William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

Aaron Lalandusse was an unshaven, bespectacled, thirty-something, with a tangled mop of curly hair. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes but his voice was deep and sonorous, counterposing the image of geeky adolescence with maturity and gravitas. He had looked with close scrutiny at Adam’s list of names and his other documentation making little popping noises with spittle on his lips as he did so.

“Mmm…Yes…” he said, then, “bloody hell.”

Adam had mentioned nothing about Philip Wang’s death, explaining that he had come across this list during his routine work at St Dot’s and, — worried about what it implied, had decided to have it checked out further.

“This is highly combustible stuff,” Lalandusse said. “I mean, if you’re wrong, then the litigation will be monstrous, unprecedented.”

Adam pointed to the cryptic annotations beside each name. “This is the handwriting of Dr Philip Wang, I believe, the late head of R and D at Calenture-Deutz. I don’t really know what they are.”

“I would say they’re dosages, times,” Lalandusse ventured. “But I’d need to do a bit of checking.” He held up the list. “This is a photocopy — I’d have to see the original. I can’t write anything without seeing that.”

“I can get it for you,” Adam said.

They had met, as agreed, in a small, dark, wood-panelled pub in Covent Garden. The blazing evening sun obliquely struck the pub’s engraved, frosted windows and made the rear snug bar where they were sitting seem so crepuscular that they might have been in a basement. A good place to hatch a conspiracy, Adam thought, as Lalandusse went to the bar to buy them two more bottles of beer.

Lalandusse had then told him about the potency and reach of the bloggers on Inpharmation.Com and had outlined the road ahead, as he saw it. First, set hares running on the internet and see what came back — perhaps someone who had worked on the de Vere wings in the other hospitals had some information. Or disgruntled or ex-Calenture-Deutz employees might want to contribute. At some stage the volume of the Chinese whispers of the internet rumour-mill would be such that Calenture-Deutz would have to issue a press release.

“You know the sort of thing,” Lalandusse said. “Complete outrage, irresponsible, disgraceful, reluctant to dignify malignant smears with a response, etcetera.”

“What then?”

“Well, then I can write my story in the Bulletin — precisely because it’s become a story.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps we can break the habit of a lifetime and print a facsimile of your list.” He smiled with genuine enthusiasm, the boy in him overcoming the cynical journalist. “Then the shit really would hit the fan.”

Adam smiled as he logged out and exited the site. He was in a large internet café on the Edgware Road. Lalandusse had told him only to use large cafes with dozens of terminals and to keep changing café, and only to pay cash. “They’ll try and find you,” he had said. “You’ve no idea what’s at stake with a new drug like this. How much money.” He laughed. “They’ll want to kill you.” He stifled his laughter. “I’m only joking, don’t worry.”

♦

Adam parked his scooter on the pavement, locking it to the railings, and then climbed over the fence into the triangle, pushing his way through the low branches and the bushes towards his clearing. It was late, almost eleven o’clock, and the rows of bulbs on the superstructure of Chelsea Bridge glowed brightly in the navy-blue night — four brilliant peaks, like the lights on a circus’s big top. He unearthed his cash-box and folded Philip Wang’s original list carefully before slipping it into his jacket pocket. He saw he had about £180 left from his original stash and decided to take it — the days of the triangle were over, he realised, now that he had re-entered society as Primo Belem. He stood up and looked around, thinking back to the weeks when this small clearing and its overarching trees and bushes had been all he could describe as his home. He wondered if he would ever come back — perhaps he would: on some nostalgic pilgrimage in the future.

He climbed back over the fence, smiling at this notion, and unlocked his helmet from its box on the rear of the scooter.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old churchgoing chum, John 1603.”

Adam felt his heart jolt with pure shock and turned slowly to see Vincent Turpin step unsteadily from the shadows. He walked towards him, smiling.

“You have no idea how many nights I’ve spent down here at Chelsea Bridge, hoping to catch a sight of you. No idea…Night after fucking night.” He was close now and Adam could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Almost didn’t recognise you, mate, what with the hair all shaved down, like, different beard and that. Yeah, did a double take. That’s John, I said to myself. Sure as shit: John 1603. Remember that night we came down here, first time? You sort of ducked and dived, didn’t — want to let me know where you kipped down?…Well, you didn’t see me, but I saw you — hopping over the fence. Stuck in my mind, luckily.”

“Nice to see you, Vince,” Adam said. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Spare a couple of minutes for a chat with old Vincey, yeah? Look at you: little scooter — voom, voom — all spruce and modern young bloke, suited up. Must be doing well, John.” Turpin linked arms with him and turned him round, heading back towards the bridge, where there was a wooden bench with a view of the Lister Hospital on the other side of the traffic lights at the wide crossroads. Adam sat down, feeling the saliva leave his mouth.

“What can I do for you, Vince?” he said.

“Somebody’s looking for you, mate. A right nasty customer. Big bloke with a deep cleft in his chin. Ugly bugger. He came to the church, asking about you.”

“Don’t know him,” Adam said, his heart weighing heavy suddenly, thinking: he’d traced me to the church — maybe that’s how he got on to Mhouse.

“He says you’re a good friend,” Turpin continued. “Says you’ve come into a bit of money. Says he’ll pay me two grand if I can find you.”

Adam thought: all I need to do is run away. I’m safe.

“But I don’t want to do that — if you don’t want me to,” Turpin said.

“I’d appreciate that, Vince.”

“Thing is, there’s no point in fobbing off old Vince Turpin with a load of bollocks and thinking you can just disappear.” Turpin smiled again. “Because when I saw you arrive on your smart new little scooter I took the trouble to write down the licence plate number. Committed it to memory.” He put his hand on Adam’s arm. “If I give that number to Ugly Bugger — who seems a capable bloke, ex-copper, I’d say — I reckon he could track you down in a jiffy.” Turpin now gripped Adam’s arm and pulled him close to his big seamed and folded face. “If Ugly Bugger will pay me two grand, something tells me you might pay me four to keep my mouth shut.”

“I haven’t got four grand.”

“I don’t want it all at once, John 1603. No, no. I’d blow it, spendthrift arsehole that I am. I want it bit by bit, once or twice a week, like a sort of retainer. A hundred here, two hundred there, keep old Vince ticking over, keep the Turpin head above water.” He paused. “Keep the Turpin lips zipped.”

“All right,” Adam said. “We can work something out, I’m sure.” All he could do at this juncture, Adam realised, was buy time. He could pay Turpin off over the next days and weeks while the Zembla-4 plan progressed. All he needed was time. He reached into his pocket for his wad of notes.

“I can give you £150, now,” he said, and began to count out the notes.

“Why don’t I just take the lot?” Turpin said, as his big hands swooped and grabbed the money. “Let’s meet here, again, same time, next Wednesday night.” He gave Adam his full smile, showing both rows of teeth. “No funny business, John. You can sell that scooter tomorrow — set it on fire and throw it in the river — but something tells me Ugly Bugger will still know how to find you.”