Thirteen

Every man over forty is a scoundrel.

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

I was shown into a room. A red room. Red wallpaper, red curtains, red carpet. They said it was a sitting-room, but I don’t know why they’d decided to confine its purpose just to sitting. Obviously, sitting was one of the things you could do in a room this size; but you could also stage operas, hold cycling races, and have an absolutely cracking game of frisbee, all at the same time, without having to move any of the furniture.

It could rain in a room this big.

I hung about by the door for a while, looking at paintings, the undersides of ashtrays, that kind of thing, then got bored and set off towards the fireplace at the other end. Half-way there I had to stop and sit down, because I’m not as young as I was, and as I did so, another set of double-doors opened, and some muttering took place between a Carl and a major-domo figure in striped grey trousers and black jacket.

Both of them glanced in my direction every once in a while, and then the Carl nodded his head and backed out of the room.

The major-domo started towards me, pretty casually I thought, and called out at the two hundred metre mark: ‘Would you care for a drink, Mr Lang?’

I didn’t have to think about this for very long. ‘Scotch, please,’ I called back.

That’d teach him.

At one hundred metres, he stopped at a frequent table and opened a small silver box, pulling out a cigarette without even looking down to see if there were any in there. He lit it, and kept on coming.

As he got nearer, I could see that he was in his fifties, good-looking in an indoor kind of way, and that his face had a strange sheen to it. The reflections of standard-lamps and chandeliers danced across his forehead, so that he seemed almost to sparkle as he moved. Yet somehow I knew it wasn’t sweat, nor oil; it was just a sheen.

With ten yards still to go, he smiled at me and held out a hand, and kept it there as he came so that before I’d realised it, I was on my feet, ready to receive him like an old friend.

His grip was hot but dry, and he clasped me by the elbow and steered me back on to the sofa, sliding down next to me so that our knees were almost touching. If he always sat this close to visitors, then I have to say he was simply not getting his money’s worth out of his room.

‘Murder,’ he said.

There was a pause. I’m sure you’ll understand why. ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.

‘ Naimh Murdah,’ he said, then watched patiently while I readjusted the spelling in my head. ‘A great pleasure. Great pleasure.’

His voice was soft, his accent educated. I had the feeling that he’d be just as good in a dozen other languages. He flicked some ash from his cigarette vaguely in the direction of a bowl, then leaned towards me.

‘Russell has told me a lot about you. And I must say, I’ve been cheering for you very much.’

Close up, there were two things I could tell about Mr Murdah: he was not the major-domo; and the sheen on his face was money.

It wasn’t caused by money, or bought with money. It simply was money. Money that he’d eaten, worn, driven, breathed, in such quantities, and for so long, that it had started to secrete from the pores of his skin. You may not think this possible, but money had actually made him beautiful.

He was laughing.

‘Very much indeed, yes. You know, Russell is a very considerable person. Very considerable indeed. But sometimes I think it does him good to become frustrated. He has a tendency, I would say, towards arrogance. And you, Mr Lang, I have the feeling that you are good for such a man.’

Dark eyes. Incredibly dark eyes. With dark edges to the lids, which ought to have been make-up but wasn’t.

‘You, I think,’ said Murdah, still beaming, ‘you frustrate many people. I think perhaps that is why God put you here among us, Mr Lang. Wouldn’t you say?’

And I laughed back. Fuck knows why, because he hadn’t said anything funny. But there I was, chuckling away like a drunk simpleton.

A door opened somewhere, and then suddenly a tray of whisky was between us, borne by a maid dressed in black. We took a glass each, and the maid waited while Murdah drowned his in soda, and I just got mine slightly damp. She left without a smile, or a nod. Without uttering a sound.

I took a deep slug of Scotch and felt drunk almost before I’d swallowed.

‘You’re an arms dealer,’ I said.

I don’t know quite what reaction I expected, but I expected something. I thought he might flinch, or blush, or get angry,orhave me shot, tick any of the above, but there was nothing. Not even a pause. He continued as if he’d known for years what I was going to say.

‘I am indeed, Mr Lang. For my sins.’

Wow, I thought. That was extremely cute. I am an arms dealer for my sins. That was every bit as rich as he was. He lowered his eyes with apparent modesty.

‘I buy and sell arms, yes,’ he said. ‘I must say, I think, successfully. You, of course, disapprove of me, as do many of your countrymen, and this is one of the penalties of my profession. Something that I must bear, if I can.’

I suppose he was making fun of me, but it didn’t sound that way. It really did sound as if my disapproval made him unhappy.

‘I have examined my life, and my behaviour, with the help of many friends who are religious people. And I believe I can answer to God. In fact - if I can anticipate your questions - I believe I canonlyanswer to God. So do you mind if we move on?’ He smiled again. Warm, charmingly apologetic. He dealt with me like a man who’s used to dealing with people like me - as if he was a polite film star, and I’d asked him for an autograph at a tricky moment.

‘Nice furniture,’ I said.

We were taking a tour of the room. Stretching our legs, filling our lungs, digesting some huge meal we hadn’t eaten. To finish the picture, we really needed a couple of dogs mucking about at our ankles, and a gate to lean on. We didn’t have them, so I was trying to make do with the furniture.

‘It’s a Boulle,’ said Murdah, pointing at the large wooden cabinet under my elbow. I nodded, the same way I nod when people tell me the names of plants, and politely bent my head to the intricate brass inlay.

‘They take a sheet of veneer and a sheet of brass, glue them together, then cut the pattern right through. That one,’ he pointed towards an apparently related cabinet, ‘is a contre Boulle. You see? An exact negative. Nothing wasted.’