Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  Weightless, I think. Pavel’s default setting. The footage from the dives, Pavel gathered, was excellent. The German director was more than pleased. Once the dives were over, Pavel did a lengthy interview, explaining the parallel between the protagonist’s marital anguish and the German fleet’s larger catastrophe. I’m still not entirely clear how one relates to the other but Germans often have the weirdest ideas when it comes to avant-garde movies and the director, according to Pavel, declared the interview a masterpiece of creative daring.

  That night, the shoot over, they all celebrated. At two in the morning, still drunk, Pavel decided to go for a swim in the hotel’s new pool. He needed, he said, to be underwater again. He needed to feel free.

  ‘And?’

  ‘The pool was very close to my room. You could smell it, the chlorine, once you were out in the corridor. I was naked, just a towel.’ He tries to frown. ‘I must have dived in the wrong end.’

  ‘You mean the shallow end?’

  ‘Yes. My fault.’

  He remembers his head hitting the bottom of the pool, everything going suddenly numb, no real pain, then his head breaking the surface of the water. Somehow he managed to turn on to his back. CCTV cameras were already bringing a security guard to the pool. It took three men to get him out.

  I stay at Pavel’s bedside all day. Given the circumstances, there’s no way I’m even going to mention Prague, or my anguished calls to the police and the Foreign Office. Whatever hurt he’d been nursing from our last conversation is now ancient history. Poor bloody man.

  We talk fitfully. I try not to strain him. Much of the time he appears to be asleep, his eyes closed, his thin chest barely moving beneath the whiteness of the sheet. I stroke his hand from time to time, more comfort for me than him, and when the consultant arrives late in the afternoon I stand aside while he conducts a brief examination.

  We talk afterwards in a small, bare side office. The consultant is a little more guarded than the nurse I met earlier. He’s older than most of the staff I’ve seen and he has a gauntness that suggests regular exercise. Prognoses for spinal injury, he explains, can be a nightmare, largely because the nerve tissue doesn’t repair itself. Pavel, technically, has broken his neck but the good news is that pressure on the spinal cord itself might ease a little. Soon, if he’s lucky, he may feel the first signs of returning sensation. Best case, he might regain the use of his hands and arms.

  ‘I understand he’s some kind of writer? Is that true?’

  I nod. News travels fast. I explain briefly about his work for TV and radio. Feature movies, too.

  ‘You obviously know him well.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is there anything you’d recommend? Assuming we can get him into a wheelchair before too long?’

  ‘Sunshine. He loves sunshine. Do you have a terrace here? Some kind of patio?’

  The consultant nods. It seems there’s a little garden patients can use. Then he pauses.

  ‘He’s out in the sun a lot, isn’t he? I noticed the lesions on his face, up by the hairline. Solar keratosis can be a little unsightly. Maybe the garden’s not such a great idea.’

  I hold his gaze. Medics, no matter how caring, sometimes drive me nuts.

  ‘Pavel’s blind,’ I point out. ‘And now he’s paralysed as well. I doubt he’ll be losing any sleep about UV damage.’

  I stay in Glasgow for another long day. By the time I say goodbye to Pavel he thinks he might be able to feel just a flicker of sensation in his arms. He’s wary of celebrating too early, of trying to trap this songbird in case it flies away, but I can sense his relief. I kiss his fingertips and promise to come back as soon as I can. He tells me that the consultant is already talking about a move to another unit further south and that would obviously make things much easier.

  I’m about to leave for the airport when Pavel asks me about Cotehele. Cotehele is a fabulous Tudor mansion H has chosen for the movie he wants Pavel to script. It’s tucked away in the depths of the Tamar Valley on the Devon/Cornwall border and I happen to know it well. Pavel is aware of this, and although we’ve kicked around a number of story options we’ve never really discussed the depths of my private passion for the building and the estate. Now, though, he seems suddenly keen.

  ‘I want to go there,’ he says. ‘And I want you to take me.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I arrive back in London to find the lights on in my apartment. There’s only one person in my life who has a key and that’s Malo. He’s sprawled on the sofa watching The Blair Witch Project.

  ‘You’re supposed to be in France,’ I tell him.

  ‘I went yesterday. Came back this afternoon.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re really, really keen.’

  ‘On Cotehele?’

  ‘On the idea. I was selling an outline, nothing more.’

  ‘So what does “keen” mean?’

  ‘Dad reckons twenty million, ball park.’

  ‘Dollars?’

  ‘Euros. If we get the script right, they don’t think that will be a problem.’

  I nod. Ball park. Twenty million euros. Part of my son’s charm is the way he can slip unannounced into other people’s worlds, pick up a phrase or two, and busk his way to a result. I’ve watched him pull this trick on a number of occasions now and it never fails to impress me. He can only have got that kind of confidence from H because I certainly don’t have it. Actors need a script. Malo makes it up as he goes along.

  ‘So what were they like, these people?’

  ‘Sharp. Quite funny. Great restaurant, right on the river. Best steak ever.’

  ‘And you did the whole thing in French?’

  ‘Bien sûr.’

  ‘And were they impressed?’

  ‘Relieved. They speak OK English but I think they had trouble following Dad.’

  ‘Aucune surprise. I often have the same problem.’

  Malo shoots me a look. Given everything that could so easily go wrong in our little ménage we all get along surprisingly well, but I’m always aware of my son’s loyalty to his natural father. From the moment, back last year, when he first set eyes on Hayden Prentice, Malo has been glued to his dad in a way that only shared genes can explain. Not that H gives anyone an easy ride.

  ‘Your father was in Bridport the other day,’ I say carefully.

  ‘I know. And you were there too. So what went down?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘He gave me a bollocking for drinking too much and chatting to the wrong people. As if I had a choice.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s Clem. Men just go nuts about her. That can be a pain, believe me.’

  ‘And that happened in Bridport?’

  ‘It happens everywhere.’

  ‘Your dad seems to think that has to do with … you know …’ I shrug. I’m beginning to hate the word ‘kidnap’.

  ‘Her getting lifted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s wrong. Bridport’s a doze. Nothing happens. Clem’s up here somewhere.’

  ‘You know that?’

  He won’t answer me. We’ve got to an especially scary bit of the Blair Witch movie where the kids have discovered the derelict cottage in the woods. They’re out of their depth. They’re helpless. They can feel the presence of evil and they haven’t a clue what to do. Very apposite.

  ‘Great movie, Mum.’ Malo is glued to the screen. ‘I’ve seen it three times already and it still scares me shitless. You know how much it cost to make? Sixty thousand US.’

  Really? I don’t want to talk about movie budgets and Blair Witch. I want to talk about Clem.

  ‘You’ve never told me exactly what happened.’ I reach for the remote and mute the sound. ‘Now might be the time.’

  Malo lunges for the remote. He’s outraged. He might be fifteen again. Or ten. I push him away and then find the off button.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘You can pick it up late
r. It won’t go away.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘No?’ I’m trying to get him to look me in the eye. ‘You’re telling me Blair Witch is more important than Clem?’

  ‘You know about Clem. I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘You’ve told me nothing. You said you were together at her place the previous night. You said everything was fine. You told me about the Womad tickets her Dad had bought. Then you got the message on your phone. That’s all I know.’

  ‘But that’s what happened.’

  ‘OK. This was the Friday last week. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So let’s go back to Thursday night. You told me everything was fine.’

  For the first time, he falters. This moment of hesitation tells me I’m getting warm. Pavel, bless him, was right. There’s much, much more to this story than meets the eye.

  ‘Well? You were with her?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘I like complications. They’ve never frightened me.’ I pause. ‘You were at her place? Both of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  He won’t say. I’m still trying to work out whether he’s embarrassed to tell me, or he’s desperately trying to concoct some other story when he tells me I wouldn’t understand.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You just wouldn’t.’

  ‘Try me.’

  He shrugs, a gesture I know he wants me to interpret as resignation. His acting skills aren’t quite as good as his mum’s. Not yet.

  ‘We had a row,’ he mutters. ‘And then she walked out on me.’

  ‘What was the row about?’

  ‘That’s not your business.’

  ‘Malo, it absolutely is. Whether it matters to you or not, Clem going missing has got us all in a bit of a state. Me. Your dad. Clem’s parents. Everyone.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ he says at once. ‘Just leave me out of it.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Malo, this isn’t about you, it’s about Clem. We’re all assuming she’s gone. We’re all taking these messages at face value. Someone’s locked her away. Someone might do her a great deal of harm unless we come up with a great deal of money. Isn’t that the way it is? Or are you telling me something different?’

  Malo turns his head away, won’t respond. I’m good with body language. I sense he’s starting to panic.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I told you. We had a ruck.’

  ‘But why? That’s what I’m asking. Why?’

  He shakes his head, won’t say.

  ‘Had she met someone else?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why? Why did she walk out on you? Why did she leave that night?’

  Silence. Malo has picked up the remote but he makes no attempt to put the TV on.

  ‘Did you try to follow her?’

  ‘I couldn’t. She was on the bike.’

  ‘You have a car.’

  ‘I’d been drinking. She was working until late. By the time she got back I was pissed. That didn’t help, either.’

  I nod. Clem, to the best of my knowledge, is teetotal, never touches a drop. She also goes to Mass every Sunday, often with her mother.

  ‘Help me, Malo.’ I’m trying to nail down the pieces of this jigsaw. ‘You’ve spent all evening drinking alone. She comes back from work. You have a row. You won’t say why, or what the row was about. Maybe it’s because she saw the state of you. Maybe not. Either way she walks out. I’m guessing you tried to call her. Would that be right?’

  ‘Of course I tried to call her.’

  ‘On her work phone?’

  ‘On her own number.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She wouldn’t pick up. She was blanking me. She does that sometimes when she’s really annoyed.’

  ‘But I expect you tried again.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And again.’

  ‘Yeah. Same result. In the end I went to bed.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Did she come back that night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And next day? The Friday?’

  ‘Next day I woke up and got on with stuff. I thought it would all blow over and I was right. We talked on the phone. She had the tickets for Womad. She was cool about everything. We fixed to meet in the afternoon before going down there. It was going to be a great weekend.’

  ‘Did you ask where she’d been? Where she’d slept that previous night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it didn’t matter. Shit happens. She’s got lots of mates. I was packing stuff for Womad. You just get on with it. Then I got the message with the photo. The rest you know.’

  ‘Did you contact these mates she might have stayed with? Did you ask around?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because these people were threatening to kill her. I had to keep it tight. A million US and everything would be cool.’

  ‘And you believed that?’

  ‘Of course I did. What fucking choice did I have?’

  The question is a challenge. My persistence has upset him and it shows.

  I check my watch, tell him it’s been a long day.

  ‘That’s it?’ He’s still staring at me.

  ‘Yes.’ I offer him a thin smile. ‘For now.’

  I have a restless night. I haven’t bothered to make any sleeping arrangements for Malo because he’s perfectly capable of finding the spare bedroom by himself. From time to time, jerking awake between broken dreams, I think I can hear the TV in the living room but I’m not certain. I get up early, ten past six, and find Malo fully clothed on the sofa, his knees tucked up to his chin, his hands thrust deep between his thighs. I contemplate him for minutes on end, ghosting back and forth to the kitchen. In my heart I know he’s lying to me about Clem. But why?

  A couple of hours later I leave the apartment. My favourite wholefood cafe is a ten-minute walk away on the Bayswater Road. A table at the back gives me the privacy I need. I order poached eggs with avocado mash plus a baked carrot and turmeric fritter and then make the call to Mateo, Clem’s father. As soon as he realizes it’s me he’s hungry for news.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  I apologize for phoning so early and ask whether it’s true that he has contacts within the Vodafone organization. He says yes. He helped them get to the right people in Bogotá when they were setting up the network there. Favours like that, he says, never go amiss.

  ‘You can get hold of phone billings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like Clem’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Both her work phone and her personal phone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you done that?’

  Mateo hesitates, then he wants to know exactly what I’m after.

  ‘That night before she disappeared,’ I say. ‘Did she take any calls from Malo? On her personal phone?’

  There’s a moment’s silence. For a moment I think he’s hung up on me but I’m wrong.

  ‘Why do you need to know?’ he says at last. ‘You mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. Give me the answer and then I’ll tell you why.’

  ‘OK.’ Another silence, longer this time. Finally he tells me that Malo placed three calls that night.

  ‘To Clem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Late?’

  ‘After midnight.’

  ‘And did Clem answer them?’

  ‘Yes, every time.’

  ‘And they talked?’

  ‘The first time for thirteen minutes. The other two conversations were shorter.’

  ‘And did she talk to anyone else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you have that number?’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes. It was pay as you go and it hasn’t been active since.’

  A burner, I think. Malo’s phrase. Someone in the drugs biz.

  ‘One last question,’ I mutter. ‘The day she went missing. The Friday. Did she phone Malo at all?’

  ‘She made no calls that morning,’ he says. ‘Her phone was off.’

  I’ve closed my eyes. I’m conscious of rocking slowly back and forth at my table in the cafe. Mateo wants to know my own role in this. I steady myself and then ask him why he hasn’t shared this little bit of news about the after-midnight calls earlier.

  ‘O’Keefe made me promise not to.’

  ‘So he knows, too?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  I nod. This, at least, makes some kind of sense. Mateo is still waiting for word from me. I must deliver my side of the bargain.

  ‘Malo is lying to his mother,’ I tell him. ‘And now I must find out why.’

  Mateo’s laugh is mirthless. He says he’s sorry and wishes me good luck. I thank him for helping me out.

  ‘You’ll keep me in the loop?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  I thank him again and hang up. The waitress is en route across the cafe with my breakfast but I’m already on my feet. I tell her I’ve lost my appetite and leave a twenty-pound note on her tray beside the poached eggs.

  I’m back outside my apartment block in less than seven minutes, a world record, but when I check for Malo’s Audi in the car park there’s no sign of it. Upstairs in the kitchen I find a note on the back of my gas bill.

  Love you, Mum, Malo has scribbled. Laters, yeah?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Laters? The word dogs me for hours on end, so casual, so dismissive, so dishonest. He was awake when I left. He was awake on the sofa and the moment he was sure I’d gone he’d fled. Last night I’d got far too close to whatever secret my son is trying to hide. Laters, if Malo has anything to do with it, will be as far into his probably uncertain future as possible.

  Mid-morning, expecting the delivery from Amazon, I’m looking for small change for a tip. I keep my stash of coins and the odd fiver in a cupboard in the kitchen but when I look, it’s gone. I know it was there a couple of days ago because I raided it for parking-meter money. Thinking I might have stored it somewhere else, I start opening other cupboard doors. Only when I spot the jar lying on the floor by the swing bin do I realize what’s happened. It’s empty.