William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

Ingram felt weariness descend on him, a great heavy cloak of weariness.

“It’s all utter, abject, malicious nonsense. All right, take me to the gentlemen of the press.”

“I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH, PRIMO,” JEFF NASHE SAID, HIS VOICE almost hoarse with sincerity. “It was absolutely amazing. I haven’t felt that… alive since my accident.”

“You were tremendous,” Adam said. “Couldn’t have gone better.”

He was wheeling Jeff in his wheelchair down Kingsway, heading for a bus stop where they could catch a bus to Battersea. Jeffs cut (on his forehead) had been dressed by one of the security men who had thrown him out of the conference centre. It was more of a gash than a cut — and was now hidden by some sticking plaster — but the trickle of blood that had run down his face was perfect pictorial testimony to the violence of his expulsion — thoughtless strong-arm tactics used by fascistic security thugs to silence and eject an old, semi-crippled, wheelchair-bound man from a meeting that he had every right to attend and at which he was merely exercising his duties as a bona fide shareholder of a public company. This was more or less what Jeff had told the journalists who had interviewed him — he was articulate, angry and expressive. Two of the journalists had taken photographs of his bloodied face and Adam had every hope the image would make tomorrow’s papers.

It had been Aaron Lalandusse who had alerted his fellow reporters to the place and time of Calenture-Deutz’s press conference — and to its potential disruption. Jeff had provided individual colour to what might otherwise have been a bland and self-congratulatory corporate exercise — and would be ably backed up by the evidence posted on Inpharmation.Com. Calenture-Deutz would deny everything, of course — no doubt the press release was already circulating about the proposed Rilke Pharma buy-out — but now there was rumour and counter-rumour out there, enough accusation and denial to stimulate curiosity and further investigation. Aaron had everything he needed to write his piece for the Global Finance Bulletin — the key object of the exercise, after all.

Adam — as a Calenture-Deutz shareholder himself — had been in the room across the hall from Jeff. He had travelled with him from Battersea, in a taxi with the wheelchair and the placard, but while they waited for his moment, Adam had concentrated on what he could make out of Lord Redcastle’s demeanour. There was no way of telling if his little ruse had worked — not that it made much difference to the main action of the day. It had been prompted by something Aaron Lalandusse had said when they had met. We need a simultaneous plan B, Lalandusse had recommended, not a subsequent one: when you took on a powerful enemy it was always as well to attack on more than one flank: “You know — go for the jugular with both hands but knee him in the balls as well.” And from what Adam could glean from his study of Calenture-Deutz’s board members, Ivo, Lord Redcastle seemed the most obvious target to try and destabilise — though he’d also been tempted by the ex-cabinet minister — and so Ivo had been chosen.

Adam kept his eyes on Redcastle as the AGM progressed — he seemed serious and pensive and had applauded dutifully, always following the lead of others, never initiating a response. There was nothing to indicate in his reactions and behaviour that he was now a richer but shareless board member, Adam thought — immediately rebuking himself: what did a man who had sold his shares in a company look like? Maybe Redcastle hadn’t sold his shares but he hadn’t looked at all happy when Fryzer made his announcement about the takeover. The main thing was that Jeffs point-of-order outburst had created enough fuss and brouhaha to justify Aaron Lalandusse asking pointed questions about the Zembla-4 clinical trials. Phase one had gone well, very well.

They had reached the bus stop. Jeff Nashe stepped out of his wheelchair and folded it up.

“I hate buggering about with these things on buses and trains,” he said by way of explanation. “You don’t need to worry, Prirno,” he said. “I can get home on my own.”

“Rita’s asked me for supper,” Adam said.

♦

Rita had made a lasagne with a big bowl of salad to go with it and cheese and grapes to follow. The initial concern that she had shown over her father’s injury had been almost immediately dispelled by his obvious euphoria. Adam met her brother, Ernesto, for the first time, when he arrived ten minutes after he and Jeff had boarded the Bellerophon .

“What have you done to him?” Rita asked Adam. “I’ve never seen him so happy.”

“Re-birthing, I think it’s called,” Adam said. “The old sixties radical is living again. He was great, by the way. He might even be in the papers tomorrow.”

They were talking in the Bellerophon ’s galley — she was checking on the lasagne — and he reached for her and they kissed.

“What’s this really about, Primo?” she said. “Why are you asking my dad to attack a drug company?”

“Not attack — just raise an awkward question…It was something I discovered — at the hospital,” he said, trying not to lie too much. “Something’s wrong. And I thought: why should they get away with it?…But don’t worry, Jeffs done his bit, his moment of glory come and gone. Now it’s in the public domain.”

“Why didn’t you ask the question?”

Good question, Adam thought. “Because of my job,” he said, improvising, “I don’t want to lose it. Conflict of interests. Calenture-Deutz have pumped a lot of money into St Bot’s.”

“Yeah?…” She looked sceptically at him. “I never quite saw you as a dedicated do-gooder.”

“We should all be dedicated do-gooders, shouldn’t we?” he said, a little defensively. “In fact, isn’t that your job description?”

“Touche,” she said. She shooed Adam out of the galley.

In the sitting room he spoke to Ernesto about his forthcoming trip to Dubai.

“Forty per cent of the world’s tower cranes are in Dubai at the moment,” Ernesto said. “It’s a tower-crane Klondike. I’d be a fool to miss out — I can quadruple my salary.”

Jeff came down the steep stairs from the deck bringing with him the exotic whiff of weed. He had a can of Speyhawk lager in his hand.

“Prirno,” he said, swaying slightly, though the boat was perfectly still. “Do you know why I called this ship the Bellerophon .”

“No idea.”

“Because Bellerophon slew the monster Chimera. A fire-breathing monster, half lion, half goat — if my classical mythology serves me well.” He took a swig from his can.

“Good name.”

“And today we slew the modern Chimera.”

“Slew might be a bit strong. Inflicted wounds with a bit of luck. Thanks to you.”

Jeff brandished a clenched fist above his head. “ Vinceremos! ” he shouted at the top of his voice.

“Hello?” Rita appeared with the steaming tray of lasagne in her hands. “Dinner is served, you guys.”

♦

Adam ate the lasagne and salad and drank too much red wine — to such an extent that he experienced a form of benign sensory deprivation. As Jeff and Ernesto argued about the moral consequences of, and the moral opprobrium attendant on, accepting work in a dynastic dictatorship such as Dubai — and Rita tried vaguely to keep the peace — their voices seemed to dim and muffle and Adam contented himself with watching Rita pouring wine and serving second helpings as if she were in some kind of aural bubble that only he was privileged to access. He looked entranced at her strong features and the way she peremptorily hooked falling locks of hair behind her ears, took in her lissom grace and ease as she hefted plates and bowls about the table — silencing her father with a palm across his mouth as he became too abusive — and he felt that familiar bowel-melting sensation in his innards, that abrogation of intellect in favour of emotion.