Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  ‘You’ve got a visa? A work permit? Permission to be here?’

  ‘Sort of.’ He looks shamefaced. His glass is barely touched.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s easy to get jobs here. The pay’s not so great for people like me, but no one asks too many questions if the paperwork looks right.’

  ‘You bought fake permissions?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So, you’re an illegal?’

  ‘Nearly. I’m a fully qualified nurse. I passed the exams at home. I’ve never put anyone in danger.’

  ‘But the paperwork you mentioned?’

  He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about the paperwork, or the Home Office, or the need to keep his head well down.

  ‘There’s something else, Ms Andressen.’ At last he’s taken a sip of the Prosecco. ‘Something I should tell you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I got the job at the agency only very recently. This was my first assignment.’

  ‘How? Why?’

  ‘I had a call. It came from no one I’d ever heard of before. It was very sudden, very urgent. They told me to go to the agency offices. Everything would be taken care of.’

  ‘Port Solent? The marina place?’

  ‘Yes. I went, of course, and they gave me the job.’

  ‘Here? With us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I had to speak to this person, this stranger, every day.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you, Ms Andressen. And Mr H. And everything that was happening.’

  I’m staring at him now, and I put my glass to one side.

  ‘A spy in the camp? Is that what you’ve been?’

  ‘Yes. But there’s more.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘At the start of the week, Monday I think, I got more instructions. Mr H has a phone. He was very ill. I knew where the phone was and I was to expect a text at a particular time. It was late afternoon. I don’t remember exactly when, but all I had to do was to reply to the text. Just one word. Yes.’

  I nod. I remember the text arriving. It came from Wesley Kane’s phone, and it asked whether H wanted to send the balance of his rainy-day fund to Shanti.

  ‘This stranger asked you to expect the text? And then to answer it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, who was he?’

  ‘I never had a name but that didn’t seem to matter. He said he was a policeman, and he said he’d look after the Home Office people if I did what he asked.’

  ‘He’d arrange for you to stay? Legally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The Home Office say they want to see me to discuss my status. Maybe next month. Maybe next year. Maybe never.’

  I nod. The hunt for intel, I think. Major Crimes. So devious. So ruthless. So simple.

  ‘This stranger. What did he look like?’

  ‘He was a big man, older than you’d expect for a policeman. He had a little scar on his face.’ He taps the skin above his right eyebrow. ‘And he always wore a jacket. There was a little badge on that jacket, just here on the lapel.’ He touches his chest. ‘Two fish with a crown in the middle.’

  I sit back against the lumpiness of the sofa, wondering whether to be surprised, or horrified, or outraged, or simply resigned. Leading Seaman Jenny Wren, I think. Unmasked at last.

  ‘So why are you telling me all this?’ I’m looking at Sunil again. ‘Aren’t you worried about these people? About this stranger?’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’ve decided to go. Just as soon as I can.’

  ‘Go where, Sunil?’

  ‘Home. This country isn’t for me, Ms Andressen. Not anymore.’

  I nod, telling myself it makes sense. I’m thinking fast now, steps I have to take, precautions I have to make. A couple more questions establish that Sunil is sharing a bedsit in the city with two other Asians. Dessie Wren will know this. I find the key to Tim’s flat, and give it to Sunil. Marmion Road, I say. Red door. Second floor. Opposite Waitrose. Then I check on the baby alarm, and tiptoe into H’s bedroom. He’s left his mobile on the little bedside table. I go back to the front room and give it to Sunil. Any calls he needs to make should be on this phone, not his own. Otherwise they’ll know exactly where he is.

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s complicated. They can track you, follow you, pick you up, so don’t use it. Don’t even turn it on. Yes?’

  Sunil nods. He’s had enough of this game, this job, this country. Everything’s ganged up on him. He’s out of his depth, totally lost. He really does want to get home, and I suddenly feel very, very sorry for him.

  He’s still wearing his PPE, and I turn my head away as he peels it off and folds it into a neat pile, which he leaves on the armchair by the window. I give him a hug at the door and tell him I’m very grateful.

  ‘It was a pleasure, Ms Andressen. I told you. I like your Mr H.’

  ‘I meant the story you told me.’

  He nods uncertainly, saying nothing. Moments later, after another hug, he’s gone.

  THIRTY-ONE

  With H asleep, and Malo tucked up with Taalia, I decide to spend the night on the sofa, stretching full-length beneath an eiderdown I find in one of the cupboards in H’s bedroom. The eiderdown smells musty and damp, but the Prosecco helps no end and I’m asleep within minutes.

  When I jerk awake, I have no idea what time it is, absolutely none. I lie motionless in the chilly half-darkness, aware of the occasional gust of wind whining through the gap in the sash window. Then I hear the noise that must have woken me up. It’s metallic, a feral scratching, and I think it’s coming from the front door. I’m rigid beneath the eiderdown, barely moving, barely breathing, every nerve stretched tight. After a while, maybe a full minute, I move very cautiously to check my mobile. It’s 02.44. I’m hearing things, I tell myself. Too much Prosecco. Too much going on. A mouse. A ghost. Anything.

  I close my eyes again, and then it happens a second time, much louder. Metal against metal, and definitely from the darkness that cloaks the front door. I’m frightened now. Berndt once told me that everyone in this life has a certain allotment of courage, a store of rationed pluck on which he or she can depend. These last few years, I’ve drawn heavily on that account, and I know it’s nearly empty. Every instinct tells me to shut my eyes and hope the noise goes away. What remains of my courage suggests that I should get out of bed and investigate.

  And so I do. It’s cold in the flat, much colder than I’d anticipated, or maybe sheer terror has iced the bits of me I can still feel. Either way, still fully clothed, I pick up the empty bottle of Prosecco. One glance at the baby alarm tells me that H is still asleep, and so I tiptoe towards the darkness that hides the door and feel my way across the tiny space that serves as an entrance hall. Just four of us left in this tomb of a flat, I think. And I’m the last man standing.

  I’m beside the door now, immobile, stock still, simply listening. Here, unlike the front room, with its spill of light from the streetlamps, I can see nothing. I try and remember the door from the inside, the Yale lock that needs fixing, the bolt at the top that doesn’t quite slot in properly, the letter box with its squeaky flap. The letter box, I think. I extend a hand and trace its outline with one fingertip. The flap doesn’t fully close and when I put my eye to it, I can see the thinnest strip of something lighter out on the landing.

  For a long moment, nothing happens. Then the something lighter moves and I hear that same noise, that same scratching. It’s very close now, almost intimate, and then comes the softest intake of breath. Someone’s out there. And that someone is trying to get in.

  It has to be Sean McGaughy, I think. He’s tried twice and failed. In his deranged little brain, this will be third time lucky.

  Shit.

  I’m still on one knee. The neck of the Prosecco bottle is clammy in my hand and I haven’t a clue what to do n
ext. The noise happens again, louder this time, and I feel the physical presence, intensely disturbing, of this madman at our door. I tell myself I have only one choice, one option. I need to do something Sean McGaughy least expects.

  And so I very slowly ease the flap of the letter box open, put my lips to the gap, and summon my fiercest stage whisper.

  ‘You,’ I hiss, ‘can fuck off.’

  There’s a moment of absolute silence. And then comes a stir and a shuffle of movement before I hear footsteps, light, receding down the stairs. I release the deadlock on the Yale and open the door. Nothing. Not even a stir of air, or a noise downstairs as the front door opens and shuts. Shaky but relieved, I lock the door again, bolt it at the top, and then return to the front room. From the window, the streetlights reach deep into the Common.

  Once again, nothing.

  It takes an age to get to sleep again. The slightest noise, even a tiny rattle from the sash window as the wind begins to rise, sets my pulse racing and I lie there in the dark, the duvet knotted beneath my chin, trying to make myself invisible should Sean McGaughy return and somehow get into the flat. Trying to picture him is no problem. My memory serves up image after image from the evening we briefly shared at Shanti’s resto. The thin pale figure in the grey hoodie as he waited for me to let him in. His unexpected strength when we manhandled the generator out of the back of his van. The way one of the mirrors in the games arcade bent and shrank his skinny outline until he was nothing more than a slash of grey, a first mark an artist might make on a blank sheet of paper, full of unspoken menace.

  Out on the landing, he was obviously breaking in. What if I hadn’t shooed him away? What if I’d stayed asleep? What would have happened to the two men in my life, one of them still groggy from Covid, the other a casualty of this city’s darker side? The longer I think about Malo, the more I’m convinced that Sean McGaughy must – in some way – have been responsible. Wesley’s right. Hospitalizing Malo was yet another way of getting at H, and tonight Sean planned a final settlement of accounts. H had to answer for his father’s death. And it would be Sean’s job to make sure that bill was paid in full.

  A knife? Some kind of bludgeon? A gun? I’ve no idea. All I know is that this script holds nothing but the darkest of surprises, and that it probably falls to little me to keep us all safe. I shake my head, close my eyes, hug the duvet a little tighter. No one can ever audition you for a role like this, I tell myself. And the worst possible news would be the realization that the part is yours. No second thoughts. No backing out. Just learn the lines, take a deep breath, and get on with it.

  The next thing I know is Taalia standing beside the sofa, a mug of tea in her hand. She apologizes for waking me up and I try to tell her that it’s no problem but the words come out in the wrong order. I’m still frightened, still confused, still groggy. That bloody letter box, I’m thinking. And the presence on the landing, barely feet away.

  ‘How’s Malo?’ I manage at last.

  ‘Tired. And I think he’s in pain.’

  ‘H?’

  ‘Not so good.’

  This absolutely gets my attention. How? Why? Is H sick again? Has the virus found somewhere else in his body to nest?

  ‘There’s no temperature, Ms Andressen. He’s not ill like he has been. He’s just tired and …’ She’s got a lovely shrug. ‘You know?’

  ‘Grumpy?’

  ‘Yes. These things take time. He has to understand that. I tried just now but he never listens. Maybe if you had a moment …?’ She’s nodding at Sunil’s pile of PPE.

  ‘Of course.’ I’m on the move already, swallowing the remains of the tea and wondering exactly what to say, how to put it. I’m cogent now, back in control of myself. Unless I was dreaming, a lunatic with debts to settle tried to get in during the middle of the night. Should I tell H? Would that get us anywhere useful? By the time Taalia has helped me on with the PPE, I’ve decided that the answer is no. Instead I pull up a chair beside H’s bed and pass on the good news I’ve just heard on the radio.

  ‘Tonight, we all clap for the NHS,’ I tell him.

  ‘We?’

  ‘The entire nation, H.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Solidarity. Eight o’clock, on the dot. Make a note. You can stand at the front window and join in, but only if I can get the bloody thing open.’

  ‘Clap?’ He still doesn’t understand the concept. ‘How does that fucking work?’

  This is laughable. ‘It’s about people like you, H. People back from the dead. Think gratitude. Without all those lovely nurses, you’d probably be dead.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ he snorts. ‘I paid for all that, and it cost me the fucking earth.’

  Leaving H in these moods is like retreating under fire. Nothing is right. Not the night’s sleep he’s barely had. Not the tea that Taalia’s delivered. Not the brief sight of his precious son making his way towards the bathroom, disfigured by scum who need teaching a lesson. Then comes the moment when he can’t find his mobile phone.

  ‘Where the fuck is it?’ he says.

  I shrug. I say I haven’t a clue. Plainly, he doesn’t believe me. The whole world is against him. Something must be done.

  ‘Wes,’ he grunts. ‘Try again.’

  Yes, H. Leaving a delighted Taalia in charge, I take a lukewarm shower, get dressed, and step onto the Common to make the call. I tell Wes briefly about last night. I don’t mention Sean by name because that might provoke yet more violence, but this morning, unlike last time we talked on the phone, Wesley’s kind enough to hear me out.

  ‘There was definitely someone trying to get in?’

  ‘For sure. I swear it. I don’t make these things up, Wes. I’m not that clever.’

  ‘And you think it might happen again?’

  ‘Yes. This is the third time someone’s had a go at us. There’s a pattern here. The nurses have gone. Except for one of them, we’re pretty much on our own. H is still sick, sicker than he thinks he is, and Malo’s a basket case. We’re there for the taking, Wes. It’s help-yourself time.’

  ‘You’re telling me you told him to fuck off? Whispered in his ear? That that’s all it took?’

  ‘Yes, and thank God it worked. I never did violence. Not at school and not afterwards.’

  ‘Shame. You might have missed out.’

  Wesley promises me he’ll have a think and phone me back. Standing guard will obviously mean staying the night. Am I cool with that?

  ‘I’m cool with anything, Wes. When H gets nervous, I do, too.’

  ‘You’ve told him about last night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just as well.’ Wes rings off.

  My second call catches Dessie at what he terms a difficult moment.

  ‘You’re doing something unspeakable?’

  ‘I’m at work. In your book, and in mine too, it’s probably the same thing. We need a meet.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely. When? Where?’ Dessie mentions a car park on the seafront beyond the fun fair. I happen to know it well because it’s en route to Old Portsmouth.

  ‘Eleven o’clock on the dot,’ he says. ‘I’m the good-looking one in the knackered VW.’

  Very funny. Twelve hours gives you a fighting chance to revisit assumptions you’d begun to believe, and already I’m relishing the chance to get one or two things off my chest. First, though, I must check on Sunil.

  By now, it’s nearly ten o’clock. En route to Tim’s flat, I make a precautionary call to H’s mobile number. When Sunil answers, I ask him whether he’s OK.

  ‘I’m fine, Ms Andressen.’ He says he’s about to go out and pick up a few things at the supermarket across the road.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say at once. ‘Just give me a list.’

  He wants milk, bread, and eggs. Then he asks how long he’ll be staying in the flat and when I tell him I don’t know, can’t be sure, he adds rice and a collection of fresh veggies.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing.’
<
br />   The queue in the car park for the supermarket is longer than I’d anticipated, and it’s twenty to eleven when I finally make it to Tim’s flat. I hand over the shopping and tell Sunil I’ll be back later.

  ‘Don’t go out.’ I’m doing my best to be stern. ‘And remember not to use your own phone.’

  I’m down in the car park by the fun fair with three minutes to spare. Dessie, for the first time in our brief relationship, is late. I linger by the railings, looking at the greyness of the sea, still catching my breath as a fishing boat putters past. It might be the same skipper who gave H the skate, but already that transaction belongs to a different life.

  Dessie at last turns up. He spots me at once and flashes his headlights. I join him in the car.

  ‘Nightmare,’ he says at once. ‘Run two operations with the same target and you’re looking at serious confliction. Back in the day, we’d blow all the tanks and dive. I was silly enough to suggest it and took a hiding. Never cross a detective superintendent. The rank turns them all into monsters.’

  ‘Same target?’ I ask. ‘So who might that be?’

  ‘H, of course.’

  ‘And you’re going to tell me more?’

  ‘Only if you’re nice to me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m looking at your face. People in your trade are supposed to be good at hiding their feelings. Am I getting warm here? Or is there a good reason you’re so pissed off?’

  I’ve made the mistake of over-preparing for this conversation, which I suspect is the last we’ll ever have outside a custody suite, but already Dessie has torn up my script. Clever, I think.

  ‘Sunil?’ I enquire. ‘Does the name ring any bells? Sri Lankan boy? Very suggestible?’

  Dessie gazes at me and for a moment or two I think I recognize something close to admiration in his smile.