by William Boyd
‘All will be well, Lorimer, all will be well.’
He took Sir Simon’s spread-fingered hand, feeling the latent power in his grip, its firmness, its generous pressure, its sure confidence. It was all lies, of course, but beautiful, de luxe lies, the work of a master craftsman.
‘See you next year, Lorimer. Expect great things.’
In the hall he met Hogg coming back. They sidestepped each other.
‘I left a message,’ Hogg said. ‘Everything’s covered.’
‘Many thanks.’
Hogg scratched his cheek. ‘Well, here we are, Lorimer.’
‘Here we are, Mr Hogg.’
‘What do you want, Lorimer, what’re you after?’
‘Nothing. I’ve got what I want.’
‘Why are you looking at me like that, then?’
‘Like what?’
‘I want to ask you something: did you tell anyone that I was pursuing an amorous liaison with Felicia Pickersgill?’
‘No. Are you?’
‘I’ll have your tripes for garters, Lorimer, if you’re lying to me.’
‘I’m not lying.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘What?’
‘Dig, dig, dig. When the cranes fly south, Lorimer, the farmer rests on his spade.’
‘You sound like my grandmother.’
‘There’s something feminine about your looks, anyone ever told you that? You’re a handsome young man, Lorimer.’
‘Et in arcadia ego.’
‘You could go far. In any profession.’
‘I’ve got a chance to start a fish farm.’
‘The farming of fish, now there’s a fascinating métier.’
‘Trout and salmon.’
‘Halibut and the sea bream.’
‘Cod and sole.’
‘The John Dory A wonderful fish.’
‘If I start it up I’ll invite you down. It’s in Guildford.’
‘I’m afraid I won’t set foot in Surrey. Sussex, though, now there’s a decent county’
‘Well, I’d better be going, Mr Hogg.’
Hogg’s face froze, his nostrils flared and then, after a moment, he stretched out his hand. Lorimer shook it – Hogg had a grip of iron and Lorimer felt his knuckles grind.
‘Send me a Christmas card. I’ll send you one. It’ll be our signal.’
‘Definitely Mr Hogg.’
Hogg turned, and then immediately turned back.
‘Change is in the nature of things, Lorimer.’
‘The disturbance of anticipation, Mr Hogg.’
‘Good lad.’
‘Cheerio, then.’
‘I’ll keep your seat warm,’ Hogg said thoughtfully, then, ‘and don’t play silly buggers, OK?’
He strode off with his burly bosun’s swagger, a steward pausing politely to let him pass. In the bar Lorimer saw Hogg sit grandly down and accept one of Sir Simon’s cheroots.
Waiting for him at the bottom of the club steps was Kenneth Rintoul. Kenneth Rintoul in his thin black leather greatcoat and a woollen cap standing at the blurry fan of light cast by the great lamps flanking the door.
‘Mr Black.’
Lorimer raised his hands protectively and, he hoped, threateningly, as if they betokened a youth spent in ju-jitsu clubs.
‘Watch it, Rintoul. I have friends in there.’
‘I know. A Mr Hogg told me to meet you here.’
Lorimer glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see Hogg and Sherriffmuir peering out of the window, noses flattened on the pane – or else some covert paparazzo recording this encounter as evidence. Evidence – their insurance.
Lorimer began to walk quickly down the slope towards St James’s Palace, Rintoul kept pace with him, easily.
‘I want to apologize, Mr Black. I want to thank you.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘The law suit’s been dropped. Hogg says this is all thanks to you.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Lorimer was deep in urgent thought.
‘And I want to apologize, personally, for my earlier, ah, remarks and actions. The phone calls, etcetera. I was out of order.’
‘No problem.’
‘I can’t tell you what this means to me.’ Rintoul had grabbed Lorimer’s right hand and was shaking it vigorously. Lorimer gently retrieved it, convinced this gratitude was now captured on film. ‘What it means to me and Deano.’
‘Could I ask you a couple of questions?’
Ask away, Mr Black.’
‘Simply as a matter of curiosity, tie up some loose ends,’ Lorimer said. ‘Have there been any instances of, of car vandalism near your office?’
‘Funny you should mention it,’ Rintoul said. ‘You know the big wholesale carpet warehouse underneath the office. The owner had his Merc well trashed the other night. Write-off. It’s happening all over, Mr Black. Kids, junkies, eco-warriors. They blame the motor car for all their problems.’
‘But it was you who set my car on fire.’
‘I have to admit it was Deano – he was a desperate man, hard to restrain.’
‘One other thing: did you write BASTA on my car bonnet in letters of sand? BASTA.’
‘BASTA… Wasn’t me, I swear. What’s the logic in writing in sand? If you know what I mean?’
‘Fair point.’
Destined to remain one of life’s mysteries, then, Lorimer thought. Well, not everything could be explained in life, of course. Hogg would echo that – with his urge to disturb all anticipations. Rintoul bade him a warm goodbye and strolled off up Pall Mall, just like Dirk van Meer before him, his stride jaunty, his head held back. Lorimer saw him pause and then the flare of a match silhouetted his woollen cap. All was well in Kenneth Rintoul’s world.
Lorimer walked past Clarence House, heading for the wide boulevard of the Mall, intending to hail a taxi, but then deciding to walk home and think things through, stroll the city streets and try to figure out, despite Sir Simon’s good counsel, just exactly what was going on and why his life was being steadily torn apart. He turned right under the leafless plane trees, his feet crunching on the gravel, and headed towards the broad, solid, floodlit façade of the palace. A flag was flying – so, they were home tonight, good, he liked to know that, when they came and went, he liked them to be there in their big, solid palace, fellow citizens – after a fashion – the thought was obscurely comforting.
Turning into Lupus Crescent, Lorimer saw a small group of people gathered around Marlobe’s flower trolley. He checked his collar was as high as possible, hunched his head down into his shoulders and crossed the street to the other side.
‘Oi,’ Marlobe beckoned him over imperiously. Wearily, he went.
‘I undercharged you on them tulips,’ Marlobe said. ‘You owe me two quid.’
Great, wonderful, have a nice day, Lorimer thought, and searched his pockets for change. He finally gave Marlobe a ten pound note and waited while he fetched out and re-opened his cash box, idly taking in the others gathered under the battery-powered electric light clipped to the awning. There was a young man and young woman whom he did not recognize and Marlobe’s regular crony with the slushing voice. To his minor surprise – nothing was ever going to surprise him in a major way again – they were all looking at the pages of a pornographic magazine, all sprawling, spatchcocked flesh tones on a double spread, debating some point about one of the models. Marlobe, Lorimer’s change in his hand, paused to chip in, jabbing his finger at one particular photograph.
‘It’s you,’ he said to the young woman. ‘It’s you, plain as day. Look at it.’
The girl – she was eighteen, twenty, forty-five – slapped his arm and laughed.
‘Get away’ she said. ‘Dirty bastard.’
‘Wages not enough for you?’ Marlobe leered. ‘Taken up a bit of modelling, eh? Have you? Eh?’ Lorimer recognized her now as someone who worked in their local post office; she had a thin, lively face spoilt by a small mouth.
‘It’s you,’ Marlo
be persisted. ‘Spitting image. You’re moonlighting.’
‘Horrible bush,’ Slushing-Voice opined.
‘You’re terrible,’ she said, giggling, administering another weak slap to Marlobe’s forearm. ‘Come on, Malcolm,’ she said to her beau. ‘He’s terrible, isn’t he?’ They walked away, laughing, with many an over-the-shoulder rejoinder.
‘That’s one horrible bush,’ said Slushing-Voice.
‘Let me see,’ Marlobe said, poring over the glossy pages. ‘That’s her, or it’s her twin sister, or I’m a monkey’s arsehole. She’s got a sort of mole on her thigh, look.’
‘She didn’t deny it, eh?’ said Slushing-Voice, knowingly. ‘Bit of a give-away, that.’
Marlobe finally held out Lorimer’s change, still scrutinizing the pictures. ‘What I should’ve done is asked her to drop her knickers so’s I could’ve checked on the mole.’
‘If she’s got a mole on her thigh…’ Slushing-Voice deduced.
‘could I have my change please?’
‘I should’ve asked her if she had a mole.’
‘Look at the minge on that one.’
‘God. What a horrible cunt.’
‘You’re disgusting,’ Lorimer said.
‘Say again?’
‘You’re disgusting, shameful. I’m ashamed to think we’re both human beings.’
‘Just a bit of fun, mate,’ Marlobe said, with his aggressive smile breaking across his face. ‘Bit of chat. You fuck off out of it if you don’t like it. No one asked you to eavesdrop, did they?’
‘Yeah,’ said Slushing-Voice. ‘Just a bit of fun.’
‘You’re filth. To talk like that in front of her. To talk like that.’
‘She weren’t complaining.’
‘Yeah. Fuck off. Poncey wanker.’
Lorimer, later, did not know what made him do it, indeed he did not know how he even managed to do it but, strengthened by the cumulative power bestowed on him by the day’s trials and humiliations, he stepped forward and took a grip of the lower rim of Marlobe’s flower shack and heaved. Whether it was because the rear flaps were still hinged out, making the edifice top-heavy, or whether it was simple good timing, of the sort weightlifters experience when they go for that final jerk and press, Lorimer did not know, nor could ever evaluate, but – in the event – the whole trolley went over with a dull but satisfyingly heavy bang and a great rushing of water as the metal vases and buckets voided themselves.
Marlobe and Slushing-Voice looked on in shock and some fear.
‘Fuck me,’ said Slushing-Voice.
Marlobe looked suddenly unmanned at this display of strength, all his confidence gone. He took half a step towards Lorimer, then stepped back. Lorimer realized he had his fists raised, his face locked in a grimace, full of hate.
‘There was no call for that,’ Marlobe said in a small voice. ‘No call at all. Bloody hell. Bastard.’ He bent down and began to pick up scattered flowers. ‘Look at my flowers.’
‘The next time you see her,’ Lorimer said, ‘apologize.’
‘We’ll get you, wanker! We’ll sort you, wanker!’ Lorimer heard Slushing-Voice bravely shout after him as he walked down Lupus Crescent. He could feel the adrenalin tremors and shiverings still firing in his body, not sure if it were the residue of his anger or merely the after-effect of his astonishing physical exertion. He opened the door, crossed the dark hall (thinking suddenly of Lady Haigh) and plodded up his stairs, feeling gloom and remorse, self-pity and depression struggling to take possession of his soul.
He stood in his hallway trying to calm himself, trying to bring his ragged breathing under control, and rested his palm talismanically on the crown of his Greek helmet.
An unfamiliar scratching noise on his carpet made him look round and he saw Jupiter nose open the door that led into the sitting room.
‘Hello, boy,’ he said, his voice brimming with pleasure and welcome, suddenly understanding why people kept dogs as pets, as if it were a revelation. He crouched to scratch Jupiter’s neck, pound his ribs, play with his flapping ears. ‘I’ve had a stinking, rotten, vile, depressing, stinking, shitty, vile, rotten day’ he said, suddenly realizing also why people talked to their dogs as if they could be understood. He needed some comfort, some reassurance, some notion of protection, somewhere safe.
He stood up, closed his eyes, opened them, saw his helmet there, picked it up, turned it in his hands and put it on.
It fitted him perfectly, or rather fitted him too perfectly, slipping on as if it had been made for him; and the moment he slid it on, round the back of his head over the bump of his prominent occipital bone, and felt it fit snugly under, almost with an audible click, he knew, he knew at once, that it would not come off.
He tried to take it off, of course, but it was the perfect curve round the back of the helmet, offsetting the small flare of the nape-guard, an elongated, inverted S-shape, a line he had often admired, that made removal impossible. It seemed as if the form of the helmet was designed for a head of exactly his phrenological configuration (perhaps, he suddenly thought, that was what he had subconsciously realized when he saw it? Sensed that recognition and so felt compelled to buy it?). His exact configuration but slightly smaller all round. The nose-guard lay parallel to the bridge of his nose, but not touching, ending the ideal one centimetre beyond his nose’s tip. The oval eye cutouts followed exactly the margin of the bones around the orbital cavity, the jut of the cheek-plates mimicked precisely the forward thrust of his jaw-bone.
He studied his reflection in the sitting-room mirror and liked what he saw. He looked good, he looked tremendous, in fact, exactly like a warrior, a Greek warrior, eyes gleaming behind the rigid metal features of the helmet, mouth firm between the corroded jade-coloured blades of the cheek-plates. The suit, the shirt and the tie looked incongruous but from the neck up he could have passed, he thought, for a minor classical deity.
A minor classical deity with a major problem, he concluded, as he refilled Jupiter’s water bowl and, for want of anything else, provided him with some sustenance in the form of squares of bread soaked in milk which, he was glad to see, Jupiter ate with tongue-smacking gusto.
He spent another ten fruitless minutes trying to ease the helmet off, but in vain. What to do? What to do? He paced about his flat-Jupiter dozing, sprawled indelicately on the sofa, cock and balls on show, quite at home – catching the occasional satisfying glimpse of this helmeted figure as it strode past the mirror on the mantelpiece, to and fro, the metal head with its shadowed oval eyes, sternly expressionless.
398. The Proof of Armour. The armed man could not afford to take chances, and so his equipment had to be ‘proved’, guaranteed that it could withstand the impact of a point blank thrust from a lance or shot from an arrow, and, later, from a pistol, arquebus, caliver and musket. In the Musée d’Artillerie the breastplate of the Duc de Guise is of great thickness and there are three bullet marks on it, none of which has penetrated.
It was, paradoxically, this very fact – that armour was indeed proof against firearms (and not that the arrival of firearms made armour obsolete) – which led to it being abandoned. In the seventeenth century Sir John Ludlow noted that, ‘Where there was some reason to fear the violence of muskets and pistols they made their armour thicker than before and have now so far exceeded that, instead of armour, they have laden their bodies with anvils. The armour that they now carry is so heavy that its weight will benumb a gentleman’s shoulders of thirty-five years of age.’
The armoured man had proved that his suit of tempered steel could withstand the most powerful weapons in use, but in so doing discovered that the increase in the heaviness of the metal in which he clad his body produced a weight that became burdensome in the extreme and, finally, insupportable.
The Book of Transfiguration
‘Hi, Slobodan, it’s Milo. Got a bit of a problem here.’
‘Talk to me, Milo.’
‘How do you fancy owning a dog?’
&nbs
p; Slobodan was over in half an hour and looked admiringly round Lorimer’s flat.
‘Nice place, Milo. Real smart, yeah?’ He rapped his knuckles on the helmet. ‘Won’t budge, eh?’
‘No. This is Jupiter.’
Slobodan knelt by the sofa and gave Jupiter a thorough scratching, patting, going over. ‘He’s a nice old fella. Ain’t you, boy? Going to come and live with Lobby, eh, old fella?’ Jupiter put up with his ministrations uncomplainingly.
‘Why did you put that helmet on, you great berk?’ Slobodan asked.
‘I felt like it.’
‘Not like you, Milo, do something so daft.’
‘Give me a minute to tidy some things away’ he said. While he had been waiting for his brother to arrive a vague plan of action had begun to establish itself in his mind. He collected crucial documents and his passport, threw some clothes, a few CDs and The Book of Transfiguration into a grip and was ready.
‘Where to, bro?’ Slobodan asked.
‘Emergency Kensington and Chelsea Hospital.’
It was a strange moment leaving number 11 and walking down Lupus Crescent with Slobodan and jupiter. The world he saw was confined by the edges of the eyeholes, and he was aware of the blackness beyond the metal edge defining his field of vision, though he could no longer feel the weight of the helmet, as if the beaten bronze had fused with the bones of his skull and had become one, man and helmet, helmed-man, manhelmet, helmetman. Helmetman, cartoon hero, minor deity, toppler of flower vans, scourge of the foul-mouthed and ungallant, eliciting apologies for insulted damsels. He was pleased to see that Marlobe and Slushing-Voice had clearly been unable to right the overturned flower trolley, still lying on its side amidst a fritter of petals and vegetation and a widening pool of flower water. The helmeted warrior passed by his fallen prey and climbed aboard his burnished chariot.
‘Going well?’ Lorimer asked as the Cortina accelerated up Lupus Street.
‘Like a dream. Built to last, these cars. Magic.’
