Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  Back at the flat overlooking the Common, I find Malo in rude health. H has had a bit of a relapse, nothing serious, and Malo insists he’s got it covered. Dad’s trying to run before he can walk, he says. Lovely phrase, totally in keeping with the baby alarm, and if the joke’s on H, he doesn’t appear to mind.

  ‘You’re OK?’ He’s looking me up and down.

  I make the mistake of producing my Jiffy bag and starting to explain about having to put pen to paper, but I realize very quickly that he doesn’t really follow what I’m trying to say.

  ‘This is some kind of movie idea?’

  ‘Could be, H. You’re in it. Expect the call any day now.’

  ‘Me?’ he says blankly.

  I change the subject. Sunil’s funeral is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I’d appreciate us all going to the Crem, and I’m about to pay a call on Tony Morse to check whether we can drive right on afterwards, and go back to Flixcombe without incurring the wrath of Major Crimes.

  ‘You mean leave here? Pompey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  H nods, says nothing.

  Tony Morse is expecting me. It’s pouring with rain and I’m not up for conducting a conversation by phone from his garden, but Corinne has other plans. She knows that my Covid test has come back negative from the Southampton lab, and she invites me in. Tony is in the downstairs room he evidently uses as a study. It’s beautifully proportioned, original plaster work around the ceiling, and the tall window offers a view of his sodden lawn.

  ‘I’m thinking a peacock or two.’ He’s sitting behind a handsome desk, inlaid with a burgundy leather top. ‘Apparently they’re more biddable in pairs.’

  Biddable. Very Tony Morse.

  I settle in the chair in front of his desk. A thin cheroot has been abandoned in a Chinese-looking ashtray, and Tony has a tiny bell at his elbow. Is the comely Corinne awaiting a tinkle or two? Might she arrive with coffee?

  She does. Tony finishes making notes on a legal pad, and then enquires about H. I tell him he’s getting slowly better, good days, bad days, and might benefit from a return to Flixcombe.

  ‘Would that upset anyone?’

  ‘Dessie, definitely. He thinks you’ve got the wrong idea about him.’

  ‘I meant anyone who might want to lock us up.’

  ‘Then the answer’s no, my darling. Major Crimes have to submit everything to the CPS before they start thinking court, and I have it on the best authority that they’re struggling to make a case.’ The CPS is the Crown Prosecution Service.

  ‘This is Plover? Sammy McGaughy?’

  ‘Christ, no. They got a match on Malo’s DNA. That T-shirt of Sean’s was drenched in it. Game, set, and match. Didn’t anyone tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not Dessie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, let me make your day. Sean will be going down for a long time. That leaves Avocet, my darling. Which boils down to H. The bid is to nail him on POCA.’

  ‘Quoi?’

  ‘The Proceeds of Crime Act. These days they follow the money. Normally it works a treat, but H has been commendably careful. Forensic accountants charge north of a hundred quid an hour. H is costing them the earth. Back in the day, coppers used to have a sense of humour. Alas, no longer. No, barring some catastrophe, H is home safe.’

  ‘So we can go? Up sticks? Leave?’ The prospect is close to overwhelming. No more furtive expeditions. No more afternoons with yesterday’s copy of the Portsmouth News. No more rubbish television. No more nights on that lumpy sofa, waiting for noises at the door.

  ‘That flat of yours,’ I say. ‘It was a lifesaver. Literally. If I was allowed to kiss you, I would. Thank you is too small a phrase.’

  ‘A pleasure, my darling. The place is a dump. I can only apologize.’

  I nod, saying nothing. Then I ask him who lived there.

  ‘Who do you think?’

  I frown. I’ve had plenty of time to put the clues together: the unfinished jigsaw, the books, the neglect, the damp chill of the place, a life stripped down to the bare necessities.

  ‘A man, definitely,’ I say. ‘Living alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A solitary? A recluse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Once married? Now widowed?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘And a relative of yours?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Your father?’ I’m staring at him. Me and plots were never best friends, but this is truly a surprise. ‘And he’d been there a while?’

  ‘Nearly seven years. He never really got over my mum pushing off. He’d been in the Navy. He’d been used to command. I don’t think anyone had ever said “no” to him in his life and it came as a bit of a shock. Did I blame her? Not in the slightest. He was a difficult man, deeply selfish. I tried my best to winkle him out of there, but he’d fallen in love with the view, so in the end I gave up.’

  I nod. I can understand an affection for the view, especially to someone who’d spent his life at sea, but I’m struggling to understand why he’d live in such squalor.

  ‘Did you get round there at all? Help him brighten the place up?’

  ‘I tried, but it was hopeless. He was very territorial. He didn’t want me anywhere near him. Arrive with a paintbrush and he’d show me the door. That last year of his life, I barely saw anything of him.’

  ‘He had a phone?’

  ‘A landline. When he didn’t pay the bill, they cut him off. I bought him a mobile one Christmas and I never saw it again. You were right first time, my darling. Recluse will do nicely.’

  I hold his gaze for a long moment until it starts getting awkward.

  ‘Hurtful?’ I ask.

  ‘Very.’

  I get up and circle the desk before giving him a hug. He’s on his feet now, a little unsteady, and I can’t help thinking of H. And Sunil.

  ‘Take care,’ I say. ‘This bloody virus takes no prisoners.’

  We say goodbye to Sunil the following day. The nursing agency have let Taalia have the time off to attend, and half a dozen of us gather at the crematorium in the bright afternoon sunshine to await the arrival of his coffin. I’ve been more than happy to pay for the funeral. There’s no cortege because there’s no one to fill the undertaker’s limousines, but they’ve done a fine job with the flowers I ordered, and we wait for the coffin. H has acquired two roses from somewhere, and he slips one of them on to the coffin before the undertakers carry it into the smaller of the two chapels. A graceful gesture, I think, and totally unexpected.

  The brief service is conducted by a local vicar I’ve spoken to on the phone. None of us really know anything about Sunil, and my attempts to contact his family in Colombo have come to nothing. Taalia makes a graceful speech about what a lovely colleague she’s lost, and then reads a poem in Tamil that none of us understands. Back in her pew, she accepts a Kleenex from Malo and bows her head as the curtains close on Sunil’s coffin.

  Afterwards, outside in the sunshine, I recognize Dessie Wren as he gets out of his car and comes across to join us. This is where our story began, I think, at Fat Dave’s funeral. Another scalp hanging from Covid’s belt. Another farewell.

  Dessie exchanges a nod with H, and then gestures me aside. Looking at him, I can’t help remembering Tony’s comment when we met yesterday. Is he really disappointed? Did he really expect anything to come from our brief liaison?

  ‘The lad’s ashes,’ he says. ‘Do you want to deal with them, or shall I?’

  I imagine he means arranging for them to be sent to Sri Lanka. Once we’ve left the crematorium, the three of us will be returning to the Southsea flat to finally pack up and leave. After that, Pompey and I are through.

  ‘I’m going back to London tonight,’ I tell him. ‘Do you mind taking care of it?’

  ‘Not at all.’ His eyes stray to the departing hearse. ‘It’s probably the least I owe him.’

  I don’t argue. Instead, I shepherd him a little
further away from our little group. Malo is still comforting Taalia. H is in a world of his own.

  ‘Just one question.’ I’m looking at Dessie. ‘Do you mind?’ He shakes his head. ‘Why did you really stop me giving all that money to Shanti?’

  ‘Because it would probably have put you inside.’

  ‘And H?’

  ‘Him, too.’

  ‘But wasn’t that the whole point?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Wesley? Was he part of all that? Laying the trap for H?’

  ‘Wesley is easily led.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Another shake of the head. He won’t say. I glance across at H, who’s checking his watch. Time to move on. I turn back to Dessie.

  ‘So why were you so generous? To little me?’

  Dessie gazes at me, that same smile, that same faint hint of regret.

  ‘Hope springs eternal,’ he says. ‘Always did, always will.’

  ‘And that boy of yours? Titch? Your so-called godson?’

  ‘That’s more complicated.’ He smiles. ‘You must have been talking to Tony Morse.’

  ‘I was. And unlike you, Dessie, he never lies to me.’

  ‘That’s harsh.’ He’s smiling now. ‘Next time, eh?’

  H and I make for my Peugeot. H sits in the front beside me while Malo says goodbye to Taalia. She has a car of her own, a beaten-up old thing with scarlet beads dangling from the rear-view mirror, and they share a lingering kiss before Malo re-joins us, folding his long frame into the back seat. Will they ever see each other again? For Clemmie’s sake, I hope not, but watching her face as we wave goodbye, I suspect the answer is yes.

  At the exit to the crematorium, we find ourselves behind Dessie’s VW. We’re both signalling for the right turn that will take us back to Pompey, but H suddenly puts his hand on my arm.

  ‘Left,’ he says. ‘We’re going left.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  I give him a look. The other rose is on his lap, and he keeps touching the stalk as if to make sure it’s still there.

  The left turn takes us up the hill, away from the crematorium. H seems to know these roads well. One junction follows another. We go under a motorway, then suddenly we’re out in the country, fields of still-green wheat on either side, a glimpse of a rabbit disappearing under a hedge. Then comes a bigger road, occasional traffic. We pass a village called Wickham, and I slow for a tractor towing a huge slurry tank. The car is suddenly ripe with the smell and I glance in the mirror as I overtake, but Malo has his eyes closed and appears to be asleep.

  ‘Right in a hundred metres. You see the big tree there? The oak?’

  I do. I indicate right. This is a much smaller road, dense woodland on either side. The road climbs and swoops. H is concentrating now, his eyes on the blur of trees on our left, and he asks me to slow down. Then, without warning, he points at what seems to be a lay-by.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘Just stop.’

  I do his bidding, and we both get out.

  ‘Malo?’ I nod at the sleeping figure curled in the back.

  ‘Leave him be. This won’t take long.’

  H has made it out of the car now, and he stands uncertainly in the sunshine, his head up, like an animal sniffing the wind. He has the rose in one hand, and he takes mine in the other.

  ‘This way,’ he says. ‘It’s not far.’

  I know better than to ask questions. We start to walk. The sunshine has crusted the muddy wheel ruts in the lay-by, and there’s a drift of abandoned drink cans and grease-stained take-out cartons in the undergrowth. H picks his way through the rubbish and finds a barely trodden path beyond. We’re in single file now. H is in the lead, moving slowly, taking his time, looking left and right, as the road disappears behind us. I can hear birdsong in the branches, and when I look up I glimpse what might be a buzzard, a lingering silhouette against the brightness of the sun. At length, H stops.

  ‘Look,’ he says. It’s a young deer, the colour of caramel. Motionless, it studies H’s pointing finger for a second or two, and then bounds off. ‘Good sign,’ H grunts. ‘Nice place.’

  Nice place for what? H won’t say. We’re on the move again, every step taking us deeper into the wood, then H comes to a halt again, and this time he’s looking down. We’re standing in what might once have been a clearing, but year after year of growth has reclaimed this space.

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Just here.’

  He makes a tiny space among the brambles and the layers of leaf mould with his shoe, and then gives me the rose and bends to tidy his work with his hands, scooping the loose soil to the sides of the circle, like a child on a beach. Looking down, I can see nothing significant, no clue that might be of the slightest interest to H, but he seems convinced. Satisfied with what he’s done, he gets to his feet, and asks me to lay the rose in the very middle of the circle. My first attempt draws a brusque shake of his head.

  ‘More to the right,’ he says. ‘Now up a bit. Yeah, just there.’ He wipes the loose soil from his hands. ‘Perfect.’

  We stand in silence for a moment, gazing down at the rose. There’s a question I have to ask, and we both know it.

  ‘Sammy McGaughy?’ I ask.

  H nods and shoots me a look.

  ‘Yeah,’ he grunts. ‘God rest his soul.’

  Two acts of remembrance in one afternoon, I think. Very Pompey.

  AFTERWARDS

  It’s early August before I have the chance to get together with Tim. My friend Evelyn has come up from East Devon and is staying with me for a while. Tim has taken the train from Pompey to audition for a part in a panto, which is itself an act of faith, and we’ve agreed to meet in my favourite Italian restaurant.

  Tim is late, but it doesn’t matter. One of the reasons for Evelyn’s visit is the Jiffy bag I sent her back in April, and we’ve been discussing bits of my first novel ever since, first on the phone, and now face to face. To my enormous relief, Evelyn thinks Curtain Call is a decent read. Even better, she’s suggested one or two ways I might consider improving it.

  The place that ‘consider’ occupies in this sentence is the very essence of Evelyn. In a distinguished career, she’s helped countless household names to fame and fortune, yet never does she make any lordly assumptions about her own editorial judgements. I’m here to offer a nudge or two on the tiller, she says. The recasting of a clumsy line of dialogue, or maybe a tiny change of narrative direction when the pace begins to flag. If it feels uncomfortable, she insists, don’t do it. It is, my lovely, your book.

  With the waiter lurking for an order, and Tim yet to show up, we’re discussing the role that death plays in my debut novel. The book starts with the news that I have the brain tumour which may kill me, and Evelyn likes these opening pages very much indeed. She talks of grace under pressure, and says she loves the way that I’ve managed to avoid all the girly clichés. Few tears. Absolutely no trace of self-pity. This happens to be exactly the way it was in real life, largely because I needed to hide my numbness, but I take her approval as a compliment. This theme of sudden death recurs throughout the book, with yours truly doing my best to cheat the Reaper of his spoils, and we’re discussing a particular scene towards the end when Tim finally arrives.

  I get to my feet and give him a big showbiz hug. This is technically still off-limits but L’Avventura is reliably cool and none of the diners at the surrounding tables register the slightest interest. I make the introductions and thrust the menu at Tim.

  ‘Go for the acqua pazza,’ I tell him. ‘Just trust me.’

  The waiter takes the rest of our order and departs. We’re drinking my favourite white, Greco di Tufo, and it’s Tim who proposes a toast.

  ‘To Jack and the Beanstalk,’ he says.

  ‘You got the part? Jack?’

  ‘The Beanstalk.’

  Evelyn, who’s a great giggler, thinks this is very funny, and within seconds we’re all swapping war stories fr
om lockdown. Evelyn has retired to the little seaside town of Budleigh Salterton and thinks that the virus simply made life even quieter than usual. Everyone wore masks. The streets after dark remained empty. And very few people died. Tim nods. Same at his mum’s place, he says. Someone in the village took a head count at the start, and another only a week ago, and the two figures were absolutely the same. This sounds disappointing, and I say so. Tim knows Pompey thrives on mayhem and wants all the details. His mum’s veggie patch has an undeniable charm, he says, but not very much happens.

  And so I do my best to rise to the occasion, court jester among this tight little knot of friends. I spare them the small print of what happened to Fat Dave, and H, and Malo, and Sean McGaughy. I avoid the darker corners of my Pompey story, and the moments when I thought all our days were numbered. Instead, I treat them to choice morsels from the News, Pompey’s day-to-day chronicle that became indispensable light relief when I needed it most.

  The low life who jacked up the new van belonging to a hospice charity and stole the wheels. The scary local bare-knuckle prospect, undisturbed by the virus, still in training for the national championship. The bored rough sleepers who were housed in a city centre hotel, all meals supplied, and terrorized the area for weeks on end. The contract the locals were tempted to take out on the Elvis tribute artist who performed on his garage roof every afternoon. And how the entire city feasted on a stolen recipe for Nando’s piri-piri chicken, and all six hundred episodes of The Simpsons.

  Evelyn enjoys these titbits, and so does Tim. When we’ve done justice to the food and the Greco di Tufo, Tim asks me how I got on in his flat. Inexcusably, I haven’t said thank you, but I’ve been keeping a present I bought for him, that last day we were down in Pompey, and now I hand it over. It’s a stick of Southsea rock, probably years old. The lettering goes all the way through, and we all have a bite. It is, of course, unspeakably sweet, but that’s why I bought it in the first place. No one got fat in Pompey by accident, as Tim is the first to point out.