Nocturne (28 page)

‘
The
kids
?
’

Brendan nodded vigorously.

‘
All
part of the game,
’
he said.
‘
All part of the challenge.
’

‘
So who teaches them?
’

‘
We do.
’

It was Gary this time. I couldn
’
t help noticing how little he
’
d drunk.
Even Everett, Mr Clean-Cut, was at least a bottle ahead.

‘
While you
’
re training them to survive? Is that what you
’
re saying?
You
’
ll turn them into cameramen as well as everything else?
’

‘
Yeah,
’
Gary looked me in the eye.
‘
That
’
s exactly what we
’
ll do.
’

I ducked my head, not wanting to take the exchange any further, but
Everett pressed the point.

‘
I guess you
’
ll be wanting them r
aw, these pictures,
’
he said.
‘
I
don
’
t
know about English kids but the guys over here are pretty familiar
with camcorders and stuff.
I guess that generation grew up on camera.
’

‘
Raw?
’
I queried softly.

‘
Everett means alive, as-it-happens, in-your-face.
’
Brendan was
pitching again, this time to me.
‘
I see using the kids themselves as a
positive advantage. What we don
’
t need here is art, polish, four-man
crews, wide-shots, close-ups, GVs, all that horseshit. These kids are
out on the edge, out in the wild. That
’
s where we
’
ve put them. That
’
s
what we
’
ve done to them, that
’
s what
society
’
s
done to them. The
pictures need to reflect that. SIY does it for us, Jules.
’

‘
SIY?
’

‘
Shoot it Yourself.
’
He beamed at me over the table, encouraging me
to laugh. I did, of course, but for the first time I felt just a twinge of
anxiety. My three years at Bournemouth may not have qualified me
for Hollywood but it had certainly bred a healthy respect for the basics
of
traditional
film-making.
Those basics included most of the list he
’
d just
dismissed and I knew that without them we were in danger of ending
up with a soup of meaningless close-ups. The helicopters would help,
of course, but there
’
s a limit to what you can do from five hundred
feet.

Gary was still watching me. Disguising himself as a tramp had
certain advantages. One was a dangerous temptation not to take him
too seriously.

‘
Where have we gone wrong?
’
he asked me.
‘
What haven
’
t we
sorted? No bullshit.
’

I tried to flannel but I could sense at once that the issue wouldn
’
t
go away. Gary had flattened me with a direct question and the least I
owed him was an honest stab at an answer.

‘
I
think it
’
s a great idea,
’
I said slowly,
‘
but I think there are
problems.
’

‘
There are always problems. That
’
s what makes television fun.
’

There was no avoiding Brendan. I gave him the grateful nod he
was
after.

‘
Of course,
’
I said.
‘
And nothing
’
s insoluble.
’

‘
But?
’

I looked at Gary again. The restaurant went in for red candles
wedged in empty wine bottles, hopelessly sixties, and the dancing
shadows spilled across his face, emphasising its strange contours.

‘
Take the kids,
’
I said.
‘
I
assume we
’
re looking for the hard cases,
the lone
rs, the real misfits. Am I right
?
’

‘
Yeah,
’
Gary nodded.
‘
For sure.
’

‘
Then getting them onside won
’
t be easy. Not in a month.
’

I paused, only too aware of just how little I knew about these kids.
We
’
d met them on the estate in Southampton, dozens of them, but
that didn
’
t make me an expert.

‘
You
’
ll have all summer,
’
Brendan was saying.
‘
That should be
long enough.
’

‘
I thought you said a month?
’

‘
It works out to be a month,
all in.
’

‘
It
’
s not one long chunk?
’

‘
No, it
’
s bits and pieces, has to be.
’

‘
Why?
’

‘
That
’
s the way the schedule works.
’

‘
Whose schedule?
’

‘
Ours. And Gary
’
s.
’
He glanced across at Gary. Gary nodded, still
watching me.

‘
That makes it worse. A mo
nth solid, no distractions, no f
ucking
about, you might have a chance.
’
I shrugged.
‘
What you
’
re saying now
sounds like Scout meetings. Every Wednesday night. Weather permit-
ting.
’

Gary was grinning. In some strange way, I sensed I
’
d answered his
question.

‘
No problem,
’
he said.
‘
With the kids?
’

‘
No, love.
’
The grin widened, then his hand closed over mine.
‘
With
you.
’

Back at the hotel, I realised how exhausted I was. Twenty-seven
hours on my feet, most of them fuelled by alcohol, had taken their toll.
I sank into the enormous bed, letting Brendan enfold me. In the cab,
coming back from the restaurant, he
’
d told me what an impact I
’
d
made on the other two, and how certain they both were that the pilots
would be a smasheroo. The UK end of the series would be shot on the
Beacons but if the formula worked (the merest detail) then there was
no limit to the geographical reach of subsequent series. He told me
there were tourist boards across the world just aching for the screen
exposure of
Home
Run
,
and Brendan was still rhapsodising about the
places we could recce together when I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke before dawn. I could hear the wail of a siren from the street
below. I made my way to the bathroom in time to throw up. I was sick
twice more after that and I dimly remember wondering just how much
I
’
d allowed myself to drink at the restaurant before returning on tip-
toe to bed.

Twenty-four hours later, still nauseous, I was back at my desk in
London, trying to decipher a scribbled message from the girl who
’
d
been standing in for me.
‘
Phone Mark,
’
it said.
‘
Urgent.
’

This time, Mark
’
s preferred rendezvous was the office where he
worked. I
’
d borrowed Brendan
’
s Mercedes to drive across to Napier
Road to feed the cat, and I left it on a double yellow line on the Seven
Sisters Road while I ran inside to find Mark. He offered me coffee but I
said I was in a hurry. The moment I
’
d seen his face, I knew I was back
in the real world.

‘
What
’
s happened?
’

Mark had the form ready on his desk. He picked it up, shielding it
from me while he told me about his latest visit to my flat. He
’
d gone
round yesterday, only to find the prospective buyer standing on the
pavement outside surrounded by broken tiles. The tiles, he said, must
have come off the roof. It hadn
’
t been the best advert for what the
details were calling
‘
a solid, well constructed turn-of-the-century
property
’
.

‘
You
’
re telling me it was deliberate ?
’

‘
Has to be.
’

I nodded, wondering whether this little act of vandalism might
qualify as harassment. If so, it might be time to lift the phone to
Gaynor.

Mark had his eye on Brendan
’
s Mercedes. He obviously thought it
belonged to me.

‘
So what a
bout the buyers?
’
I asked him.
‘
I
blamed it on the weather.
’

‘
Has it been windy?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
So did they believe you?
’

‘
What do you think?
’

Mark at last gave me the form. It came from the Law Society. Across
the top it read
‘
Seller
’
s Property Information
’
. When I looked blank,
Mark opened it, indicating Section Two. Section Two was headed
Disputes. Four separate questions invited my thoughts about my
neighbour. Question
2
.3
read
‘
Have you made any complaint to any
neighbour about what the neighbour has or hasn
’
t done?
’

‘
If we get a buyer,
’
Mark said pointedly,
‘
you
’
ll have to fill that bit
up.
If you don
’
t, you can get sued.
’
He nodded.
‘
It happens a lot.
’

I read the Disputes section again, beginning to understand. It was a
matter of record that I
’
d been less than happy with Gilbert. In fact I
’
d
been to the police about him. Twice. The two lines provided for the
answer to question
2
.3
were quite enough, therefore, to see off any
potential buyer. After the cat, the tiles, I thought grimly. And after the
tiles, this innocent little form with its nice blue logo.