feeling the alcohol surge almost immediately through his veins. He set the glass down, shook his brother’s and Beazley’s hands, nodded to Kev and walked carefully out of the terrible pub seeing, as he did so, reflected in a foxed mirror by the door, Phil Beazley avidly lean across the bar to claim his undrunk lager.
Outside the light was purple, like a bruise, and the air stung with ice crystals. He strode off to find his carbonized car, slipping the weight of the Clarence’s melancholia from his shoulders like an unwanted rucksack.
Unfortunately Lorimer found a parking space not far from Marlobe’s flower shack.
‘What kind of car’s that, then? ‘Marlobe asked. His stall was colourfully ablaze with many varieties of carnation.
‘Fire damage. Vandals, I think.’
‘I’d castrate them,’ Marlobe said, reasonably. ‘I’d castrate them and then I’d cut their right hands off. Wouldn’t do much vandalizing after that. Fancy a nice bunch of carnations?’
Lorimer’s loathing of carnations had not abated so he bought a bunch of ten daffodils, their buds tightly closed, breathtakingly overpriced.
‘There’s two men in a Roller sitting outside your house. Been there for hours.’
It wasn’t a Roller, it was a Maserati-Daimler or a Rolls-Bentley or a Bentley-Ferrari – one of the limited edition de-luxe hybrids that set you back somewhere in the region of £200,000 – certainly it was the priciest motor vehicle ever to grace the tarmacadam of Lupus Crescent. Sitting at the wheel was fat Terry, David Watts’s factotum/gofer/major domo.
‘Hi,’ Terry said, ever genial. ‘David would like a word with you.’
The smoked glass rear window on his side hummed downwards to reveal David Watts in a Wolverhampton Wanderers track suit sitting on cream calfskin.
‘Can I have a word, Mr Black?’
‘Do you want to come in?’
Watts stood in Lorimer’s flat looking about him as if he were contemplating an exhibit in the Museum of Mankind.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Lorimer said, collecting aluminium receptacles, scooping up a shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. ‘I’ve got a friend staying.’ He stuffed receptacles, shirt, boxers and the daffodils in the swing bin – what was the point? Something blackened and crusty had dribbled down the front of his cooker.
‘That’s nice,’ Watts said, pointing. ‘Is it real?’
‘It’s Greek, about three thousand years old. Do you want me to draw the curtains?’
Watts had put on a pair of sunglasses.
‘No thanks. You’ve got a ton of CDs. Not as many as me, but you’ve got a lot.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t got back to you, but there’s still a process of consultation to–’
‘Don’t worry about the insurance. Take your time. No, it was that group you mentioned, Achimota. Sheer Achimota.’
‘Kwame Akinlaye and the Achimota Rhythm Boys.’
‘That’s the one. Do you believe in serendipity, Mr Black?’
‘Not really’ He believed in its opposite, whatever that was.
‘It’s the most powerful force in anyone’s life. It is in mine. I have to find that CD you mentioned. Sheer Achimota. I know it’s going to be very important to me.’
‘It’s an import. I got the CD mail order. There’s a shop in Camden –’
Irina came out of the bedroom wearing one of Lorimer’s shirts.
‘Hello, Lorimer,’ she said and went into the kitchen.
‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’ Watts asked, politely.
‘What? No. Um. I just–’
‘That girl’s got the whitest legs I’ve seen. Is there any way at all I could buy that C D off you? Name your price. £200.’
‘I can lend it to you.’ He could hear cupboards being opened and shut in the kitchen.
‘Lend?’ Watts said, as if the concept was a new one.
‘Could you just give me a second,’ Lorimer said. ‘Excuse me.’
Torquil was lying in his bed, propped on pillows, naked and reading, as far as Lorimer could see, a soft-porn men’s magazine. Happily the sheet was bunched at his groin, between his spread legs.
‘Oh, hi, Lorimer, guess who’s here.’
‘I just saw her. Just what the fuck do you mean by this, Torquil?’
‘Jesus Christ, what was I meant to do?’
Irina returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs demurely crossed, and poured a drink for Torquil, who was now sprawling across the mattress, bare-arsed, searching his trouser pockets for cigarettes. In an antique display of chivalry he lit two simultaneously and handed one to Irina.
‘Lorimer?’ Irina said, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth.
‘Yes?’
‘Man in room. Is he David Watts?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’ believe I am in house, same house with David Watts.’ She started speaking excitedly in Russian. Her legs were indeed amazingly white,