Armadillo

by William Boyd

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Black?’ It was Hogg.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get your arse down to the junction of Pall Mall and St James’s. Six o’clock this evening. Good news.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Be there.’

  He rung off and Lorimer thought: this is most confusing, these are complexities beyond complexities. Hogg just assumed he would be there, he realized, that he would still jump to his command. For a moment he pondered an act of defiance – and decided against it. It was too hard to resist, and Hogg knew he would come, knew in his bones. There was too much shared history for him to refuse – and it was too soon. And Hogg had not merely issued an order: ‘good news’, he had said, that was the lure, that was the invitation, and this was as close to mollifying as Hogg would ever become. Of course what was ‘good news’ to George Hogg wouldn’t necessarily be perceived as such by anyone else. Lorimer sighed: he sensed again his impotence and ignorance, the bystander who can only see glimpses of the race and cannot tell who’s winning or who’s being lapped; he felt the buffeting, burly power of forces he did not comprehend or welcome, pushing at and shaping his destiny.

  The front door of number II, Lupus Crescent was open, much to Lorimer’s surprise, and in the hall stood a lanky, red-eyed, sniffing Rastafarian whom Lorimer recognized as Nigel, Lady Haigh’s mulch – and compost-supplier.

  He was about to ask him what the trouble was when the door of Lady Haigh’s flat opened and two undertakers appeared, manoeuvring a low gurney upon which lay a thick, rubberized zip-up plastic bag. With sad, professional smiles they swiftly trundled their burden out of the front door.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Lorimer said. ‘Lady Haigh.’

  ‘She wouldn’t answer the bell,’ Nigel said. ‘So I went round the back, through a friend’s house, nipped over the fence and saw her lying on the kitchen floor. I broke in, there was a phone number by the phone, and I called this gentleman.’ His voice was level but tears shimmered pinkly in his eyes and he sniffed again.

  Lorimer turned to see he was referring to a harassed-looking, balding man in his fifties coming through the door, a tuft of his fine thinning hair standing straight up, filaments waving to and fro as he moved. He sensed Lorimer’s gaze upon it so he stopped wiping his hands on a handkerchief and palmed his hair flat across his pate.

  Lorimer introduced himself.

  ‘What a terrible shock,’ Lorimer said, with absolute sincerity. ‘I live upstairs. I’ve just come from my father’s funeral. I can’t believe it.’

  The harassed man seemed not to want to hear any more depressing statements from Lorimer and looked anxiously at his watch.

  ‘I’m Godfrey Durrell,’ he said. ‘Cecilia’s nephew.’

  Cecilia? This was news – and a nephew as well. He felt sad that Lady Haigh had died but also he remembered how she longed for this release. A drip of guilt began to intrude on his shock and upset: how long had it been since he had last seen her, or given a thought to her welfare? It had been the dog food conversation, which was – when? Hours, days or weeks ago? His life seemed currently to be defying the segmented orders of diurnal time, hours lasting days, days compressed into minutes. He thought suddenly of Jupiter’s untypical solitary bark on – good God – Sunday night and wondered if it were as close as he could come to a pealing howl over his dead mistress’s body…

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Durrell said. ‘I’ve got to get back.’

  ‘Where?’ Lorimer felt he had a right to know.

  ‘I’m a radiologist at the Demarco-Westminster Clinic. I’ve got a waiting room full of patients.’ He re-entered the flat and emerged moments later in a semi-crouch, his left hand gripping the generous scruff of Jupiter’s neck.

  ‘I believe he’s yours now,’ he said. ‘There are about a dozen notes taped up around the house saying he’s to be delivered to you, in the event, etcetera.’

  ‘Yes. I did promise –’

  He was locking the door. ‘I’ll be back whenever I can,’ he said, opening his wallet and handing Lorimer his card. He shook Nigel’s hand, thanked him and, with a nervous smoothing gesture at his hair, quickly left.

  Jupiter sat down slowly at Lorimer’s feet, his tongue lolling thirstily. He probably needs a drink, Lorimer thought, all those hours of waiting.

  ‘I was worried about the dog,’ Nigel said. ‘I’m glad you’re taking him.’

  ‘He’s a nice old dog,’ Lorimer said, stooping to give him a possessive pat. ‘Poor old Lady Haigh.’

  ‘She was a great lady, Cecilia,’ Nigel said with feeling.

  ‘Did you call her Cecilia?’ Lorimer asked, thinking about his own diffidence, feeling obscurely jealous that Nigel should have been so familiar, so easily

  ‘Sure. I used to sing that song at her, you know: “Cecilia, you’re breaking my heart, you’re shaking my confidence daily”.’ Nigel’s rasping baritone carried the tune well. ‘She used to laugh.’

  ‘Fine old lady.’

  ‘But she was tired waiting. She wanted to die, man.’

  ‘Don’t we all.’

  Nigel laughed and raised his hand. Unthinkingly Lorimer gripped it, shoulder-high, thumbs interlocking, like two centurions taking their leave at the frontiers of some distant province, far from Rome.

  ‘It gets to you, man,’ Nigel said, shaking his head. ‘Go to pay a visit and find a dead body.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘Come on Jupiter,’ Lorimer said, after Nigel had sauntered off, and walked upstairs with the old dog obediently following. He gave him a bowl of water and he lapped noisily and splashily at it, heavy drops sprinkling the carpet, so Lorimer fetched a newspaper and put it under the bowl. Life with Jupiter: lesson one. He probably needed food, a walk, a shit… He looked at his watch – ten past five. No, he’d better keep this appointment, he did not want to incur the wrath of Hogg any further. Two deaths in as many days: this was adding new and unknown stresses and strains, life was bearing down on him hard, disturbing all anticipations.

  213. The Television Set. You still don’t remember what they were watching on the television, you heard only the noise of its imbecile chatter, even louder when the cheering subsided as you strode naked into the middle of the common room. Then the whistles and hoots began, screams and gasps, fingers were pointed towards your groin area. And you were shouting yourself, gripped by your rage, your burning, consuming fury, screaming for silence, for some respect, for tolerance of others’ needs and reasonable demands.

  So you seized the television set from its tall plinth and effortlessly, it seemed, raised it above your head before dashing it to the ground and turning to those hundred pairs of eyes and yelling – what? The room went quiet and turned red, green, yellow, grey and red again and people were falling on you, some glancing blows were struck as you hit out, defending yourself, but soon you were on the ground, someone’s jacket wrapped around your middle, your nose full of the reek of burning dust and scorched plastic from the shattered machine, hearing one word which managed to find a way through to your multicoloured, suffering cortex – ‘Police,’ ‘Police,’ ‘Police’.

  You did the right thing. The only thing. You were right to leave, leave the college, leave Joyce McKimmie (where are they now? Shy Joyce and little Zane?), you were right never to go back to the house at Croy, even though there was murder in your heart and you wished to see Sinbad Fingleton just one more time and visit significant harm upon him.

  No one should be asked to live with that kind of shame and humiliation, that kind of hellish notoriety, especially not you. You were right to go south and ask your father to find you the safest and most ordinary of jobs. You were right to leave the shame and the humiliation to Milomre Blocj and to start afresh with Lorimer Black.

  The Book of Transfiguration

  Chapter 19

  Lorimer stood shivering on the corner of Pall Mall and St James’s, watching his breath cloud and h
ang almost motionless in front of him beneath the ochre glow of the streetlamps, as if it were reluctant to be dispersed and wanted to be breathed back into his warm lungs again. It had every sign of being another hard frost tonight but at least he did not have to worry about its effect on the Toyota’s bodywork. Small mercies, duly thankful. He blew into his cupped hands and stamped his feet. It was ten past six – he would wait another five minutes and then he’d –

  Across the street a large car stopped and a man in a dark blue overcoat climbed out and disappeared up some steps into a building.

  ‘Mr Black?’

  Lorimer turned to confront a diminutive, portly man, smiling warmly. He seemed top-heavy, all chest and gut and gave the impression of teetering forward, on the edge of losing his balance. He had thick sandy hair combed back in a rock ‘n’ roller’s tidy quiff. He must have been in his sixties, his face worn and weather-beaten despite his apple cheeks and wobbly jowls. A green loden-coat and brown trilby he’d raised from his head in greeting sat oddly on him, as if he’d borrowed them from some other man.

  ‘Freeze your b-b-balls off,’ the little man said, jocularly replacing his hat and extending his hand. ‘Dirk van Meer.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Lorimer said, very surprised. Oddly enough, the accent sounded more Irish than South African.

  ‘I wanted to meet you myself,’ he said, ‘in order to underline the importance of what I’m going to say. Didn’t want an intermediary, you see.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My associates have already spoken to your friend Mr Wiles and he’s been most co-operative.’

  ‘As I keep saying to people: I simply don’t understand what’s going on.’

  ‘Ah, but you’re an intelligent young fellow and soon you’ll be able to add up two and two. I wanted to talk to you before you figured out it was four.’

  ‘Look, Wiles couldn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘The trouble is, Mr Black, you know more than you think. Sheer bad luck.’

  Sheer Achimota, Lorimer thought, for some reason. Powerful ju-ju.

  ‘It’s terribly simple,’ van Meer went on, genially. All I require of you is your silence and your promise to remain silent.’

  ‘You have my promise,’ Lorimer said at once. ‘Unequivocally’ He would promise this jolly, smiling gnome anything. Somehow the complete absence of threat in his voice and manner was terrifying, spoke of awesome power.

  ‘Good,’ van Meer said, taking his arm and turning him so that he faced up St James’s. He pointed at a building. ‘You know that club there? Yes, there. Go inside and ask for Sir Simon Sherriffmuir. He’ll have some interesting news for you.’ He gave Lorimer a little pat on the shoulder. ‘I’m so glad we understand each other. Mum’s the word.’ He theatrically put his finger to his lips, and backed away, adding with no trace of threat in his voice at all, ‘I will hold you to your unequivocal promise, Mr Black. Be assured.’

  Lorimer found this remark more distressing and gut-churning than a cut-throat razor waved in his face and felt his mouth dry and his gorge contract. Van Meer gave a wheezy chortle, a wave and wandered off along Pall Mall.

  The uniformed porter took Lorimer’s coat and with an elegant gesture of the arm indicated the bar.

  ‘You’ll find Sir Simon in there, sir.’

  Lorimer looked about him: early evening and the place was quiet. Through a door he caught a glimpse of a large room with armchairs set around round polished tables and large, undistinguished nineteenth-century portraits. As he moved to the bar he saw green baize noticeboards, staff walking briskly and quietly to and fro. The feel was institutional rather than clubby – as he imagined the officers’ mess of a grand regiment might be in time of peace, or the committee rooms of some venerable philanthropic society. His feeling of not belonging was acute and destabilizing.

  Sir Simon was standing at the bar, Hogg beside him, darkly and greyly suited, hair oiled back. A smarter Hogg than the one he knew, more menacing somehow, and greeting him with no smile, though Sir Simon was affability itself, asking him what he would drink, recommending a special brand of Scotch – a suggestion backed up with a swift and pointed anecdote – steering him to a corner table where the three of them sat down in scarred leather armchairs. Hogg lit one of his filterless cigarettes, and Sir Simon offered a small black cheroot (politely declined). Smoking material was ignited, smoke soon dominated the atmosphere, and there was some conversation about the severity of the weather and hopelessness of seeking for signs of spring. Lorimer dutifully agreed with everything that was said, and waited.

  ‘You spoke to Dirk,’ Sir Simon observed, finally. ‘He particularly wanted to meet you.’

  ‘I can’t think why.’

  ‘You understood what he – what we – are asking of you?’

  ‘Discretion?’

  ‘Absolutely. Absolute discretion.’

  Lorimer could not help but look over at Hogg, who was leaning back in his chair, thighs crossed, puffing serenely at his cigarette. Sir Simon noticed.

  ‘George is completely au fait. There is no remaining problem, I think that’s fair comment, George, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fair as trousers,’ Hogg said.

  Sir Simon smiled. ‘We want you back at GGH, Lorimer. But not now, in a year or so.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Because you’re in disgrace,’ Hogg said, impatiently. ‘You had to go.’

  ‘Yes, you should never have gone to Boomslang,’ Sir Simon said disapprovingly, yet with sympathy. ‘That put you beyond the pale, especially as far as Dirk was concerned.’

  Lorimer was baffled. ‘Look, I was only trying –’

  ‘Pull the other one, Black,’ Hogg said with some of his old aggression. ‘You were digging for dirt to save your decomposing hide.’

  ‘For some answers. And on your instructions.’

  ‘That’s a pile of bollocks –’

  ‘– Put it this way,’ Sir Simon interrupted. ‘We have to be seen to have acted. In case. There were serious irregularities.’

  ‘Not mine,’ Lorimer said, with some force. ‘I was just doing my job.’

  ‘Every time I hear that excuse,’ Hogg said, vehemently, ‘I reach for my guillotine.’

  ‘We know you think you were,’ Sir Simon said, more emolliently ‘but that would not be apparent at all to… to others, to outsiders. That’s why it’s better to let you go.’

  To become what, Lorimer wondered, cynically? The lone trader, the rogue dealer, the berserk broker? More like the lost loss adjuster. Deniability was heavy in the air along with the blue smoke from Sir Simon’s foul cheroot. There had been some serious level of knavery here, Lorimer thought, some particularly devious and particularly profitable malversation, as it was known, to make these powerful men so calmly concerned. He wondered if he would ever discover what had really been at stake in the Fedora Palace affair, what the true rewards were for the participants. He strongly doubted it.

  ‘So – I’m the scapegoat?’

  ‘That’s an unnecessarily crude way of putting it.’

  ‘Or you could say I’m your insurance.’

  ‘The analogy is inappropriate.’

  ‘What about Torquil?’ Lorimer persisted. ‘He was the one that fouled up in the first place.’

  ‘Torquil is Sir Simon’s godson,’ Hogg said, as if that would put an end to all further conversation.

  ‘It’s for the best if Torquil is back at Fortress Sure where I can keep an eye on him,’ Sir Simon said, raising a finger to summon the bar steward for another round of drinks. ‘I’m sorry it has to be you, Lorimer, but it’s better this way, long term.’ Drinks were replenished and Sir Simon raised his glass, examining the smoky amber of his whisky against the shaded glow of a nearby lamp.

  Better for who, Lorimer thought. For whom?

  Sir Simon smelt then sipped his drink – he was clearly in mellow mood.

  ‘Mud doesn’t stick in our world,’ he said, reflectively, almost with a ton
e of pleasant surprise. ‘That’s one of the great advantages about this place. Come back in a year – you’ll find everyone has short memories.’

  Mud doesn’t stick? Suddenly he was mud-plastered. He was being sacked and with it only the compensation of a vague promise to sweeten the pill.

  ‘There is one thing I would ask in return for my… discretion,’ he said, sensing Hogg coiling up angrily.

  ‘You’re in no position to ask for –’

  ‘–Just a phone call.’ Lorimer scribbled down the details from the scrap of paper in his pocket on to a paper napkin. ‘I’d like Mr Hogg to call this person, Mrs Mary Vernon, or leave a message, and confirm I had nothing to do with the Dupree adjust.’

  ‘Make any sense to you, George?’ Sir Simon looked to Hogg for confirmation.

  Hogg took the napkin from Lorimer. ‘As easy as counting chickens,’ he said, standing up, hitching his trousers over his belly and striding off.

  Sir Simon Sherriffmuir smiled at Lorimer. ‘You know, I can practically hear your brain working, dear boy It’s not an advantage. Cultivate a certain languor. A certain ennui. A sharp brain like yours, rudely exposed – it worries people in our world. Keep your light under a gigantic pile of bushels, that’s my advice, and you’ll go much further.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to say.’

  ‘Of course it is. Stop thinking, Lorimer, don’t worry about the big picture, trying to figure out how it all fits. That was what was bothering George. That was why he was becoming so… irate. Now he understands, now he’s an even richer man. And he’s happy. My advice to you is to go away, take a holiday. Go skiing. Go to Australia, people tell me it’s a wonderful place. Have fun. Then come back in a year and give us a call.’ He stood slowly up, the meeting was over. Lorimer allowed himself briefly to admire the exact waisting of Sir Simon’s jacket, its cut audaciously longer than standard.