Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  I sit back a moment, overwhelmed. Then I force myself to watch again. Mbaye has been trapped by one foot in a gap between the rocks. The rest of his thin body hangs in the yellow light, gently moving in the current. His head is down, his chin on his chest, while his arms float free. Joe is circling the body. The boy’s eyes are closed and his mouth is slack. Those teeth, I keep thinking. The startling white of those teeth.

  Joe has frozen the image. He wants to be sure. Malo confirms it’s Mbaye. I nod, saying nothing. Joe closes the laptop. He’s buoyed the site and tomorrow he’ll inform the police.

  ‘So what happens?’ I ask. ‘To Mbaye?’

  ‘They’ll recover him at low tide. The weather should be OK. There’ll be a post-mortem, then an inquest. The body will belong to the Coroner. Once the legals are over, I imagine he’ll release it.’

  Release it. Not him. It.

  I get up and walk to the edge of the promenade where it drops away towards the beach. I want very badly to be alone. It’s dark now but in the throw of the seafront lights I can make out the shape of the old trawler on the shingle. I shut my eyes a moment. It takes nothing, no effort on my part, to be back on that heaving deck, with the waves roaring out of the darkness and nothing but fear in the pit of my stomach. I can feel the icy bite of the wind, hear the distant thunder of the surf, flinch at the crack of the sails, and then comes another image, altogether more comforting. That thin little figure at the wheel. How he took over. How clever he was. And how brave.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The same fisherman, with the aid of Joe and the police, recovers Mbaye the following day. Malo, H, and I are on hand when the grim little party carries the grey body bag up the beach towards the waiting undertaker’s van. H has spent an anguished evening at the hotel trying to decide what to do next. When I tell him that an inquest could be months away he doesn’t seem to be listening. He needs to put the lad to rest.

  It’s Malo who suggests a local funeral and then maybe cremation. We could scatter the ashes at sea. We could buy an urn, something nice, and find somewhere suitable to keep it. I like this idea but when I suggest Flixcombe, H shakes his head.

  ‘We have to take him home,’ he says. ‘We have to take him back to his own people.’

  This is easier said than done. All we have is a Christian name. No passport. No home address. No next of kin. Just Mbaye’s word that he came from a big family in a fishing village near Dakar. All too sadly, Mbaye is just one in a squillion young refugees jumping on smugglers’ trucks and disappearing north. If H really wants to find his family, just where do we start?

  To this question H has no answer. We’re in the hotel bar, having a night cap. H is staring glumly at his glass of malt when he suddenly brightens.

  ‘Son?’

  Malo is on his smart phone, scrolling through his emails. He doesn’t look up.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘It’s gonna be down to you. Your project. Your call. I’ll fund it. I’ll pick up the costs. You find the boy’s folks. Deal?’

  Malo nods. He’s replying to one of the emails.

  ‘Deal,’ he says absently.

  I return to London the next day while H and Malo drive west to Flixcombe. All three of us have left our contact details with the police who will forward them to the Coroner. In due course, explains the desk sergeant, the Coroner’s Officer will be in touch to get statements from each of us. We may also be summoned to attend the inquest. When H pushes for some kind of date, the sergeant shrugs. Could be a while, he says. Sad business, all these young lads.

  In London, I pick up the threads of my former life. The events of the past week or so have made a far bigger impact than I ever anticipated and the more time slips by, the harder it is to rid my mind of some of the more vivid images. We could all have gone down with that boat, every single one of us, H, Malo and me, a little gene pool wiped out forever, and the more I think about this the gladder I am that we all managed to pull through. None of us are perfect, least of all H, but I like belonging to these people. They’ve brought colour and a whiff of something dangerous into my life, and that matters a great deal. H, very much on the mend now, also makes me laugh. Which I suspect is just as important.

  Towards the end of November, Mitch gets back in touch. At his suggestion we meet at an Indian restaurant in Clerkenwell. He arrives late but I’m still pleased to see him. He tells me that Sayid has been back home for a while now and is almost completely recovered. Last week, for the first time, he put on his Nikes and managed a gentle mile and a half around the block. Next week, God willing, he’ll try and make it to Blackheath. Only towards the end of the meal do I raise the issue of the book. Mitch has already told me that he’s been working all hours to meet a deadline on a major piece on Universal Credit. After that he fancies something ecological. Scientists have reported a seventy-five per cent wipe-out of insects in nature reserves across Germany. This appears to be down to the widespread use of pesticides. If something similar is happening here the longer-term consequences to life on earth could be catastrophic.

  This is the old Mitch, the crusading doomster who stepped into my life with the offer of breakfast and changed pretty much everything.

  ‘And the book?’ I ask.

  ‘Book?’

  ‘Brexit? UKIP? All of us fucked?’

  Mitch shakes his head. This is a question he’s probably anticipated but doesn’t much like. He mumbles something about the cowardice of publishers in general and his in particular. Not his fault. Theirs.

  ‘So what’s happened?’

  ‘They pulled out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They said it was legally imprudent to carry on.’

  ‘Imprudent? How does that work?’

  ‘Prentice threatened to sue. They also had calls.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘They never knew but that wasn’t the point. These people were promising to set them on fire and they believed them.’

  ‘You mean arson? Torching the premises?’

  ‘Murder. Torching them.’

  ‘Shit. Didn’t you try any other publishers?’

  ‘Of course I did. Same story. Publishing’s a small world.’

  ‘You mean they’re frightened?’

  ‘Terrified. Game, set and match to your H. Will all that stuff ever see the light of day? I doubt it. Not between hard covers. Does that matter? Of course it does. But there comes a time when you realize that no one cares, not out there where they should. Same old story. Shit wages. Shit telly. Shit lives. What else is there? Fuck all. Because nothing matters.’

  Because nothing matters. This is resignation on stilts which must be tough for Mitch.

  ‘So is that it? All that research? All that work? Having sources like me passing out on you over breakfast?’

  Mitch offers me a tight smile. He’s not a good loser and it shows.

  ‘There’s a satirical rag based in Paris I’ve been talking to,’ he says. ‘Le Canard enchaîné. You may even have heard of it. They’re braver than our lot and they might stretch to some kind of serialization. I think they want to stick it to les rosbifs and who can blame them. A French publication telling the truth about the Brexit lot?’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s beyond irony.’

  I nod. Le Canard enchaîné is venerated by certain sections of the French intelligentsia but its readership is tiny. If Mitch has been dreaming of mass-market sales figures, he’s about to be disappointed. I want to sympathize but when I reach for his hand he flinches. He has no idea what’s coming next and he finds that alarming.

  ‘Don’t be frightened.’ I’m smiling at him. ‘I just want to say thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For H.’ I give his hand a squeeze. ‘And for Malo.’

  In early December, bad news arrives from Montréal. Everything is on schedule for location filming to begin shortly after Christmas, but the principal backer, for reasons that no one can fathom, has suddenly pulled out. The shoot has therefore be
en postponed indefinitely until other funding is in place.

  ‘Are we dead in the water?’ I ask Rosa on the phone. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘We are, my precious,’ she says. ‘But something very interesting has just popped up in Belgrade.’

  She doesn’t volunteer any further information and I don’t ask because I’ve long trusted this woman with looking after my best interests. Either a script will arrive in due course or it won’t. Whatever happens, I have more important things on my mind.

  My three-month check is due this same week. I attend first for an MRI scan. I’ve been through this procedure before and there’s a real feeling of coming full circle as I make myself comfortable on the scanner table and allow the assistants to slide me into the machine. The next forty-five minutes are painless but incredibly noisy. It’s important to keep your head still and I try very hard to remember what a yoga teacher once told me about trying to imagine every inch of my body in fierce detail. I’ve got as far as my left knee when the machine is switched off and I’m free to go.

  I return to the hospital three days later. My neurosurgeon has had a cancellation on an earlier patient and he’s waiting for me at his office door when I arrive. He invites me in and we sit down. My MRI scan is already hanging on his white board. He asks me how I’ve been recently and seems surprised when I say fine. He scribbles himself a note and then directs my attention to a darkish area around the site of the first operation. The news, he says, is not good. These are still early days but there appears to be an indication that the tumour has returned.

  ‘Really?’ I’m still looking at the scan. I don’t feel the least bit shocked, or even disappointed. Just curious.

  I ask him why this might have happened. He says he can’t be sure. Maybe he didn’t excise enough of the diseased brain tissue. Maybe we’re dealing with a brand-new bunch of rogue cells. Either way there are decisions to be made.

  ‘You want to operate again?’

  ‘Not really. Not unless I absolutely have to. We’ll try radiotherapy first. And a couple of cycles of chemo.’

  I have a fear of chemo. Too many friends of mine have emerged from treatment with horror stories about hair loss, throwing up, and industrial strength exhaustion. My neurosurgeon is nice enough to assure me that the drugs are getting better every week. So far, to my relief, he hasn’t mentioned the Grim Reaper.

  ‘So when do you want all this to start?’

  He consults his calendar. Christmas is fast approaching. Best, he says, to leave it until the New Year.

  ‘Is that OK with you?’ He’s on his feet already, his hand outstretched.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘Something to look forward to.’

  I walk the three miles home, partly to test my newfound resilience in the face of bad medical news, and partly because I don’t want any kind of company. I’ve learned a great deal about myself over the past few months and one of the conclusions I’ve drawn is the need to be ruthless about time. Time, in the end, is all we’ve got. And when someone in the know suggests it might be limited, it’s better to spend it wisely.

  I get home mid-afternoon. I know that Malo and H have been out in Senegal these last couple of weeks, trying to locate Mbaye’s family. Malo has taken a couple of screen grabs from his smart phone, shots of Mbaye he took on the boat, and armed with these he and his dad have been driving along the coast from village to village, trying to find someone who might recognize the boy.

  Malo, bless him, has been phoning me every other day with what began as progress reports but as the calls got shorter it became obvious that neither of them were falling in love with West Africa. On the one occasion I found myself talking to H, he left little to the imagination. The people were OK, he said, but there were far too many of them. Dakar was a shit heap and some of the outer townships were worse. Malo had had a run-in with a rogue prawn and spewed his guts out for forty-eight hours. The weather was too hot, even in December, and they were both sweating like a bastard by midday.

  ‘It’s costing me a fortune,’ he said before handing me back to Malo. ‘And that’s just for a new fucking shirt every morning.’

  Now, I phone Malo. They’ve been back at Flixcombe since last night, plenty of time to recover. The phone rings and rings until my son finally picks up.

  ‘Mum?’ he says. ‘Is that you?’

  It’s lovely to hear his voice. We haven’t talked for nearly a week. I ask him how he is.

  ‘Great. Knackered but OK.’

  ‘Stomach all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He badly wants to tell me about the back end of the trip, what they got up to those last few days in Senegal, but I ask him to save it.

  ‘For what? For when?’

  ‘For tomorrow,’ I say, ‘if you can make it. Maybe the day after if you can’t.’

  ‘Make what? What is this?’

  I tell him I have a little expedition in mind. I want him, need him, to carve out a couple of days in his busy, busy life.

  ‘What for? Where?’

  ‘The Isle of Wight.’

  ‘Is this the inquest? Have they brought it forward?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s got nothing to do with the inquest. They’re talking the New Year now. It could still be months away.’

  ‘Then what’s up? Why the island?’

  I’m not prepared to say. All I want him to do is promise to meet me at Portsmouth either tomorrow or the next day. The weather forecast is glorious. We’ll take the ferry to the island. We’ll travel by bus or cab. We’ll be away for one night. Then he’ll be back home again.

  Something in my voice must have told him to say yes because the barrage of questions abruptly comes to a halt. He agrees to meet me at Portsmouth Harbour station around noon tomorrow.

  ‘Are you sure that’s OK?’ I ask him.

  ‘That’s fine, Mum. Twelve o’clock. Skinny guy. Quite suntanned.’

  Next morning he’s waiting for me on the platform at the harbour station. Expecting us to take the catamaran across the Solent to Ryde, he steers me towards the main exit. Outside I pause to admire the view. Last time I was here it was pouring with rain and I was about to embark on Persephone. Now, under a cloudless sky, sunshine dances on the big, blue expanse of the harbour. A tug fusses around a huge warship. A pair of yachts motor slowly towards the harbour mouth. Flags flutter and snap in the wind.

  Malo is tugging me away. Time, it seems, is short.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The car ferry.’

  We’ve come to a halt. I’m looking down at a smart Audi convertible, dark blue. It looks brand new.

  ‘This is yours?’

  ‘Yeah. Present from Dad. I think he wanted to make up for all the hassle on the boat.’

  We get in. Firm leather seats. Fancy audio set-up. Even a camera at the back for getting out of tight spots, doubtless invaluable if you happen to be a son of H.

  ‘Like it?’ Malo is beaming.

  ‘Love it. What time does the ferry go?’

  We drive to the car ferry terminus. As the ferry slips her moorings and rumbles towards the harbour mouth, we’re both on the upper deck, enjoying the sunshine. From here, we have a perfect view of the Camber Dock.

  Malo spots her first. ‘There, Mum.’

  I follow his pointing finger. Persephone is tied up at her usual spot beside the harbour wall. Nothing I can see from the ferry would give me the slightest clue to the trauma she’s been through. A line of washing from the doghouse aft indicates that someone must still be aboard. I look a little harder. Skimpy black knickers. A child-size T-shirt. Definitely Suranne. The ferry is making a turn now and as the old trawler begins to disappear I linger as long as I can on the big wooden steering wheel aft. Mbaye, I think. My last ever glimpse of him alive.

  An hour later, we’re bumping off the ferry boat ramp in Fishbourne. Malo gets rid of the roof and I settle down for the ride. The seats have electric heating. I feel glad, and cosseted, and very much al
ive. I’m also within touching distance of the most important man in my life, a bonus I’ve only ever dreamed about.

  I’ve asked Malo to take us to Ventnor. We drive down through the town and park on the promenade. It’s low tide. The beach is empty apart from a couple walking a dog and I fancy I can see an indentation in the pebbles where Persephone came to rest. Malo laughs and tells me I’m making it up. He’s shading his eyes against the slant of winter sunshine. I suspect he thinks we’re going to The Imperial. He’s wrong.

  ‘Freshwater Bay,’ I say.

  ‘Freshwater what?’

  ‘Bay.’

  ‘Anywhere in particular?’

  ‘The Farringford.’

  He punches the word into his sat nav, grunting with satisfaction when the directions appear. Then he pauses.

  ‘I’ve heard that word before,’ he says. ‘Recently.’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘You made a film there? Am I right? When you were playing the photographer’s model?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I’m delighted. Half my work is done. I want to draw my precious son to the very heart of me, the very middle of me, and this is the perfect start.

  The sun is beginning to set as we head west. The road follows the line of chalk cliffs that stretch way out towards The Needles. At any time of year this is a spectacular journey but in mid-winter, in weather like this, it feels ultra special. We have the road to ourselves. At every next bend, with no sign of traffic, I’m starting to wonder whether we have the entire island to ourselves. Away to the right, on rising ground, the green smudge of a forest. On our left, still blue, still lightly flecked with waves, that same English Channel that nearly killed us. Ahead, softened by the haze on the far horizon, the dying orb of the sun.