Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  Dinner is at seven o’clock. It’s been dark for a couple of hours. Down below, the roll and dip of the boat is harder to cope with and some of my shipmates are beginning to look queasy. The smell of roasting lamb from the galley doesn’t help and I notice that Rhys is one of the few takers when Jack clatters down from the doghouse to enquire about drinks. Rhys is a Guinness fan. Most of us are wedged in various corners of the saloon, mostly around the big table, but he drinks on his feet, his long body effortlessly in tune with the motion of the boat. I envy him this and tell him so.

  ‘Practice,’ he says. ‘I’ve been at this game a while.’

  I remember Malo telling me about Rhys shrimping on the Gulf of Mexico. He says it’s true. He did it for three years and his last trip clipped the hurricane season. The first big storm was called Anthea.

  ‘We knew she was coming and we made a run for New Orleans. Worst night of my life. Just made it. Another couple of hours and we’d have been breakfast for the ’gators.’

  The rest of us exchange glances. The wind is definitely picking up. We can hear it every time someone steps into the doghouse from the deck above us. It’s a low keening noise in the rigging, punctuated by a wild flapping of sail every time the boat wallows. I catch Cassie’s eye. Like me she’s probably wondering whether there are alligators off the Normandy coast.

  Supper comes and goes. Nobody, except Rhys and Malo, eats very much. Even H seems to have lost his appetite. Already both loos are occupied and when Sadie emerges, pale, haunted, I suspect all is far from well. She did her test piece to camera in the last of the daylight and it was crap so maybe she wasn’t feeling too bright even then.

  Malo’s anti-seasickness tablets seem to be doing the trick. I risk a couple of mouthfuls of lamb and a baked potato washed down with red wine and feel fine. Malo, bless him, is doing his best to keep our spirits up and I’m happy to perform when he asks me for a couple of location stories. My new friends around the table are nice enough to listen and respond with a question or two and it’s nearly midnight when my turn comes to stand watch.

  This time I’m teamed with Amit and Ruth, the CPS lawyer. Ruth, I’ve noticed, has tucked into a decent plate of food but Amit hasn’t touched a thing. For once, thank God, he has nothing to say.

  We put on our life jackets and make our way up to the doghouse. Suranne is bent over a chart of the central portion of the English Channel, logging our progress south. Inconceivably we aren’t even halfway across but she’s anticipating a break in the weather and thinks we should still make landfall by breakfast time.

  Mention of breakfast does nothing for Amit. I think I hear a groan when we make our way out into the heaving darkness. We’re all wearing safety harnesses and we clip into lines laid specially on the deck. I can see Georgie standing at the big ship’s wheel, fighting the wind and the waves, her face shadowed by the red glow of the binnacle. She gestures me closer, asks whether I might relieve her for a while. All I have to do is keep my eye on the compass.

  ‘Steer one hundred and sixty-seven degrees,’ she says, ‘more or less. She responds very slowly so don’t overdo any input. I’ll be in the doghouse. Shout if you need me.’

  Shout if you need me?

  This is beyond belief. I tally up the numbers. Suddenly, without any warning, I have sole responsibility for twelve souls, in the middle of the night, with wave after wave roaring out of the darkness. The biggest of these break over the boat in an explosion of white spume, soaking us all.

  Georgie is still beside me. She makes sure I’m comfortable at the big wheel, feet apart, body weight nicely balanced, and tells me not to grip the wheel too hard.

  ‘Treat it like a friend,’ she says. ‘Be firm but gentle. Tough love, quoi?’

  This is the first time I realize she speaks French. Nice. I like this woman. I love her competence. And I’m in awe at the degree of trust she seems to have.

  She lingers for a second or two longer, eyeing the oncoming waves. Then she picks her moment and disappears into the doghouse, leaving me at the wheel.

  I look round for my watch-buddies. Amit has tucked himself into a corner of the crescent of bench at the stern. His head is in his hands and I suspect he’s just thrown up. Ruth, on the other hand, can’t wait to have her go at the wheel. She’s watching my every movement. She’s probably been doing this half her life, I think, just like Rhys. She’s probably marking me out of ten.

  I concentrate very hard on the soft red glow of the binnacle, trying to keep the central line locked on 167 degrees. This is a lot harder than it might seem but as the minutes tick by I begin to get a feel for the boat. Georgie’s right. It’s a living thing. It needs constant attention, endless small course corrections. Then from nowhere arrives a truly big wave, smashing the bow sideways until the sails begin to flap, and I have to haul on the wheel to get her back to where she belongs.

  By now, I’m soaking. Cold water has got in around the hood of my anorak and through the folds of scarf around my neck and I can feel it trickling down my back. I’m concentrating so hard that none of this really matters and I’m aware with something close to euphoria that I’m managing to hack all this when Georgie returns. When she checks the course on the binnacle compass I catch an approving nod of the head. Then it’s Ruth’s turn.

  Our watch ends at four in the morning. We make our way back down to the saloon. Amit gives the hot chocolate a miss. There are bodies everywhere, most of them in a bad way, fighting the boat’s motion. By now I’ve sensed that the key to survival in a situation like this is to roll with the punches, to break down every little task into its component bits. If you really need to go to the loo, do everything slowly, deliberately, consciously. Unpeel your waterproofs. Drop your knickers. Don’t rush things. Relax.

  To my delight, it seems to work. Forty pumps later I’m back in the saloon contemplating an hour or two’s sleep in my cabin. When Rhys suggests that going back on deck with himself and Malo would be a wiser option I ignore him. A zig-zag course across the saloon, thrown left and right by the motion of the boat, takes me to bed. Sadie is showing no signs of life. I struggle out of my clothes, towel myself dry, pull on a new T-shirt and trackie bottoms, and wriggle into my sleeping bag. Moments later, no kidding, I’m asleep.

  Dawn finds us in the Bay of the Seine. France is a low grey line on the horizon and the English Channel appears to be a friend again. The wind has dropped and the remains of the swell sweeps us towards Ouistreham.

  We dock shortly after eight o’clock. The sound of Malo confirming our mooring with the marina boss in fluent French puts a huge smile on my face. H, especially, is deeply impressed. We’re standing on the deck together while Georgie and Jack make fast our lines.

  ‘Top job, my son,’ he says, as Malo hops back on board.

  ‘Our son,’ I tell him.

  The smell of frying bacon has revived flagging spirits. We all gather down below to attack Esther’s breakfast. Crossing the Channel, us ladies agree, is a bit like childbirth. Bloody painful and immediately forgotten. Rhys begs to differ.

  ‘You were a pro,’ he tells me. ‘I’d take you to the Gulf of Mexico any day.’

  After breakfast, in a burst of team spirit, we help with the washing-up while Sadie sweet-talks Malo into a second take on the piece to camera. I watch from the deck as she preens on the dockside, lifting her face to the thin winter sun while Malo sorts out his new iPhone. He’s using the phone to shoot the video and H smiles when I ask him where Malo got it.

  ‘Another present?’ I suggest.

  ‘Present, bollocks. Essential tool is the way I look at it. Great screen. Brilliant camera. Shoots videos. Water-resistant. The lot. The boy’s a credit to himself. Just look at him.’

  H is right. Sadie has to be more than twice his age. According to H she’s a seasoned feature journalist, a tough old bird who knows how to mix it with the best of them. Yet here she is, putty in my son’s hands as he tells her to relax, to be more normal, to treat the camera like
a friend.

  This line seems to startle H.

  ‘Where the fuck did he learn that?’ he asks.

  ‘He got it from Berndt,’ I tell him. ‘And from me.’

  We spend the day in a minibus, driving from invasion beach to invasion beach and meeting an assortment of local worthies. Malo sits at the front, chatting with the French driver, telling him what we’re up to. At Pegasus Bridge, where the first British paratroops dropped out of nowhere, we pause for coffee and inspect a display of military bits and pieces before Malo describes our D-Day heroes taking the Germans by surprise and establishing a position to protect the flank of the Allied bridgehead. Once again, with little visible effort, he seems to have mastered his brief. Fields of fire. Mortar crews. Artillery support. And all this delivered with his now-trademark confidence.

  Gradually, our little gang is sorting itself out. Alex and Cassie are locked in conversation with Ruth, the young lawyer, while Sadie and Amit appear to be friends again. Jack, the ship’s mate, has been given leave of absence from Persephone for the day and is eager to see the invasion beaches. He and Rhys are the naughty boys at the back of the bus, where I, too, have a seat. We laugh a great deal and get peaceably drunk over a four-course lunch at a seaside resort called St Auban.

  By nightfall, we’re all exhausted. Rhys proposes a game of Spoof around the saloon table after yet another meal while Cassie and I chat more about the movie business. To my relief she wants to move on from my own films and I’m more than happy to share gossip about actors and actresses that have always interested her. One of them is Liam Neeson, whom she suspects of wasting a huge talent, and I do my best to defend him. Liam, I tell her, parlayed his gifts into some fine movies and a small fortune, something much rarer in La La Land than she might suspect.

  The weather, to our surprise, perks up for Remembrance Day. Bright sunshine greets us when we de-bus at Arromanches. Malo and H have paid a visit to a fleuriste in Ouistreham and the resulting wreath is a clever interlacing of deep red hypericum berries with green leaves and twists of white lilies. Now, it’s Ruth who carries our offering up the steps of the D-Day memorial at Arromanches. This is where the Allies established their floating harbour and Malo has managed to attract a decent scatter of local print reporters plus a film crew from a Caen-based TV station.

  One of my proudest all-time memories will be Malo and Ruth being interviewed together while the rest of us gathered in the background. Towards the end of the interview, asked why someone of his age would be remotely interested in an event that had happened seventy-three years ago, Malo paused for a moment and then suggested that bad things always happened when the world was looking the other way. This was a phrase that came straight from Berndt but I didn’t care. It sounded respectful, and wise, and would play wonderfully on French regional TV.

  That afternoon, we accompany Ruth to her grandfather’s grave and then return to the boat. Our final run ashore takes us to the fish restaurant in Ouistreham that Malo has been promoting since our arrival. In a much-appreciated gesture of thanks, H insists that Persephone’s crew join us. The meal is sensational, especially the loup de mer en croûte, but the mood around the big table is oddly flat. I can’t make up my mind whether we’re all exhausted or simply dreading the journey back. The weather forecast, once again, is far from promising but back on Persephone Suranne assures us that a good south-westerly blow will have us home in no time. It’s this thought I take with me to bed and it’s a moment or two before I realize that Sadie and her two bags have gone.

  I find Malo sitting in the doghouse with Suranne. Our skipper has spent the day attending to maintenance jobs around the boat and she’s now plotting tomorrow morning’s course.

  I ask Malo about Sadie. He says she’s had to take the train to Paris for a meeting. From there she’ll return to London by plane.

  ‘She bottled it, more like.’ Suranne doesn’t look up from the chart. ‘Bloody journalists are all the same. Show them a bit of serious weather and they can’t take it.’

  Malo and I agree our skipper is probably right. From my point of view I couldn’t care less whether Sadie made the return leg or not. Having our cabin to myself will be a deep pleasure.

  I give Malo and Suranne a hug and retire to bed. Once again, I’m asleep in seconds. Eight hours later, I’m awoken by a movement beside the twin bunks. I rub my eyes and reach for my torch. The battery is low and it’s several seconds before I get a proper look at the face beside me.

  Mitch Culligan.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He doesn’t answer me. He hasn’t shaved for a while and the beard has altered the shape of his face. He’s inspecting the lower bunk. He wants to know if this belonged to Sadie.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s left something? You’ve come to pick it up?’

  ‘I’m sailing back with you.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  This is the last thing I expected. Not just Mitch Culligan appearing from nowhere. But Mitch Culligan choosing to share this boat with someone determined to hurt him.

  I’m up on one elbow now, staring down at him as he opens his rucksack and tugs out a bundle of wet-weather gear.

  ‘But why are you here?’ I say. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Every story deserves a proper end. Especially this one.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Are you pissed or something? You’re making no sense.’

  He doesn’t answer. From somewhere he’s found a pair of yellow wellies and a red woollen hat with a bobble on the top. Absurd.

  ‘How did you get on board?’

  ‘Your son met me on the quayside. Sadie phoned him late last night, explained I’d be taking her place on the voyage home. Nice lad. Looks just like his dad.’

  ‘And Malo was OK with that?’

  ‘He was fine. I’m paying. That’s all that seems to matter.’

  ‘And H? Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I gave your boy a different name. Prentice won’t have a clue who I am. Neither will Malo.’

  ‘H will have seen photos.’

  ‘I doubt it. I never use a picture on bylines and I’m not on social media. I’m Mr Nobody. Cadging a lift home.’

  Worse and worse. Whose responsibility is it to tell H about the cuckoo in our nest? Mine? Then comes another thought, even more pressing.

  ‘But what about Sayid? Who’s looking after him?’

  ‘He’s back in his care home. As a client, this time.’

  ‘And you’re happy with that?’

  Mitch shoots me a look before heading for the door.

  ‘He is,’ he says. ‘And that’s all that matters.’

  We gather for breakfast as dawn breaks. Mitch is calling himself Larry Elliott. He offers a hand across the table by way of introduction and apologizes for not being Sadie. This sparks a ripple of laughter. Rhys, who’s just seen the latest weather forecast, hopes our new friend has a sense of humour, while Cassie offers to share her dwindling supply of seasickness tablets. The mood, unlike last night, is buoyant. The trip is nearly over. It’s been testing in parts, occasionally worse than that, but we’ve learned a lot and now we’re going home.

  H is the last to arrive for breakfast. There are still curls of bacon left, and a couple of croissants, and Esther offers to scramble more eggs but H shakes his head. I can tell he’s had a bad night. His shoulder seems to be hurting him and there are a couple of tiny cuts on his chin where his razor slipped.

  Rhys pours him a cup of coffee and makes room on the sagging banquette. H stays on his feet. He’s looking at our new shipmate and something in his face tells me that he’s far from convinced.

  ‘This is Larry, Dad. He’s a mate of Sadie’s.’

  ‘Is that right?’ His eyes haven’t left Mitch’s face. ‘He’s here for breakfast?’

  ‘We’re taking him home.’

  ‘Why?’

&nbs
p; Mitch stirs. He’s sitting beside me. The sight of H in the flesh hasn’t disturbed him in the least.

  ‘Sadie got sidetracked,’ Mitch explains. ‘I happened to be in Paris. I’m not due back in the UK until next week. EasyJet or a Brixham trawler under full sail? Tough call.’

  I’m aware of people exchanging covert glances around the table. After the rigours of our recent crossing I suspect most of them would kill for a seat on easyJet.

  ‘You’ve sailed before?’ H asks.

  ‘Never.’

  H nods, eyeballs him a moment longer. No handshake.

  ‘Good luck my friend.’ He grunts. ‘You’re gonna need it.’

  By mid-morning, we’ve cleared the French coast. The distant smudge of Le Havre lies off to our right, or starboard as I’m learning to call it, while the Normandy beaches are disappearing astern. We’ve broken sweat hauling up the sails and Suranne has dispensed with the engine. The wind is blowing from the south-west, exactly as predicted, and Persephone is making the most of a gathering swell.

  I’m standing with Mitch up in the bow, away from listening ears. He’s brought a pair of binoculars and he’s looking for dolphins.

  ‘Malo tells me you’re the come-on for the punters,’ he murmurs.

  ‘That’s right. My pleasure.’

  ‘And all this money really goes to good causes?’

  ‘That’s what I’m told.’

  ‘And you believe it?’

  ‘Every word.’

  ‘Really?’ He spares me a sideways glance.

  I nod. For most of our brief relationship Mitch has let me pretty close. He’s been supportive when it mattered, frank about his private life, passionate about his political beliefs. But this is a different Mitch. He’s become solitary, withdrawn. He’s retired behind his new beard. And when I press him about his real reason for being on board, for becoming Larry Elliott, he won’t answer me. Most of the time he avoids my gaze but just occasionally, like now, I sense real anger in his eyes. The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil, I remember, is for good men to do nothing.