‘You think there’s some other reason?’
‘I’m wondering, that’s all.’
‘Wondering about what?’
‘About what happened out there. About who he was.’
‘He?’
‘He.’
‘You think I’m covering something up?’ My laughter sounds hopelessly faux. ‘By closing the curtains?’
‘I’m asking you a question. That’s all.’
I’m looking down at his face on the pillow. He has a tiny smear of tomato on his chin and I wet a finger to remove it.
‘Well …?’ he says.
‘What makes you think it was a man? Can’t I meet women down here?’
‘Of course you could. But it wasn’t that kind of reaction. If we’re lucky, life can take us by surprise.’
‘And I’m lucky?’
‘Yes, you are. We make our luck, of course, so maybe that doesn’t quite work.’ He pauses for a moment, then moistens his lips. ‘You want to tell me about him?’
‘No.’
‘Is this shyness I’m hearing? Or guilt?’
‘Neither.’ I see no point in lying. ‘I met this guy last night. I spent ten minutes in his company. Maybe fifteen. That’s it. That’s as far as it got.’
Pavel nods. Then he turns his head away on the pillow. ‘That’s bad,’ he murmurs. ‘Much worse than I thought.’
TEN
I sleep badly. I’ve always marvelled at Pavel’s intuition. Even when blindness was his only handicap, he had an uncanny knack of teasing the truth from the barest handful of clues, most of them auditory. He used his ears the way a truffle hound relies on his nose, and all too often he feasted on the proceeds.
Scriptwriters trade in the smallest print of people’s lives, building a cage of circumstance around a handful of characters, and often relying on an audience to do the heavy lifting thereafter. I suspect this must sharpen your appetite for those odd little ways we all betray our inner feelings and as long as Pavel could keep all this plunder at arm’s length, safely dead on the page, then so much the better. But out there on the balcony, my little giveaway gasp was evidently a dagger to his heart, and now is the first time I’ve realized how much he still wants to control every particle of my life.
He, too, has a bad night, as Felip confirms over my first cup of coffee the next day. Twice he’d had to go into the bedroom to comfort him, and on both occasions he’d found Pavel in tears. Pavel likes Felip, trusts him, and normally there are no secrets between them. But last night, pressed to explain why he was so upset, Pavel had simply turned his head to the bedroom wall.
‘I think he hurts.’ Felip pats his chest. ‘In here.’
That may well be true. Guilt is something I thought I’d left in the wreckage of my marriage to Berndt. Guilt at never calling out the grosser dishonesties. Guilt at not being firm enough with Malo. Guilt at mistaking money and a degree of celebrity with the simpler comforts of a proper life for all of us at home. But now is different, because any kind of surrender to Pavel’s very special form of emotional blackmail is out of the question. When it was physically possible, for all too brief a time, Pavel and I were lovers. What sparked so gloriously in conversation after conversation worked equally well in bed. Blindness had taught Pavel to map the world through his fingertips and that, believe me, can take a girl to some very special places.
Those days and nights, alas, have now gone. Pavel is still the closest of friends and – I hope – an ally, but paralysis has left both him and us in limbo. We can still kiss. He can still, just, chase my tongue around my mouth. But these little gestures, kind and intimate though they might be, have a limited currency of which Pavel is only too aware. He, above all, understands the urgency of other needs and just now, I suspect, he’s fearing the worst. He can still make me laugh. His wilder stories still entrance me. But the worlds he mapped for me in bed are now beyond him, and that – in a phrase he’d recognize at once – is fucking sad.
A full house has emptied the fridge. Carrie gives me a shopping list and despatches me to town. I suspect that she and Jean-Paul might have been doing some mapping of their own overnight, though God knows when or how, because she’s brighter than I’ve seen her for days. ‘Get something nice for lunch,’ she says. ‘And don’t forget the ciabatta.’
On the way into town I make a minor detour to steal a look at the nursing home where Carrie used to work. The stories she’s told Pavel have whetted my curiosity. If we’re to believe the gloomier predictions about the breakdown of family life, then we’re all destined to end our days in the hands of strangers.
Second Wind, at first glance, is on its knees. The grey stucco render is in a terrible state, whole shards missing, cracks everywhere. The windowsills on the ground floor have begun to rot and one of them supports a thriving growth of something that looks like moss. Inside, it must be even worse because the waste skip in the tiny triangle of front garden is piled high with sodden mattresses, broken furniture and stained washbasins. Taking a closer look, I get the impression of a whole generation of oldies laid to rest. God forbid I ever end up here.
‘Morning …’
The voice comes from somewhere above me. I step back on the pavement, peering up. A sash window on the first floor is wide open and I’m looking at that same pair of faded blue overalls.
‘Deko.’ I’m trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. ‘This is becoming a habit.’
‘Lucky me. I’ve got the coffee on. If you’ve got a sense of humour, you might fancy a look round.’
I agree at once. The front door is open and I’m already in the hall by the time I hear boots clumping down the bare wooden stairs. The air is thick with dust and the place smells of damp. I can’t be sure but there appears to be no one else here.
Deko halts at the bottom of the stairs. In a bid to tear my eyes away I do my best to affect an unruffled interest in my surroundings. Anaglypta wallpaper and one of those hand-embroidered sayings, poorly framed, hanging at an angle. I cock my head, trying to decipher it.
For God so loved the world, it reads, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.
‘Do me a favour?’ Deko is laughing. ‘It’s yours. No charge.’
He leads the way through to the back of the property. The kitchen, smaller than I’d expected, is still intact but clearly ripe for demolition. I’m trying to remember how many residents this place held. How would you feed twenty souls from a narrow little space like this? And where would you hide the red vermouth?
Deko is filling a new-looking electric kettle. A cafetière and a bag of coffee stands beside it. Strength five. Perfect.
‘This is just you?’ I gesture back towards the chaos behind me.
‘For now, yes.’
‘I hope they’re paying you well.’
‘They don’t have to. It’s mine.’
‘It belongs to you? You’re telling me you bought the place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Is that a serious question?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because it was very cheap. And because I can do something with it. Vision, thank God, is a dirty word in this country.’ He nods upwards. ‘Give me six months and I’ll be looking at twenty-two rooms. New basins in all of them. Showers and cooking facilities down the corridor. New boiler for the central heating. Can’t fail.’
‘And then what?’
‘Four hundred quid a month each. Five hundred if you want it furnished. Do the maths. A hundred and thirty-four grand a year. More if you take the furnished option. The refurb’s a pain but nothing lasts for ever. You take sugar?’
We drink the coffee, which is excellent, perched on a pair of wooden stools in the concrete bareness of the back yard. The rear of the property, if anything, is worse than the front. One or two of the downpipes are visibly leaking where the old iron joints have rusted away and there are damp stains under some of the windows.
What I still can’t understand is how one man can possibly sort all this out.
‘I’m not hearing the question.’ His big hand envelops the mug. ‘Which bit of impossible do you want me to explain?’
‘Electrics? Plumbing? Carpentry? Plastering? You know all this stuff?’
‘I do, yes. But I guess that makes me lucky.’
As a kid, he explained, he’d always hated school. He and his mum had been living in Den Haag. A school mistress herself, she’d kept him on a very tight rein. At the earliest opportunity, at the age of fifteen, he’d taken the bus to Rotterdam and gone to sea.
‘And your dad? Your father?’
‘He’d disappeared.’
‘Where?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Basically, it was me and my mother. I was a big boy. Going away was best for both of us. If the relationship is shit, there’s only so much you can take.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘I’m telling you she was better off without me. A quieter life? Definitely. A safer life? Yeah, maybe that too. Once she told me I’d be the death of her. I guess that made her wise. At sea, I calmed down because you have to. I also became a much nicer human being. I was working for nothing on this little coaster. They fed me and they kept me warm and they taught me how to chip rust and paint the upper works. I was good at it. Very good. Then one night we were in Algiers with some cargo or other and we went ashore and the skipper, a lovely man, got in a row with a couple of Arabs. It was going badly for him, but I knew how to fight. I got him out of that bar more or less in one piece and I found a local doctor the next day to treat him on board. The skipper started paying me the following week and from then on I was part of the family. It’s a tiny crew on these little boats. Skipper, first mate, engineer, couple of ABs, and a cook. Just the six of us.’
‘ABs?’
‘Able seamen. Lowest of the low. Blokes like me. On a boat like that you really get to know people. Looking back, I was in deep shit as a kid. The Anneke was the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘That was the name of the boat? The Anneke?’
‘Yeah. Three thousand tons deadweight and paintwork you wouldn’t believe. I stayed with that crew for the next couple of years and it taught me everything. At sea, you’re on your own. And so you have to pick up stuff from the blokes around you. Plumbing? Hydraulics? Carpentry? How best to sweep the hold after you’ve just offloaded a cargo of fish meal? The fish meal, believe me, is a joke. It’s a great fertilizer, farmers love it, but the stuff’s evil and even after you’ve got rid of it you stink for days afterwards. Try impressing the women in a foreign port when you’ve just arrived with tons of ground-up leftovers from the Faroe Isles.’ He shook his head and drained the mug. ‘Not easy.’
I’m deeply impressed by this man and I’m guessing it shows. He has Pavel’s command of language, not just the words but the little tricks that dramatists and actors use to make the ebb and flow of a story irresistible. This can’t be easy for a foreigner, but what makes his company so compelling is the ease with which he’s slipped back into those years that took him away from home.
‘Is Deko your real name?’
‘No. My parents christened me Rolf.’
‘So why Deko?’
‘Think about it. Those first months at sea? Me with my little chisel and my hammer and my brush. Chip, chip, chip. Then on with the paint. Two coats and a third for the God of Mistakes. Are you close, yet?’
I’m not. Then I get it.
‘Painter? Decorator? Deko?’
‘Ja. And it’s stuck to me ever since. A nickname’s like a medal. I wear it with pride. Deko? Parfait.’
‘You speak French, too?’
‘Oui.’
‘Couramment?’
‘Oui.’
‘Et en plus?’
‘Allemand. Italien. Espagnol. Un peu de Russe.’
I’m counting them all up. The man performing major surgery on this half-dead property speaks no less than seven languages. Remarkable. I try to imagine him thirty years ago, voyaging from port to port, sponging up all that knowledge, preparing himself for whatever next adventure lay beyond the horizon.
‘You had favourite ports?’
‘Of course. Tangiers was good, as long as you could handle yourself. Marseille, the same. Casablanca? Unforgettable. Santander, ultra-posh. But remember you’re only there for a couple of days because time is always money. So, on you go.’
‘And a favourite? You had a favourite?’
‘Yes.’ He’s on his feet now, checking his watch. ‘Here. In Exmouth. You’re free tonight? You want an idea for a movie? Only there’s lots, lots more.’
Of course I’m free tonight. And tomorrow night. In fact, given the mood I’m in, I’m probably free forever if it stays as good as this. Deko names a restaurant I’ve never heard of and asks me to be there by half seven. I tell him I’m sure it’ll be a pleasure, and he smiles and says he’ll do his best. Then, without the slightest pressure, I find myself out in the street watching him at the upstairs window, tossing yet another broken chair into the skip.
En route to the Co-op in the town centre I’m trying to find the flaws in what I’ve just been hearing. It’s not that I want to disbelieve him, that I have any intention of waking up from the sweetness of this dream, but it all feels so perfect, so seamless, as if he’s told the stories a thousand times before. One puzzle is his mention of Exmouth. Where on earth a little place like this finds room for the Anneke? Then I picture today’s marina and remember Pavel’s own stories of the way that corner of the town used to be. Commercial docks, he said, and a nearby bidonville that was the playground of every child’s dream. Bidonville is French for shantytown. Tonight, I think. Tonight, I’ll find out more.
I do the shopping and return to the apartment. I’ve bought a couple of tubs of crabmeat from the fishmonger for lunch and while Carrie whips up a salad, I find Geraghty’s card and try to give her a ring. She’s not picking up, so I leave my number and ask her for another ten minutes of her time. She phones back when we’re minutes away from finishing the meal. I step out on to the balcony, close the door, and begin to explain about yesterday’s excursion to the Exeter hostels when she cuts me short.
‘This is about our young friend, am I right?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Be at the police station by two. Someone will be looking out for you.’
She hangs up without another word. There’s a new note in her voice that I haven’t heard before and it’s several seconds before I realize what it is. She’s worried, which means she’s beginning to take me – or perhaps Moonie – seriously.
I’m five minutes early at the police station. The wind has dropped and there’s a hint of warmth in the spring sunshine. Approaching the front door, I’m aware of a stir of movement behind one of the adjacent office windows. Moments later, a youngish woman with a nice smile is letting me in.
‘Ms Andressen?’
I nod.
‘This way, please.’
I follow her upstairs. This door has Inspector Geraghty’s name on it. She’s sitting behind a cluttered desk, eating a Pot Noodle with a plastic fork. She waves me into the empty chair on the other side of her desk and asks me whether I fancy a cup of tea. When I decline, she nods.
‘Right answer,’ she says briskly. ‘We’re low on milk.’
I explain about my visit to Exeter. Carrie’s intruder had spent the night in St Christoph’s hostel but had bailed out before I got there.
Geraghty abandons the last of the Pot Noodle and scribbles herself a note.
‘They had a name?’
‘They did but they wouldn’t give it to me. Maybe it would be different if you asked. The street people call him Moonie.’
‘You’ve talked to them?’
‘My son has.’
‘Good. He’s right. We’ve had a couple of conversations as well. You were wise to come to us in the first place. I’m grateful.’
/> ‘So what did they tell you? The street people?’
‘They said he’s crazy. Not active crazy. Not barking mad. But quietly crazy, like you’re looking into the middle of his head and there’s nothing there. That’s a direct quote, by the way. We’ve got a very good PCSO on the ground and that’s one of the bits of intel she came back with. She says they’re all a bit mystified by him. One or two of them hear voices but not the way he does. Mystified might be a touch weak. Maybe frightened would be closer to the mark.’
‘You mean he’s violent?’
‘Not like you might expect. She asked exactly the same question down in the town this morning. One of the street people is called Stax. He’s the sharpest tool in the box.’
‘I know about Stax.’
‘From your son?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘He thinks he’s way too clever to be poor.’
‘He’s not poor, not in his own head, but that’s not the point. He thinks we’re looking at trouble and after last night, he might be right.’
Last night?
When I press her for details, she consults a typed report on her desk. ‘This morning,’ she says, ‘force control room received three separate calls from Isca Terrace. You know this street?’
‘I do.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Carrie lives there. Basement flat. Number seven.’
‘Ah …’ Her eyes return to the report. ‘That makes sense. Number nine, number ten, and number four.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘All of them reported an intruder during the night. There’s rear access. Not everyone keeps their gates locked.’
‘And?’
‘In every case nothing was stolen except items from the washing line. The last address had movement-activated floodlights. Nothing missing.’
‘And the first two houses?’
‘Underwear from the washing line. Bras and panties.’ A thin smile. ‘Neighbours talk to each other. Our young man may be sending a message.’
I nod. When Carrie hears about this, as she undoubtedly will, we might just be having another conversation. On the other hand, she might be able to persuade Jean-Paul to abandon his family and move in. Either way, the news will do nothing for her peace of mind.
Off Script Page 8
