Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  I nod. Saucy had told me all this before, or at least the bit about becoming an accountant, but only now does it make sense. The world of business, Berndt used to say, is one huge safe. Crack the combination, get inside, and you can’t fail to make serious money.

  ‘And the police?’ I ask Mitch.

  ‘The drugs operation drove them nuts. They knew exactly what was happening but Prentice and his mates were always three steps ahead. Pay attention to the small print, hire the right talent, play the establishment at its own game, and they can’t touch you. Not if you watch your back. Not if you’re clever. And not if you keep your own house in order.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Mitch leans back a moment and takes a quick look round. It’s Tuesday evening. The pub is half-empty.

  ‘These guys were no strangers to violence. That’s how it all kicked off. Literally. That builds a loyalty, a family bond. If you’ve stuck it to the Millwall against impossible odds then you’re mates for life. No one grasses you up. And if they ever do, or if some other twat arrives who fancies his chances, then you wouldn’t want to be around to watch the consequences.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. People disappeared. And they were the lucky ones.’

  I’m starting to find some of this stuff problematic. Has Saucy killed someone?

  ‘Quite possibly. He’s certainly hurt people.’

  ‘And you can prove that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why does it matter? Why does any of this stuff matter?’

  At this point Mitch gets out his phone and summons a cab. His place, not mine. We sit in the back of a new-smelling Uber, not saying a word. The driver, who looks like a refugee from the Sixties, has recognized me. He turns out to be a big film buff. He’s even watched a pirated version of my Palmyra movie on the internet.

  ‘You speak French?’ To my knowledge no subtitled versions are available.

  ‘No way. But I’m not sure the dialogue mattered that much judging by a review I once read.’

  Whether he knows it or not, this is a very shrewd judgement.

  Beyond New Cross, Mitch gives the driver directions. The house, to my surprise, is detached, brick and stucco, with newly painted woodwork and a line of pot plants beneath the single bay window. All it needs for the full suburban dream is maybe a Neighbourhood Watch sticker and a poster for the church bring-and-buy sale. Mitch unlocks the front door and stands aside to let me in. He says his Syrian housemate is at work.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Care home round the corner, cash in hand. He double shifts when he’s got the energy. The guy that owns it thinks it’s Christmas.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sayid was a hospital consultant back in Aleppo, specialized in geriatric medicine. Now he’s wiping arses down the road. Someone might explain the logic someday but I’m not holding my breath.’

  Mitch shows me into the living room at the back of the property. The house feels warm: warm colours, warm furnishings, an essay in making a stranger feel comfortable. Nothing looks new, not the rugs on the carefully stained floorboards, not the G-plan sofa flanking the open fireplace, not the old Dansette Major record player with its stack of LPs beside it.

  There’s a big fish tank in a corner of the room, cleverly backlit. I stare at the bubbles, at the handful of exotic fish. They look like scraps of multi-coloured paper carried lightly on a whisper of wind.

  ‘Lovely,’ I murmur.

  Mitch brews fresh coffee. Just the smell takes me back to the wholefood cafe where we first had the beginnings of a conversation. I join him in the kitchen. He wants to know how I feel.

  ‘Better,’ I tell him.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I study his whiteboard beside the fridge while he attends to the coffee. A calendar hangs beside the board and September is brimful of names and times and phone numbers. One name in particular keeps cropping up.

  ‘Who’s Jennie?’

  ‘My editor.’

  ‘On the paper? Some magazine?’

  ‘At the publishing house.’

  I nod, realizing I’m pleased she doesn’t mean more to him, trying hard not to let it show. I badly want to know whether there’s another woman in his life but short of asking, I’m not quite sure how to find out. Once again, as psychic as ever, he spares me the effort.

  ‘No girlfriend,’ he says. ‘In case you were wondering.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Sure. These last three years I’ve been more comfortable with a man.’

  ‘Your lodger?’

  ‘My partner. Sayid has the gift of happiness. One day you might meet him.’

  ‘Love to.’

  ‘Then I’ll arrange it.’

  The gift of happiness. I’m still looking at the calendar, fighting a tremor of disappointment at the news that Mitch is gay. My finger finds the fifteenth. It’s circled in red.

  ‘Cassini Day?’ I ask.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And we’re still on for the wake?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then maybe Sayid should be there, too.’

  We have the coffee back in the living room. I’m about to bring Saucy up again but Mitch needs no prompting.

  ‘Prentice got very rich very quickly. They all did but the first real sign that he’d made it was the house he bought.’

  ‘Big? Flash?’

  ‘Not at all. That was the point. It was in Portsmouth, up on the hill on the mainland. This is an address that matters in Pompey. The views are sensational. You can see right over the Solent to the Isle of Wight but the houses themselves are pretty suburban, a bit like this place. Thirties stuff. Double bay windows. Lots of pebbledash. Nice gardens. Maybe a gnome or two. But not much else.’

  ‘So why did he want to move there?’

  ‘He didn’t. The place was for his mum and dad. It was Prentice’s way of saying there was more to life than Oxford and Cambridge. From what I can gather his mum was delighted. They’ve both moved to Spain now but that’s another story.’

  I nod. Sweet, I think. And clever. No need to brag or boast. Just hand them the keys. I’m starting to wonder whether I should ever expect something similar from Malo but I know it’s unlikely. He knows I already have more money than I need. What would be the point?

  I want to know more about the darker moments of Saucy’s giddy rise to fame and fortune. Did these threats to his empire really disappear?

  ‘Yes. And what’s more, everyone knew it. In every case you’re talking low-life chancers who never realized what they were getting into. Two of them just vanished from sight. A body part from the other guy reappeared on the beach at low tide.’

  ‘Which body part?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. But if you’re posting a message it doesn’t get more graphic. Mess with us and this is what happens. End of. Take a proper look at these guys and it’s hard not to be impressed. You’ve met Prentice. He can be a charmer when it suits him.’

  Indeed. Mitch’s use of the surname, Prentice, is beginning to grate.

  ‘Why don’t you call him Saucy?’

  ‘Because that makes him what he isn’t. He’s not Jack the Lad. He’s not one of life’s treasures. He’s not Robin Hood. He’s a gangster with the brains and imagination to have made himself very rich. He may well have killed people. He’s ruthless, and bent, and refuses to take shit from anyone. All of which puts him in very interesting company. Prentice has a very short attention span. He’s like the shark. He needs to keep on the move.’

  ‘You’re telling me he’s bored with being rich?’

  ‘I’m telling you he’s ambitious. He’s done money. Money is easy. Money was yesterday’s gig. Just now he has more of the stuff than any reasonable man can possibly want. What lies beyond money is influence and maybe recognition. Prentice wants his little niche in history, his own little place on the bookshelf. Now is a good time. N
ow is when a bunch of guys have burst in and kicked over all the furniture. The UK’s in pieces. So is the government. If you’re clever, and if you know how to keep your nerve, that’s a very rare opportunity and Prentice knows it. Money, if you’ve got enough of it, will buy you anything in this country.’

  I nod. I’m beginning to sense where all this might be leading.

  ‘We’re talking politics?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Brexit?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘New faces around Saucy’s dinner table?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyone I might have heard of?’

  Mitch won’t say. Brexit, he tells me, has opened countless doors in the nether reaches of the British establishment. The people, by a laughable majority, have spoken and after the first brief moments of disbelief it’s dawned on some of the major players that everything is up for grabs. There’s no going back. There’s no surrender to economic logic or buyer’s remorse. Just a big fat chance to barge through some of these newly opened doors and help yourself to a big fat chunk of a highly uncertain future.

  ‘That’s a gift for the likes of Prentice. That’s what he sussed from the start, way before the referendum. And that’s why he’s started putting his money where other people’s mouths were. He’s always had an eye for an investment. That’s his genius. That’s his special gift. He’s nerveless and he’s quick on his feet. Brexit, before the vote, was just another business opportunity. Now, it’s very different.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because people owe him. Powerful people. People who may soon be running the country. So Prentice needs to call in all those debts. He’s fifty. Just. Fifty’s nothing.’

  ‘So what does he want?’

  ‘Power. Influence. He’s spent half his life shafting the establishment. In a couple of years, unchecked, he could become the establishment. Him and a bunch of like-minded mates.’

  ‘You said unchecked.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  ‘It means we get to know the real story.’

  ‘About Saucy?’

  ‘About Prentice. And the company he’s been keeping.’

  ‘You mean someone grasses him up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Someone like you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By writing a book? Getting it all out there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To what end?’

  Mitch just looks at me. I suspect we both know that this is the key question, the fast-approaching bend in the road. In some ways, like trillions of others in this country, I’m a babe in the wood when it comes to politics. But in others, when we’re talking plot and motivation, I’m a whole lot sharper.

  ‘You want to cry foul,’ I suggest. ‘You want another referendum. You want this Brexit thing gone.’

  EIGHT

  I sleep late next morning. It happens to be Sunday. Malo stumbles into the bedroom with a mug of tea and a letter he must have found downstairs on the mat.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ I ask him.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘With mates.’

  ‘So when did you come back?’

  ‘Just now.’ He drops the letter on the duvet and backs cautiously out of the bedroom.

  I want to know more. I want to know who these mates are. And I want to know what’s happened to the little stash of ready money I use to pay my bills. Late last night I remembered to leave a tenner for the milkman in the lobby downstairs but the jam jar I keep in the kitchen was empty. Last time I counted, I was looking at more than forty pounds. All gone.

  I catch up with Malo in the kitchen and pour the tea down the sink. I gave up sugar last year but he wouldn’t have known that. He doesn’t seem to take this gesture personally. Indeed, he seems to have forgotten he made the tea in the first place. His eyes are everywhere and nowhere. He seems to have slipped his moorings.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I’m trying my best to sound mumsy.

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘So where did you go?’

  He yawns and tries to shrug the question off. I’m barring the way to the door and I’m not about to move. My empty jam jar is still on the side. Challenged, Malo says he’ll replace the money as soon as he can.

  ‘Like when? How?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Another shrug.

  ‘So what did you use it for? What did you buy?’

  ‘Drink. Stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Gear.’

  ‘You mean drugs?’

  ‘Yeah, drugs.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘Cocaine.’

  I’m angry, and shocked. I also feel taken for granted. Forty quid’s worth of coke up your nose? No money? Just help yourself and see if she notices? All of this is pretty dire but deep in my soul I also feel a flicker of respect. Malo hasn’t denied taking the money. And when I asked him a straight question he gave me the straightest of answers.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cocaine.’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What’s a bit?’

  ‘A bit of a while.’

  ‘Does your father know?’

  ‘No. He knows nothing. Nothing about me. Nothing about anything.’

  ‘So where does the money come from?’

  For the first time he falters. He doesn’t want to tell me.

  ‘Does he give you an allowance? Your dad?’

  ‘Allowance?’

  ‘Money. Regular money.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I ask him for money and mostly he says yes. I’ve also got a couple of his credit card numbers.’

  ‘And you can buy cocaine that way? And cannabis? And whatever else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  He won’t say. I get the impression the conversation is over. I’m looking at the empty jar.

  ‘You know what gets to me most? The fact that you just helped yourself. I want this to be your home but it’s mine, too. That means we have to trust each other. Am I making sense here? Don’t go helping yourself again. Ask me first.’ I force a smile. ‘Deal?’

  I leave the kitchen without waiting for a reply. I don’t know it yet but a crap morning is about to get a whole lot worse.

  Back in the privacy of my bedroom, I remember the letter. It turns out to be from my solicitor. As we’d agreed, divorcing Berndt isn’t going to be as simple as he’d first suggested. My husband’s Swedish solicitor is back in the game with a vengeance. His client, Berndt Andressen, is in some financial difficulty. A movie in which he’d invested heavily has gone belly-up. As things stand, he’s in some danger of losing everything.

  I skip the small print – three dense paragraphs listing Berndt’s exposure on various projects – and go straight to the meat of the letter. Your ex-husband, writes my solicitor, now wants to lay claim to half of your joint estate. That effectively means half of everything you’re worth. These are still early days. We can fight fire with fire. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t keep you abreast of events.

  Merde. I fold the letter and slip it back into the envelope, wondering whether this is the real reason for Malo bailing out of his father’s life. His prospective stepmother gone. His father’s money gone. The penthouse apartment probably up for sale. What’s left to keep my wayward son with a father he appears to despise?

  But I know this is the least of my problems. The conversation with Malo has left me seriously worried. No seventeen-year-old should be out all night hunting for the white powder. Where did he get it? Where did he use it? Was he in company? Mates? Someone he’s met more recently? Or is he the loner I’ve always imagined him to be? The slight figure bent over a spliff I glimpsed in the video phone only a few nights ago?

  The latter thought makes me shudder. This is where t
he real problems start, I tell myself. This is where you fall out of love with yourself and get into seriously deep water. I know it happened to Berndt once, because he told me so. That kind of desperate cut-off-ness has also lurked on the edges of my own life from time to time. Poor bloody Malo, I think. With parents like us, the child never had a chance.

  I find him watching TV. Peppa Pig, at half past eight in the morning, is probably worse than cocaine. I sit down beside him on the sofa and it’s a moment before I realize that he’s gone to sleep. His breathing is light. He jerks from time to time, tiny spasms of reflex movement. A thin dribble of saliva tracks down his chin.

  I study him for a moment, knowing that something is badly wrong, then I whisper his name. Nothing. No reaction at all. I watch him a moment longer, then leave the sitting room. The spare bedroom, after my mum’s careful stewardship, is a mess. Clothes everywhere, trainers that don’t match, and a copy of The Sun open at one of the sports pages. I’m looking for Malo’s phone. I find it under the duvet. Eva is listed in the directory. I copy down her number. It seems to include the prefix for Sweden.

  Back in the living room, Malo is still asleep. I turn the volume up on the TV a notch or two and retire to my bedroom. I use my own phone to dial Eva. The number rings and rings before an answering machine kicks in. I’m listening to a recorded message in Swedish. It’s a woman’s voice, deeper and more throaty than I’d expected. It may or may not be Eva. I wonder about leaving a message of my own and then decide against it and hang up. Better to keep phoning until we can talk properly.

  After I’ve turned off my phone, I find myself looking at the letter from my solicitor. I read it again, more carefully this time, and wonder whether to call him or not. Berndt’s world appears to have imploded, a perfect storm which has robbed him of his live-in fiancée, his trophy penthouse, and now his son. His talent for raising production money seems to have deserted him and when I Google the reviews for his latest TV series I even begin to feel sorry for him. ‘Vapid’, ‘repetitive’ and ‘empty’ are the kinder judgements. A couple of years ago I’d have still been part of his life, telling him what a genius he is. Now, at best, I feel mildly curious. How come a stellar career like his can end so suddenly?