‘Of course.’ He’s eyeing the rest of the cash on the table. He tells me that this should take Mr H through to next weekend, but after that we’re once again on the meter.
‘Not a problem, Mr Wu.’
‘You have more?’
‘Of course.’
‘In cash, like this?’
‘Yes.’ I try to warm this exchange with a smile. ‘Land in Dorset is worth a fortune. You’d be amazed.’
He nods. He looks briefly pensive. If I’m thinking all this money has spared me a discussion about the electricity supply at the flat, I’m wrong.
‘You’re happy with the care to date, Ms Andressen?’
‘Very. Being able to see H every day makes it all worthwhile, and he probably feels the same way. All we can say is thank you.’
‘A pleasure, Ms Andressen. We have to talk about the incident last night. Do you mind?’
I shake my head and listen patiently while he outlines the obvious dangers. His duty, he says, is to safeguard our Mr H, and for that to happen he has to be sure that there will be no more surprises.
‘Surprises, Mr Wu?’
‘Someone breaking in. Someone turning off the power.’
‘Of course.’
‘You have plans in that respect?’
‘We do, Mr Wu. I was taking advice only this morning.’
‘From? Do you mind me asking?’
‘Not at all.’ An even warmer smile. ‘The police.’
‘Good.’ He nods. ‘Very good. Then I think we can agree that the matter is resolved.’
‘And if it isn’t?’
‘Then we must find alternative accommodation.’ He nods at the table. ‘Which will doubtless incur further cost.’
Mr Wu, as delicate and tactful as ever, is once again marking my card. No more power outages. Else H will be on the move.
I extend a hand and tell him I’m grateful. He gives me that lovely little half-bow and looks forward to our next meeting. I leave him in the office to sort out the money and pause on my way out to check one last detail with the receptionist, now back behind her desk. I’ve no idea whether she’ll know the answer to my question, but it’s worth a try.
‘There’s a superyacht moored at the end of the marina,’ I tell her. ‘Much bigger than everything else.’
‘White? Shiny? Plastic? Just a bit loud? No sails? No mast?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘It’s brand new, arrived just before Christmas. I’m trying to remember the name. Are you good on battles?’
‘Agincourt?’ My heart is sinking.
‘That’s it. Agincourt.’
‘And the owner?’
‘Guy called Dennis. I’m afraid I don’t know his second name. He’s big in construction.’
‘And he lives here? In Pompey?’
‘Somewhere close by, I think. Not sure exactly where.’
I thank her for her help and don’t bother with the walk to the end of the marina. I can tell from here that this year’s Agincourt is an even grosser toy than the last one. Twenty years ago, a smaller version was berthed in the marina at Antibes. It was full of the owner’s mates, most of them from Pompey, and H was one of the less shouty guests on board. I only stayed a single night but that was enough for us both to conceive Malo.
Agincourt. Dennis.
I make my way back through the city, wondering how on earth I’m going to handle the wrath of Malo. I’ve intercepted the money he was counting on. I’ve lodged the whole lot with Mr Wu. I suspect I’ve kept H out of big trouble, assuming he ever gets better. But none of that will count with my son because I’ve wrecked whatever plans he’s been cooking up, and like his father he hates being second-guessed.
Back at the flats, I pause beside the big cupboard that contains the meters on the ground floor. Someone’s secured it with a padlock, a combination rather than a key. I study it a moment, then head for the stairs. Malo is in the front room, talking to Taalia. He ignores me at first but then Taalia gets called away to attend to H. Malo watches her leave the room, and then turns back.
‘I phoned Jessie,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you wake me up? I would have gone. I could have handled it myself.’
‘Handled what?’
‘The money. Did you find Shanti?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’re telling me you’ve still got it? Fifty-five grand?’
‘No.’
‘So where the fuck is it?’
‘I gave it to Wu. We’re paid up until the weekend.’ I drop the empty kit bag on the floor. ‘Do I hear a thank you?’
He’s staring at me, shaking his head. He can’t believe what he’s just heard, how stupid I am, how perverse, how devious.
‘She’s expecting that money,’ he says. ‘She’s got everything else set up, the contacts, the distribution, everything. We could have had all of it back within ten working days. Trebled.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘Of course I believed her.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you owe me two thank yous. One for keeping the agency off our backs. And another for saving you a great deal of embarrassment.’
‘Like how?’
‘Like losing fifty-five grand of your father’s money. Why don’t you try it in French? Merci, maman. There. So easy. No embarrassment. No shame. Just do it. For me. Merci, maman. I won’t hold any of this against you. I promise.’
Malo rolls his eyes. He’s had enough. Abruptly, he gets up from the sofa and heads for the door, and the staircase beyond. I want to ask him about the lock on the cupboard downstairs, whether it’s his doing, and if so whether he’s shared the combination with everyone else in the building, but now is not the time. I’ve no idea where he’s going and I suspect that he doesn’t, either.
He must have left the building now, because I hear the crash of the front door as he pulls it shut behind him. The whole building seems to shudder, and Taalia must have heard it too, because she’s back in the front room, looking concerned.
‘My son,’ I explain briefly. ‘You get used to it in the end.’
She nods. She has an envelope in her hand. It’s got my name on it and for a moment I assume it’s yet another bill that needs paying, but I’m wrong.
‘Julia left this for you,’ she said. ‘She said she doesn’t want it lying around any more.’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘She didn’t say.’
Once she’s left the room, I open the envelope. I recognize H’s mobile at once. It’s still got charge, and out of curiosity, I start to scroll through the texts he’s obviously missed. The most recent arrived yesterday afternoon, at 17.03. It comes from a number I don’t immediately recognize. Assume balance also available? it reads. 110K? I stare at it a moment. £110,000 must refer to the balance of H’s rainy-day fund. The expected forty thousand has yet to arrive, but the texter needs to be sure about the rest as well. In which case, he won’t have been disappointed by the reply. Sixteen minutes after receipt of the text, H has offered the clearest of answers.
Yes. Just that. Yes.
This is puzzling. These last few days, to my knowledge, H has been in no state to take part in any SMS exchange. I glance at my watch. By now, it’s late morning and the next shift change is due this afternoon. Ela, the older of the two Polish nurses, would have been on duty yesterday afternoon and might be able to shed light on the mystery.
She arrives on time, and I wait until the handover is complete and the outgoing nurses have departed. H, according to Taalia, is a little better this morning and has even eaten a small bowl of porridge.
‘You think he’s on the mend?’
She shakes her head and says it’s far too early to be sure. She has two girlfriends who are working on the ICU at the QA hospital and they’re finding that the virus makes life tough for everyone. One day, she says, a patient is making real progress.
The next, he might be dead.
‘So, no promises?’
‘None, I’m afraid, Ms Andressen. He’s asleep again at the moment.’
As soon as Taalia’s gone, I ask Ela to come through to the front room. We talk now via mobiles, which seems strange when we’re only a room apart but makes perfect lockdown sense.
Ela has taken off her mask and visor before she joins me and confirms that H is still asleep.
‘And yesterday?’ I ask.
‘The same. Most of the time he was on the mask. The coughing was definitely better, just a little from time to time, but he was exhausted. You saw him yourself, Ms Andressen. You sat with him until Natasha arrived.’
She’s right. I did. And H was definitely in no state to bother with his smart phone.
‘Around five o’clock yesterday afternoon,’ I begin. ‘Can you remember exactly what you were all doing?’
Ela raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say.
‘Looking after Mr H, of course.’
‘All three of you?’
‘Most of the time, yes.’
‘Sometimes just two of you?’
‘Occasionally, yes.’
‘But might there ever be only one of you?’
‘Never.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. We have to be ready for anything, Ms Andressen. And that means at least two of us. Always.’ She’s frowning now, a little disturbed. ‘Why?’
I do my best to make light of it. Just a silly question from a confused client. I probably need more sleep, I tell her.
She nods, far from convinced, and reaches for her mask and visor. Moments later, she’s gone.
I pick the phone up, checking the text again. Assume balance also available? 110K?
The temptation to ring the number is overwhelming, but my finger hovers over the screen for a moment before I do it. The number rings and rings, and then I’m suddenly listening to a voice I recognize.
‘H?’ He sounds surprised. ‘You’re better?’
My finger strays across the screen. I don’t say a word.
‘H? You there?’
I end the call, still staring down at the phone.
Wesley Kane.
TWENTY-TWO
Malo returns after dark. I’m sitting with H in full PPE, sharing a crossword with Sunil, when I hear his voice outside the door. He’s talking to Marysia, one of the Polish nurses, before he disappears into our bedroom, and when she joins us again, she says he’s getting ready to go out for a run. Running in the dark has become routine for my son, and I’m glad because exercise always puts him in a better mood. Maybe, after he comes back, we can be friends again.
Wesley? Getting in direct touch with H? When he probably knows H can’t respond? It makes no sense. None at all. I stay at his bedside, the crossword abandoned, occasionally checking to see whether he shows any signs of waking up. The little peg-like oximeter has now been attached to his right middle finger and, according to the bedside read-out, his sat level has steadied at 93%. According to Sunil, this is way better than some of the earlier readings, and will keep his blood well oxygenated. His cough, however briefly, also seems to have disappeared.
Malo departs for his run and I leave H in the hands of the nursing team. Once I’ve shed the PPE, I go from floor to floor, knocking on doors, wanting to check about the new combination lock on the cupboard downstairs. There are eight flats in all, and I only manage to get a response from three of them. Two of the residents are old, both women, and they confirm that a nice young man had explained about the new lock on the cupboard and given them the combination. Neither of them are at all curious about this sudden need for security, thinking it must somehow be linked to the virus, but one of them is curious about the constant comings and goings to our flat upstairs. I don’t want to alarm anyone, and so I mutter something about a protracted family celebration and leave it at that.
On the ground floor, there are two flats, one of them owned by a man in his seventies with a lopsided walk, watery eyes and four-day stubble. He’s wearing a yellow life jacket with a plastic whistle over a pair of pyjamas and I can hear the blare of the TV from somewhere behind him. When I apologize for the intrusion, he says it isn’t a problem. He’s been up for ages and – yes – he too has the combination for the new lock. Unlike the women upstairs, he wants to know why the lock was necessary in the first place, and without going into details I mention problems we’re having with the supply. He seems to lose the thread after that and when I enquire whether he’s been aware of any intruders, he shakes his head.
‘Can’t help you,’ he says. ‘I’m deaf as a post.’
I linger for a moment longer and nod at the door opposite.
‘Is that the flat that was let recently?’
‘What, dear?’
‘Has someone just moved in?’
He frowns, looks vaguer than ever, then shakes his head. ‘It’s for sale,’ he says. ‘I think.’
I thank him for his time and knock on the door opposite, but nothing happens. Back upstairs, my duty done, I collapse on the sofa. Malo has bought today’s edition of the Portsmouth News, and I start to thumb idly through, deferring the call I know I have to make.
A longish piece offers advice on keeping sane over the imminent Easter break: dream up a card, plot an indoors egg hunt, sew an Easter bonnet, or convert an empty egg carton into a bunny-themed draughts board. All of this is mildly depressing. It reads like a newsletter you might circulate to a bunch of lifers on ‘B’ wing, and when I turn the page it gets worse. How to deal with dry skin or even eczema after repeated handwashing. Plus a cheerful guide on ratting out your neighbours when they break the lockdown rules.
Finally, I can delay the call no longer. I phone Wesley on the number I always use, and he picks up at once.
‘You OK?’ he grunts.
‘Never better. Not interrupting anything, I hope.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing. I used to like this place. Now it’s driving me nuts.’
I tell him I understand. Then I ask him about the text he sent to H yesterday afternoon.
‘You know about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘He showed you?’
‘Of course he didn’t. He’s sick, Wesley. You must know that. He’s in no state to read anything. He can barely put one word after another.’ I pause. ‘So why did you send it?’
For a second or two, he has no answer. Then he’s back on the line, voluble, almost offended.
‘I had Shanti on, didn’t I? Pissed-off doesn’t cover it. She was expecting forty grand and nothing happened.’
‘That’s because I took it elsewhere, Wesley. As you know, that money belongs to H. It pays for all the care he’s getting.’
‘Yeah, but it won’t last, will it? You know that and so does that boy of yours.’
‘It might. We don’t know yet.’
‘And if it doesn’t? What do we tell H, then? When they cart him off to the ICU and stuff a tube down his throat?’
‘We hope that won’t happen. These girls of his are doing their best with him. As far as I can gather, the word is stabilized.’
‘Yeah? That’s not the point though. We had an agreement.’
‘We?’
‘Me, and Shanti, and the boy. This is for H. That’s why we’ve been putting out for him, all of us. It was sweet. We had it nailed. Now you come along and the party’s fucking over. Sweet dreams, my love. When the shit hits the fan with H, and we’re all back at the Crem, you might be thinking different.’
I blink, holding the phone at arm’s length. I’ve never heard Wesley as angry as this, and I wait a moment or two hoping the diatribe might come to an end. At last, he seems to have run out of expletives.
‘Enora? You still there?’
‘I am. And I need to ask you something.’
‘Sure. Ask away.’
‘How well do you know this woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well enough.’
‘Well enough for what?’
‘Well enough to know she’s kosher.’
‘That’s not an answer. Are you fucking her?’ I pause a moment. ‘Is that a yes?’
‘In my dreams.’ For the first time, he laughs. ‘You saw the arse on her? What choice does a man have?’
I’m staring at the phone again, robbed of an answer. Just sometimes, even seasoned thesps like me lose their place in the script.
‘You men are all the same,’ I manage at last. ‘You all think with your dicks. Listen, I have a really neat little trick for turning an egg carton into a draughts board. Hours of happy fun. If you’re short of things to do, just give me a ring.’
My finger finds the off button, and Wesley is no more.
An hour later, Malo has yet to return. It’s nearly nine o’clock and I’m beginning to fret. The last thing I want to do is disturb Taalia, but in the end I have no choice. I know that one of the nurses next door has her mobile number and she’s happy to part with it.
‘Trying to find Malo?’ the nurse enquires.
‘Something like that.’
I retreat to the privacy of the front room again and ring the number. Taalia turns out to be in the bath. And no, she hasn’t seen my son.
‘Is there a problem?’ she says. ‘Can I help?’
I thank her for the thought and hang up. I’ve no idea what might have happened, but the more I think about it, the more I’m certain I have to get out there and start looking. He might have tripped up in the dark, pulled a muscle, hurt himself. Worse, he might have decided to pay Shanti a visit, try somehow to make amends. If he wants to blame his interfering mother, so be it. Just as long as he’s safe.
I happen to know the route Malo takes every night, largely because he’s told me so often. Out across the Common, left on the seafront, up and over the battlements next to the Castle, then down to the promenade on the other side. After that, it’s a straight run past the pier, a couple of miles at least, until there’s no more seafront left. Then back again, same route.
I fetch my anorak, and check to make sure I’ve got my mobile. Sunil is in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich, and when he asks where I’m off to, I tell him I need the fresh air.
Intermission Page 18
