‘I wanted to ask about my girlfriend, Lola Bessington,’ says Max. ‘She was driving the Ark. Cark. Car.’
‘No injuries other than minor cuts and bruises and she was a bit shaken up,’ says Lyla. ‘She tested over the limit and had a summons to answer. She was discharged a couple of days after she was admitted. Her parents came and picked her up.’
‘She’s pregnant. Is the baby all right?’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Could you try to find out for me, please?’
‘OK.’
‘When can I go home?’
‘Probably in a day or two. They might want to do a follow-up EEG but I doubt it. I’ll see if I can find out about the other. Stay quiet for a while, OK?’
‘OK. Thanks, Lula Mae.’
‘Lyla, me.’
‘Sorry. Names move around behind the boiler.’
‘What boiler is that?’
‘The big black lying-down one.’
‘With names behind it?’
‘Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak, Dubhe.’
‘I was thinking of going to Dubai,’ says Lyla. ‘Nurses make good money there.’
Later she reports that there was nothing about pregnancy in Lola’s admission report. Max takes this to mean that she’s been told not to tell him anything.
That afternoon he’s moved out of Intensive Care to a ward with three other men, all of them old. One of them keeps wetting the bed. His name is Byron. Another stares at Max and moves his mouth but no words come out. He’s Neville. The third is Fred. He was in the submarine service in World War II. ‘Were you ever hit by depth charges?’ says Max. ‘Wouldn’t be here if we’d ever taken a direct hit,’ says Fred. ‘Close ones sometimes, the plates would start to buckle and you’d get some water coming in but you’ve got to expect that sort of thing from time to time.’
A nurse called Laura takes Max’s temperature, blood pressure and pulse. She gets an oxygen reading from a thing clipped to his finger. ‘How am I?’ says Max.
‘Blood pressure’s a little low,’ says Laura, and writes up his chart.
‘You’ve got to expect that sort of thing from time to time,’ says Max. Lying on the bottom and maintaining silence, he waits for the depth charges, feels the shock of the explosions, sees the water spurting in as the plates buckle.
30 Phone Talk
‘Seven three eight five, seven two seven seven,’ says a male voice, very refined.
‘I’m calling Lola Bessington,’ says Max. ‘Have I got the right number?’
‘Miss Bessington’s calls are being diverted to this number,’ says the voice.
‘Whom am I speaking to, please?’ says Max.
‘This is Poole,’ says Poole.
‘Poole is where I’m calling from. This is Max Lesser.’
‘Yes, Mr Lesser. Was there anything else?’
‘Can you tell me how she is?’
‘No,’ says Poole. ‘I am not able to do that. Goodbye.’
‘Chambers,’ says a crisp female voice answering Max’s next call.
‘I’d like to speak to Basil Meissen-Potts, please,’ says Max.
‘Who’s calling, please?’ says Ms Crisp.
‘Max Lesser.’
‘Mr Meissen-Potts is out of the country at present.’
‘When do you expect him back?’
‘Try again in two weeks.’
‘Thank you,’ says Max, and rings Poole again.
‘Seven three eight five, seven two seven seven,’ says Poole.
‘Max Lesser again,’ says Max. ‘Can I speak to Lady Bessington?’
‘Lady Bessington cannot be reached at this time,’ says Poole.
‘Lord Bessington, then?’
‘I’ll have to put you on hold for a moment,’ says Poole. Silence. No music.
The next voice has a Victorian moustache and wears a sola topi. ‘Bessington here,’ it says, switching a riding crop against its boot.
‘Lord Bessington,’ says Max, ‘this is Max Lesser. I was hoping to talk to Lola.’
‘Yes, no doubt you were.’
‘Can you at least tell me how she is?’
‘I’m a rather busy man,’ says Lord Bessington, ‘but if you’d like to speak to my secretary I’ll try to squeeze you in for a horsewhipping.’
‘Would that make you feel better?’ says Max.
‘Yes, it would give me the comfort of knowing that at least one of us has behaved correctly.’
‘If you’ll allow a personal question, Lord Bessington, have you ever behaved incorrectly?’
‘Yes. At the age of eight I brought my pony back to the stables without cooling him down and I was thrashed for it.’
‘Thank you,’ says Max. ‘I have nothing further.’
‘Hello,’ says Vicky at the Coliseum Shop. ‘Coliseum Shop.’
‘Hi,’ says Max. ‘Max Lesser here. Any word from Lola?’
‘Only that she’s quit her job and gone away.’
‘Did she say whether she … Did she say how she is, you know, physically?’ says Max.
‘All she said was what I just told you.’
‘Nothing about where she was going or how long she’ll be away?’
‘Nothing. I have to go now.’ She hangs up.
‘Our child,’ says Max to his mind, ‘is it alive or dead?’
‘I can’t help you,’ says his mind.
Max dials the speaking clock. ‘At the third stroke,’ says the clock, ‘the time, sponsored by Accurist, will be fifteen thirty-three and ten seconds. Beep. Beep, etc. Every hour wounds; the last one kills.’
‘You can say that again,’ says Max.
‘Every hour wounds,’ speaks the clock; ‘the last one kills.’
31 Lola Lola
April 1997. Poole Hospital. ‘Ich bin die fesche Lola,’ sings Max’s mind. ‘Tee-tumty-tumty-tum.’
‘Ah!’ says Max. ‘Haunt me, Lola!’
The memory that haunts him is from February, shortly after he and Lola did the I Ching. They’d arranged to meet at his place, and when Lola arrives she says, ‘Excuse me for a moment.’ Then she heads for the bathroom with her Nike sports bag that she uses for an overnighter. In a few minutes she knocks three times on her side of the closed door.
‘Who’s there?’ says Max.
‘Lola Lola,’ says Lola. The door opens and here she is in a black corset, frilly black knickers, suspender belt, black stockings and black high heels. She strikes a pose with feet apart, hands on hips.
‘Wow,’ says Max. ‘Dietrich never looked this good.’
‘Ich bin die fesche Lola, der Liebling der Saison. Ich hab’ ein Pianola zu Haus in mein Salon,’ sings Lola, with her upper-class English accent. ‘I am the dashing Lola, the darling of the season. I have a Pianola at home in my salon.’
‘Is that where you got your name?’ says Max.
‘Not really,’ says Lola. ‘I had a grandmother named Lola, but Daddy has always been a big Dietrich fan, and when I was little he used to bounce me on his knee and sing me that song from The Blue Angel. He only knew the first line but he’d tumty-tum the rest and give me a kiss at the end. Actually he still sings it to me now and then.’
‘With the knee ride and the kiss?’ says Max.
‘No, he stopped the knee rides when I was about fourteen.’
‘About time, too,’ says Max. ‘What about the kiss?’
‘Well, you know — fond parent, only child.’
‘On the mouth?’
‘Yes. Have you got a problem with that?’
‘Maybe. I won’t ask about his tongue.’
‘A notable show of restraint,’ says Lola. ‘Would you like to help me out of this corset?’