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 hang 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