Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  Dimly, through the fog of obscenities, I begin to understand H’s drift. Deep down, he’s asking exactly the same question I put to Mitch after we left Sayid’s bedside that first time at the hospital. What, when you peel everything else away, really matters?

  ‘We’re talking motivation, right?’ Mitch is toying with his Perrier.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then it’s simple. I do what I do because I believe in certain things. They include all the stuff about liberty and the rule of law we’re lazy enough to take for granted. Just now the wreckers are at work. You’re one of them, big-time. You’re not at the sharpest end. That’s for the politicians. But you help make it happen. Whether you realize the consequences of what you’re doing, I dunno. In one way it probably doesn’t matter because when the shit really hits the fan you and your rich mates will clean up. What’s round the corner for the rest of us, millions and millions of us, is immaterial. We’ll get poorer, just like the country. We’ll lose interest in what really matters because we’ll all wake up one morning and realize that we’ve been suckered, that we’re helpless, that there’s sod-all we can do, that we’re in the hands of a bunch of gangsters who call themselves politicians but who couldn’t care a toss. In posh-speak we’re collateral damage. But in real life we’re fucked.’

  I resist the temptation to applaud. H, I suspect, is losing the plot.

  ‘This is about UKIP?’

  ‘Partly, yes.’

  ‘Me and UKIP? Bunging them all that moolah?’

  ‘Of course. Along with others.’

  ‘But UKIP were always a joke.’

  ‘Then why support them?’

  ‘Because that way we could give all you posh twats a poke in the fucking eye.’

  ‘Just for the fun of it.’

  ‘Of course. What else is there?’

  What else is there? Brilliant. I’m back at Flixcombe, back at the party, back watching a roomful of grown men weeping to Tina Turner. H, by accident or design, has got to the very heart of it. In a world growing more complex by the nanosecond, we’re all helpless. All we can do, all we can manage, is to try and raise our voices, try and make a fuss, crack a joke, get briefly in the face of the people who make things happen. What else is there? Clever man. Clever, clever man.

  So far, Joe Cassidy hasn’t said a word. His glass is empty. He pushes it towards Malo who nods and leaves the room. Then he turns to Mitch.

  ‘You know about me,’ he says. ‘And the proof’s there in that book of yours. It was excellent. It was a terrific job. It even made me sound half-interesting. My wife, if she was still around, would have loved it. You listened to what I had to say about my Navy days, about all those Falklands dits, about clearance diving, about setting up in business afterwards, and all this is all the more remarkable to me because I wasn’t altogether honest with you. There was stuff I never talked about. Stuff I withheld. Stuff that might make better sense on an evening like this.’

  ‘Like what?’ Mitch is watching him carefully.

  ‘Like the Falklands War. You’re a journalist. You guys love stories. We all know that. You also happen to have a bit of an agenda and that was obvious, too. So when you asked about certain incidents, I was happy to tell you what you wanted to know.’

  ‘We’re talking Sheffield?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There’s a moment of silence. I haven’t a clue what these two are talking about. Did the Argies bomb South Yorkshire?

  H comes to my rescue. He’s word-perfect on the details. He tells me that HMS Sheffield was the first Royal Navy ship to go down in the war. She was hit by an Exocet missile which set her on fire and killed twenty blokes. Everyone knew there were fuck-ups, because that’s what happens in every war, but at the time the papers were full of our brave lads doing their best in the face of the enemy.

  I ask Joe whether he was on the Sheffield. He says yes. He also says that fuck-ups were the order of the day. The ship wasn’t prepared for a missile attack because no one could properly understand the huge intelligence assessment that had recently arrived onboard. The key warfare officer didn’t believe the Argie aircraft had the range to launch any missiles. When a warning came from a neighbouring warship, this officer was having coffee in the wardroom while another was taking a leak. That left just two juniors on the bridge, neither of whom had a clue what to do.

  According to Joe they just stared at the incoming missiles. No evasive action. No turning towards the threat to minimize the bulk of the ship. Just a huge bang in the galley and bodies and smoke everywhere.

  ‘Shit.’ This from H.

  ‘Exactly. Mitch asked all the right questions. He knew we’d fucked up. But I never told him how bad things really were. Shiny Sheff was just one example. I could give you hundreds more.’

  Mitch nods. He’s beginning to look uncomfortable. H wants to know what any of this has to do with what we’ve been talking about.

  ‘Everything.’ Joe again. ‘My point is simple. I’ve been around a bit. I watch. I listen. I remember. I pick things up. I join the dots. And what I learn tells me that government, big government, isn’t too clever. They get far too many things wrong, far too often. After I left the Navy I went into business. Business teaches you everything. It teaches you to stand on your own two feet. It teaches you to get things right. And unless you do that you’ll end up like Sheff, burned out, sunk, abandoned, royally fucked. So Mr Prentice here is more right than we might think. If this is about Brexit then you’re looking at someone who voted yes. Why? Because it puts us back where we belong. On our own two feet.’

  Another speech. H is looking at Joe with something close to wonderment.

  ‘Shit,’ he says quietly. ‘Why aren’t there any politicians like you?’

  The door opens. In comes Malo with a pint of Guinness. Joe contemplates it for a moment and then asks what everyone else is drinking. I know from Mitch’s face that he’s itching to get stuck in again, to argue his case, to paint H as the bad guy, to make all the important points about the imperfections of democracy and the threat of the Deep State and the power of money and all the rest of it, but H has another idea. He leans across and puts his thick fingers on Mitch’s forearm.

  ‘There’s one thing I never mentioned,’ he growls. ‘It took guts to get on that boat in France, no matter what fucking name you used. Believe it or not, I admired that and I still do. All the rest of what you’re about is total bollocks and one day we’ll meet in the street or some fucking place and you’ll admit it, but for now let’s get some serious drinking in.’ He glances across at Malo. ‘Son?’

  Malo is well trained but I think he needs some help. I follow him out of the function room and back to the bar. It takes no time at all to organize four bottles of Moët. By the time we’re making our way back towards the function room I can hear laughter through the half-open door.

  Malo pops the first bottle and I’m on hand with the glasses. Joe is sticking to Guinness.

  ‘A toast?’ I suggest.

  H nods. ‘Here’s to our little black fucker.’ He raises his glass. ‘Wherever he might be.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The following morning, I have an early breakfast with Mitch at a cafe in Ventnor. The invitation has come from him and I’ve been very happy to accept. Joe, he says, has gone to talk to a local fisherman about the recent storm and about a reef along the coast. Later he’ll take a look at the foreshore, hire a dive boat, and decide where to start.

  ‘You think he’ll find the boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘Yes. Nothing that man has ever told me has ever been wrong.’

  ‘Except by omission.’

  ‘Of course. But even then, I can see his point. He knew what I was after at the time and he gave me enough to make the book work but there were other issues in play.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Loyalty.’

  ‘To?’

  ‘The Navy, I guess. It wasn’t
perfect but these were blokes he loved.’

  This, from Mitch, is a major concession. Flesh and blood trumping Mitch’s headlong gallop towards the truth.

  ‘And last night? Brexit? All that?’

  ‘He has his point of view. He’s wrong, of course, but I’d never question his right to believe it.’

  ‘And H?’

  ‘H is different.’

  I’m staring at him. This is the first time Mitch has called Hayden Prentice by his nickname. H. Progress indeed.

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘Different because I’m sure he did kill someone. His name was Darren Atkins. I can’t prove it and there’s no way H will ever discuss it, but the circumstantial evidence is pretty convincing. The guy disappeared, just went off the radar. He’d stitched up a guy called Mackenzie on a big consignment of cocaine. He’d brought it in from Aruba and about two hundred grands’ worth had gone missing. He blamed it on the Colombians, who’d sold it in the first place, but Mackenzie knew that was bollocks. It turned out Mackenzie was right. He had H and a couple of other guys turn Atkins’ place over. They found the stash in a lock-up in the north of the city after they’d had a little talk. No one ever saw him again. Apart from the remains of a left foot washed up on Southsea beach. Atkins used to be a decent footballer in his day. Always scored with his left foot.’

  Mackenzie. Aruba. A little talk. And the signature warning on the wet pebbles for any apprentice drug runner with similar ambitions.

  ‘Bazza,’ I say softly. ‘And a guy called Wesley Kane.’

  ‘You know about this?’ Mitch has stopped eating.

  ‘Of course I do. I’m part of it now, whether I like it or not.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like it?’

  I give the question some thought. As ever I prefer the subjunctive mood to anything truly decisive.

  ‘I might,’ I say. ‘It depends.’

  It’s mid-morning before Joe has the information he needs about the reef. Malo has acquired a boat from a local crab fisherman and Joe drives his van down to the promenade to offload all his gear. I help him and Malo carry the heavy equipment down to the waiting crabber while H looks on. According to Malo, his dad awoke with a thumping headache but a pint or two of water and a Percocet from yours truly seem to have done the trick.

  Aside from the boat’s owner, there’s only room for three aboard. H and I find a seat on the prom while Joe strips to his swimming trunks. He wears a false leg below his left knee and we watch him perched on the side of the boat while Malo helps him with the dive suit. Next comes the heavy cylinder of compressed air, a weight belt, and a single fin. Joe’s helmet has a built in LCD light with an attached camera. According to the crabber’s skipper, the set of the offshore current at the time we speared into the beach would have taken Mbaye away to the east, towards the reef. After his walk along the foreshore, Joe has already decided on his first dive site. Now he pivots on the thwart and makes himself comfortable while Malo gives the boat a shove seawards and hops in. Moments later, Malo gives us a wave and then they’re off.

  H and I watch them in silence until the boat disappears. The carpenters from Pompey are at work on the trawler and from time to time the sound of their hammering echoes around the shallow curl of the bay. It’s grey and miserable and there’s a dampness in the air. H is wrapped in the big sea-going jacket he wore for the crossing. I think he’s cold. I think he wants to go back to the hotel.

  ‘Tell me about Sayid Abdulrahman,’ I say. ‘Did you do that yourself? Or did you leave it to someone else?’

  H doesn’t answer. He’s staring out to sea. I put the question again. And I tell him he owes me an answer.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know that man. And what you did should never have happened. It was horrible. It was worse than horrible. It was evil.’

  H nods. He appears to agree but I can sense there’s no way he’s going to take this conversation any further. For a few minutes we sit in total silence, watching the men at work on the trawler. Finally I try another name.

  ‘Darren Atkins,’ I say softly. ‘Tell me about him.’

  For a moment H doesn’t react. He’s still hunched on the bench, hands dug deep in the pockets of the jacket.

  ‘You’ve been talking to Culligan,’ he says at last. Statement, not question.

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘How much did he tell you?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Enough for what?’

  ‘Enough to make me wonder.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And? Supposing whatever he said is true?’

  I shut my eyes. This is typical. I’m on the back foot. Again.

  ‘He thinks you killed him,’ I say carefully. ‘All I want is a yes or a no.’

  ‘And if it’s a yes? Will you go running off and tell Culligan?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘So what difference will it make? To you and me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  This isn’t the answer he wants. He seems pained by it as if I’ve somehow let him down. He’s about to ask me something else, to maybe take the conversation in a new direction, but then he has second thoughts.

  He stirs on the bench and then struggles to his feet. I’m looking up at him.

  ‘So is that a yes?’ I ask. ‘You’re telling me you killed a man?’

  He gazes down at me for a long moment and I realize how much the last few days have taken out of him. He looks haunted, gaunt, somehow diminished. The last thing he needs is me on his case.

  ‘I’m going back to the hotel,’ he grunts. ‘Bell me if they find the kid.’

  Joe and Malo return a couple of hours later. I’ve walked the length of the promenade twice and had a brief conversation with an elderly woman in a motorized buggy who very much liked a movie I did a couple of years ago. I’ve also made contact with Rosa in case she’s picked up news of our adventures on Persephone. It turns out she hasn’t but insists on a full report. I tell her most of it but skip the bit about Mbaye. My description of taking the wheel at the height of the storm has her in fits of laughter. I gave her a lift once when I was driving a little 2CV and she got out after less than a mile. We agree to talk again as soon as word comes from Montréal on the Canadian movie and before she hangs up she gives me a transmission date for the radio play.

  ‘The male lead’s been in touch,’ she adds as an afterthought. ‘He wants your contact details.’

  ‘Tell him nothing,’ I say.

  Now, I hurry down the beach to meet the boat. Malo hops off and hands me a rope. Joe needs something from his van, parked up on the promenade. The first dive was fruitless and he had to abort the second because his regulator was malfunctioning. Waiting for Malo, Joe and I have a brief conversation. He says that visibility is better on the reef than he anticipated after the heavy weather. He has three more dive sites in mind, with a day in hand, after which the search might get problematic. I’m still wondering quite what this might mean when Malo returns with a replacement regulator. Seconds later, after a hefty push from yours truly, they’re off again.

  By now it’s early afternoon. I make contact with Mitch, who is en route back to an important meeting in London, and confirm that so far we haven’t found any trace of Mbaye. Then I find a seafront cafe with a view of the beach and settle down in front of a bowl of lentil soup.

  My last conversation with H has disturbed me. I know I should never forgive him for what happened to Sayid, but even so I seem to have succumbed to something I find difficult to describe. Charm is too feeble a word. H himself would hate it. A kind of animal magnetism comes closer. This is a man with total self-belief, a man for whom life holds no fears. That makes him brave, as well as reckless, and it also makes him very rare. Like it or not, thanks to Malo, Hayden Prentice has become part of me. Never, I realize with a sudden jolt of surprise, have I regretted that evening in
Antibes.

  Leaving the cafe, I walk to the hotel to check that he’s OK. I can’t find him anywhere and when I enquire at reception the girl tells me he’s retired for a nap. Strictly no calls, she says. I nod and return to the beach. This is worrying. H never naps.

  By the time the boat returns for the second time, I’ve nearly given up waiting. A low duvet of cloud has hung over us all day and by half past four it’s getting dark. I hear the boat before I see it, a putter-putter growing louder by the second. I walk down to the waterline, aware of the presence of Persephone on the shingle. The carpenters are doing a fine job on the gash but are now packing up. Queen of the Underworld, I think. As sorry-looking and beached as H.

  The moment I see the expression on Malo’s face, I know the news isn’t good. He’s crouched in the bow, ready with the line, but there’s a tightness in his mouth that tells me everything I need to know.

  ‘You’ve found him?’

  He nods, throws me the rope. Joe has the underwater footage. There’s a laptop in his van. We all need to watch.

  I accompany Joe and Malo back up the beach, helping with the equipment. Joe has strapped on his false leg and manages the pebbles better than me. At the van I wait on the pavement while Joe stows the gear. I’m wondering whether to try and put a call through to H but before I can make any decision Joe emerges with his laptop. He’s transferred the footage.

  All three of us settle on a nearby bench. Joe opens the laptop and finds the footage. The camera is built into his dive helmet and acts like a second pair of eyes. The image on the screen is pin-sharp and I watch, fascinated, as he takes a final look at the crabber and then submerges. Light drains from the screen as he swims deeper until he triggers his LCD and suddenly we’re above the reef in a world of yellows and dark greens. Sediment hangs in the water. Tiny creatures drift past. Then comes a glimpse of a pocket of sand as he touches the bottom. Ahead is a wall of darkness. Slowly, stroke by stroke, I can make out the shape of individual rocks, heavily barnacled. I see a starfish. Something brown with big eyes. A torn fragment of fishing net, a bright synthetic orange. Joe is moving slowly along the outer wall of the reef. His passage stirs tiny plumes of sand from the bottom. Then, very dimly, I sense a different shape, softer, slowly coming into focus. This has to be him, I think. And I’m right.