William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

“A noble cause, Primo,” Lalandusse said. “Are you going to take on Calenture-Deutz’s phalanx of lawyers? My editor has thrown in the towel. As has the rest of the British press, it seems.” He. drained his bottle of beer. “Don’t get me wrong: there is a story to tell, but it may take a while to come out…Do you mind if we step outside? I need a ciggy.”

Adam and Lalandusse stood outside the pub under an awning, watching a persistent drizzle fall, while Lalandusse laboriously lit up. He puffed away like a schoolgirl, producing vast disproportionate clouds of smoke, as if he’d only just learnt what to do with a cigarette.

“What do you think will happen?” Adam asked.

“I suspect they’ll break up Calenture — a fire sale — sell off its profitable lines. They’ve got a new CEO — they sacked the old one. He’s ‘ill’ so they say.”

“Fryzer?” Adam waited for Aaron to stop coughing.

“Yeah…Sorry…‘Sick leave’—the handiest euphemism around when you’ve destroyed your company.”

“What happened to Redcastle?”

“Kicked off the board, pronto. Fled the country before the Fraud Squad got to him. He’s in Spain, so I hear. He’ll be ducking and diving for the rest of his life.”

Adam allowed himself to feel a momentary relaxation. Maybe this wholesale collapse meant he was finally safe — those people, whoever they were, would stop looking for him now, stop trying to kill him. Why bother with an Adam Kindred when there was no Zembla-4 to protect any longer? Surely the hunt would be called off…And he did feel good about that, for all the unanswered questions buzzing around in his mind and for all the guilt he felt about Mhouse…And what had happened to Ly-on?…Had he been taken into care? Fostered?…Thinking about them was the strangest experience: to recall his life with Mhouse and Ly-on in The Shaft — it was like another person’s biography. Still, Ly-on must be out there somewhere, and now things seemed to be calming down he should try and find out what had happened to him.

Lalandusse was lighting a second cigarette — it took him three matches and another coughing fit before he had it going to his satisfaction. Practice makes perfect, Adam thought.

“I’d better go,” Adam said. “I’ve got an appointment.” He shook Lalandusse’s hand. “Thank you, Aaron,” he said, “you’ve been a fantastic help.”

“No, thank you ,” Lalandusse said. “It looks very like you’ve stopped a killer drug in its tracks — doesn’t happen every day. I’ll get in touch when I write it all up — there may be a book in it — once the dust’s settled.”

“Yeah, let’s see if we can nail that evil bastard Ingram Fryzer.”

“You bet.”

Adam said goodbye and walked off towards the Tube station.

♦

He sat on the bench by Chelsea Bridge waiting for Turpin — who was late. It was well after 11.00 now and the traffic was quiet on the Embankment. He had stood on the bridge for a while when he had arrived, looking back at the triangle, remembering. The tide was turning and was flowing strongly back down to the estuary and the sea. While he was waiting there had been a heavy shower that had driven him under the trees by the triangle to take shelter — a few people hurried by, heads down under umbrellas, but the streets were surprisingly empty. Adam took a woollen beanie cap out of his pocket and pulled it over his wet hair, down to his eyebrows. The night was cool, he shivered.

He had called Rita and told her he was working late and that he hoped to be home around midnight. She had her own keys, now, to the flat in Oystergate Buildings and she asked him if he’d like something to eat when he came in. He said, no, don’t bother, don’t wait up — I’ll just slip into bed. The thought of slipping into bed with Rita excited him, of reaching out under the sheets for her warm body — he stood and paced up and down — how he wanted to be back there with her now, not waiting to meet his blackmailer, Vincent Turpin, this figure from his past, still haunting him, making demands. This was his third payment to Turpin, another £200, and he was running out of funds, borrowing money from Rita to make ends meet. He decided it would be his last — now he had spoken to Lalandusse and discovered what was happening at Calenture-Deutz: they had more than enough corporate chaos in their lives to be worrying about me, he thought. The dogs must have been called off.

He saw Turpin lurching down Chelsea Bridge Road, weaving across the pedestrian lights opposite the Lister Hospital, holding up one hand to stop non-existent traffic. He slowed down as he saw Adam, tried to straighten himself. Adam saw he was wearing a shiny new leather jacket, too long in the sleeve. So that’s where his money was going.

“Got a smoke, John?” Turpin said, breathing beer fumes over him.

“I don’t smoke,” Adam said, handing over the money and watching as Turpin laboriously counted it.

“You’re short. I said £300.”

“You said two. Like the last time.”

“It always goes up a bit, John. Bad boy. Vince is not well pleased.”

“You said two. It’s not my fault.”

“Tell you what, sunshine. You must have a credit card now you’ve got so successful. Let’s go to a cash-point — see how much we can get — I’m in need of funds, as they say.”

“No, this is it. It’s finished.”

Turpin sighed histrionically. “You’re making it very easy for me to earn two grand, John. I’ll just call Ugly Bugger. Give him your scooter number. Where is it, by the way, you sold it?” Turpin prattled on, drunkenly verbose, and Adam was thinking: of course, of course, of course — he’s already told him. He’s got his two grand already. Why would Turpin do the honourable thing? Not in Turpin’s life, not his way of dealing with the world. He tuned back in to hear Turpin saying, “…and I can get the money from you or I can get it from him. I got his phone number. Call him up, give him the licence plate. Bingo. Two thousand pounds to Mr Turpin, thank you very much. Makes no odds to me.”

Adam thought fast: he wanted to get away from here, away from the triangle. Was it worth the risk of alienating Turpin for another £100? He should keep him sweet: it would give him more time, more time to figure out how to erase the Primo Belem trail once and for all — one final bit of security. But maybe he was safe — this man hunting him, whoever he was, wouldn’t work for nothing. And if Calenture-Deutz had gone to the wall—

“Make your mind up. Your call, Johnnie.”

“All right,” Adam said, turning towards Chelsea. “There’s a cash machine at Sloane Square.”

“I’m not that fucking stupid,” Turpin said, belligerently. “No, I know another one. You might have friends waiting for old Vince at Sloane Square. No, we’ll go to Battersea, mate.”

They headed off across the bridge, Turpin trying to hold on to Adam’s arm to steady himself. His drunken instability seemed to have accelerated. Adam shook him off.

“Don’t touch me,” he said.

Turpin stopped, angry. He put one hand on the balustrade.

“Don’t you talk to me like that. What am I? Filth?…Anyway, you’re the one going to fall over, you stupid cunt. Your shoelace is undone.” Turpin found this fact very funny all of a sudden and doubled up in a wheezy laugh.

Adam looked down to see that his right shoelaces were trailing on the wet pavement. Turpin, still laughing to himself, leant back against the purple and white, thick cast-iron balustrade of the bridge, resting on his elbows — like a drinker resting, at his ease, Adam thought, leaning back against a bar. A late-night bus rumbled by, the light from its upper deck flashing across Turpin’s seamed and folded face.