2009 - Ordinary Thunderstorms (41 page)

The crowd were now applauding. What, Ingram wondered? His own fortitude, the swift removal of the voice of anarchy, the prospect of riches? Professor Vintage was banging his gavel on the desk and crying ‘Order! Order!’ in a faint voice. Ingram felt the blood leaving his head and the room darkened. He grabbed the lectern with both hands and managed to stay upright. The room calmed, people who had stood up to see the disruption now sat down. Ingram drew in deep breaths as he consulted his notes, now worried that he might vomit at any moment.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…” Laughter. “The buy-out of Calenture-Deutz by Rilke Pharmaceutical should take place over the coming weeks once the various takeover requirements have been met. Calenture-Deutz will continue as a brand name but we will function within the unparalleled security and financial might of the third biggest pharmaceutical company in the world. As your chairman and chief executive I cannot urge you more strongly to accept this most generous offer.”

Loud applause, fervent applause, resounded through the room. Ingram looked across at the board to see them all clapping him—and there were Keegan and de Freitas clapping also, but formally, without the fervour of the room. What were their bonuses to be? Ingram wondered. Keegan was looking at him—and gave him a nod of acknowledgement as their eyes met—but not smiling. If anything, Ingram thought, he looked a little worried. De Freitas stopped clapping and whispered something in Keegan’s ear. Ingram turned to the room, gave a small bow and managed to walk off the stage.

He tried to vomit as quietly as possible, a difficult thing to do—but very aware there were other people using the toilet beyond the stall he was occupying—repeatedly flushing the WC, hoping that the flow of water would cover the sound of his retching. Good god, he thought, must be some kind of food poisoning: he was empty, spent. He dabbed his mouth with a tissue, checked that his shirt and tie were free of bile-spatter, and flushed the loo for the seventh time. Funny how copious vomiting could make you feel both hellish and better, he thought, unlocking the door to the stall. You became a simple organism in a state of spasm, voiding your stomach your only aim and purpose, a creature of instinct, all intellectual function shut down. But it somehow rejuvenated as well as exhausted, it was a brief visit to the primitive being you once were—time travel to your lost animal self. He was alone in the toilet, everyone else gone off to lunch, and he washed his hands slowly and carefully, telling himself to stay calm—perhaps he’d better go back to Lachlan one last time.

He stepped out of the toilet into the corridor to find Ivo waiting there.

“I’m fine, Ivo. Good of you to wait. Don’t worry, I’ll be—”

“I don’t give a toss about you, mate. You miserable cunt. Do you hate me that much, really? How could you do this to me? To my family?”

Ingram sighed. “You’ve been talking in riddles all day. What is it now?”

“600 pence a share.”

“Yes, an excellent offer.”

“I sold at 480.”

“Sold what?”

“All my Calenture-Deutz shares. Three days ago.”

“Well, then you’re a fool.”

“You told me to sell.”

Ingram looked at him. “Are you mad? Of course I didn’t: I told you the opposite.”

“Exactly.”

“Stop saying ‘exactly’ all the time.”

Ivo stepped threateningly closer and for a split second Ingram thought he was going to hit him, but Ivo said, in a trembling voice, “I’ll get you for this. I’ll ruin you.”

He strode away towards the exit, shouting imprecations without looking back, “Complete bastard! We’re family, you wanker, family!” Ingram felt more itches springing up: one on his left buttock, one on his chin. He scratched them both simultaneously.

“Mr Fryzer?”

It was Pippa Deere—she looked a little worried, her nose and cheeks gleaming.

“What is it, Pippa? I’m not feeling so good myself- I’m going to skip facsimile.”

“Sorry?” Pippa Deere’s face registered bafflement.

“Lunch. I’m going to skip lunch.”

“There are some journalists here, they want to speak to you.”

“Journalists? What do they need me for? They’ve got your press release, everything’s there.”

“Yes, they have. They still want to speak to you.”

“Tell them I’ll see them next week.”

“It’s about that ‘point of order’ that was raised.”

“For god’s sake.” Ingram looked at the ceiling in supplication. “Some crazy idiot crackpot shouts out some ranting nonsense and I’m meant to talk to journalists about it? We get these demonstrators all the time. Nobody wanted to talk to me when I was spray-gunned with green paint. Who let him in, anyway? What’s the point of hiring security?”

Pippa Deere seemed about to cry. “It turns out the man who was ejected from the hall is a shareholder. When he was thrown out he injured himself, fell out of his wheelchair and cut his head. He gave an interview to some of the journalists…” She sniffed. “I’ve only heard the tape once but he said something about fourteen little children dying during the Zembla-4 trials. I’m terribly sorry, Mr Fryzer, I didn’t know what to do.”

Ingram felt weariness descend on him, a great heavy cloak of weariness.

“It’s all utter, abject, malicious nonsense. All right, take me to the gentlemen of the press.”

“I
CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH, PRIMO,” JEFF NASHE SAID, HIS VOICE almost hoarse with sincerity. “It was absolutely amazing. I haven’t felt that…
alive
since my accident.”

“You were tremendous,” Adam said. “Couldn’t have gone better.”

He was wheeling Jeff in his wheelchair down Kingsway, heading for a bus stop where they could catch a bus to Battersea. Jeffs cut (on his forehead) had been dressed by one of the security men who had thrown him out of the conference centre. It was more of a gash than a cut—and was now hidden by some sticking plaster—but the trickle of blood that had run down his face was perfect pictorial testimony to the violence of his expulsion—thoughtless strong-arm tactics used by fascistic security thugs to silence and eject an old, semi-crippled, wheelchair-bound man from a meeting that he had every right to attend and at which he was merely exercising his duties as a bona fide shareholder of a public company. This was more or less what Jeff had told the journalists who had interviewed him—he was articulate, angry and expressive. Two of the journalists had taken photographs of his bloodied face and Adam had every hope the image would make tomorrow’s papers.

It had been Aaron Lalandusse who had alerted his fellow reporters to the place and time of Calenture-Deutz’s press conference—and to its potential disruption. Jeff had provided individual colour to what might otherwise have been a bland and self-congratulatory corporate exercise—and would be ably backed up by the evidence posted on Inpharmation.Com. Calenture-Deutz would deny everything, of course—no doubt the press release was already circulating about the proposed Rilke Pharma buy-out—but now there was rumour and counter-rumour out there, enough accusation and denial to stimulate curiosity and further investigation. Aaron had everything he needed to write his piece for the
Global Finance Bulletin
—the key object of the exercise, after all.

Adam—as a Calenture-Deutz shareholder himself—had been in the room across the hall from Jeff. He had travelled with him from Battersea, in a taxi with the wheelchair and the placard, but while they waited for his moment, Adam had concentrated on what he could make out of Lord Redcastle’s demeanour. There was no way of telling if his little ruse had worked—not that it made much difference to the main action of the day. It had been prompted by something Aaron Lalandusse had said when they had met. We need a
simultaneous
plan B, Lalandusse had recommended, not a subsequent one: when you took on a powerful enemy it was always as well to attack on more than one flank: “You know—go for the jugular with both hands but knee him in the balls as well.” And from what Adam could glean from his study of Calenture-Deutz’s board members, Ivo, Lord Redcastle seemed the most obvious target to try and destabilise—though he’d also been tempted by the ex-cabinet minister—and so Ivo had been chosen.

Adam kept his eyes on Redcastle as the AGM progressed—he seemed serious and pensive and had applauded dutifully, always following the lead of others, never initiating a response. There was nothing to indicate in his reactions and behaviour that he was now a richer but shareless board member, Adam thought—immediately rebuking himself: what did a man who had sold his shares in a company look like? Maybe Redcastle hadn’t sold his shares but he hadn’t looked at all happy when Fryzer made his announcement about the takeover. The main thing was that Jeffs point-of-order outburst had created enough fuss and brouhaha to justify Aaron Lalandusse asking pointed questions about the Zembla-4 clinical trials. Phase one had gone well, very well.

They had reached the bus stop. Jeff Nashe stepped out of his wheelchair and folded it up.

“I hate buggering about with these things on buses and trains,” he said by way of explanation. “You don’t need to worry, Prirno,” he said. “I can get home on my own.”

“Rita’s asked me for supper,” Adam said.

Rita had made a lasagne with a big bowl of salad to go with it and cheese and grapes to follow. The initial concern that she had shown over her father’s injury had been almost immediately dispelled by his obvious euphoria. Adam met her brother, Ernesto, for the first time, when he arrived ten minutes after he and Jeff had boarded the
Bellerophon
.

“What have you done to him?” Rita asked Adam. “I’ve never seen him so happy.”

“Re-birthing, I think it’s called,” Adam said. “The old sixties radical is living again. He was great, by the way. He might even be in the papers tomorrow.”

They were talking in the
Bellerophon
‘s galley—she was checking on the lasagne—and he reached for her and they kissed.

“What’s this really about, Primo?” she said. “Why are you asking my dad to attack a drug company?”

“Not attack—just raise an awkward question…It was something I discovered—at the hospital,” he said, trying not to lie too much. “Something’s wrong. And I thought: why should they get away with it?…But don’t worry, Jeffs done his bit, his moment of glory come and gone. Now it’s in the public domain.”

“Why didn’t you ask the question?”

Good question, Adam thought. “Because of my job,” he said, improvising, “I don’t want to lose it. Conflict of interests. Calenture-Deutz have pumped a lot of money into St Bot’s.”

“Yeah?…” She looked sceptically at him. “I never quite saw you as a dedicated do-gooder.”

“We should all be dedicated do-gooders, shouldn’t we?” he said, a little defensively. “In fact, isn’t that your job description?”

“Touche,” she said. She shooed Adam out of the galley.

In the sitting room he spoke to Ernesto about his forthcoming trip to Dubai.

“Forty per cent of the world’s tower cranes are in Dubai at the moment,” Ernesto said. “It’s a tower-crane Klondike. I’d be a fool to miss out—I can quadruple my salary.”

Jeff came down the steep stairs from the deck bringing with him the exotic whiff of weed. He had a can of Speyhawk lager in his hand.

“Prirno,” he said, swaying slightly, though the boat was perfectly still. “Do you know why I called this ship the
Bellerophon
.”

“No idea.”

“Because Bellerophon slew the monster Chimera. A fire-breathing monster, half lion, half goat—if my classical mythology serves me well.” He took a swig from his can.

“Good name.”

“And today we slew the modern Chimera.”

“Slew might be a bit strong. Inflicted wounds with a bit of luck. Thanks to you.”

Jeff brandished a clenched fist above his head. “
Vinceremos!
” he shouted at the top of his voice.

“Hello?” Rita appeared with the steaming tray of lasagne in her hands. “Dinner is served, you guys.”

Adam ate the lasagne and salad and drank too much red wine—to such an extent that he experienced a form of benign sensory deprivation. As Jeff and Ernesto argued about the moral consequences of, and the moral opprobrium attendant on, accepting work in a dynastic dictatorship such as Dubai—and Rita tried vaguely to keep the peace—their voices seemed to dim and muffle and Adam contented himself with watching Rita pouring wine and serving second helpings as if she were in some kind of aural bubble that only he was privileged to access. He looked entranced at her strong features and the way she peremptorily hooked falling locks of hair behind her ears, took in her lissom grace and ease as she hefted plates and bowls about the table—silencing her father with a palm across his mouth as he became too abusive—and he felt that familiar bowel-melting sensation in his innards, that abrogation of intellect in favour of emotion.

But his mildly inebriated, self-indulgent love-fest was spoilt by a small, insistent, keening voice at the back of his mind, like the buzzing of a fly or the thin siren-whine of a mosquito. Everything might have gone well today but there was still another problem: what was he going to do about Vincent Turpin?

T
HE LEAVES ON THE PLANTS SEEMED SO GREEN AND SHINY THAT THEY looked as if they’d been cut from very fine tin or PVC, Jonjo thought, and then re-touched with glossy enamel paint. He gazed around the Risk Averse Group’s lobby—there seemed to be even more plants in pots than the last time he’d been here. They must have someone come in and dust and wash the leaves, they were so healthy and lush they looked artificial, he thought, which rather defeated the point of having them growing in the place, absorbing the lobby’s CO2 and exuding oxygen, or whatever it was that plants did—photo-something…

Jonjo’s mind was wandering in this way because he was bored, tired of waiting. He looked at his watch—close to forty minutes now. This wasn’t on, out of order—they’d asked
him
to come in for this meeting with Major Tim Delaporte himself, for god’s sweet sake. He stood up and approached the blonde girl at the reception desk.

“Major Delaporte will be five minutes,” she said before he could utter a word. “He’s on a conference call—he apologises.”