by William Boyd
“You don’t need to tell me—”
“He said, please don’t come in wearing skirts of that length any more.”
“Bloody nerve.” Lorimer looked down at Dymphna’s caramel skirt, its hem an orthodox couple of inches above her somewhat pudgy knees.
“He said I had fat legs.”
“Jesus Christ. Well, if it’s any consolation he said I was barking mad. He was in a filthy mood.”
Dymphna drew heavily and thoughtfully on her cigarette. “I don’t have fat legs, do I ?”
“Course not. He’s just a mean bastard.”
“Something’s really bugging him. He’s always rude when he’s unsettled.”
Lorimer wondered if he should tell her the news about Torquil’s impending demise. Then with a shock of clear vision he realized that this was exactly what Hogg was expecting him to do—it was one of the oldest traps in the book and he had almost walked right into it. Perhaps he had told everyone, perhaps it was a test of loyalty, who would leak the news first?
“Another Soluble Aspirin?” he asked, then added, innocently, “I think the presence of Torquil may have something to do with it.”
“That wanker,” Dymphna said harshly, handing him her cloudy glass. “Yes please. One more and you can have your way with me, lovely Lorimer.”
That was what happened when you tried to be ‘nice’, Lorimer thought, as he ordered another Soluble Aspirin and a low-alcohol beer for himself. He was pretty sure Dymphna knew nothing about the firing but, all the same, he would have to snuff out her amorous tendencies pretty—
Plavia Malinverno was across the room. He stood on tiptoes and peered - someone’s head was in the way. Then she moved and he saw it wasn’t her at all, nothing like her. Good God, he thought, it showed what was on his mind—practically hallucinating with wishful thinking.
Dymphna sipped at her white drink, her eyes firmly on him over the glass’s rim.
“What is it?” Lorimer said. “Too strong?”
“I really like you, Lorimer, you know? I’d really like to get to know you better.”
She reached out and took his hand. Lorimer felt his spirits begin their slow slide.
“Give us a kiss, then,” she said. “Go on.”
“Dymphna. I’m seeing someone else.”
“So what? I just want a fuck.”
“I’m…I’m in love with her. I can’t.”
“Lucky you.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “It’s hard, meeting someone you like. Then when you do, you find they’ve got someone else. Or they don’t fancy you.”
“I do like you, Dyniphna, you know that.”
“Yes, we’re great ‘chums’, aren’t we.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Who is this damn girl, then? Do I know her?”
“No. She’s an actress. Nothing to do with us, our world.”
“Wise. What’s her name?”
“Flavia. Listen, have you heard of a singer, a rock singer called David Watts?”
“Flavia…What a horribly attractive name. Is she very la-di-da? David Watts? I love David Watts.”
114. REM Sleep. You have a lot of REM sleep, much more than the average person. Could this be because your brain is in need of more repair each night?
REM sleep. The brain wave patterns are on a far faster frequency, there is a higher heart beat and respiration, your blood pressure may rise and there is significantly more motility of the facial muscles. Tour face may twitch, your eyeballs move behind your closed eyelids, there is increased blood flow to the brain, your brain becomes hotter. Sometimes in REM sleep your brain is firing more neurons than when you are awake.
But at the same time your body experiences a form of mild paralysis: your spinal reflexes decline, you have heightened motor inhibition and suppressed muscle tonus. Except in one area of your body. A further identifying characteristic of REM sleep is penile erection or clitoral engorgement.
—The Book of Transfiguration
The steel crescents set in the toes and heels of his shoe soles clicked militaristically on the concrete floor of the multi-storey carpark, the white fluorescent bulbs leaching the primary colours from the rows of shiny cars, the noise of his shoes contributing to the mood of incipient threat which always appeared to brew amongst these stacked decks after dark, with their unnatural luminosity, their oppressively low ceilings, their bays crowded always with empty cars but unpopulated by their drivers or passengers. He was thinking about Hogg and his mood swings, his bully-boy provocations. Behind the bluffness and the banter he and Hogg had always got along and there was in their exchanges an implicit sense—often jocularly remarked on by his colleagues—that Lorimer was the golden boy, the chosen one, the dauphin to Hogg’s Sun King. But today that had not been the case: the huge confidence that allowed Hogg to swagger through his little fiefdom had been absent—or rather, it had been there, but forced and strained for, and therefore uglier. He had seemed, frankly, worried, and Lorimer had never before associated Hogg with that particular state of mind.
But what was troubling him? What could Hogg see coming down the pike that he couldn’t? There was a bigger picture here but Lorimer was not staring at the whole canvas. He was right, too: the news about Torquil’s sacking was an attempt at entrapment, a blatant one. Hogg was waiting to see whom he told, waiting to see, Lorimer realized, if he would tell Torquil himself. But why would Hogg think this of him, his golden boy? Why would Hogg test him in this way?
Lorimer’s steps slowed as the answer came to him. Hogg, troubled, unsettled, aware of these larger dimensions that Lorimer could not yet grasp, saw—or thought he saw—a role in them that was being played by Lorimer himself. Hogg, Lorimer realized with a genuine shock, was suspicious of him. He stood still now, some yards from his car, his brain working. What was it? What could Hogg see that he could not? Something was eluding him, some pattern in recent events…This uncertainty was alarming and it was even more alarming when he considered the natural consequences of suspicion: if Hogg was suspicious, then that implied only one thing—George Gerald Hogg no longer trusted Lorimer Black.
Someone had done something to the front of his car. Most curious. He saw as he drew near that letters had been made from sand, sand poured on to the bonnet and moulded into two-inch-high ridges to spell—BASTA.
He looked around him. Had the perpetrator been alerted by the martial click of his shoe steels and fled, or was he, or she, still hiding somewhere near by? He saw no one, nothing stirred, so he swept the cold sand from the gentle slope of the bonnet. How to explain this? Was this directed at him or was it random, his bad luck? BASTA—it meant ‘enough’ in Italian. Or was it an incomplete slur on the marital status of his mother? Basta. Enough. Enough already. Enough questions. He hoped he would sleep tonight, but he doubted it, his mind was already full of his next project: he was going to telephone Flavia Malinverno in the morning.
Chapter 8
Hello?”
“Could I speak to Flavia Malinverno?”
“You are?”
“Hello. This is Lorimer Black. We met—”
“Who?”
“Lorimer Black. We—”
“Do I know you?”
“We met very briefly the other day. In the Alcazar. I was the one who was so taken with your performance. In the Fortress Sure advertisement.”
“Oh, yeah.” Pause. “How did you get my number?”
“I told you—I work for Fortress Sure. All that information is on file.” He was floundering a bit. “From the company who made the film. You know, call sheets, ah, transportation records…”
“Really?”
“They’re very keen on files. They’re an insurance company, remember. Everything filed away somewhere.”
“Oh. You don’t say.”
“Yes.” In for a penny. “I was wondering if we could meet? Drink, buy you lunch or something?”
“Why?”
“Because…Because, I’d like to, is the hone
st answer.”
Silence. Lorimer swallowed. No saliva in his arid mouth.
“All right,” she said. “I’m free Sunday evening. Where do you live?”
“Pimlico. In Lupus Crescent,” he added, as if that made him sound more alluring and upscale.
“That’s no good. I’ll meet you at the Cafe Greco in Old Compton Street. 6.30.”
“6.30, Cafe Greco, Old Compton Street. I’ll be there.”
“See you then, Lorimer Black.”
775. Sinbad’s Folly. Sinbad Fingleton had unruly mid-brown hair, frequently unwashed, that formed itself into thick corkscrews, like planed shavings off a plank of wood, and that hung forward over his narrow brow to just below eye-level. He had a chronic sinus problem which meant he sniffed a great deal and was obliged to breathe through his mouth. Consequently his mouth was open most of his waking day, and indeed his sleeping night. He enjoyed simple physical exertion—chopping, mowing, clipping, digging, carrying—which was why his despairing father (phoning a crony on the town council) had managed to swing him a menial job in the Parks Department. His other pleasure was marijuana and its derivatives and from the tales he recounted it sounded that his colleagues shared similar tastes, passing their working hours tending to the lawns and borders, shrubs and saplings of Inverness in an agreeable drug haze. Sinbad was happy to experiment with other drugs and when a friend sold him some tabs of LSD he had driven off in a Parks Department Land Rover and tripped out in the craggy isolation of Glen Affric for thirty-six hours (necessitating a further round of mollifying phone calls from his father, more markers being called in). It had been, Sinbad told the household, the most, you know, amazing experience of his life and he would like to offer—free of charge—some LSD to any fellow tenants who wished to sample the intensity of perceptual change the stuff provoked. Lachlan and Murdo accepted, saying they would take it back to Mull to try. The rest of us indifferently, but politely, declined (Joyce doing so on Shona’s behalf—Shona was keen).
Sinbad was disappointed by this reticence and so one evening, as Joyce was preparing our communal meal—a large shepherd’s pie—Sinbad dropped three tabs of acid into the simmering mincemeat to ensure that we did not miss out on the mindbending experience he felt sure, really, that in our heart of hearts we wanted. It was one of the evenings when I happened to be staying over.
—The Book of Transfiguration
Ivan Algomir looked at Binnie Helvoir-Jayne’s scrawled note, her huge, looping handwriting giving instructions about the dinner party.
“Black tie?” he said. “That’s a bit naff, isn’t it?” He sniffed. “I suppose it’s just allowable these days, there must be someone grand coming.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“If it’s just a bunch of friends then it’s unforgivable. Where the hell is Monken Hadley?”
“It’s in the borough of Barnet,” Lorimer said, “believe it or not.”
“Priddion’s Farm, Monken Hadley? You could be in darkest Gloucestershire.”
“It’s about a mile from the beginning of the A1.”
“Sounds very dodgy to me. Well, if you’ve got to go black tie, remember: no wing collar; a proper bow tie that you tie, a black one too, absolutely no colours; no silly velvet slippers; no cummerband; no frilly shirts; no black socks; no handkerchief in the pocket. Velvet coat’s all right. I know,” he said, smiling suddenly and showing his big ruined teeth, “you can go in a kilt. Perfect. Black Watch tartan. Ideal, Lorimer.”
“Can I wear a dirk?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What’s wrong with black socks?”
“Only butlers and chauffeurs wear black socks.”
“You’re a genius, Ivan. What do you think about fobs? I rather fancy one.”
“No gentleman wears a fob, ghastly affectation. If you don’t want physically to wear a wristwatch then just carry it in your pocket. Far more the thing to do, believe me.”
“Right,” Lorimer said. “Now, about this helmet.” He spread out three polaroids of his helmet collection and handed Ivan the list of their provenances. Ivan glanced at them and pushed them away.
“Not interested in the burgonet or the barbute, but this fellow looks good. I’ll give you five thou for him. Oh, all right, seven thousand for all three.”
“Done.” Lorimer was making a profit but it was irrelevant—he never bought his helmets to make a profit. “I’ve got them in the car.”
“Write me a cheque for £13,000 and he’s yours,” Ivan said, reach over to a table where the Greek helmet stood on its stand and setting it in front of Lorimer. “I’m barely covering my costs on this.”
Lorimer thought. “I can write you a cheque,” he said, “but you’ll have to hold on to it until I say. I’ve got a rather nice bonus coming in but it’s not through yet.”
Ivan smiled fondly at him. Lorimer knew the affection was genuine, and not just because he was a regular customer. Ivan enjoyed his role as consigliere and general fount of all wisdom about matters sartorial and social. Like many Englishmen he cared little for what he ate or drank—a gin and tonic and banana sandwich would suit at any hour of the day but in matters of decorum Lorimer treated him as positively oracular, and Ivan was amused and rather flattered to be consulted. It also helped that Lorimer never challenged a single opinion Ivan expressed or statement he made.
“I’ll pack it up and you can take it away with you,” he said, turning and shouting up the stairs. “Portobello? Champagne, darling, we’ve made a sale. Bring down the Krug.”
32. George Hogg’s Philosophy of Insurance. What does insurance do, really do? Hogg would ask us. And we would say, diligently echoing the textbooks, that insurance’s primary Junction is to substitute certainty for uncertainty as regards the economic consequences of disastrous events. It gives a sense of security in an insecure world. It makes you feel safe, then ? Hogg would follow up. Yes, we would reply: something tragic, catastrophic, troublesome or irritating may have occurred but there is recompense in the form of a preordained sum of money. All is not entirely lost. We are covered, after a fashion, protected to a degree against the risk—the bad luck—of a heart attack, a car smash, a disability, afire, a theft, a loss, things that can, and will, affect us all at some or many times in our lives.
That attitude, Hogg would say, is fundamentally immoral. Immoral, dishonest and misleading. Such an understanding promotes and bolsters the fond notion that we will all grow up, be happy, healthy, find a job, fall in love, start a family, earn a living, retire, enjoy a ripe old age and die peacefully in our sleep. This is a seductive dream, Hogg would snarl, the most dangerous fantasy. All of us know that, in reality, life never works out like this. So what did we do? We invented insurance—which makes us feel we have half a chance, a shot at achieving it, so that even if something goes wrong—mildly wrong or hideously wrong—we have provided some buffer against random disaster.
But, Hogg would say, why should a system that we have invented not possess the same properties as the life we had? Why should insurance be solid and secure? What right do we have to think that the laws of uncertainty which govern the human condition, all human endeavour, all human life, do not apply to this artificial construct, this sop that affects to soften the blows of filthy chance and evil luck?
Hogg would look at us, contempt and pity shining from his eyes. We have no right, he would say solemnly. Such an attitude, such beliefs were deeply, fundamentally unphilosophical. And this was where we—the loss adjusters—came in. We had a vital role to play: we were the people who reminded all the others that nothing in this world is truly certain, we were the rogue element, the unstable factor in the ostensibly stable world of insurance. “I am insured—so at host I am safe,” we like to think. Not so, Hogg would say, shaking a pale finger, uh-uh, no way. We have a philosophical duty to perform when we adjust loss, he told us. When we do our adjustments of loss we frustrate and negate all the bland promises of insurance. We act out in our small way one of the
great unbending principles of life: nothing is sure, nothing is certain, nothing is risk-free, nothing is fully covered, nothing is forever. It is a noble calling, he would say, go out into the world and do your duty.
—The Book of Transfiguration
Priddion’s Farm, Monken Hadley, turned out to be a sizeable 1920s stockbroker’s villa, brick and pebble-dashed, complete with decorative half-timbering and steepling mock-Elizabethan chimneys. It was set in a large garden of several terraced lawns with a view of a golf course, the Great North Road, and the distant rooftops of High Barnet. Even though Monken Hadley was still a part of the huge city, perched on its very northern fringe, it looked and felt to Lorimer like a toy village, with a village green, a flinty ashlar church—St Mary the Virgin—and a venerable manor house.
Priddion’s Farm was partially screened from the road and its neighbours by dense clumps of laurel and rhododendron and there was an assortment of mature trees—cedar, chestnut, maple, monkey puzzle and weeping ash—strategically scattered about the lawns, doubtless planted as saplings by the wealthy man who had paid for the house to be built.
Lorimer drew his car up beside three others on the gravelled sweep before the front porch and tried to square this bourgeois palace with the Torquil Helvoir-Jayne he thought he knew. He heard laughter and voices and wandered round the side of the house to find a croquet lawn upon which Torquil and another man in pink corduroy trousers were playing a boisterous, profane game of croquet. A thin young woman in jeans, smoking, looked on, laughing nasally from time to time, giving a whoop of encouragement as Torquil first lined up and then powerfully hammered his opponent’s ball away across the lawn and through a border out of sight where it could be heard thumping dully along the paving stones of a lower terrace.
“You fucking bastard,” the man in pink trousers bellowed at Torquil, trotting off to find his ball.
“You owe me thirty quid, you anus,” Torquil yelled back, lining up his own next shot.
“Pay up, pay up,” the young woman shouted, heartily. “And make sure you get it in cash, Torquie.”