. ‘Still is. Did they tell you about the house they bought him in Fratton?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘He’s still got it. He’s off the reservation now, freelancing for anyone with debts to settle. Last time I heard he was into kettling.’

  Kettling Pompey-style, it turns out, has nothing to do with riot control. It needs nothing more than an electric kettle, a chair, and a length of rope. First you do a spot of tying up. Then you boil the water. Then you ask a question or two. If the answers aren’t to your liking, the water goes over the guy’s lap.

  ‘It’s very effective. Especially when you drive him to hospital and dump him outside A&E. By this time, if you’ve got it right, the skin is off his todger. People who know Wes tell me he loves punch lines. He thinks that’s one of the best.’

  ‘I think it’s horrible.’

  ‘That puts you in a minority of just two.’

  ‘Me and you?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  I gaze at him for a moment and then ask about what exactly happened to Bazza Mackenzie.

  ‘He died. Took a bullet for his sins. There were cops in Pompey still celebrating a week later.’

  ‘But how? Where?’

  ‘There was a bent cop called Paul Winter who’d gone over to the dark side and decided to work for Mackenzie. In the end they fell out. Big time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mackenzie thought Winter was screwing his wife.’

  ‘You mean Marie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘No. But Winter was clever. It was his job to light Mackenzie’s fuse and that’s exactly what he did. They ended up in the middle of the night in a shop that sold reptiles, mainly snakes. Deeply appropriate.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was all a sting. The cops had wired Winter. By the time they got there, Mackenzie had Winter all trussed up. He’d lost it completely. As I understand it, he was about to fill Winter’s mouth with expanding foam, the stuff you use to seal double glazing. One verbal warning to Mackenzie, and then they shot him dead. Bang. End of.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘The officer who pulled the trigger told me later. Over a drink.’

  ‘You always talk to both sides? Play both ends against the middle?’

  ‘Of course.’ He’s smiling. ‘I’m a lawyer. That’s what lawyers do.’

  I’m still staring at him, totally hooked. First kettling. Now death by expanding foam. Tony takes my arm and walks me towards the big open doors and the fresh air. Further away from the house, we pause in the shadow of a huge elm tree. The wind’s got up and tiny lanterns are dancing against the blackness of the sky. Tony’s head is back. He draws on the cigar and expels a plume of blue smoke. I’ve always loved the smell of cigars.

  ‘One more question,’ I say softly. ‘Then I’ll let you go.’

  ‘That would be a shame.’

  ‘It’s about H.’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Did he ever kill anyone?’

  There’s a long silence. My arm is still linked through his. From outside the house comes the clunk of the minibus door sliding open. I’m still waiting for an answer.

  ‘No,’ he says at last. ‘Never. Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Did he ever come close?’

  ‘That’s a different question. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because H intrigues me. And because he’s the father of my son.’

  ‘You’ve got your doubts about young Malo? You think he might fall into bad company? Take to killing people?’

  ‘Not at all. Doubts? No. Hopes? Plenty.’ I put the gentlest pressure on his arm. ‘H is a good man. When people tell me otherwise I need to know why.’

  ‘Maybe they have their own debts to settle. Theirs was a rough old world. They broke every rule in the book and they certainly hurt people. That came with the territory. What I’m not going to discuss are individuals. To work for Bazza was to pay your dues and button your lip. If you think it’s a Mafia thing you wouldn’t be far wrong. Omerta, capisci?’

  Omerta. The code of silence. I nod. I understand.

  I hesitate a moment. Part of me says I owe Mitch nothing. But one more question wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘So you’re not going to tell me? About H?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He smiles down at me. ‘And that’s for your sake, not mine.’

  NINETEEN

  The morning after is predictably glum. I come downstairs to find bodi
es everywhere. In a movie this would be a crime scene, lots of scary music and lingering close-ups. Bodies curled in corners. Bodies hogging sofas and armchairs. Even a body glimpsed through the kitchen window, gently swinging in H’s favourite hammock. Of Gloria and the Asian lovelies there’s no sign, and when I check outside the minibus has gone.

  Back in the house no one has stirred. Then Malo joins me. Between us we lay hands on a couple of big shopping bags and start the clean-up. Thank God Andy invested in all those plastic glasses. With no need to trouble the dishwasher, we move from room to room, picking up cans, smeary paper plates, olive stones, plastic knives and forks. There’s been a major crisp spillage in a corner of the library. I despatch Malo to look for a dustpan and brush while I take a wet cloth to a mysterious stain on one of H’s fluffy white rugs. When I sniff my fingertips it turns out to be lime pickle.

  H himself appears at exactly the moment when we’re starting to win. He must have had some kind of accident last night, or maybe took a fall, because he’s walking with a limp. He’s wearing a pair of black pyjamas. He gives the nearest body a poke with a bare foot. The body grunts, rolls over, goes to sleep again.

  ‘Scrambled eggs,’ H grunts. ‘I’ll sort these tossers out.’

  Malo and I retreat to the kitchen. Someone, probably Jessie, has had the foresight to invest in three big trays of eggs. Malo finds half a dozen loaves of sliced white in the pantry while I raid the fridge for butter and marge. In minutes, we’re ready to feed the small army of casualties next door. Waiting for our first customers to appear I tell my son we could make a living out of this.

  ‘Disaster relief,’ I say. ‘All we need is a big tent and a couple of film crews.’

  Malo shoots me a look. He isn’t convinced.

  The first faces appear, pale, largely silent. I do the eggs while Malo butters the bread. Soon the half dozen chairs around the kitchen table are all occupied and more and more people are piling in. Most of them want nothing but coffee. H takes it upon himself to spoon instant coffee into the plastic glasses we never managed to use last night and then gets the kettle on. Watching him pour the boiling water it’s hard not to think about Wesley Kane.