Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  ‘It depends on us,’ he says quietly. ‘It depends on what you want.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because what I have in mind might need another trip or two. But only if you say yes.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To you coming with me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The States, first. There are places along the New England coast I’ve never been, up near the Canadian border, Kennebunkport, Bar Harbor. I’ve read about them, heard stories from other people, and they all say the same thing. Take a look. Hunker down. Stay awhile. Then we could head north again, up towards the Saint Lawrence, maybe as far as Quebec. Nova Scotia is another place I’ve always dreamed about.’

  I nod. Twenty-four hours ago I’d have jumped at a proposition like this, even with Pavel as sick as he is.

  ‘It sounds amazing,’ I tell him. ‘You’re telling me Amen would be our home?’

  ‘Sure. For as long as you could cope.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Me?’ It’s my turn to laugh. If this was a movie, I think, Pavel would have written the dialogue. Irony is too small a word.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because it sounds so …’ I shrug. ‘Plausible.’

  ‘Like it won’t happen?’

  ‘Oh no, on the contrary, like it can.’

  ‘Does that mean will? Will happen?’

  This, I realize, is very close to a formal proposal. A hundred years ago Deko would have been on one knee, asking for my hand in marriage. Now, he’s suggesting we sail away and see how it all works out. Very 2019.

  ‘Tell me about the woman you fell in love with on Shelly Beach,’ I say.

  ‘You’re changing the subject.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Just tell me. Did you love her?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’

  ‘How much did you love her?’

  ‘A lot. But I was so young, for Christ’s sake. I knew nothing. I loved her enough to write. I’ve told you already, I’m not a great writer. It never came easy. But I did it, because she’d got to me.’

  ‘Because you wanted to keep her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Own her?’

  ‘Yes. In a way, yes.’

  ‘And is that why you bought her the diamond ear stud? The one you bought in Antwerp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because you thought that would do the trick?’

  ‘Because she’d become part of me. Being at sea as a deckhand isn’t the best place if you want a relationship. At first I thought she might ask me to give it all up and live with her and the kiddie.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘No, never. Looking back, that should have marked my card, but it didn’t.’

  ‘And would you have done it? Would you have left the sea? Stopped being a wanderer? Put all those eggs of yours in her basket?’

  ‘You want the truth? I don’t know.’

  ‘But you might?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you might not?’

  ‘I didn’t. It’s probably the same thing.’

  ‘And when you finally got back, whenever that was, she’d gone. Have I got that right?’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘So how did that make you feel?’

  He doesn’t answer. Not immediately. Then he sighs and tells me again that he loves me.

  ‘That’s not an answer, Mr Deko. I want to know how you felt when you knocked on that door and there was no one at home. She’d moved away. Have I got that bit right?’

  ‘You have. She’d gone to Birmingham and taken her daughter with her.’

  ‘So how did you feel? Just tell me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to know.’

  ‘OK. The truth is that it broke my heart. But that’s not all. It also taught me a lesson. When the voice in your head tells you you’re in love, ignore it.’

  ‘And now? Me? You’re telling me that’s different?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because all my life I’ve wanted to meet someone I know I could never truly control.’

  ‘And that’s me?’

  ‘That’s you.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you control me? What makes you think I’m so strong?’

  ‘Not strong. Mysterious. Your own person. Out of reach. Just. I told you I was crap with language. If I put all this in a letter, you’d laugh in my face and I’d never see you again. I’m clumsy. I know I am. I’m sorry. Here …’

  I can see his hand outstretched in the darkness. He seems to want to touch me and instinctively I recoil.

  ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Just take it.’

  ‘Take what?’

  ‘This.’

  With extreme reluctance I extend a hand and open it. Something light drops on to my palm. I touch it with my other hand, feeling its hardness, picturing what already I know it must be.

  ‘This is the other ear stud?’ I ask him.

  ‘It was mine once,’ he says. ‘And now it’s yours.’

  FORTY

  We haul up the anchor on the winch engine shortly after dawn. Deko says he’s slept a little but looking at him I think that’s a lie. Under the deep tan, his face is drawn, and he seems to have no interest in conversation. This is definitely a relief but he’s never been this way before and I know he’s aware of me watching him as he fires up the main engine and hauls Amen across the tidal stream to pick up the heading for Exmouth.

  We close the buoy that marks the entrance to the approach channel shortly after nine o’clock. We’ve avoided the scatter of offshore pot buoys, and as we putter past the marina and the dock entrance, I gaze up at the penthouse apartment. With luck, I think, Pavel may be back here within days. The thought comforts me, and daylight is definitely another blessing. There are people around on the foreshore, most of them walking their dogs, and the water is busy as well. For the first time since we left France, I don’t feel quite so alone.

  Together, we secure Amen to her mooring buoy. Boysie’s RIB is still made fast but when I tell Deko I need to get ashore, he uses his mobile to summon a water taxi. He says he still has a couple of hours’ work to do down below. Whether this means he’ll start work on the forepeak, liberating four and a half million pounds worth of cocaine, I’ve no idea. Neither, at this point, do I much care. I need to get to the hospital to plan Pavel’s discharge. After that, there’s the small matter of Deko and Carrie. Everything else can wait.

  When the water taxi appears, nudging alongside, Deko barely acknowledges its presence. I’m on deck with my bag. He emerges from below, wiping engine oil from his hands on a rag. He wants to know whether the trip was worth it.

  It’s a strange question, and I don’t know what to make of it.

  ‘Worth it? Of course, it was. We scored, didn’t we? Or at least you did.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  He steps a little closer. He’s never been this uncertain before. The old Deko, confident, utterly sure of himself, seems to have vanished. He holds my gaze for a long moment.

  ‘You’re not wearing it.’ He taps his ear. He means the diamond stud.

  ‘I’m not. You’re right.’

  ‘But you’ve still got it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. Talk later, yeah?’

  Before I have a chance to answer, he’s turned on his heel and disappeared down below. The skipper of the water taxi is getting impatient. Time to go.

  The apartment is empty, no sign of Felip. I shower and change and within the hour I’m on the road north to Exeter. The thought of being with Pavel again, of maybe stirring a hint of recognition, has given me exactly the lift I need. By the time I’ve found a parking space at the hospital, I’m kidding myself that I’m back in control. Pavel, I think. Concentrate on who needs you most.

  I take the stairs to the Stroke Unit. Mid-morning, the nursing staff are busy, mo
ving from bed to bed, and nobody notices my arrival. I’m fine with this. I don’t want to bother anyone. I know exactly where to go.

  Pavel’s side room is at the far end of the ward. The door, unusually, is closed. I knock softly, not wanting to wake him if he’s asleep, and raising no response I open it. The bed is empty, the sheets folded neatly down, no sign of the flowers I’d brought before we left for France. I’m still assuming he’s been moved elsewhere when I feel the lightest pressure on my arm. It’s the consultant.

  He shepherds me into the room and the moment he closes the door behind him I know this is the worst of news.

  ‘He’s gone?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. He had another stroke last night. We did what we could but …’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid it was probably inevitable. I’m glad you’re here. We were about to phone you.’

  I’m still looking at the bed. Oddly enough, despite everything, it’s never entered my head that Pavel wouldn’t make it. I’ve always assumed a brain that big would never shut down, ever, and the fact that he’s turned out to be as mortal as the rest of us has come as a huge shock. Dead? Impossible.

  ‘How?’

  ‘How what?’

  ‘How did he die?’

  The consultant can’t hide his confusion. It’s an idiotic question, and we both know it. My role here is to accept that these people did their best but failed. No blame. No recriminations.

  ‘Here.’ The consultant has extracted a tissue from the box at the bedside. ‘Would you prefer to be alone for a moment or two?’

  I nod. I realize I’m crying. I hear the door close as he steps out of the room. That bed again. So empty. And my poor, dear Pavel. Gone.

  A little later, the male nurse walks me to the hospital mortuary where I need to formally identify Pavel’s body. I also want to say goodbye and once again the staff have the tact to ghost away and leave me alone. A phone call from the Stroke Unit has already fetched Pavel from one of the big fridges where they store the dead. Now, he lies on a metal gurney, a single sheet tucked up around his neck. His eyes are closed, and he looks more peaceful than I can ever remember.

  I bend over him. When I kiss his forehead, his flesh feels cold against my lips. It may sound strange, but I know with absolute certainty that he’s still listening, still tuned in, and that he always will be.

  ‘Not the end,’ I whisper, ‘just the beginning. Think about that second act. Work on the dialogue. We’ll talk again later, I promise. I love you, Pavel. Take care in there.’

  I don’t remember the drive back, not a single detail. Did I pay for the parking ticket? Did I jump that traffic light on the Topsham Road? Were there children I never noticed and ran over? I have absolutely no idea. Back at the apartment, which still belongs to Pavel in my head, I collapse on the sofa and gaze numbly at the wall. The small print of what has to happen next has begun to dawn on me. Pavel has never discussed his family and I’ve never asked. Does he have a mother and a father? Did he ever bother with being born at all? Or did he arrive on earth fully formed, a dreamweaver of genius? Who do I contact? Who do I tell? To all these questions I have absolutely no answer, but I do remember, months back, having a conversation about funerals. Pavel hated them. He claimed never to have attended a single one and when we fell to discussing what my mum would call les arrangements, he said he’d be more than happy to leave them to me. Burial? Cremation? A NASA ride to the moon? Or the black hole? My call.

  I shake my head, more confused than I can ever remember, and this feeling of lostness darkens when I realize there’s absolutely no one I can turn to. H wouldn’t understand. Malo would be too busy to listen. Which leaves Deko. A week ago, I’d already have phoned him, found him, sat him down, had a good cry. Now? I shake my head. He, like Pavel, has gone.

  Mid-afternoon, my phone starts to ring. It’s Felip. He’s still in St Ives, still tucked up with his Spanish friend. When I tell him there’s absolutely no need to hurry back, he sounds relieved.

  ‘They look after him OK?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Felip. He died last night.’

  There’s a long silence and I know exactly what’s coming next, so I hang up. Grief, after a while, is like any other burden. When it gets too heavy you simply have to put it down. Otherwise you’d never walk another step.

  By early evening, apart from a single visit to the kitchen, I haven’t moved from the sofa. I know I ought to be thinking about Carrie, about those photos, about what I ought to be saying to DS Williams, but somehow it’s beyond me. Already, as Pavel might have put it, my brief affair with Deko belongs in another script, another life. I believed him utterly, every word he said, because he had the knack of making me so happy. Now I feel like a child told that Santa Claus never existed, that he was a fantasy. First comes bewilderment. Then disbelief. And soon, maybe, anger. You helped yourself to the best of me, Mr Deko, and now you’ll steal away.

  Very soon, it’s getting dark. They gave me Pavel’s only possession in the Stroke Unit, his glasses. I find them in my bag and carry them through to his bedroom. This, I know, is another farewell, maybe more personal. It takes nothing to imagine his long, skinny frame under those sheets, his head on the whiteness of the pillow, his sunken cheeks, his thinning hair, and those lovely hands, forever lifeless. Carrie used to soap his nails in hot water, and then give him a manicure. He couldn’t feel a thing, and he could never see the results, but he knew that she loved doing it, and that – in turn – made him very happy.

  Pavel? I shake my head, circle the room very slowly, adjusting this, tidying that. Then, gazing out at the last of the sunset, I open his balcony doors wide, feeling the chill of the wind on my face, knowing that at last Pavel’s spirit will be free. Before I leave the room, I put Pavel’s tinted glasses gently on his pillow.

  Will he ever need these again? Who knows.

  By half past nine, I’ve drunk half a bottle of wine and toyed with a bowl of olives from the fridge. I haven’t eaten all day, and the wine has gone straight to my head, but that’s fine because I’ve loosened my moorings and cast myself adrift. Today has shut a great many doors in my life, I tell myself, and now is the time to sleep.

  In the bathroom, for the first time in nearly a year, I pop a diazepam and retire to bed. In seconds, I’m fast asleep.

  FORTY-ONE

  I awake in what feels like the middle of the night. The diazepam has made me groggy and for a moment I’m at sea again, in the belly of Amen, trying to get my bearings. Then I remember Pavel, and the empty bed at the Stroke Unit, and his glasses on the pillow next door, and I groan and roll over.

  Very slowly, I sense a presence beside the bed, a physical shape in the darkness, someone tall, staring down at me. Frightened now, I reach for the light beside my bed. My heart skips a beat, then I feel my blood turn to ice in my veins.

  Deko is dressed entirely in black: black jeans, tight-fitting black polo-neck, black runners. He’s swaying slightly and at first I think he’s drunk. Anything but.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘Too right.’ All I can think of is Carrie. Same situation. Same time of night. To my relief I can see no signs of a knife, Japanese or otherwise. ‘So how did you get in?’

  He says he climbed up the outside of the building, storey by storey, until he found the balcony with the open doors. He’d checked earlier and there were no lights in the apartments below. I nod. This makes sense. Both apartments are second homes, the owners normally elsewhere.

  ‘You’ve been watching me?’ I pull the duvet tightly to my neck.

  ‘I’ve been watching the block.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb anyone.’

  ‘But why didn’t you phone? Press the bell at the front door?’

  ‘Because you’d never have let me in.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you found the phone in the drawer on board. There’s a bungee cord. You probably rem
ember it. The hook on one end’s dodgy and I always put it at the bottom end. You did the reverse.’ I nod. Fuck, I think. ‘You’re telling me you didn’t see the photos?’

  ‘Of course, I saw the photos. You and Carrie? How could I not?’

  ‘You were checking up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wanted to know who the phone belonged to. And because I wanted to be sure of you.’

  ‘Sure of me how?’

  ‘Sure that I’d got you right. Sure that I wasn’t fooling myself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was fooling myself. You lied about Carrie, Mr Deko.’

  ‘Amy. I lied about Amy.’

  ‘Did she matter to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As much as the woman on Shelly Beach?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As much as me?’

  ‘No. And that’s the truth.’ He sounds, if anything, distressed. ‘You believe me?’

  I shake my head. I’m not frightened any more, because I don’t think this man is going to hurt me.

  ‘Tell me about Carrie,’ I say. ‘Tell me what really happened.’

  ‘We had an affair. I was besotted. She was an amazing woman. I also wanted her to come to the Beacon when everything was ready.’

  ‘To live with you?’

  ‘To run the place. To look after the clients.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said no. She was already looking after your friend by that time and she wouldn’t leave.’

  ‘Pavel’s dead. He died last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I nod, say nothing.

  ‘What about Moonie?’ I mutter at last. ‘Where does he come into all this?’

  ‘That boy was crazy.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Is.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yes. He wandered into the nursing home when I was working there. He wanted a job and somewhere to get his head down in the evenings. I gave him one of the rooms upstairs in exchange for navvying. I paid him, too.’

  ‘You got to know him?’

  ‘We talked. He had a problem with his father.’