H asks for volunteers for the first round of balloons. Hands go up.
H turns to Malo. ‘Son? You’re in charge. Choose six blokes. One magazine each. You know how they go in? Anyone here will show you.’
Malo does his father’s bidding. Andy distributes the hand guns, all automatics, and gives Malo a stack of magazines. I watch Andy teaching him how to slip the magazines into the butt of the guns, then load and ready the weapons. This time last year, Andy was teaching my son how to ride a trials bike. Now, he’s teaching him how to kill someone.
‘You’re ready, son? Blokes all tooled up?’
Malo’s nod of assent lacks conviction. H wants him to be sure.
‘Check the guns, son. Do it fucking properly, yeah?’
Malo goes from face to face, checking each weapon. I feel very, very sorry for him and yet I’m beginning to sense what H is up to here. Every general should take infinite care in preparing the battlefield, in this case that stretch of swampy ground around our son. If Sun Tzu didn’t say that, he should have done.
‘OK, son? Done the biz? Happy?’
Malo nods again. His voice appears to have failed him. Then he visibly stiffens, gets a grip, and arranges the shooters in a line.
‘When I tell you,’ H says. ‘One balloon each, yeah?’
The shooters exchange glances, then nod. One of them is licking his lips. Another permits himself the faintest smile.
‘Do it!’ The order comes from Malo.
There’s a deafening crackle of explosions, partly ammunition, partly balloons. The air is suddenly blue with smoke and something acrid catches in the back of my throat. Andy has taken care to pull the barn door shut but I imagine heads lifting from dinner tables four fields away. Fireworks? When it’s not even dark?
Most of the balloons are history. Three remain and the same shooter despatches them all, one after the other. Bang. Bang. Bang. This draws a round of applause from H who seems delighted. The shooter’s name is Wayne. H promises him pole position when it comes to putting the shits up the Brixton numpties. Wayne reloads again and says it will be an honour.
Malo helps Andy raise another line of balloons from beneath a net in the corner. This time all the balloons are despatched at once. The smell of cordite in this confined space is overpowering. Even H is trying to mask a cough.
Andy has produced a scarecrow figure knocked up from broom handles, binder twine, a ragged pair of trousers and an old denim jacket I suspect once belonged to Malo. A huge pumpkin, an obscene shade of orange, serves as the head and Andy has topped this grotesque figure with a straw hat.
Malo can’t take his eyes off the jacket. Everything H does always has a purpose and if he’s set out to get our son’s undivided attention it’s certainly worked.
H wants the assembled company to pretend they’re part of a firing squad. He wants them to take five steps back and then – again on Malo’s command – drop the target. ‘Think Brixton,’ he says. ‘Think heavy traffic. Think people everywhere. Think the getaway cars at the kerb. I know you can do this. Just prove it to me.’
Heads have turned. One of the shooters has a question. ‘Back in the house, you said we weren’t gonna kill anyone.’
‘Yeah?’ H is smiling. ‘I really said that?’
‘You did.’
‘OK.’ He’s looking at Malo now. ‘Then maybe I was wrong.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
By midnight, most of H’s Pompey troopers have climbed into their vehicles, grunted their goodbyes and disappeared into the darkness. A hard core, two of them including Wes, have decided to stay the night and are watching a DVD of Darkest Hour I gave H for his birthday. H himself, who has now seen the movie three times, slips out of the den and joins me in the kitchen.
‘Where’s the boy?’
I’ve no idea. Jessie and I are sharing a second nightcap – cocoa with two shots of Armagnac. Jessie thinks he might be down at the cottage with Andy. H tells her to phone and find out.
Jessie’s right. H takes the phone and asks Andy to send Malo up to the barn. Jessie and I exchange glances. H has been in a foul mood all evening. This very definitely isn’t party time.
I walk over to the barn with H, partly because he’s asked me to, and partly to defend Malo’s interests. I’m as keen as H to get to the bottom of what’s going on but I’ve seen Malo’s dad at work now and I know the kind of damage he can inflict.
Malo, it turns out, has been drinking. The moment he walks into the barn, it’s obvious: his eyes are wet and he walks with the kind of exaggerated confidence that suggests a tinnie too far. H has seen it too and it seems to enrage him even more. He’s rearranged the metal stands so a single pool of light falls on what’s left of the scarecrow. The pumpkin head lies on one side, a thin, yellowish liquid still oozing from dozens of bullet holes. The broomstick frame has been splintered and when Malo finally comes to an uneasy halt he can’t take his eyes off the denim jacket. It, too, is full of holes and one of them has half-destroyed a smiley badge I gave him a while back.
‘Well?’ H grunts.
‘Well what?’
‘Don’t get fucking clever with me, son. This is your dad talking and in case you’d forgotten, this is your mum. We’re family. We don’t keep secrets. Nothing sneaky. Not in our house. All we want, the both of us, is a bit of respect and a bit of honesty. Clemmie’s a cracking girl. We all love her. You’re lucky to have met her, lucky to have got her attention. So just one question. Where the fuck is she?’
Malo shakes his head. He won’t meet our eyes. He says he doesn’t know. H steps closer and for the briefest moment I’m certain he’s going to hit him. Instead he extends a hand to lift Malo’s chin, pulls him closer and gives him a long, hard look. Malo is terrified. I can see it in his face. He’s biting his lip. He’s totally out of his depth. There isn’t enough Stella in the world to cope with a scene like this.
H turns to me. ‘You try,’ he says. ‘Fuck knows, he won’t listen to me.’
I ask H to step away. I do my best to assure Malo that we have everything, including ourselves, under control. No one will get hurt as long as we’re honest with each other. All we want is the truth.
‘You told me yesterday what happened after Clem walked out that night, the night she went missing.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. You said you tried to call her private number. You told me she didn’t pick up. That turns out to be a lie.’
‘Lie’ is a big word. Malo flinches. ‘Who says?’
‘I talked to Clem’s dad. He has a contact at Vodafone. According to their records, you made three calls and had three conversations. The longest was the first one. Do you want the exact times?’
‘The record’s wrong.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s looking at the wrong phone.’
‘He isn’t. He knows Clem’s number. And he knows yours, too. If you want to tell lies, Malo, you should make allowances for other people. We’re not stupid. And we only want the best for both of you. So why don’t you tell us exactly what went on that night?’
There’s a very long silence. Malo is still staring at his denim jacket. H is somehow managing to contain himself.
‘Well …?’ I ask.
‘I told you last night.’ Malo is biting his lip. ‘We had a huge row.’
‘About?’
‘Me. Us.’
‘How huge? Remind me.’
‘Horrible. It was horrible. She had a whole list of things I’d not done, things I’d said I’d do.’
‘And was she right?’
‘Yeah. She’s always right.’
‘And that was enough to take her wherever she was going?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So where was she going?’
‘She’s got mates. I told you. Places she can crash.’
‘But where? You’d have asked her. Even the amount you’d drunk, you’d still ask her. So where was she going?’
Malo shak
es his head. He says she wouldn’t tell him.
‘These mates. You knew them too?’
‘Some of them.’
I steal a glance at H. After my last conversation with our son this is old territory for me, but I’m repeating myself for H’s benefit.
‘So did you phone any of these people later? Did you have a ring around to try and lay hands on her? Make sure she was OK?’
Malo is about to nod, to agree, to say yes, anything to put him in a better light, but then he remembers Mateo’s contact at Vodafone and has second thoughts.
‘I went to bed,’ he says. ‘I told you. I finished the bottle and went upstairs. I was wasted. Gone.’
I glance sideways at H. He’s inscrutable. He doesn’t want this to stop.
‘Carry on,’ he tells me. ‘There’s got to be more.’
There is. At last, I describe my conversation with Clem’s neighbour at the end of the mews. The moment Malo left in his Audi with the mystery passenger.
‘What passenger?’
‘Black guy. Dreadlocks. And a little teardrop tattoo.’ I touch my cheek beneath my eye. ‘Here.’
Mention of the tattoo gets H’s full attention. This time he can’t help himself. ‘This bloke got a name, son?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What bloke?’
It won’t do. The denial is tissue-thin. Even Malo doesn’t believe it. I go through the details again. ‘This is the company you’re keeping,’ I point out. ‘So given the circumstances, don’t you think we’re right to be disturbed?’
‘Who is he, son?’ H this time. ‘Just fucking tell us.’
Malo shakes his head. Says he can’t. Won’t.
‘Can’t? Won’t? That’s language we don’t use, son. Not here. Not now. These people are evil. Tatts like that don’t happen by accident. You’re in deep shit. Just tell us how it happened and what you were doing with this tosser. The rest we can sort.’
‘How?’ Malo’s question is beyond blunt and should tell us exactly why this son of ours is loath to go much further. He’s probably frightened of a squillion things just now, but the two of them that matter most are his father and the man with the dreadlocks and the teardrop tattoo. Malo has become the meat in someone else’s sandwich and is terrified to imagine what might happen next.
‘How?’ Malo asks again. ‘What are you going to do?’
It’s H’s turn to be coy. He won’t answer the question but I, too, have a stake in H’s next move.
‘Your little army is going up to London?’ I ask H.
‘Might be.’
‘And then what? You kill someone? Pour hot water all over them? Make everything better again? Just how does all this work?’
H ignores me. He’s staring at Malo. ‘I want this man’s name, son. I’m guessing you have an address, too. Does that sound reasonable?’
Malo shakes his head. No, he mutters. No, no, no way.
‘Why the fuck not?’
‘Because …’
‘Because what?’
‘Just because.’ He shuts his eyes and shakes his head as if something’s come loose inside and he wants to get rid of it. Then, once again, I watch him make some kind of unspoken inner decision. He blinks a couple of times, staring at nothing, then rubs his eyes.
‘Tomorrow,’ he mumbles. ‘I promise.’
‘Tomorrow what?’
‘Tomorrow I’ll tell you everything.’
‘Wrong. You’ll tell us now. Here. Both of us.’
‘No, Dad. Just give me a break, yeah?’
He steps to one side and heads for the door. H moves to intercept him but I manage to pull him back. Malo has disappeared.
H turns on me. ‘You’re crazy.’ He pinches his finger and thumb together. ‘We were that fucking close.’
‘I know, but you’ve got to give the boy space. He’s been drinking again. That’s something else we have to sort.’
I hear the front door of the main house open and then close. Malo has a wonderful suite of rooms on the second floor beside H’s office, last year’s bait to lure him down here to Flixcombe, and it worked. He’s been in residence ever since.
I’m looking at H. He’s trying to make the best of the situation, reluctantly agreeing it might be better to talk to the boy once he’s sobered up.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘We owe him that.’
There’s a brief silence between us. H looks exhausted. He had a bad crash last year on a trials bike, ending up in hospital for weeks, and I know there are moments when the pain of all those injuries comes back to haunt him. Now is just such a time. He’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying not to wince. I step a little closer. There’s something I want to share with him.
‘The guy with the dreadlocks,’ I murmur. ‘You think he might be the Plug?’
‘You mean as far as Bridport is concerned? The county lines thing?’ H is staring at me.
‘Yes.’
‘Controlling the Somalis down there? And the white kids?’
‘Yes.’
H doesn’t answer for a moment or two. His eyes are the deepest black. I’m half-expecting him to blank me, to tell me – as ever – to leave the business end of this saga to him, but finally he has the grace to nod.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I do.’
I spend the night in one of the guest rooms at the back of the house. H has pushed off to bed with barely a word of farewell, gruff again, and towards dawn I lie awake, listening to the stir of the wind in the trees beyond the walled garden. Conflicted is too small a word to describe my feelings about Malo. I haven’t the slightest doubt that he’s been lying, certainly to me, but I know he’s wounded in all kinds of ways and that gets me close to forgiving him. If only, I think. If only he’d trust us. If only he’d let us into his world. And if only I could ease his father’s desperate grip on the life he’s left behind. Pompey. Retribution. Grown men pouring bullets into a scarecrow. And that poor bloody Dooley bent over his steaming groin, howling like an animal.
I get up early and pad down to the kitchen in the dressing gown I keep on the back of the door. I’m sitting barefoot at the kitchen table when H appears. A night’s sleep seems to have done nothing for his mood. He spoons coffee granules from the jar and re-boils the kettle. I close my eyes, turn my head away.
‘The boy’s gone.’ H has settled at the table.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Gone. Done a runner. I should have known, should have sussed it. That’s a problem isn’t it? Kith and kin? Your own blood? Our own blood? And yet it takes nothing for him to stitch us up.’
I nod. I’m trying to digest this latest bombshell. ‘It’s hardly nothing,’ I say finally. ‘You’re right. But if it’s any consolation, he’s gone in all kinds of ways. The boy’s adrift. He’s totally lost it.’
H nods. He says he won’t get far. The Audi’s disappeared but Malo has no more money for petrol and H has acquired his phone.
‘I’ll go out for a look later,’ he says. ‘Then we’ll have a proper conversation.’
I close my eyes again. I don’t want to think about a proper conversation. Moments later, I hear the kitchen door open. It’s Wes.
‘Checked them, H.’
‘And?’
‘One missing. The Glock.’
Glock? I’m staring at H.
‘I asked Wes to check the guns. We had thirteen last night.’ H turns to Wes. ‘Ammunition?’
‘Three magazines. All for the Glock.’
‘And?’
‘They’ve gone, too.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
I’m back in my room, lying on the bed, when my phone rings. Thinking that my precious son might have acquired a pay-as-you-go phone, I answer the call.
‘Malo?’ I’m half-sitting up now.
It’s Pavel. I dab at the wetness on my cheeks. Even from Scotland, he probably knows that I’ve been crying. He’s got something important to tell me. To be more precise, two things. H
is voice is much stronger. He sounds confident, even happy.
‘Are you sitting down?’ he asks.
‘Sort of.’
‘I’m talking to you by myself. Picking up the phone? Scrolling to the directory? Punching the number? All my own work.’
This is his Neil Armstrong moment. One small step, I think.
‘And the other thing?’
‘They’re sending me home.’
‘You mean home home?’ I’m amazed.
‘England. There’s a special unit in London. The verb they keep using is “monitor”. They want to track my recovery day by day. I get the feeling I’ve become some kind of guinea pig. There’s probably a TV series in it. Life beyond paralysis. Blind diver reconnects. Be honest, do you think my agent can handle this?’
Despite everything, I realize I’m laughing. ‘Make sure you get a release clause,’ I tell him. ‘You don’t want to be in hospital for ever.’
It’s his turn to laugh. Then he asks about Clem.
‘Still gone.’
‘Nothing happening?’
‘Lots. All of it terrible.’ I tell him about last night, about the gathering of the Pompey faithful, about the shooting range that had once been the barn, and about our cack-handed bid to ambush our son and squeeze the truth out of him.
‘You’ll frighten the boy,’ Pavel warns. ‘And then he’ll go.’
‘Too late. You’re ahead of the game. He’s gone.’ I’m crying again. I can’t help it.
Pavel offers his sympathies. We need, he says, to talk face-to-face. This is strange coming from a blind man but I think I know what he means. He’s talking the language of comfort, of physical presence, of smell and touch, everything – in short – that I’ll never get from the other men in my life. This kind of rapport, of mutual reaching out, demands a degree of surrender, a concept which has zero appeal to either H or Malo.
‘Nice idea,’ I agree, ‘but when?’
‘A couple of days. Maybe even tomorrow. They’re polishing the ambulance as I speak.’
If only. H is out all morning in the Range Rover, searching lane after lane for signs of Malo’s Audi. By the time he returns, he’s convinced the boy must have laid hands on money from somewhere. A full tank, he says, would take him anywhere in the UK. All he needs is a hundred quid or so and he can survive for days.
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