There’s a silence around the table. H is still at the stove, stirring and stirring. ‘Making other plans, was he?’ He glances over his shoulder. ‘Or is that in bad taste?’
We retire early that night. In the privacy of my bedroom I go to Google Earth, type in the postcode for Beaufort House and await the result. Within seconds, I’m looking at a country pile that reminds me immediately of Flixcombe. The same rich sense of entitlement. The same spread of handsome Georgian windows. I even spot a pergola in the walled garden that I know H has just ordered from an ad in Country Life.
I’m sitting on the bed with my back to the door. Unaware that I have company, I’m taking a 360-degree tour of the property when I sense a presence behind me. It’s Malo. He says he’s come to say goodnight. He can’t take his eyes off my iPad.
‘Where’s that?’
I bluster for a second or two and then tell him I’m checking out a possible location.
‘This is for the Pavel movie?’
‘Could easily be.’
‘Then why didn’t you mention it earlier?’
‘I couldn’t. I’ve only just found it.’
He doesn’t believe me for a second. Taking a final look, he gives me a peck on the cheek. Only when he’s back beside the door does he nod at the iPad. ‘You should be careful, Mum. It’ll be porn next.’
THIRTY-NINE
Next morning, between them, I get the full treatment from Malo and H. My son appears at my bedroom door shortly after six o’clock with a mug of tea. Thirty minutes later, down in the kitchen, H has readied my favourite breakfast. For reasons I can’t fathom, I’m starving hungry. I demolish the fruit and muesli and empty the yoghurt pot while H plots a cross-country route to Dunkeswell. The drive seems to take no time at all. Nearly half an hour early, we surprise Buster Clegg who’s parking his Porsche beside a smallish white aircraft. It has two engines and a rather fetching scarlet stripe that runs the length of the fuselage.
H tells me to wait while he walks across and introduces himself. I watch the two men shake hands. The conversation seems to take a while and once or twice H gestures back towards the Range Rover. Cleggie is older than I’d expected, mid-fifties at least. His sandy hair is beginning to thin and a pair of glasses dangle from a lanyard around his neck. He’s powerfully built, enormous hands, and he towers over H. He wears a black flying suit, which looks even older than he does, but it fits him perfectly.
H finally summons me over. Cleggie’s handshake is on the firm side. I’ve brought an overnight bag, just in case, and when I ask him where I can stow it in the aircraft he turns his head and taps his right ear. ‘That one’s best,’ he says. ‘Ask me again.’
We’re taxiing out to take-off within minutes. On the far side of the grass runway I can see a line of gliders parked untidily on the springy turf. They have the look of abandoned toys and apart from us there’s no sign of activity on the airfield. As we lift off, I spot a tiny figure that must be H. He gives us a wave. I raise my right hand in a rather regal adieu and seconds later my phone begins to ring.
‘Behave yourself,’ H says. ‘Cleggie was in the Red Arrows.’
It’s true. Within the hour we’re passing a vast brown smudge that Cleggie tells me is Manchester. He seems to fly by his fingertips alone, tiny movements on the control column, strangely delicate for such a big man. We’ve talked most of the way and by now I know a great deal about close formation aerobatics and the alarming consequences if you get a manoeuvre called the Eagle Roll badly wrong. Red Arrows pre-season training, says Cleggie, normally happened in Cyprus where you could pretty much guarantee the vis. ‘Vis’ turns out to be visibility, clean air, and the point of the story is that nothing prepares you for the real thing. Back in the UK for the start of the display season, you could never guarantee anything weather-wise and Cleggie says he’s lost count of the occasions in the middle of the night when he’s awoken in a cold sweat, reliving the moments when his wingman had suddenly vanished in low cloud.
‘It sounds lunatic, and if you haven’t done the prep it’ll kill you. A thousand feet? Five hundred and fifty knots on the dial? We knew we were good because we survived.’
I sense there’s a life lesson in there somewhere, a reminder that catastrophe, wherever possible, should never take you by surprise, but I don’t push it. Half an hour later we’re deep in Scottish airspace and Cleggie is rhapsodizing about a film of mine his wife hated but he adored. He’s forgotten the title but that doesn’t matter. More important, he says, is the way I took no shit from the pervy college lecturer who was trying to get into my knickers.
‘You had the balls to see him off,’ he says with a nod of approval. ‘And then you stitched him up with that other woman of his. I loved that sequence so much I got it on DVD and watched it again.’
We’re within touching distance of Glasgow. From up here I have a grandstand view of the city and I gaze down at the long silver thread of the Clyde and the ghostly remains of abandoned shipyards as Cleggie prepares to land. This man radiates the kind of quiet un-showy confidence you so rarely find nowadays, certainly in my profession, and I barely register the moment of touchdown. Minutes later, parked at a private aviation facility away from the main passenger terminal, Cleggie is completing the paperwork for our hire car while I linger in the sunshine outside.
H has pre-booked a Mercedes saloon in the sleekest black. Inside, it feels brand new. Cleggie punches details of the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital into the sat nav and then helps me adjust my seat belt. I tell him I’ll be spending the rest of the day with my friend in the spinal unit and he’s very welcome to push off with the car and take it wherever he fancies.
Cleggie shakes his head. ‘That’s not the deal,’ he says.
‘It’s not?’
‘No. I’m coming to the hospital, too. I’ll be nice and discreet but I’ll be there if you need me.’
‘Why would I need you?’
‘I’m not sure that’s something we should be discussing. Hayden was very specific. He wants me to stay close. Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, but he’s paying me very well. Mine not to reason why.’
This is news I find far from comforting. What could possibly go wrong up here, at the other end of the country? I’m tempted to explore the issue further but a glance from Cleggie tells me there’s no point. This, after all, was once a man in uniform. Unlike yours truly, he was probably born to obey orders.
At the hospital, Cleggie accompanies me to the spinal injuries unit. I had a bodyguard once, on a shoot in Latin America where a particularly vicious gang were trying to shake the producer down for protection money. The money was never paid, and nobody got hurt, but the way Cleggie is quietly shepherding me into the building, alert for any potential threat, is beginning to remind me of those long hot weeks in Caracas.
Inside the spinal unit I check the ward and then take Cleggie to one side. Pavel, I tell him, is still on the last bed on the left. I don’t foresee any imminent danger from his fellow patients, all of whom are paralysed, and the nursing staff have always struck me as wholly benign. I will, of course, be on the lookout for false moustaches or strange accents, but if he fancies a coffee and a bit of a read there’s a visitors’ area down the corridor. If I feel the need, I’ll give him a shout.
‘OK?’
He nods. I expect a smile, at the very least, but I realize he’s far from amused.
I beckon him closer. This time I’m not joking. ‘What has Hayden been telling you?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and checks his watch. ‘You don’t want to know,’ he murmurs. ‘But I got the feeling he meant it.’
Pavel, as far as I can judge, is asleep. I return to the nursing station and ask how he’s been these last few hours. This is a nurse I’ve never met before. She has a lovely smile and I think she may be a Filipina or perhaps Malay. Either way, she seems to have all the time in the world and is very happy to chat. She calls Pavel ‘Mr Sieger’.
‘Nice man,’
she says. ‘So sad.’
‘I agree.’
‘Your partner?’
‘My friend.’
‘Oh.’ She’s frowning. ‘But you were there when it happened? You were on the other horse, maybe?’
‘Horse?’
I take a tiny step back. Pavel’s been at it again. I should have anticipated this. He’s either bored with the first version of the accident – the dives in Scapa Flow, the party afterwards, the moment he broke his neck by diving into the wrong end of the hotel pool – or it never happened at all.
The nurse, whose name is Blessica, is telling me about something similar that happened to her cousin back home. The horse bolts for some reason and you lose control. Fall off and land head-first and the chances are that you’ve broken your neck.
‘Nice man,’ she says again. ‘Come.’
I follow her across the ward. She bends beside Pavel and blows softly in his ear. For the briefest second I find the intimacy of the gesture slightly shocking but it brings a smile to Pavel’s face and that, just now, is all that matters.
Blessica’s lips are still beside Pavel’s ear. ‘Your lovely friend,’ she whispers. And then she’s gone.
Pavel’s head doesn’t move on the whiteness of the pillow. ‘It’s you?’
‘Me.’
‘Wonderful.’
In most movie scripts, his hand would find mine. Instead, it lies limply on the sheet. Blessica has fetched a chair. I settle down beside the bed. There’s a faint smell of urine but I’m not sure it comes from Pavel. There’s also a smear of something pink at one corner of his mouth and I moisten a fingertip before wiping it off.
‘Again,’ he murmurs.
I do it a second time, and then a third, though the smear has gone.
‘Kiss me,’ he says. ‘Please.’
I glance around. No one seems to be watching, and even if they were I’m not sure it would make any difference. I get a little closer, bend over his face, cup it in my hands, then kiss him on the lips.
‘Again. Properly.’
I do his bidding. His tongue chases mine around the moistness inside his mouth. He tastes of toothpaste. Maybe peppermint.
‘How have you been?’
‘Still as the grave. No fuss. No bother. I’d like to say placid but that would be a fib.’ He forces a smile. ‘You?’
I kiss him again, a long, lingering exploration that ends, from Pavel, in a sigh that I take to be contentment. We’ve got all afternoon, I tell myself. All evening, if he can bear it. Physical intimacy seems the simplest form of comfort. Why ruin this moment with something as troublesome and complicated as language?
For minutes on end, we continue to kiss. Then I simply put my cheek to his and stroke his face. His unseeing eyes are open. He tells me he loves me. I’m thinking about the horse. Should I mention it? Absolutely not.
In a while, his eyes close and he seems to be asleep again. Very gently, I disengage myself. My back is killing me and when I realize that Blessica’s cup of tea is for me I’m more than grateful. It’s very sweet but I don’t care.
‘What next?’ I’m nodding at Pavel. We’ve stepped away from the bed and I’m hoping he can’t hear us.
The little Filipina doesn’t know. She says his vital signs are good. Good pulse. Good BP. Strong heart.
‘Always,’ I murmur.
Blessica departs with the empty tea cup. I’m back beside Pavel. For the time being, we’ve evidently done kissing. He wants to know about me.
This interest comes as no surprise. I’ve been around writers all my working life and I recognize the trademark curiosity that badges every member of this strange tribe. Maybe curiosity is too posh a word. A better one might be nosiness. This is what the Pavels of this world are. Nosy. They need to find out. They need to question, to probe, to listen, to empathize, and then to make all the startling connections that will one day give birth to a book or a movie.
Some writers I know regard this bizarre alchemy as an affliction and if that’s true then Pavel has probably been suffering all his life. He lives for story, for character, and for the opportunity to build that cage of circumstance we thesps call plot. That’s his vocation, his calling. And now I’m at his bedside, in the bareness of his cell, I’m only too happy to collaborate.
‘H thinks there are people who are trying to kill me,’ I say quietly. ‘Maybe that’s where we might start.’
‘Kill you?’
There’s more than a flicker of interest in Pavel’s face. I can see alarm there, as well, and it makes my heart leap. It means I have his full attention and just now this story of mine is exactly what he needs.
I tell him everything. I bring him up to date about Malo and Clem. I describe my adventures in Bridport – the Landfall, Danny Flannery, Dooley’s steaming groin, the swimming pool, The Machine, poor broken Noodle, and finally the moment when my giddy trek through the Bridport badlands ended at the police station.
‘They arrested you?’
‘They did. I didn’t have an option. I just went.’
‘And they think you killed this boy?’
‘They think I might have done.’
‘And did you?’
Pavel is enjoying this. I know he is. There’s a sweet complicity in the way he phrases that simple question. Our secret. No one else’s. Did you?
‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t.’
‘So who did?’
‘I think his name’s Brodie.’
‘This is The Machine? The swimmer?’
‘Yes. How on earth did you guess?’
‘Silly question. It has to be him. Who else could it be?’
‘I’ve no idea. That’s why I came. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
‘Very wise.’ He manages a nod. ‘I’m here to save your life. Give me a kiss.’
We do it again. Twice. Then he breaks off.
‘They’ll be coming for you,’ he warns.
I nod. I do my best to coax alarm into my voice. I want this story of mine to run and run. I want to hook him, to fascinate him, to enfold him in a sticky web of what-ifs, rampant speculation that will see him through the long nights to come.
‘And H?’ he says.
‘He wants you to get writing again for him.’
‘Cotehele? Is that what he wants? Swash? Buckle?’
‘He doesn’t know what he wants. As long as there’s a decent part for me he’ll sort out the funding and pay for a script.’
‘You mean the French people?’
‘I’m afraid they’re history. H will find some other way. He always does.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then it’s this, isn’t it? This story of yours? It has to be.’ His earlier interest has thickened into something much closer to excitement. Better and better, I think. Keep planting the clues.
‘Did I mention Mateo?’
‘You did. Clem’s father?’
‘H thinks he’s talking to the kidnappers.’
‘So what about the insurance people? Kidnap and Ransom? K&R?’
‘Mateo’s lost faith in them.’
‘Of course he has. Of course. And you know why? Because he’s a businessman. Businessmen think like criminals. They take risks. They draw the straightest lines. It’s means and ends. And it works both ways, too. The best criminals think like businessmen. No one knows that better than H. Take the drugs trade. It’s not about getting off your head. It’s not about car chases and mayhem. It’s about getting rich.’
I nod. I agree. Listening to Pavel, the image that keeps coming back to me is the sight of The Machine, Brodie, churning up and down that pool. Straight lines, I think. And everyone else getting out of the way. Young Brodie is determined to get rich, regardless of who he hurts in the process.
Pavel hasn’t finished. Not quite. ‘You know the two key words here?’ he whispers. ‘What shaped us all? What took society by the scruff of its skinny neck? All those centuries ago? The fe
nce and the handshake. After the fence, you got private property. And after the handshake, you got trade. Put those two things together, you can own the entire world.’
He’s exhausted. I can tell. But he’s also happy. Happy for me to be here. Happy to have that gigantic brain working again. Happy to find a fully formed plot waiting at his bedside, just begging for the finishing touches.
At seven in the evening, with the orderlies wheeling in the supper trolley, he asks me very politely to leave. I think he wants to spare me the sight of him being spoon-fed and, although I’d be only too happy to do it myself, I don’t blame him. His voice is weak now. He whispers that he has a great deal of thinking to do and he tells me that he’s already looking forward to our next script conference.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow?’ He smiles. ‘After I’ve checked my diary?’
I bend low and kiss him on the lips. Then I gently close each eye and leave.
FORTY
I collect Cleggie from the cafe along the corridor, wondering exactly how much H has paid for this kind of patience. When I warn him that we’ll both be staying overnight and that we’ll be back here in the morning, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed. He’s halfway through a fascinating book about the Battle of Stalingrad and the coffee’s much better than he’d expected.
‘Living the dream?’
‘You bet.’
We drive into the city centre and book two rooms at a Premier Inn, leaving the Mercedes in the car park. Cleggie turns out to have a lifetime passion for Spanish food and one of the nurses has recommended a restaurant called El Pirata. The paella Valenciana, she’s promised, is the best in Scotland, and according to the woman on the reception desk it’s only a ten-minute walk away.
Cleggie is easy company – amusing, attentive, a master storyteller with a real gift for understatement – and by the end of the meal we’ve emptied the third carafe of the house white. I settle the bill and we set off under a light drizzle for the ten-minute walk back to the Premier Inn.
Crossing the road towards the hotel, Cleggie remembers that we need to pick up our respective bags from the boot of the Mercedes. The car park was already packed when we arrived from the hospital and Cleggie was lucky to find a space in the far corner. He unlocks the boot with the key fob and bends to haul out my overnight bag. As he does so I sense a movement behind us. I half-turn but it’s too late. He’s tall and very black. He’s wearing trackie bottoms the colour of Cleggie’s flying suit and a grey hoodie. He has a machete in one hand and a gun in the other, inches from my face. He’s looking at me but he’s talking to Cleggie.
Sight Unseen Page 23
