Ordinary Thunderstorms

54

THERE WAS A GOOD TURN-OUT, INGRAM COULD SEE, AS LUIGI DROVE them past the entrance to the Queen Charlotte Conference Centre in Covent Garden — some dozens of people still queuing to pick up copies of the agenda and press release and to have their names verified as bona fide shareholders. Can all these people own bits of my company? Ingram demanded, as he looked at the shuffling queue. He realised he was in his usual troubled state of wonder: it always happened at the AGM, as well, when he had the chance to contemplate these earnest amateur speculators — these mums and dads, these eccentrics with their thermos flasks and packs of sandwiches. All these hundreds, thousands of individuals around the world who possessed a little bit of Calenture-Deutz paper and who turned up, along with the smart young men and women from pension funds, the investment banks and the financial institutions, to listen to what the chairman and the board had to say about the proper functioning of the company they had invested in. It seemed extraordinary and, as at the AGM each year, he found himself in two minds, trapped: was this a healthy sign of the democratic, accountable base of Western capitalism, or was it an indication that the system was hopelessly soft and too lenient? Due diligence, fair practice, corporate responsibility — or raw, lean, energetic commerce being forcibly called to account for its actions and agenda on an annual basis, in an unreal situation where it could find itself at the mercy of rivals, special interest groups, selfish investors and the occasional random lunatic.

Talking of which, Ingram thought, there was a peach, a prime specimen. They were driving past an elderly pony-tailed man in a wheelchair holding up a placard that said: “ZEMBLA-4 KILLS CHILDREN”—and underneath that the address of a website that Ingram couldn’t read. He chuckled, heavy irony colouring his semi-laugh. He was used to these posters — he’d seen worse. There had been a ‘FRYZER = MENGELE’ banner a couple of years ago. He smiled again — this drug was specifically designed to save children’s lives, for fuck’s sake. Here was the problem when you opened your doors to the public, even an interested public — such gatherings were announced weeks in advance, discretion was an impossibility, word was circulated everywhere — you didn’t even need to be a shareholder to cause trouble. Big Pharma was a legitimate target these days — like the banks, the arms dealers and the oil companies — any anarchic, eco-madman-warrior could take it on himself to make a symbolic protest, even against a perfectly harmless medium-sized Pharma company like Calenture-Deutz. At one AGM Ingram had had green paint sprayed over his £2,000 suit by a demonstrator wearing a skull-mask; at another, people in loin-cloths and with suppurating wounds painted on their bodies had Iain on the pavement outside the venue feigning toxic death. All their public meetings were routinely picketed and targeted — moronic ape-chanting carrying into the hall as the financial report was read out, banners draped over the building, silent lines of young people wearing gas masks — and so it was something of a relief to see they only had one solitary dickhead to deal with this year. Security would see to him but the sooner the whole thing was over, the better.

As he stepped out of the car Ingram experienced one of his new disorientating swoons. He staggered, Luigi grabbed his elbow, and after a couple of deep breaths Ingram felt fine again. Blood spots, ferocious itches, fainting fits, the word confusions — plus, he had to say, intermittent nausea and very short-term headaches that were so short term they were over by the time he had reached for the analgesic. It could only be stress — stress caused by this whole delicate, secret accommodation with Rilke and Rilke Pharma, the aggravation imposed by Keegan and de Freitas, not to mention extraneous factors like the brutal murder of his chief researcher: all these symptoms must stem from these pressures — he was only human after all.

Lachlan McTurk had said he had run out of tests — everything had shown up completely clear — all there was left now was the body-wide ultrasound and the MRI brain scan and so he had been duly booked in. There ‘was no alternative, Lachlan said, he could find nothing. Perhaps once this whole Zembla-4 licensing was over and as soon as the company was safely sold to Rilke Pharma his health would return to its old state — robust, uncomplicated, normal.

He went in through a back entrance and was guided along corridors to a form of green room where the board of Calenture-Deutz was gathering before it went on stage. Pippa Deere busied around him and had him fitted out with a lapel microphone. She assured him that all the international video-links had been checked and were fully functioning. Yes, yes, fine. Ingram couldn’t really concentrate — he still felt a little light-headed and he ordered a coffee to quell his resurgent nausea. He smiled and nodded at his colleagues — the doctors and the Oxbridge professors, the ex-cabinet minister and the banking supremo — and there too were his nemeses, Keegan and de Freitas, looking over at him knowingly—

There was a gentle squeeze on his elbow and he turned to find his very own ‘Lord on the Board’, his brother-in-law, Ivo, smart in a tight dark suit, his thick hair gelled into glossy quiescence.

“Ivo…” Ingram said, drawing the name out, playing for time, then paused legitimately to accept the coffee brought to him by Pippa Deere. He took a quick sip, searching for a topic of conversation. “Did you see that lunatic outside?”

Ivo chose not to answer his question, posing instead a question of his own.

“Did you get my message?”

“I did. But I didn’t understand it.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“I knew you’d say that. Exactly.” Ivo pulled down the lower lid of his right eye. “Exactly.”

“Why would you leave a message I wouldn’t understand? Why were you thanking me?”

Ivo leaned close. “For what you did.”

“I did nothing.”

“Quod erat demonstrandum. Q.E.D.”

“What has been demonstrated?” Ingram was growing irritated at this ambiguity.

Ivo sighed. “I had to say thank you, for god’s sake. It’s only reasonable, decent.”

“For what?”

“For what you did.”

“I did nothing.”

“You did not do nothing.”

Ingram began to feel he was in a Harold Pinter play, involved in a sinister duologue that could conceivably go on for ever.

“I. Did. Nothing.” He repeated the words with heavy emphasis.

“I know.”

“You admit I did nothing.”

“Yes, so to speak. But I thank you all the same.”

“For what?”

“For doing ‘nothing’.” Ivo used his fingers to make histrionic air-quotes. “I know that you know. And you know that I know you know.” Ivo tapped the side of his nose. “I can read,” he said, conspiratorially.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Exactly. Point taken. No worries. Good man, Ingram, I love you.”

Pippa Deere interrupted to guide them on to the stage and their appointed seats.

Ingram forced himself to stay awake as Professor Marcus Vintage, who was chairing the press conference, spoke about the year’s progress the company had made, and the tragedy of Philip Wang’s sudden and shocking death (silence in the hall), making no mention of Zembla-4, in his Yorkshire-accented monotone before handing over to Edward Anthony, the company secretary, who would present a brief financial report. The hall was nearly full, Ingram saw, full of part-owners of Calenture-Deutz, all apparently listening intently. He glanced down at the agenda: welcome from the chairman, welcome from the company secretary, statement from Ingram Fryzer, CEO. “Statement”—that was when he would detonate his little fiscal bomb. Little did they know, he thought, looking out over the audience, that everyone in this room was going to leave richer than when they’d come in. Theoretically. He allowed himself a small smile.

It seemed several hours later that he was called to the microphone, though a glance at his watch told him only thirty-five minutes had passed. Ingram waited for the mild applause to die down and unfolded his notes.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I want to make a brief special announcement that greatly affects the future of the company. As you all know, Rilke Pharmaceutical holds a 20 per cent stake in Calenture-Deutz. I want to let you know today that I have agreed to sell my personal shareholding in the company to Rilke Pharmaceutical. This will give them a controlling interest.” The room was completely silent. “However,” Ingram continued, “Rilke Pharma are proposing a complete buy-out of Calenture-Deutz as a share offer with cash alternative. Rilke is offering 600 pence a share, some 20 per cent higher than our current capitalisation. I, and the entire board of Calenture-Deutz, strongly recommend that you accept this generous offer. We envisage the takeover—”

“Point of order!” came a loud shout from the rear of the room. “Point of order, Mr Chairman!”

Ingram felt an itch spear through the sole of his left foot. He stamped down on it hard behind the lectern.

Marcus Vintage looked at him questioningly — should he yield the floor to this interlocutor? Mutterings sped round the room, the sound of hushed shock, speculation and calculation as people wondered how much money they were going to make. Ingram looked round to nod assent at Vintage and saw his hugely magnified image on the video screen nod assent…He looked back at the auditorium, shading his eyes against the spotlights, trying to see who had interrupted him. Stewards were approaching an elderly, pony-tailed man in a wheelchair but someone had already handed him a roving microphone.

“I would like to ask the board,” his amplified voice sounded nasal and aggressive — the voice of hate, Ingram thought—“if they could inform us of the exact number of children who died during the clinical trials of Zembla-4.”

Outrage, shouts, a collective drawing-in of breath erupted before the stewards bore down on the man, seized his microphone and swept him bodily out of the hall, wheelchair lifted off the ground, the man bellowing ‘We want answers! We want to know the truth!’ Ingram saw that one of the men operating the video cameras for the international feeds had swivelled round and projected wheelchair-man’s uncompromising expulsion on the large screen.

The crowd were now applauding. What, Ingram wondered? His own fortitude, the swift removal of the voice of anarchy, the prospect of riches? Professor Vintage was banging his gavel on the desk and crying ‘Order! Order!’ in a faint voice. Ingram felt the blood leaving his head and the room darkened. He grabbed the lectern with both hands and managed to stay upright. The room calmed, people who had stood up to see the disruption now sat down. Ingram drew in deep breaths as he consulted his notes, now worried that he might vomit at any moment.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…” Laughter. “The buy-out of Calenture-Deutz by Rilke Pharmaceutical should take place over the coming weeks once the various takeover requirements have been met. Calenture-Deutz will continue as a brand name but we will function within the unparalleled security and financial might of the third biggest pharmaceutical company in the world. As your chairman and chief executive I cannot urge you more strongly to accept this most generous offer.”

Loud applause, fervent applause, resounded through the room. Ingram looked across at the board to see them all clapping him — and there were Keegan and de Freitas clapping also, but formally, without the fervour of the room. What were their bonuses to be? Ingram wondered. Keegan was looking at him — and gave him a nod of acknowledgement as their eyes met — but not smiling. If anything, Ingram thought, he looked a little worried. De Freitas stopped clapping and whispered something in Keegan’s ear. Ingram turned to the room, gave a small bow and managed to walk off the stage.

♦

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.”