The Riot Act

by J. S. Monroe

  “It’s not worth it, it’s a rip off,” I said, addressing the line of people. “They’ve just had to double their prices. Five minutes ago. Honest.”

  Charlotte turned, saw what I was doing and walked on. I caught up with her. The rain was getting heavier.

  “I got you a present,” I said.

  “You have? For me?”

  “Slow down a minute, will you.”

  She stopped reluctantly. I had both hands behind my back. I could feel the rain running off my head in little rivulets, gathering under my chin, dropping.

  “For being such a nice mum.”

  I held out the packet of knickers. She glanced at them, then at me. She looked better in the rain, her head seemed smaller.

  “Dutchie, you shouldn’t have,” she said softly, her voice thickening with suspicion. “They were incredibly expensive.”

  “I know.”

  Then she paused. “How did you pay for them?”

  “I didn’t. I nicked them.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake,” she said, glancing anxiously back at the shop and then around her. “You’ve got to take them back, immediately.”

  She held them out in front of her, as if they were contaminated.

  “They’re yours. Nothing to do with me,” I said, raising my hands in mock protest.

  “What are you trying to prove, Dutchie?”

  “I’m not trying to prove anything. I thought you liked them.”

  “We can’t take them. We just can’t.”

  “What do you suggest then? Walk back in there and say, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I seem to have these expensive knickers in my bag.’ Get real.”

  I started to walk on.

  “Fuck you, Dutchie, fuck you,” she said quietly, and followed.

  14

  Charlotte calmed down on the drive home. I concluded she was pleased with the knickers, excited even. She ran through what the foreign exchange dealers at Jensen Klein Abrahall did all day, starting with the basic principle of futures. As far as I could see, it was one big scam, much as I suspected, a job creation scheme designed to make the rich even richer. Originally, it seemed, they were a worthy invention designed to help some poor coffee farmer in Nicaragua sleep peacefully at night. A manufacturer would guarantee to buy his beans in one month’s time at a fixed price, regardless of what the real market value might be. If the market price had dropped in a month, the farmer had done well; if it had risen, he could have got a better price. On balance, peace of mind made it a risk worth taking.

  Then along come the City boys who decide to make punts on whether the price will rise or fall. For a fraction of the real price of beans, they can buy the right to purchase coffee on a fixed date in the future. They don’t actually have to stump up the readies, they just make or lose money, depending on whether the market value falls or rises in relation to the fixed price they bet on. According to Charlotte, ninety-nine per cent of all futures contracts were between fellow dealers rather than farmers. To confuse things further, a large amount of arse-covering went on, hedging of bets, just in case the market didn’t move in the direction they had predicted. All of which created an unstable market and mayhem for the farmers. Sod them.

  As far as my new job was concerned, I would be working on the foreign exchange floor, dealing in Deutsche Mark, franc, lira, dollar and sterling. The scam was just the same as coffee beans, with an even greater emphasis on quick profits. It was essential to make sure that when the music stopped at close of business, you weren’t down on your deeds. Assuming the global market was a hermetically sealed world, someone, somewhere, lost out each day. So what was new?

  Back at the house, we kept to ourselves. I staked a claim to the sitting room, while she made a chocolate cake in the kitchen. (She said it was her sister’s birthday.) I shut the door behind me, switched on the television and sunk into a sofa. Eddie Murphy in Trading Places. I flicked channels, checked there wasn’t anything else. I hadn’t watched TV for years. On Channel 4, a documentary of some sort, silhouette interviews, distorted number plates. John “Plummy voice” Tindall, chairman of the British National Party, being asked whether he denounced violence. “I don’t condone it,” he said.

  “Scum,” I murmured. The man’s voice was unreal. I had once given the BNP a good beating outside a pub in Glasgow. Along with two thousand other anti-Nazis I buried them with bricks and bottles as they left. I watched the documentary, hoping the event would be celebrated, but I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was racing. I was nervous. It would be just like the other times, I told myself – Henley Regatta, the college ball – only I would be pretending to be a toff for a bit longer. Several weeks longer. Months even.

  I looked around and noticed a photo on the bookshelf. It hadn’t been there before. I got up and went to look at it, feeling sick as I approached. It was a photo of me and Charlotte sitting on a restaurant balcony. There were palm trees and the sea behind us was an exotic blue. We were toasting the self-timer with cocktails, grinning. I picked up the frame and looked closer. It was fabricated, a trick, and I searched for the seam around my neck. I had never been wherever it was, worn clothes like that (turquoise Bermuda shorts, plum-coloured polo shirt), or sat in a restaurant with Charlotte. But there was no seam. It was a professional job; Walter had spared no expense. I wanted to smash the glass and rip out the photo, but I resisted. I had to look credible. Besides, Charlotte was wearing a bikini, barely covering her breasts. She had a good body, there was no point denying it.

  I scrutinised the photo again. I needed a fix.

  I went over to the phone. Charlotte had gone upstairs. I picked up the receiver and was about to dial when I heard a voice, a rich man talking quietly.

  “We’ll be together soon,” the voice said. “You mustn’t let him get to you.”

  “I know, I know.” It was Charlotte. “But he scares me.”

  “He’s a thug. One of those rent-a-mob types. You won’t have to be with him for long.”

  “I know. I know all that. There’s just something about him…”

  “… what?”

  “He could have turned out so differently. I’ve never seen that in someone before. The randomness of it. One moment he’s nearly killing someone, the next he’s all sweetness and light.”

  “And intelligent. And middle class. I know. So you said. Shame he’s so misguided. Look, don’t spend too much time there. Just keep an eye on him, a debrief once a week.”

  “Walter needs more, wants me to appear with him, socially.”

  “Well, whatever it takes. But be careful.”

  “I will. I’m sorry. I’m just upset.”

  “We all are.”

  “I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “You’ll be alright?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Bye, then.”

  “Bye.”

  I tried to time my click with Charlotte’s. I stood there for a moment. She was moving around upstairs. Was he a lover? Why did I care? “Nearly killing a man.” Martin was alive. She was playing games with me, spying games. No. She just meant I had been there in the car park and had nearly kicked him.

  Perhaps she had meant me to pick up the phone and listen?

  I went out into the hall. “I’m getting some fags,” I called out. “Need anything?”

  “I’m alright. Thanks.”

  *

  Outside in the street the night was crisp, clean. A freezing wind was rifling through the trees, searching for leaves to steal. It was approaching ten o’clock. I walked along the pavement towards the phonebox, idly trying to imagine what scenes were unfolding behind the row of cosy curtains. He was a stockbroker, a small firm, family connections; she worked for an estate agents. Just back from a weekend with friends in Somerset, they were having their normal discussion on whether to move to the country. He was cleaning his mountain bike. She was ironing his shirts (despite an agreement to share). They were both drinking gin, television on, not really watching,
pleasantly surprised by Tyndall’s upper-class tones. No, around here someone else would do the ironing; they would underpay a cleaning lady from Streatham, or leave it for the Swedish nanny. (He was giving her one, of course, and had recently agreed a pay rise for the pleasure.)

  The phonebox was occupied. I walked on to the tube station, felt its warm currents rising up the escalator shaft, and found another phone on Balham High Road. The Pitcher and Piano was throwing its light on to the uneven paving stones in front of me. I could hear noise, laughing, the idle rich at rest.

  “Leroy?” I said, watching the pence disappear. Leroy was only on a mobile.

  “Who is this talking please?”

  “Leroy. It’s Dutchie.” Silence. “You remember. Dutchie.”

  “Dutchie, my man. How you doing?” The man spoke slowly, lilting. He was stoned.

  “I’m in Clapham. Anything happening? I need something special.”

  “Ain’t seen you around lately. Clapham. Don’t go forgetting your friends now.”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Hey, everybody’s in a hurry.” Everyone except Leroy. “North or South?”

  “South. I’m by the tube.”

  “Get yourself down into Balham, turn left up Bedford Hill. The pink house, half way up on the right. Three knocks on the side door and breathe my name.”

  I found the house, had to buy more than I intended and was back in my room within half an hour. Charlie wasn’t my usual, I couldn’t afford it, but it seemed appropriate. I wiped the heavily varnished surface of the chest of drawers. It was blistered at the edges and I snagged the wool of my jumper sleeve. Then I paused. Something was wrong. I couldn’t pretend any longer. I never felt guilty about anything; it was a promise I had once made to myself. But Martin’s death – he was only a copper, filth – was biting like acid at the edges of my consciousness. I filled both nostrils. Everything became clear when I was high. I knew where I was going. Priorities changed.

  Of course Annalese wouldn’t come back (Charlotte could be so stupid) but she would be free, I would be free, when her killers were dead.

  15

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Charlotte asked quietly.

  “Have I?” She raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips. “Are you serious?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  I leant forward, put a hand on her shoulder and kissed her mouth. She turned and went, leaving me standing on Threadneedle Street, blinking in the cold sunlight. Crowds of people were streaming past, knocking into me. I moved to the edge of the pavement, close to a reassuring stone wall, and let them wash by me like a rip tide.

  Given it was the first time I had bought a ticket in years, the tube journey had been remarkably unrelaxing. It was a different crowd from the late-night crew I was used to on the Northern Line, different rules, too. I refrained from smoking. At Kennington a lady stood next to me, waving a shoulder bag under my nose. It was open, I could see a purse, and her back was turned. Somehow I resisted. I even checked myself from stepping up close behind someone to get through the barriers. A stressful journey.

  It was a quarter to seven and I had fifteen minutes to make my way to the office. At this rate I was going to be early. Tucking my copy of The Financial Times under one arm, I crossed Cornhill to Lombard Street. I was wearing a blue and green striped shirt with white collar, a red and yellow hand-painted tie, my suit and a heavy charcoal overcoat. If Leggit could have seen me now.

  I spotted my office from a distance, a dull grey office block. Now I knew how to find it, I cut down St Swithin’s Street in search of coffee. At Charlie’s Place, next to Cannon Street station, I read through my biography one more time. I stood at the side bar with my briefcase between my legs. It was a black coffin of a case with a combination lock and my initials, D.R., printed in gold on the side. On closer examination, I noticed there had once been a crown. Someone had removed it and doctored the E.R. to fit my name. They were a crafty lot at MI5, slant too.

  Walter had dropped it around the night before, checking to see if I was all set.

  “Remember kid, you’re a big fan of rugby football,” he had said. “If anyone offers you tickets for the Grand Slam, take them.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I can never get tickets. That’s why.”

  He had gone on to talk about Samantha West, and told me to take my time. I wasn’t to ask too many questions, too soon. There would be clues in the most ordinary of places. My contribution, he said, was to find out if she had used work to stay in touch with the other terrorists. He had also given me some more money – £100 in cash – and said that it was to last me until my first pay cheque. A bank account had been set up for me, together with a Visa card (someone must have had a word about my credit rating), details of which would be arriving in the post shortly. Walter was serious. I liked that.

  Outside the cafe window the young were walking to work, some with college scarfs around their necks, others with folded umbrellas, pumping the ground as if they were walking sticks. I knocked back the rest of my coffee and walked across the road. Two women in Pret A Manger were arranging baguettes. I looked through the window, read some labels, and walked on to the office. Breathing deeply I pushed against JKA’s circular doors and entered the foyer.

  “Yes sir, can I help?”

  A security guard sitting behind the desk was smiling up at me. On the wall behind him Jensen Klein Abrahall was written in big silver letters. To my left there was a rotating chrome bar, like a turnstile, behind which was a small reception area with a low leather sofa. A tall houseplant, potted and wilting, stood next to a wooden table which was covered with magazines, The Economist, The Spectator, Financial Adviser.

  “I’m starting work here today,” I said evenly, winding in the slack of my old voice.

  “And your name, sir?”

  Why was the man so cheerful? It wasn’t even seven o’clock.

  “Mr Reason.”

  “First name?”

  I paused. “Douglas.”

  “And which department, sir?”

  “Foreign exchange, the dealing room.”

  The man was silent as he looked down a clipboard and consulted another book. I was suspicious of men in uniform, on principle, but I trawled up a genial smile from somewhere.

  “Nice morning.”

  “Yes, sir. Beautiful.”

  Why did he keep calling me sir? Stand up for your rights, mate, ungovern yourself.

  “Take this,” he said, giving me a plastic clip pass with my name on it. “Up to the third floor – the lift’s on the left – and ask for Dan Willmot. He’s expecting you.”

  “Third floor.”

  “And welcome to Jensen Klein Abrahall, sir.”

  *

  Dan Willmot was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, hanging out an immense hand which seemed to envelop my lower arm when he took it.

  “I’m Dan. Come on in.”

  He pressed a series of numbers on a touch pad by the side of the door. I watched as his flattened finger appeared to squash more than one key at a time. His nails were badly bitten. We walked into the dealing room, Dan turning his head slightly towards me. I was a pace behind, dwarfed. Everything about Dan was big: hands, ears, nose, feet. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, just black socks, his big toes stretching the cotton.

  “You get in alright, then?” he asked.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “We normally start at six-thirty.”

  “I was told seven.”

  “It’s no problem today. Not much happening. But when it’s busy…”

  “… I’ll be here at six-thirty.”

  I could crawl with the lowest when I needed to.

  “This is where it all happens then,” he said. His voice was rough at the edges, unpolished, not what I had expected. “That’s your desk, over there, by the German flag. We thought we’d start you at the deep end. Deutsche Marks.”

  I looked out across the low-ceilinged
room. Telephones were pulsing, voices talked urgently on intercoms. It was smaller than I had expected, more cramped. The lights were dim and there were no outside windows, just vanilla walls. The carpet was cheap blue and tiled. Tired remains of Christmas streamers hung limply from the ceiling corners. Rows of desks were shaped into a large rectangle around the edges of the room, with another block in the middle. Along the back of the desks were banks of TV screens set in wooden casing. The glass was grey, dense with numbers. Different flags, the size of executive toys, were dotted about the place: Japan, France, Great Britain, the European Community. There were fifteen, maybe twenty people, jackets off. An air of controlled vibrance.

  “Good call, Kev,” someone murmured sarcastically.

  “32s almost the same as 4s,” someone else shouted. “What spread have you got in two’s?”

  “Anyone need any dollars?”

  “We’re a little bit full on CSFP. I only checked them yesterday. Five or six million. There’s a whole bunch of new guys around there.”

  “Two’s”, that meant in two months’ time, I thought.

  “Douglas, this is Pete,” Dan said. “He’ll be showing you how to piss away our profit.”

  “Tugger,” someone called out as Pete stood up and shook my hand.

  “Shut up Toxo,” Dan said, not turning around. “He got shagged last night. Make yourself comfortable. Want a coffee, cereal?”

  “Coffee, thanks. Black.”

  “Pete will get it. Won’t you Pete, yes?”

  I sat down behind Dan and watched Pete go over to the coffee machine. Each dealer, it seemed, had four screens. The end one was divided up into little boxes. I glanced casually down the line of dealers. Two down from me “Toxo” touched the glass with the end of his phone and started talking. There was a plastic bowl on Pete’s desk full of soggy cornflakes. A crumpled rucksack lay on the floor by his chair.

  Dan ran his chair back, stretched out and interlocked his hands behind his head. The dominant ridge of his nose, now facing the ceiling, was in keeping with his sinewy face, taut with vertical muscles.