The fucking radar is a phrase he says he’ll cherish. Praise is a currency actors tend not to waste on each other and for the first time I start taking a proper look at this man. In the studio, as scripted, he’s pulled off an American accent with an underlying hint of German and done it with some style. He’s maybe five years older than me but he laughs a lot and has a fund of good stories about his days in Australian soaps. Now he’s wondering about another drink.
‘Yes, please.’ I fumble for my bag. ‘And make mine a double.’
We stay in the pub most of the evening. Supper is three bags of crisps, one of them shared. When he asks me where I live he says his flat is a lot closer. I’ve told him nothing about Malo, about H, about Flixcombe Manor, about Mitch, about Spencer fucking Willoughby, about Brexit, and I feel a great deal better. Drunk but better. His flat turns out to be a ten-minute walk away. It’s small, cosy and very male. As we strip, I establish the rules of engagement. We’ll fuck until we go to sleep and at some point after that I’ll get up and go home. No commitments. No regrets. Not a whisper of this to anyone else.
‘Perfect.’ He’s on his knees, easing my thighs apart. He has a busy tongue and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Hours later, dressed again and waiting for the Uber, I wake him up.
‘How come you can afford an address like this?’
He peers up at me, still groggy with the Guinness.
‘Australian soaps,’ he says. ‘You won’t believe the residuals.’
Next day, in the parlance, we put Going Solo to bed. Neither I nor my male lead betray the slightest evidence of our night together and after a second take on the final scene we all share a couple of bottles of Prosecco brought in by the producer. We toast the health of the production, offer effusive thanks to the producer for his hospitality, have a hug or two, and make for the street. It’s only on the bus home that I realize that in all likelihood I’ll never see my one-night stand again. I know his name, Desmond Reilly, I dimly remember where his flat is, but I have no contact details. Nice man. Gifted lover. Amusing stories. End of. Of this, believe it or not, I’m strangely proud and it’s only when I’m walking home from the bus stop that I realize the real irony. Eighteen years ago something similar happened in Antibes. And look where that took me.
Back in the apartment, I call Malo. I want all his news, especially how he’s getting on with Project Persephone, but as well I’m keen to know about H.
‘He’s fine. Just like always.’
‘Not upset in any way?’
‘Not at all. Why should he be?’
I know I can’t take this line of enquiry very much further, not without betraying my hand. Malo, it turns out, is in Portsmouth with Andy and H. They’ve spent most of the day aboard the old fishing boat, talking to the people from the charity. H has secured a handy discount on the hire fee, releasing more money for Front Line, and Malo has lots of photographs he can use for his presentation to would-be passengers. I’m about to ask him what happens next when he puts me on to H.
‘You OK?’
I tell him I’m fine. Malo’s right. He sounds as blunt and bouncy as ever. Maybe he never reads the Guardian or Mitch’s fucking website. Maybe he hasn’t had an earful from Spencer Willoughby. Maybe the media shit storm has passed him by.
He wants to know how the BBC thing went. I tell him it’s in the can.
‘They’re pleased?’
‘I think so.’
‘Anything else you have to do up there?’
‘Not much.’
‘So when are you coming home?’
‘Home’ is the key proposition here. He’s used the word before, glancing references en passant, but this is the first time he’s put it in lights. Home. Unadorned. Unqualified. Unambiguous. The place where you hang your hat. The place where your heart is. Home.
‘I’m at home now,’ I say lightly. ‘You must come up some time, pay me a visit. It’s not Flixcombe Manor but I’m very fond of it.’
‘We miss you,’ H says. ‘Especially the boy. Exciting times, this Persephone thing. We need to get our shit together.’
I agree. We certainly do. There’s a hiatus, a moment or two of silence, slightly uncomfortable. Then he’s back.
‘That’s a deal, then. Friday? End of the week? Just the three of us? No Tina fucking Turner? Give me a bell. All I need is a train time.’
He’s gone. I’m back with my son. It seems he’s very busy. He has to find out about the weather in mid-November and the shipping lanes off the French coast. The people he’s talking to are very nice and – just for the record – he’s loving what he’s seen of Pompey.
Pompey? He uses the term as if he’s lived there all his life. He uses it the way you might refer to a much-loved relative. Is this genetic, too? Something he’s inherited from his dad?
‘Take care,’ I say. ‘See you soon.’ But already he’s gone.
As it turns out I’m on the train again, as ordered, on Friday. Even in the early afternoon London is emptying ahead of the weekend and every carriage is packed. At Dorchester station, to my relief, there’s no sign of Jessie. H is alone at the wheel.
‘Your doctor’s signed you off?’ I ask him. ‘No issues with driving?’
‘Issues? You want to take the bus?’
We leave Dorchester. He drives fast but the deeper we get into the countryside, the narrower the roads, the more carefully he gauges every corner. This is a man, I remind myself, who’s successfully eliminated every possible risk in his life. Not from an excess of caution but by being consistently smarter than the enemy. His luck may have run out on the trail bike but when it comes to dealing with threats on two legs he appears to be beyond reach.
We chat about Malo, about Persephone, about the job our son’s doing on the task H has handed him. H has located a graphics consultancy in Yeovil, people with a real flair for marrying images and text. Malo spent most of yesterday with them and came back with some impressive ideas.
‘They’ve sourced a load of pics of your lovely self,’ H says without a hint of irony. ‘We thought we’d leave the final choice to you.’
I nod, say nothing. I want, very badly, to find out whether he saw Tuesday’s Guardian but I can’t think how to ask. Minutes before we hit the turn-off for Flixcombe Manor I enquire whether he saw anything of May’s big speech at the Tory conference. A joker in the front row presented her with a P45 when she was in mid-flow, a clip that made countless news feeds within seconds.
H saw it. Thought it was funny. Along with the cough sweet and bits of the backdrop falling apart. He especially liked the man with the P45.
‘Same bloke presented Trump with a bunch of golf balls when he was over here on business. Each one had a swastika on it. That’s my kind of politics. Get under their skins. Give the bastards a poke. Everything goes tits-up when you take these clowns seriously.’
‘And does the same go for Willoughby?’
‘Willoughby is a prat. The field’s pretty thin just now but he can’t even make it as a politician. That man’s out of his depth in a fucking puddle.’
And that’s it. No more mention of politics, of Guardian exposés, of fictitious six-figure donation to UKIP funds. Case closed.
We spend a very civilized weekend helping Malo shape the pitch he wants to make to lure paying passengers aboard Persephone. As H promised, the graphics people in Yeovil have found umpteen photos of yours truly and I spend one of the nicest evenings of my life in the downstairs library with my son as he goes through them. What were you doing in Rome with Liam Neeson? How old were you when they shot the adaptation of The Reichenbach Falls? What does it feel like to walk that red carpet into the Leicester Square Odeon? I answer each of these questions as best I can, aware of H cocking an ear in the background. Many of these locations I’ve virtually forgotten, lost beneath the drift of the years, but when we get to a shot towards the bottom of the pile, the memories put a smile on my face.
We were shooting, in all places, on the Isle
of Wight. It was a biopic about a famous Victorian photographer, Julia Margaret Cameron, and I was playing one of the younger models she used to perfect various lighting techniques. It was a lovely time of year, late spring, and we were staying in a hotel – the Farringford – which had once belonged to Tennyson.
My role was undemanding and I treated the location a bit like a holiday. I’d get up every morning shortly after dawn and take the path down through the fields and up on to the long fold of chalky turf that stretched west towards The Needles. It was called, appropriately enough, Tennyson Down and I’d spend a glorious hour or two in the company of rabbits, marauding seagulls, and the odd hare without once laying eyes on another human being. Those were the weeks, I tell Malo, when I truly fell in love. Not with someone else but with that sense of kinship, of belonging, of being mysteriously entwined with something infinitely bigger than I’d ever be.
I’m not sure Malo really understands what I’m trying to say. Neither am I making an especially good job of describing what, in the end, became moments of transcendence. But after Malo discards the shot of me dressed up as a nineteenth-century photographer’s model, and moves briskly through the photos that remain, I catch sight of H sprawled in his armchair. He offers me a nod of what I suspect might be approval. Praise indeed, I think.
On the Sunday, H takes us all out for lunch. It’s a different pub this time, more down-to-earth, and Jessie and Andy come too. Jessie, for some reason, seems to have become more comfortable in my company. I can’t say she’s forgiven me because there’s nothing to forgive, but we manage a half-decent conversation when we’re waiting for the mains. The men are talking football. Pompey, it seems, are struggling a bit but Manchester City, according to Andy, are a joy to watch.
Jessie rolls her eyes. She’s never had much time for football, which must be a problem if you’re living with Andy, but she tells me about another expedition she made only days ago. The Romsey interior design place she visited when I was last down turned out to be a real disappointment but she’s found an interior design outlet in Salisbury that has exactly what she’s been after. I listen to her rhapsodizing about granite worktops, and soft-close drawers, and clever solutions to crockery storage, and all the other bits of kitchen porn, and agree that our parents’ generation were lucky to survive without a walk-in freezer. Then, as the men’s attention turns to the approaching waitress, I feel the lightest touch on my thigh.
‘Watch out for yourself,’ Jessie says softly.
Watch out for myself? I fork my way through a plateful of slightly overcooked scampi and wonder what on earth she means. Andy and H have done football by now and we’re all discussing last weekend. A torrent of emails, most of them obscene, have been flooding in after the party and as far as H can judge it seems to have been a roaring success.
‘Only you would know,’ I suggest.
‘Yeah?’ He turns to eyeball me. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
I shrug. I’ve meant no offence. All I’m saying is the obvious. That these are people H has known most of his life. They’re friends, buddies, mates, brothers-in-arms. They must have been through a lot together and a closeness like that can only breed loyalty. No wonder the weekend went so well.
H frowns. He seems to be exploring the notion in his head, putting it to the test. Finally he picks up the remains of a lamb chop and gives it a chew. Then he licks his fingers and gives his mouth a wipe on a paper napkin.
‘You’re right,’ he grunts. ‘Loyalty? Nothing fucking like it.’
I’m back in London for the start of the new week. Jessie’s warning still bothers me but I’m doing my best to ignore it. I spend a lovely afternoon drifting around the Singer Sargent exhibition at the Dulwich Gallery and return with a bag of crumpets from the Londis round the corner. I make tea, toast the crumpets, watch the evening news, try calling Malo. He’s on divert so I leave a message asking him to phone, nothing urgent, then settle in to let the evening drift by. By ten I’ve decided I deserve an early night. By half past I’m asleep.
It’s five in the morning when the phone rings. Thinking it might be Malo, I fumble for the mobile. It’s Mitch. He sounds terrible.
‘What’s happened?’
‘We have to talk.’
‘Where?’
‘My place. Soon as you can. Please.’
TWENTY
I’m in Hither Green within the hour. The Uber drops me outside Mitch’s house. Dawn is breaking over the rooftops across the road. Mitch has the front door open before I’ve even made it through the gate. He’s fully dressed and he has the look of someone who’s been up all night. Exhausted. And fearful.
‘What’s happened?’
He gets me into the house and checks the street left and right before shutting the door. I hear the slide of two bolts. Then we’re in the kitchen at the back and I’m looking at what appears to be a business card on the work top. I recognize the Met Police logo. Not a good sign.
‘Sayid,’ he says.
I put my arms round him. I think he needs to cut loose, let everything out. I tell him to take his time. Deep breaths.
He nods, tips his head back, gulps. I suggest we both sit down. Does he need a drink?
He shakes his head. No drink.
‘I got home around ten,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t understand why the lights weren’t on. Sayid should have been home. He never runs on a Monday. Never.’
He let himself in and looked for a note. Nothing. He waited ten minutes or so, thinking Sayid might have gone out for milk or whatever, and then he phoned the care home. The manager on duty said he’d left as usual around seven. As far as he was aware he was heading straight back home.
It was now half past ten. Sayid, he tells me, always left his shoulder bag down beside the sofa. When Mitch checked, it wasn’t there. This was seriously worrying. Sayid has very few friends. He likes his own company. Apart from running, he rarely goes out.
‘I was tempted to call the police,’ he says. ‘But they get funny around people like Sayid.’
‘So you waited?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘The phone went. It must have been around eleven. Caller ID said Sayid. I can’t tell you how relieved I felt. Then I realized it wasn’t him. It was another voice. Nothing like Sayid. He said to go to the end of the road. It’s a cul-de-sac. There’s waste land at the foot of the railway embankment. The kids are always up there. Drinkers, too. Loads of empty cans.’
‘What sort of voice?’
‘Male. Rough.’
‘Accent?’
‘Might have been London. Might not. Hard to tell.’
Mitch left the house. He’s not built for running but he says he was at the end of the road in seconds and I believe him.
‘The street lighting’s shit up there. I should have brought a torch but I didn’t. I had a look round, couldn’t see anything, and then a train came by. He was less than a metre away. I don’t know how I missed him.’
‘Who?’
‘Sayid.’ His head goes down. He covers his face with his hands. There are few sights harder to cope with than a big man sobbing.
I do my best. I tell him once again to take his time. Finally he reaches for a tea towel and mops his face. The tea towel is a souvenir from Weston-super-Mare. Odd how these details settle in your brain.
‘At first I thought he was dead. They’d beaten him up, smashed his face. There was nothing left, nothing I could recognize. Then I realized he was still breathing. Jesus …’
He phoned 999. An ambulance, happily, had been on standby in Lewisham and arrived in minutes.
‘The guys were amazing. Two of them. They worked on him for a minute or two and then got him into the ambulance. It was obvious he was in a bad way. They’d found a pulse but he wasn’t responding. King’s is close that time of night. We were there in less than ten minutes.’
I nodded. I know King’s College Hospital. It’s next door to the Maudsley. I used to p
ass it when I was visiting a friend with breast cancer.
‘So what happened?’
‘They fast-tracked him. A&E. He’s still alive but only just.’ His eyes settle on his mobile. ‘They said they’d phone me if there were any developments.’
‘You didn’t stay?’
‘The police arrived. Took a statement. They wanted to know everything about Sayid. Thank God he’s legal.’
‘So what are they going to do?’
‘They’ll obviously search the embankment. Beyond that they might do house-to-house down the road, CCTV, put out some kind of appeal, whatever. The bloke who did most of the talking told me not to hold my breath. He didn’t actually say it but that’s what he meant.’ At last he looks me in the face. His eyes are red. His cheeks are shiny with tears. ‘Foreign-looking bloke? Alone on the street at night? The story writes itself. You know that.’
‘But it doesn’t. You took a call. That’s not some accident.’
‘I know. That’s exactly what I told them. Then they said they couldn’t find a phone, not on Sayid. That’s when they really started in. People he might have upset. Enemies. Some grudge or other. Maybe drug debts. Drug debts? Sayid? Are you kidding?’
It’s a mess. But then, according to Mitch, it gets a whole lot worse.
‘They wanted to know about our relationship. Whether we were close. Whether we’d had some monster row. Whether I had any previous for violence.’
‘You’re telling me you’re a suspect?’
‘I’m telling you exactly what happened. This morning we’re going to go through it all again. Brixton police station. Half nine.’ He nods at the card on the work surface. ‘DC Brett Daltrey. My new buddy.’
‘You want me to come?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but no. You being here now is enough. I can’t tell you. A time like this, you think you’re going mad. It’s like a nightmare. It’s like a truly crap movie. Except you end up playing the key role and having bugger all to say. You know something? I used to think I’d been around a bit, seen a few things. I used to think nothing could ever take me by surprise, touch me, hurt me, whatever. And you know something else? I was wrong. Such a handsome guy. So gentle. So fucking luminous.’
Curtain Call Page 20
