Free Armadillo by William Boyd

maché bowl when the waitress approached with a jar of mustard on a saucer.
    ‘We’ll have another bottle of red,’ Torquil said, accepting the mustard, then,’Hold your horses, my lovely. This is French mustard. I want English.’
    ‘This is only one we have.’ She sounded Eastern European to Lorimer’s ear. She seemed to be carrying a whole history of weariness on her back. She had a thin face with a pointed chin, not unattractive in its enervated way, with dark shadows under her big eyes. A small mole high on her left cheek oddly exoticized the drabness and the fatigue she seemed to personify. Lorimer felt a thin lariat of kinship snake out, joining him to her.
    ‘Go and get some English mustard.’
    ‘I telling you we don’ have no –’
    ‘OK, bring me some bloody tomato sauce then. Ketchup? Red stuff in a bottle? Fucking ridiculous.’ Torquil sawed off a plug of sausage and ate, not fully closing his mouth. ‘Call the place Cholmondley’s, staff it with foreigners and don’t serve English mustard.’ He stopped chewing. ‘Don’t you know Hughie Aberdeen? Weren’t you engaged to his sister, or something?’
    ‘No. I don’t –’
    ‘I thought you were at Glenalmond. Hogg said you went to school in Scotland.’
    ‘Yes. Balcairn.’
    ‘Balcairn?’
    ‘Shut down now. Near Tomintoul. Smallish place. Catholic. Run by a bunch of monks.’
    ‘You a left-footer, then? Monks, suffering Christ. Give me the creeps.’
    ‘Lapsed. It was a funny old place.’
    ‘I think my wife’s a Catholic. Catholic-ish. Keen on Gregorian chants, plainsong, that sort of thing. No I don’t want the ketchup. Take it away. Yes, I have finished.’
    The waitress silently, stoically removed their plates, Torquil still chewing as he reached for his cigarettes. He set fire to one, squinting after the waitress.
    ‘She’s actually got quite a nice little bum, for such a sourpuss.’ He took a deep breath, inflating his chest hugely. ‘Balcairn. I think I might have known someone who went there. I went to a place called Newbold House. In Northoooomberland. Sure you don’t want some of this red? What do you make of your man Hogg?’
    ‘Hogg is a law unto himself,’ Lorimer said carefully.
    ‘Fearsome reputation in the Fort, I must say. No. Take them away. I will call you when we want menus. Take them away. What is she? Some sort of Polish, German, Hungarian or what?’ He leant forward. ‘No, seriously, I’ll be relying on you, Lorimer, in the early days, just to, you know, steer me right. Specially regarding Hogg. Not totally clear on this loss adjustment lark. Don’t want to fall foul of him, that’s for sure.’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    Lorimer was only certain of one thing – that he did not want to be this man’s ally; riding shotgun for Torquil Helvoir-Jayne did not appeal. He looked across at him now as he sat there, picking at his teeth for shreds of spicy Cumberland sausage. He was overweight and had straight, thinning brown hair brushed back from his frowning brow.
    ‘You got kids, Lorimer?’
    ‘I’m not married.’
    ‘Wise man. I’ve got three. And I’ll be forty in six weeks. What’s it all about, eh?’
    ‘Boys or girls?’
    ‘Jesus. Forty years old. Practically falling off the perch. Do you shoot?’
    ‘Not any more. Bust an ear-drum. Doctor’s orders.’
    ‘Shame. My father-in-law has a decent place in Gloucestershire. Still, you must come and have dinner.’
    ‘With your father-in-law?’
    ‘No. No, me and the wife, me trouble-and-strife. Hello! Yes, you. Menu. Men-you. Fucking hell.’ He turned amiably to Lorimer. ‘Well, maybe it’ll be all right after all. Two of us against the world. D’you want a port or brandy? Armagnac or anything?’
    44. The Short Curriculum Vitae.
    Name: Lorimer M. B. Black.
    Age: 31.
    Current employment: Senior Loss Adjuster, GGH Ltd.
    Education: St Barnabus, Fulham. 11 GCSEs, 4 A-levels (Maths, Economics, English Literature, History of Art).
    Foundation