death threat was unequivocal, though, and Lorimer hoped that would make him safe – it usually did. When they knew they had been recorded it stayed their hand. It was a useful bit of extra insurance.
93. Two Types of Sleep. I have learned through my conversations with Alan that there are two types of sleep: Rapid Eye Movement sleep (REM) and Non-Rapid Eye Movement sleep (NREM). R EM sleep is paradoxical, NREM sleep is orthodox. Alan told me, after studying my EEG patterns, that I was experiencing far more REM sleep than is the norm, which, he said, makes me very paradoxical indeed.
He told me about the stages of NREM sleep. Stage I – sleep onset. Stage 2 – deeper, we see changes in the EEG patterns, sleep-spindles, K-complexes, but you are still aware of outside stimuli, your brain activity taking the form of short sequences of waves. Stages 3 and 4 plunge you ever deeper, showing decreased vigilance, this is what we call ‘deep slumber’. We believe, Alan said, that NREM sleep in the deep slumber phase is essential for body repair. REM sleep is for brain repair.
The Book of Transfiguration
El Hombre Guapo was a large tapas bar just off the Clerkenwell Road, lined with sheets of carefully distressed stainless steel. The floor was stainless steel too and portions of the Berlin Wall were hung horizontally in chains from high beams creating a distinctly different kind of false ceiling. The staff wore grey boiler suits with many zips (of the sort favoured by combat fighter pilots) and the driving, relentless music was played punishingly loud. It was popular with young journalists from the style pages of broadsheet newspapers and with futures and derivatives traders – Lorimer thought it a strange place for Torquil to choose.
As ever, Torquil was already installed at the bar and halfway into his drink – whisky, judging by the smell on his breath. He offered Lorimer one of his cigarettes and was politely turned down. Lorimer ordered a triple vodka and soda with plenty of ice – Rintoul’s last words were still echoing in his inner ear.
‘That’s right, you don’t smoke,’ Torquil said incredulously. ‘Why not? Everybody smokes.’
‘Well, not everybody. Two-thirds of us don’t.’
‘Rubbish. All smoking statistics are lies, I tell you, Lorimer. Every government in the world lies about them, they have to. Smoking’s on the increase worldwide and it suits them fine, though they daren’t admit it. So they routinely churn out these figures. But take a look around you.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Lorimer conceded. True enough, of the fifty or so people in El Hombre Guapo, ninety-eight per cent were smoking and the other two per cent looked like they were about to smoke any minute, rummaging in pockets and handbags for their cigarettes.
‘How was your day?’ Torquil asked, lighting up himself. ‘I hope it was more exciting than mine.’
‘Same old stuff.’
‘What?’
‘SAME OLD STUFF!’ Lorimer raised his voice to a half-shout. Everyone was obliged to talk louder in order to be heard above the music.
‘I tell you, Lorimer, if it wasn’t for the money I’d be out of this game in a shot.’
Torquil ordered another whisky and a plate of croquetas which he proceeded to eat one after the other in rapid order, offering none to Lorimer.
‘No sups for Torquil,’ he said, leaning close. ‘Binnie’s with her ma and pa.’
‘Binnie?’
‘My darling wife.’
‘In Gloucestershire?’
‘Absolutely’
‘Kids with her?’
‘They’re all away at school, thank Christ.’
‘I thought your youngest was seven.’
‘He is. He’s at a prep school near Ascot. But he comes home at weekends.’
‘Oh, fine.’
‘Well, it’s not fine actually.’ Torquil frowned. ‘It sort of unsettles him. Started wetting his bed. Not fitting in. I keep telling Binnie it’s all this coming home at weekends. He doesn’t want to go back, you see. I say he should stick it out.’
Lorimer looked at his watch. ‘Well, I should be –’
‘There she is.’
Lorimer turned to see a young girl in her early twenties, wearing a suede coat buttoned up to her neck, pushing her way cautiously through the raucous crowd. She had thin sandy hair and heavily made-up eyes. She looked vaguely familiar.
‘Lorimer, this is Irina. Irina, young Lorimer, m’colleague.’
Lorimer shook her weak hand, trying not to stare as he sought to place her. Then he had it: the waitress from Cholmondley’s.
‘You remember Lorimer, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t think. How are you?’
Torquil ignored her and turned away to order her a beer while Lorimer reminded her of their first meeting and asked a few polite questions. It turned out Irina