Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  Now I want to know what Malo’s father might have in store for Bridport’s new drug lords. I’ve asked H himself but he said he’d yet to decide. That, I know for certain, is a lie. You don’t get as rich and successful as H by procrastination.

  ‘From here on?’ Wes has been making notes from his emails and now he sits back and starts to twiddle the pen between his fingers, a trick I’ve never quite mastered. The way Wes does it seems unconscious, instinctive, and thus super-cool.

  He glances out of the window again, looking for more wildlife.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m guessing we start with Larry Fab. He seems to boss the Bridport end and he’d be the one to take us further up the food chain. There has to be a main supplier.’

  ‘You mean the Plug?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Yeah, probably. I’m not saying the Plug’s down for the kidnapping. H is probably right about the Somalis going freelance. But I’m guessing London’s where we’ll find the girl.’

  ‘So what happens? How do you do it?’

  ‘We ask Mr Larry Fab some serious questions. Get his entire attention.’

  ‘And how do you do that?’

  ‘We probably kidnap him. That way we keep it nice and tidy. Give ourselves time to get the details right.’

  Kidnap him. I should have guessed. An eye for an eye. Luckless Clem for Larry Fab.

  ‘And you’re comfortable with that?’

  ‘Kidnapping him?’

  ‘Hurting him.’

  ‘Of course. It’s ways and means. We could try writing him a letter but he probably can’t read.’

  I nod, say nothing. One of the reasons this morning has shaken me so badly is more than obvious: it’s the first time I’ve seen H in action. Not once has he tried to disguise how he made his fortune. He sold drugs, lots of drugs, to lots of people. He made squillions of pounds, invested it wisely, and has been living off the proceeds ever since. He never boasts about his wealth but it’s there in bricks and mortar, in the view that he owns, and in the quiet despatch of sizeable cheques to old mates in trouble. Incontestably, that makes him a decent man, but the fact remains that the drugs scene – in one of Mitch Culligan’s phrases – is free enterprise gone bonkers, and Wes’s party trick in that hideous kitchen is the evidence that it can get very dark indeed.

  ‘Does it ever bother you? Any of this?’ I ask Wes.

  ‘Any of what?’

  ‘What happened this morning. Pouring boiling water all over a man’s lap?’

  Wes gives the question some thought. Finally he points out that Dooley always had a choice. ‘He could have copped to the questions right off,’ he says. ‘We could have been civilized about it. Had a conversation.’

  ‘And did you try?’

  ‘To be honest, no. Not really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he wasn’t that kind of bloke. I’ve been in this game a while. Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing. People like Dooley just lie. They’ll tell you any old shit just to get you out the door. They’ll swear on their kids’ lives that it’s the truth but you know all along it’s really bollocks. We went there to get names and that, in the end, is what he gave us. It’s a shame we had to hurt him but with scum like him there’s no other way. You saw the state of that woman. You think that was some kind of accident? You think she got a face like that by falling down the stairs? You should have seen the state of their bedroom. There were great clumps of her hair on the floor. That has to be his doing. That’s when he sets about her, drags her around by her hair roots. Maybe next time he’ll think twice, eh?’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘No. Never. Scum stays scum. So she’s well and truly fucked.’ He looks out of the window again and his face brightens. ‘Look at that one …’ We’re still in the New Forest and he’s found another pony. ‘Sweet or what?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  I’m back home by mid-afternoon, after a detour to an exhibition of German romantic art. An hour’s exposure to the sublime despair of Caspar David Friedrich has done me the world of good. Whatever happens next, I’m never going to be the monk gazing at the darkness of that terrifying seascape.

  My apartment feels safe and cave-like after the events of the past day or so. I lock the door, put the chain on and decide to take a nap. Next week I’m due another scan to check out the status of my tumour. Inshallah, the X-rays and the chemo should have chased most of it away, but in the meantime the medical consensus – my consultant, my GP, and the practice nurse – is to take it easy. My consultant says he’s on speaking terms with the Grim Reaper, and nothing keeps you more alive than a good night’s sleep.

  When my mobile begins to chirp, I ignore it. I’ve swapped Tina Turner for the opening chords of a Bach Toccata and Fugue, a favourite of Pavel’s, and it’s much easier on the ear. I’m on the sofa drifting off to sleep when the phone goes again. And again.

  It’s Rosa, my agent. At first I think this has to do with the imminent get-together in Paris to discuss the Nantes project. I give her the date of the hospital appointment and tell her we’ll have to work around it. She says she’s still waiting to hear back.

  ‘I’m not calling about the French people at all,’ she says. ‘It’s Pavel.’

  Pavel? My heart sinks. This can only be bad news. And it is.

  ‘He’s in hospital,’ she says. ‘In Glasgow.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How do I know? He phoned up and told me. Are you all right, precious? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I’m fine. Never better. Did you talk to anyone else? In the hospital?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. I just told you, it was Pavel on the phone. He made the call and it wasn’t the longest conversation in the world.’

  For a moment I toy with letting her into my Prague secret but decide against it. The fact is that Pavel was never in Prague, certainly not recently, and possibly not ever.

  ‘So what’s happened?’

  ‘He’s had some kind of accident. He was a bit woolly but I gather it involved the wrong end of a swimming pool. He’s in a special unit. He thinks he might be paralysed for a while.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I said. Tell me something, precious. Are you angry with him?’

  ‘Yes, a little.’

  ‘Care to tell me why?’

  ‘Not really. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because he asked me to make this call. He said he would have done it himself but he wasn’t quite sure about his status.’

  ‘His status? What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Have you got a pen, precious? Something to write on? You have to phone the hospital. Ask for the spinal injuries unit. They’ll have to get someone to his bedside because he can’t hold the phone himself. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘It does,’ I tell her. ‘At least it means he’s bloody there.’

  I’m making the phone call within seconds. The woman on the switchboard has a Scottish accent. OK, so far. Moments later, I’m talking to another woman. I begin to explain the situation but she hasn’t got time for the small print.

  ‘You’re after Mr Sieger,’ she says. ‘And you are …?’

  I give her my name. That’s all she wants. I wait for a while at the window, watching our gardener trying to rescue a stand of hostas from terminal drought, then there’s a new voice on the line. It certainly sounds like Pavel but he’s very faint, as though he’s trying to have the conversation through a sheet or two.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine. Good. Excellent. Never better. Actually, not.’

  ‘So what’s happened?’

  He won’t tell me, not on the phone. Might I have time to pop up?

  Pop up? My grasp of geography isn’t everything it might be but last time I checked, Glasgow wasn’t on the Underground map.

  ‘How long are you in for?’
/>   ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you in pain? Does it hurt?’

  ‘That’s the strange thing. Nothing hurts. Most odd.’

  ‘Can you move anything?’

  ‘Not much. Only my head.’

  ‘And will it get better?’

  ‘No one seems to know.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Quite. And that’s another thing.’

  ‘Don’t.’ I check my watch. Eighteen thirty-two. Heathrow is down the road and there must be planes to Glasgow. Drama is infectious. I’d sensed it in Rosa’s voice and now I’m at it, too. ‘Hang on in there,’ I say. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  ‘That’s kind.’ Pavel sounds exhausted. ‘Under the circumstances.’

  The flight north is the last of the day. I sit beside an American oil executive with a laptop and a long story about the wife in Houston who doesn’t even try to understand him. We share a couple of gin and tonics and agree that life sucks. Only when we’re on the ramp and the queue in the aisle is shuffling towards the exit door does he enquire about my own reason for paying Glasgow a visit.

  ‘A friend of mine’s just got himself paralysed,’ I tell him. ‘Call it moral support.’

  The hospital is a twenty-pound cab fare away. At half past ten in the evening I don’t fancy my chances of getting into the spinal injuries unit, and when I ask at the hospital’s front desk it turns out I’m right.

  ‘Come back tomorrow morning,’ the woman says. ‘If you’re after accommodation, there’s a Premier Inn down by the Quay.’

  I call another taxi and settle down to wait. Ever since my last conversation with Pavel came to an end, I’ve been pondering his final words. Should I treat under the circumstances as some kind of apology for his Prague fantasy? Should I delete that little episode from my hard disk and pretend it never happened? Or has the time come to look reality in the face and admit that I’m somehow involved with a man, at best a dreamer, at worst a serial liar, who’s slipped his moorings?

  The taxi arrives and takes me to the Premier Inn. The room is functional and baking hot. It’s also on the top floor. I open the window as wide as I can. There’s no mini bar and the sight of the kettle rekindles images I can do without. I pour myself a glass of water and tell myself it’s good for me.

  I’m in bed, nursing the last of the water, when the phone goes. This time it’s H. He’s been hearing reports of thunderstorms and flash floods in London. Am I all right?

  I’m oddly touched by his concern. One moment he’s bloodying his knuckles on a total stranger. The next he’s worried that I might have been hit by lightning.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell him. ‘I’m in Glasgow.’

  ‘That’s in fucking Scotland.’

  ‘You’re right. The rumour’s true.’ I try to mime the accent but I need something stronger than lukewarm water to do a proper job.

  When H enquires further I tell him about Pavel. The news that this new man in my life is lying in a spinal unit seems to cheer him up no end, and from his point of view I can see the logic. If you’re paralysed from the chin down, the scope for hanky-panky is seriously limited.

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Not yet. Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Find out how that script of ours is going, yeah? He’ll have lots of time, flat on his back. Getting that script done might even be therapeutic.’

  I’m tempted to tell him that Pavel has cooled on H’s original idea and come up with some alternative starting points but H is already telling me that the French blokes from Lyon, the ones with the serious dosh, have been on to him again and that he needs to keep them sweet.

  ‘I’m sending the boy down there,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘You mean Malo?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve given him the brief, the bones of what we all agreed, and I’m sure he’ll play a blinder. For one thing it’ll keep him out of fucking trouble. And for another, he speaks the lingo. They’ll love him. Everyone does. That’s why we’re in the shit with Clemmie. Total strangers, couple of beers, and the boy’s telling them his life story. That’s the way it happened down in Bridport. Swear to God.’

  The ransom demand has now expired. I ask H whether he’s been in touch with Mateo. Or O’Keefe.

  ‘The K&R King? No fucking point. Number one, the guy never listens because he knows it all already. Number two, there has to be a better way.’

  ‘And you’ve found it?’

  ‘Of course I fucking have. Wes get you home OK?’

  ‘Wes got me as far as Southampton. Nice man.’

  ‘Wes? Top guy. A word to the wise. Just watch yourself. He acts the adolescent but don’t be fooled. He rates you. He’s probably fallen in love with you. And when that happens he gets very silly. Any nonsense, give me a bell and I’ll sort it. Good luck tomorrow, eh? And give the patient my best.’

  The line goes dead and I’m still wondering how on earth Malo will cope with negotiating any kind of movie budget when I catch the first rumble of thunder. Within minutes the storm is on top of us. The heavens have opened and I’m fighting to get the window closed against the wind before I’m flooded out. Back in bed, towelled but still damp, I wonder about phoning H with the latest on the weather but decide against it. Forked lightning, the sudden white-hot brilliance against the night sky, has always been a very special pleasure. Pavel, I think, might remember moments like these.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The spinal injuries unit at the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital is a brick-built single-storey building that forms part of the larger hospital complex. All the beds are occupied by bodies, all male, with various degrees of inertness. Eyes follow me down the ward as I make for the bed at the end. Walking beside me is a youngish nurse who appears to know a great deal about Pavel’s prognosis. The fact that he’s blind, she says, makes him doubly unlucky but it’s the consultant’s belief that he might stand a slim chance of making at least a partial recovery.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Control and sensation. It’s not my place to say this but at the moment he’s pretty helpless. The X-rays are quite promising. We think we’ve minimized the swelling. He was in good hands up in Orkney. They did a fine job.’

  ‘And he knows this?’ We’ve paused short of Pavel’s bed but I’m sure he’s listening. ‘Ears of a bat,’ I whisper. ‘Be careful what you say.’

  The nurse smiles and goes quiet on me. I think I might have frightened her a little. It’s not every day she’ll find herself nursing a blind man and if Pavel stays here for any length of time she might find herself having to cope with other surprises.

  ‘You’re a relative?’ she asks at last.

  ‘A close friend.’

  ‘You’ve known him long?’

  ‘Not really, but long enough, yes. Some people are really gifted. He’s one of them. Did you ever see that TV series set in Sarajevo?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘Pavel wrote it.’

  She nods. She’s impressed. The consultant, she says, won’t be doing his rounds until late afternoon. She’s told me pretty much everything they know to date and I’m welcome to stay as long as I like. The coffee machine’s in the corridor, plus a choice of sandwiches. I tiptoe to Pavel’s bedside. I’m right. He’s heard every word.

  ‘You could be my agent,’ he says softly. ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘No.’ I fetch a chair and settle carefully beside the bed. ‘How are you?’

  ‘A little frightened, if you want the truth.’

  ‘The nurse says you’ll probably get better.’

  ‘I know. I heard her. Just now it doesn’t feel that way. Blindness I can cope with. Sending out messages and getting nothing back is very, very scary.’

  ‘Can you feel this?’ I touch his hand.

  ‘No.’

  ‘This?’ I move my finger slowly up his arm.

  ‘No. I can feel nothing.’

  ‘This?’ I kiss him softly on the lips.

&n
bsp; He manages a nod and the beginnings of a smile. They’ve taken his glasses away and he lies flat on his back, his eyes open but sightless. He says he wants his hands to cup my face but the messenger he despatched has somehow gone missing.

  I’m looking at the bed. A single tube trails from under the sheet to a plastic bottle on the floor. Pavel’s head has been encased in a hoop of stainless steel, presumably to prevent movement. The contraption looks like something out of the Spanish Inquisition, though the real torture would be the condition itself. Not being able to physically respond to a kiss? Unimaginable.

  ‘So what happened?’

  He’s trying to swallow but he obviously finds it difficult. There’s a plastic cup beside the bed with a bendy straw. I ask him whether he wants a drink and he says yes. I do my best but most of the water slops over his chin and then trickles down his chest. When I find a tissue and start to clean him up he tells me not to bother. Below his neck, he can’t feel a thing.

  ‘Spa hotel,’ he whispers.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spa hotel. Brand new. Lovely swimming pool.’

  His eyes flick towards me and I finally realize what he wants to tell me. This is how the accident happened. This is why he’s ended up here, his brain disconnected from the rest of his body. The story takes a while to unfold, chiefly because he can only manage a sentence or two at a time.

  He’d flown to Orkney at the invitation of a German TV company who’d been impressed and intrigued by his movie project. They’d booked him into a brand-new spa hotel outside Stromness and hired a couple of local divers to accompany him on a series of descents on an ancient German battleship. This idea, in the first place, had come from Pavel himself. A blind man sees through his fingertips. What better way to explore the rusting evidence of Germany’s long-ago humiliation?

  ‘Had you dived before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Wonderful. You become a bird. No gravity. No limits. Underwater, you’re flying.’