2009 - Ordinary Thunderstorms (37 page)

He went back into his sitting room and opened another file. He had been routinely collecting articles for the past couple of weeks from broadsheet newspapers and serious news magazines that dealt with the manufacture of drugs and the machinations of the pharmaceutical industry, trying to gauge if there was one journalist he might go to who would be able to interpret his patchy evidence. He had narrowed it down to a shortlist of three names: one in
The Times
, one in the
Economist
and one in a small specialist journal called
Global Finance Bulletin
that he had found abandoned in a Tube train carriage. Dry and fact-laden with no illustrations apart from graphs and diagrams, it seemed aimed at governmental policy makers, lobbyists and financial institutions

—the subscription was an impressive £280 per year for the four issues. It was based in London and there was one journalist, called Aaron Lalandusse, who wrote in every issue on the pharmaceutical industry. Adam sensed that this Lalandusse was his man.

His mobile phone rang and Adam started—he was still not fully accustomed to the thing, symbol of his new, though modest, upward mobility in society. It was either the hospital or Rita.

“Hello, stranger,” Rita said. “You avoiding me?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been very busy, ridiculously busy. I was going to call you.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“I get off duty at six. What about you?”

“I’m not on till tomorrow. Shall we have a drink somewhere?”

“Where?”

“I can come to you. I’ve got a scooter now. Bought one yesterday.”

“Hey. Wheels.”

“It’ll work out cheaper.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Anyway, I could whizz over to Battersea.”

“Why don’t we meet halfway,” she said, and told him the name of a pub she knew on the river. He said he’d see her there at seven.

“Don’t bring your scooter,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t got a helmet.”

S
OMETHING HAD GONE SERIOUSLY wrong with the cooking, Jonjo thought. Curried eggs? Who’d invented that? He took his plate from the server, looking dubiously at the three white, shifting eggs, rolling in an olive-green, lumpy pool of gravy with a ladleful of rice on the side. He avoided the junkies and found a place at a table occupied by a bearded man—looked like a wizard from a comic, Jonjo thought: pointed grey beard, long grey hair parted in the middle. Jonjo grunted hello, sat down and began to eat. The lumps in the gravy were sultanas, he noticed—god knows what this lot would smell like coming out the other end. He mashed the eggs into a pulp and mixed the whole caboodle together. He’d sat through another ninety-minute Bishop Yemi sermon and he wasn’t going to miss his free meal, no way.

He took his folded photograph of Kindred out of his pocket, smoothed it on the table and pushed it over so Greybeard could see it.

“Do you know this bloke? Used to be a John, like us.”

Greybeard looked at the image and back at Jonjo. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m looking for him. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Never seen him,” Greybeard said. “If you’ll excuse me, I feel a bit nauseous.” He stood up and walked briskly away, leaving his unfinished curry. Jonjo added the remains to his plate and mashed the new eggs into the mix. Weren’t that bad, actually, these curried eggs.

Another John sat down beside him—nasty-looking bloke with thining frizzy hair and something wrong with his skin, like thick plastic set in heavy folds, like a tarpaulin or oil-cloth or something.

“Old Thrale got the hump, has he?” he said, extending his hand. “Turpin, Vince Turpin.”

“John 1794,”Jonjo said, not offering to shake.

“Pleased to meet you, John,” Turpin said smiling, unperturbed, as if he were used to all manner of slights, his smile revealing his gap teeth. He began to cut his eggs up into small pieces.

“You a married man, John?” Turpin asked, amiably.

“No.”

“Then you must be either very lucky or very sensible. I’m a much married man myself and I don’t mind telling you that ninety-nine per cent of my troubles have come from my wives.”

“You don’t say.” Jonjo shovelled mashed curry into his mouth. He took it back—this was well tasty.

“The kiddies are a blessing, I have to say. They make up for all the woe.”

“I’ve got a dog,” Jonjo said. “More than enough to keep me occupied.”

Jonjo finished his curry quickly—time to get away from this weirdo, elephant-man creep. He stood up and then sat down again, remembering his Kindred photo. He spread it beside Turpin’s plate.

“D’you know this bloke? Used to come here.”

Turpin frowned, pointed his fork at the picture and slowly circled the tines around Kindred’s face.

“Looks very much like John 1603. We joined the same day.” He pulled aside the end of the scarf he had around his neck to reveal his badge. John 1604, Jonjo saw.

“That’s the man.”

Jonjo told himself to stay calm, but he could feel his heart beating faster already—a step closer to Kindred.

“He’s a mate of mine,” he added. “I’m looking for him.”

“Hasn’t been here for weeks. Used to be in most nights. Nice bloke, well-spoken, like Thrale.” He pointed at Greybeard with his fork. “Posh.”

“He’s come into some money,” Jonjo said, carefully, lowering his voice. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Money, eh?…No, haven’t a clue.”

“Shame. Because anyone who can help me find John 1603 will get a two grand reward.” Jonjo smiled and repeated: “Two grand. Two thousand quid.”

“Let me have a think,” Turpin said, “ask around. Perhaps someone will have an idea.”

Jonjo wrote his mobile number on a slip of paper and handed it over.

“Give us a tinkle if you see him. Two grand, remember, cash.”

He took his plate back to the serving counter and handed it over. Don’t get over-excited, he told himself: the tosspots and nutters that made up the congregation of the Church of John Christ couldn’t be relied upon, that much he knew. Still, there was something sly and calculating about that Turpin and his eyes had widened with sly and calculating anticipation when the sum of money had been mentioned. He wandered out of the church, the curried eggs beginning to repeat on him unpleasantly, and headed for his parked taxi. He didn’t want to rely on a scumbag like Turpin but at the moment he was his best and only hope.

R
ITA WOKE AND SAW Primo looking at her, his face a foot away on the pillow. She stretched and groaned with semi-conscious pleasure, flinging a leg over his thigh.

“Good morning,” she said. “Hello, there.”

He kissed her gently and she smelt and tasted toothpaste: thoughtful man. She felt his hands on her breasts, then on her back. She reached down and touched his cock, gripped it.

“I’ve got to go to work,” he said. “Nobody’s sorrier than me.”

“I am.”

“Take your time. Just pull the door behind you.”

He kissed her again and slid out of bed, Rita turning to watch him dress. She recalled, in her drowsy, morning-after euphoria, the night before, remembering them sitting on the terrace of the pub looking over the river as the dusk gathered, feeling the almost intolerable anticipation of the lovemaking that she knew was coming. They had chatted about her job, about her family—she had done most of the talking, she realised—their fingers intertwined, kissing from time to time and drinking just a litde too much before they bussed back to Stepney and the Oystergate Buildings.

He leant into the doorway of the bedroom.

“I’ll call you,” he said. “I’m on late tonight.”

“Bye, Primo,” she called after him, raising her voice. “Thank you!”

She heard the front door close and then a minute later the distant popping noise of his scooter starting. She turned over, wondering whether she should doze off again. It was a kind of bliss she was experiencing, she realised, and she thought that if she went back to sleep she might not wake again for hours.

So she washed her face and dressed, made herself a cup of coffee in the small kitchen and then ate some buttered toast, speculating—could she live here in Stepney with Primo?…Then she mocked herself—slow down, girl, don’t let your heart run away with you, you barely know him.

Which was true, she thought, as she wandered around the small flat, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter with him, for some reason. She stood in the living room—it was as if he had moved in yesterday. There was a bed, a TV, a black leather sofa. He seemed to keep his few clothes in cardboard boxes: some shirts, a sweater, a suit, a pair of jeans and some trainers. Another box contained underwear and socks. The flat was clean, the kitchen barely stocked—a few tins, a pint of milk, cornflakes. It was a place that could be abandoned in minutes, she thought: no books, no pictures on the wall, no ornaments, no mementoes, none of the personal detritus that someone accumulates in life without even trying. What sense of Primo Belem, she wondered, would you retrieve from these four rooms?

In the sitting room there was another cardboard box, full of newspaper clippings, printouts and, the first thing that came to hand, some kind of advertisement for a drug company. She felt a little guilty sifting through these papers but then again he was the one who had left her the run of his flat—he must have suspected some casual snooping would take place. She riffled through the documents in the box—they all seemed to be about medical matters, and there was a glossy brochure for a pharmaceutical company, Calenture-Deutz—the name seemed familiar, somehow. All to do with his hospital work, she supposed, and put everything back as carefully as she could. She glanced around the flat again, spotting a small picture that she had missed, propped behind a chopping board—an image cut from a magazine: a congregation of oddly shaped clouds in a blue sky over some parched desert landscape. In the middle of this mountain range rose some kind of obelisk. She looked closer—no, it was a building, a thin skyscraper in the middle of a desert. What was left of the caption said, “The world’s largest, tallest cloud chamber. Part of the western campus of—” The scissoring had removed the rest of the words. She put it back carefully. Take him as you find him, she said to herself- you like him, he likes you, end of story.

She closed the door behind her. Primo Belem was either a man who had nothing to hide or a man who had everything to hide. She was in no hurry to find out what category he fell into.

It turned out to be one of those hazy days on the river, with a layer of thin, high clouds partially screening the sun, turning the light thick and golden, blurring the hard edges of buildings, making the trees on the Chelsea shore seem dreamily out of focus. Rita stood on the deck of the
Bellerophon
watering her plants, thinking back to the previous night, remembering and registering that they had made love three times—a record for her—and wondering when they had fallen asleep. Four o’clock? Later? Not surprising that she felt so tired, as if she’d been in the gym for some endless workout.

“So why have you got a stupid smile on your face?”

She turned round to see her father step stiffly on to the foredeck. He seemed to be walking more easily today—or else he’d forgotten he was meant to be using a crutch.

She said nothing, just smiled more broadly.

“Enjoy yourself last night?”

“Yes,” she said. “I had a nice time.”

“Off with your Italian porter.”

“As it happens.”

He began to roll himself a cigarette.

“He doesn’t look Italian to me.”

“He’s a third-generation immigrant. You don’t look English to me, come to think of it.” She turned off the tap and coiled her hose neatly beneath it, ship-shape.

“Dad,” she said, thinking, as she uttered the words, that this was becoming ridiculous, “what would you say if I moved out?”

“About bloody time.”

T
HERE WERE THREE NEAT stacks of pound coins on top of the telephone and his pockets were heavy with more.

“That will be fourteen pounds,” the operator said.

Adam duly slotted in the coins.

“You know it’s so much easier with a credit card,” the operator said.

“My credit card was stolen, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, sorry. Thank you. I’m connecting you now.”

Adam was in a phone booth in Leicester Square. It was ten o’clock at night but the next day had already dawned in Australia. He heard the phone ringing in his sister’s house in Sydney.

“Hello, yeah?” It was his brother-in-law, Ray.

“Can I speak with Francis Kindred please?” He kept his voice deep and flatly businesslike.

“What’s it about, mate?”

“About a money transfer from the UK to his bank.”

“Hold on.”

There was a silence, then he heard his father’s reedy voice.

“Hello? I think there must be some mistake.”

Adam felt the tears brim in his eyes.

“Dad—it’s me, Adam…” Silence. “Dad?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t do it, Dad.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I had to hide out for a while. They thought it was me—the evidence was pretty overwhelming.” The phone beeped and he pumped in more coins.

“Go to the police, Ad. They’ll sort it out.”

“No they won’t. I have to sort it out myself. But I just wanted to tell you I was OK.”

“Well, it’s a relief. Emma and I—we were going to come back. See if we could help find you. Go on television again, if we could, make another appeal.”

Adam swallowed. He tried to sound composed. “I heard about the first one,” he said. “No need for another, now, Dad.”

“People came to see us out here. Police—and other investigators. Secret service, we think. Asked us all sorts of questions. And they’re still tampering with our mail—we can see letters have been opened.”

“That’s what I mean. It’s too big—there are other forces at work, other interests. Listen, I’ll call you from time to time—and I’ll let you know when I’ve sorted everything out.” The beeps came and more coins went in. “They’ll probably trace this call—you can tell them that we spoke. But I’m alive and well, Dad.” This statement made him feel like weeping, also, as he registered its poignant truth and its contingency.