Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  Winter smiled. This was a big story, and she knew it.

  ‘You’re telling me Bazza’s bailing out?’ he said.

  ‘I’m telling you he might have to.’

  ‘That’s supposition.’

  ‘I know. It’s what people like me do for a living.’ She fingered the rim of her glass. ‘Well?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘No comment meaning you don’t know or no comment?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Minutes later Mackenzie appeared. Gill got to her feet and reached for her bag, but Bazza ignored her. He wanted a word with Winter. They left the bar and went into his office. The Venetian blinds were down and a recording of the FA Cup semi-final was playing on the TV in the corner.

  ‘Well?’ Mackenzie closed the door and locked it.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Skelley, mush. I need to know what happened.’

  ‘He hasn’t called you?’

  ‘Not a fucking peep.’

  Winter described the afternoon’s meet. Skelley, he suspected, would play it long.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Mackenzie was watching the game.

  ‘It means he’ll deny all knowledge.’

  ‘He can’t. It’s all there on the disc.’

  ‘I meant the toot.’

  ‘Then he’s lying. He must have had it. We know he had it. You fucking told me he had it. You told me he gave some to the Polish bloke. That was ours, mush, and he’s bang up for it.’

  ‘You’re right, but that’s nothing we can prove.’

  ‘Who cares a fuck. Give the man a ring. Tell him he’s out of order. Tell him we’ll fucking be up there sharpish unless he sorts something out. Otherwise that DVD goes to the Old Bill. You got that?’ Winter nodded, said nothing. ‘And what about the woman? The sister? You saw her too?’

  ‘Yeah. She can make Wednesday evening.’

  ‘That’s too late, mush. She needs to know that brother of hers isn’t getting a quarter of a million quid off me.’

  ‘Then phone her up and tell her.’

  ‘That’s not the way it works. I want her down here.’

  ‘She can’t do it, Baz. She’s away. Wednesday she’s got some aunt she needs to see in Southampton. She can come across afterwards.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Mackenzie abandoned the TV and turned his attention to the big campaign grid on his office wall. Wednesday evening was a blank. A couple of weeks ago they’d all been hatching plans for a storming finish to the campaign, but Bazza’s appetite for yet more humiliation had gone. ‘Tell her eight o’clock. I’ll stand her dinner.’

  ‘No problem.’ Winter got to his feet but Mackenzie waved him down again. He was still staring at the campaign grid. His mood had changed. Some of the air had left his balloon. He looked, in a word, deflated. ‘Where did we go wrong, mush? Who’s fucking leaking all this stuff?’

  Today’s efforts, he muttered, had been a total waste of time, half a dozen retards at the first event, a bunch of deaf pensioners at the second. And both times, just to salt the wound, the audience had been outnumbered by the usual flying picket of scrotes outside.

  ‘They won’t leave us alone, mush. They’re evil little inbreds, but they’re way ahead of the game and they fucking know it. So who’s giving them the wink? Where’s this stuff coming from?’

  Winter said he didn’t know.

  ‘Leo thinks it’s Gill Reynolds.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the News is often there as well. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe the kids tip them off.’

  ‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘And maybe they don’t.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She says I’m off my head.’ At last the hint of a smile from Mackenzie. ‘And fuck knows, the woman’s probably right.’

  His eyes returned to the wallboard. Tomorrow, in the run-up to election day, Pompey First had announced an event at Fort Nelson, a showpiece military museum up on Portsdown Hill. Bazza would be addressing the arts and culture issue head on, pledging support for more resources, more exhibitions, more celebration of the city’s glorious heritage. The management at Widley had been really helpful, but in his battle against the scrotes Bazza had decided on yet another last-minute change of venue.

  ‘The Tipner scrapyard, mush. Gill’s idea. Fucking perfect. Leo’s fixed for a BBC South crew to be there. We don’t need the punters, just the background. I’m going for a piece to camera. Flagship Pompey. Trafalgar. Jutland. D-Day. Where we’ve come from. Who we are. None of the other lot would dream of anything like this, but that’s because they’ve never looked hard enough. It’s there, mush. Under our fucking noses.’

  ‘What is, Baz?’

  ‘Blood, mush. And treasure.’

  For a moment the old spark, the old mischief, was back. He was animated, alive, pumped-up, surfing that same wave that had carried Pompey First through the opening week of the campaign. This was the city he loved. And it might still be his for the taking.

  ‘Tipner, then?’ Winter didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Spot on, mush. Half eleven.’ His eyes were back on the semi-final. ‘Do yourself a favour. Join us.’

  Winter left the hotel soon afterwards. Of Gill Reynolds there was no sign. Neither was he able to clock the surveillance from Gehenna that was undoubtedly in place. He drove along the seafront and then pulled a left into Craneswater. Darkness was falling and the dog walkers were out in force. Winter parked along the road from Mackenzie’s house and fetched out his mobile.

  Skelley wasn’t picking up so he left a message. His boss, he said, was anxious for a meet. If he didn’t hear back by close of play tomorrow, he’d draw his own conclusions. A second call went to Irenka. She was in the bath.

  ‘Mackenzie wants to buy you dinner,’ he said. ‘Lucky girl.’

  They agreed half seven at the Trafalgar Wednesday evening. Irenka said she’d be driving over from Southampton. Winter gave her directions.

  At the end of Sandown Road there was a public call box. Winter had used it a number of times over the last few days. He strolled down and dialled a number from memory.

  ‘You know the scrapyard at Tipner? Out beyond the dog track?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Half eleven.’

  He put the phone down and backed into the gathering dusk. The Tipner scrapyard was visible from the motorway, acres of assorted debris, a very Pompey welcome to the city. Winter had never understood why the site hadn’t been snapped up by the developers and turned into yet another retail experience, but in a way he was glad it had been spared. The place was much emptier now, but over the years, driving into the nick at Kingston Crescent, he’d been strangely gladdened by the sight of a rusting submarine awaiting the scrapyard blowtorch or a line of derelict battle tanks parked among the puddles. It spoke of a Pompey he knew only too well, martial, gruff, matter of fact, a city that rolled up its sleeves and threw its weight about, resisting the picturesque curtsey that would put it on the front of everyone’s Christmas calendar. Bazza felt this way too, and unlike Winter he could probably put it into words.

  Winter walked on past the car and stepped into Bazza’s drive. This, he knew, would probably be the last time he’d ever set foot in the property, but for his own peace of mind he was determined to say a kind of goodbye.

  Marie was in the kitchen. She watched him cross the patio beside the pool and beckoned him in. She knew he loved a good malt. ‘There’s a bottle in the den,’ she said. ‘Help yourself.’

  Winter fetched a bottle of Glenmorangie, pausing to look round. This single room – cluttered, intimate, slightly claustrophobic – told you everything you’d ever need to know about Bazza Mackenzie. The trophy football shots on the wall. The framed snap of a younger Marie beside the PC. More photos of Stu and Ezzie and the grandkids. A big framed poster advertising the beachside retirement apartments south of Barcelona, Bazza’s first
serious venture into the foreign property market, a success he’d parcelled up and given to Marie as a surprise Christmas present. This space charted the journey Bazza had made, and Winter could only imagine how he must be feeling without it. Pompey’s favourite son, like everyone else in the world, needed a comfort zone. And this was it.

  ‘So how is he?’ Marie couldn’t hide her anxiety.

  ‘Lost.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’ve talked to him?’

  ‘Every night. He phones up every night.’

  ‘And what does he say? You mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s sad, Paul. He’s got terrible problems. Lost is a good word. You’ve nailed it completely. Lost.’

  Her husband, she said, had run out of steam. It had never happened before in his life and there was no instruction book to tell him what to do. She thought it began and ended with money – money ran everyone’s life these days – but that wasn’t all of it.

  ‘He can’t get it up any more, Paul. It’s worrying him sick.’

  ‘Get it up?’

  ‘Do it. Screw. Shag. Fuck. He says it doesn’t work.’

  ‘And he tells you all this?’

  ‘He does.’ She nodded. ‘And in a way I’m glad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it probably means there’s no one else to talk to.’

  ‘And that matters?’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘Because you miss him?’

  ‘Yes, oddly enough I do.’ She turned away and sorted out a couple of glasses. Winter had never seen her drink malt whisky.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Here’s to Baz, eh?’

  She nodded but said nothing. Her glass was still on the breakfast bar. At length she took a tiny sip, the way a child might. In this light she looked much younger. Winter hadn’t been around when they’d first met but could imagine the chemistry. The posh young thing with the high school education and the Old Portsmouth address. The apprentice estate agent from over the tracks with his Lambretta 200 and endless supply of quality weed. The way Bazza sometimes told it, Marie had made the running. Not that he’d ever complained.

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘I don’t know, Paul. We were talking last night. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I mentioned what you’d said.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Buying a ticket to South America. Packing our bags. Doing a bunk.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He laughed. He said he wouldn’t blame me. Then he said something else. He said he’d like to come too. Maybe not South America. Maybe somewhere else.’

  Winter was thinking about Famagusta. Gill Reynolds was right. If you made it to Northern Cyprus you were probably safe.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some of the stuff he’s been up to lately is hard to forgive.’

  ‘She’s a journalist, my love. They’ll shag anyone for a story.’

  ‘You really think so?’ She forced a smile. ‘But it’s not like they’re even shagging, is it?’

  Whether this knowledge was a comfort or not Winter could only guess. The message he’d come to deliver seemed suddenly irrelevant. She missed him. She wanted him back. The only questions that mattered were when and how.

  They had another drink. They talked about some of the good times – excursions abroad to view this property or that, wild nights in London when Bazza had scored a particularly sweet deal, a July week in a big rented house in Cornwall, three generations under one roof, the kids underfoot, days on the beach, nights around the barbecue, the feeling – new to Winter – that he was part of the warm rough and tumble of a real family, with all its chaos and laughter.

  ‘You liked that? Sennen Cove?’

  ‘I loved it.’

  ‘We did too. It was good having you along. The kids thought you were great, Guy especially. He still talks about it.’

  Guy was the oldest of Bazza’s grandchildren. Winter had taught him how to pick up crabs and jellyfish in the rockpools beneath the cliffs. He remembered the icy kiss of the water and Guy’s upturned face. Dad stuff. Family stuff.

  ‘Yeah …’ he said. ‘Good times.’

  Marie poured them a nightcap. She was drunk by now, moist-eyed at the memories. She reached for his hand and told him about a miscarriage she’d had only a couple of years back. Women her age had no business getting pregnant, but somehow it had happened and what made it all the sweeter was the knowledge that Bazza wanted it too.

  ‘We were going to call him Paul,’ she said, giving Winter’s hand a little squeeze. ‘And guess who was going to be the godfather?’

  Winter stared at her. Then astonishment gave way to something else and he pulled her towards him and gave her a long hug. He could feel how thin she was under the T-shirt and sweater. Stress, he thought. Small wonder.

  ‘Would you have liked that?’ She was peering up at him. Her eyes were shiny with tears.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Being a godfather?’

  Winter nodded. Now wasn’t the time to talk about Jimmy Suttle, and Lizzie and Grace. Now was the time to try and make her feel just a little bit better.

  ‘You’ve been brilliant. A brilliant wife. A brilliant mum. And brilliant to me too.’

  ‘Been?’

  ‘Are.’ He tried to smile. ‘I was always crap at grammar.’

  She turned away and said she had to go to bed. This whole thing would sort itself out, she knew it would. Winter nodded, saying nothing, wondering why Bazza hadn’t put in his nightly phone call. Maybe he rings late, he thought. Maybe he waits until he knows she’s tucked up.

  Then came a ring at the front door. Marie glanced up at the clock and frowned. Nearly eleven.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Winter said.

  He walked through to the hall. The porch light wasn’t on, but he could see the foggy shape of someone waiting through the frosted glass. Marie had bolted the door top and bottom. Winter drew the bolts and opened the door.

  Bazza.

  He looked Winter up and down. He too had been drinking.

  ‘This used to be my place …’ he said. ‘Mind if I come in?’

  Winter didn’t get back to Hayling Island until gone midnight. He’d stayed long enough for a coffee and a bit of a chat before leaving Bazza and Marie to it. In his heart he knew Bazza was back for good, and he was glad for Marie’s sake, but that didn’t make the parting any easier. Next time they met he knew the circumstances would be very different. He just hoped, way down the line, that she’d forgive him.

  Misty was asleep when he crept into the bedroom, but the moment he rolled into bed she woke up.

  ‘Where have you been, pet?’

  ‘With Baz and Marie.’

  ‘They’re back together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that. She should chop it off. Bloody man.’

  She switched the light on. She was parched. Too much Stolly. Drinking alone would be the end of her.

  Winter padded downstairs and made a pot of tea. Returning to the bedroom, he settled beside her. He’d tried to rehearse what was coming next but had never quite managed to find a way of softening bad news. Better, perhaps, to just say it.

  ‘The shit’s about to hit the fan, Mist.’

  ‘What shit?’ She was brushing sugar off the duvet. ‘What fan?’

  ‘Bazza. There’s no way I’m going into details, but he’s fucked.’

  ‘Broke, you mean?’

  ‘Big time. And other stuff as well.’

  The gravity of what Winter was trying to say was evident in his face. It dawned on Misty that this was serious.

  ‘So what’s going to happen?’

  ‘They’ll have the house off you.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Mist. We’re in queue territory here. We could start with the bailiff but it doesn’t end there.’
/>
  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We move.’

  ‘But what about Trude? She’ll be home in a couple of days.’

  ‘She comes too.’

  ‘Where? Where would we go?’

  Winter hesitated. He could try and flannel her. He could try and pretend he’d just dreamed up the idea. But neither option would work because Misty Gallagher had been around for a while and very little got past her.

  ‘Abroad, Mist. We’ll have to go abroad.’

  ‘Abroad? Why, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘Because we have no choice.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Why?’ She peered at him. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Big trouble?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you killed someone?’

  ‘Sort of …’ He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  She gazed at him for a long time. At first Winter misread her reaction as disbelief. Then he realised she was, in some unfathomable way, proud of him.

  ‘Pet …’ She abandoned the cup and gave him a hug. ‘You should have told me. What’s a girl for, for fuck’s sake?’

  Winter tried to fight her off. She wanted to know where they were going.

  ‘Croatia,’ he said, ‘for starters.’

  ‘Really?’ She was in his face again. ‘And is that why you went out there? To get things ready?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter was happy to lie. ‘So now you know.’

  ‘And this friend of yours? This woman? She’s all part of the plan?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that. Trude’ll be pleased too.’ She paused, struck by another thought. ‘And Baz? Marie? They’re coming too?’

  Winter looked at her, holding her at arm’s length, knowing he couldn’t ride his luck any further. Enough was enough.

  ‘No, Mist.’ He leaned forward and kissed her. ‘I’m not sure that would ever work.’

  Chapter twenty-six

  HAYLING ISLAND: TUESDAY, 4 MAY 2010

  Winter phoned Maddox from Hayling Island. Upstairs he could hear Misty padding round the bedroom. She’d been up since dawn, going through her wardrobes, pulling out stuff she wanted to hang on to, making another pile for the charity shop. After a fitful night’s sleep she’d decided that relocating abroad would be an adventure.