Armadillo (17 page)

He squared his shoulders. Time for some phone calls on his new white telephone: first, summon the cod-liver oil brigade to deal with Rintoul then, second, set up the meet with rock ‘n’ roll legend David Watts.

206.
Alan told me that there is a tribe in a remote part of the Philippines where you are severely punished if you wake a sleeping person. Sleep is the most precious gift, these tribespeople think, and to wake someone is effectively to steal something precious from him or her.

I was worried about being such an overloaded REM sleeper. Well, you’re a classic light sleeper, Alan said, and REM sleep is light sleep. But it doesn’t feel light, I said, it feels deep, when it happens. Ah, Alan said, that’s because it is only in REM sleep that you dream.

The Book of Transfiguration

David Watts lived in a vast, detached, white stuccoed house – in a quiet street off Holland Park Avenue – of the sort normally described as ‘ambassadorial’. It had its own high wall with a gate and security cameras positioned here and there covering all possible angles of approach.

Lorimer had thought hard about how to present himself for this encounter and was quietly pleased with the results. He had not shaved since his meeting with Flavia and his jaw had been dark with stubble. So when he did shave he left a postage stamp-sized rectangle of bristle immediately below his bottom lip. He chose an old suit, off the peg, mouse-grey, and to it added a royal blue Vneck sweater, a white nylon shirt and a thin tie, olive green with a narrow, diagonal, pistachio band. Shoes were rubber-soled ankle boots, highly polished, with yellow stitching on the seams. He had decided to wear spectacles, square, silver-framed with clear lenses, and he added – a nice touch this, he thought – a binding of Sellotape to the right hinge. The look, he hoped, said striven-for unexceptionalness; the pretensions of the figure he wanted to cut had to be
almost
imperceptible.

He was sitting in his car a hundred yards up the road from the Watts mansion, contemplating his reflection in the rear-view mirror, when he realized suddenly that the underlip patch was wrong. He reached into his glove compartment for his electric razor (always carried) and he immediately shaved it off. He sloshed some mineral water over a comb and dragged it through his hair to remove any shine as a final touch. Now he was ready.

It took two minutes to gain access through the gate in the wall and another three before the front door was opened. While he waited he paced around the paved courtyard with its terracotta urns of bay and box aware, as he did so, of the minute adjustments of the cameras tracking his every move.

The man who opened the door eventually was overweight and baby-faced, his gut covered by a ‘The Angziertie Tour’ sweat shirt (Lorimer wondered if this were pointedly for his benefit). He introduced himself as Terry and led him across an empty hall, newly parqueted and smelling of varnish, to a small sitting room, furnished with various uncomfortable black leather and chrome chairs. A huge primeval fern sprouted and sprawled in one corner and on the walls were classic posters behind perspex – Campari, SNCF, Esso, Aristide Bruant in his red scarf. Up in the corner of a wall beside the winking red eye of the movement detector was another camera the size of a household box of matches. Lorimer sat himself down on two or three chairs, found one his spine could tolerate, took his glasses off, polished them, replaced them and then sat still, his hands in his lap, and waited, inert and uninterested.

Twenty-five minutes later David Watts came in with Terry and was introduced. Watts was tall but seemed almost anorexically thin, Lorimer thought, with the concave chest and the tapered hips of a prepubescent boy. He was wearing leather trousers and a crew-neck Shetland sweater with a hole in one elbow. The long, buttery hair that had featured in the CD liner-notes photo had gone, replaced by a U S marine buzz-cut, and, curiously, his left cheek was unshaved – it looked like a small square of carpet tile stuck to the side of his face. Watts’ long, bony fingers stroked and touched this partial beard constantly, and rather repellently, Lorimer thought – as if it were a comfort blanket. Lorimer was glad of his last-minute, prescient shave: two beard patches in the same room would have looked suspiciously mannered.

‘Hi,’ Lorimer said, not smiling, ‘Lorimer Black.’

‘Yeah,’ said Watts.

Terry offered drinks and Watts finally settled on Italian beer. Lorimer asked for Pepsi and when this was not forthcoming said he would accept no substitute – he was fine, thanks.

‘We got Coca, don’t we, Terry?’

‘Coke, Diet Coke, Caffeine-free Diet Coke, Caffeine-free Regular Coke, Diet-free Caffeine Coke, you name it.’

‘I don’t drink Coke,’ Lorimer said. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

Terry left to fetch the Italian beer and Watts lit a cigarette. He had small, even features, his eyes were pale greyish brown and a spatter of tiny moles was splashed under his jaw and down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath his jumper collar.

‘You with the insurance?’ Watts asked. ‘You the sods been jerking us around all these months?’

Lorimer briefly explained the functions and duties of a loss adjuster: not independent but impartial.

Watts frowned at him and drew on his cigarette.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he said, there was the faintest hint of the near-west in his glottal urban-speak, of Slough and Swindon and Oxford, ‘we draw up a contract with you maggot-farmers, right? We pay the gi-fucking-gantic premium, then when I get ill and cancel they call you guys in to argue the toss?’

‘Not all the time.’

‘Hang about. They call you in to advise them, professionally, on whether to pay me what they have already agreed they’ll pay me if something goes wrong, right? When we drew up the policy I didn’t see anything saying these loss adjuster geezers will be all over your face saying, no way, José.’

Lorimer shrugged, it was absolutely vital to remain calm and unmoved. ‘It’ll be there in the small print,’ he said. ‘I didn’t invent the way they do business,’ he added, ‘I just work here.’

‘As the concentration camp guard said when he turned on the showers.’

Lorimer sniffed, wiped his nose. ‘I resent that,’ he said, evenly.

‘And I resent you, you maggot-farmer,’ Watts said. ‘What was the last music you bought, eh?’ He listed several well-known rock groups with scathing, harsh contempt, as if he had a fishbone in his throat. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I bet you like Three Bodies Minimum. Just looking at you I bet you’re a Three Bodies Minimum type. Bet you.’

‘Actually it was’, Lorimer paused, ‘Kwame Akinlaye and his Achimota Rhythm Boys. An album called
Sheer Achimota’

‘Sheer
what?’

‘Sheer Achimota.’

‘What’s that, then,
“Achimota”?

‘I don’t knowv.’

‘“Sheer Achimota”…
You like African music, then?’

‘Yeah. I don’t listen to European or American rock music post-1960.’

‘Oh, yeah? Why’s that, then?’

‘It has no authenticity’

‘What about my stuff? Can’t get more fucking authentic, man.’

‘Not familiar with your work, I’m afraid.’

Lorimer could see that this gave Watts genuine pause, disturbed him in some quite profound but ill-defined way.

‘Terry,’ Watts shouted, ‘where’s the fucking beer, man?’ He turned back to Lorimer, his fingers caressing the hair on his cheek. ‘You don’t think I was ill then, that it?’

Lorimer sighed and took a notebook from his briefcase. ‘Two weeks after the Angziertie Tour was cancelled you were on stage at the Albert Hall –’

‘Aw, come on. That was for fucking charity – Sick Kids in Music, or something. Jesus Christ. TERRY I’M DYING OF THIRST HERE. Where is that fat bastard? Look, I can get you an army of doctors.’

‘It doesn’t make any difference.’

Watts looked flabbergasted. ‘I’ll sue,’ he said, weakly.

‘You’re free to take any legal action you want. In fact we prefer these matters to go through the courts.’

‘I mean, what’s going on here exactly?’ Watts said. ‘Talk about changing the rules half way through the game. Talk about moving the goalposts. Everybody takes out insurance,
everybody,
it’s the most common thing in the world. Even people who don’t have a mortgage have insurance. Even people on the dole have insurance. But nobody would do it if you wankers kept popping up moving the goalposts like this. I mean, you maggot-farmers are just saying, “Tough, we won’t pay. Fuck off,” aren’t you? I mean, if people knew this sort of thing went on…’

‘It’s a question of good faith or bad faith.’

‘Meaning what? TERRY!’

‘Meaning we don’t think you are submitting the claim in good faith.’

Watts looked at him curiously, almost fascinated. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Black, Lorimer Black.’

‘Just do this one thing for me, Lorimer Black. Keep your head still and look as far to the left as you can, as far round as your eyeballs will go.’

Lorimer followed his instructions: his vision blurred, the transparent profile of his nose hovered in his left-side field of vision.

‘See anything?’ Watts asked. ‘Anything unusual?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I do, mate.’ Watts looked to his left, swivelled his eyeballs as far as they would go. ‘I can see a black shape,’ he said. ‘The very furthest left side of my vision I can see a dark shape. Know what that is?’

‘No.’

‘It’s the devil. It’s the devil sitting on my left shoulder. He’s been there for six months now. That’s why I don’t shave my cheek.’

‘Right.’

‘Now you tell me, Mr maggot-farmer loss adjuster, how the hell is a musician meant to go on an eighteen-month, thirty-five-nation tour with the devil sitting on his shoulder?’

Terry brought him his coat as Lorimer waited in the hall.

‘I’ll make sure we’ve got some Pepsi in, next time,’ he said cheerily.

‘I don’t think there’ll be a next time.’

‘Oh yeah, definitely’ Terry said. ‘You made a big impression. I’ve never seen him talk to anybody – part from Danielle – for more than two minutes. You got a card? He liked you, mate. You’re his kinda guy.’

Lorimer handed him a card, not sure whether to feel flattered or alarmed.

‘Why does he keep calling me a maggot-farmer?’

‘He calls everyone that,’ Terry explained. ‘You know on telly when they run a film with swearing and cursing, effing and blinding? And they re-record it, you know “fucking” becomes “frigging”, “shit” becomes “shoot”, that sort of thing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, if a character in a film says “mother-fucker” they re-dub it on telly as “maggot-farmer”. Honest, you listen the next time. He was well taken with that, was David,’ Terry said with a smile. ‘The little maggot-farmer.’

He drove straight up Holland Park Avenue through Notting Hill Gate and the Bayswater Road to Marble Arch, then down Park Lane, Constitution Hill, left at Westminster Bridge and on to the Victoria Embankment. Lorimer could not explain why he decided to turn off the Embankment, but the idea came to him suddenly and he followed it at once.

The Fedora Palace was half gone, down to three storeys, lorries carting rubble away, the stiff claws of JCBs scratching at the outer walls, the stour of cement dust thickening the air. Lorimer spoke to a foreman in a hard hat who informed him that the site was to be levelled and the hoardings left up. Lorimer paced about, trying to make sense of this new development, trying to play all the angles, but with little success. He called up Torquil on the mobile.

‘Thank God you called,’ Torquil said. ‘I can’t find your washing machine.’

‘I don’t have one. You have to go to the launderette.’

‘You must be joking. Oh yeah, and something’s gone wrong with your bog. It won’t flush.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘Listen, the Fedora Palace is being demolished, make any sense to you?’

‘Ah…’ Torquil thought. Lorimer could practically hear him thinking. ‘No,’ Torquil said, finally.

‘Hell of a write-off, don’t you think? The thing was practically finished. Why knock it down, even with the fire damage?’

‘Beats me. Where can you get a decent fry-up around here?’

Lorimer directed him to the Matisse and then switched off the phone. He decided to consider the Fedora Palace case closed: he had his bonus, it was pointless stirring matters up any further, and, in any event, he was more worried about what was going on in his flat.

Chapter 11

Flavia Malinverno was kissing him in a way he had never been kissed before. Somehow she had inserted her top lip between his top lip and his teeth behind. Otherwise it was an orthodox, full-blooded kiss but overriding everything was this strange pressure on his upper mouth. It was an exciting first. Flavia broke off. ‘Mmmm,’ she said. ‘Nice.’

‘Kiss me again,’ he said, and she did, palms flat on his cheeks, sucking on his bottom lip this time, then on his tongue with a grip like a nursing calf –

It was a lucid dream, definitely and unmistakably, he thought, as he wrote an expurgated version of it down in the dream diary beside his bed. He had wanted to be kissed again and had arranged in his dream for that to come about – Alan would be pleased. He sat upright in his narrow bed in the Institute’s cell, a little breathless and shaken at the vividness of the experience, at the irrefutable evidence of his erection, marvelling once again at the ability of mental phenomena to replicate the most complex physical sensations – better than replicate,
invent
whole new sets of physical sensations. The way her lip… A kiss of maximum palpability… and yet here he was alone on a high floor of a university building in Greenwich at, he checked the time, 4.30 in the morning. The dream was easily explained, causally. He was due to see Flavia again in a matter of hours, she was practically omnipresent in his thoughts, crowding out all other matters – Torquil, Hogg, Rintoul, the Silvertown house… He shook his head and exhaled noisily, like an athlete after a work-out, then remembered there were two other guinea pigs also sleeping lightly in the Institute that night. He lay back on his cot, fingers laced behind his head, and realized there was no point in trying to go back to sleep, trying to restart his lucid dream. He smiled at the memory of it: the dream had been a bonus, he had not intended coming to the Institute that night but it had seemed a welcome, not to say a necessary, escape.

When he had returned to his flat the evening before, traces of Torquil were everywhere, like elephant spoor. The crumpled duvet was sprawled over the sofa like a Dali watch, the pummelled pillows sat on an adjacent chair, Torquil’s suitcase lay open in the middle of the carpet, its soiled contents exposed like a particularly rebarbative pop-up book, three used ashtrays were perched on various surfaces and the kitchen required a ten-minute wipe-down. Some juggling with the ballcock in the lavatory cistern had finally permitted the flushing away of assorted Helvoir-Jayne turds. He decided to have a lock fitted to his bedroom door: Torquil appeared to have been through his cupboards and chest of drawers and there was a shirt missing. A swift bout of tidying and a whizz round with the hoover restored the place to something close to its normal state.

Then Torquil returned.

‘Disaster,’ he announced as he came through the door, striding towards the drinks table, where he poured himself three fingers of Scotch. ‘I’ve had it, Lorimer. I could have killed today, I had evil in my soul. If I could’ve got my fingers round that weasel lawyer’s throat.’

He had a cigarette going now and switched on the television. ‘Murder one, I tell you. I borrowed a shirt, hope you don’t mind. I’ve got to get my hands on some money. £1,500 this month, school fees due in two weeks. I’m totally fucked. What’s for supper?’

‘I’m going out,’ Lorimer invented, spontaneously.

‘Who’s that old bag downstairs? I could see her peering through the door at me.’

‘She’s called Lady Haigh. Extremely nice. Did you speak to her?’

‘I just said “Boo!” and she slammed the door pretty smartish, I tell you. I’ve got to get a job, Lorimer, a well-paid job, a.s.a.p. Where are you going?’

‘It’s a sleep therapy thing I go to. I’ll be out all night.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ he half-leered, then his own troubles crowded in on him again. ‘Think I’ll hit the phone tonight, call a few chums, get networking, yeah… Is there a decent Chinese in this neck of the woods?’

Lorimer frowned, shifting in his bed, wondering now what the effect of a Chinese takeaway would be in his neat and ordered kitchen. Yet Torquil was the least of his problems… He had taken the Toyota round to the rear of GGH where there were two parking spaces (one for Hogg and one for Rajiv) and a small loading bay. Rajiv had tut-tutted sympathetically at the state of the paintwork.

‘Nasty customers, eh, Lorimer? Leave this to me, we’ll get you a nice shiny new one.’

He went to see Hogg, who was wearing a black tie and sombre suit as if he had just come from a funeral, and told him about the blowtorching of his car.

‘How do you know it was Rintoul?’ Hogg said, bluntly. ‘Could have been vandals.’

‘He left a message on my answer machine threatening me, said “It wasn’t over yet.”’

‘Doesn’t sound much of threat to me. Anyone see anything, any witnesses?’

‘The car wasn’t parked in my street, no one would know it was mine.’

‘Out of the question,’ Hogg said, his hands searching his deep pockets.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t order an oiling on a vague hunch like that,’ Hogg said with unconvincing bluffness, slipping a peppermint retrieved from his pocket into his mouth. He rattled it around on his teeth, making a noise like a stick against railings. ‘Do you know what’s involved with an oiling? It’s a serious, not to say nefarious, business. We have to be absolutely certain it’s called for. And in this case, Sunny Jim, I’m not.’

‘You won’t oil Rintoul?’ Lorimer said, not able to conceal his incredulity.

‘You catch on fast, Lorimer. If you’re so worried, do your own, that’s my suggestion. Take responsibility: chop onions, fry onions.’

It had not ended there: later in the afternoon Rajiv called him.

‘Sorry, laddie, he won’t replace your car.’

‘Why not, for Christ’s sake? It’s insured, isn’t it?’

‘Ours not to reason why, Lorimer. Bye.’

So Lorimer had driven home in his toasted Toyota, his brain furious with activity, trying to pin down the cause of Hogg’s now overt and provocative hostility. He wondered if Hogg knew that Torquil was staying in his flat – and concluded he quite probably did, for Hogg seemed to know just about everything and he could see how, from Hogg’s point of view, Torquil’s proximity was a little compromising.

226. Lucid Dreams.
Lucid dreams are dreams that the dreamer can control and influence. They are a phenomenon of the deeper levels of REM sleep and take place in what is called the D-state. D-state sleep occupies about twenty-five per cent of REM sleep and occurs in short intense bursts.

‘The fascinating thing about you,
’
Alan said, ‘and what makes you my prize guinea pig, is that your D-state appears to take up forty per cent of your REM sleep.
’

‘Should I be worried?
’

‘I don
’
t know. But it does mean you
’
re likely to have more lucid dreams than the average person.
’

‘Thanks.
’

‘I think that may be another reason why you don’t sleep as much. For someone like you your sleep is too exciting, too exhausting.
’

The Book of Transfiguration

The snow came as a surprise, people volubly aired their astonishment in shops and bus queues, testified to their sartorial lack of preparation for it, and lambasted the shamefully inaccurate warnings of the meteorologists. The gusting east wind had turned suddenly northerly and the new currents of air were now surging down Europe from the frozen fjords of Scandinavia, the Baltic Sea, from the icy fringes of the Arctic shelf. By the time Lorimer reached Chalk Farm an inch was lying on the pavements and the roads were a marzipan mush of crisscrossing tyre-tracks. The flakes were big, like styrofoam coins, floating lazily but steadily down from a low, sulphurous-grey sky.

In marked contrast to the day, Sole di Napoli, the restaurant that Flavia Malinverno had chosen, was – unsurprisingly – Neapolitan in origin, painted in tones of pink and lambent yellow, full of images and symbols of the warm south – jugs of dried flowers, sheaves of corn stuffed behind mirror frames, an ill-executed mural above the pizza oven showing the ultramarine bay of Naples and a fuming Vesuvius and a shelfful of straw hats piled carefully above the bar. Each table was graced with a small spiky agave in a pot and the waiters sported blue T-shirts printed with a golden flaming sun above their left breast.

Lorimer stamped the snow off his shoes, dusted flakes from his hair and was shown to his table. Perhaps customers should be presented with a complimentary pair of sunglasses, he thought, just to sustain the mood, and he ordered, despite the weather, a summery Campari-soda – big brother Slobodan’s drink of choice, he recalled. He was absurdly early, of course, and Flavia turned out to be twenty minutes late. He sat and waited patiently, his brain in a form of unthinking neutral, watching the snowflakes accumulate and drinking his first and then a second Campari-soda. He was refusing to allow any speculation as to why this invitation had been forthcoming – he recognized it simply as a blessing, as astonishing good fortune – and he vainly tried to banish images of his lucid dream from his mind. There was no getting away from it, he realized with quickening pleasure, he was in way over his head here, absolutely gone, a case study to be filed under ‘smitten’. The fact that she was married, the fact there was a saturnine brute of a husband in the frame made no difference. Equally irrelevant, he realized, with a small gnaw of guilt, was the additional fact that he had been having a long-established affair with Stella Bull for over four years… No, now was not the time for moral debate, he told himself, these moments were designed for absurdly hopeful dreams, sweet prognostications, reveries so preposterous, so impossible that–

Flavia Malinverno came into the restaurant.

The waiters fell upon her:
‘Bellissima!’, ‘Flavia, mia cara!’, ‘Lapi
ù
bella del mondo!’
and so on – she was clearly well known. The manager took her coat and bowed her to the table like an Elizabethan courtier, where Lorimer sat, his sphincter clenched, some sort of asthma attack going on in his pulmonary system and some sort of potent imbecile virus neutralizing his brain cells. The hair was different again, some variation of reddish umber somehow layered with dark gold, the shine on it, in the iridescent sun-tones of Sole di Napoli, making you want to blink. Her lips were browner, not so red. He had not really noticed what she was wearing – suede jacket, scarf, ribbed baggy sweater thing.

She ignored his proffered trembling hand and slid quickly into her seat.

‘Brought the snow with you, I see.’

‘Mnwhng?’

‘Snow, darling. White stuff him fall from sky. Pimlico snow. It was nice and sunny here this morning.’

‘Oh.’

‘Did you see that car outside? Champagne please,
una bottiglia,
Gianfranco,
grazie mille.
Someone must have set fire to it. Almost a work of art.’

‘It’s mine.’

She stopped and gave him her head-cocked, narrow-eyed frown. He felt a silly, neighing sort of laugh rumbling behind his teeth and managed to turn it into a bad cough.

‘Steady on,’ she said. ‘Have some water. What happened?’

Lorimer glugged water: perhaps he should tip the rest of the glass over his head just to complete the picture of total arsehole? He gently pounded his chest and tried to compose himself.

‘Somebody did set it on fire. Took a blowtorch to it. It’s just the paint that’s gone. Everything else works fine.’

‘Do you mind if I smoke? Why would somebody do that?’

‘Not at all. Occupational hazard,’ he said. Then, correcting himself, ‘Probably vandals.’

‘Dangerous job, yours,’ she said, taking a puff at her cigarette and stubbing it out. The champagne had arrived and two glasses were poured. ‘Cheers, Lorimer Black, we’re celebrating.’

‘We are?’

‘I’m gonna be inna movies,’ she drawled. ‘Two days’ work, one thousand pounds.’ She put on an expression of pop-eyed astonishment. ‘But Tyimotheh, Mummy told me you wah a stockbrokah!’ Then she burst into sniffling tears for a second. ‘See, I’ve even learnt my line.’

They touched champagne glasses, Lorimer noticed his hand was still trembling.

‘Here’s to the job.’

‘Here’s to your car. Poor thing. What’s it called?’

‘A Toyota.’

‘No, I mean its name.’

‘It doesn’t have a name.’

‘How boring. You’ve got to name things. Adam’s task and all that. Name things in your life from now on, Lorimer Black, I insist. It makes everything more… more real.’

‘I’m not really interested in cars.’

‘But imagine taking a blowtorch to it. Is that the worst thing that’s happened to you in your job?’

‘I’ve had death threats. Pretty alarming.’

‘I’ll say. Jesus, imagine. This while you’re out adjusting loss?’

‘People can get pretty angry.’ He must stop saying ‘pretty’.

‘But no one really gets killed, I hope.’

‘Well, there’s the odd sad case checks out.’

‘Checks out?’

‘Adios, planet earth.’

‘Got you. Have some more.’ She poured and held up her glass. ‘Sham pain to our real friends, real pain to our sham friends. Where’re you from, Mr Lorimer Black?’

As they ate lunch (gazpacho, spaghetti primavera, sorbet) Lorimer gave her the short amended autobiography: born and raised in Fulham, university in Scotland, some years ‘drifting’ before the need for a steady income (aged parents to support) ended him up in the loss adjusting wing of the insurance business. He let it be known that this profession was temporary, that wanderlust was still part of his soul. How fascinating, she said. For her part she told him of some of the acting and modelling jobs she had done, the new movie she had just auditioned for, but the dominant theme in her discourse to which they regularly returned was ‘Gilbert’, who was being ‘impossible, selfish and revolting, not necessarily in that order’.

‘Who is Gilbert?’ Lorimer said carefully.