Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  On I go, following the track. In maybe a hundred metres, the trees part to reveal a small clearing. This space has been levelled and is flat enough for someone to have built what looks, at first sight, to be a makeshift bungalow. The property is single storey, brick-built, with a pitched roof and a chimney. The windowsills are green with moss and one of the two windows has been boarded up. Paving slabs, crudely laid, lead to the front door which must, once, have been a deep shade of blue. Now, like the windowsills, it’s an act of surrender to years – maybe decades – of neglect.

  The door stands ajar. I’m still looking at it when I hear the squealing again, much louder. It comes from inside this wreck of a building. Has to. This time, there’s no laughter.

  I’m tempted to call Boysie’s name, but I don’t. Instead, I begin to move towards the open door. A footstep away, I pause. I can hear movement from inside. An animal? A pig? Boysie? A feral boar? I’ve no idea. I push the door fully open. Inside, what appears to be a hall is in darkness. As my eyes get accustomed to the gloom, I make out a bucket and a heavy-duty plastic sack. The wooden floorboards are bare, and one or two are missing. I step inside. The place smells fetid, and damp, and there’s something else, too, a scent of something I can’t quite put a name to. It’s coppery, almost metallic, underscored with a strange sweetness.

  Halfway down the hall, on the right, is another door. Five steps, and I’m there. Time to declare my presence, I think. Time to own up.

  ‘Boysie?’

  The door has no handle. I push it open. Thin daylight from the window washes over the bareness of the room inside. This is a scene that nature has painted. Except for the deep scarlet spill of blood from the piglet on the floor, it’s scored for blacks and whites and various shades of grey. Boysie is kneeling over the body of the dead piglet. The animal’s throat hangs open and the huge knife in Boysie’s hand is covered in blood. Propped against the far wall is a chainsaw.

  Boysie doesn’t seem the least surprised to see me. He gets to his feet and extends a bloodied hand, which I ignore.

  ‘Reception told me you were on your way.’ He wipes his hand on his jeans. ‘Welcome to Dunsnorting.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ The joke is in very poor taste and I tell him so.

  He dismisses my qualms. The piglet, he says, will be delivered to the abattoir. He’ll bag it up and carry it down the hill. By close of play, it should have been gutted and returned, barbecue-ready, to the hotel cold store. This weekend, the Zuma is already advertising a feast for a select clientele of lovers of organic pork.

  ‘Cochinillo asado. Suckling pig. Spanish recipe. So tender you can cut it with a plate. Join us and see for yourself. Fill your boots. Enjoy.’

  I’m still gazing down at this little tableau. The limp piglet, doubtless still warm, is dripping blood on to the bare boards. If I ever had any taste for suckling pork, it’s gone.

  ‘I came up to discuss that showbiz weekend idea of yours,’ I tell him. ‘Maybe now’s not the time.’

  ‘Now’s perfect.’ Boysie shakes his head. ‘Just give me a hand with this little chap.’

  With the dead piglet in the black plastic bag, Boysie and I leave the bungalow. I’ve held the bag open while Boysie dropped it in and it’s much heavier than I’d expected. Boysie leaves it on one of the paving slabs while he secures the bungalow door with a heavy chain and a padlock. After he’s pocketed the key, I ask him about the wild boar.

  ‘You know about them?’ He looks briefly surprised.

  I nod and explain about the other gate.

  ‘Them?’ I enquire.

  ‘We’ve got two,’ he says. ‘He and she, George and Willow. We were lucky. We got them from a bloke who traps them in the Forest of Dean. Getting them down here was a bit of a performance because they don’t travel well, but we managed it in the end.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Deko. The dream team. Don’t you just love that man? There’s a road up to the back of the cottage. Place where I just did the biz.’ He nods back uphill to the bungalow. ‘You have to be nifty on the transfer. George especially will have you on the ground before you know it and then you’ve got a real problem. Deko knows no fear and they sense that. Good as gold, George was, and Willow just followed. Meek doesn’t begin to cover it. With Deko around, she might have been born a lamb. Into the enclosure they went, and we’ve left them to it ever since.’

  ‘You feed them?’

  ‘Big time. They’ll eat anything. Just like normal pigs. Kitchen waste? Rotten veggies? Meat that’s seriously out of date? Woof. Squeal. Gone. Recycling on legs. We’re blessed.’

  ‘They’re vicious?’

  ‘They’re wild. Never been domesticated. Lawless creatures, the pair of them, unless Deko happens to be around.’

  ‘But they’d hurt you?’

  ‘Of course. That’s what happens in the wild.’

  The wild. I can’t help thinking of Moonie. He, too, has ended up in the wild.

  Back at the hotel, Boysie disappears to get washed and changed while I settle in the lounge with a copy of Devon Life. It’s a back issue, and by the time he returns, I’m up to speed on last year’s County Show. Wild boar, by chance, has featured in a piece on game preparation. The meat, it seems, can be tough, and I show the article to Boysie when he returns to the lounge.

  ‘They’re right.’ He’s scanned it in seconds. ‘But it’s nothing a day in the slow cooker can’t solve.’

  ‘You’ll be eating George and Willow? In the end?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Just now, to be frank, we need more punters through the door.’ With a flick of his fingers, he summons the waitress and orders afternoon tea. ‘That little showbiz idea of mine …’ The smile is tense. ‘Any ideas?’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Deko turns up at the apartment nearly an hour late. I’ve scoured the internet for sea bass recipes – anything but pork – and settled on a Thai offering which involves ginger, garlic, bird’s eye chillies, and thinly shredded scallions. By the time he announces his arrival outside the door at the block’s front entrance, I’ve drunk most of the first of my two bottles of Chablis.

  I meet him as the lift door opens. My attempts to play sober don’t fool him for a moment.

  ‘I’ve brought champagne,’ he says. ‘But I’m guessing it may be a bit late.’

  ‘Guess what you like, Mr Deko.’ I’ve already seized the bottle. ‘It needs five minutes in the chiller.’

  ‘How about fifteen?’ He’s smiling.

  ‘Later,’ I say. ‘All in good time.’

  We go through to the kitchen. On reflection, I decide that the champagne is cold enough already and Deko pops the cork.

  The bits and pieces for the sea bass are on a chopping board beside the cooker and Deko inspects them with interest.

  ‘Sea bass?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Brave woman. A delicate flavour like that? Be careful …’

  ‘Have you been a control freak all your life?’ I ask. ‘Or is this something new?’

  Deko ignores the question. He’s been here before, of course, but now he’s taking a serious interest in the small print.

  ‘All those books next door? They’re yours?’

  ‘Pavel’s. And there are loads more in his bedroom.’

  ‘You used to read them to him?’

  ‘I did. And I will again once he’s back with us. Carrie did, too. Another reason why we miss her so much.’ I raise my glass. ‘To Carrie. Or would you prefer Amy?’

  ‘Either. Makes no difference to me.’

  ‘But you never knew Carrie,’ I point out.

  ‘I never knew Amy, either. Not properly.’

  I’ve been thinking about this for more than a day now, and I’m still not sure that Deko’s given me the full story.

  ‘Properly?’ I’m trying to be playful.

  ‘Whatever,’ he shrugs. He doesn’t get it. ‘We had a couple of conversations. It was a business thing. I thought I
told you.’

  ‘You did. Am I allowed just a tiny scintilla of doubt? Take this as a compliment, Mr Deko. You’re a gorgeous man. Any woman can see that. So, what makes Carrie – sorry, Amy – so different? Was she involved with someone else? Did the thing with Jean-Paul start rather earlier than anyone thought? What was her story?’

  These are questions I can sense at once that Deko doesn’t need. Mention of Jean-Paul offers him a change of subject.

  ‘He’s left town. Did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘His wife threw him out. At least that’s what I’ve been told. He’s on police bail so he can’t have gone far.’

  ‘They think he did it? Killed Carrie?’

  ‘I expect they need to keep tabs on him. They can’t have any evidence, otherwise they’d have charged him and banged him up. Motive isn’t enough.’

  ‘Motive? You mean the baby she was carrying?’

  ‘Baby?’ This appears to come as a surprise.

  ‘Yes.’ I explain about the pair of them being together since Christmas.

  ‘And she told you about a baby? She said she was pregnant?’

  ‘She told Pavel. And then Pavel told me.’

  ‘You talked to her about it?’

  ‘She was dead by then. Pavel respects a confidence. He always used to say it was in his contract.’

  ‘Between?’

  ‘Himself and himself. And if you think that’s surreal, Mr Deko, think again. That man was seriously clever.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Is. He’ll come back from the dead because that’s what he does. And not only that, he’ll bring news, dispatches, from the other side.’ I raise my glass again. ‘To Pavel.’

  We work our way through the bottle while I put the new potatoes on. Champagne, as my mother used to say, is all too easy to drink. With the potatoes drained and done, I flash fry the garlic and ginger, add the chillies and the scallions, and then slip the fish on top. Five minutes, I tell myself, and we’re ready.

  Deko is next door, setting the table. When I appear with the meal pre-plated, he finds a couple of mats and fetches the surviving bottle of Chablis from the fridge. I’m starting to lose track of time by now, but it seems that barely minutes pass before we’re talking about Carrie again.

  ‘How close were they?’ Deko is gazing at me. ‘Amy and your friend Pavel?’

  ‘Very close. That was the whole point. I think I told you. She was everything to him. She fed him, watered him, poured him gin or whisky in the evening when she stayed late, read to him, emptied him, kept him clean, kept him amused, everything you’d need if you were Pavel.’

  ‘And him? To her?’

  ‘Father confessor. Maybe more confessor than father but you’ll get the point. I think she told him everything and I’m sure she’d have done that because she trusted him. The other bit, the father bit, was the key. Amy, Carrie, they were troubled women. He helped the pair of them, the one of them … Christ, I’m drunk …’

  I try and get up but it isn’t as easy as I’ve always assumed. On my feet, beyond unsteady, I’m trying to keep Deko in focus. He’s circling the table, trying to catch me before I fall, but it’s far too late. A huge bang, and then everything cuts to black before the world slips away into silence.

  ‘You hit your head on the edge of the table. Here.’

  The face above me belongs to Deko. I’m sure it does. He’s looking concerned and he’s holding something in his right hand. I try and reach for it but nothing happens. I watch my hand moving limply in front of my face, as if it had nothing to do with me. I feel completely helpless. Much like Pavel.

  ‘Dear God,’ I manage.

  I can smell the vomit now, and I understand at once that it must be mine. I shut my eyes, try and make an effort, try and draw all these threads together, but the sheer effort is stupefying. Then comes a sensation of intense cold on a corner of my forehead and I open my eyes again to find Deko’s face an inch above mine. He’s found the ice tray, I tell myself. My lovely man, as capable as ever, is playing nurse, swabbing my wounds, saving my worthless life.

  ‘You sorted out George and Willow,’ I manage. ‘And now you’re sorting out me.’

  I feel Deko’s hand pause in mid-swab. Icy water is dripping down my face. My left hand, crabbing sideways, has found the pool of vomit. Not nice.

  ‘You’ve been up to the hotel?’ I’m watching Deko’s mouth move. Remarkable.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Talked to Boysie?’

  ‘Of course. He tells me everything, that man. Does suckling pig turn you on, Mr Deko? Or is it just middle-aged women?’

  ‘You mean you?’

  ‘I might.’ I try to swallow. I can feel particles of vomit behind my teeth. Horrible. ‘Sorry about the meal,’ I mutter. ‘And everything else, really.’ I make a brief attempt to sit up, but I know it’s beyond me. ‘Bed? Does that make any sense?’

  Deko lifts me bodily and carries me through to the bathroom. When I tell him that Pavel’s en suite might suit me better, a wet room with shower nozzles on every wall, he ignores me. Off comes my dress, my underwear, everything. Then I’m conscious of a sponge on my naked flesh, my face, my poor ruined forehead, everywhere. He’s using the cold tap and that’s probably sensible because I’m beginning to suspect that I’m not, after all, dying.

  The bath was built for someone Deko’s size, not little me. I’m lying in an inch or so of cold water and I’m starting to shiver. From time to time, Deko, my saviour, takes a tiny step back, looking down at me. I’m a work in progress, I think. What a picture.

  ‘And what a fucking disgrace,’ I murmur.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Me.’

  He nods. He’s not disagreeing, as I half want him to, but there’s something else in his face, way beyond disapproval, and I’m making a big, big effort to recognize what it might be.

  ‘Do I frighten you?’ I manage at last. This is close, very close.

  ‘You do, yes.’

  ‘Why would that be, Mr Deko? After everything you’ve done? All the places you’ve been? All that stuff you must have seen? Why me? Why would I ever frighten you?’

  ‘You want the truth?’

  ‘Of course, I want the truth, but don’t worry. Say what you like because I’ll never remember.’

  At last, a smile. He fetches a towel from the rail. Happily, the rail is switched on and the towel is warm against my flesh. Moments later, in a trick he must have learned in some circus or other, he’s hauled me out of the bath and sat me on his lap.

  ‘You’re sitting on the loo?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘That makes you King.’ I start to giggle. ‘King for the night. King for tomorrow. King forever, Mr Deko.’

  He’s towelling me dry. He takes a good look at my forehead and tells me it’s not as bad as he’d thought.

  ‘No stitches?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’d have done it, wouldn’t you? Needle and thread? Zig zag? Overlock? You’d have put me back together again? Made me whole? Forgiven me?’

  He puts his lips close to my ear. I love the warmth of his breath on my goosebumps. Cause or effect? I don’t know, don’t much care.

  ‘You’ll have a huge bruise in the morning,’ he whispers. ‘Maybe I should keep you locked up for a day or two.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘In case they think I’ve been beating you up.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Whoever.’

  ‘Would you like to beat me up? Would that be a turn-on? Be honest.’

  He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head the way you might treat a child. That’s me, I think vaguely. A child. I’ve given my poor head, inside and out, nothing but grief. And now this lovely man is making me feel better. Pop round for a meal. And then clear up the wreckage. How much more generous can a girl be?

  ‘Grief,’ I whisper. ‘If a tumour comes knocking at that lovely door of yours, say no.’r />
  ‘Not today, thank you?’

  ‘Exactly. More fucking trouble than they’re worth.’

  He pats me down with the towel one final time, and then carries me through to my bedroom, laying me carefully on the carpet while he turns down the bed. Moments later, I can feel the cool of the sheets beneath me and the loom of the ceiling overhead. I’m still very drunk, I know I am, but there’s something I still need to rescue from this evening, and I don’t want to let that precious moment pass.

  ‘Pavel’s room,’ I say. ‘A book. Black and white cover. Man in a Nazi uniform. Thin face.’

  Deko nods, or I think he does. He returns with Jünger’s diaries.

  ‘In Paris,’ I tell him. ‘The man was in Paris. Up to all kinds of stuff. Deep thoughts. Pavel loved them. So did Carrie. Amy. Whoever she was.’

  ‘You want me to read to you?’

  ‘I do, I do. King Deko … reader extraordinaire, probably reader to a whole generation of drunks. What a pleasure. What a privilege.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’

  I close my eyes. I’m doing my best to remember. Morning time in the forest, I think. The avenue of waiting soldiers. The playing card over the heart. The volley of shots. The sagging body. 1941? 1942? I shake my head. It’s hopeless. Champagne and Chablis, I think, are no fun when it comes to dates, or page numbers, or even the name of the fucking month.

  ‘Unfair,’ I murmur.

  I open one eye. Deko is leafing slowly through the book, pausing from time to time, and I suddenly picture Carrie’s pencilled markings beside the text, key passages preserved for Pavel’s special delectation.