Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  A security person, some kind of foyer overseer, approaches me. I’m still wearing my sunglasses, which possibly makes me look a little suspicious. He’s got very dark skin, almost as black as the suit he wears. Underneath he dons a white shirt and a black tie. There’s the coil of an earpiece emerging from his lapels.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he smiles, cordially.

  I remove my glasses and recognition splashes his face. “Hi there,” I smile. “I have an appointment with Michael McCarthy at Mercer Lightburn. He’s expecting me.”

  “Yes, of course, Jack,” he says, smiling and nodding. “Please follow me.”

  He escorts me over to an area with fourteen elevator doors. He presses the up button on one and says, “This will take you to the reception area of Mercer Lightburn.”

  “Thank you very much,” I say.

  “Have a wonderful afternoon,” he says. Then adds, “I loved your last record. I play it all the time.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind,” I smile, with a gracious nod.

  The elevator door opens. He reaches in and pushes a button for me. Then he smiles and walks away.

  The elevator moves quickly, shooting me sixty storeys into the sky. When the door parts, I step into a wide, plush room. It’s a giant oval shape, the far side of the wall made of glass, partitioning a breath-taking view of the world outside. On another section of the wall are myriad video screens. The sound is turned down, but I can see scrolling stock market reports, wavering currencies and updates. Reporters sharing financial news. Broadcasts from all the countries of the globe. The carpet is thick and dark blue. Woven into its centre, in white cursive writing, are the words Mercer Lightburn. There’s lounges positioned around the room, some facing the screens. Over to my left is a kitchenette, a long bench with a coffee machine, sink and other appliances.

  A smiling woman with blonde hair, professional make-up and a neat uniform walks up to me. She’s the only person here.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Could you point me in the direction of the reception desk?”

  “This is the reception area… can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Michael McCarthy.”

  “Excellent. What time was your appointment?”

  “I don’t have an appointment.”

  “Oh, I see,” says the woman, her face creasing in concern. “Mr. McCarthy is in meetings today. He’s very busy.”

  “He can prioritise me,” I smile.

  “Sir, I’m not sure that’s possible. I could inquire, I suppose. Who should I say is here to see him?”

  “Tell him Jack is paying him a visit.”

  When I say my name, the woman realises who I am. Surprise spreads across her face, her manner changing. “Oh, Jack. Yes, of course. I’m sure he will want to see you. Thank you so much for stopping by.”

  “No need to thank me, I was in the area.”

  “Yes, excellent. Why don’t I take you to his office and you can wait for him there. He’ll be very happy to see you.”

  McCarthy’s office is quite large. He has a broad wooden desk and a high backed leather chair. There’s two flatscreen televisions mounted on the wood-paneled walls. Sleek and polished. There’s some leather lounges in one corner and a coffee table. Thin, clean carpet that’s a shade of maroon. It’s all very masculine. Manly colours. A room where pastels quiver in fear before they are beaten for their lunch money.

  “Can I bring you something to drink?” asks the blonde woman.

  “A black coffee would be nice,” I smile.

  “Not a problem. I’ll bring it for you now. Take a seat, if you like,” she replies, motioning toward the lounges.

  “Could you strengthen the coffee for me?”

  “A strong coffee? Absolutely.”

  “Yes. Strong. But I’d like a dash of something else,” I say, before quietly adding, “alcohol.”

  “Oh,” says the woman. “Anything in particular?”

  “Surprise me.”

  The woman smiles again and leaves. I take this opportunity to inspect the decor, looking at some ornamental pieces. A vase on a hard, stone stand. Behind a glass case is a gridiron-shaped ball covered in signatures. I take a seat in McCarthy’s desk chair. It’s comfortable. Luxurious in the way a set of stainless steel steak knives might feel to a psychopath. It’s beautiful and firm and smells nice, but in the wrong hands this chair could be used for evil.

  Rising from the desk is a computer monitor, which is on a swivel arm. There’s also a photograph in a gold frame. It’s of Michael and an attractive young woman with strawberry blonde hair. Blue eyes and ringlets. She is familiar. Michael and the girl are hugging, very content. Perhaps they’re on holiday. It looks like they’re at a crowded outdoor party at night. She’s got a tropical flower behind one ear, indicating a tropical location. I recognise this girl and a voice in the back of my mind tells me it’s Martin Brannagh’s daughter. I haven’t crossed paths with her in a very long time.

  Looking around McCarthy’s office, nothing really jumps out at me. Not that I really know what I’m looking for. There’s no clear indications of witchcraft or sorcery. No pentagrams or voodoo paraphernalia. But the aesthetic is a statement, that’s for sure. When you walk into this office, you know you’re dealing with a real go-getter. An achiever. A man that knows a lot of shit about a select range of topics.

  The nice receptionist returns with my spiked coffee. She looks a little concerned when she sees I’m sitting at McCarthy’s desk, but she hides it well behind another rehearsed smile.

  “Here you are, Jack,” smiles the woman and places the steaming cup and saucer on the coffee table over near the lounges. About twenty feet away. A little ploy to lure me from McCarthy’s desk.

  “Thank you,” I say and rise from the impressive chair. As I step around the front of his desk I notice his nameplate says “Michael McCarthy – Partner”. Before the woman leaves the room, I ask, “So Michael’s pretty senior these days, yeah?”

  “Well, yes. He’s a partner. Mr McCarthy is on a fast rise.”

  “So he’s pretty good at his job?”

  “He brought in the Endurance contract. They’re now the firm’s second biggest client.”

  “Big money, huh,” I say, sitting at a lounge alongside my coffee.

  “Yes, the success of Big Bang Theory has really been incredible,” says the woman. “You’re very talented.”

  “Please,” I say, feigning embarrassment, “you’ll give me an ego.”

  “I mean it,” she smiles. “I really love that song you put out a few years ago called ‘Gimme Shelter’.”

  “Really? I’m glad you liked it.”

  “Oh,” she gushes. “I love it. I also love ‘Baba O’Reilly’.”

  “Both great songs,” I smile, picking up my cup and blowing on the black liquid. I couldn’t figure out the manic intro to ‘Baba O’Reilly’ in its exact original form, but I came up with something similar. It will have to do.

  “Sorry, I’m pestering. Mr McCarthy shouldn’t be much longer,” she says, before darting from the office.

  I take a sip of the coffee. There’s a definite liqueur aftertaste. Something good. A minute passes and the door opens. Michael McCarthy steps into his office. He’s carrying a briefcase and his suit jacket is draped over his arm.

  “Jack! Hi, how are you?” he smiles, obviously aware I was here. He drops his suitcase and jacket on one of the lounges and shakes my hand enthusiastically.

  “I’m well, Michael. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Keeping busy. This is such a surprise.”

  “I realised I’d never paid a visit to the man who looks after my finances.”

  “You’re a busy man, Jack. That’s why we’re here. So you don’t have to worry about your financial security. You can focus on what’s important.” He sits at the lounge next to me, grinning like a dumb schoolboy. “It’s so great that you’re here. Do you need anything? I see Victoria’s brought you a
coffee.”

  “I’m fine with the coffee for now,” I say.

  “How have you been? I hope you weren’t too distracted with all that nonsense in the media. About the missing girls. They love to make mountains out of weevil mounds, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, it was an old-fashioned media circus. That happens.”

  “I hope you’ve still been able to write.”

  “I’m taking a little breather. Assessing what I’ve done and where I see the band going. I don’t want to rush out any songs I’m not happy with.”

  “Yes, of course. The symphonic record sold very well.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Loved the production and the arrangements. Excellent. Really excellent.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. Then I ask, “So how did you get involved in Mercer Lightburn?”

  “How did I get my job? Well, I went to university and became an actuary, actually.”

  “You’re actually an actuary?”

  “I’m an actual actuary.”

  “Now you’ve branched out? I see your title is ‘partner’.”

  “Yes. I’m now a partner here. Working towards being a senior partner,” he smiles.

  “You’re not a senior partner? Look at this office!” I say, gesturing to the room. “What do the senior partner’s offices have? Ball ticklers? Glory holes?”

  Michael smiles, a little awkwardly. “Their offices are very fine indeed. But enough about me, what can I help you with, Jack?”

  “Well, I partly came in just to say hi. To catch up. I haven’t seen you for a while. When was the last time?”

  “Oh, um,” says Michael, thinking. “We probably haven’t partied since that night on Martin’s yacht.”

  “Ah, that’s right.”

  “That was quite a night. You saved the life of that poor girl.”

  “I don’t remember too much. I was quite intoxicated. I must have been on auto-pilot.”

  Michael gives me an unreadable smile. It unsettles me. “No one could do what you did.”

  “Maybe.”

  Michael returns to his affable disposition. “It has definitely been too long. We should organise a night out soon. Things have just been very hectic here at work lately. I don’t get many spare moments to put my feet up and kick back.”

  I smile and take a sip of my zealous coffee.

  “So to what else do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asks.

  “I just wanted to check on how my finances are,” I say.

  “They’re incredibly strong,” smiles Michael.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, the investments made on your behalf have all appreciated. I’d have to look up the exact figure for you, but I believe that across the board they’ve increased by forty percent.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Your income stream is increasing exponentially.”

  “Excellent,” I say, sipping my coffee again. Then I ask, “Do you know the café Zunge Bohne?”

  “I believe so. It’s the one opposite the beach?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “I’d like to buy it.”

  “Sure, no problem,” replies Michael, nodding. “We can facilitate that for you.”

  “Excellent. I don’t care what it costs.”

  “We’ll get the best possible price,” says Michael. “Will you be changing the management there?”

  “No, I’d like to leave it as is. But once the business is purchased, I’d like to have it signed over to one of the waitresses there.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, it will be a gift.”

  “Okay,” says Michael. “Do you mind me asking which waitress?”

  “Her name is Rose. If you’ve been there, you might know her.”

  “Rose. Yes, I think so. She’s the tall blonde?”

  “That’s her.”

  “So you’ll be signing the business over to her?”

  “And the building.”

  “Sure,” says Michael. “That’s quite a gift.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Rose must be… special to you.”

  “She’s a friend.”

  “I see. Well, we’ll make an offer to the owner as soon as possible.”

  “What other properties do I own?”

  “You own many. We’ve made a large number of investments on your behalf.”

  “What sort of properties?”

  “Residential, commercial. Your estate owns all kinds.”

  “What sort of residential?”

  “You own upwards of fifty residential properties,” McCarthy says.

  “Fifty? Wow. I don’t have any information about them.”

  “I can supply you with a comprehensive portfolio,” offers Michael.

  “Could you give me a few examples of what I own?”

  “Well,” thinks Michael. “In your building, where you live, you own twenty-five apartments.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Twenty-five apartments. When the floor plans for the building went on display, we purchased every apartment for our various clients. You received twenty-five. You now live in the penthouse. That means there are another twenty-four of the apartments in your estate. They’ve all increased considerably in value.”

  I sip my coffee, taking in this new information. Then I ask, “Michael, how much am I worth?”

  “In total?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d have to crunch some numbers, but you would be in the vicinity of five billion.”

  “Five billion dollars?”

  “In the vicinity.”

  “That’s… good.”

  “It increases by the day. Whenever a new album is released, there’s a massive spike. Worldwide sales of Pulling Strings have topped seventy million dollars in revenue.”

  “That’s a lot. Especially considering they’re mostly songs we’ve released previously.”

  “Your fans seem to buy anything you put out. There’s a high demand for your music. Mr Brannagh now charges radio and television stations a premium to use your tracks. Your songs cost a radio station more than any other act in the world, but they still pay for it.”

  “Marty sure is crafty.”

  “Your merchandise manufacturers can barely keep up with demand.”

  “So what else can I afford to buy?”

  He smiles. “If you don’t mind me asking, Jack,” says Michael, delicately, “what has brought on this sudden interest in your finances?”

  “Nothing in particular. Lately I’ve felt like being more involved. I’ve been a bystander for a long time.”

  “Well we’re happy to facilitate anything you wish.”

  “I’m thinking about buying another car. What do you drive?”

  “Me? I have a black Empyrean. It’s the luxury model, with all-wheel drive.”

  “Nice,” I smile. Then, after a brief pause, I ask, “What about other buildings? Could I buy the Easton Theatre?”

  “The Easton? Yes, I’d say you definitely could. We’ll investigate that.”

  “What about the Walkley Gallery?”

  “The Walkley?”

  “Yeah.”

  Michael pulls a face. “That will be tricky.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr Brannagh owns the Walkley Gallery.”

  “I did not know that.”

  “Well,” says Michael, “as you know he is a purveyor of culture and artistic expression. Music and art are his passion. He now owns nearly eighty five per cent of the world’s art galleries.”

  It’s late afternoon, right on the close of business. All the suits are filing out of their buildings, congealing on public transport and dissolving into the streams of slow traffic out of the city. After I left my surprise meeting with McCarthy, I rode in a hire car out to the edge of town where all the used car dealerships nestle in low-rent, dirty areas. At the first place I went to I picked up a dark blue sedan with tinted windows. It’s in very good condition. It has cream
leather seats.

  The short man I bought it from wasn’t very pushy for a used car salesman. He had dark skin and wore a fairly garish red suit. He politely asked that I pose for a photo, with his dealership in the background, but I told him I could not. I don’t want people to know my movements. I made up a story about a conflicting ambassador contract with a particular car manufacturer. He seemed disappointed, but as a sign of good will I paid twice his asking price. This brought a smile to his face.

  I’m now parked up the street from the entrance of the Ballard & Co building. Spotting McCarthy leave work could be like finding a specific needle in a very large pile of needles. But I’m on a one-way street, so all the vehicles that flow up and out of the Ballard & Co underground carpark have to roll past me.

  For ten minutes or so, I look back over my shoulder, watching the trickle of vehicles. They’re moving slow enough for me to take a good look at each model and the driver. A big black Empyrean emerges from the carpark and creeps past me. Its design resembles a four-wheel-drive from Earth. McCarthy is behind the wheel. I let another car pass then pull out sharply, pushing my way into the queue of automobiles. The next car blasts its horn at me. I’m trying to keep a low profile, so I don’t respond.

  I follow McCarthy from the city, always leaving a few cars between us to avoid suspicion. If the intermediate cars turn off somewhere, I keep a safe distance. We drive out to the city’s limits, which is unusual. I was sure he’d live in the city. He’s not even heading out to the wealthy rural suburbs. The buildings have all but disappeared, replaced by thick forest on either side of the road, broken here and there by small paddocks, rest areas and clearings.

  McCarthy takes a right turn. The car between us goes straight ahead. I slow down and then follow the Empyrean, wary that there’s no car separating us. I’ve followed him a long way now and I begin to worry that he’s noticed me.