William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

Which was true, she thought, as she wandered around the small flat, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter with him, for some reason. She stood in the living room — it was as if he had moved in yesterday. There was a bed, a TV, a black leather sofa. He seemed to keep his few clothes in cardboard boxes: some shirts, a sweater, a suit, a pair of jeans and some trainers. Another box contained underwear and socks. The flat was clean, the kitchen barely stocked — a few tins, a pint of milk, cornflakes. It was a place that could be abandoned in minutes, she thought: no books, no pictures on the wall, no ornaments, no mementoes, none of the personal detritus that someone accumulates in life without even trying. What sense of Primo Belem, she wondered, would you retrieve from these four rooms?

In the sitting room there was another cardboard box, full of newspaper clippings, printouts and, the first thing that came to hand, some kind of advertisement for a drug company. She felt a little guilty sifting through these papers but then again he was the one who had left her the run of his flat — he must have suspected some casual snooping would take place. She riffled through the documents in the box — they all seemed to be about medical matters, and there was a glossy brochure for a pharmaceutical company, Calenture-Deutz — the name seemed familiar, somehow. All to do with his hospital work, she supposed, and put everything back as carefully as she could. She glanced around the flat again, spotting a small picture that she had missed, propped behind a chopping board — an image cut from a magazine: a congregation of oddly shaped clouds in a blue sky over some parched desert landscape. In the middle of this mountain range rose some kind of obelisk. She looked closer — no, it was a building, a thin skyscraper in the middle of a desert. What was left of the caption said, “The world’s largest, tallest cloud chamber. Part of the western campus of—” The scissoring had removed the rest of the words. She put it back carefully. Take him as you find him, she said to herself — you like him, he likes you, end of story.

She closed the door behind her. Primo Belem was either a man who had nothing to hide or a man who had everything to hide. She was in no hurry to find out what category he fell into.

♦

It turned out to be one of those hazy days on the river, with a layer of thin, high clouds partially screening the sun, turning the light thick and golden, blurring the hard edges of buildings, making the trees on the Chelsea shore seem dreamily out of focus. Rita stood on the deck of the Bellerophon watering her plants, thinking back to the previous night, remembering and registering that they had made love three times — a record for her — and wondering when they had fallen asleep. Four o’clock? Later? Not surprising that she felt so tired, as if she’d been in the gym for some endless workout.

“So why have you got a stupid smile on your face?”

She turned round to see her father step stiffly on to the foredeck. He seemed to be walking more easily today — or else he’d forgotten he was meant to be using a crutch.

She said nothing, just smiled more broadly.

“Enjoy yourself last night?”

“Yes,” she said. “I had a nice time.”

“Off with your Italian porter.”

“As it happens.”

He began to roll himself a cigarette.

“He doesn’t look Italian to me.”

“He’s a third-generation immigrant. You don’t look English to me, come to think of it.” She turned off the tap and coiled her hose neatly beneath it, ship-shape.

“Dad,” she said, thinking, as she uttered the words, that this was becoming ridiculous, “what would you say if I moved out?”

“About bloody time.”

THERE WERE THREE NEAT stacks of pound coins on top of the telephone and his pockets were heavy with more.

“That will be fourteen pounds,” the operator said.

Adam duly slotted in the coins.

“You know it’s so much easier with a credit card,” the operator said.

“My credit card was stolen, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, sorry. Thank you. I’m connecting you now.”

Adam was in a phone booth in Leicester Square. It was ten o’clock at night but the next day had already dawned in Australia. He heard the phone ringing in his sister’s house in Sydney.

“Hello, yeah?” It was his brother-in-law, Ray.

“Can I speak with Francis Kindred please?” He kept his voice deep and flatly businesslike.

“What’s it about, mate?”

“About a money transfer from the UK to his bank.”

“Hold on.”

There was a silence, then he heard his father’s reedy voice.

“Hello? I think there must be some mistake.”

Adam felt the tears brim in his eyes.

“Dad — it’s me, Adam…” Silence. “Dad?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t do it, Dad.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I had to hide out for a while. They thought it was me — the evidence was pretty overwhelming.” The phone beeped and he pumped in more coins.

“Go to the police, Ad. They’ll sort it out.”

“No they won’t. I have to sort it out myself. But I just wanted to tell you I was OK.”

“Well, it’s a relief. Emma and I — we were going to come back. See if we could help find you. Go on television again, if we could, make another appeal.”

Adam swallowed. He tried to sound composed. “I heard about the first one,” he said. “No need for another, now, Dad.”

“People came to see us out here. Police — and other investigators. Secret service, we think. Asked us all sorts of questions. And they’re still tampering with our mail — we can see letters have been opened.”

“That’s what I mean. It’s too big — there are other forces at work, other interests. Listen, I’ll call you from time to time — and I’ll let you know when I’ve sorted everything out.” The beeps came and more coins went in. “They’ll probably trace this call — you can tell them that we spoke. But I’m alive and well, Dad.” This statement made him feel like weeping, also, as he registered its poignant truth and its contingency.

“Well, take care, son. Oh, and thanks for calling.”

“Send my love to Emma and the boys.”

“Will do.”

“OK, Dad-bye.”

He hung up and wiped his eyes, swearing at himself under his breath. He should have said, “I love you, Dad,” or some such declaration, but that wasn’t the Kindred family way. He gathered up his remaining coins, wiped the mouthpiece of the phone with a tissue and stepped out of the booth. He took off his surgical gloves and dropped them in a bin before heading off towards the Tube station. He was tempted to hang around and wait to see how long it would be before the police arrived looking for him — it would have been a useful measure of their vigilance — but he had other more pressing tasks to occupy him.

It was a calculated risk calling his father, he knew, but it was something that he had been wanting to do for weeks. The fact that he had felt able to do it now seemed symbolic: it was a sign that matters were coming to a head, the slow crescendo was becoming louder and more agitated. He tried to imagine what his father’s reaction would be — he would have been pleased to have his son’s safety confirmed, proof that his son was alive, or so Adam supposed. Perhaps he hadn’t been that worried — his voice hadn’t sounded surprised or emotional — maybe he had practically forgotten that Adam was a wanted man, half a world away. Francis Kindred was enjoying his retirement with his daughter and his grandchildren — what could he do about it if his miscreant son had decided to go to hell in a handcart? He was not an easily perturbed man, Francis Kindred — still, Adam was pleased, he felt he had done his duty: it was a small step in his rehabilitation as a normal human being. He felt, in an absurd way, that he had his family back again.