William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

It seemed several hours later that he was called to the microphone, though a glance at his watch told him only thirty-five minutes had passed. Ingram waited for the mild applause to die down and unfolded his notes.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I want to make a brief special announcement that greatly affects the future of the company. As you all know, Rilke Pharmaceutical holds a 20 per cent stake in Calenture-Deutz. I want to let you know today that I have agreed to sell my personal shareholding in the company to Rilke Pharmaceutical. This will give them a controlling interest.” The room was completely silent. “However,” Ingram continued, “Rilke Pharma are proposing a complete buy-out of Calenture-Deutz as a share offer with cash alternative. Rilke is offering 600 pence a share, some 20 per cent higher than our current capitalisation. I, and the entire board of Calenture-Deutz, strongly recommend that you accept this generous offer. We envisage the takeover—”

“Point of order!” came a loud shout from the rear of the room. “Point of order, Mr Chairman!”

Ingram felt an itch spear through the sole of his left foot. He stamped down on it hard behind the lectern.

Marcus Vintage looked at him questioningly — should he yield the floor to this interlocutor? Mutterings sped round the room, the sound of hushed shock, speculation and calculation as people wondered how much money they were going to make. Ingram looked round to nod assent at Vintage and saw his hugely magnified image on the video screen nod assent…He looked back at the auditorium, shading his eyes against the spotlights, trying to see who had interrupted him. Stewards were approaching an elderly, pony-tailed man in a wheelchair but someone had already handed him a roving microphone.

“I would like to ask the board,” his amplified voice sounded nasal and aggressive — the voice of hate, Ingram thought—“if they could inform us of the exact number of children who died during the clinical trials of Zembla-4.”

Outrage, shouts, a collective drawing-in of breath erupted before the stewards bore down on the man, seized his microphone and swept him bodily out of the hall, wheelchair lifted off the ground, the man bellowing ‘We want answers! We want to know the truth!’ Ingram saw that one of the men operating the video cameras for the international feeds had swivelled round and projected wheelchair-man’s uncompromising expulsion on the large screen.

The crowd were now applauding. What, Ingram wondered? His own fortitude, the swift removal of the voice of anarchy, the prospect of riches? Professor Vintage was banging his gavel on the desk and crying ‘Order! Order!’ in a faint voice. Ingram felt the blood leaving his head and the room darkened. He grabbed the lectern with both hands and managed to stay upright. The room calmed, people who had stood up to see the disruption now sat down. Ingram drew in deep breaths as he consulted his notes, now worried that he might vomit at any moment.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…” Laughter. “The buy-out of Calenture-Deutz by Rilke Pharmaceutical should take place over the coming weeks once the various takeover requirements have been met. Calenture-Deutz will continue as a brand name but we will function within the unparalleled security and financial might of the third biggest pharmaceutical company in the world. As your chairman and chief executive I cannot urge you more strongly to accept this most generous offer.”

Loud applause, fervent applause, resounded through the room. Ingram looked across at the board to see them all clapping him — and there were Keegan and de Freitas clapping also, but formally, without the fervour of the room. What were their bonuses to be? Ingram wondered. Keegan was looking at him — and gave him a nod of acknowledgement as their eyes met — but not smiling. If anything, Ingram thought, he looked a little worried. De Freitas stopped clapping and whispered something in Keegan’s ear. Ingram turned to the room, gave a small bow and managed to walk off the stage.

♦

He tried to vomit as quietly as possible, a difficult thing to do — but very aware there were other people using the toilet beyond the stall he was occupying — repeatedly flushing the WC, hoping that the flow of water would cover the sound of his retching. Good god, he thought, must be some kind of food poisoning: he was empty, spent. He dabbed his mouth with a tissue, checked that his shirt and tie were free of bile-spatter, and flushed the loo for the seventh time. Funny how copious vomiting could make you feel both hellish and better, he thought, unlocking the door to the stall. You became a simple organism in a state of spasm, voiding your stomach your only aim and purpose, a creature of instinct, all intellectual function shut down. But it somehow rejuvenated as well as exhausted, it was a brief visit to the primitive being you once were — time travel to your lost animal self. He was alone in the toilet, everyone else gone off to lunch, and he washed his hands slowly and carefully, telling himself to stay calm — perhaps he’d better go back to Lachlan one last time.

He stepped out of the toilet into the corridor to find Ivo waiting there.

“I’m fine, Ivo. Good of you to wait. Don’t worry, I’ll be—”

“I don’t give a toss about you, mate. You miserable cunt. Do you hate me that much, really? How could you do this to me? To my family?”

Ingram sighed. “You’ve been talking in riddles all day. What is it now?”

“600 pence a share.”

“Yes, an excellent offer.”

“I sold at 480.”

“Sold what?”

“All my Calenture-Deutz shares. Three days ago.”

“Well, then you’re a fool.”

“You told me to sell.”

Ingram looked at him. “Are you mad? Of course I didn’t: I told you the opposite.”

“Exactly.”

“Stop saying ‘exactly’ all the time.”

Ivo stepped threateningly closer and for a split second Ingram thought he was going to hit him, but Ivo said, in a trembling voice, “I’ll get you for this. I’ll ruin you.”

He strode away towards the exit, shouting imprecations without looking back, “Complete bastard! We’re family, you wanker, family!” Ingram felt more itches springing up: one on his left buttock, one on his chin. He scratched them both simultaneously.

“Mr Fryzer?”

It was Pippa Deere — she looked a little worried, her nose and cheeks gleaming.

“What is it, Pippa? I’m not feeling so good myself — I’m going to skip facsimile.”

“Sorry?” Pippa Deere’s face registered bafflement.

“Lunch. I’m going to skip lunch.”

“There are some journalists here, they want to speak to you.”

“Journalists? What do they need me for? They’ve got your press release, everything’s there.”

“Yes, they have. They still want to speak to you.”

“Tell them I’ll see them next week.”

“It’s about that ‘point of order’ that was raised.”

“For god’s sake.” Ingram looked at the ceiling in supplication. “Some crazy idiot crackpot shouts out some ranting nonsense and I’m meant to talk to journalists about it? We get these demonstrators all the time. Nobody wanted to talk to me when I was spray-gunned with green paint. Who let him in, anyway? What’s the point of hiring security?”

Pippa Deere seemed about to cry. “It turns out the man who was ejected from the hall is a shareholder. When he was thrown out he injured himself, fell out of his wheelchair and cut his head. He gave an interview to some of the journalists…” She sniffed. “I’ve only heard the tape once but he said something about fourteen little children dying during the Zembla-4 trials. I’m terribly sorry, Mr Fryzer, I didn’t know what to do.”