Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  I phone at midday. After a longish wait, the voice at the other end is male, young, and sounds Asian. I give him my name, age and GP details. Then he starts on what is obviously a checklist of questions.

  ‘Do you have a temperature?’

  ‘Last night, yes. Now? No.’

  ‘Was it high last night? Was your chest hot to the touch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any kind of cough?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing? A dryish cough?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shortness of breath?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does your chest feel sore?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re absolutely certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your sense of taste? Smell?’

  ‘Both perfect.’

  ‘I see.’

  Already, to my immense relief, I feel a fraud. I tell him about the sudden attack of D&V and the strange pains in and around my head. He seems to be making notes because I can hear the soft patter of his fingers on the keyboard.

  Finally, he asks me whether I have any immediate support.

  ‘If you’re asking whether I live alone, then the answer is yes.’ As an afterthought, I tell him briefly about my tumour but he doesn’t think that’s relevant.

  ‘You seem OK,’ he says. ‘Maybe it’s something you ate, a bug you picked up. Stay in bed. Drink lots. Keep your fluids up. Try not to worry. Any further issues with headaches, try codeine, and if that doesn’t sort it you can always phone back. Are you working just now? Do you need an isolation note?’

  I say no, thank him for his time, and end the call. By now, I’ve come up with an alibi for the two men in my life. When I get through to Malo and try to explain the crisis with my plumbing, I can tell at once he’s not buying it.

  ‘You found what this morning?’

  ‘Water all over the bathroom floor.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I think a joint may have gone, I can’t really tell.’

  ‘Just turn the water off.’

  ‘I don’t want to. If I’m to be away for a while, I need it fixed.’

  ‘By who? No one’s allowed in your flat any more.’

  ‘I have a tame plumber. Teodor. Polish. Nerves of steel. I know he’ll do me the favour.’ This, at least, is true.

  ‘Like when?’

  ‘He says he’s very busy. It could be tomorrow. Or even the day after.’

  ‘Just leave a key with a neighbour.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Malo. These people are already watching me like a hawk. Patience is a virtue. I’ll be down just as soon as I can. How’s your father?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Worse.’ He pauses a moment. ‘Just give your Polish guy a ring. He’ll tell you how to turn the water off. Promise?’

  I stare at the phone. Then, for the first time in my life, I hang up on him.

  The rest of that day, and the next, seems dreamlike. No single part of me is physically hurting and I feel that sense of floaty detachment that came with decent weed back in the day. I haven’t touched the codeine, nor the Chilean Merlot, just endless cups of turmeric tea. Both days, I spend a great deal of time asleep, in wonderment that I need so much rest, but the moment I surface is the moment I’m on patrol again, looking out for signs of trouble. But nothing, literally nothing, happens.

  By Saturday I’ve swapped the bedroom for the sofa next door in the lounge, and after a brief dalliance with the BBC News channel, I muster the concentration to get stuck into a book. An unfinished re-read of Testament of Youth yields gems I hadn’t noticed first time round, while a couple of hours with Patrick Leigh Fermor gives me the urge to abandon everything and walk to Istanbul. Then, in no time at all, it’s Saturday night and I hear a knock on my door.

  It’s my new neighbour, a young travel executive called Max who’s just moved into Evelyn’s old apartment. This is the first time we’ve met face to face, though naturally we keep our distance. He’s a tiny man with a very bright smile and he’s holding a bottle of Moët.

  ‘For you.’ He offers me the champagne. ‘I shouldn’t be asking this, Ms Andressen, but are you any better?’

  ‘Better?’ My loo adjoins our party wall and it dawns on me that I must have been very noisy the other night. ‘Oh, that,’ I say lightly. ‘It was nothing. Gone. Better, like you say.’

  ‘Great news. I’ll tell Jacob. He’ll be thrilled. He worries a lot, especially now.’

  ‘Jacob?’

  ‘My partner.’

  ‘Ah …’ He’s still holding the Moët. ‘Is that really for me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re very generous, Max.’ I nod at the bottle. ‘But shouldn’t the moving-in gifts come from me?’

  ‘Pas du tout.’ His smile widens even further. ‘We both loved you in that Montréal movie. Another time, I guess, for a proper chat.’

  With that, he’s gone. Slipping back into the apartment, I glance at my watch. Nearly nine o’clock. I feel completely normal – no pain, no symptoms, no trace of any intruder. As a precaution, I check my temperature. It registers a steady 98.4 degrees Fahrenheit. Time to go, I think.

  FIVE

  It’s gone midnight before I make it down to Southsea. I use the A3 again, slipping behind a huge Asda truck to shield me from watching eyes. I hold station like this for the length of the entire journey and mercifully it turns out to be going to Portsmouth.

  My sat-nav takes me down to Southsea Common and I find a parking bay almost opposite the block of flats. Up on the third floor, I can see a light behind the mauve curtains. Malo may have been asleep because he takes an age to answer the phone.

  ‘Sorry to wake you up,’ I mutter. ‘I’m across the road.’

  I’m still looking up at the third floor. Within seconds, Malo’s slim silhouette is at the window, the phone pressed to his ear.

  ‘There’s stuff to bring up,’ I tell him. ‘Lots of stuff.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Mum. We’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll come down and let you in.’

  ‘Now,’ I say. ‘We’ll do it now.’

  Ten minutes later, all the boxes are piled beside the still-unfinished jigsaw and Malo is back on his PlayStation.

  ‘What’s that?’ I’m looking at the huge screen he must have brought down from London. A masked figure is abseiling down a rope from the belly of a helicopter before swinging wildly against the sheer glass cliff of a downtown office block. He smashes through the window, boots first, and seizes a startled bank employee before Malo freezes the action.

  ‘GTA,’ he says. ‘Grand Theft Auto. This is the fifth edition. You have to watch this, Mum. It’s beyond awesome.’

  While I’ve heard of Grand Theft Auto, I’ve only the vaguest notion of what the game’s about. American? Definitely. But plot? Narrative? All those bothersome little tricks that keep your bum in the chair and your thumb on the controls?

  Malo dismisses my queries with a shrug. The scary intruder, armed to the teeth, is setting about anything with a pulse and my son plunges into a kill-fest, with hapless bank employees exploding in every direction. Multi-tasking comes naturally to Malo’s generation, something I’ve noticed on a number of occasions, and while he turns his attention to the bank’s heavily protected vault, he briefs me on the action.

  It seems we’re dealing here with three characters, Michael, Franklin and Trevor, all of them psychos to various degrees, and all of them wedded to bounty hunting, auto pimping, driving very fast against the traffic flow, and – when needs must – spectacular shoot-ups. One guy begins the game as a retired gangster, another – younger, hungrier – must make his name, while the third has let the product steal his wits.

  ‘Product?’

  ‘Coke, Mum. He’s out of his head most of the time. Occupational hazard. Great pictures. Look—’

  He’s done something clever with the controls and our drug-fiend hero is suddenly as
tride a jet-ski, heading for a cataract where the river does battle with hundreds of metres of mean-looking rocks. I’m assuming it’s Malo on that jet-ski because he’s jinking left and right, cheating oblivion by millimetres until he’s clear of the rocks and the river tosses him towards a huge raft of logs. The logs block the passage downstream. There’s no way out. I close my eyes a moment, anticipating the shock to come, but when I tune in again Malo has somehow jumped the jet-ski on to the raft and appears to be enjoying the scenery.

  ‘That’s cheating,’ I tell him.

  ‘It’s ironic, Mum. You’re supposed to love it.’

  ‘But how do you win?’

  ‘You have a target number of points. A million dollars to begin with. If you don’t get wasted en route, there are harder missions and bonus multipliers. It’ll go on for hours, if you let it.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Not so far. This is the first time I’ve managed to get it off him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dad, of course. This is his game, not mine.’

  I nod, taking it in. H celebrating late middle age with Grand Theft Auto? On the face of it, GTA is a trillion miles from the Battle of Trafalgar, but both are essays in extreme violence so maybe I’m wrong.

  ‘You’re telling me that wasn’t enough?’ I nod down at the jigsaw on the carpet, which appears to be no nearer completion.

  ‘He had a go yesterday.’ Malo has abandoned his father’s PlayStation. ‘Down on his knees with his glasses on. I timed him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was looking for some bloke’s right arm. All he could find were bits of sail. After that he was gaming again.’

  ‘He does this stuff all day?’

  ‘No. Most of the time he’s in there.’ He nods towards the smaller bedroom. ‘On the phone.’

  ‘Talking to …?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t know why he bothers. Most of the time it just makes him angry. He always shuts the door but sometimes he just loses it. This morning, he threw a glass at the wall. I’m barefoot most of the time, so I was the one clearing up.’

  This is not good news. H has always been volatile, with occasional flashes of temper when he’s not in total control, but something has definitely got to him.

  ‘You think it’s money?’

  ‘I don’t know. I asked him this morning, after I’d sorted the damage, but he gets in one of those moods when he just doesn’t hear you.’

  ‘Doesn’t listen, you mean.’

  ‘Exactly. We had a pizza at lunchtime and I bought him a bottle of red to go with it. I thought he might have calmed down a bit, but no chance. There’s a problem with the funeral, too.’

  ‘Cynthia’s got a date?’

  ‘Friday this coming week. Half eleven at the Crem, wherever that is. Dad seems to think we can arrive mob-handed but you’re only allowed ten people, absolute max, and they have to be immediate family. Dad isn’t having it. Maybe these are the people he’s phoning all the time. He wants to give Dave a proper send-off.’

  ‘And Cynthia? Does she get a say?’

  ‘That’s the problem. Dad took me round yesterday. Nice woman. Dad’s barging in, taking over, and that’s the last thing she needs. I tried to explain afterwards but like I say, he never listens. It’s as if Dave was a brother or something, not a fat cop who happened to be bent. Sad, really.’

  ‘For Dave?’

  ‘Dad. If you want the truth, I think it’s all slipping away from him. The way I hear it, he used to be king of this city. Now, everybody blanks him.’

  I nod. This I understand only too well. Malo holds my gaze for a moment or two and then his hands stray to the PlayStation, and he’s back on the river, anticipating the challenge round the next bend. I watch while the story unfolds – more mayhem, more violence – then something very obvious strikes me.

  ‘You said three characters …?’ Malo nods. He’s up in the mountains now, on a switch-back road with a terrifying drop. At the wheel of something red and very noisy, he’s just edging a truck into the abyss below. ‘So which one does H play?’

  ‘The old retired guy.’ He glances up briefly. ‘Michael.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He keeps fucking up. And that doesn’t help, either.’

  ‘But that’s in character, surely?’

  ‘With Michael, you mean?’ The truck has left the road. Then comes a huge explosion and a blossom of flame far below.

  ‘With H,’ I murmur.

  Malo simply nods, faintly amused, and I spend the next few minutes carrying some of the cardboard boxes into the kitchen. I’m on the point of storing the food in the few cupboards but on closer inspection every shelf needs a proper clean. Tomorrow, I think, leaving the boxes on the floor.

  Back in the front room, Malo offers me a high five. He’s made it to his first million dollars. Then he gestures towards the darkness beyond the window.

  ‘This city is seriously weird,’ he says.

  ‘Weird how?’

  ‘Three o’clock this afternoon, on the dot, everything went crazy. Whistles, church bells, people tooting their horns. You could even hear ships’ sirens, I’m guessing from the dockyard. I looked out of the window, and there were people on the Common, not many, but they’d all stopped, just standing there, heads down, hands crossed, you know the look.’

  ‘In mourning, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You won’t believe this. I went on to Facebook to find out. This is Saturday, right? This is the first game Pompey have missed, and three o’clock would have been kick-off. So the whole city’s having a sob? About football? I’m amazed they weren’t wearing black.’

  I shake my head, wondering whether Malo might have invented this for my benefit, then I hear a door opening and seconds later H has stepped into the room. He’s wearing a pair of pyjamas that might be silk. They have a subdued leopard print all over them, and he looks terrible. He hasn’t shaved for a couple of days and his mussed-up hair, greyer by the day, suggests he’s just woken up.

  He eyes us warily, offers me what might be a nod of welcome, and then stares at the big TV.

  ‘Is this a private party?’ he growls. ‘Or can anyone join in?’

  This joyless exchange sets the tone for the coming days. Neither Malo nor H enquire about my trauma with the plumbing back at my flat, which suggests that they never believed me in the first place, and this suspicion turns out to be well founded. It’s Tuesday, and after a day and a half of non-stop cleaning I’ve stopped for a rest. Malo, who still runs daily, has taken to picking up a local paper on his way back from his six-kilometre loop around the bottom of Portsea Island, and I’m curled in the corner of the sagging sofa, browsing the latest news.

  EasyJet has just announced they’ll be cancelling all flights from tomorrow for at least two months, a development that leaves me profoundly depressed. It’s not that I’ve booked a flight. Far from it. It’s just the image of all those grounded planes. The EasyJet livery has always represented something precious to me. Orange was the colour of whim, of an impulse decision to pack a bag and head for some exotic destination. And now even that precious door has closed in my face.

  I look up to find H standing over me. He has a glass of something peat-coloured in his hand, probably Talisker.

  ‘Who is he, then?’

  ‘Who’s who?’

  ‘The bloke who was more important than us. The bloke you had over the weekend.’

  ‘There was no bloke. You’re fantasizing.’

  ‘Bollocks. Just give me credit, eh?’

  I abandon the paper. I know I have to draw a line in conversations like these. Thank God Malo’s in the bathroom, trying to coax a trickle of lukewarm water from the shower after his run.

  ‘There was no bloke,’ I say again. ‘And even if there was, so what?’

  ‘So what?’ H is outraged. Two o’clock in the afternoon is no time to still be in your pyjamas, and I suspect
the malt isn’t his first of the day.

  ‘Yes.’ I’m trying to keep my temper. ‘Are you my keeper now? Or have I missed something?’

  ‘Keeper, bollocks. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but this is a fucking crisis. Not a crisis, a war. That’s when families stick together. That’s when we look after each other. Fat Dave’s gone. I loved that man. I know you weren’t here in the day. Neither was the boy, but that’s not his fault. We bossed this city. Nothing important ever happened here without our say-so.’

  ‘You mean your say-so?’

  ‘I mean our say-so. And that was the point. We were tight. We were blood. Tasty afternoon at Leeds? Getting ambushed by those Millwall low-lifes out the back of Waterloo station? Days like that, and you’re brothers under the fucking skin. That’s where it all came from, believe it or not. Everything I ever earned. Everything I ever owned. Flixcombe? That wonderful view you love so much? Them Georgian windows? Somewhere the boy can call his own? Blame Pompey.’

  I nod, letting the sheer force of his anger curl and break. I’ve played scenes like this in front of live audiences in countless theatres, sometimes Tennessee Williams, occasionally Edward Albee, and riding a wave this enormous becomes second nature. Taking any kind of stand is hopeless. Instead, like a child in the surf, you duck, succumb, keep your mouth tight shut, and finally come up for air.

  H is raving now, tiny bubbles of spit at the corners of his mouth. How flogging happy pills at local raves during the summer of love paved the way to weed, and then cocaine. How he built a Class A supply network that kept everyone guessing between the Dutch Antilles and Schiphol Airport. How an assortment of Pompey mules brought consignment after consignment into the country and fed the city’s appetite for the marching powder. And how, when the Major Crimes Team began to wise up, Fat Dave was the blessing from heaven.

  ‘That lovely man saved us. Not once, not twice, but half a dozen times. The Filth can be brighter than you think. They dreamed up a sting or two, got it all nicely plotted out, made the big mistake of thinking they had us, and then Dave would call, always just in time, always with that funny little laugh of his. That meet you’ve got planned for tonight? Forget it. Think you’re talking to a bunch of punters? Or maybe some flash investor down from London? Think again. Go to ground, H. Give it a couple of weeks. They’ve got fuck-all on you. You heard it first from me, yeah?’