Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  I kneel quickly beside the open flap, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness inside. The smell of sweat and neglect is overpowering but there’s something else I recognize – the sweetness of a joss stick or two, evidence that someone is still fighting the tide.

  Beyond the cry of the gulls I can hear the rasp of the waves on the pebble beach but as the seconds tick by I become aware of another sound, just as rhythmic but much closer. Someone’s in there, huddled down on the cardboard. I can hear them, the lightest intake of breath, a pause and then a gummy little grunt as they breathe out again. Noodle, I think. Asleep. Has to be.

  This is the moment I have a decision to make. Simplest, sanest and probably kindest would be to turn my back on this claustrophobic little tomb and tiptoe away. Nothing disturbed, no one roused, no one frightened. I hesitate for a moment and then shake my head. Malo, I think. And Clem.

  I turn on the torch again, shielding the beam. Then, through a spread of fingers, I shine it into the tent. Not one body, but two. They’re lying side by side on the flattened cardboard. Both are male, both young, both thin, both fully clothed. They have their arms round each other, probably for warmth, and the closest of the two figures, the bigger of the two, is wearing a knitted woollen beanie with RNLI on the front.

  I stare at this tableau for far longer than I should. It’s full of pathos, of an unspoken vulnerability, two barely grown men huddled together to ward off armies of ghosts. It reminds me of some of the refugee footage I’ve seen recently on TV, whole families sleeping under plastic sheets, fleeing the near-certainty of an ugly death. A burned-out joss stick stands in a jar on the cardboard. Also a candle in a dirty saucer and a Bic lighter. There are coils of vermicelli pasta in a single takeout carton and the puddle of sauce has already congealed. Noodle, I think. Eating out again.

  One of the bodies, the nearest, is stirring. I’m tempted to turn the torch off but I don’t. His face is very young and very pale against the surrounding darkness and when his eyes open, his first instinct is to raise his thin arms to ward off the inevitable blow. I crouch quickly beside him.

  ‘Noodle?’ It’s a ridiculous name.

  The face grunts. Then comes a volley of oaths and the youth is struggling to his feet, pushing me aside before I can react. Flat on my back on the pebbles, I hear another curse as he trips before recovering his balance and making off towards the steps. The patter of footsteps on the promenade slowly recedes.

  I get slowly to my feet, adjust my anorak, brush myself down. Then I bend to the open flap.

  ‘Noodle?’ I say again, this time much more softly.

  In the throw of the torch, the other youth appears to be still asleep. Once, I’m guessing, he’d been some lucky mother’s pride and joy. There are still hints of choirboy in the dimpled cheeks and once-blond curls, but life has been less than kind to him lately. The jeans are way too big and the tatty grey T-shirt badly needs a wash. At last he begins to stir. One eye flicks open but the other, swollen and purpled, stays shut. There’s another bruise, older, high on his temple and at least two of his lower teeth are missing. An old actor friend I treasured from my days in northern rep once told me that nothing ages a man more quickly, and more permanently, than disappointment. And here, in a scavenged festival tent in west Dorset, is the living proof.

  ‘Who are you?’

  It’s an utterly reasonable question. I give him my name and apologize for waking him up. I’m not here to hurt him, I say. And I have absolutely nothing to do with the police.

  ‘Where’s Jake?’ He nods down at the empty space on the mattress.

  ‘He’s gone. My fault. Sorry.’

  He nods, trying to take it all in. Then he starts to scratch himself and half-rolls over. The beam of my torch follows him, revealing a nest of debris piled against the wall of the tent. I glimpse a couple of dessert spoons, a syringe, a twist of grubby paper and what looks like an old inhaler. Noodle’s fingers have found the inhaler. He begs me not to turn the torch off. I nod. All I can do is watch. He’s found a fragment of tin foil. He holds it up to the beam of the torch. He wants me inside the tent. And he wants me to close the flap.

  I have no time for misgivings. This is Noodle’s life, not mine. Inside the tent, there’s barely room for two of us. Cosy doesn’t begin to do it justice.

  Noodle says he needs the needle.

  ‘Needle?’

  ‘Down there. Soon as you like.’

  I spot the needle beside the remains of the joss stick. Picking it up isn’t easy.

  ‘Give it me. Please.’ He sounds like a child.

  I pass him the needle and watch him puncture the tin foil. In the twist of paper are a couple of crystals. Bad, I think. Crack cocaine. Has to be. Noodle selects the biggest crystal, holds it for a moment between his fingertips. The inhaler, I realize, has been crudely refashioned as a pipe.

  ‘That was yours? The inhaler?’

  He stares up at me, shakes his head. ‘I found it. Out there on the beach. It does OK.’

  He slips the tiny pebble of cocaine into the bowl and seals it with the foil. Then he reaches into the semi-darkness at my feet and finds the lighter. Moments later, a tiny flame is beginning to heat the crystal. My torch has settled on the inhaler. I can hear a tiny cracking noise. Noodle’s face looms over the pool of light. He’s waiting for something, his good eye bright at last. I see a curl of bluish smoke and his head goes down and he starts to inhale the fumes before he rocks briefly back, the sudden jolt of relief contorting his face. Wake and bake, I think, remembering one of the dealer messages on Dooley’s phone.

  Should I stop this? Should I play mother, step in, confiscate this makeshift pipe, tell him to get a grip? Too late. His head’s down again and he’s sucking the fumes deep into his lungs. I watch, fascinated on one level, ashamed on another. This is complicity, I tell myself. Or, even worse, a form of voyeurism. I’m doing nothing when I should be intervening.

  I reach for the inhaler, but the second I move, Noodle turns his back to keep me at arm’s length. This is the way an animal would react, I tell myself. What suddenly matters more than anything else in the world is that tiny, shrinking crystal. And so I leave him to it, saying nothing, doing nothing.

  After a while, the crystal has gone. He stretches out on the cardboard, propping himself on one arm, buzzing, wanting to talk.

  I ask him how I can help.

  ‘Help how?’

  ‘Help you.’ I gesture around. ‘This is no way to live. This is pathetic.’

  ‘You’ve got money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you give me money?’

  ‘How much would you want?’

  ‘As much as you’re carrying.’

  I do the sums. I have my purse with me. Last time I looked, it contained half a dozen notes. Say fifty pounds. Maybe more.

  ‘Say I said yes. Say I gave you money. What would you do with it?’

  I already know what the answer is. If this child is honest he’ll tell me he’ll buy more drugs. I’m wrong.

  ‘I’d start to settle my debts,’ he says.

  ‘Not buy drugs? You’re serious?’

  ‘I’ve got all the drugs I’ll ever need. This stuff. Smack. Whatever. And that’s because I sell the stuff. Gear is easy. I help myself. But in the end I need to pay the man’s bill.’

  ‘So who’s the man?’

  He shakes his head. No way is he going to tell me. He says he’s tried begging in the street. On market days, especially, he might make a quid or two.

  ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what happens?’

  One hand touches his swollen eye. In the throw of light from the torch it’s a gesture I’ll never forget. With the pleasure, he seems to be telling me, comes the pain. Not simply of withdrawal but of punishment. That’s the price he has to pay, as sure as day follows night.

  ‘So why don’t you chuck it in? Find help? Clean yourself up?’

  ‘Because I can�
��t.’

  ‘Won’t.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He nods. ‘Won’t.’

  ‘You like a life like this?’

  ‘It’s what happens.’ He shrugs, beginning to scratch again. ‘You’re nice. You listen. I like you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I have no idea where this conversation might go next. I get out my phone and scroll through my photos until I find one of Malo and Clem together. Noodle barely spares it a glance.

  ‘I’ve heard about you,’ he says. ‘I know who you are. You were in the Fall, right? The other night? With a big roll of notes?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Looking for a kid with a funny name, right?’

  ‘Malo. He’s my son.’ I show him the phone again. ‘That’s him with his girlfriend. Her name’s Clemenza.’

  ‘Beautiful.’ Noodle ignores the phone. ‘She was beautiful.’

  ‘Clem?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You met her?’

  ‘Yeah. Your boy wanted to score. She didn’t. They had a bit of a domestic. Right there on the street. Down from the Fall.’

  ‘And who won?’

  ‘She did. And I did, too.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We had a bit of a chat. Your boy had gone. Just walked off. She wanted to know all sorts of things, that girl.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Me. You get used to it after a while. You’re at it, too. I’m sure you mean well, and it’s nice that someone takes an interest, but …’ He shrugs. ‘You do what you do, yeah?’

  You do what you do.

  I want to know how the conversation with Clem ended. Did Malo come back? Did the row in the street start all over again? Did Noodle finally manage to make a sale?

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She gave me seventy quid. Told me to keep it. When I asked why, she wouldn’t say. If you want the truth, I think she was sorry for me.’

  ‘And then you parted?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Just said goodbye?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He manages a smile. ‘And thank you.’

  He’s scratching again. I suspect the tiny pebble of Bad is wearing off and it turns out I’m right. Noodle rolls over and begins to fumble around where the side of the tent meets bare pebbles. The torch reveals a small plastic sachet. The powder inside looks brown.

  ‘Jake normally helps.’ Noodle is offering me the syringe. ‘D’you mind?’

  I take the syringe. A smear of blood has caked on the plastic barrel. Noodle needs the light from the torch. With some care he tips some of the brown powder into the spoon, then asks me for water.

  ‘Plastic bottle. Over your side.’

  I haven’t noticed the bottle before. He got it off the beach again, I think. Recycling with a twist.

  Noodle asks me to pour a little of the water into the spoon. He stirs it up with his finger then begs another favour.

  ‘The lighter?’

  I’m beginning to get the picture here. I coax a flame from the lighter and hold it under the spoon until the powder has dissolved. Still holding the spoon, Noodle talks me through filling the syringe with the warm liquid. When I’ve finished, he abandons the spoon and asks for the syringe. Holding it up against the beam of the torch he expels the last of the air and then lays it carefully on the floor. A cheap plastic belt secures his jeans. He slips it off and then offers me a bare arm.

  ‘Just there by the elbow,’ he says. ‘As tight as you like.’

  I’m staring at his skinny little arm. For the first time I notice the track marks criss-crossing the paleness of the flesh. I wind the belt around his arm. Way beyond the normal line of holes, he’s fashioned some more. I tighten the belt and secure it with the buckle. Very slowly, a vein begins to fatten. Noodle watches it for a moment, then reaches for the syringe.

  ‘That’s heroin? Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To take the pain away. To make me sleep. Don’t go yet. Not yet, please.’

  This is way beyond complicity, but I know I have to see this through to the end. In the dark, with me gone, he might miss. Or overdose. Or whatever else. His pain is everything. But just now, for the trillionth time, he knows exactly what to do.

  I watch him steadying the needle against the vein, just letting it lie there. Foreplay, I think. The overture before the main event. Then he eases the needle into the vein and there’s a moment’s pause before his grubby little thumb settles on the plunger and the barrel of the syringe begins to empty.

  Once he’s done, he lies back, his good eye closing, the hint of a smile on his face. I want to cover him with blankets, but there are none. I want to read him a story, get him off to sleep, but there’s no need. His breathing has slowed and he seems at peace.

  The syringe still dangles from his forearm. I reach forward, remove it as gently as I can, and then unwind the belt. He doesn’t react. I watch him for a moment longer before turning the torch off and backing softly out of the tent.

  Darkness again, I think.

  THIRTY-TWO

  For a long time, I sit in my car just staring out at the blurry pools of light in the nearby docks. Once, another vehicle arrives and makes a slow circuit around the car park passing very close but I pay it no attention. What I’ve just seen, witnessed, is more shocking in its way than anything Wesley Kane can conjure from a kettle and a length of rope.

  The guilt I felt earlier has gone. I need to study this new world of mine just the way I’d study any other script on-screen or on stage, and I hug this rationale, this excuse, tight in the awareness that it gives me comfort. I’ve truly no idea what happens next but I want, very badly, to get a great deal off my chest. I know exactly who’s going to be on the receiving end but I know as well that I can’t make the call until the start of the working day.

  When I finally get back to Flixcombe, it’s gone half past four in the morning. I creep upstairs to the bedroom I’m using and try to talk myself into going to sleep but my body – or more precisely my brain – isn’t listening. All those little neural pathways are fizzing with names and faces and half-remembered fragments of conversation. Noodle. Danny. The Landfall. Andy. The Machine. Broken shards of the mirror that used to be rural England.

  In the end I do manage to get to sleep, waking fully clothed to a tap at the door. It’s Jessie. She wants to know whether I’m OK and – far more importantly – she’s brought me tea. I struggle upright and take the proffered cup.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her.

  ‘Andy says it was light when you got back.’

  ‘He’s right. I’m sorry I woke him up.’

  ‘Don’t be. He’s always up early.’ She wants to linger. ‘Get what you wanted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Am I being nosy?’

  ‘Yes.’ I offer her a rueful grin. ‘The older I get the more life surprises me. Do you ever find that?’

  ‘Never. In fact, quite the reverse.’ She frowns. ‘Should I be envious?’

  ‘No.’ I can’t stop thinking of the syringe dangling from Noodle’s forearm. ‘Quite the reverse.’

  In the end, to my relief, she leaves me in peace. According to my mobile, it’s mid-morning. I finish the tea and rummage in my bag for the number of the Glasgow hospital. By now, if they haven’t already shipped him south, Pavel should be in the mood for a longish conversation. I dial the main switchboard number and ask to be put through to the spinal injuries unit. After a while, a nurse answers. I recognize her voice at once. We met when I was up there.

  ‘It’s Enora,’ I tell her. ‘Enora Andressen. Pavel’s friend.’

  ‘Ah … right. I’m afraid he’s asleep just now. Do you want to phone back later?’

  I tell her that won’t be a problem. Then I ask whether they have a date for the transfer south.

  ‘The transfer where?’

  ‘South.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’
/>   I’m staring at the phone. Something very cold is clutching at my heart. Not again. Oh, please God, not again.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask.

  ‘Much the same, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Still on the catheter?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Any sign of …’ I close my eyes. ‘Is he getting any kind of feeling back? Maybe his arms? Legs? Feet?’

  ‘Not that he’s told us.’

  I nod. I’m hearing everything she’s telling me but I have to be certain. ‘So no progress at all?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We were more optimistic a couple of days ago but a break that high, C4, no one should be holding their breath.’

  ‘Is it worth me talking to the consultant?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t take any of this stuff from me.’

  She advises me to phone just before lunch and gives me the number for his direct line. She also says that she can see Pavel from the nursing station and thinks he might be awake now.

  ‘You still want to talk to him?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll wait.’

  By the time I talk to the consultant, I’ve decided there’s no point hiding the truth. Pavel is a fantasist. That’s probably what makes him such an original talent. That’s probably what’s brought him the respect of pretty much everyone I know in the industry. This is the man who has pushed blindness aside and delivered scripts of rare brilliance. His dialogue, in particular, is the envy of other scriptwriters. He’s learned to imagine total strangers by their speech patterns, by their little linguistic tics, by the silences they leave between words. His ears and his brain paint the pictures his eyes can’t see.

  ‘Pavel,’ the consultant says. ‘You’re naturally after an update.’

  I shake my head. I tell him no. Then I describe the news I got from Pavel himself, how much better he’s feeling, how sensation has returned to most of his body, how excited he is by the prospect of a transfer south. This makes me feel worse than disloyal, and I’ve taken the precaution of swearing the consultant to silence on the subject, but once I’ve finished ratting my lovely Pavel out, the consultant tells me I’ve done the right thing.