Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  A journalist has arrived. Mitch tells me she’s a freelance stringer. These people apparently spend their working lives monitoring the emergency channels and now she’s here to ask that eternal media question: what was it like?

  We shuffle around on the shingle and exchange awkward glances while she readies her little camera, but the truth is we can’t wait to get it all off our chests. Amit admits he was scared to death. He prayed for his wife and his two kids. Ruth describes moments when the storm was at its height, water everywhere, the boat thrashing around, while Alex makes a point of telling the journo what a brilliant job the crew did. There was absolutely no panic, he says. Simply a succession of practical measures carried out in the teeth of impossible conditions. Just watching the crew in action made you believe in your own survival. Outstanding.

  Rhys agrees. He puts his arm round young Jack and gives him a kiss. On camera. On the lips.

  ‘Saved our lives, boyo. Put that on your CV.’

  Suranne happens to join us at this point. She’s been up on the promenade working her phone. The charity that owns Persephone, she tells H, will be despatching a couple of carpenters from Pompey and they should be with us by mid-morning. Mercifully, the spring tides will be receding from now on and, barring another storm, the old trawler should be safe for the next couple of days while the hull is made watertight. At that point, she’ll be refloated and returned to the mainland for a proper inspection.

  Interviewed on camera, Suranne fends off any suggestion that attempting the return leg was reckless or even unwise. The winds, she points out, were forecast Force 4, gusting 5, conditions that most trawlermen would consider a breeze. In the event, the depression turned out to be a little deeper but even so Persephone would still have made it safely across. Had the container not intervened, by now we’d all be having breakfast in the Camber Dock.

  The journalist is happy with her interviews. When she asks for onboard smartphone footage, a number of hands go up. Mitch’s isn’t among them. Interestingly, no one has mentioned Mbaye. As far as our young stowaway is concerned, we’re all complicit.

  Suranne organizes breakfast at a big seafront hotel called The Imperial. At H’s insistence, the food is served in a function room away from the main restaurant. I’m not the only one to find this puzzling but the moment the waitress leaves us alone he’s on his feet. He thinks this may be the last time we’re all together. Arrangements are in hand to return us to the mainland and so now is the moment to thank Suranne and her crew for, in H’s phrase, digging us out of the shit. Speaking personally, he’s been in some dodgy situations in his life but nothing to compare to the last couple of hours. When he first set eyes on our skipper he thought she must be a truant bunking off school. Now, thank Christ, he knows different.

  He gestures Suranne to her feet, then the rest of the crew, while we stand and applaud. It’s a graceful gesture on H’s part, nicely done, and I detect a glint of tears in Cassie’s eyes when we exchange glances.

  ‘I’m going to miss all this,’ she whispers. ‘Can you believe that?’

  After breakfast, I meet H at reception. He’s booking a couple of rooms.

  ‘Why?’ I ask him.

  ‘The boy,’ he says briefly. ‘We need to find him.’

  ‘You mean Mbaye?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But he’s probably dead.’

  ‘You really believe that?’

  ‘I do, yes. You were there. Those waves? The state of the sea? Did I imagine all that?’

  H shakes his head. He draws me aside. Not for the first time, he seems to know more than I’d assumed.

  ‘He jumped at the last minute,’ he says. ‘I was with him. He went off the stern before we hit the beach.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The lad’s a survivor. He’s been swimming all his fucking life.’

  I nod. True, I think. But then I remember how thin he was, how vulnerable, skin and bone wrapped in Sadie’s sodden anorak. It’s November. It’s freezing cold. He’s wet through. Where would he go? How could he possibly survive?

  I put these questions to H. We’ve found a sofa in a corner of the reception area beneath a potted palm. Outside, it’s started to rain again.

  ‘M gave him his mobile, told him to ring Fat Dave. We gave him money, too. Quite a lot of money.’

  Fat Dave Munroe? The bent cop? I should have guessed. He lives here in Ventnor with his wheelchair and the new woman in his life. She runs a B&B. I try and imagine her coping with a surprise visitor in from the street. An open door, a hot bath and plenty of home comforts to follow.

  ‘You’ve phoned him? You’ve been in touch?’

  ‘Of course I fucking have. I belled him from the boat before we hit the beach, as soon as you told me about Ventnor. Fat bastard never answered so I had to send a text.’

  ‘And now? You’ve phoned Dave again?’

  ‘Three times.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Dave’s heard nothing. The boy’s gone to ground. He’s biding his time. Or maybe he’s moved on already. Four hundred quid goes a long way.’

  I gaze at him for a moment, then shake my head. Fantasy, I think. H isn’t stupid. He can read my mind.

  ‘You think it’s wrong? Me doing all this? You think we should have just handed him over?’

  ‘Not at all. I think what you’ve done is great. Let’s hope he’s alive. Let’s hope he’s on some ferry as we speak. Did you give him any other contacts?’

  ‘Yes. Ours.’

  ‘You mean Flixcombe?’

  ‘Of course. He can stay forever. M told him that. Last night.’

  Stay forever. I’m thinking of Sayid at the foot of the railway embankment. Sayid in hospital. Sayid trying to coax an entire sentence through his broken teeth. How, in H’s teeming brain, does any of this add up? Then I notice Mitch coming in from the rain. He spots us in the corner and comes across. He’s looking for Suranne.

  I get to my feet. I happen to know where she is. H watches us as we cross the reception area and head for the manager’s office. The two men haven’t even looked at each other but I know H isn’t pleased.

  Suranne is sitting behind the manager’s desk. She’s on the phone when we step in. She gestures for us to take a seat before finishing the conversation.

  ‘That was the Lifeboat secretary,’ she says moments later. ‘They’re after search parameters.’

  She’s told them what little she knows. The last she saw of Mbaye was when she relieved him on the wheel. After that it was guesswork. He may have gone overboard a couple of hundred metres out. It may have been closer. He’s certainly not still hiding aboard because she and Georgie have had a good look.

  ‘He jumped when we were about to hit the beach,’ I say quietly.

  There’s a moment of silence. Then Suranne asks me how I know.

  ‘Someone told me.’

  ‘Who?’

  I shake my head. Another silence. Then I sense Mitch stirring beside me.

  ‘Prentice,’ he says. ‘Has to be.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Suranne is still looking at me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Why did he let that happen? And why hasn’t he told anyone?’

  ‘Because he wants the boy to be safe.’

  ‘Safe? In a sea like that?’

  ‘He thought he’d make it. He liked him. He thought he had guts.’

  ‘And he thinks he’s still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Suranne nods. She liked our stowaway, too. But she’s a realist.

  ‘I’m sure he had the best of intentions,’ she says, ‘but Hayden probably killed the lad.’

  Mitch agrees. He’s here to tell Suranne that he’s been in contact with a diver he knows.

  ‘His name’s Joe Cassidy. He runs an outfit in Southampton. They have contracts in the oil business, mainly in the North Sea. He happens to be a friend of mine and he owes me a favour.’

  Joe, he says, still dives himself. On the phone Mi
tch has explained about Mbaye and about the likelihood that the boy went overboard. Joe’s getting some gear together and should be in Ventnor by mid-afternoon. If the coastguards and the lifeboat draw a blank he’s happy to have a go himself.

  ‘Go at what?’

  ‘Finding him. Joe used to be in the Navy. Clearance diver. He knows all the tricks, believe me.’

  ‘We’re talking a body, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want me to pass this on to the lifeboat people?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  While Suranne reaches for the phone I ask Mitch whether this is the guy he wrote the book about. The one he gave me when we were at his agent’s place. He nods.

  ‘The man’s a legend. If anyone can find the lad it’ll be Joe.’

  This seems to imply he’ll be dead. I’m still trying to hang on to H’s belief that Mbaye may somehow have survived but Mitch tells me I’m delusional. The conditions were evil. The least we owe Mbaye is a serious attempt to recover his body. Then we can pay our respects and say a decent farewell.

  Suranne’s off the phone. The lifeboat people, she says, are keen to stress that Mr Cassidy is welcome to conduct whatever search he might deem appropriate but will be working at entirely his own risk. Meanwhile, if there are any developments, Suranne will be the first to know.

  Mitch and I leave the office but linger in the corridor outside.

  ‘I gather you’re staying the night,’ he says.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Malo. I’ll be around, too. I’ve booked into a B and B. Maybe dinner together?’ His smile is icy. ‘All of us?’

  Minutes later, back in reception, I find Malo and his dad on the sofa. Malo has shipped all our gear up from the beach and now needs to take it upstairs to the rooms H has booked. There are two of them, both doubles.

  We take the lift and H unlocks the first of the bedroom doors. This is a sizeable suite, tastefully appointed. A Battle of Britain theme runs through the paintings on the wall and a notice beside the TV draws guests’ attention to a collection of accompanying World War Two DVDs. While H inspects this little treasure trove, Malo and I drift across to the view.

  The weather outside is still horrible but, even so, the long stretch of beach fills the big picture window. Persephone, our precious home for the past few days, sits forlornly on top of the pebbles. She has a list to port and local workmen have already shored her up with heavy baulks of timber. Both of us stare at the old trawler for a long moment. Then H tells Malo to leave our stuff by the bed.

  ‘Our stuff?’ I’m still looking at the view. No one says a word. Not to begin with. I glance back at H. He’s still on his knees beside the library of DVDs. His face is a mask. Then Malo tells his dad they’ll be sharing. There are two beds pushed together. He’ll occupy one single, H the other. H shoots me a look.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ he asks me.

  I nod. After Persephone, a bit of privacy is exactly what I want.

  ‘No offence.’ I bend to pick up my bags. Then, as an afterthought, I tell H about the diver we can expect. This is Mitch’s idea. I’m still calling him Larry Elliott.

  ‘When’s he coming? This bloke?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘They’re staying over? Him and your friend?’

  ‘My friend?’

  ‘Mitch fucking Culligan.’

  Malo appears to have lost the plot. His gaze goes from each of our faces. He’s never seen his Dad in a mood like this. So dark. So full of menace.

  ‘Who’s Culligan?’ he says.

  ‘Leave it out, son.’ H is still staring up at me. ‘I asked you a question, gal. Are these numpties here tonight?’

  ‘Yes. As far as I know.’

  ‘And they’re staying in the hotel?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘OK.’ H at last struggles to his feet. ‘Then get them round here tonight. Half seven. I’m in the fucking chair.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A sense of dread stays with me for the rest of the day. I rest up in my hotel room, lying full length on the bed while the last of the light drains from the sky outside. I have no idea what to expect from the hours to come but I’m certain none of it will be good. Mitch and H have been on a collision course since the Guardian article appeared. God knows what happens next.

  We’ve planned to meet in one of the two hotel bars for drinks. The rest of Malo’s guests are already off the island thanks to a hired minibus, while Suranne and her crew have found somewhere much cheaper to stay, waiting for the boat to be repaired. I’ve told Malo that Mitch Culligan is a journalist and a good man and he appears to be happy with that. Now he and I are reliving various moments of the storm when Mitch and his diver friend appear. H, according to Malo, is still upstairs watching Reach for the Sky.

  I recognize Joe Cassidy from the photos in Mitch’s book. He’s a broad-set man, not an ounce of spare flesh. He has a bony face, receding hair, and gnarly old hands I last saw on a gardener H occasionally employs at Flixcombe. The jeans, boots and lumberjack shirt give him the air of someone who’s wandered into this swank hotel by mistake, a role I suspect he enjoys. He walks with a certain stiffness, as if he’d overdone some exercise or other, but there’s no indication that half his left leg is missing. He must be in his sixties at least but it doesn’t show. This man, I tell myself, is full of mischief.

  Malo fetches drinks from the bar, putting them on his dad’s account. Mitch is drinking Perrier, not a good sign, while Joe sips at a brimming pint of Guinness. We’re still discussing what might have happened to Mbaye when H appears. Both Malo and I can tell at once that he’s not in a good mood. When Malo gets him a chair he shakes his head. He says he’s asked for the function room again. No point hanging around.

  Mitch refuses to be hurried. He’s no longer pretending to be Larry Elliott and he’s deep in conversation with Joe. His diver friend seems to know a great deal about the way the tides work around this bit of the island and he’s still drawing lines on the tabletop with his huge forefinger when a waitress appears with a menu. Chef, she says, will be busy tonight with a coachload of Americans signed up for his tasting menu and would appreciate an early order. Heads bow around the table. H is first to make a choice. Fillet steak, rare.

  ‘What are pommes allumettes?’ he asks.

  When Mitch shrugs, Malo steps in.

  ‘String chips, Dad. You’ll love them.’

  The meal ordered, we follow H through to the function room. Use of this facility has been a recognition on the hotel’s part of the ordeal we’ve all been through but I sense their patience is wearing thin. This, of course, is lost on H.

  He sits us down. Shuts the door. In truth, I’m expecting the worst. This is the moment I’ve been dreading, the moment when the brittle civilities of the last few hours descend into something more visceral. H hates being taken for an idiot. The thin fiction of Larry Elliott was a serious mistake on Mitch’s part.

  ‘You’re Culligan, aren’t you? Just fucking admit it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The cunt that wrote the drivel in the Guardian.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why fanny around? Why all this Larry crap?’

  ‘Because I wanted to be on that boat when it left.’

  ‘And you thought I’d throw you off?’

  ‘That was a possibility, yes.’

  ‘You’re right, I might have done. But you know something else? I’d have been wrong. I had you down as a devious little bastard, the kind of twat who gets other people to front up and ask all those tricky questions you know I’d never answer direct. Spencer fucking Willoughby. UKIP. Stuff about the old days in Pompey. How I got all that money in the first place. What I do with it now. That was you talking to Enora, wasn’t it? That was you helping yourself, taking fucking liberties, taking fucking advantage. The poor bloody woman’s just been through brain fucking surgery and I bet you were there at her bedside. Flowers. Chocolates. What
ever. Am I getting warm here, my friend? Isn’t this the way it happened?’

  I risk a glance round the table. Malo is spellbound, his glass untouched. Joe Cassidy is studying those huge hands of his. H, I suspect, should really be in Berndt’s line of business. He has an instinctive nose for a compelling story well told. All the better if it happens to be true.

  Mitch clears his throat. He wants to say something. Or maybe he feels the need to defend himself. But either way it doesn’t much matter because H hasn’t finished.

  ‘So you made friends with her, right? You got her onside. And then you pointed her in my direction. What I need to know is why. That’s what’s been on my mind. That’s why I invited you over tonight. That’s what you’re doing here. I need you to spell it out to thick old me. I need you to explain what made all that effort worthwhile. Because one of the things you don’t seem to understand is that blokes like me go back awhile. We have history. We have mates. We’ve done stuff together. We’re like shit on the shovel. We stick by each other. And so when one of these mates comes to me and says there’s some numpty asking whether I’ve ever killed someone, not frightened them, not even hurt them, but fucking done a nut job on them, then I start to get seriously interested. Does that sound reasonable? Or am I the one taking liberties here?’

  He lets the question hang in the air. I’m looking hard at the ceiling, trying to affect indifference. Tony Morse. The night of the party. The conversation in the barn. And the question I popped afterwards. Not on my account but Mitch’s.

  Fuck.

  ‘So have you?’ This from Mitch.

  ‘Have I what?’

  ‘Killed anyone?’

  ‘No I haven’t. And even if I had, you’d be the last person I’d ever fucking tell. You’re doing some book, right? You want to make your name? You want to be famous? You want to be rich? I have no problem with any of that. But it’s not fame, is it? And it’s not even money. I know about you, Culligan. I know the kind of life you lead, the kind of company you keep. I know how to hurt you, too, but that’s a different story. What this is about is why. Why go to all this trouble? Why lean on Malo’s mum? Why put yourself in the fucking firing line? When all you’re guaranteed is grief?’