Off Script

by Graham Hurley

‘She spoiled him,’ I mutter. ‘She spoiled that man to death.’ I shake my head. What a terrible thing to say. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ Deko has looked up.

  ‘Everything. The meal. Killing the poor fish with all those flavours. Throwing up. Everything.’

  Deko shakes his head. ‘No apology required,’ he says.

  ‘Just say accepted. Apologies accepted. Give me the right to be in the wrong.’ I turn my head away and start to laugh. I can’t help it. I can feel the cool of the pillow against my forehead, a nice feeling. And then I move my head again, looking up at Deko beside the bed. He’s got to the end of the book, I can tell from the way the pages are lying, and he’s got that special frown on his face that means he’s concentrating.

  My memory is letting me down again. What’s so special about that final page? Then I get it.

  ‘That’s Moonie’s mum,’ I tell him. ‘Carrie must have had her number.’

  Deko nods. He seems to have lost interest in reading aloud to me which comes as a relief because there’s no way I can direct him to the right entry.

  ‘It’s about a firing squad,’ I tell him. ‘They shoot a deserter and Jünger has to be there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Maybe he has to bear witness. Isn’t that what all history is about?’ I swallow a tiny gust of nausea. ‘Witness?’

  Deko gazes down at me a moment, and then starts to undress. I do my best to follow this tiny piece of theatre, but my eyes keep giving up on me and the result is a series of jump cuts, faintly comic. One moment Deko is fully dressed. Then he’s half naked. Then he’s standing beside me in his Lonsdale Y-fronts, telling me he won’t be long.

  ‘Why?’ I whisper. ‘Where are you going?’

  He mutters something I don’t quite follow about clearing up the mess next door, then leaves the room. When I look vaguely for the book, it seems to have gone. I lie back on the pillow and pull the duvet up to my chin. I love the warmth it brings, the sense of being safe again. Fuck the mess, I think. Just leave it for tomorrow.

  Sometime later, I’ve no idea when, Deko slips into bed beside me, arranging his long body around mine. The last thing I remember is the feel of his lips against my ear once again.

  ‘We’ll sail tomorrow,’ he says. ‘The tides are perfect.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The tides may be perfect but the weather – inside my head and outside the window – is anything but. I awake to a note on the pillow. Deko has departed to lay in supplies for the voyage. He’s anticipating a departure around noon, and he’ll call by and pick me up. He has loads of wet-weather gear aboard, plenty to keep me dry, but I might like to sort out warm clothing and something to wear ashore at Douarnenez. We’ll be in company, he’s written, with a French guy. Choose something tasty. We need to make an impression.

  ‘We’, I know, means me. An impression? I’m gazing at myself in the bathroom mirror. As promised, the bruise on my forehead is spectacular, a whirl of purples and blues already beginning to turn a liverish yellow. The edge of the table broke the skin, but the wound isn’t deep and the blood has scabbed. Tender, yes, but nothing serious.

  The pounding headache, and the certainty that I can no longer trust my stomach, are more pressing. I kneel in front of the loo, stick a finger down my throat, and throw up. I barely touched the fish last night and my stomach is virtually empty. I spend another ten minutes or so retching. A thin dribble of something green and viscous attaches itself to the back of the pan and slips slowly into the tiny puddle of vomit. It tastes of bile, which rhymes – appropriately enough – with vile. My fault, I keep telling myself. Why can I never keep the cork in the bottle?

  Outside, I can hear the wind. Howling would be the wrong word, far too dramatic. The windows have yet to rattle, and the building has yet to shake, but when I return to the bedroom, I catch the dance of the halyards against the metal masts in the dinghy park, and it’s started to rain. I throw on a pair of jeans and an anorak, lace my boots, and make for the door. I feel better already. Time for a brisk walk.

  The promenade skirts the marina on the seaward side and the moment I leave the shelter of the apartment block, the full force of the wind stops me in my tracks. The incoming tide is racing through the harbour narrows. Boats are straining at their moorings, tossed this way and that while the sheer force of the water, itself tormented, does its best to tear them loose. I can see the curl of the beach beyond the harbour. Wind and tide are driving a succession of waves from way out to sea. The big grey waves roll in, ever higher, and the surf rears up before thundering on to the sand. In the hands of a decent artist, or photographer, this would be a scene you might hang on your wall but just now the only word I can muster is Amen. I’ve no doubts that Deko and his sturdy Thonier will survive the hours to come. The only weak link is me.

  Back in the apartment, I try out an assortment of head scarves. The best, a treasured print in subtle blues and reds I bought years ago in Marseille, hides the worst of the bruising. I fold it carefully, wind it round my head, tuck in the loose ends, and then add a large pair of sunglasses. For the first time this morning, I manage a smile. Ageing thesp prepares to rob a bank. Beyond chic.

  Deko appears just after midday. He tells me the tide has turned and the front is moving nicely through. This appears to be good news. My last attempt to cross the Channel ended in a shipwreck on the Isle of Wight. A half-submerged shipping container put a hole in our boat and threatened to sink us, but as we walk down to the marina basin and climb into Boysie’s RIB, I’m determined to put those terrifying hours behind me. Lightning, I tell myself, never strikes twice. Believe in this man, because it’s his life on the line as well as yours.

  I make myself comfortable beside Deko in the RIB, eyeing the provisions he’s already brought on board. Five Tesco bags, one of them full of beer and wine bottles. He fires up the outboard and we slip carefully out through the narrow dock entrance. He’s right about the tide. Someone’s had a word and the churn I saw earlier has gone. The wind, too, has had second thoughts and is now blowing across the river. It feels much colder, but the rain has stopped and there’s even a glimpse of blue through the rags of racing cloud.

  Amen looks as beautiful as ever, untroubled, a thing of infinite grace, and I touch her lightly with my fingertips as we come alongside. Deko makes fast, and I pass up the Tesco goodies, and my own bag. The latter has seen me through countless foreign locations, and I’ve come to regard it as an amulet, a talisman, as well as something deeply practical. It will look after me. It will keep me safe.

  ‘What’s in here?’ Its weight has taken Deko by surprise.

  ‘A million aspirins,’ I tell him, ‘and the remains of the kitchen roll. You did a great job on the carpet. I never said thank you.’

  Within half an hour, we’re ready to leave. Deko checks the weather forecast one last time – NW wind easing to Force 5, showers and sunny intervals – and I slip the mooring rope at the bow while he holds Amen steady in the outgoing tide. We ease into the main channel and thread our way between the red and green buoys. We’re passing the penthouse apartment block when I realize that I haven’t been in touch with the hospital.

  Deko is at the wheel in anorak, jeans, battered life jacket. When I ask him when we might be back, he says Tuesday, latest.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I am. Ajax and Spurs. Champions League semi-final. We have a date at the Arms. Eight o’clock kick-off.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You and me.’

  The Exmouth Arms is where the hard-core football supporters gather, a noisy mix of builders, chippies, plasterers, plumbers, and anyone else you might need to construct the house of your dreams. I went there once with H, expecting anything but football, and found theatre in the raw. I loved it but H was unimpressed. We’d abandoned the game for a curry by half time.

  On the phone to the Stroke Unit, I talk to the male nurse who’s been so helpful. I exp
lain that I’m away for a couple of days, back early next week. I confirm my mobile number. Any problems, I say, and I can always take a plane back.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘France.’

  ‘Pleasure? Business?’

  ‘Both, I suspect.’ I’m looking at Deko.

  Another brief exchange about Pavel and the call ends. Deko wants to know how he is.

  ‘Still out,’ I say. ‘But showing signs of life.’

  ‘He’s talking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He can hear OK?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘But soon?’

  ‘Inshallah … yes.’

  Deko nods, says nothing. We’re out in the deep-water channel now, still following the line of red and green buoys, the engine throbbing beneath our feet. The channel ends with a single red and white buoy, and maybe ten minutes later Deko hauls the boat into the wind, throttling back the engine until we’re stationary in the tide.

  ‘Sails?’ He gestures up at the bare masts. ‘You’re happy to help?’

  I haven’t done any of this since my week on Persephone, but Deko talks me through it, and together we haul on the ropes and raise the big gaff sail. Two others follow. Deko peers up, ever the perfectionist, and we make an adjustment or two before he kills the engine, spins the big steering wheel, and Amen begins to shiver as the sails belly and fill. Then comes the moment when the old Thonier shakes her feathers and begins to move, and all I can hear is the lapping of the waves, and a low groan as the sails and rigging get the feel of the wind.

  ‘Magic.’ I’m looking at Deko. ‘Didn’t we do well?’

  By nightfall, with the wind still blowing from the north-west, we’re nearly fifteen miles south of the Devon coast. I’m huddled on deck in waterproofs and several layers of clothing, watching the sweep of the light from what Deko tells me is the lighthouse on Start Point. He secures the wheel and takes me down below to check our progress on the GPS readout. He says we’re making seven knots against a neap tide, which appears to be good news, and suggests I get something together for supper. He’s brought tins of soup and fresh bread. Nothing fancy.

  I’m very happy to do his bidding, but Amen is wallowing in a big swell, with waves breaking over the bow from time to time, and the motion does nothing for my peace of mind. It was much, much worse than this on Persephone, but the way the hull shudders under the impact of the bigger waves stirs some uncomfortable memories. After I’ve found a saucepan in one of the cupboards in the little galley, and warmed the soup, I’m glad to be out in the fresh air again.

  ‘Nothing for you?’ Deko is cupping his big hands around the mug.

  I shake my head. ‘Best not to tempt fate,’ I tell him. ‘Eating can wait until dry land.’

  I spend the entire night on deck. Mid-Channel, the swell is much heavier, and the boat begins to corkscrew, Amen rolling sideways off the bigger waves and burying her nose in the trough that follows. Shipping comes and goes, distant lights – red and green – in the darkness. At Deko’s insistence, I’m wearing a safety harness clipped into lines laid on the deck, and from time to time water sluices over the rubber boots he’s given me to wear. I’m sitting on the bare deck, using the main mast as support. By dawn, I’m exhausted. Deko must have done this passage countless times because nothing seems to trouble him, but when he tells me again to go below and get my head down, I simply nod.

  My bunk lies forward of the saloon. I peel off the waterproofs but don’t bother to undress. The pillow feels damp beneath my cheek and the motion of the boat is much worse. Up here, closer to the bow, it rears and plunges like some demented horse. I’ve taken sea sickness tablets earlier, and thankfully they seem to work, but my body – or maybe my mind – refuses to switch off, and so I lie in the half-darkness, braced against the next wave, and the wave after that, wondering what might await us when we get to Douarnenez. As playful and opaque as ever, Deko has refused to tell me what to expect. ‘Pretend we’re here to enjoy ourselves,’ was the most he would say.

  I must have gone to sleep in the end because suddenly it’s much lighter in the cabin, and Amen seems to have made her peace with the wind and the swell. I force myself back into the waterproofs and clamber up on deck. Deko is still at the wheel. He’s smoking a thin cheroot and he looks like the captain of my dreams, imperturbable, solid, a giant of a man. Amen, he says, has been making six knots for most of the night. He gestures forward. Way off to the left I can make out a low, grey smudge that appears to be France.

  ‘That’s Brittany?’

  ‘Yeah. We’ll raise Ushant in a couple of hours.’

  Brittany, I think. I check my watch. Nearly seven. The last time I was with my mum in Perros-Guirec, it was Christmas and I woke to drifts of snow beyond the bedroom window.

  Just the sight of land is a tonic. I go below and spoon instant coffee into a couple of mugs. Amen is still rolling but I’ve learned how to brace myself and the motion feels gentler, kinder. Back on deck with the coffees, I find Deko with a phone to his ear. His French is much better than I’d expected.

  ‘Douarnenez?’ I hand him the mug.

  ‘Early afternoon.’ He’s returned the phone to a pocket in his anorak. ‘The guy’s called Dominique. You’ll love him.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  We make better time to Douarnenez than Deko had expected. On the radio, he’s requested a deep-water berth inside the jetty in the old harbour, which he appears to know well. The berth is available, and we motor slowly in while I use Deko’s binoculars to look for the house across the bay that used to belong to my aunt. We round the end of the jetty and I’m ready to clamber up the rusty old ladder and take the first of the mooring lines that Deko throws up.

  It’s a beautiful day. The wind has dropped and the old town is bathed in sunshine. As a child, I used to think that Brittany was built entirely of granite, which can give the towns and villages a slightly forbidding look, but in a light like this the little houses climbing up from the water are definitely in the mood for summer. If Farrow & Ball want a new shade on their colour chart, I think, they could do worse than Breton Grey, lightly seamed with yellow lichen.

  Deko joins me on the quayside in time to exchange a handshake and kisses on both cheeks from a portly official who seems to be in charge. I watch this courtly little piece of French theatre, aware that Deko is no stranger here. He introduces me as his deckhand, a job description that draws a roar of approval from the Harbour Master, and I, too, get the treatment.

  ‘Vous êtes française?’ He’s looking me up and down.

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Il vous a tabassé?’ He touches his own forehead.

  Has Deko beaten me up? I nod. Does our new friend have a number for the Commissariat, by any chance?

  Mention of the police station produces more laughter, then Deko taps his watch. Work to do, he murmurs. A pleasure to be back in Douarnenez.

  We return to the boat. Deko checks the mooring lines and then leads the way below deck. Beyond the bunk spaces forward of the saloon is a wooden partition. Deko unlocks the door, reaches in to find a light switch and suddenly I’m staring at a scatter of what looks like scrap iron: old anchor chain, engine bits, metal fence posts. Deko stirs it with his foot. Underneath is a plywood floor. This, he says, has to come up. But first we need to shift what he calls the pig iron.

  ‘Why? Why are we doing this?’

  He looks down at me. For some reason he’s smiling.

  ‘Because tomorrow night,’ he says, ‘we’ll be picking up a consignment of stuff out at sea. You’ll ask what and I guess now’s the time to tell you. We’re talking a hundred and fifty kilos of cocaine, uncut. If you don’t want me to go on, you have a choice. You can leave now and pretend nothing’s happened. Or you can leave and call the police for real. Your mobile’s still charged?’

  ‘Yes.’ I’m staring at him. I should be amazed by his boldness, by how reckless he can be, but somehow I’m not. ‘There’s
a third choice?’

  ‘Of course. You can stay aboard. Help me out. That weight of cocaine, cut on the street, is worth four and a half million quid. That’s not what will be coming to us but it’s quite close.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yeah. If it all goes to rat shit, we’d be looking at ten years at least. Probably more. That’s something else to think about.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Half a day in the sunshine has given him the beginnings of a tan. ‘Your call, ma chérie. Time waits for no man.’

  I’m looking down at the tangle of scrap iron. Cocaine, I think. So simple. So obvious. Four and a half million pounds for a single trip. That sort of windfall, and Deko’s money worries will be well and truly over.

  ‘So, the stuff goes where?’

  ‘On top of the ballast. There’s a special cavity. We move all this crap, get the floor up. Underneath there’s plenty of room. We do the prep now, get everything ready, and sail tomorrow night. We’ll make a rendezvous offshore where no one will see us. The weather gods are on our side. High pressure for at least a couple of days. A hundred and fifty kilos? Say one hour, max. A couple of minutes to settle up and we’re on our way.’ He nods down at the scrap iron. ‘Afterwards, you con us north while I get everything sorted down here.’

  ‘You’ve done this before?’

  ‘Twice.’ He’s laughing. ‘How do you think a Dutchman with no money comes to buy all that property? Nursing homes? Houses on the Beacon? A Breton Thonier? How does he put food in his mouth? Have money for the pub? Have time to meet a gorgeous woman and whisk her off to France? I could try for a bank loan, but I’d never get past the door. Cocaine is money without the paperwork. Call it investment. Call it what you like. Ça marche.’

  It works. I nod. H, and Flixcombe Manor, and now Pavel’s penthouse, are the living proof. Despite numerous invitations to sample what H always calls ‘the marching powder’, I’ve steered clear of cocaine all my life. How strange it should finally catch up with me in the bowels of a Breton Thonier in a little harbour I know so well.