It’s late morning before I put on my PPE and venture into H’s bedroom. The sight of his face on the pillow stops me by the door and, looking at him, I know exactly what he’ll be like in twenty years’ time. Is this why Malo is so angry with me? Did he sit here all evening, wondering where his mother had gone, watching his precious dad grow visibly older? Sicker? More vulnerable? The virus seems to have given H’s sagging flesh the texture and the colour of parchment. He looks like a much-thumbed book, read and re-read, and now in the box for the charity shop.
I’m aware of the nurses eyeing me with some interest. There are obviously no secrets left in this tomb of a flat, and today’s headline has handsome young Malo falling out with his feckless mother.
‘Would you mind leaving us alone for a moment or two?’ I ask.
‘He’s asleep, Ms Andressen.’
‘I know. I can see that.’
There’s an exchange of glances before the oldest of the nurses gets to her feet. The other two follow her out of the room. They’ll leave the door an inch or two ajar. If anything happens, just shout.
If anything happens? Fat chance, I think, drawing up one of the chairs and settling beside the bed. H isn’t on the oxygen just now. His mouth is open and every time he breathes out, there’s a gust of something sour and slightly chemical, which must have to do with his meds. Looking round, I notice a bottle of warfarin tablets on the nearby trolley. In concentrated doses, this stuff kills rats.
‘H?’ I take his hand, stroke it. ‘Can you hear me?’
Nothing happens. I ask the question again, my lips barely inches from his ear on the pillow, and I notice a tiny tremor of recognition beneath his eyelids.
‘H? Are you in there?’ I ask for a third time. ‘Can you hear me?’
He nods, and then his spare hand comes up to cover his mouth just moments before a spasm of coughing racks his upper body. Each successive cough triggers a kind of jack-knife reaction. He forces himself forward before the next one arrives, his whole body tense. He’s trying to get there first, I think, before the virus wreaks yet more havoc, and the wreckage from his ruined lungs begins to gather and clot in the back of his throat.
I lay hands on the kidney bowl I’ve seen the nurses use, and hold it under his chin, cradling the back of his head as gently as I can.
‘Get it out, H. Do it for me.’ I don’t want the nurses back in the room. I can do this. For H’s sake. And Malo’s. And mine.
Another bout of coughing, more pain, his whole face contorted, and then – with a giant effort – H deposits a sizeable gob in the kidney bowl, snail-green, viscous, almost alive.
‘Jesus,’ he gasps. I wipe his face with a towel, kiss the hotness of his cheek. His eyes are open now and he’s looking for the nurses. This must happen a million times in his waking day, I think. It’s something primitive, the instinctive reaction of a frightened man. I’m not well. I’m worse than not well. Don’t go away. Help me.
‘H?’ His eyes are wild. I’m beginning to suspect he doesn’t recognize me. ‘It’s me. Enora.’
This seems to calm him. He wants to know where he is, what’s going on.
‘You’re in Pompey,’ I tell him. ‘We’re looking after you.’
‘We?’
‘Me. Those nurses of yours. Malo.’
‘Malo?’ He’s frowning now.
‘Your son. Our son.’
‘Yeah?’
‘He worries about you, H. We all do. But we’re here. We truly are. And we’re not going away.’
He nods, and then his eyes close again before his breathing starts to quicken. A face has appeared at the door, and moments later I’m watching one of the nurses re-fitting the oxygen mask. The supply restored, his heaving chest begins to slow. He’s gone again, I know it, this indomitable figure who – at least in his own account – was once king of this unruly city.
Outside, in the narrow hall, I pause beside the other nurses. ‘Warfarin?’ I query.
‘It’s a blood thinner, Ms Andressen. In case Mr H gets a thrombosis.’
‘You mean a stroke?’
‘Yes.’
Malo, sensibly, has gone out again and I spend the afternoon trying to rescue something, anything, from the wreckage of the day so far. A trawl through back numbers of the Portsmouth News reveals just a glimmer of light in my darkness. I’m not up for neighbourhood singalongs or a YouTube training video once again featuring the local bare-knuckle boxing phenomenon, but my eye is caught by the news that the Chichester Festival Theatre is streaming its production of Flowers for Mrs Harris. The play is based on a very affecting novel by Paul Gallico, and I once caught a French adaptation in Paris, where a lot of the action takes place. Streaming starts this coming week.
I make a note of the date, phone one of the nurses to check whether they want tea or not, then have another look at the bookshelves in search of something to read. A couple of books catch my eye, and one of them is Typhoon. I’ve always had an on-off passion for Joseph Conrad, not least because he wrote such powerful novels in a language that he’d only just learned, and the very title of Typhoon is an almost perfect match for my darker expectations. We’re adrift on the ocean and a storm is about to break. Best to find out what happens next.
I’m halfway through the first chapter, my feet up on the sofa, when my mobile begins to ring. A glance at the screen tells me it’s Wesley Kane. He wants to know how it went with Shanti.
‘It didn’t,’ I tell him. ‘We got blind drunk and then I walked home.’
‘That’s not what she says.’
‘Then why ask me?’
‘Because I want your version.’
‘What’s hers?’
‘She really liked you.’
‘She was pissed. Like me.’
‘No, but she says you discussed … you know …’
‘What? Discussed what?’
‘H’s dosh. Ways and means. You with me?’
‘Not really. She cooks a lovely tagine. I’ll never drink Sidi Brahim again. That’s about it.’
There’s a brief silence. My finger is still anchored in the first chapter of Typhoon. Captain MacWhirr doesn’t like the colour of the sky. Then Wesley is back with me. He says he wants a meet. The verb he actually uses is ‘needs’.
‘Why?’
‘We’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Shanti. I’ll be under the pier this time. And it’s low tide.’
SIXTEEN
The shadows under the pier are beginning to lengthen by the time I make it down to the beach, and the sunshine has once again lost its warmth. Shanti is wearing a pullover and a pair of jeans. The pullover might be World War Two vintage, one of those roll-neck sweaters the crew used to wear on black and white Atlantic convoy movies.
She’s sitting on the damp shingle with her back against one of the thick encrusted pillars that hold up the pier, and her Doc Martens are fashionably unlaced. She’s smoking a spliff and the smoke hangs in the still air while Wesley paces around. The news that I’ve been certified Covid-free has loosened him up somewhat, and he dares to come much closer. He has the same look as last time: trainers, trackie bottoms, smart blue hoodie with the hint of a Barça top beneath. Despite the promise of a sensational sunset, there are very few people around.
‘Look.’ Wesley points a derisive finger. ‘Filth in their fucking element. Two metres distance. Else we’ll do you for making conversation.’
Wesley’s right. A man and a woman, both uniformed, both wearing hi-vis jackets, have stopped a couple on the promenade. One of them is making notes, while the other is shaking his head. After a while, the couple stroll away, hand in hand.
‘So how does that fucking work?’ Wesley again.
‘They’re married,’ I mutter. ‘That makes it legal.’
‘Yeah? And they can prove it?’
‘I’ve no idea. So what’s this about?’ I’m looking down at Shanti. The spliff is dying between her finger
s. She appears to be half asleep.
‘We have a plan,’ Wesley says. ‘All we need is a downpayment.’
‘From?’
‘H, of course.’
‘That could be a problem. He’s not really up to it just now.’
‘Too busy dying?’
‘Very funny.’ I turn to look him in the eye. ‘Maybe it helps to make a joke, I must try it more often. Loosen up. Not be so much of a gloom bag. Is he cogent? Talkative? Sadly not. Does he cough a lot? I’m afraid he does. Is he in pain? Yes. Is the outlook grim? Maybe terminal? Yes. You know how many people have died in this city so far? Fifty-six. One of them’s Fat Dave. The next, you’re right, could be H.’
Shanti, more alert than I’d thought, is miming applause. She likes my little riff and she thinks – rightly – that it’s aimed squarely at Wes.
‘This lovely woman is an actress,’ she says to Wesley. Then she looks up. ‘You write your own scripts? If not, then maybe you should.’
‘I thank you.’ I perform a stagey little bow.
‘Fifty grand upfront,’ Wes says. ‘I’m freezing my bollocks off here. The only question is how it gets paid. I’m suggesting cash. Shanti doesn’t care. Fifty grand will buy you treble that by the weekend after next. You want it in writing, no problem. You want it in blood? My fucking pleasure. People in this city are dying of boredom. A twenty-quid toot puts a smile back on your face. Two hundred quid for the weekend of your dreams? Perfect.’
‘So who’s doing the selling?’ I’m looking at Wesley.
‘Moi.’ Shanti stirs and gets to her feet before having a stretch. She moves like an animal, full of languor and quality kif, crossing the pebbles towards me. ‘You think I go door to door? Wrong. Orders come in on the phone. Kids deliver. If they get funny with the money, my friend here’ – she nods at Wesley – ‘has a word.’
I can well believe it. When I tell her plus ça change, she beams with pleasure.
‘We’re all the victims of habit.’ She stifles a yawn. ‘Wesley especially. A reputation like his, you can run a decent business. You and me? The kids would die laughing.’ She shoots Wesley a look. ‘Eh, chérie? Do I have that right?’
Wesley nods, accepting the compliment, and for the first time I start to wonder whether these two have become a couple. Shanti and Wes. The Couscous Queen and her loyal Enforcer.
‘Go on,’ he tells her. ‘Hand it over. It’s bloody cold.’
Shanti digs in the pocket of her jeans and then offers me a folded piece of paper.
‘Bank details, my child. It’s a business account in the name of the restaurant. The money is to fund me through the hard times, which has the merit of being true. Wesley’s idea, not mine.’
That night, back in the flat, I share this encounter with Malo. For the time being, he appears to have forgiven me for criminal neglect and for whatever else I haven’t done, and this comes as a relief. He’s also spent a couple of hours with Taalia as soon as she came off shift. There’s nowhere to go, of course, for coffee or a proper drink, but that doesn’t seem to matter. They went for a walk, talked a lot, and he made her laugh, never a good sign.
‘You’re halfway married,’ I tell him sternly. I have to get my own back.
‘Clem won’t ever know.’
‘You’re right, but I will. Listen to your mother. Clemmie’s one in a million. Odds like that, you’d be mad to screw it up.’
‘I’m not screwing it up. You want the truth? This place is driving me nuts.’
‘Pompey? Or the flat?’
‘Both.’
‘Then welcome to the club. I used to have a really nice life. Once. Share and share alike? Can we at least agree on that?’
I change the subject, and tell him about the conversation under the pier, and last night’s revelries in Casablanca. The more he learns about Shanti, the less he believes me.
‘This woman belongs in a movie,’ he says.
‘She is a movie. Larger than life in every sense you can possibly imagine. I half-believe half of what she says.’
‘And the rest?’
‘Fantasy. Fairy tales. She’s making it up.’
‘And she and Wesley? Are they shagging?’
‘Might be. That’s what she wants me to believe so it’s probably not true.’
‘And Wes?’
‘He’d love it to be true.’
Malo nods. A couple of years back he got way out of his depth with a bunch of wild Somali drug dealers, and Clemmie was kidnapped as a direct result. Wesley had a hand in digging him out of all that, and Malo has been grateful – as well as slightly awed – ever since. After the deafening make-believe of Grand Theft Auto, Wesley Kane is very definitely the real deal, and Malo knows that.
‘So, what are they after? Exactly?’
‘Your dad’s money. A couple of days ago, when H could still think things through, he thought that was a good idea. That’s why I went to the restaurant last night.’
‘And what do you think now? Be honest.’
‘I don’t like it at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it doesn’t smell good, taste good.’
‘But the investment, the multiplier. If I understand those figures from the agency, we have to double Dad’s money. Isn’t that a factor? Otherwise, we’ll run out.’
‘You mean you think it’s a good idea?’ I’m staring at him now. ‘We invest what little H has got left in a drug deal? In this city, that sounds seriously retro to me. What if it all goes wrong?’
‘It never did. Not in the day. You know Flixcombe as well as I do. Pompey bought all that, every last acre. You’re still looking at a huge market here. If Wes and this woman have got it sorted the way they say they have, Dad could be banged up here for months and we’d still be able to pay the bills.’
‘And if they haven’t got it sorted?’
‘Then we’d crash and burn, obviously, but what makes you think they’re dodgy?’
‘They may not be dodgy, Malo, but they’re definitely old. This is a young man’s game. As you well know.’
‘That’s unfair. This is Pompey. Everything’s different.’
‘You say.’
‘I say. How do they want the money?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ I’m lying now. I’ve still got Shanti’s bank details in my jeans pocket, but I think a little caution might be wise. ‘All this is too easy,’ I tell him. ‘The best scripts make it tough on the protagonist.’
‘The what?’
‘H. The main man. I know it’s tough on him already, but I’d hate for him to get set up. Especially in this city.’
‘Set up? You’re telling me you don’t trust Wesley? After all that stuff he’s done for Dad? How close they’ve been?’
‘Trust is a funny thing, Malo. Money unpicks everything, and you’re talking to someone who knows. Berndt was a good man when I met him. Money and fame turned him into someone else.’
‘Wes isn’t Berndt,’ Malo insists. ‘Wes is Wes. Berndt was a twat.’
‘I see.’ I nod, trying to sense where this conversation is taking us. ‘So you’d go with Wes? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Why?’
‘For Dad’s sake, obviously.’ His long frame is curled at the other end of the sofa, but now he leans forward, suddenly intense. ‘Dad’s money will last three and a half weeks. I’ve worked it out. After that he’ll have to go into hospital and he’s sure it’ll be the end of him. Wu is talking seven weeks, max. A deal with Wes would cover that. Don’t the figures speak for themselves? Or have I got this wrong?’
He hasn’t, of course. I double check the figures, and he’s got them absolutely right. H’s rainy-day fund might take him through to the end of the month. After that, there’s nothing left.
That evening, we both sit with H, in full PPE, while two of the nurses retire to the front room to watch TV. Malo has yet to pay the £15,000 deposit, and has heard nothing from the agency
since talking to them this morning. Tomorrow is Sunday, which might give me a little leeway to try and think this thing through. Ideally, of course, we’d explain the whole situation to H and await his decision, but just now that option doesn’t exist.
The hours tick by. From time to time, the nurse still with us checks the oxygen flow, and the various tubes and catheters that tether H to his vital signs. She makes notes on the daily log, while Malo nods along to Ed Sheeran on his ear buds, and I plunge ever deeper into Typhoon. At around eleven, towards the end of their shift, Malo and I make a discreet exit while the nurses muster round the bed to roll H on to his belly ahead of the coming night.
Out in the corridor, we’re thinking about a last coffee when we hear a commotion from the bedroom. H is half-yelling, half-coughing, and we step back inside to find him bolt upright in bed, lashing out at the nurses around him. Malo gets there ahead of me, and there’s space for him to enfold his dad in a gigantic bear hug. Moments later I’m there too, trying to soothe him, trying to tell him that everything’s going to be fine.
‘We’re here for you, H. There isn’t a problem.’
He stares at me for a long moment. One of the nurses is looking badly frightened. Then H, without warning, breaks down, shaking his head, trying to smother yet another cough.
‘Sammy,’ he whispers. ‘Fucking Sammy.’
‘Who, Dad?’ This from Malo.
‘Sammy. Help me, son. Tell me it’s going to be OK. You’ll do that? Sort all this Sammy business?’
He’s staring at Malo, then at me, then at the other faces around his bed, and tears are pouring down his face.
‘I got it wrong,’ he says finally. ‘So fucking wrong.’
SEVENTEEN
Ssedated, H sleeps like a baby. Or that’s what Mr Wu says when he turns up first thing on Sunday morning. Both Malo and I, anxious about this latest development, want to know what might happen next.
Intermission Page 14
