Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Proceeds of what?’

  ‘The powder. The white. The place she bought in Gunwharf used to be Tex-Mex, crap food, worse service, but she changed the whole vibe.’

  ‘To?’

  ‘Moroccan. Tagines. Couscous. All that Arab shit. She’s Senegalese or somewhere by birth but she spent a lot of time in Marrakesh, understands the cuisine.’ He laughs softly. ‘You want to guess the name of the restaurant?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Casablanca.’

  ‘The White House?’ I’m smiling now. ‘A woman with a sense of humour. Excellent. So where does she fit in all this? What do you want me to do?’

  ‘H needs you to meet her. Word on the street tells me she’s up for an investment. The right terms, H might be interested.’

  ‘We’re talking cocaine?’

  ‘Of course. She still has the contacts and just now her business is paying her fuck all. She’s put in for one of those fancy lockdown loans, but the banks blanked her.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe you should ask. Either way, she and H are in the same boat.’

  ‘Except that H’s is sinking.’

  ‘Exactly. And so is hers.’

  ‘You’ve met her? Talked to her?’

  ‘About this? No. But take it from me, the woman’s kosher. Plus she speaks French.’ He takes a long pull from his own bottle, which looks like lager, then wipes his mouth. ‘Perfect, eh? Do we hear a yes?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me.’ He checks his watch and yawns. ‘And H.’

  Before he disappears into the darkness, Wesley gives me a mobile number. Best, he says, to phone late-ish tomorrow morning. Shanti still keeps restaurant hours, and sleeps in until noon.

  ‘I’m at a funeral tomorrow,’ I remind him. ‘I’ll phone once Dave has gone.’

  ELEVEN

  Gone.

  The word alone makes me shiver. First Dave Munroe. Now, unless we can head the virus off, H.

  Back home, it’s nearly midnight and our nurses are at the end of their shift. The minibus is once again at the kerbside, as I cross the Common with my bottle of Rioja, and upstairs the handover is seamless. One of the new women is English, another comes from California, while the third is Bulgarian. They’re all fully garbed in PPE and as I defrost I try and remember their names, helpfully pinned to their gowns. The American, Julia, emerges from H’s bedroom.

  ‘He’d like to see you, Ms Andressen. I think he wants to say goodnight.’

  I nod and reach for my PPE. There’s a fresh set each time we need it and I’m learning to get a snug fit for the mask and the visor. Malo is checking the back of my gown when I realize what’s changed in the front room.

  ‘Where’s the jigsaw?’

  ‘The deep-cleaning people came to check the place out. They said it was a hazard. Apparently the virus can survive on bits of jigsaw for seventy-two hours. The guy bagged the lot.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘Behind the sofa. The bag’s sealed. The guy said not to worry, it won’t kill us.’ Malo’s finished with my gown. ‘You want the good news now? Wu phoned. The results came back from the lab.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re both in the clear.’

  I stare at him for a moment. Hugging anyone in full PPE isn’t easy, believe me, but I manage it. Just.

  ‘And H?’

  ‘Covid.’ He nods. ‘Just as we expected.’

  I find H semi-conscious, lying on his back, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s breathing oxygen through a rubber mask, and his torso rises and falls as he struggles to suck at the supply. Two of the nurses are in here, keeping watch while the other is evidently in the kitchen. A cannular is dripping something into H’s arm, while another tube – lower – runs into a collecting bag beneath the bed. A machine beside the American nurse is hooked up to a little peg on H’s finger, recording his vital signs. I’m no stranger to high-dependency nursing, and I understand about pulse and blood pressure, but the read-out connected to his finger – currently at eighty-nine per cent – has me baffled.

  When I ask the American nurse, she says the figure is a measure of oxygen saturation.

  ‘The red corpuscles in the blood carry the oxygen,’ she explains. ‘Ninety-six per cent is normal. Anything below ninety-two per cent, we have a problem. Mid to low eighties, and you’re running on empty.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You badly need a ventilator. They do the heavy lifting, keep you alive while your immune system sets about dealing with the virus.’

  ‘I see.’ I’m looking at the read-out again. It’s suddenly gone up. ‘Ninety-one per cent?’ I query.

  ‘That’s a good sign, best so far.’ She gestures at a list of figures on a clipboard on her lap. ‘I’m guessing he can hear you. Maybe you should stay a while.’

  I do. After a while, the English nurse brings in a cup of tea and asks me whether I want one. I shake my head. I barely tasted Wesley’s Rioja and have promised myself a proper glass before I retire.

  ‘This bedroom’s too small,’ I say. ‘You should move into mine. Wouldn’t that be better?’

  Julia’s watching H. ‘Small is good discipline,’ she says. ‘It teaches you to think everything through. We’ll see how it goes.’

  H begins to cough again. While the Bulgarian nurse bends over him, adjusting his head on the pillow and easing the oxygen mask to dab at the corners of his mouth, I can’t take my eyes off the saturation read-out. Ninety-one per cent one moment, ninety per cent the next. With H re-masked I kneel beside him, my head beside his. Through the mask and visor, I try and talk to him, but his eyes are closed and I suspect he’s barely conscious. I tell him we love him, all of us, and to hang in there. I can’t be sure but the briefest flicker of movement on the pillow might just be a nod. Looking at him like this, I can’t help thinking of Dave Munroe, and the likeness – his situation, the setting, his sheer helplessness – makes me feel inexpressibly sad.

  I badly need to think of something else, a conversational change of subject, but talking to Julia isn’t much help. When I ask her how she got into nursing in the first place, she tells me she was a medic in the US Marine Corps.

  ‘Combat medicine teaches you everything.’ She nods at H. ‘In double quick time.’

  I leave the bedroom shortly afterwards. I fetch a glass from the kitchen and retrieve the bottle of wine from where I’ve left it in my bedroom. The wine is silky rich and multi-layered, surprise after surprise exploding softly on my tongue, and after a while, sitting on the bed, I begin to feel better. A second glass offers another layer of comfort and by the time I’ve re-corked the bottle and put it carefully to one side, I’ve worked out how to make life a little sweeter for these remarkable women.

  Back in the front room, Malo is about to get into his sleeping bag. I tell him not to bother.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re sleeping in my room from now on. This one is for them. Somewhere to sit when the pressure’s off, maybe watch the telly. It’s the least we can do.’

  Malo stares up at me and for a moment I think he’s going to say no, but then he shrugs, stoops for the cushions off the sofa, and follows me down the hall. I’m last into the bedroom and take care to close the door very carefully, making barely a sound. The last thing I want to do, I tell myself, is disturb H. Sweet thought, but utterly ridiculous. I’m blaming the Rioja.

  Next day is Dave Munroe’s funeral. Malo’s out of the house moments after the morning shift change, having taken the measure of the new nurses. One of them, an Asian woman, is beyond gorgeous even in full PPE and Malo clatters down the stairs, trying to master the name pinned to her gown.

  ‘Taalia?’ he whispers to himself. ‘Long “a”? Or Taalia? Emphasis on the bit at the end?’ He can’t make up his mind, he tells me, but with eyes like that, who cares?

  Mercifully, the morning passes without any major dramas. H is racked with bout after bout of coughing. His sat-levels
have stabilized around ninety per cent and while a reading like this is definitely problematic, the nurses think he’s just about holding his own. ‘Just about’ is far from comforting, and for the first time I’m wondering whether it isn’t my responsibility to call an end to this brave experiment and get H into the ICU.

  Mr Wu arrives, unannounced, mid-morning as I’m preparing to leave for the funeral. He’s already clad in full PPE and he disappears into H’s bedroom. I know I should be with him, gowned and masked, but to be honest I find the whole ritual so dispiriting that I make my excuses and attend to my make-up in my own room. A light blusher and just the faintest hint of lipstick is all I need. Dave, after all, won’t be watching. And neither, I suspect, will anyone else.

  Mr Wu knocks lightly on my door as I’m checking my bag for the car keys. I open the door and invite him in, but he insists on keeping his distance.

  ‘You’re going out?’ he says.

  I’ve always handled guilt very badly. All I can do is nod.

  ‘Just a wander across the Common,’ I tell him. ‘The test was negative, so I think that’s allowed.’

  He studies me a moment, his expression unreadable behind the mask and visor. Then he makes a tiny, delicate gesture with his gloved hands which, I choose to think, could mean anything.

  ‘As you see fit, Ms Andressen. You’ll be glad to know that Mr H is putting up a fight. We need to encourage that, and we will. But the fact remains that he’s very seriously ill.’

  Something has been nagging at me overnight, and now – with Mr Wu – is the time to voice it.

  ‘Mr Prentice’s parents live in the city,’ I tell him. ‘He’s never seen very much of them. Might this be the time to get them along?’

  ‘Bring them here, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because you think Mr Prentice might not make it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be wise.’ Mr Wu is looking stern again. ‘They’ll be old. For their sake, they should obey the rules and stay at home.’

  ‘Then maybe a video link of some kind? FaceTime? Skype? Something like that?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Wu checks his watch. ‘If you felt that might be appropriate.’

  My sat-nav takes me to the crematorium, which is on the mainland, along the coast towards the west. I spend the drive trying to work out what to do about H’s parents, but typically I fail to make a decision. On the one hand I know I’d have to live with myself should I not make the call and H succumbs to the virus. On the other, I have this deep-seated conviction that somehow he’ll get through. Even the sight of Dave Munroe, helpless and dying in the ICU, has so far failed to shake this faith of mine, but by the time I slow to make the turn into the crematorium, I’m still in two minds about making the call. Relations between H and his parents have been non-existent for years, and the last thing he needs now is a family ruck beside – God help us – his death bed. As Tony Morse might put it, cui bono? Who gains?

  Unlike most funerals I’ve ever attended, the car park is virtually empty, but under the circumstances I imagine that’s inevitable. I find myself a parking space at least fifty metres from the nearest car and settle down to wait. Mourners for the funeral before Dave’s have just filed into the chapel of rest, and I appear to be the first to arrive for what follows.

  Under these circumstances, it’s impossible not to think yet again about H, back in that hideous flat, fighting for his life, and after a couple of minutes trying to raise my spirits by listening to a French band called ‘Caravan Palace’, I phone Jessie. She sorts out the housekeeping down at Flixcombe, and also serves as a kind of secretary. She’s Pompey born and bred, and H trusts her completely, sharing decisions he’d never discuss with me. Of all the people in the Flixcombe circle, she’s known H by far the longest, and the news that he’s positive for Covid doesn’t appear to surprise her.

  ‘I told him not to go down there,’ she says. ‘I told him no one was worth that kind of risk. Not even Fat Dave Munroe. So, how is he?’

  I tell her the truth, that H is very ill.

  ‘So, what are they saying? At the hospital?’

  ‘He’s not in the hospital, Jess. He doesn’t want anything to do with the bloody hospital. He saw a video of Dave in ICU before he died. It terrified him, Jess. Once he’s in that ICU, he thinks he’ll never get out again.’

  I tell her about the army of nurses Mr Wu has supplied on our behalf, about the oxygen and the round-the-clock care, and about the deep cleaning that has turned Tony Morse’s flat into a hospital ward.

  ‘That must cost a fortune,’ Jessie says.

  ‘It does. It will. But for now, it’s what H wants. I’ve got every faith in Mr Wu, Jess. He won’t let H die on us.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. I’m positive.’ It’s a smallish lie but I have to believe it. ‘I need a phone number, Jess, and I’m guessing you’ve got it.’ I tell her I need to get in touch with H’s parents, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Safe side how? You’re telling me it’s that bad?’

  ‘I’m telling you I owe them a call.’

  ‘In case he dies?’

  ‘In case they’ve got anything to say to him.’

  ‘Christ, it is that bad.’

  I say nothing. Seconds later, Jessie is back with a number.

  ‘Good luck,’ she says. ‘I don’t think they’ve been in touch for years.’

  ‘Their doing?’

  ‘H’s.’

  I’m still staring at the number, my phone in my hand, when I hear a knock on the window. Startled, I fumble for the knob under the seat and bring myself up to the vertical. The figure peering down at me is heavy-set, nice coat, suit and black tie. He looks mid-fifties, maybe older, and has a big, fleshy face that belongs in a certain kind of bar – nothing fashionable or edgy, probably one of those chain pubs where you can rely on getting a couple of pints and a decent meal for your money, no fancy frills. He also has a small scar above his right eye, the relic of a wound that must once have been deep.

  He’s mouthing something I don’t catch at first, then I recognize my own name. Enora. For a moment, I’ve forgotten all about H and his parents. Who is this guy?

  He’s miming for me to lower the window. I shake my head and reach for the mask I’ve left on the passenger seat. Once I’ve put it on, I say goodbye to Jessie and point at my mobile.

  The figure at my window is very quick on the uptake. From his suit pocket, he produces a small notepad and scribbles a number, before flattening it against the glass. I phone the number, as invited. He has a nice voice, very male but warm, midway between a growl and a murmur.

  ‘Dessie Wren,’ he says. ‘How come this thing bangs us all up?’

  He means the virus, of course, and I know exactly how he feels. Meeting anyone this way, especially a stranger, is absurd.

  ‘Dessie who?’

  ‘Wren. As in tweet-tweet. Imagine carrying that around all your life.’

  Wren. The name is vaguely familiar. I know I’ve heard it very recently, but Dessie helps me out.

  ‘Dave Munroe’s mucker. Cynthia may have mentioned me.’

  Cynthia. Got it.

  ‘A week on the Isle of Wight? Staying at Cynthia’s B & B? Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you’re still a cop?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  I nod, not knowing quite where to take this conversation next, but Dessie – once again – seems to read my mind.

  ‘You’re wondering about me and Dave? You’re right. We did our separate things. Dave went to the Dark Side, I stayed with the angels. Would I ever have done what Dave did? No way. Did I blame him like I should have done? Again, no. My lot can be thick, as well as vicious. The whole Dave thing was badly managed from the off and we were all the poorer as a result. Dave had real talent, gifts few coppers even know exist. He was brilliant in the interview suite, read the bad guys like a book. We were c
razy to let all that go to waste.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re here?’ I nod towards the crematorium.

  ‘Yeah, partly. We stayed mates, is the real story. Dave was at home in any setting, and pubs were one of them. We tied on some nights in our time, believe me. Sad to see what happened to him later. He had mischief in his bones, that lovely man. I know you’ve talked to Cynthia. No one deserves a death like that.’

  I can only nod in agreement. Next, I suspect, we’ll be talking about another Covid victim, and I’m not wrong.

  ‘So, how’s H?’ he asks.

  ‘Sick.’

  ‘Sick as in Covid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As bad as Dave was?’

  ‘Not quite. Not yet. But awful to have it, and awful to watch.’

  ‘They let you into the ICU?’

  For the second time in a couple of minutes, I explain about Mr Wu, and the arrangements we’ve made.

  ‘But is that wise? Under the circumstances?’

  ‘You’ll know H. Once he’s made a decision, there’s no argument. The guy that made it happen is Tony Morse. Thank God he’s got the contacts. You know Tony?’

  ‘Of course I know Tony. If you happen to be a copper, he’s the cross you have to bear, especially in court. But credit to the man, he can argue black is white and get away with it. Brilliant on his day, and a real piss-off.’

  I smile, recognizing this description only too well. All the arrangements, I tell Dessie, were down to him.

  ‘Tony sorted everything. We have twenty-four-hour care, oxygen on tap, and an army of pretty nurses. My son thinks it’s Christmas.’

  ‘Malo, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I blink. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Tony Morse told me, way back last year. Saucy’s love child, he said.’

  ‘You’re right. And mine, too, if you’re asking.’

  This comment of mine is wasted because Dessie has spotted someone else approaching across the car park. He unbends from the window, a smile on his face.