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?’
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.’
Slobodan came with him to the reception area, where he was logged in with no comment and directed to sit in a waiting room with a groaning child and his mother and a young whimpering woman holding her limp wrist like a dead fish. He told Slobodan there was no need to wait and he thanked him sincerely.
‘He’ll be in a good home, Milo, no worries.’
‘I know’
‘Funny, always fancied a dog. Thanks, mate.’
‘He’ll be no trouble.’
‘Mercy can take him for walks.’
Mercy and Jupiter, Lorimer thought, that will be nice.
Slobodan left and Lorimer sat on, waiting. An ambulance arrived, sirens yelping, lights revolving, and a sheeted body on a trolley was rushed in and trundled through swinging double doors. The groaning child was seen, then the whimpering girl and finally it was his turn.