William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

— the subscription was an impressive £280 per year for the four issues. It was based in London and there was one journalist, called Aaron Lalandusse, who wrote in every issue on the pharmaceutical industry. Adam sensed that this Lalandusse was his man.

His mobile phone rang and Adam started — he was still not fully accustomed to the thing, symbol of his new, though modest, upward mobility in society. It was either the hospital or Rita.

“Hello, stranger,” Rita said. “You avoiding me?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been very busy, ridiculously busy. I was going to call you.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“I get off duty at six. What about you?”

“I’m not on till tomorrow. Shall we have a drink somewhere?”

“Where?”

“I can come to you. I’ve got a scooter now. Bought one yesterday.”

“Hey. Wheels.”

“It’ll work out cheaper.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Anyway, I could whizz over to Battersea.”

“Why don’t we meet halfway,” she said, and told him the name of a pub she knew on the river. He said he’d see her there at seven.

“Don’t bring your scooter,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t got a helmet.”

SOMETHING HAD GONE SERIOUSLY wrong with the cooking, Jonjo thought. Curried eggs? Who’d invented that? He took his plate from the server, looking dubiously at the three white, shifting eggs, rolling in an olive-green, lumpy pool of gravy with a ladleful of rice on the side. He avoided the junkies and found a place at a table occupied by a bearded man — looked like a wizard from a comic, Jonjo thought: pointed grey beard, long grey hair parted in the middle. Jonjo grunted hello, sat down and began to eat. The lumps in the gravy were sultanas, he noticed — god knows what this lot would smell like coming out the other end. He mashed the eggs into a pulp and mixed the whole caboodle together. He’d sat through another ninety-minute Bishop Yemi sermon and he wasn’t going to miss his free meal, no way.

He took his folded photograph of Kindred out of his pocket, smoothed it on the table and pushed it over so Greybeard could see it.

“Do you know this bloke? Used to be a John, like us.”

Greybeard looked at the image and back at Jonjo. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m looking for him. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Never seen him,” Greybeard said. “If you’ll excuse me, I feel a bit nauseous.” He stood up and walked briskly away, leaving his unfinished curry. Jonjo added the remains to his plate and mashed the new eggs into the mix. Weren’t that bad, actually, these curried eggs.

Another John sat down beside him — nasty-looking bloke with thining frizzy hair and something wrong with his skin, like thick plastic set in heavy folds, like a tarpaulin or oil-cloth or something.

“Old Thrale got the hump, has he?” he said, extending his hand. “Turpin, Vince Turpin.”

“John 1794,”Jonjo said, not offering to shake.

“Pleased to meet you, John,” Turpin said smiling, unperturbed, as if he were used to all manner of slights, his smile revealing his gap teeth. He began to cut his eggs up into small pieces.

“You a married man, John?” Turpin asked, amiably.

“No.”

“Then you must be either very lucky or very sensible. I’m a much married man myself and I don’t mind telling you that ninety-nine per cent of my troubles have come from my wives.”

“You don’t say.” Jonjo shovelled mashed curry into his mouth. He took it back — this was well tasty.

“The kiddies are a blessing, I have to say. They make up for all the woe.”

“I’ve got a dog,” Jonjo said. “More than enough to keep me occupied.”

Jonjo finished his curry quickly — time to get away from this weirdo, elephant-man creep. He stood up and then sat down again, remembering his Kindred photo. He spread it beside Turpin’s plate.

“D’you know this bloke? Used to come here.”

Turpin frowned, pointed his fork at the picture and slowly circled the tines around Kindred’s face.

“Looks very much like John 1603. We joined the same day.” He pulled aside the end of the scarf he had around his neck to reveal his badge. John 1604, Jonjo saw.

“That’s the man.”

Jonjo told himself to stay calm, but he could feel his heart beating faster already — a step closer to Kindred.

“He’s a mate of mine,” he added. “I’m looking for him.”

“Hasn’t been here for weeks. Used to be in most nights. Nice bloke, well-spoken, like Thrale.” He pointed at Greybeard with his fork. “Posh.”

“He’s come into some money,” Jonjo said, carefully, lowering his voice. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Money, eh?…No, haven’t a clue.”

“Shame. Because anyone who can help me find John 1603 will get a two grand reward.” Jonjo smiled and repeated: “Two grand. Two thousand quid.”

“Let me have a think,” Turpin said, “ask around. Perhaps someone will have an idea.”

Jonjo wrote his mobile number on a slip of paper and handed it over.

“Give us a tinkle if you see him. Two grand, remember, cash.”

He took his plate back to the serving counter and handed it over. Don’t get over-excited, he told himself: the tosspots and nutters that made up the congregation of the Church of John Christ couldn’t be relied upon, that much he knew. Still, there was something sly and calculating about that Turpin and his eyes had widened with sly and calculating anticipation when the sum of money had been mentioned. He wandered out of the church, the curried eggs beginning to repeat on him unpleasantly, and headed for his parked taxi. He didn’t want to rely on a scumbag like Turpin but at the moment he was his best and only hope.

RITA WOKE AND SAW Primo looking at her, his face a foot away on the pillow. She stretched and groaned with semi-conscious pleasure, flinging a leg over his thigh.

“Good morning,” she said. “Hello, there.”

He kissed her gently and she smelt and tasted toothpaste: thoughtful man. She felt his hands on her breasts, then on her back. She reached down and touched his cock, gripped it.

“I’ve got to go to work,” he said. “Nobody’s sorrier than me.”

“I am.”

“Take your time. Just pull the door behind you.”

He kissed her again and slid out of bed, Rita turning to watch him dress. She recalled, in her drowsy, morning-after euphoria, the night before, remembering them sitting on the terrace of the pub looking over the river as the dusk gathered, feeling the almost intolerable anticipation of the lovemaking that she knew was coming. They had chatted about her job, about her family — she had done most of the talking, she realised — their fingers intertwined, kissing from time to time and drinking just a little too much before they bussed back to Stepney and the Oystergate Buildings.

He leant into the doorway of the bedroom.

“I’ll call you,” he said. “I’m on late tonight.”

“Bye, Primo,” she called after him, raising her voice. “Thank you!”

She heard the front door close and then a minute later the distant popping noise of his scooter starting. She turned over, wondering whether she should doze off again. It was a kind of bliss she was experiencing, she realised, and she thought that if she went back to sleep she might not wake again for hours.

So she washed her face and dressed, made herself a cup of coffee in the small kitchen and then ate some buttered toast, speculating — could she live here in Stepney with Primo?…Then she mocked herself — slow down, girl, don’t let your heart run away with you, you barely know him.