Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  ‘H? Are you awake?’

  The shape beneath the counterpane stirs, and a face appears. He looks terrible.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No. Fucking headache. Had it most of the night.’

  ‘Have you taken anything?’

  ‘Nothing to take.’

  I nod, stepping into the room and bending over the bed.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I put my hand on his forehead. He feels sweaty, hot. ‘You’re running a temperature. I’ll get some ibuprofen or Panadol. Whatever I can find. It may take a while because this stuff is running out. You want something to drink?’

  H is staring up at me. His eyes look slightly wild in the pallor of his face. He nods, says nothing.

  ‘Tea? Water?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I pour him a glass of water in the kitchen and pile in the ice cubes. In truth I have plenty of medication with me, but I need an excuse to see Cynthia.

  Back with H, I give him the water and tell him to try and get a bit more sleep. He seems to take it in but there’s obviously something else on his mind.

  He empties half the glass and hooks out an ice cube to suck. Then he mumbles something I don’t quite catch.

  ‘But what about the ferry?’ he says again. ‘Our date?’

  ‘Tomorrow, H.’ I haul him upright to plump the pillows and then rearrange the counterpane to make him more comfortable. His whole body is shaking. Fever, I think, stepping back towards the door. ‘Back soon. Behave yourself, yeah?’

  Propped against the pillow, he does his best to muster a smile.

  ‘If only,’ he says.

  I’m with Cynthia barely ten minutes later. Lockdown has done us a number of favours and one of them is the almost complete absence of traffic. Cynthia’s coffee, unlike the instant we’re obliged to drink, smells wonderful, and I’m still eyeballing the David Bowie print over her mantelpiece when she joins me in the living room.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind me calling,’ she says. ‘This probably breaks every rule in the book.’

  ‘Not at all. Happy to help.’

  Cynthia eyes me a moment, wanting to believe it, and then apologizes again, this time for the need to be blunt.

  ‘It’s about H,’ she says, ‘as you may have gathered.’

  ‘Dave’s funeral?’

  ‘Of course. To tell you the truth, H has rather taken over. I’m sure he has the best of intentions, in fact I know he does. Dave thought the world of him and if he was sitting here now, he’d say I’m being a selfish old cow.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘But it’s difficult. Dave would probably tell you different, but the fact is that he’d left all the Pompey nonsense behind him. He never did all that stuff with the 6.57 Crew. He was a copper, not a hooligan, and he was a good copper, effective, clever, and you know why? Because he thought the way criminals thought. He understood their mind-set, knew how to make friends with them. He used to tell me about interview sessions in the old days, just him and some scamp across the table. He knew exactly which strings to pull, that was the phrase he used, strings to pull. Treat them right, he’d say, give them a bit of space, show an interest, make them laugh, and they’d be like putty in his hands.’

  I nod. It’s impossible not to wonder whether Cynthia has been rehearsing this little speech. Either way, I want to know more.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then they’d tell him everything, probably without realizing exactly what they were saying. Dave used to call it a cough. I think he meant confession.’

  I tell her I understand. The last couple of years, I’ve been in these situations myself, on the wrong side of the table, facing seasoned detectives and their clever little traps. Thanks to Tony Morse at my elbow, and liberal use of the phrase ‘No comment’, I avoided giving myself away, but up against someone with Dave’s talents – another league entirely – that might have been difficult.

  ‘And all this was when?’ I ask.

  ‘Twenty-five years ago, when we first met. I gather things have changed since but back in the day, people like Dave were given free rein. All that mattered were results. We’re not talking anything physical here. That wouldn’t have been Dave’s style at all. In fact, he once told me the moment you laid a finger on a suspect was the moment you lost him. He was clever, my Dave. Laughter, he used to say, opens any door. It certainly opened mine.’

  ‘So what happened? How come he fell in with H and the rest of the crew?’

  ‘Good question. That puzzled me, too, but the answer’s so, so simple. The way Dave told me, the whole game changed. The police, he said, kind of lost their nerve. There were suddenly things you could and couldn’t do, and that didn’t sit well with people like Dave. Towards the end of his time, he was working undercover, pretending to be a disillusioned ex-cop. His bosses were trying to break up a drugs gang here in Portsmouth, and Dave was the bait. I’ve met mates of his who told me Dave was doing a great job, but then the people around him, the officers in charge I suppose, made a mess of the whole operation and virtually gave him away. Dave was so angry. Angry and quite bitter. These people he’d made friends with suddenly wanted to kill him. He had to hide himself away, go to ground, and he came to me in Ventnor, in the B & B. Three months on full pay until it all blew over. He was a good cook, Dave. My breakfasts improved no end.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that he was never the same. He stayed in the job, kept his head down, but the spark had gone. Then one day H got in touch and made him an offer.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Keep his ear to the ground. Keep his eyes open.’

  ‘And H was the guy he’d tried to stitch up?’

  ‘Yes. But it was just business as far as H was concerned, at least that’s the way Dave put it. H knew Dave, remember, and he had an eye for talent and he also knew that Dave had fallen out of love with the job. H was more fun. And H had a lot of money.’

  ‘He said that? Dave?’

  ‘Yes. To tell you the truth I was shocked at the time but, looking back, it makes perfect sense. Dave would strike you as Jack the lad, not a care in the world, but deep down that man was very conflicted and very decent. He felt those bosses of his had let him down. Badly.’

  ‘And H was payback?’

  ‘H was fun, like I just told you, and the money came in more than handy. Dave was leading a complicated life. He was still married. He had a family to support. There was also a problem with my B & B. It wasn’t doing that well. In fact, I was in all kinds of trouble and H’s money helped out, so maybe some of all this is my fault, too.’

  ‘So, the funeral?’ I query.

  ‘H got very close to Dave, and he thinks he deserves a proper send-off. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around a bit in my own life, but I’ve been having nightmares about who might turn up on Friday. We’re allowed ten at the crematorium, absolute max, immediate family only. I know Dave’s ex is coming, plus the two daughters. One’s married with a couple of kids. The other one’s partnered with a stepson and a new baby of their own. Including me, that’s ten already. You know those mates of H. If they’re not allowed in, anything could happen.’

  ‘You want him not to come?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve no idea how you could ever make that happen, but yes. These last few years, Dave’s only belonged to me. Saying goodbye should be private. I can’t keep his ex away, and all her brood, but deep down it’s going to be just me and Dave. I know H means well, but …’ She gazes into her coffee. ‘I’d rather he wasn’t there.’

  I’m back at the flat within the hour. I haven’t told Cynthia about H being under the weather because he might well bounce back, but in a way it would be simpler if he didn’t, at least not until the weekend. Imagine my dismay to find him out of bed and fully dressed.

  ‘You’re better?’ I enquire lightly.

  ‘Yeah. No thanks to you.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Ask the boy. He found all
those tabs of yours. Having to go out and hunt around? Where have you really been?’

  Malo steps in from the shower, towelling his hair. After a run, he glows.

  ‘Seven-miler, Mum. Forty-three minutes dead. The people in this city are seriously fat. That’s a bad look in a shell suit.’

  He pauses for a moment, scenting trouble, and retires to the kitchen.

  ‘Well?’ H is sitting in the only armchair, nursing a mug of tea.

  ‘I went to see Cynthia.’ I see no point in lying. ‘She asked me round.’

  ‘Cynth?’ H is astonished. ‘Why?’

  ‘She wanted to talk about the funeral.’

  ‘It’s sorted. She knows that. There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s her take on it.’ I tell him about all Dave’s relatives, and the Crem’s insistence on limiting the numbers.

  ‘But Dave’s missus was a knob.’

  ‘Hard to imagine.’

  ‘Yeah? You think so? And those kids of his were always on the want. They robbed poor Dave blind. What’s the matter with Cynth? Does she think we’re gonna be an embarrassment? Pompey fucking low-life?’

  This is an interesting question and pretty much nails the essence of Cynthia’s reservations. A bunch of ageing hooligans? Seriously aggrieved? With the freedom of the entire car park? Stella and mourning, I try and point out, rarely mix but H isn’t having it.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he says. ‘I’ve put the word out. We’ll all be there, Cynth or no Cynth. You want the honest truth? The woman’s a disgrace. Did she ever really know Dave at all? Tell me I’m being harsh but I’m starting to wonder.’

  This is fighting talk and does H no favours at all. In these moods, he loses control, goes way over the top, and the glimpse it offers into the man he might really be is far from comforting. Tony Morse once told me that H has been fighting demons all his life, and some days – in Tony’s view – the demons win. Nicely put, I’m thinking now. And probably right.

  Malo at last rejoins us. Unlike his father, he knows how to diffuse a situation.

  ‘You need some fresh air, Mum.’ He extends a hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  We walk across the Common and down to Old Portsmouth. This is exactly the route H and I took last night but in the absence of moonlight, the seafront has lost its enchantment. The promenade must have been damaged in the recent storms and is undergoing extensive repairs, while the fun fair, to be frank, is squalid: rusting machinery, salt-bitten by the wind and the weather.

  In Old Portsmouth, I show Malo the steps up to the Round Tower and we climb to the top. In daylight, I get a proper look at H’s pride and joy, our handsome new aircraft carrier, but when I suggest a ride on the Gosport ferry, Malo shakes his head.

  ‘He’s not well,’ he says. ‘Dad. He’ll never admit it but something’s up.’

  Something’s up. We both know what this innocent phrase really means, but we prefer to tiptoe round the truth. I shake my head. This nonsense has to stop.

  ‘You really think he’s got it? The virus?’

  ‘He might. Headache? Fever? Next, he’ll have that funny dry cough. Then we’ll know.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Clem. That’s what happened with Mateo. It’s a tick-box exercise, Mum. Eliminate everything else, and then dial for the ambulance.’

  I nod, remembering my own exchange with the young man on the NHS helpline. He, too, had boxes to tick.

  ‘H will never go to hospital,’ I say. ‘I guarantee it.’ I tell Malo about the video we both watched on Cynthia’s iPad. ‘I’ve never seen him properly frightened the way he was then. It would take braver people than us to get him into hospital, if it turns out we’re right.’

  Malo nods. He’s scowling now.

  ‘He might have no choice. Not if this thing’s as evil as everyone’s saying.’

  ‘Wrong. H always has a choice. That’s where everything begins and ends with him. His way, no one else’s. You’ve lived with the man, we both have. He’s as stubborn as a mule. If he doesn’t want to end up in ICU, he won’t let it happen.’

  ‘Then he’ll die. You need oxygen, Mum. Believe me, I know about this stuff. Oxygen first, and if it gets really bad, a ventilator. All of that plus lots of nurses who know exactly what they’re doing. Where on earth do you find all that outside an ICU?’

  ‘Good question. Excellent question.’ I check my watch. Nearly half past two.

  ‘Home,’ I say.

  EIGHT

  I phone Tony Morse that evening. H has gone back to bed, having toyed with the fish. Even a sprinkle of capers, his favourite garnish, didn’t do it for him. He pushed his plate aside and left the table without saying a word. Suddenly unsteady on his feet, he looked like an old man.

  Tony tells me he’s watching Casablanca. He’s got to the misty bit at the airfield where Humphrey Bogart is telling Ingrid Bergman that she has to get in the waiting plane and leave him to face whatever follows.

  ‘I used to have a picture of that wonderful woman on my bedroom wall as a kid,’ he says. ‘Not many people know that.’

  ‘Ingrid Bergman?’

  ‘The same. The hat. The nose. Those lips. The hint of a tear. Just perfect.’

  ‘You never told your wife?’

  ‘Never. Not the first one, nor the second, nor the fragrant Helen. Confession was never my thing.’

  ‘Maybe you should have been more honest. It might have saved you a fortune.’

  ‘You’re right.’ The thought makes him laugh. ‘What are you after?’

  I tell him about H. The bottom line, the way I phrase it, is brutal. He’s been in a bit of a state for a while. He’s not young any more and he’s at least a couple of stone overweight. Just now he’s developing all the symptoms of our Covid friend and Malo and I are debating what to do with him.

  ‘They call them hospitals,’ Tony murmurs. ‘Have done for a while. Lift the phone. Talk to someone.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’ I explain about the video, about Fat Dave coughing his lungs out in the ICU. ‘There’s no way, Tony. If it comes to it, he’d prefer to die in that lovely flat of yours.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  There’s a longish silence. In the background, I can hear the roar of aero engines and swelling music on the soundtrack as La Bergman makes her exit from Casablanca.

  ‘There might be something we can do.’ Tony is back. ‘But it’ll cost.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Lots, I’m afraid. Someone will need to take a good look at him. We’re probably talking consultant level. Then there’s round-the-clock nursing care. We’d have to go to an agency. These people are available but they’re not cheap. On top of that, there’s all the extras.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Oxygen, for starters. Assuming you’re right, we’ll need loads, and it could go on for weeks. Then there’s drugs, lots of them. To keep it neat and tidy, he’s effectively a private patient. It’s a seller’s market, my darling.’

  ‘Thousands?’

  ‘Probably more.’

  ‘Tens of thousands?’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘Hundreds of thousands?’

  ‘It’s possible. Solicitors always prepare for the worst. It’s part of the charm of the job. We need to be realistic here. I’m afraid it’s the old rule.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘No surprises.’

  I find myself nodding. For some reason I hadn’t begun to wonder how much any of this might cost but, under the circumstances, I very much like ‘we’.

  ‘You might be up for this?’ I ask. ‘Lending a hand?’

  ‘I’ll certainly ask around.’

  ‘You know where to look? Who to talk to?’

  ‘In this town? Silly question.’ That laugh again, even softer. ‘You need to take care as well, my darling. Keep him in bed. Wear a mask. Splash the bleach around. Give the bugger a hard time.’

 
The bugger, I assume, is the virus. When I mention Fat Dave’s funeral, Tony says he plans to be there. He knows all about the fascists at the Crem, and he wouldn’t dream of crashing the party, but he’ll keep his distance and raise a solitary glass in the privacy of his car.

  ‘And you, my darling?’

  It’s my turn to laugh. I’ve no intention of sharing Cynthia’s angst about Dave’s 6.57 Crew chums and I mutter something noncommittal about H not being up to it. Today is Wednesday. By Friday, anything may have happened.

  ‘Of course, my darling. Let’s talk tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll make some calls.’ He breaks off again, then returns. ‘Remarkable. Truly remarkable. Pure class.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Ingrid Bergman. I’ve still got the photo, by the way. Black and white. Wonderful lighting. The planes of her face. Her cheekbones. Those lips, again, slightly parted. An old man’s fantasy, my darling. Sad, or what?’

  Tony Morse, in the bleakest moments, has never failed to lift my spirits and now is no different. H is in bed. Malo is back in bad company on the PlayStation. I pour myself a hefty glass of Greco di Tufo from the fridge and settle at the table with yesterday’s copy of the Portsmouth News.

  In a strange way, this city is beginning to grow on me. It’s rough at the edges, and far from pretty to look at, but the times I’ve ventured forth, visited a shop or two, eavesdropped on the odd conversation, tell me that the place has bred a very special kind of resilience. It’s an island community. It’s a bit cut-off, a bit claustrophobic. It seems to expect the worst, and I get the feeling it’s rarely disappointed, but for all its stoicism, it remains oddly upbeat.

  It also has a long memory. The thirst for a fight evidently lies deep in the city’s DNA, and I get the feeling the Pompey tribes have been picking quarrels forever. Tim, my thespy friend, is very good on this. First, he says, Pompey’s finest went to sea and took on the Spanish, then the Dutch, and then the French. Trafalgar was a great moment, a really tasty ruck, then came two world wars and shoals of sneaky U-boats. The monument on the seafront, visible from this flat, tallies the thousands of lives lost, but even so the city has never abandoned its passion for lots of blood and lots of treasure.