Dillon saw the woman’s eyes flash and her bosom palpitate dramatically. Probably a terrific bosom if seen in normal circumstances. An odd instinct suggested that the woman in front of him had nothing to do with normal circumstances of any kind. There was a definite air of drama about her. He wanted to take her in his arms and smooth her shaggy hair and say, ‘There, there, it’s all right.’ The scent of her hair was almost real already. Extraordinary. He reminded himself he was engaged to Flora and other women did not exist. Foolish to crash into another woman, bloody silly, in fact. Flora was not going to be pleased. Nor would that estate agent friend of hers be thrilled to be kept waiting.
‘Look, don’t worry now,’ he babbled on. ‘I trust you. I’ll sort everything out. We can leave the cars here. Let me get you home and you just call me when you’re better and …’
Automatically, Georgie reached for the bag which had been rescued with her and opened it, intending to produce her own card. It was not her usual bag, big enough to carry work for her to do on the train. It was her little evening bag, last used at the art gallery party where this madness had all begun. There was nothing in it but the invitation, a pen and some peppermints. Her fingers, as if working on their own agenda, swooped upon the old art gallery invitation and held it out to Dillon.
‘This is you?’ He turned the card around and read it. ‘Merita Halili? That’s you? You’re actually Albanian?’
‘Yes.’ The word said itself quite easily. Georgie felt it needed a little ethnic shading. She dropped her voice half an octave and tried to feel Balkan. ‘I am Merita,’ she purred. ‘I give you my telephone.’ She took back the card and wrote her mobile number on it with a pen. Her hands were still shaking, so the figures came out a little jagged. ‘I love my car,’ she added, because it was true.
‘It really isn’t damaged badly. Just one of the lights. Easy to fix, I could do it myself.’
The advantages of this offer were several and obvious. ‘Yes? You can fix it yourself?’ She tried widening her eyes appealingly. ‘That would be good. No insurance, no losing whatever you call it …’
‘No claims bonus.’ Perhaps Flora need never find out about this accident? Dillon felt less of a fool. ‘My damage won’t be expensive, not as much as the bonus, I shouldn’t think. Would you really …?’
‘Why not? We never have insurance in Albania. Your car is bashed, you fix it. Simple. I don’t understand insurance.’ She tried an emotional gesture with one arm, and knocked over the flowers on the next table.
‘Insurance is simple, really. You just find a way of making people pay as much, as possible for a policy, then find a way of never paying out if they make a claim. I should know, it’s my business.’ He picked up the vase and put back the flowers.
‘You like this business?’ Georgie heard herself growl.
‘No. It stinks. But it’s the only thing I can do,’ Dillon heard himself confess. It seemed like the sort of thing an artist would like to hear. Flora would have been outraged, of course. Feeling disloyal again, he resolved to get himself out of trouble immediately. ‘Look, shall I ask them to call us a taxi? I’ll look into it, I’ll buy you a new light and give you a call and then we can come back, I’ll fix your car and probably apologise again and then that’ll be the end of it.’
‘Perfect.’ Georgie felt extremely tired, but also obscurely pleased with herself. This was just a game, after all. A bit of make-believe, some harmless fun. She would tell her father about it, he would be amused.
Des was waiting, posed like James Dean, leaning against the outer door of the building with his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, staring darkly into the middle distance. No, he was staring at himself, Dillon noticed as he approached and saw them both reflected in the window of the kebab shop opposite.
‘I see you are convenient for all the local amenities.’ Des nodded at the sinister pink bulk of a fresh doner roast rotating beside the shop’s encrusted grill. Smoke belched from the doorway.
‘You could say that.’ Dillon shook his hand.
‘I will say that. And I will say “quiet cul-de-sac”.’ As Des pulled a palm-sized dictation machine from his jacket pocket, he turned his back on the sooty brick wall of a colossal railway bridge which blocked the end of the street, and watched Dillon struggle with the locks. ‘And probably “state of the art security” as well.’
Once inside, they climbed ten flights of stairs walled with ox-blood tiles. ‘Immaculate new conversion, original features retained,’ Des muttered into the recorder.
‘Spacious hall,’ he suggested, taking care to squeeze past Dillon with a reassuring minimum of physical contact. ‘Stunning living room, views over the river.’
‘Only if you stand on the table and lean out of the window,’ Dillon corrected him.
‘Trust me,’ Des advised him. ‘Nice table, though.’ It was a posh inlaid wood affair, serious quality, miles above the rest of the stuff in the room which Des guessed had been donated by the guy’s mother because it was good but old and in need of polish and TLC. ‘What else have we got? Two double bedrooms?’
‘The little one is sort of L-shaped. You can’t actually get a bed in it.’
‘That’s not the legal definition. Two double bedrooms. Designer bathroom.’ Moving on, he picked up a half-empty bottle of Allure Pour Monsieur shower gel.
‘Flora gave me that.’ Dillon felt himself grow an inch in height as he said it. I am not a boy, a kid, a youth, a student or a young person any longer, he told himself. I am a man now, I have a real fiancée, and she gives me shower gel. Here I am getting rid of my flat and buying a real home for us. Pretty soon there will be a bigger home, and a bigger mortgage and a big car for our children. My life has obviously started. I must try to get used to it.
Des watched him casually while he continued to inspect the property. His previous contact with Dillon had been limited to a few sleepy and embarrassed encounters at 17A. Extraordinary, the way the guy smiled. Slightly to one side, tough but shy, just like Superman. Flora never mentioned that. By the time she’d finished with the fat bum and the funny hair, you’d think Flora was planning to marry Pavarotti. This guy could be quite attractive if he took some trouble and got his clothes sorted. Women were strange.
‘The kitchen lets it down,’ Dillon apologised, leading Des up some steps to a space under the bare roof tiles. Where a tile was missing, a plastic bag had been stuffed into the hole – some time ago, judging from the cobwebs. A tap dripped into an old sink and toast crumbs on an upturned packing-case seemed to have enticed some mice to hold ceilidhs day and night for weeks.
‘“Period fittings. Exposed beams. Scope for the owner to customise the property.” Very personal, kitchens. New owner always wants to rip out the kitchen. You’d have wasted your money spiffing it up. Any more? Roof terrace?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘What’s that then?’ He pointed to a lop-sided window at the far end of the space.
‘Nothing. Fire-escape.’
Des took hold of the latch and lifted it, rattled the window frame with a dominant hand and forced it open. Outside he saw a rusting metal walkway leading to the edge of the roof. A small, ugly tree had seeded itself in the blocked gutter.
‘“Balcony. River views.” Right. Now the dimensions.’ He turned off his recorder and exchanged it for the electronic measuring device that could always find another twelve inches which the old tape-measure would not register.
‘You’re doing the smart thing. It’s a seller’s market,’ he told Dillon over a beer in the stunning living room. ‘I could get you five offers in a week for this. Question is, what do you want? What can we find you? There’s not a lot for sale. But since you’re, like, family, you’ll get first refusal on anything that comes in through me.’
‘Great.’
‘So what’s it to be?’
‘Well, for Flora and me, of course. Something she’d like. By the river, maybe. No offence, but I mean, like, really by th
e river. Near the water, you know. She likes the water.’
‘Really?’ Des’s enthusiasm moderated. He considered Flora very hard to please. Buying things was some kind of power trip with her. Even if she was only buying lettuce, she never seemed to know what she wanted, only what she didn’t want. It was not difficult to imagine her turning down everything that came on the market for the next eighteen months. He asked, ‘What are we talking about for a price?’
Dillon named what Des considered a reasonable figure and he considered a small fortune. ‘Going on a mortgage up to three times my salary,’ he added.
‘They’re giving five times now, some of them, I know a few guys, if you want to go higher.’ No, the customer was looking seasick. Not ready to drown himself in debt just yet. He would get more ambitious when he saw what he could buy for the figure he first thought of – they always did. And Flora had this way of making a man reach into his pockets. Another reason to be glad to be gay.
‘If you’re making that much, why are you still living here?’ Des enquired, in the boyishly cheeky tone he used to protect himself when asking personal questions. ‘It looks like it was your first flat or something.’
‘It was,’ Dillon admitted. ‘Three of us moved in. The others moved out. One got a girlfriend, the other got a diving instructor’s job in Thailand. I could afford it, so I stayed. I never really thought about moving until I met Flora.’
Des finished his beer and put the bottle on the floor because the table looked too good to use. ‘This is like Beidermeier. Where d’you get this?’ he asked, running a finger along the strip of ebony inlaid an inch from the edge.
‘I made it,’ admitted Dillon. ‘Design project. At school.’
‘It’s great.’ Des allowed his admiration to show. ‘How old were you?’
‘Fourteen. Fifteen? I can’t remember.’
‘You were good, then.’
‘Yes, I was. But I had to give it up. People don’t pay you to make chairs, do they?’
‘Well they do,’ Des pointed out, ‘but not as well as they pay you to make insurance policies, I should imagine.’
‘True.’ For the first time for three hours, Dillon thought about small pets.
8. April 24
Felix was performing for an audience of one. ‘The tragedy of Lightoller’s Syndrome is that it’s preventable. I believe that it is one hundred per cent preventable. A biochemical imbalance that is genetically transmitted to the mother affects the DNA in her genetic material, leading to a faulty gene here …’
His office was in a Portakabin in a corner of the car park. The hospital, a mountain range of red brick and rusting fire escapes, blocked the daylight on one side. The only decoration in the room was a blown-up DNA analysis strip. It was six feet high and looked like a stack of giant barcodes. Felix had had it laminated and pinned to the wall behind his desk. He stood up, picked up a red marker and circled a section of the molecule where one gene, instead of being a straight black bar like the rest, was crumpled like a cigarette butt. Flora, in the role of a pharmaceutical research executive, seized the excuse to lean forward and let her Wonderbra do its work.
‘On the X chromosome. So Lightoller’s Syndrome afflicts only boys, because in females the X chromosome contributed by the father is still normal.’ A touch of ruefulness shaded his smile, admitting the superiority of women. ‘But in male children, who of course inherit the much shorter Y chromosome, that defective gene is not compensated for and the result is an abnormality in the structure of the adrenal cortex, which in turn produces the anomalies like AD D, hyperactivity and so on, which result in educational underachievement and antisocial behaviour. In short, wasted lives. Do you know that one third of men under the age of forty have criminal records? Excluding vehicle offences.’
‘I didn’t know that. That’s very serious.’ Flora thought it was time to cut to the chase. ‘And your research is funded by …?’
‘A grant from the University of Middlesex. Which is fine, as far as it goes. I believe that I can do enough to substantiate the biochemical basis for a cure. My research will show that a simple nutritional supplement is all that is needed to rectify the brain chemistry and allow boys with Lightoller’s Syndrome to lead normal, law-abiding and productive lives.’
He was not what Flora had expected. He was blond, for a start, a pale Scandinavian blond, the hair mowed as short as grass. She was never quite sure if she found blond men attractive. At least his eyes were dark. He was well dressed. Very well dressed. That was a silk polo, and a bespoke jacket, and a Tag Hauer watch. Flora was impressed.
‘I’ve read your paper in the Journal of Biochemistry. When you talk about a simple nutritional supplement …’ She adopted a tone of stern analysis. ‘What exactly are you saying?’
‘The chemistry is simple. The difficulty is that the compound is rare. Methyl ethylapotomaze. Normally synthesised in the body and essential to the brain metabolism. My research will show that children with this disorder are unable to make their own methyl ethylapotomaze, but the amino acids into which it breaks down in solution, administered intravenously, will be taken up by the brain and will correct its functioning.’
‘You mean the kids will have to take this stuff for life or turn back into psychopaths?’ Flora allowed her eyes to sparkle with greed. Her hasty research had made it clear that from a drug company’s perspective, a condition requiring lifetime medication was a goldmine.
‘“Psychopath” is not the appropriate term.’
‘Of course not, forgive me. But you expect that this will be a lifetime maintenance programme?’
‘That’s the finding I anticipate, yes.’
‘Have you done any work on synthesis?’
‘Not so far. Methyl ethylapotomaze is a blessing of biodiversity. It is also found in the spores of a small fern that grows in the rainforests of central South America. The next phase of my research will involve harvesting that plant.’
‘Ethically, a problem.’ Flora tested the water.
‘Well, quite.’ Felix did not seem deeply moved until he added, ‘And the expense of extracting and purifying it on a commercial scale would be prohibitive.’
‘So we’d be talking cultivation or synthesis.’ She tapped some notes into her Psion. Flora had attired herself as much like an air hostess as she could bear. From Donna she had borrowed a blue suit, and the silk blouse had been retrieved from the back of the wardrobe. Blue eyeshadow and pearlised lipstick, the whole nine yards. This kit did not lend itself to seduction, but she did her best, tweaking the skirt higher under cover of recrossing her legs. ‘And who else is working on this?’
‘Nobody, as far as I know.’ Felix was not really looking at her. He was leaning back comfortably in his chair, his gaze hovering around a spot on the wall behind her. With a trace of bitterness in his voice, he added, ‘Little boys with behavioural problems don’t hit people in the wallet the way mastectomy patients do. There is a culture of blame, I think. We don’t get supermodels begging to wear ribbons for us.’
‘We like to think long term at Pforza. Perhaps the only thing predictable about public opinion is that it will change.’
‘That’s very true.’
‘Enlightenment pays. It’s almost our company motto.’
‘Enlightenment pays?’ And he sighed, allowing his eyes to roam around the box that was his office, resting momentarily on the dented metal cupboards and sagging second-hand furniture.
‘It seems to me that the social benefit of this work, the potential saving to society in terms of reduced criminal activity, more stable family structures, whatever … I’d like to make a recommendation to the funding committee on those lines.’
‘What exactly are you saying?’ Now Felix was thoughtfully running a fingertip along the edge of his desk.
‘I’m saying I think this is the kind of work Pforza should be funding.’
‘That’s excellent.’ A smile, at least. But it didn’t last long.
‘
And we like to do things properly. A five-year trial, at least. High grade personnel, top salaries. The funding board meets every month and I’ll draft a proposal for them straight away.’
‘Great, excellent.’ A little excitement, just a little. He was really making her work.
‘Look,’ she suggested, ‘you must be incredibly busy right now setting up this project.’ Did his face fall? Was there a shadow of disappointment there? Flora couldn’t tell. ‘But it’s crazy for me to duplicate work you’ve already done. If you could maybe spare the time to talk me through the basics …’
Felix reached out for his keyboard and put his schedule up on the screen. ‘Thursday next week?’ he offered.
‘I was thinking about lunch tomorrow. I’d like to get moving right away. The board meeting is at the end of next week.’
‘Lunch is difficult for me, I’m seeing new patients all day.’
Flora took a deep breath and tried opening her fifth chakra to release its sensual energy. ‘Then dinner, perhaps?’
Hesitation, still. Maybe even reluctance. Finally, Felix ran his cursor down the screen and tapped in some words. ‘We finish at eight tomorrow. I could manage dinner.’
‘Good,’ said Flora, briskly getting up to leave. ‘I’ll book somewhere.’
‘I should tell you, I have some reservations about this,’ he said, holding open the door for her.
‘We can talk about that too,’ she promised him with her most luscious smile. He shook her hand.
Outside the Portakabin the first patients were assembled, a small group of women standing with their backs to the wind and their hands deep in their coat pockets, exhanging tentative confidences. They were ignoring their sons, a bunch of boys who were kicking about a can at the end of the car park. They did this as if ignoring the boys was the shameful solution to their problems which they had been forced to adopt a long time ago.
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