He had called Rita and told her he was working late and that he hoped to be home around midnight. She had her own keys, now, to the flat in Oystergate Buildings and she asked him if he’d like something to eat when he came in. He said, no, don’t bother, don’t wait up — I’ll just slip into bed. The thought of slipping into bed with Rita excited him, of reaching out under the sheets for her warm body — he stood and paced up and down — how he wanted to be back there with her now, not waiting to meet his blackmailer, Vincent Turpin, this figure from his past, still haunting him, making demands. This was his third payment to Turpin, another £200, and he was running out of funds, borrowing money from Rita to make ends meet. He decided it would be his last — now he had spoken to Lalandusse and discovered what was happening at Calenture-Deutz: they had more than enough corporate chaos in their lives to be worrying about me, he thought. The dogs must have been called off.
He saw Turpin lurching down Chelsea Bridge Road, weaving across the pedestrian lights opposite the Lister Hospital, holding up one hand to stop non-existent traffic. He slowed down as he saw Adam, tried to straighten himself. Adam saw he was wearing a shiny new leather jacket, too long in the sleeve. So that’s where his money was going.
“Got a smoke, John?” Turpin said, breathing beer fumes over him.
“I don’t smoke,” Adam said, handing over the money and watching as Turpin laboriously counted it.
“You’re short. I said £300.”
“You said two. Like the last time.”
“It always goes up a bit, John. Bad boy. Vince is not well pleased.”
“You said two. It’s not my fault.”
“Tell you what, sunshine. You must have a credit card now you’ve got so successful. Let’s go to a cash-point — see how much we can get — I’m in need of funds, as they say.”
“No, this is it. It’s finished.”
Turpin sighed histrionically. “You’re making it very easy for me to earn two grand, John. I’ll just call Ugly Bugger. Give him your scooter number. Where is it, by the way, you sold it?” Turpin prattled on, drunkenly verbose, and Adam was thinking: of course, of course, of course — he’s already told him. He’s got his two grand already. Why would Turpin do the honourable thing? Not in Turpin’s life, not his way of dealing with the world. He tuned back in to hear Turpin saying, “…and I can get the money from you or I can get it from him. I got his phone number. Call him up, give him the licence plate. Bingo. Two thousand pounds to Mr Turpin, thank you very much. Makes no odds to me.”
Adam thought fast: he wanted to get away from here, away from the triangle. Was it worth the risk of alienating Turpin for another £100? He should keep him sweet: it would give him more time, more time to figure out how to erase the Primo Belem trail once and for all — one final bit of security. But maybe he was safe — this man hunting him, whoever he was, wouldn’t work for nothing. And if Calenture-Deutz had gone to the wall—
“Make your mind up. Your call, Johnnie.”
“All right,” Adam said, turning towards Chelsea. “There’s a cash machine at Sloane Square.”
“I’m not that fucking stupid,” Turpin said, belligerently. “No, I know another one. You might have friends waiting for old Vince at Sloane Square. No, we’ll go to Battersea, mate.”
They headed off across the bridge, Turpin trying to hold on to Adam’s arm to steady himself. His drunken instability seemed to have accelerated. Adam shook him off.
“Don’t touch me,” he said.
Turpin stopped, angry. He put one hand on the balustrade.
“Don’t you talk to me like that. What am I? Filth?…Anyway, you’re the one going to fall over, you stupid cunt. Your shoelace is undone.” Turpin found this fact very funny all of a sudden and doubled up in a wheezy laugh.
Adam looked down to see that his right shoelaces were trailing on the wet pavement. Turpin, still laughing to himself, leant back against the purple and white, thick cast-iron balustrade of the bridge, resting on his elbows — like a drinker resting, at his ease, Adam thought, leaning back against a bar. A late-night bus rumbled by, the light from its upper deck flashing across Turpin’s seamed and folded face.
“I heard a funny joke today,” Turpin said. “Didn’t half laugh. It’s good to laugh, clears out the system. Doctors will tell you that. A tonic.”
Adam stooped to tie his shoelace.
“There’s this woman social worker, see?” Turpin began. “And she’s talking to a little girl, pretty little chicken. And she says: do you know when your mummy has her period? — You heard this one before?”
“No,” Adam said, beginning to re-tie his other shoelace for good measure.
“It’s bloody good. Hilarious. So the little girl says to the social worker”—now Turpin put on a piping falsetto—“Yes, miss, I know when my mummy has her period. Social worker: how can you tell?…And the little girl says: because daddy’s cock tastes funny.” Turpin shook with laughter again.
It all became clear to Adam at once, in a flash of insight, what he could do, here and now, and how easy it would be. At the very least it would be some recompense, some rough justice, for all the grief Turpin had visited on his various wives and his little children. Adam quickly reached out, while Turpin was still rocking drunkenly with mirth at his joke, and slipped two fingers under the cuff of Turpin’s right trouser leg. He gripped it, holding it firmly, and rose suddenly to his feet from his crouching position. Turpin went up and over the balustrade so fast and fluently he had time only to utter a short bark of surprise, his hands grabbing vainly at thin air. And then he was gone, falling into the dark beyond the bridge’s lights. Adam heard the splash of his body hitting the water. He thought for a second about running across to see if there was any sign of him downstream, but Chelsea Bridge was awkward to traverse — he would have to vault two sizeable structural barriers on either side of the roadway — and anyway, it was dark and the tide was strong and surging and would carry Turpin away so quickly, he knew. Adam didn’t pause any longer, he turned and walked on towards Battersea. The whole moment had been so fast — a mere second — no cars had passed by, no one else was on the bridge. At one moment there had been two men; the next moment there was only one. So easy. Turpin was gone, Adam thought, as he walked away, and he didn’t feel anything, to his vague surprise, he didn’t feel changed in any way and he didn’t feel guilty. It was a simple act, a decision that had occurred to him spontaneously — bringing about an end to Turpin as if a roof tile had fallen on his head or as if he had been hit by a speeding car. A fatal accident. Adam strode calmly, steadily, on to Battersea and bussed home to Rita.
59
LIFE’S JOURNEY WAS VERY strange, Ingram decided, and it had recently taken him to places he never thought he would have visited on his personal itinerary from cradle to grave. He sat upright, now, in his hospital bed, leaning back against a fat pile of pillows, with his shaven, massively scarred head wrapped in a neat, tight turban of bandages. He had a drip in his arm and his left eye was covered with a black pirate’s patch — something he’d requested himself, to see if it would subdue the firework display that glittered and sparkled against the shifting grey mica dust that was all his left retina was currently supplying as vision. With light not coming in, the darkness seemed to quell the pyrotechnics. Only the occasional supernova or atom bomb blast made him flinch — otherwise he felt pretty well, if 3 out of 10 could be regarded as a norm: nausea, parched throat, out-of-body trances not being included in the audit. He could speak, he could read (out of one eye), he could think, he could eat — though he was never hungry — he could defecate (effortfully, meagrely), he could drink. He craved sweet, cold drinks — he asked all visitors to bring chilled colas — Pepsi, Coke, supermarket ‘own’ brands — he did not discriminate.