Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  Over a second gin, watching a lone windsurfer stitching back and forth between the beach and the offshore sandbank, I try and clarify the limits of my responsibility. My word pledged should end the argument. I’ve promised to respect Carrie’s privacy and that should be that. But there are larger possibilities here, not least with regards to Carrie herself. What if the intruder makes a second appearance? What if he’s become obsessed with her? With the memory of that naked body? And what if his next visit ends in serious violence? No one, least of all Carrie, would accuse this boy of ambiguity. He’s threatened to kill her, as he’s claimed to have killed others before. Shouldn’t all this be put to some kind of test? Before Carrie – or some other complete stranger – pays an unimaginable price?

  In situations like these, I always hanker after the opinion of others. At home in London I’d talk to my lovely neighbour Evelyn. She’s recently returned her editing pencil to the jam jar after a lifetime in publishing, and those busy decades absorbed in other people’s stories have made her wise as well as excellent company. Given the facts, suitably disguised, she’d know at once what to do and where – perhaps – to turn next. The dilemma posed by my last hour or so – whether to respect Carrie’s privacy or risk the most horrific of tabloid headlines – would be meat and drink to her. But Evelyn, alas, is in Ireland just now, enjoying a late-spring visit to some sensational semi-tropical gardens near Killarney. The last thing she needs is a lengthy phone conversation about disembowelment.

  I reach for the last of my gin and tonic. H is another possibility. My windsurfer, by now, is no more than a distant black speck beneath the crimson blade of his sail, but as he gets the next turn wrong and disappears in a tiny explosion of white spume, I recognize that H has no place in this story. I have a deep respect for his many talents. I’ve never met anyone else with more courage and less fear of real-life consequences. But these very talents are deeply problematic. H is a great believer in drawing the straightest of lines between any set of dots, and he’d doubtless have Carrie’s young intruder in a chokehold within minutes. What might happen thereafter doesn’t bear thinking about, a consequence almost as dire as the promise of evisceration. No, there has to be a better way. Something more subtle, kinder, less terminal.

  When I get back to the penthouse apartment, I find Felip folded into his favourite armchair in the big lounge. He’s heard the rumble of the approaching lift and he’s plainly been waiting for me. When he asks me about Carrie – how is she? what’s happened? – I dismiss his questions with a wave of my hand.

  ‘Women of Carrie’s age sometimes have problems down here.’ I gesture lightly at my lower stomach. ‘I’ve been through it myself. It can be bloody unpleasant.’

  This is, of course, a lie. Carrie is far too young to have hit the menopausal reef but – a little drunk – I’m relying on Felip to buy the lie. He doesn’t, of course, but at least I’ve kept my word.

  ‘He wants to see you.’ Felip nods towards Pavel’s bedroom. ‘Maybe you think up another story?’

  Glad not to answer any more of Felip’s questions, I step down the corridor and join Pavel in his bedroom. The sliding doors to the balcony are wide open and in a cloudless sky the sun has begun to sink over the soft green swell of the hills beyond the river. Pavel appears to be asleep and I tiptoe across the room to watch a gaggle of waders in search of mussels on the beach below. Then comes the faraway clatter of a train heading west on the distant bank. Trains have always excited me – the promise of numberless destinations – and it’s still in view when Pavel whispers a command to his Sesame device. Moments later, a mechanism in the bed is lifting his upper body semi-erect. This is Pavel’s wake-up call, not for his own benefit but for mine. He wants – needs – a conversation.

  I ask him how he is. He says he’s fine. To my surprise he doesn’t even mention Carrie. Instead, he wants me to find a book she’s been reading him.

  ‘It’s a diary,’ he says. ‘Ernst Jünger?’

  I know about Ernst Jünger. He served as a German officer in both world wars and was a hero of my ex-husband, Berndt, whose scriptwriting and directorial talents nearly outstripped his many failings as a human being. Jünger was a novelist and philosopher, as well as a much-decorated warrior, and it was Berndt’s ambition to put his wilder musings about war as a transcendental experience on the screen. I’ve no idea whether this ever happened but, drunk, Berndt never failed to raise a glass to the great man.

  ‘Storm of Steel,’ I mutter. ‘My ex-husband used to read bits to me in bed.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ Pavel is smiling. ‘I gather it’s got a black and white photo on the cover.’

  I find the book without difficulty and draw up a chair beside Pavel’s bed. When he asks nicely, I also give him a kiss.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he says at once.

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Good. In fact, perfect. Carrie’s been reading it at home. She’s marked two entries. The first is eighth December 1941. Jünger is writing in Paris where he did a lot of translation work. It’s the second paragraph you need. I thought of you at once.’

  I do Pavel’s bidding. The first paragraph sets the scene nicely. Winter in Paris. Curfew. Everything lifeless in the fog. Then comes the promised second paragraph. My eye floats from line to line, then I pause, astonished. One of Jünger’s many tasks is evidently translating the farewell letters of Resistance hostages awaiting execution. And just now, these hostages are being held in Nantes.

  ‘You remember that movie of mine?’ I look up.

  ‘Of course, I do. The Hour of Our Passing.’ Pavel smiles. ‘Maybe it was a mistake to peak so early, eh?’

  ‘That’s because you liked my body. Being a proper actress came later.’

  The Hour of Our Passing was a film I made years ago on location in Nantes. It was a powerful script and I played the girlfriend of one of the Resistance figures condemned to death. A flashback sequence recalls an intimate moment Pavel has always treasured. He first saw the movie when he was still sighted and the image of yours truly, fully nude, riding the young resistant to an extravagant climax has stayed with him ever since. Blind, but before he was paralysed, Pavel mapped that same body with his fingertips and always swore that nothing had changed. Flattering. But sweet.

  ‘You have the letters?’ I ask.

  ‘Alas, no. Try the twenty-ninth May, 1941. This time I want you to read the whole passage aloud.’

  I leaf back eight months. The entry this time is much longer. When I ask Pavel how he found his way to the Jünger diaries he mentions a radio documentary he’d been listening to. And when I enquire whether he minds me taking a preliminary look at this second passage, he shakes his head.

  ‘No problem,’ he whispers. ‘Enjoy.’

  I bend to the text. Jünger has been summoned to witness the execution of a soldier sentenced to death for desertion. The condemned man and the shooting squad journey out to the depths of a forest. The officer in charge leads the way to a particular tree. It’s an ash tree and its trunk has been splintered by previous executions. Two groups of bullet holes are visible, a higher one for the head and a lower one for the heart. Among the tree’s exploded fibres are little groups of blowflies.

  The detail here is chilling, and it gets worse. A truck appears with a military-issue coffin. The execution squad forms two ranks through which the condemned man must pass. The sentence of the military court is read aloud to him. Jünger records that the man doesn’t seem to understand. His lips are moving as if he’s trying to spell the words out. A tiny fly plays on his left cheek. When asked whether he wants a blindfold he makes no answer. The chaplain says yes on his behalf while guards tie him to the tree with white ropes. Then one of the guards pins a piece of red cardboard the size of a playing card on to his shirt over his heart.

  The firing squad have taken up their positions. Against every instinct, Jünger forces himself to watch. On the command of the officer in charge, the soldiers fire. Five holes app
ear in the cardboard. The man’s mouth opens and closes, as if registering surprise. Then his knees give out and the blood drains from his face. After a doctor confirms his death, his body is placed in the waiting coffin. As a postscript to this scene, Jünger remarks on the return of the fly which has settled once again on the cooling cheek of the dead man.

  Enjoy? I ask Pavel whether he really wants me to read this piece aloud.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispers, ‘I do.’

  ‘But you just told me you’ve heard it before. When Carrie was here.’

  ‘That’s right. But twice won’t hurt.’

  ‘You think it’s that good?’

  ‘I think it’s that important.’

  I gaze down at him for a moment, at the bony face against the whiteness of the pillow, then do his bidding.

  ‘Pretend this is an audition,’ he suggests. ‘Imagine you’re trying to impress me.’

  Bizarre. I turn the page back, take a moment to compose myself, and then begin to read. I deliberately keep my voice as flat as possible. A text like this, essentially reportorial, needs no additional colour. The facts, and the bareness of the language, speak for themselves. The soldier dead, I close the book.

  ‘Well?’ I say. ‘Happy now?’

  Pavel’s eyes appear to be closed behind the tinted glasses. He answers my question with the faintest nod. Then, at last, he asks me about Carrie.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I say lightly. ‘She’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘But how did you find her? How was she?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say again. ‘Just like always.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Care to tell me why?’

  Pavel takes his time in mustering a reply. Finally, he clears his throat and, with some difficulty, tries to swallow. In Pavel’s state, robbed of sensation and control, nothing is simple.

  ‘I have seen many people die … ’ he says at last. ‘But never at a predetermined moment.’

  This is a direct quote from Jünger’s diary entry. Language, to Pavel, has always had an almost sacramental importance. He’s written plays and film scripts that have won him a clutch of awards. The fact that this one phrase, word-perfect, has jumped out of Jünger’s account should tell me a great deal. But what?

  Pavel, typically, refuses to help. Finally, I think I get it.

  ‘This is about Carrie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And she really read you this same piece?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It made her cry.’

  ‘Cry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s a very good question.’

  I nod. I’m staring down at him. In these situations, Pavel is very sparing with clues. He likes his audience, his readership, his fans, to do the real work. It was the same in his professional life, and it’s exactly the same now. At first, I thought it was some kind of writerly affectation, a pleasing little quirk to spice up the attention he’s always received, but now I know different. Pavel, like many writers, is a control freak.

  ‘What has she been telling you?’ I ask him.

  ‘Nothing. She didn’t have to. It was there in her tone of voice. In her presence.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s deeply troubled.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because she thinks something bad is about to happen.’

  ‘What kind of something?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask her?’

  ‘Of course, I asked her. We’re friends. Friends care for each other.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. She wouldn’t say. She’s a strong woman. She’s proud.’

  ‘I agree. You’re right. She’s also beautiful. What else do you know about her?’

  ‘Very little. With pride comes privacy. She keeps herself to herself.’

  I nod. From what little I know about Carrie, this is all too credible. A previous marriage? A series of failed relationships? Even the possibility of a child? Aborted or otherwise? Any of these pieces might form a part of Carrie’s jigsaw but neither of us appears to be any the wiser.

  I open the book again. Something else has occurred to me. I find the phrase at once.

  ‘I have seen many people die,’ I murmur, ‘but never at a predetermined moment.’ I look up. ‘Was that when she started crying?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pavel is smiling again. ‘Well done.’

  ‘And yet you made her keep reading?’

  ‘On the contrary.’ The smile widens. ‘Which is why I asked you to take over. She was unable to read the rest.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  FOUR

  I stay over in the apartment that night, spending a couple of hours at Pavel’s bedside. We talk a little more about Carrie, and how irreplaceable she’s become, but when he tries to press me about any confidences she might have shared I insist that all is well. I know he doesn’t believe me but there’s always been an understanding between us, largely unspoken, that knows when to move the conversation on.

  When he enquires about the small print of my own little life, I’m more than happy to oblige. My oncologist, for the time being, appears satisfied with the latest MRI scan. The shadowy remains of my brain tumour are still lurking, but my recent course of chemo has, for now, stopped any further growth. My agent, Rosa, has come up with a couple of decent offers and one in particular I really fancy.

  ‘The big thing just now is dystopia,’ I tell Pavel. ‘Everything falling apart, lives torn apart, society in freefall. Is it Brexit? Donald Trump? Global warming? God knows. This is a four-parter for a French chaine and all I’ve got is a little cameo role, but I love it.’

  The script calls for me to play the middle-aged mistress of a senior politician. The comely Vivienne has cheated death at the hands of a particularly vicious tumour and sees every reason to spend the rest of her life celebrating. This is, of course, a tad close to the facts of my own life but the writing is good, and the director is a woman I trust.

  The working title for the series is Terminale. Pavel loves the idea.

  ‘My little sunbeam,’ he murmurs, ‘on Planet Glum. Are you nude again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  This, too, pleases him no end. He tells me I’m as brave as Carrie and twice as beautiful. The latter compliment is pointless because he’s never laid eyes on Carrie but courage like hers, on occasions, I could certainly do with. Before I leave him in peace, I tell him about yesterday’s discovery of the black hole. Pavel is addicted to speech radio, especially Radio Four, and has already thought hard about what the black hole might look like. I play with the emoticon likeness for a while, a metaphor that sparks Pavel to reach even further.

  ‘Maybe it’s a punctuation mark,’ he says. ‘Semi-colon or full stop?’

  ‘Full stop.’ I’m thinking about the TV series. ‘You’re right. We’re all doomed.’

  Before I retire to the spare bedroom for the night, I have a brief chat with Felip. I suspect he might know more about Carrie than either Pavel or myself but he’s very reluctant to open up. After we’ve agreed that she’s great company and an accomplished cook, as well as being a nurse you’d trust at anyone’s bedside, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere else to take the conversation. Then, almost as an afterthought, he says he’s been worried about her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nervous.’ He waves his hands, trying to conjure urgency into the word.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In here.’ His thin hand closes over his chest. ‘Bad.’

  ‘Have you talked to her about it?’

  ‘No. I try, but …’ He shakes his head. ‘No good.’

  ‘You think it’s something personal?’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’

  ‘So how long? Days? Weeks?’r />
  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Weeks. Since …’ He frowns. ‘Barca beat Real Madrid.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Le deuxieme mars.’

  The second of March. Felip is football crazy. He’s date-perfect on any game his beloved Barcelona has ever played and saves up match recordings to savour in the small hours while Pavel is asleep.

  ‘You’re telling me Carrie is a Real Madrid fan? Is that why she’s been so upset?’

  Felip is staring at me. At first, he thinks I’m serious, then he gets the joke.

  ‘Impossible,’ he says. ‘No one that nice would ever support the Meringues.’

  I sleep fitfully, one ear cocked for Pavel. A word to Sesame will be enough to summon help in the shape of Felip but the night passes without incident. As promised, Carrie appears promptly at nine in the morning with a tight smile and a bunch of freesias. The latter appears to be a peace offering or perhaps an apology for yesterday’s absence and she’s still arranging the flowers in a vase for Pavel’s bedside when I down the rest of my coffee and leave.

  Isca Terrace is a ten-minute walk away. It’s much colder this morning, and I zip up my anorak against the bite of the wind. A white van is parked beside the hedge across the road from Carrie’s basement flat and a glance down from pavement level reveals a guy in blue overalls working on the front door. A brand-new lock lies on a fold of cloth beside an array of tools and I can only assume that Carrie has taken my advice about sorting her security.

  Isca Terrace trails down to a main road. I turn left at the bottom, and then left again, heading back up the hill to inspect the rear of the premises. A count of seven takes me to what I assume must be Carrie’s place, but the back garden is walled and when I try the door to the street it’s locked. Shards of glass have been embedded in what looks like a top dressing of fresh cement and I’m still pondering the implications of this when I pause for a coffee in the town centre. This, I keep telling myself, is really about Pavel. He’s made it more than plain that Carrie has become important to him and for his sake, as well as hers, I have to make her feel safe.