Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Gone? Just like that?’

  ‘Yeah. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really. I hadn’t heard from her for weeks, maybe months. The friend she lived with told me the little girl’s real dad reappeared and took the pair of them up country. End of.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Heartbroken.’

  ‘Worse than chemo?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  I can’t tell whether he’s joking but somehow it doesn’t matter. The story fits the jigsaw I’m putting together: the son as passionate as the father, and both burdened with relationships that didn’t work out. When needs must, I tell myself, you cut your losses and start again. Just like myself and Berndt.

  This time he takes my hand, strokes it, then lifts it to his lips and kisses it softly.

  ‘You like jenever?’

  ‘Once.’ I pull a face. ‘Never again.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Woman of the world? Film star? All those movies? All those exotic locations?’

  He shakes his head and rummages in a cupboard before producing a bottle and holding it up against the gently swinging light suspended over the table. The bottle appears to be nearly empty.

  ‘Enough for a taste,’ he says. ‘See what you think.’

  Jenever is Dutch gin. You drink it neat. It turns out to be oilier than I remembered, and almost immediately potent.

  ‘If you’re trying to get me drunk,’ I tell him, ‘there’s no need.’

  He smiles, and once again we clink glasses. The last of the jenever seems to be warming all those half-forgotten corners deep inside me, and I find myself reflecting on the obvious contrast with chemo. Then, I felt poisoned. Now, totally relaxed, I’m ready for anything.

  We sit in silence for a minute or two, listening to the birdlife beyond the portholes. Then comes the rumble of an approaching train, much louder than I’m used to, before the darkness once again belongs to the chuckling waders and a lone curlew.

  I’m trying to work out how many berths this boat must have, and whether any of them are doubles, when Deko finally gets to his feet. He stretches those enormous arms, then checks his watch.

  ‘Nearly eleven,’ he says. ‘Time to get you back.’

  TWELVE

  Angry? Disappointed? Sad? It’s next morning, and I still can’t make up my mind. Then, for whatever reason, I think of that depthless picture in last week’s Guardian, the black hole just fifty million light years away, and I realize that we know nothing, should expect nothing, and that whatever happens next is probably another riff on one of God’s cosmic jokes.

  Malo brings me tea in bed, which – believe me – is a first.

  ‘How was the movie?’

  ‘It was a play.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Underwhelming. I was expecting more.’

  ‘From Shakespeare?’

  ‘From the production. Anticipation is everything. To be honest, if you’re really interested, it never delivered. Tant pis. Maybe next time.’

  We have this conversation with the door open. Pavel’s bedroom is next to mine. His door is also ajar because Felip is busying around and, later in the morning, it turns out that he’s heard every word.

  ‘So, where did it go wrong?’ he enquires. ‘Measure for Measure?’

  At once, I’m struggling. Pavel keeps up with the reviewers. If there’s a radio recording of the RSC production, he’s probably heard it.

  ‘It lost its way,’ I tell him. ‘I know it’s a play about darkness, but you have to shed at least a little light.’

  ‘Of course. I agree.’ When he asks about a nearly famous actor who was playing Lucio, I shrug. I badly want to talk about something else.

  ‘He was OK,’ I mutter. ‘The direction didn’t help.’

  ‘I’m sure that would have been true. Alas, he’s been down with a broken leg since the week before last.’ Pavel’s eyes are closed behind his tinted glasses. ‘So, where did you really go last night?’

  I stare down at him, then I quietly close the door before returning to his bedside. My memories of last night are still confused, hours of conversation, increasingly intimate, followed by an abrupt and bewildering denouement. We swapped mobile numbers on the pontoon back at the marina but we barely kissed goodbye and I haven’t a clue where this thing is headed next. All I know for sure is that Pavel has no role in what may or may not happen.

  ‘What I do with my life is my business,’ I point out, ‘not yours.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that I may have a stake in all this?’

  Stake? I pull up a chair and sit down. Time for a sort out.

  ‘You’re very precious to me,’ I tell him. ‘And that means that you matter to all of us … H, Malo, Carrie. We’re family. We look after each other. And you’re part of that. We brought you down here because we need to know you’re happy, as well as safe. You’ve told me a great deal about the way this place used to be and in that head of yours I expect very little has changed. As it happens, last night, I was with someone who also lived through those years. The pair of you were lucky. You saw the best of the place.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘He? Maybe I was with a woman. Maybe I was with lots of people.’

  ‘No.’ Pavel shakes his head. ‘You were with a man. The same man you saw from the balcony. Don’t bother to deny it. You wouldn’t have lied to that son of yours otherwise.’

  It’s a tribute to Pavel’s plotting talents that he should have squeezed the truth from such meagre clues, but that’s not the point because I’m very, very angry. That son of yours, that single phrase, has given him away. Anyone else with trousers in my life is a threat: Malo, my mystery date, and any other rogue male who happens along. Only H, oddly enough, is spared Pavel’s scorn. Maybe because he’s paying the bills.

  ‘This conversation is over.’ I get to my feet. ‘We’ll talk again later, but in the meantime, I suggest you ask yourself what you really want from me. Does that make sense? Or am I being unduly harsh?’

  The text arrives shortly before midday. It comes from Geraghty’s phone and it wants to know whether I might be up for yet another visit to the police station. Early afternoon, once again, would be ideal. This suggests developments in the hunt for Moonie and I’m only too happy to agree. Judging by the expression on Carrie’s face, Pavel is starting to take his mood out on her and the atmosphere in the penthouse apartment is becoming oppressive.

  This time, there’s no sign of a snatched lunch on Geraghty’s desk. She clears a space among the mountain of paperwork and angles the screen of her PC towards me. A couple of keystrokes conjure a series of CCTV sequences acquired from Great Western Railways. The colour and definition are perfect. A figure sits alone in an otherwise empty carriage. He’s wearing a camo anorak but there are glimpses of the giveaway blue football top beneath. His jeans are nicely cut, a surprise because I’d been expecting trackie bottoms, and his white Adidas trainers look brand new. A rucksack lies on the adjacent seat and is probably large enough to contain his entire life.

  ‘No sign of a sleeping bag.’ This from Geraghty. ‘Which tells us that he may not be sleeping rough.’

  I nod. I can’t take my eyes off this boy’s face. Carrie was right. He’s slightly overweight. The curly hair and the dimpled cheeks give him a slightly cherubic look. I’ve seen faces like this on the walls of Italian churches. He looks like a fallen angel.

  The footage jump-cuts from station to station and Geraghty tallies them all. Moonie has the window seat. A book lies open on his lap, but he seems more interested in the view and what strikes me with some force is his stillness. He never moves, never shifts his weight on the seat, never plays with his hands, never succumbs to the normal repertoire of fidgets. In quarter profile, he might be a figure made of stone.

  At last, the train still moving, he gets up and shoulders the rucksack. His passage out of the train brings him very close to the camera. The lens has a distorting effect as he heads for the door, but I swear he
glances upwards as he leaves the carriage.

  Geraghty agrees he’s probably aware of the CCTV. We’ve cut to the camera on the station platform. Once again, there’s nobody else around. The train is on the move again and Moonie pauses to watch it leave before heading into a car park. After that, he’s gone.

  ‘Lympstone,’ Geraghty grunts. ‘Last station before the end of the line.’

  ‘Are there more cameras? In the village?’

  ‘Sadly not.’ She nods at the screen. ‘We need to know whether you recognize this boy. Have you seen him in the street? In a shop, maybe?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head.

  She has prints from the footage, shots of Moonie making his way out of the train. Full-face, I’m struck more than ever by his seeming innocence. Never would you associate someone like this with Carrie’s account of the moment she woke up to find him at her bedside. Housebreaker? Wanker? Self-confessed serial killer? Not a chance.

  Geraghty is watching me carefully. She wants me to take one of these prints and show it to Carrie.

  ‘I can’t do that. She’ll want to know where it came from.’

  ‘Of course she will. And maybe now’s the time you ought to tell her. Believe it or not, we’re here to help.’

  ‘You think the boy’s a danger?’

  ‘We think he might be but without evidence that he’s actually done something, our hands are tied.’

  I nod. I’m thinking of Carrie.

  ‘You need a statement from her?’

  ‘Of course. And confirmation that this is the person in question. In the meantime, now we have an ID, we’ll try to find him. Stealing knickers from washing lines isn’t homicide but you look for a pattern in cases like this. The rough sleepers have a nose for trouble. That’s what you need to survive on the streets. And you’re right, they think this young man is unhinged.’

  ‘You’ll show them the photo?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I leave the police station with a set of prints in an envelope, having agreed to talk to Carrie again. Out in the sunshine, I’m wondering how best to handle her when my mobile begins to ring. I glance at caller ID. Deko. For just a moment or two I’m tempted to ignore the call, to play Madame Cool and leave him dangling, but then my finger – with a mind of its own – swipes to the right and I’m listening to Aretha Franklin’s own take on ‘A Natural Woman’.

  I shake my head. My feet are tap-tapping on the pavement and I’m starting to sway with the sheer force of the performance. Then the music dips and Deko takes over.

  ‘The Kennedy Center Honors, 2015.’ He sounds amused. ‘Check it out on YouTube. Obama’s there, too, with Michelle and other showboats. Grossly over the top but the tune’s as good as ever.’

  Kennedy Center, I think. 2015. But Deko hasn’t finished. When he asks whether I’ve got time for a coffee I say yes.

  ‘The Beacon,’ he says. ‘Come in round the back. You’ll find it behind the big church. Look for a red door.’

  Then he’s gone.

  I’ve heard about the Beacon before. Pavel has mentioned it. According to him, this is an ancient terrace of Regency houses where the great post-revolutionary shaggers left their cast-offs. The abandoned Lady Nelson lived at one address, Byron’s forlorn wife at another. The Beacon, warned Pavel, served as a terrible warning about the alleged sanctity of the marriage vows. Admiral or poet, you dumped your baggage and moved on.

  The big church Deko mentioned is visible from most parts of the town. En route, still clutching the envelope with the shots of Moonie, I wonder whether to start showing them around. Have you seen this man? Do you know he’s crazy? But then I realize I still need Carrie to make a proper ID. The knowledge that, at the very least, she’s found herself a lover is some comfort. Jean-Paul, fingers crossed, might be able to make her see sense.

  The rear of the Beacon isn’t pretty. The terrace straddles the crest of a hill, property after property, each a study in red brick and Victorian pipework. These houses aren’t small, four stories at least, but the longer I pause to study them, the more the terrace begins to grow on me: the uneven jumble of roof lines, the hint of shadowed courtyards behind high walls, the explosions of wisteria and honeysuckle softening the bare brick.

  Many of these properties seem to have been sub-divided into flats, and neglect has settled on some of them, but somebody – Deko? – has obviously spent money on the one with the red door. I’m still gazing up at the Georgian windows, thinking how handsome they are, when the door opens and I’m suddenly looking at Deko.

  ‘I saw you coming up the street,’ he says.

  He stands aside to let me in. I find myself in a smallish garden designed around an area of slabs that serves as a parking space. Deko evidently drives an old Land Rover, dents in the bodywork, caked mud on the tyres, a ladder lashed to the roof rack.

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘I love it. It’s a leather jacket on wheels.’

  ‘I meant the garden. Flowers bewilder me.’

  The garden, I assure him, is wonderful. The back door that leads into the house is open and we step inside. It’s obvious at once that this property is a very different proposition to the shell of the nursing home I saw yesterday. Wherever I look, there’s evidence of careful restoration: the wood stripped back and sanded on the endless flights of stairs, newly plastered walls in subtle shades of grey, rich bursts of sunlight pouring in through stained-glass panels on each landing. This, it occurs to me, is the work of the same hands, the same sensibility, that transformed a worn-out Breton Thonier into Amen.

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘I do. For the time being.’

  ‘It’s amazing. Truly incredible.’

  ‘You mean the view?’

  ‘Everything.’

  We’ve reached what Deko assures me is the top of the house. In contrast to the floors below, the entire floor is open plan. Huge doors fold back to access a balconette that spans the width of the property.

  ‘Help yourself.’ Deko opens one of the doors and steps back. ‘Enjoy.’

  I’m more than happy to do his bidding. Out in the sunshine, the view seems to stretch forever. To the left, the long curl of the beach. Ahead, the open sea, improbably turquoise under the blue of the sky, framed by the long grey arm of a distant bay. And, best of all, the mouth of the river that gave birth to this town.

  From Pavel’s penthouse the view is pretty special, but it’s nothing compared to what the Beacon has to offer. With the detachment of height comes a deeply wonderful sense of omnipotence. This must be like finding yourself on the bridge of a ship, I think. The view, the options, are limitless. From here, in my head, I could haul up the anchor and voyage anywhere. I step back inside. Twice in twenty-four hours this man has taken my breath away.

  There’s a modest kitchenette in one corner. Deko’s pouring fresh coffee from a cafetière and when he asks whether I’d fancy a croissant I just nod. There are bookshelves everywhere and the room has been artfully designed to offer intimate little corners where you might sink into a chair under an occasional light and read. A big sofa has been positioned to take full advantage of the view and I settle into one corner, studying the art on the walls. The sheer range of this man’s taste reminds me slightly of Pavel, the same mix of watercolours, oils, and a scatter of black and white photographs. The theme is obvious, the ocean and its choice of a thousand landfalls.

  ‘You paint as well?’

  ‘No. The photos are mine but the rest I collect. You’re looking at half a lifetime afloat. Chrissy thinks I’ll come back as a dolphin.’

  I smile. It’s a nice image.

  ‘You’re telling me your days at sea are over?’

  ‘Far from it. That’s why I did the boat up. From here I can be on the Brittany coast in less than a day.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘You mean it? You’d fancy a trip across?’

  ‘I would, yes.’

  ‘Aucun problème. I’ll sort it.’
r />   ‘In Amen?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I’m grinning. So easy, I think. So natural. So – dare I say it – us. I reach for the coffee. I don’t bother asking whether this restoration is all his own work because I know what the answer will be, but I’m still intrigued to find out more.

  ‘This is one of the projects? This house?’

  ‘It is. I’ve started a company called Grace and Favour. The deal is finding old properties with amazing views. Spend your time looking, and they needn’t be that expensive. Then you do them up to a proper spec, think carefully about each floor, and create a different kind of retirement home. This place is a good example. Every floor will be self-contained. I’ll sort full-time help, someone to keep a gentle eye on things.’

  ‘You mean a matron?’

  ‘More a friend. Medically qualified, of course, but someone you’d enjoy having around. There when you need her. Invisible when you don’t.’

  ‘This person will live in?’

  ‘Nearby. But always accessible. The key is letting people believe they’re secure, as well as happy. Think an intimate version of McCarthy and Stone. A view like this and you’d age very happily.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. How old do you have to be?’

  Deko wisely ignores my little joke. He’s rummaging in a cupboard, looking for some marmalade for the croissants. In the meantime, I get up and study the view again. A lone kitesurfer is riding one of Jean-Paul’s high-tech boards. The sea is flat calm, the wind steady, and he carves a perfect line across the water. I find myself telling Deko about my son’s first steps into this world, and how lucky we’ve been to find Jean-Paul.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Myself and Malo. Pavel has a carer called Carrie. She does everything for him. She’s close to Jean-Paul and that worked for us, believe me.’

  ‘She scored you a deal?’

  ‘She did. I’ve never asked how that worked but she seems a happy girl.’