Curtain Call

by Graham Hurley

  Thus consoled, I park my fantasies, get off the bus, walk home, and climb the stairs to the apartment. I find Malo in the living room, staring at his mobile, a huge grin on his face. Impatient as ever, he’s been busy since I left. He’d made a note of the courier agency, got their number from the internet, and given them a call. The lady in red leather who delivered to Holland Park yesterday? She left her silk snood. Might they give him her number so he can arrange to get the thing back to her? The agency, of course, wouldn’t release her number but promised to get her to call. She’s just phoned back. Her name is Clemenza. They’re meeting this evening for a drink.

  I nod my head in approval. This is very direct, very Saucy. No bar stool. No cosy little restaurant table. No creepy come-ons. Just a surprise exchange on the phone and a full-frontal invite out.

  ‘You’ll need money,’ I tell him. ‘My pleasure.’

  I spend the afternoon working on the radio script for Going Solo and towards six o’clock I knock on Evelyn’s door. Happily, she’s finished work for the day and offers me a drink. I settle in and thank her for keeping an eye on my son the other night.

  ‘I gather you thought he’d gone AWOL,’ she says.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Malo. He thought it was funny. He’s a nice lad. He’s got a way with him. He knows how to listen. That’s rare in my experience.’

  This, from Evelyn, is praise indeed. She’s merciless in most of the judgements she makes, especially where men are concerned. For the briefest moment I wonder whether to tell her about Paterfamilias, and the likelihood that Malo might belong to a different father, but she beats me to it.

  ‘Malo told me about the DNA test. He says his real name’s Prentice.’

  ‘He’s decided? Already?’

  ‘I think it was the wine. He said he’d met his real dad twice. And then he showed me the pictures.’

  ‘The YouTube stuff?’

  ‘The motorbikes. The crash. He seems to think his dad was lucky to survive.’

  ‘Malo’s right. He is.’

  Evelyn fetches a tube of Pringles from the kitchen. The editor in her is greedy for more detail. Work in publishing and you want the whole story.

  I tell her what little I can remember. Antibes. Far too much to drink. And waking up next morning.

  ‘You can’t remember?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How disappointing.’

  Disappointing? Words are Evelyn’s business, mine too, and I’m thinking particularly hard about this one.

  ‘Disappointing’s wrong,’ I say at last. ‘I remember feeling relaxed with him. I remember the way he made me laugh. Berndt always told me that conversation was the great aphrodisiac, getting close to someone, getting them to open up, getting them to surprise themselves. But he’s wrong. What got me into bed that night was laughter. Laughter and a million margaritas.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’

  ‘Not at all. Not then and certainly not now.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Then I knew nothing. I was a child. A naïf. An innocent. Now I sometimes think I know too much. Berndt taught me that, oddly enough. Not deliberately, not on purpose. It was just something I learned by being around him, by watching and listening. The Berndts of this world are predators. Most of us wander around looking at nothing in particular. Berndt hunts. All the time. Because he can never resist the next meal.’

  ‘That says greed to me.’

  ‘Greed’s close but it’s a possession thing. Think dogs. Think lamp posts. People like Berndt always need to mark their territory, to leave their smell. Then, like any dog, they move on.’

  I was suddenly back in Kensington, back in the restaurant, letting Berndt’s latest little tableau sink deep into my subconscious. I know I’ll live with that image for a very long time and in a way I’m grateful. Better that moment of luminous clarity than some splashy gesture on my part to try and ease his financial agonies. Trust what you see, what you know. Because the rest can only hurt you.

  Evelyn enquires whether my son enjoyed helping her out with the oven.

  ‘He did. He thought you were great. Really easy to talk to.’

  ‘I’m flattered. So what next?’

  I tell her I don’t know. It happens to be the truth. At last I have a clear brief from Mitch but I have no intention of discussing that with Evelyn. As far as she’s concerned, Mr Hayden Prentice is a work in progress.

  ‘You’ll see him again?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘He knows about Malo?’

  ‘He can’t. None of us can. Not yet. Not for sure. I’m sure he’s got his suspicions. Maybe he’s got his fingers crossed. But that’s not the same as knowing.’

  ‘And Malo?’

  ‘Malo approves. Malo likes him. Saucy calls everyone “son” but in Malo’s case it seems to fit perfectly. After you’ve had Berndt as a father all your life, that matters, believe me.’

  Evelyn nods, raises her glass. ‘To Malo,’ she says. ‘Tell him the oven light works perfectly.’

  Malo is back earlier than I expected, just after nine. He’s toting a motorcycle helmet and a big fat smile.

  ‘Clemenza’s spare,’ he tells me. ‘I rode pillion. We went down to a bar she knows in Putney. She drives that bike like you wouldn’t believe. People just get out of the way. How cool is that?’

  Clemenza, it turns out, is the daughter of a leading Columbian businessman currently living in London. At the mention of Colombia, my heart sinks. She’ll have limitless access to cocaine, probably by the kilo. Malo, when I risk a cautionary word or two on the subject, does his best to ease my anxieties. Clemenza, he tells me, is straighter than straight. Goes to Mass every Sunday. Doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t do drugs. Never touches alcohol. Because biking is all. And she’s brilliant at it.

  ‘You’ve met an angel,’ I tell him. ‘If I were you I’d sell tickets. Charge by the minute. You’re telling me she’s Catholic?’

  ‘She is. How did you know?’

  ‘Mass is the clue. Is she super-bright? As well as virtuous?’

  ‘You’re taking the piss. You should meet her.’

  ‘I did. And I’m not surprised you tracked her down.’

  ‘I mean properly meet her. Talk to her. She’s lovely.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad. So what next?’

  ‘Tomorrow, same time. She’s going to pick me up.’

  He gives the helmet a little swing, holding it by the chin strap, and then retires to his bedroom. For the first time ever, I can hear him singing. Later I discover it’s a track from an xx album. He doesn’t know the lyrics and his voice is beyond flat but none of that matters. Thanks to my years with Berndt, I’ve learned the difference between an act and the real thing. My precious boy is very happy and that – as miracles go – is up there with the loaves and the fishes.

  I remember a line from a hymn we used to sing at school a trillion years ago.

  Our God, our help in ages past, I murmur, our hope for years to come.

  Yes, I think. Yes, yes.

  FOURTEEN

  On Friday, Clemenza arrives with the DNA results. Malo has obviously shared every last detail of the story so far but she’s discreet and well-bred enough to hand over the envelope and head for the door. Malo calls her back.

  ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Let’s see what it says.’

  The envelope is marked Private and Confidential and is addressed to me. He rips it open, pulls out the single sheet of paper, and gives it a quick read. Then he shows it not to me but to Clemenza. The girl, embarrassed, takes the notification and gives it to me. I’m looking at the news we’ve both been expecting for the last three days. Hayden Prentice, aka Saucy, is Malo’s dad.

  Malo is giving Clemenza a hug. Then it’s my turn. Somewhere in all of this I catch the words ‘thank you’. For a moment I think the poor boy’s on the verge of tears. When he looks up and steps back, Clemenza has gone.

  ‘What do you expe
ct?’ I ask. ‘Making a scene like that?’

  We go back to the notification. These agencies are always careful to include a health warning but we should be 98.3 per cent certain of the DNA match between Malo Andressen and Hayden Prentice. This, it seems, is a document we can use in any court of law, any passport application, any setting that requires proof of paternity. I think briefly about Berndt, about where he might be at this moment, but then decide he’s not worth the effort. One day I’ll have to tell him, unless Malo gets there first, but the time and opportunity will be of my choosing. For now, we have something else on our minds.

  ‘Saucy,’ Malo says. ‘Dad. He has to know. We have to tell him.’

  I agree. I’ve been on to the hospital and the news is good. There’s nothing broken. His dislocated shoulder has reset nicely and the bones in his neck are stable. The hairline fractures in his ribs are on the mend, his pelvis has turned out to be undamaged, and he doesn’t need a catheter any more. For weeks to come he’ll be wise to take it easy but he no longer needs hospital care.

  ‘Who told you all this?’ Malo asks.

  ‘Saucy. They’re taking him home by ambulance this afternoon. He says he’s over the moon. He wants us to pay him a visit.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. We’ll train it to Dorchester again. He’ll have someone pick us up at the station. Take us out there.’

  ‘You mean to his house? The big one? The estate?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  The prospect of visiting the family acres fills Malo with something I can only describe as glee. For the second time in half an hour he’s close to euphoria. Less than a week ago he was sharing his life with Peppa Pig and a sachet of Spice. Now he has the world at his feet.

  Next day, as instructed, we head down to Dorchester on the train. A woman my age is waiting at the ticket barrier to pick us up. For a second or two, looking at her, I’m furious with myself for not asking Saucy the obvious question. Is this his wife? The new Amanda in his life? Is this Mrs Saucy going to take kindly to a couple of surprise house guests, one of whom is the mother of his long-lost son?

  I needn’t have worried. Her name is Jessie and it turns out she’s partnered with the guy who runs the estate. They live in a bungalow in the grounds of the main property and she and Andy have known ‘H’, as she calls him, most of their lives. This explains her accent, gruff, almost cockney, exactly the same as Saucy’s.

  We’re in the back of a new-looking Range Rover, leaving the outskirts of Dorchester. I’m doing my best to pump her for more information but blood, as ever, is thicker than water. No, H isn’t currently married. Yes, he leads a very busy life. Yes, he occasionally manages an old-times visit to Pompey. And yes, he’s very much looking forward to seeing us both.

  Malo is beaming. We’ve turned off the main road to Yeovil and he’s glimpsed a handsome Georgian pile through the trees. In his jacket pocket is the good news from Paterfamilias. Life could scarcely be sweeter.

  The drive sweeps up through the trees. Off to the right, at Malo’s prompting, I recognize the motocross course where Saucy came to grief, a zig-zag of deep tyre ruts disappearing over a rise. Ahead is the building we’ve just glimpsed.

  Flixcombe Manor nestles squarely in the greenness of the landscape. Golden points of sunlight reflect from a dozen windows. Smoke curls from one of the chimneys. The entrance to the place is pillared, imposing, a brilliant shade of white that draws the eye. This is a million miles from Pompey. No wonder Saucy couldn’t wait to get home.

  Malo has spotted Saucy emerging from the front door. He shuffles carefully forward with the aid of a pair of crutches. Game as ever, he starts to edge himself sideways down the steps. The proper place to meet guests is on the circle of gravel at the front of the house.

  Face-to-face, once we’re out of the car, he looks more frail than I’d been expecting. He has a kiss for me and a hug for Malo but the slightest misstep registers on his face. It happens again as he leads us back towards the house, making him wince with pain.

  ‘Don’t push it,’ I tell him. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘Easy? Bollocks,’ he mutters darkly. ‘Good to see you both.’

  I help him on the way up to the house, Malo on his other side. For the last couple of steps we’re virtually lifting him.

  ‘Tougher than you thought, eh?’ He’s looking pleased.

  Inside, the place is beautifully furnished, antique pieces everywhere. The smell of freshly cut flowers hangs in the air and I’m still doing a mental audit on the furniture when Saucy spares me the effort.

  ‘Seventy-eight grand the lot,’ he says, ‘including the pictures. I bought it all with the house. Bloke who owned the place knew what he was doing. Would have cost me a fortune to replace this lot.’

  ‘What’s happened to him? Where’s he gone?’

  ‘He died. Drank himself to death. I bought the estate off his eldest boy. He and his missus live out in Dubai. Can’t stand the fucking rain.’

  Jessie has laid tea out in one of the drawing rooms but Saucy takes us into the kitchen. He says it’s the one room in the house where he feels really comfortable and looking round I know exactly what he means: wooden beams, hanging pots and pans, plenty of space, stone floor, a big range with a wood-fired Aga, and a huge old kitchen table most set designers in the movie business would kill for. Big windows look out on to a vegetable garden to the rear of the house and when I get a proper look I count half a dozen chickens peck-pecking among the onion sets.

  ‘All you need is a dog,’ I tell him. ‘Who does the cooking?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m not too handy just now so Jessie helps with the heavy stuff. I just did a load of flapjacks, though. In your honour.’

  The flapjacks are delicious, moist as well as crunchy, a difficult trick to pull off. Malo sits beside us at the kitchen table. When his hand goes to his jacket pocket I tell him to wait until the three of us are alone.

  At last Jessie leaves us. This is Malo’s cue. Saucy has near-animal instincts. He knows something’s going on. He can smell it.

  Malo is flattening the Paterfamilias results against the grain of the table. Saucy squints at it, then tells Malo to fetch his glasses. Hall table. Next to the door.

  ‘OK, Dad.’ The word doesn’t seem to register. Malo waits a moment longer for a reaction and then heads for the hall.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Saucy is looking at me.

  ‘I’d prefer if Malo tells you.’

  ‘Tells me what?’ There’s an edge in Saucy’s voice I haven’t heard before. He doesn’t like surprises.

  Malo is back with his glasses. They’re nice enough – rimless, inoffensive – but when he puts them on Saucy looks ten years older. He reaches for the Paterfamilias document, scans it quickly, then reads it again.

  ‘Fuck me,’ he says softly. ‘Who’d have thought?’

  It’s at this point that it occurs to me that Saucy probably doesn’t have any kids of his own. Another unasked question.

  ‘All right, Dad?’ It’s Malo again. He loves the word.

  Saucy is still studying the document, reading the small print, exactly the way a businessman might. He wants to make sure he’s got this thing right. Finally his head comes up and he takes his glasses off. He’s looking at me, not Malo.

  ‘Give us a kiss,’ he says.

  I get up and circle the table, settling beside his chair and putting my arms round him. He feels softer and perhaps more frail than I’d been anticipating. I kiss him on the lips. His eyes are closed. He’s smiling.

  ‘How long have you known?’ he asks.

  ‘Since yesterday.’ I nod at the document.

  ‘But really? In here?’ His head sinks to my chest.

  ‘A couple of weeks. It started when I saw the pair of you together in hospital. Peas in a pod. You couldn’t miss it.’

  ‘Not before?’ He sounds disappointed.

  ‘No. Things have be
en difficult recently. In fact things have been bloody awful for quite a while.’

  ‘Anything I should know about? Anything you want to tell me?’

  ‘No. Maybe later. Maybe one day. But not now.’

  I get to my feet again and take a tiny step backwards. This should be Malo’s day, not mine. Saucy reaches out to him, then circles my waist with his other hand.

  ‘Family,’ he says softly. ‘Right?’

  We both nod. Malo wants to know what he should call him.

  ‘Dad,’ he says. ‘What else?’

  Malo looks slightly crestfallen. I’m not sure what kind of reaction he’s been expecting but it certainly wasn’t this. There’s almost an air of entitlement about Saucy, as if he’d been expecting the news.

  ‘Tell me you’re surprised,’ I say. ‘Tell me it’s made your day.’

  Saucy says nothing. He glances at Malo, then chuckles.

  ‘Who’s the lucky one, son? You or me?’

  This, thank God, breaks the ice. Saucy calls for champagne. Jessie appears. When Saucy shares the glad tidings she looks amazed.

  ‘You old dog,’ she says. ‘You never said.’

  ‘I never fucking knew.’

  ‘But it’s true?’ She’s putting the question to me. I nod at the Paterfamilias confirmation, say nothing.

  Jessie picks it up.

  ‘D’you mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Help yourself.’

  The news puts a big smile on her face. She wants to tell Andy. She wants to start hitting the phones. She wants the world to know.

  ‘Steady, gal.’ Saucy’s looking alarmed.

  ‘Steady? You have to be joking. Party time. We’ll get some people up. Sort out some invitations. Your fiftieth and now this. Brilliant.’ She departs to lay hands on a couple of bottles of Moët. My gaze returns to Saucy. Content isn’t a word I’d ever associate with my son’s new dad but just now it comes very close.