♦
He tried to vomit as quietly as possible, a difficult thing to do — but very aware there were other people using the toilet beyond the stall he was occupying — repeatedly flushing the WC, hoping that the flow of water would cover the sound of his retching. Good god, he thought, must be some kind of food poisoning: he was empty, spent. He dabbed his mouth with a tissue, checked that his shirt and tie were free of bile-spatter, and flushed the loo for the seventh time. Funny how copious vomiting could make you feel both hellish and better, he thought, unlocking the door to the stall. You became a simple organism in a state of spasm, voiding your stomach your only aim and purpose, a creature of instinct, all intellectual function shut down. But it somehow rejuvenated as well as exhausted, it was a brief visit to the primitive being you once were — time travel to your lost animal self. He was alone in the toilet, everyone else gone off to lunch, and he washed his hands slowly and carefully, telling himself to stay calm — perhaps he’d better go back to Lachlan one last time.
He stepped out of the toilet into the corridor to find Ivo waiting there.
“I’m fine, Ivo. Good of you to wait. Don’t worry, I’ll be—”
“I don’t give a toss about you, mate. You miserable cunt. Do you hate me that much, really? How could you do this to me? To my family?”
Ingram sighed. “You’ve been talking in riddles all day. What is it now?”
“600 pence a share.”
“Yes, an excellent offer.”
“I sold at 480.”
“Sold what?”
“All my Calenture-Deutz shares. Three days ago.”
“Well, then you’re a fool.”
“You told me to sell.”
Ingram looked at him. “Are you mad? Of course I didn’t: I told you the opposite.”
“Exactly.”
“Stop saying ‘exactly’ all the time.”
Ivo stepped threateningly closer and for a split second Ingram thought he was going to hit him, but Ivo said, in a trembling voice, “I’ll get you for this. I’ll ruin you.”
He strode away towards the exit, shouting imprecations without looking back, “Complete bastard! We’re family, you wanker, family!” Ingram felt more itches springing up: one on his left buttock, one on his chin. He scratched them both simultaneously.
“Mr Fryzer?”
It was Pippa Deere — she looked a little worried, her nose and cheeks gleaming.
“What is it, Pippa? I’m not feeling so good myself — I’m going to skip facsimile.”
“Sorry?” Pippa Deere’s face registered bafflement.
“Lunch. I’m going to skip lunch.”
“There are some journalists here, they want to speak to you.”
“Journalists? What do they need me for? They’ve got your press release, everything’s there.”
“Yes, they have. They still want to speak to you.”
“Tell them I’ll see them next week.”
“It’s about that ‘point of order’ that was raised.”
“For god’s sake.” Ingram looked at the ceiling in supplication. “Some crazy idiot crackpot shouts out some ranting nonsense and I’m meant to talk to journalists about it? We get these demonstrators all the time. Nobody wanted to talk to me when I was spray-gunned with green paint. Who let him in, anyway? What’s the point of hiring security?”
Pippa Deere seemed about to cry. “It turns out the man who was ejected from the hall is a shareholder. When he was thrown out he injured himself, fell out of his wheelchair and cut his head. He gave an interview to some of the journalists…” She sniffed. “I’ve only heard the tape once but he said something about fourteen little children dying during the Zembla-4 trials. I’m terribly sorry, Mr Fryzer, I didn’t know what to do.”
Ingram felt weariness descend on him, a great heavy cloak of weariness.
“It’s all utter, abject, malicious nonsense. All right, take me to the gentlemen of the press.”
55
“I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH, PRIMO,” JEFF NASHE SAID, HIS VOICE almost hoarse with sincerity. “It was absolutely amazing. I haven’t felt that…alive since my accident.”
“You were tremendous,” Adam said. “Couldn’t have gone better.”
He was wheeling Jeff in his wheelchair down Kingsway, heading for a bus stop where they could catch a bus to Battersea. Jeffs cut (on his forehead) had been dressed by one of the security men who had thrown him out of the conference centre. It was more of a gash than a cut — and was now hidden by some sticking plaster — but the trickle of blood that had run down his face was perfect pictorial testimony to the violence of his expulsion — thoughtless strong-arm tactics used by fascistic security thugs to silence and eject an old, semi-crippled, wheelchair-bound man from a meeting that he had every right to attend and at which he was merely exercising his duties as a bona fide shareholder of a public company. This was more or less what Jeff had told the journalists who had interviewed him — he was articulate, angry and expressive. Two of the journalists had taken photographs of his bloodied face and Adam had every hope the image would make tomorrow’s papers.
It had been Aaron Lalandusse who had alerted his fellow reporters to the place and time of Calenture-Deutz’s press conference — and to its potential disruption. Jeff had provided individual colour to what might otherwise have been a bland and self-congratulatory corporate exercise — and would be ably backed up by the evidence posted on Inpharmation.Com. Calenture-Deutz would deny everything, of course — no doubt the press release was already circulating about the proposed Rilke Pharma buy-out — but now there was rumour and counter-rumour out there, enough accusation and denial to stimulate curiosity and further investigation. Aaron had everything he needed to write his piece for the Global Finance Bulletin — the key object of the exercise, after all.
Adam — as a Calenture-Deutz shareholder himself — had been in the room across the hall from Jeff. He had travelled with him from Battersea, in a taxi with the wheelchair and the placard, but while they waited for his moment, Adam had concentrated on what he could make out of Lord Redcastle’s demeanour. There was no way of telling if his little ruse had worked — not that it made much difference to the main action of the day. It had been prompted by something Aaron Lalandusse had said when they had met. We need a simultaneous plan B, Lalandusse had recommended, not a subsequent one: when you took on a powerful enemy it was always as well to attack on more than one flank: “You know — go for the jugular with both hands but knee him in the balls as well.” And from what Adam could glean from his study of Calenture-Deutz’s board members, Ivo, Lord Redcastle seemed the most obvious target to try and destabilise — though he’d also been tempted by the ex-cabinet minister — and so Ivo had been chosen.
Adam kept his eyes on Redcastle as the AGM progressed — he seemed serious and pensive and had applauded dutifully, always following the lead of others, never initiating a response. There was nothing to indicate in his reactions and behaviour that he was now a richer but shareless board member, Adam thought — immediately rebuking himself: what did a man who had sold his shares in a company look like? Maybe Redcastle hadn’t sold his shares but he hadn’t looked at all happy when Fryzer made his announcement about the takeover. The main thing was that Jeffs point-of-order outburst had created enough fuss and brouhaha to justify Aaron Lalandusse asking pointed questions about the Zembla-4 clinical trials. Phase one had gone well, very well.
They had reached the bus stop. Jeff Nashe stepped out of his wheelchair and folded it up.
“I hate buggering about with these things on buses and trains,” he said by way of explanation. “You don’t need to worry, Prirno,” he said. “I can get home on my own.”