Malo, of course, hasn’t a clue about Vera Lynn, but that’s not really his fault. As for me, I find the broadcast oddly affecting. The Queen’s own son, after all, has had his personal tussle with the virus and those couldn’t have been easy days chez Windsor. Covid will never bow the head or bend the knee to anyone.
I can tell that Malo wants to bring this evening to an end, but I’m determined not to let him go until we’ve made some kind of peace with each other. This, naturally, will require him to agree with me, but as the argument gets more and more heated, I realize that he’s as headstrong and stubborn as his father. He tells me he has an instinct about decisions like these. He wants me to believe that he’s good at sussing people he’s never met. And in the shape of Shanti and Wes, he insists we’re looking at H’s salvation. I don’t believe in any of these propositions, and say so, but Malo – again like his father – has mastered the art of not listening. We’re still at loggerheads when breaking news appears on the TV.
We both fall silent. Malo brings the sound up on the remote. First Windsor Castle, now 10 Downing Street. Prime Minister Boris Johnson has been taken to St Thomas’s hospital for routine tests. This announcement is accompanied by a shot of him joining the Thursday evening clap on the doorstep of Downing Street.
Routine tests? Malo isn’t fooled for a moment.
‘He’s got it, Mum.’ He’s pointing at the screen. ‘Just look at him.’
My son’s probably right. Johnson looks stooped and drawn and haggard, with dark shadows under his eyes. I recognize this look, largely because we’re living with it, and it gives me no comfort to picture the days and nights he has to come.
‘You think he’ll die, Mum?’ Malo’s generation has no time for nuance.
‘I’ve no idea. He’ll get the best treatment, bound to. If they can’t save him, what chance do any of us have?’
‘Exactly. And you believe that?’
‘I do.’
‘Then we have to keep these people here. Keep Dad out of hospital. Give him a fighting chance. You know how many people have died up there? At the QA?’
The QA is Pompey-speak for the Queen Alexandra Hospital, up on the hill.
‘Fifty-six,’ I say numbly. The figure is engraved in my heart.
We’re in bed by half past ten. All I want to do is go to sleep but Malo, suddenly solicitous, asks me whether I mind the light on. He’s in the middle of a feature in his Top Gear magazine and can’t wait to see what happens when you drive a Porsche Carrera flat out on a stretch of Welsh beach at low tide. Mercifully this comes without sound effects, unlike Grand Theft Auto, and I’m asleep within minutes.
I awake to hear a knock on the door. It must be hours later because the room is in darkness and Malo is sound asleep. Not wanting to wake him, I feel my way around his sleeping bag and slip out of the room. One of the night-shift nurses is waiting in the corridor. For some reason the lights are out here, too.
‘It’s happened again,’ she says. ‘The power’s off.’
I stare at her. She’s carrying a torch. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms and a Caravan Palace T-shirt, but I know exactly what I must do.
‘Do you mind?’ I ask for the torch.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Downstairs.’
I let myself out of the flat. There are security lights in the stairwell, motion-sensitive, and they’re still working as I hurry down. On the ground floor the lino feels cold on my bare feet. The big cupboard with the control boards is on the wall beside the front door and I’m praying it’s not locked. One tug, and it opens. Our control board is at the top, just within my reach, but I need the torch to check on the switches. I track the beam slowly left to right along the switches controlling various circuits until I find the black master switch. I have exactly this set-up back in London, and I know how it works. I hold the beam steady, making sure I’ve got this thing right, then I reach up and flick the switch back down. No doubt about it. Someone has been here in the last couple of minutes and cut the power to our flat.
This realization, incontestable, ices the blood in my veins. I start to shiver, a deep feeling of dread, wondering what might happen next. Then I check the front door. It’s closed, but the deadlock isn’t on. Someone’s been in, I think. Someone’s watching us, waiting outside, waiting to seize his moment. First yesterday afternoon, in broad daylight, now in pitch darkness in the middle of the night.
I open the door, barely aware of the thin drizzle. The loom of the streetlights reaches on to the Common but I can see no signs of life. Neither, in either direction, is there anyone on the pavement. I gaze out into the darkness, and as I do so proper rain begins to fall, sweeping in from the Solent, driving me back indoors.
Half-thinking I must have made the last five minutes up, I check on the control board again, making sure everything’s back in order. It is. I close the door, put the deadlock on, and climb the stairs to the flat. The lights are back on in the corridor, and when I put my head around H’s bedroom door, everyone’s looking relieved.
I return the torch to the nurse who woke me up. She wants to know what the matter was.
‘We’ve got a ghost,’ I say lightly, hoping this might keep the incident off the log, but knowing it won’t. I nod at H. ‘What about my lovely friend?’
‘Never noticed a thing,’ she says. ‘He’s been sleeping like a baby for hours now.’
NINETEEN
This, on the face of it, is good news but it doesn’t last. After a disturbed night, on edge in case the power fails again, I get up early, still trying to tease a little sense into what’s happening to us. Helpless doesn’t begin to do justice to the way I’m feeling. We seemed to have offended the gods of Covid, and probably untold others. One power outage you might put down to rogue mice, or bad karma, or even a ghost. Two takes us into another dimension completely. Someone out there is determined to hurt us, H in particular. But who? And why?
It’s still early, barely seven. To the best of my recollection, Jessie gets up early in her little cottage on the Flixcombe estate. First things first. No way will my son lay hands on £55,000 of H’s money.
To my relief, she’s already on the road. Malo, she says, has given her the address and the postcode of the flat. She knows Pompey well. She should be with us by eight at the latest.
‘There’s no traffic at all,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Don’t come to the flat,’ I tell her. ‘In fact, don’t come into the city at all.’
‘Why not?’ She sounds suddenly wary.
‘They’re stopping people on the motorway. Unless you’ve got a very good excuse, they’ll send you home.’ This is a lie, but only just. According to the Portsmouth News, the traffic police have begun to pilot random checks.
‘So, what shall I do?’
‘I’ll meet you outside the city. You know Fort Widley? On Portsdown Hill?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘There’s a big car park on the hill across the road from the fort,’ I tell her. ‘Malo took me up before we did that trip to the D-Day beaches. I’ll meet you there.’
‘No problem,’ she says. ‘But what about you? How come you can drive around?’
‘I’ve got a friend’s car at the moment. He’s a defending solicitor in court. So he has an exemption.’
‘Right.’ She’s sounding brighter now, evidently pleased to be spared the trip into the city itself. ‘And how’s H?’
‘Much the same. Not great.’
‘And Malo?’
‘Still asleep. Tell me you’re surprised.’
She laughs. She drives an old Land Rover, and I hear the clatter of the engine in the background.
‘About half an hour, then,’ she says. ‘I’ve still got a flask of coffee I haven’t touched.’
Twenty minutes later, I’m up on Portsdown Hill, parked across from the red-brick battlements of Fort Widley. There isn’t a soul around up here, and even down in the city
it felt like the quietest of Sundays. A handful of delivery trucks, the occasional postman on foot, and the beginnings of a queue – mainly older people – patiently waiting for a Londis to open.
Tony’s car smells of cigars, and I get out for a stretch. The view from up here on the hill I remember as sensational, and now – pollution free – it’s even better. In the distance, beyond the empty blue of the Solent, I can see the low swell of the Isle of Wight, while the grey sprawl of the island city lies beneath me, the early sun gleaming on the harbours that surround it. Traffic on the motorway that loops into the city from the west is sparse, hundreds of metres between vehicles, and as I watch I catch the faintest howl of a siren from somewhere deep in the muddle of streets that is Portsmouth. Probably an ambulance, I think. Another Covid victim heading for the hospital immediately below me.
I shake my head, remembering yet again that moment in the chill of the entrance hall last night when I checked out the control board. Someone knows about the battle we’re fighting to keep H alive. They’ve got into the property. They know where to look for the electricity supply. And they know the number of our flat. Without oxygen, H will be in serious trouble and I suspect they know that too. This is creepy enough, but the sheer size of the city below me makes it far more troubling. In his day, given the scale of his ambition, H has probably made hundreds of enemies. So how on earth do I even start to narrow the field?
Jessie appears within minutes and carefully parks ten metres away. I somehow thought we might be sharing the coffee at touching distance but she’s scrupulous about obeying the rules. She’s only brought one cup and when I insist she keeps it for herself, she looks relieved. She and Andy, she says, have been watching far too much telly. The virus has so far spared country areas like West Dorset but it’s obvious that it’s gone mad in the cities. It’s chilly up here in the wind, and she’s hunched in her quilted green anorak, nursing the coffee, staring down at the acres of rooftops that are Portsmouth. Jessie has spent most of her life down there but doesn’t appear to have missed it.
‘Fifty-six dead.’ She shakes her head. ‘Hundreds of confirmed cases. I checked. You’re saints, both of you. Thank God H is in good hands.’
She wants to know about Malo. I tell her about the flat, how intimate it is, and how things can occasionally get a bit difficult. The news that we’re living with three nurses night and day amazes her. Once again, she’s worried about what it must be costing H. All I can do is agree.
‘How much does he have left, incidentally?’ I enquire. ‘In cash?’
‘Just over one hundred and ten thousand. I had a count last night. Malo says you might be needing that, too.’
‘He’s right. We might.’
She nods, then looks me in the eye. ‘So why won’t he go into hospital? Like everyone else?’
‘Because he watched Fat Dave die in there, and it scared him witless.’ I tell her about our lunch with Cynthia, and the sequence we watched on her iPad. Already, that afternoon the three of us shared seems to belong to a different life.
Jessie nods, and says she doesn’t blame him. ‘Apparently you have to sign a form before they put you on the ventilator. By that time you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of not making it, and they need consent. They often put you into an induced coma, too. H would hate that.’
He would, indeed. Jessie’s finished her coffee now, and when I ask for the money she goes back to the Land Rover and fetches a dark-green kit bag which probably belongs to Andy. Fifty-five thousand pounds weighs more than you might think.
‘Malo said it was in fifties.’
‘He’s wrong. It’s mainly twenties, some tens. I’ve counted it twice. If it doesn’t tally, give me a ring and I’ll sort it.’ She’s eyeing the city again. ‘Give H my love, eh? And Malo, too. That boy’s suddenly grown up, hasn’t he?’
I nod, saying nothing, watching her climb back into the Land Rover. She pulls the door shut, starts the engine, and blows me a little kiss. Then she’s gone.
Fifty-five thousand pounds is a lot of money. I put the kit bag in the boot and sit behind the wheel, listening to a local news station that Tony Morse has pre-tuned. There’s lots of reaction to the Queen’s little pep talk last night, and one caller regrets that her mum wasn’t around to hear it. Every crisis has a silver lining, she says, and that amazing speech would have been hers. Amazing? I’m not sure.
Next comes an update on our ailing PM, who appears to be sicker than Downing Street have been prepared to admit. He’s now in ICU but has so far been spared the ventilator. Finally, on a happier note, there’s news of a pink supermoon which will be appearing for most of the week. Tomorrow offers the best viewing opportunities, and we should all be looking east as it rises, if we want to catch it in its pomp.
Pink. Supermoon. Even a simple idea like tomorrow.
I shake my head, realizing how easy it is to lose your bearings in a crisis like this. Watching H succumb so quickly to the virus was one thing. Trying to protect him from some vengeful stalker, quite another. What I need is a conversation with someone I trust, someone with detailed knowledge about the craziness of those days, someone who might be in a position to protect us all.
It’s nearly nine o’clock now. Not too early, I think. Especially given the circumstances. I reach for my mobile.
‘Dessie? Dessie Wren?’ An answering grunt tells me he’s still in bed. Shit.
‘Who is this?’
‘Enora. Tony Morse’s friend. We met at Dave’s funeral. Sort of …’
‘Ah …’ He’s apologetic now, fully conscious. I am, it seems, just what an old man needs on a Monday morning.
‘Old?’ I query. ‘Am I phoning the right number?’
‘You’re too bloody kind. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s a bit tricky …’
‘On the phone, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want a meet?’
‘I do. Might that be possible?’
‘Of course. My pleasure. You’ve got wheels?’
‘I can do better than that. I’ve got Tony’s wheels.’
‘He’s sick. Do you know that?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Then watch what you touch. Wipes, you need wipes. Steering wheel, auto shift, radio controls, the lot.’ A moment’s pause. ‘So where do you want to meet?’
‘Your call. It’s a great car. And I’ve got Tony’s exemption.’
‘Come here, then. My place. You know Cowplain?’
I don’t. He gives me an address and a postcode, then asks whether I’ve eaten yet. When I tell him I haven’t, he chuckles.
‘Full English then, unless you’re a veggie.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Excellent. Better and better. I’ll get the bacon on.’
Something’s not quite right here. Eagerness definitely has its place, but an invite like this from someone so fastidious about lockdown hygiene is odd.
‘Won’t it bother you?’ I ask. ‘Having a stranger in your house?’
‘God, no. To tell you the truth, I’d murder for company just now, and in any case –’ another chuckle – ‘I’ve got plenty of wipes.’
TWENTY
Cowplain is fifteen minutes away, a collection of suburban properties off the old main road north. Number 101 Gladys Avenue turns out to be a bungalow, half concealed by an out-of-control hedge. A newish VW is parked on the cracked hardstanding, and a drift of empty take-out cartons have been trapped by the rusting foot of the wrought-iron gate. I wonder for a moment about the wisdom of leaving the kit bag in the boot, and decide to take it in. I open the gate and ring the bell beside the door. The tiny bay window beside me badly needs attention, as does a mangy tabby cat on the inside sill.
Dessie opens the door. He’s wearing jeans that must be at least one size too big, and a rather nice denim shirt that looks new. He seems pleased to see me, then catches sight of the take-out boxes.
‘Bloody kids,’ he says. ‘There’s a Ch
inese up the road. No one cooks any more, not round here.’
‘You’ve got a bag? You want me to get rid of them?’
‘Bloody hell, no. Christ knows who’s touched that lot. I’ll sort it later.’ He stands to one side. ‘Come in.’
I can smell bacon the moment I step inside. Dessie’s also gone overboard with the aftershave.
‘Nice.’ I’m looking at a stand of framed photos on a grand piano in the walk-through lounge/diner. Both come as a surprise in this setting. ‘You play?’
‘I’m afraid I do.’ He settles briefly at the keyboard and I watch his big fingers dancing over the keys. He offers a series of riffs on a theme I can’t quite place, but his playfulness reminds me of long-ago evenings in a jazz club Berndt and I used to frequent in Notting Hill.
‘“Stormy Weather”.’ Dessie is on his feet again. ‘No offence if you didn’t recognize it.’
‘I did,’ I lie. ‘Who’s that?’ I’m pointing at one of the shots on the piano, a young face in naval uniform. Heavily posed and carefully side-lit, it has to be a studio shot.
‘Me,’ he says. ‘My dad paid to have that done. I’d just joined up. He’d abandoned all hope before then.’
‘Wild child?’
‘Lazy. And not very nice. I hated school, chased the wrong girls. I’m sure you’re getting the picture here.’
He offers to store my kit bag outside in the hall. Breakfast is nearly ready. One egg or two?
I tell him I’d prefer to leave the bag where it is, and settle for one egg. He departs to the kitchen, telling me to help myself to the piano if I fancy it. Instead I glance at the rest of the photos, the youthful face getting steadily older, mates appearing from time to time. In one of the shots, Dessie stands in the middle of a group of matelots on what looks like the hull of a submarine. There are mountains in the background, beyond a stretch of grey water. The tallest of the guys in the shot is holding a sizeable teddy bear, and I’ve read enough editions of the Portsmouth News by now to recognize the blue and white Pompey scarf around its neck.
Intermission Page 16
