Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Salut.’ I raise my glass. ‘Here’s to Aretha.’

  The drunk won’t leave me alone. Malo, bless him, shoots me a glance but I shake my head. Let’s hear the man out.

  ‘You really like her?’

  ‘I love her.’

  ‘You want to hear the real thing?’

  ‘I thought she was dead.’

  ‘Sure. But it might be your lucky night. My pleasure.’

  He gives me a full-on grin and then turns to make his way to a nearby table. The house lights are up now and I’ve got a feeling that one of the four men sitting round the table has been watching me. He’s got to be a year or two beyond middle age. He’s physically big, broad-chested, but unlike most of the men in this bar he’s carrying not an ounce of fat. He’s wearing a scuffed leather jacket that I like on sight. Add the white T-shirt, the baggy jeans, and the tiny nod of acknowledgement, and I’m undeniably impressed. Strong face. Good eyes, deeply set. Broken nose. Acceptable buzz cut.

  My drunk pauses beside him, bends to his ear, and starts a conversation. I know it involves yours truly because the guy at the table doesn’t take his eyes off me. At length, he checks his watch and nods. I haven’t a clue what happens next but it’s a tribute to first impressions that I can’t wait to find out.

  ‘Mum?’ Malo gives me the wine. When he enquires whether the drunk is a problem, I shake my head.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Salut … and thank you.’

  The wine is foul. Thin? Sour? Imbuvable? There isn’t an adjective in the world that would do it justice. Malo, solicitous to a fault, offers to get me something else. I shake my head. The wine goes with the venue, and with the last act. I’m more interested in the man at the table.

  He finishes what looks like a glass of Guinness and gets to his feet. A woman beside the stage appears to be the guardian of the open mic. They have a brief conversation before the woman nods, stands on her tiptoes, and kisses him on the mouth. Marché conclu, I think. Deal done.

  Mr Leather Jacket has found my face at the back of the room. Another nod. For me. Then, again from nowhere, the drunk is back with us. I’ve misjudged this man. Maybe he isn’t as pissed as he looks. Or maybe he’s simply a gentleman. Either way he’s returned to impart a single piece of information.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a name,’ he says. ‘We all call him Deko.’

  I nod. In any other circumstances I might blush but tonight, here and now, I don’t care. Malo has been a dream. We’re on the way to finding young Mr Moonie. Time to celebrate.

  The house lights dim again. The sight of Deko, spotlit, at the mic sparks a roar of approval. He takes his time, waiting for the room to settle. ‘Over the Rainbow’ isn’t an Aretha original but she’s given it the full soul treatment and to me it’s become a favourite. When things got very bad between me and my ex-husband, I’d wait until he’d stormed out and slammed the door before clearing up the shards of broken glass and sponging the wine stains out of the sofa. Only then would I find the track I wanted on my precious vinyl. Aretha Franklin’s voice, the space she made for me to hide and recover, offered both solace and the strength to carry on.

  Singing it here, unaccompanied, a teary, plaintive, beautiful song in front of a bar full of drunken men, is a very brave move indeed, but from the opening bars, this man absolutely has it nailed. His pitch, his control, the texture of his voice, the way he never has to strain for the high notes, sweeps me away. Half-close my eyes and he could be Van Morrison on a wet night in Belfast. Yep, that good.

  This time, the moment he brings the song to an end, the applause is richly earned. Even Malo is whooping, and when Deko steps off the stage and makes his way towards us, my son is the first to congratulate him.

  ‘Glastonbury,’ he says. ‘The Pyramid Stage. I’ll book you in.’

  ‘You’re very kind, my friend. Do they pay, by any chance?’

  ‘Trillions.’ This from me. ‘Squillions. And you’re not even drunk.’

  ‘How do you know?’ He’s smiling now.

  ‘I don’t. My son’s always first to the bar. What would you like?’

  I’m rarely this bold but surviving a brain tumour teaches you a number of lessons, and the most important is to trust your instincts.

  As if by magic, Deko has found a table at the back. This is far from private, but Malo has the tact to leave us to it. He’s still watching from the bar, making sure I’m OK, but he’s sensed that something special may be happening. My lovely, lovely boy.

  He arrives with a Guinness for Deko, and a white wine for me. The wine, he admits at once, is a punt but nothing could be worse than the red. Deko is looking up at him.

  ‘Your mother?’ He nods in my direction.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘An actress, right? Movies?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The last one I saw was Arpeggio.’ He’s talking to me now. ‘Superb.’

  Malo beats a discreet retreat. For once, I can’t think of anything coherent to say. This man has a physical presence that is close to overwhelming. Everything about him – the way he sits at the table, the way he holds my gaze – oozes confidence. This man, I know for certain, has led a life or two. And it shows.

  Hands have always fascinated me. I choose to believe they can tell you a great deal and Deko’s hands are a perfect example. They’re big, well cared for, trimmed nails, no rings, but they’re working hands as well, with a hint of callous when he spreads one or other to make a point or reach for his drink. Even more telling is a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. It’s hard to tell in this light but it looks like a plant of some sort.

  He spots my interest at once and pulls up his sleeve.

  ‘You want a proper look?’ For the first time, I detect just a hint of a foreign accent. German? Scandinavian? I don’t know.

  I take his wrist in my hand. On the upper side, an interesting down of faintly ginger hair. On the softer white flesh beneath his thumb, the tattoo.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A peanut bush. In Holland, we call it pinda.’

  ‘You’re Dutch?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Living here?’

  ‘Of course. You make it sound like a sin. Or maybe a mistake. It’s neither. It’s my home. And it makes me very happy.’

  He has the courtesy, or maybe the intelligence, to turn the spotlight back on me. He wants to know about Arpeggio, about what it’s like to make movies like this, about translating the deadness of words on paper into something living, something seemingly real, something that will keep a bunch of strangers rooted to their seats, something that might even change a life or two. Very few people in this world have a talent for listening, but Deko is very, very good at it. Not only does he listen but the kind of comments he slips in tell me he absolutely understands what I’m trying to say. This, too, is amazingly rare, and by the time Malo drifts back to the table I feel that I know this man.

  Malo plainly thinks it’s time to go, and Deko is the first to get to his feet. Already, I’ve told him about Pavel, a true god when it comes to movie scripts, and I’ve told him he’s welcome any time if he fancies a bedside chat. A smile and a nod have confirmed his interest but to my faint disappointment he doesn’t press me for an address or even a mobile number.

  ‘Exmouth’s a funny place,’ he says before extending a hand. ‘Enjoy.’

  I watch him making his way back to his friends. En route, he pauses to chat to a number of others. There’s lots of physical contact which seems unforced, both with men and women, and I like that. Something tells me this man has the gifts of a politician, or perhaps a priest, as well as a soul singer, and it’s only when Malo takes me by the arm that I consent to head for the door.

  Out in the street, it’s still raining. We’re fifty metres down the road before Malo brings me to a halt.

  ‘So what the fuck was all that about?’ he asks.

  I grin
at him. I don’t have an answer but for once it doesn’t seem to matter.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I tell him. ‘Does that make any sense?’

  EIGHT

  Next day, which happens to be a Sunday, I’m in Exeter by eight o’clock in the morning. Malo went online when we got back from the pub and has given me a list of city hostels. Just after dawn, when I creep into the lounge, he’s fast asleep on the sofa and I don’t have the heart to wake him up. Logic tells me I have a better chance of getting to Moonie if I arrive early and I’m very happy to get in my car and do this thing by myself.

  The first two hostels are a disappointment. Neither St Julian’s House nor St Petroc’s have ever laid eyes on a sixteen-year-old in the blue football top with braces on his teeth. Good luck. Try elsewhere. On my third attempt, thankfully, I get a result.

  St Christoph’s lies in a busy road between the city centre and the football stadium. It’s a converted chapel, maybe Presbyterian, with a fuggy smell of unwashed bodies and a faint hint of joss sticks. A half-open door takes me into a communal dining room where half a dozen men of indeterminate age are watching TV over bowls of cereal. No one appears to be in charge but from what I can gather from the oldest of the men around the table, the hostel is better than most and last night – yes – they had space in the main dormitory for a young man wearing a blue football top with braces on his teeth.

  When I ask for a name, the man says he hasn’t a clue. ‘Never seen him before in my life. Kept his head down. Read a book most of the evening. Didn’t say a word to anyone. Wasn’t interested in this morning’s breakfast. Gone by half seven.’

  ‘Was he wearing trackie bottoms by any chance?’

  ‘Yeah. They all do, the kids.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Grey.’

  I nod. The law of probability tells me this has to be Moonie. At this point, blue smoke begins to curl upwards from a toaster on a trolley by the door. The smell of burning sparks no interest at the battered refectory table. All eyes are on the Sara Cox Show where a reporter against a desert background is trying to explain how to sew suicide vests.

  I get to my feet, but a woman has appeared to deal with the toaster. She’s wearing a saffron-orange shift over black jeans. She looks like a refugee from an ashram and is barefoot on the wooden parquet floor. Her nails are painted black and she sports an assortment of silver toe rings. For a moment I assume that she, too, has stayed the night. Wrong.

  She unplugs the toaster and upends it over a tray, trying not to burn her fingers.

  ‘Bloody thing,’ she says. ‘One day it’ll be the death of us.’

  No one stirs around the table. When I offer to help, she shakes her head. She wants to know who I am, how I got in. Light Irish accent.

  ‘I walked through the front door.’

  ‘Did you phone earlier? Make an appointment or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  She nods. She wants to continue our conversation somewhere a little more private. Seconds later, I find myself in a cluttered office with sunshine flooding in through the broken slats of the venetian blind. Tins of red kidney beans spill out of a cardboard box on top of the desk. The woman shuts the door, then turns to face me.

  ‘And you are?’

  I give her my name, which she writes down. When I try to explain my interest in one of her clients, she wants to know more. My description of Moonie sparks a nod of recognition.

  ‘So why your interest in this boy?’

  I shake my head. I tell her it’s personal.

  ‘Everything’s personal. Especially with the kind of people we deal with.’

  ‘You’ve got a name for him? Maybe contact details?’

  ‘Of course. We book everyone in. Am I going to tell you any of this stuff? No way. The least we can give these people is a little respect. Rule one: we never share data.’

  I nod. Common sense tells me I should have expected this, but it still comes as a disappointment.

  ‘What was he like? Do you mind me asking?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I only saw him briefly this morning before he left. My shift starts at seven. He’d gone by half past.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No. And even if he did, I wouldn’t tell you. Like I said, the least we can give our clients is a little respect.’

  Clients? Sweet. I’m looking at her. I’m trying very hard to make friends with her. Just one tiny clue, for Christ’s sake, just one tiny fragment of this boy’s life that might take me a step or two further.

  ‘You really have a name?’

  ‘Of course, we have. Maybe it was his real name, maybe it wasn’t. Either way it’s his business and briefly ours. But that’s where it ends. These people are often damaged.’ She taps her head. ‘Up here.’

  ‘And you think that might apply to him?’

  ‘It applies to most of them.’

  ‘But to him as well?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve told you. The boy’s a stranger. He comes. He goes. End of story.’

  ‘Did he look …’ I shrug. ‘Troubled?’

  The woman studies me a moment, biting her lip. I sense this conversation is seconds away from ending and I’m right.

  ‘You’re a relative, yeah?’ she says at last.

  ‘Yes.’ I’m easy with the lie.

  ‘His mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK.’ She looks at the window for a moment, weighing some inner decision, then her eyes are back on me.

  ‘He looked knackered. The boy needs a proper night’s sleep. I think he might have been going to the railway station. I’m afraid that’s all you get.’

  Google Maps take me to Exeter Central. By now it’s 8.40 a.m. I park my car on the forecourt and run down the stairs. The station is deserted except for a middle-aged man in a green uniform sweeping one of the platforms. When I ask him about a young guy maybe waiting for a train, he nods at once.

  ‘The only one here.’ He gestures at a nearby bench. ‘Waited nearly an hour.’

  Blue top? Grey bottoms? Braces on his teeth? He ticks every box.

  ‘You talked to him?’

  ‘Yeah. He wanted the Exmouth train. I told him that a bus might be quicker but he wasn’t interested.’

  ‘So, how was he? How did he seem to you?’

  ‘OK. No trouble. Some Sundays the kids are still pissed. He wasn’t. Shame you weren’t here a bit earlier. You could have talked to him yourself.’

  The 08.34 has only just gone. The journey, it seems, takes about half an hour. Moments later, I’m walking down the platform, trying to get Malo on my phone. When he finally picks up, he sounds groggy.

  ‘Mum … what is this?’

  I tell him he needs to get down to the station. Moonie’s on the train back from Exeter. He could meet him at the station, introduce himself, start a conversation, or maybe just follow him. This is our first real sighting.

  I can hear movement in the background. Then Malo says Carrie has just arrived. She’s got a car. She could drop him down.

  ‘No,’ I say at once. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t even mention it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just don’t. I’ll explain later. Phone for a taxi. I’ll pay.’

  Malo grunts something I don’t catch and rings off. I’m left holding the phone, staring down the tracks into the far distance, trying to imagine this boy on the train. The last thing I need is Malo telling Carrie that I’ve betrayed her confidence.

  I hurry back to my car, wondering whether there’s any way I might beat the train back, but the needle on the fuel gauge is hovering on empty and I know I need petrol. Better to leave it to Malo. The rain has stopped overnight, and sunshine brightens the empty street outside the station. Fumbling for my keys, I have a sudden flashback to last night in the pub. Persistence, I tell myself, has delivered a result. I went to all three hostels. I stayed the course. And I managed to squeeze the tiniest clue from the barefoot warder at St Christoph�
�s. Deko would definitely be impressed.

  It’s nearly half past nine before I’m back in Exmouth. The road into the town passes the railway station. Malo is sitting on a bench, studying his iPhone. I park in a lay-by and cross the road. For a moment, he’s totally oblivious to my presence. Then he looks up, shading his eyes against the sun.

  ‘He wasn’t on the train,’ he says. ‘You must have got it wrong.’

  The M&S food hall beside the station is open. I buy two coffees and we find a bench beside the nearby estuary. When Malo demands to know what’s so special about this Moonie, why he shouldn’t mention him to Carrie, I try and fend him off. It’s personal, I say. She’s really upset about something.

  ‘You mean him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  This, of course, is the crux. What do I tell him? How much can I trust this son of mine? It’s already obvious that some limp evasion, or even an outright lie, won’t do. He wants the truth, and if he doesn’t get it then all bets are off. This is his phrase, not mine, but the implications are very clear. Either I tell him why this boy matters, or I’m on my own.

  In the end I tell myself I have no choice. For Carrie’s sake, as well as mine, Malo has to know.

  ‘He broke into her house the other night,’ I mutter. ‘And threatened to kill her.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So why didn’t she go to the police?’

  ‘She’s too frightened. It was even an effort to tell me. I pressed and pressed and had to promise I wouldn’t breathe a word. Does that make any sense now?’

  Malo nods. After the handful of passengers had got off, he’d checked the train to make sure it was really empty. Then he’d got hold of a timetable.

  ‘Eight stations,’ he says, ‘between Exeter and here.’

  We debate the possibilities. Neither of us really knows the area. Digby & Sowton? Topsham? Lympstone? Moonie could be anywhere.