Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  Then I hear a voice. It’s slightly muffled but it’s definitely Malo. Not only that but I can date it exactly. At thirteen, his voice started to break, something I remember with absolute clarity because it coincided with the first time he started to truant.

  ‘Mum?’ He’s lost. He wants me. Needs me. But where is he? He calls again, more urgent this time, a thin piping plea that cracks under the sticky assault of all those adolescent hormones. The next floor down, I tell myself. Not here.

  And so I take the stairs again, dizzied by the urgency of this mission, telling him to hang on, to be brave, not to give up. The door to the room is open. It’s suddenly dark again but I can see a cupboard, hard up against the wall. This is the only item of furniture in the room. There’s nothing else.

  I approach the cupboard. Every step I make echoes in the darkness. I’m trying to be as quiet, as light-footed as I can but it’s like I’m wearing heavy boots. There’s nowhere to hide. The ghost in me has gone.

  The cupboard is the exact replica of the cupboard back in the flats, the one that Malo has padlocked, the one that holds all the meters and control panels. I stare at it a moment. No padlock. Just Malo inside it, begging me to let him out.

  And so I reach forward, and open the door, and the moment I do so, a tiny little spotlight settles on the figure inside. The theatricality of this moment, the suddenness of the reveal, is deeply shocking but what’s worse is the sight of Malo himself. He’s not thirteen any more, in fact he’s not even born at all. Naked, curled in the foetal position, the tadpole eyes in his huge head are staring out at me, and he has a tiny thumb in his mouth.

  ‘Mum?’ he’s trying to say. ‘Are you there?’

  I awake with a start. It’s daylight again. I’m howling my eyes out, and once I manage to mop the tears with a corner of the sheet, I find Dessie standing beside the bed. He has a mug in his hand, and a bowl of what turns out to be sugar cubes. He’s wearing the same jeans and same sweatshirt as last night, and he’s looking deeply uncomfortable.

  ‘Tea?’ he says.

  I phone the number at the hospital an hour or so later. I couldn’t face Dessie’s offer of another breakfast, but a long, hot shower has made me feel a little better. The number I ring takes me to a desk in A&E. The nurse must be at the end of her shift because the moment I mention Malo’s name, she remembers him coming in.

  ‘Black curly hair?’ she says. ‘Been out running? Bit of a state?’

  I say yes to both, fighting the urge to cry again. Malo in that hideous shelter. Utterly ruined.

  The nurse is telling me that he’s been admitted. She’ll transfer me to the ward where he’s being looked after. Someone up there should be able to help. I hang on, waiting for the new voice, praying that my son is still alive. Finally, a male voice answers. I want to know about a young man called Malo Andressen, I tell him.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘His mother.’

  ‘I’m looking at him now, Ms Andressen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He can’t manage anything more ambitious than Complan, I’m afraid, but there’s nothing wrong with his appetite.’

  ‘You’re telling me he’s OK?’ I can’t believe it. ‘He’s eating?’

  ‘Sipping would be closer. But he’s still very much with us.’

  My new friend, my saviour, has a light Irish accent and turns out to be a registrar on the ward. Malo, he tells me, has already had a series of X-rays. There’s no damage to his skull, but his jaw is broken in two places and will need to be wired. He’s also got hairline fractures on three ribs. Facially, the registrar has seen worse on Saturday nights. His nose will need a re-set, and his teeth will need sorting when dental surgeries open again, but apart from that, he’s pretty much the full deal.

  ‘You’ve talked to him?’

  ‘I have, sure. He’s a bit of a mumbler, that son of yours, but that’s not entirely his fault.’

  ‘Does he remember anything?’

  ‘Nothing. He remembers setting out for the run, and he tells me he remembers the moon on the water. Apart from that, it’s all a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘So, is he in pain?’

  ‘A little. Not much. I’m blaming the gods of medication, Ms Andressen. Drugs are a wonderful thing, as I’m sure our young Malo will agree.’

  Our young Malo. Wonderful. I’m still reeling from the news, but in a good way. I have a million other questions to ask but I know that this man’s time is precious.

  ‘Can I come in and see him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Ms Andressen. You’re in touch with someone carrying the virus? Would that be right?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Then the answer’s no. But nil desperandum. We should have the lad home within a couple of days.’

  A couple of days? Ten minutes ago, I was dreading another visit to the Crem. Now this.

  ‘Thank you,’ is all I can say.

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Ms Andressen. Might you have an address for delivery, by any chance?’ He laughs. ‘I expect they’ll give you a time slot.’

  It’s late morning. At Dessie’s insistence, I’ve managed to tuck away a little scrambled egg on toast and now he’s been kind enough to make a brief detour on our way back into the city. For the second time in a week, I’m parked on the top of Portsdown Hill, staring out at the city below. The surge of relief sparked by my phone call to the hospital has gone. The knowledge that Malo is in good hands remains a comfort, but I want to know who hurt him.

  Dessie nods. He’s been nothing but kindness since he picked me up last night. He’s been patient, and – for a man – he seems to have a remarkable understanding of the more vulnerable bits of the female psyche. This is the first time I’ve troubled him with a direct question about how and why Malo ended up in that bus shelter, and when it comes to an answer he’s showing signs of hesitation.

  ‘You need to help me here,’ he says. ‘I need to know who you and your boy have been talking to.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Money. You arrived with a sack full of notes the other day. Parked it in my front room. You asked me about Shanti, and I suggested you take that money to the nursing agency. Why did I do that? Because either you or your boy had other plans. None of this is subtle, I’m afraid. But people get hurt in this game, and you’re looking at someone who knows. Old habits die hard, and I’m guessing that H wanted to grow whatever money he had left. Am I right?’

  I nod, and say nothing for a moment before asking him how much he knows about H’s financial affairs.

  ‘You mean now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know enough.’

  ‘Enough for what?’

  ‘Enough to know he’s made a couple of crap investments and that he’s lost what most of us would regard as a fortune. Face him with a huge bill, just to keep him alive, and he’s got a problem. I’ve been around long enough to know that people rarely change. H was always a risk-taker. Your Mr Wu may end up wanting hundreds of thousands of pounds. H has to find that money in double-quick time to avoid the ICU, which he dreads, and the only way he knows takes him straight back into the game. Except that the game has moved on.’

  ‘You know about Mr Wu?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? How come?’

  ‘Because I’m still in the game, too. I’m employed as a civilian adviser now, which means I never really left. You’ll know that H upset a lot of people back in the day, and I’m telling you the file remains open. There are very senior policemen in this city who would kill to see H behind bars.’

  ‘Kill?’

  ‘Poor choice of words. But I’m guessing you know what I mean.’

  ‘And you think there’s a chance of that? Of putting H away?’

  ‘I do, yes. You never say never. Not in my little gang.’

  I nod. A sudden shaft of sunlight has speared through the tumble of clouds over the grey sprawl of the city and settled briefly on the forest of cranes in the doc
kyard.

  ‘Your little gang?’ I say softly.

  ‘My little gang,’ he confirms.

  ‘So where do you sit in all this? And how come you’re being so nice to me?’

  ‘You want the truth?’ He turns to look at me. ‘I don’t want to see good people hurt.’

  ‘That’s a bit late, isn’t it? After last night?’

  ‘I meant you.’

  ‘You think these people will come for me, too? As well as H and Malo?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘And who might they be?’

  Once again, there’s a moment of hesitation and that same playful little smile I’d noticed last night. Then he beckons me a little closer, as if someone might be listening.

  ‘I’m going to drop you off at Tony Morse’s flat, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And my guess is that you’ll be paying your respects to H, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you might do both of us a favour. You mentioned a guy called Sammy. You said H had got in a bit of a state about him. I’ve done a bit of asking around.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I suspect his second name is McGaughy. You might try that on H and see what happens.’

  ‘Just that? Just the name? Sammy McGaughy? Nothing else? No more clues?’

  ‘Not yet, no. Have a chat, if he’s up to it. And let’s see where it takes us.’

  ‘Us?’ I can’t help smiling. For someone so subtle, so deft, so full of guile, this is unusually blatant.

  ‘Us,’ he agrees, reaching for the ignition keys and firing up the engine. ‘And don’t worry about the police. I talked to some people this morning. They may still want to talk to you, but not yet.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Dessie drops me down in Southsea, and asks me to phone him once I’ve talked to H. He also, he says, would appreciate another conversation, this time about Wesley Kane. By now, I’m becoming aware that Dessie has cast me in a particular role in this developing drama, and I’m far from comfortable about the implications. At the kerbside, outside the flat, I decide to level with him.

  ‘Just how many people do you want me to rat out?’ I ask him.

  ‘Rat out?’ he says mildly. ‘Is that what this is about?’

  I hold his gaze for a long moment. Then I put my hand briefly on his arm.

  ‘Thanks for looking after me,’ I say. ‘And I mean that.’

  I get out of the car and let myself into the flats without a backward glance. The sight of the meter cupboard, still padlocked, brings me to a sudden halt but I fight a rising sense of panic, and make for the stairs. Up in the flat, I must have been in the front room for no more than half a minute before the door opens and Taalia joins me. I phoned last night and told one of the duty nurses about Malo.

  ‘How is he?’ she says at once.

  ‘That was going to be my question.’

  She looks confused, hurt even, then realizes that I’m talking about H.

  ‘He’s pulling through,’ she says. ‘Mr Wu was here this morning. He says it’s still early days but the signs are good. Maybe even better than good. We’re all really proud of him.’ She pauses. ‘And Malo?’

  I tell her what little I know, glossing over the more horrible bits. Some people must have set about him. He ended up in hospital. He’s not looking his best but it’s down to all of us to bring him through it.

  ‘He’s coming back?’

  ‘In a couple of days. Maybe even sooner.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Of course. Round-the-clock nursing? What more could he want?’

  This prospect puts a smile on her face. She departs to look for a fresh set of PPE, while I settle on the sofa and put a call through to Tim, down in Bere Regis. When he answers, I ask him whether he was serious about the loan of his flat. He says yes, and gives me a phone number for the neighbour who has a spare key. He’ll phone her now and tell her to expect a knock on her door.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asks. I can hear the concern in his voice and decide, once again, to tell him the truth.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It isn’t. Long story. Thanks for the flat. Speak later, eh?’

  Taalia is back with the PPE. She stays to help me into it, belt the gown at the back, and make sure the mask and visor are a good fit, and feeling her hands dancing lightly over my face I can’t help wondering whether she’ll be doing this for Malo, as well. I’ve no idea how long wounds like his take to heal, but they’re bound to be sensitive.

  H, when I finally make it into the bedroom, is sitting up. He’s not wearing the oxygen mask, and there’s a definite blush of colour in his face. He’s pleased to see me, too, and after the events of the last twelve hours, this comes as a real tonic.

  ‘Here.’ He pats the side of the bed, ignoring Sunil’s plea to observe the two-metre rule. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Why? Where?’

  There’s a vigour, even a slight menace, in these questions which I take to be a very good sign. I’m looking at the old H, wrestling back control. I tell him that a girl deserves a break from time to time, and that cabin fever is something new in my life, and he has the grace to smile.

  ‘And the boy?’

  This is trickier. I glance at Taalia and the faintest shake of her head tells me that H doesn’t know he hasn’t been around. For just how long can I sustain a white lie before Malo returns? One glance at his face would tell H everything he needs to know, and so I edge a little closer on the side of the bed and tell him that our boy has met with a bit of an accident.

  ‘Accident? Like what? How?’

  ‘He was out running,’ I say lightly. ‘You wouldn’t believe the state of that promenade.’

  ‘You’re telling me he fell over?’

  ‘Yes. Hurt himself quite badly. Up here, and round here.’ I touch my face, then gesture at my ribcage. ‘They’re keeping him in for a couple of days. When all this is over, we should think about finding a good dentist.’

  ‘His teeth?’

  ‘And his jaw, H. Broken in two places.’

  ‘Because he fell over?’ H doesn’t believe this fiction for a moment. ‘Because of some paving fucking slab?’

  I nod, say nothing. Taalia’s right. H, as we say in France, est en plein forme, firing on all cylinders. Is this the moment for me to mention Sammy McGaughy? I suspect not.

  ‘So what really happened?’

  ‘He got hurt.’

  ‘I know that. You told me that. But how?’

  I shake my head, put a finger to my lips, do the thespy thing, try and make light of it, but this simply angers him more.

  ‘Get Wesley round,’ he says. ‘I need someone to tell me the fucking truth. Someone’s had a go at the boy. It’s all over your face. I’m not blind, and I’m not dying any more, so do me a favour. Get Wesley. Phone him. Drive round. Pick him up. Any fucking thing. We have to sort this. All of us. Even you.’

  This is a step too far. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, I deserve more than this volley of abuse. I’m angry now, probably more angry than he is, and I can sense the atmosphere in the room getting tense. None of these nurses signed up for a full-scale domestic. Saving someone’s life is one thing, putting up with H at full throttle is quite another.

  ‘Sammy McGaughy?’ I enquire.

  H is about to launch into another tirade, but the name stops him dead. He’s staring at me. He doesn’t know what to say, can’t believe his ears.

  ‘Again?’ he whispers.

  ‘Sammy McGaughy.’

  ‘Where did you get that name?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It fucking does.’ He tries to lunge at me, tries to grab my arm, but I’m too quick for him. Sunil is on his feet, trying to restrain him, trying to spare me another furious assault. H does his best to fight him off but Sunil, who seems to have the weight of a feather, is much stronger than he looks. There comes the beginnings of a serious sc
uffle, H trying to land a blow or two, but Sunil has him in an arm lock and isn’t letting go. He’s also very good at calming H down. I’m aware of the other two nurses exchanging glances, and Taalia – in particular – is visibly frightened. But then the fight goes out of H and he slumps back against the pillow, his eyes closing, one hand crabbing across the sheet in search of the oxygen mask. Seconds later, Sunil is helping him fix the mask to his face, making sure the elastic is comfortable around the back of his head.

  A relapse, I think. Thank God.

  Shaken, I take the PPE off, make my excuses, and leave the flat. I have the address of Tim’s place, barely a five-minute walk away. His neighbour has been speaking to Tim and hands me a key. Knowing Tim, she doesn’t think there’ll be much in the fridge but there’s a branch of Waitrose just across the road and if I’m desperate, she can spare a jug of milk. I take the key, thank her, and let myself into Tim’s flat.

  After the damp squalor of our perch on the seafront, Tim’s place is a different proposition. It feels warm and lived-in. Thesps have a bad habit of collecting various trophies from numberless locations, and Tim is no exception. I spend a very happy fifteen minutes, trying to calm myself down, admiring a pin board of location snaps featuring many faces I happen to know, and wondering what on earth possessed him to volunteer for an evening of belly laughs in The Navy Lark at the Torch Theatre in Milford Haven.

  Tim’s bookshelves are interesting, too. He’s always nursed a feeling that he really should have been Dennis Hopper, astride a Harley-Davidson, growling his way south along California’s Highway One, and he has a rich selection of alternative reading from early James Baldwin to Jack Kerouac and Tom Wolfe. I’m taking a peek at the flat’s only bedroom, which features a set of Tim’s drums, when my phone starts to ring. It’s Dessie Wren, and for a moment I’m tempted to ignore it, but then have second thoughts. In some important ways, I owe this man at least a conversation, if only for taking me in last night.

  ‘Are you OK to talk?’ he asks at once.

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re not with H?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no.’