I Am Gold

by Bill James

  What Manse Shale still couldn’t tell about Egremont and Lionel-Garth was how they regarded the snuffing of Denz. He hadn’t known, either, what the whole lot of family and friends believed on that quite ticklish issue when he went to the funeral. So, he had taken Hubert and armament with him. Sometimes Shale thought Denzil’s family wondered whether he really did do himself in, and wondered, also, if Denz truly held the kind of boardroom billet with Mansel that they thought he did, or pretended they thought he did. It was like they was saying to Manse, ‘Right, I know Denz was seen off by someone else, or maybe more than one, naming no fucking names, chum, but, anyway, not by his-self, and I know you stuck him in a dogsbody job, but I’ –that ‘I’ could be Egremont or it could be Lionel-Garth – ‘I can swallow all that, as long as there’s something nice and continuing for me and definitely not dogsbody status in your present personal set-up out there in Dumpsville, UK,’ ‘me’ also meaning Egremont or Lionel-Garth.

  It seemed a sickening way for members of a family to think, but that’s how some of them might be, through living in London. No, Shale realized it was mad to say that – too simple, childish. People didn’t lose all their good feelings because they lived in London. Or not all people. He knew there were London districts with trees in the streets and well-looked-after properties, where the residents might be fairly OK and not really bombastic at all. He wondered where Joan Fenton lived, the lawyer. She could probably become like quite a normal person when not in her office. He wondered if there were times when she might be in her house alone.

  Anyway, perhaps this family – the Lakes – regarded vengeance as daft and anti-business. London might be bad but it wasn’t Sicily. They didn’t do vendettas. If there’d been a death, and there had been, get something from it. That could be their philosophy. In the high cause of trade they would also scheme against each other, such as Egremont and Lionel-Garth. That might be the truly important thing for them, not the removal through internal small-arms gunfire of a brother or cousin who had been in a baggage guy’s berth, truly a failure. They might even believe Denz to be such a disaster he was bound to want to do the big quit, or bound to get given the big quit by others, just one of the inflexible laws of the game.

  They thought selfish, this Hackney gang. They thought win, win, win. They did not think, Denz, Denz, Denz, because Denzil had been a glaring flop. These Denz relatives planned to hatch a bargain, but a bargain nobody spoke about, just a bargain understood by both sides: lots of silence regarding the terms. The bargain said, without any bugger saying it, ‘We play nice and ignorant about our dear brother/cousin, Denzil, famed for his commercial flair, though now dead, if you carve out a good slice of your operation for us.’ No, not ‘us’. For me, being Egremont or Lionel-Garth. Each of these sods wanted to win, win, win, even against the other. Each of them could say, but wouldn’t, ‘Sorry, Denzil, but I got to think about what comes next, not what come lately so rough to you in your pitiful flunkey career, RIP.’

  Although Lionel-Garth didn’t have the kind of brassiness Egremont used when he came to Shale’s individual, unmortaged property like that, and then complained of cats, Lionel-Garth had plenty of cheek hisself. For a start, he believed Manse would recognize him through two windscreens in an unusual spot although they had only met once a while ago. And then he obviously decided he was the one who better organize things now, outside the school, although a stranger here. Once the children had disappeared into the forecourt, Lionel-Garth drove to alongside the Jaguar, stopped for a moment, and pointed a finger down the road. It meant, ‘Follow me,’ a dumb-show order. Anyone could of seen Lionel-Garth expected Shale to obey. Well, Shale did.

  The thing was, of course, he didn’t want this blubber-face, Lionel-Garth, making a pest of hisself around the town, maybe turning up again at the school, or even coming to Mansel’s home. Crush him now. The Vauxhall led to Glaythorn Fields, a big park, with plenty of places for cars at one end under the trees. Yes, Lionel-Garth had done some earlier reconnaissance. He liked knowledge, this character. He’d have to be watched. He wasn’t so casual or indifferent after all.

  Manse would admit Lionel-Garth had the decency to get out of his own car and come on foot to the Jaguar, not expecting it to happen the other way around. Manse remembered Egremont’s statement about people wishing to make a pilgrimage to him, Manse. Some aspects Egremont had right. Lionel-Garth opened the passenger door then leaned in and shook hands in a strong, thoughtful way, like someone signalling, ‘I’m the lad you can trust.’ This was how Manse’s father had told him a handshake should be, hearty, strong, unhurried, sincere, even if it wasn’t, or especially if it wasn’t. Lionel-Garth got into the Jaguar and closed the door. But how to get the bugger out and soon? When he bent to come into the car Manse could see how far that mousy hair had gone back. He wore a denim jacket, jeans and what could be the same crimson and cream training shoes he had on at the funeral. Maybe he had bad feet and this was the only comfortable pair he’d found.

  Shale considered balding people should not pick denim. It looked like a brave, comical, never-give-up, pathetic fight against fact. Time could not be stopped by garments. Lionel-Garth said: ‘I thought I could achieve two objectives at once – see the school and make contact with you again, Mansel.’

  ‘It’s a good old building, Bracken Collegiate,’ Shale said with terrific neutrality, in his opinion. ‘They’ve looked after it well during the century plus. And they added extensions that fit in, although more modern, such as the language laboratory.’ Parents had been asked to give a special donation on top of fees for that, instalments by direct debit for any who couldn’t cough a lump. But, naturally, Manse put the whole lot down at once. He would hate gossip to get around that he had to do it bit by bit. Did he want Laurent and Matilda to look like pauper kids? He didn’t object to the cost of the extension. He thought Britain was becoming a shit-hole and would be more of a shit-hole by the time Matilda and Laurent grew up, so they ought to have languages in case they wanted to shove off to somewhere else foreign and be able to ask where the bank with all their transferred funds was. Of course, they wouldn’t need another language if they went to America, but that was becoming as big a shit-hole as Britain, according to what Shale heard, the jails full of con-men, mostly white. These days he sang ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ to hisself less and less. Was everything going into decline – the Church, this country, other countries, quality of the substances even when unmixed?

  ‘I don’t know whether my cousin, Egremont, has been along to see you, Mansel,’ Lionel-Garth said.

  ‘In which respect?’

  ‘He’s blood, on my mother’s side, and I wouldn’t say a word against Egremont, believe me.’ ‘Family bonds are so precious.’

  ‘Yes. I see you with your children today. It’s obviously a fine relationship. You’re the one who normally drives them, I know. Heart-warming to observe. Denz would mention these arrangements.’

  The mouthy prat. When Syb was still living with Manse at the rectory she would do the trip now and then. Obviously, if he had gone away bulk-buying, or seeing the London lawyer, or tracking some bastard who’d been skimming off the top, or creating a workable alibi in Preston or Tarragona, Syb would have to do it, except in vacations. But he knew she regarded this driving as a drag. He couldn’t not know because she’d often told him it was a drag, usually in exactly the same words, ‘I’ll do it because I have to do it, Mansel, but it’s a drag. Why can’t sodding Denzil or someone else from the firm take them? Am I a fucking chauffeur?’ Syb didn’t worship education, the way Mansel did, on account of her previously going through quite an education herself, and she often said: ‘What the hell did it get me?’ Shale had sometimes wanted to reply: ‘Well, I found that very attractive in you, among so many attractions, Syb.’ But he knew she would come out with something cruel and coarse to that, so he never did say it.

  Syb had to be played careful, but even that didn’t work and she went. Several times she’d come back.
Now, no. In any case, he’d started the divorce. That lawyer, Joan Fenton, would speak harsh about Sybil. He didn’t think it was necessary. He would love to give Joan Fenton one, and while it was actually happening murmur in a very soothing, intimate voice to her, ‘Please try to be tolerant to all womankind, Syb included.’ Of course, Joan Fenton might not be able to reply or even understand what he said if he’d brought her to her ecstasy point, he had to realize this. So, he’d come to this topic early on in the bang.

  Lionel-Garth said: ‘The point about Egremont – in some ways it’s a good point, I wouldn’t dispute that – but the point about Egremont is in any business set-up he has to be the only one who really counts. I expect you know the type. A combination of Mussolini, Napoleon and Walt Disney. To be frank, Manse, which I’m sure you would prefer me to be, he doesn’t know the meaning of the term “partnership” or even “colleague”. He must dominate. For him, delegation and cooperation are not just dirty words, they are words that don’t exist.

  ‘As I’ve mentioned, this is in some ways a plus. It gives him great drive, terrific impulsive brio, and determination, a son at Charterhouse. But it can be uncomfortable for those working with him, for those working with him even at boardroom level. They will have the appearance of power but, in fact, no real power or influence at all. A firm like yours, Mansel, built personally by you – I can’t imagine you’d want to bring in someone of the nature I’ve just outlined.’ Lionel-Garth still talked fast with gasps, but Shale got most of it OK.

  ‘The school is oversubscribed at present,’ he replied. ‘A quite considerable waiting list, despite expansion. This is always going to be the case, I should think, with schools that are generally recognized as good. Drugs are no problem there. I’ve told our people very, very blunt, to stay away from Bracken Collegiate, pupils and staff. This is an absolute ban. I don’t like them around schools, anyway, but definitely not Bracken Collegiate. A word like “collegiate” shows that the people who started this school believed it should have dignity, considerate behaviour and no trace of skunk or even grass. Parents will want to get their children into such places, especially when the local comprehensives are all tumult, teacher-teenager-shags, and knives. Even Left of Left MPs send their kids private. Oh, they’re a bit ashamed, but they say in a big, creepy gush, “I can’t impose my politics on my children and their schooling.” But, of course, by passing Acts in Parliament they do impose their politics on other people’s children and their schooling – the ones who can’t afford private. And, from what they earn in pay and juicy expenses when imposing their politics on other people’s children and their schooling, these MPs can afford to send their own kids private and not to the roughhouse schooling they’ve cooked up for other people’s children.’

  ‘You certainly do your share of the driving on these school trips,’ Lionel-Garth said. ‘Something over ninety per cent, I believe.’

  ‘Nothing much to it.’

  ‘Of course, your wife’s away, isn’t she? North Wales direction? The marriage over? But she’s skipped off previously, hasn’t she, and returned?’

  ‘Driving them to school and back gives us time for useful talks together,’ Shale replied. ‘In the house, they’re busy with their friends and TV games and hobbies and homework.’ Naomi was at the rectory today and for several days, but Shale didn’t think it would be right to ask her to drive the children to school because some teachers there would naturally have seen Sybil occasionally bring the children, and they knew her to be Manse’s wife, Mrs Shale. Syb could be downright fucking memorable.

  Manse had decided it would look a bit off if another woman brought them, and not a Mrs Shale, not yet. It was the kind of school where people would make remarks, what was referred to as ‘judgemental’. In the past, as Syb mentioned, he hardly ever let Denz do the school run, either. Denz had not looked right for Bracken Collegiate, even as only a driver. He lacked something. Manse had thought Denz’s face a bit short of what could be termed cohesion, and that was a good while before the Astra pistols damage. Also, his mouth had become slanted downwards to the left through gabbing over his shoulder, when Denz was chauffeur and Shale in the back of the Jaguar. Although the Jaguar had a glass partition that could be pulled across to isolate the driver from rear passengers, Shale hardly ever closed it. He would regard that as cold and high-handed, even though Denzil generally talked such shit.

  ‘This is as good a place as any for our discussion, Mansel,’ Lionel-Garth said.

  ‘Excuse me, which discussion?’

  ‘Policy.’

  ‘Policy regarding what?’

  ‘And you wouldn’t want that kind of weighty chit-chat in your nest when the new lady is perhaps there, yet unavoidably excluded from such confidential talks,’ Lionel-Garth replied. ‘Divisiveness – the bane of home life, don’t you agree? A closed door and only the indecipherable murmur of male voices audible. Unpleasant for her. And possibly you’d prefer she didn’t do the school trip yet. It could look odd. These changeovers need a little time, don’t they?’

  He turned in the passenger seat to give Shale a truly matey smile. Manse didn’t mind some fleshiness to a face as long as it was in them parts of the cheeks back towards the ears. That could give a strong, ungaunt touch, like the head would be great under one of them old style Prussian helmets in documentaries. On the whole he didn’t like gauntness. It often made a person look ratty, sick and arrogant.

  Ralph Ember, his business associate, probably regarded himself as gaunt, but in a handsome, impressive style. He believed he looked like the young Charlton Heston, who definitely had a certain gauntness. Always, Ralphy pretended to be surprised when anyone spoke to him of the resemblance. But, really, you could see he enjoyed such remarks, especially from women, especially from young or youngish attractive women. This gave him such a great start. It excited these admirers to think they might be on the way to getting banged by El Cid. One of the reasons Shale loved the Pre-Raphaelites was you hardly ever got people in them pictures with bulky chops, yet they was not gaunt either. Manse really hated fatness in the cheeks near to the nose on each side. This was Lionel-Garth. It made Manse think, any more increase and the rolls would push up and shut both his eyes. When Shale met somebody with this kind of nose-area face fat he would want to get a blade and slice a good divot out of each lump to help.

  Manse offered Lionel-Garth a smile just as truly matey in return. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘you should of had a consult with cousin Egremont before coming all this way. He could of told you it’s not on – what you call policy is not on. I got a policy, yes, because nobody can run a business without, but – I’ll speak blunt – but this policy don’t include you or Egremont. Why the fuck should it? I’m the policy. You’re London. That’s what you know. Stick to it, is my advice. There’s nothing for you here, nothing for either of you. I’ve told Egremont that. Ask him about the cat’s piss. Now, I’m afraid I must get on my way, if you don’t mind.’ Manse believed in politeness where at all possible. And he didn’t want no violence getting Lionel-Garth out of the Jaguar.

  ‘She’s got her own problems, of course,’ Lionel-Garth replied. He was gazing out through the windscreen towards the fine, very green greenery of the park, like far away in his thoughts.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Naomi Gage.’

  That really shook Shale. He had the sudden idea this was the chief topic Lionel-Garth wanted to talk about. He could do the same sort of oozy polite chat as Egremont, but now there seemed something else. ‘You know Naomi?’

  ‘In researching you and your firm, Manse, this was a name bound to come up, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Why was it? She’s not in the firm.’

  ‘But you’re in the firm. No quibbling about that!’ He had a small laugh, meaning what he said was obvious and didn’t really need saying. ‘You are the firm, thus far. Your, as it were, extramural life will unavoidably come into the reckoning, won’t it? Your wife, children, Naomi.’

&
nbsp; ‘Which reckoning? Who’s doing a reckoning?’

  ‘For someone of your status, Manse, there can be no sealed-off private life, can there? It is one of the penalties of success, and of fame.’

  ‘Have you had a fucking tail on me?’ Shale said.

  ‘I think you’d expect me to do some background inquiries before taking what by any criterion must be regarded as a considerable change in my circumstances if I move out of London and come here. The new school for my children would only be part of that upheaval.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to think about any change, considerable or measly – not in this direction. Weren’t you listening when I just told you that? You and/or Egremont, just stay away, right? You get it?’

  ‘What is it army people say?’ Lionel-Garth replied.

  ‘Which army people? You mean about the poor equipment in Afghanistan? That’s disgraceful, I agree.’

  ‘Soldiers are taught, “Time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted.” I’d certainly go along with that.’ But he did a pause, like regretful. ‘Perhaps, though, I shouldn’t have referred to the army. An army unit’s reconnaissance is directed against an enemy, isn’t it? I’d regret it if that were the case here, Mansel. No, no indeed, the reconnaissance I have in mind is for the benefit of both of us. Oh, yes, certainly. Naomi might have her problems. Which of us is free from all problems, for heaven’s sake? By recognizing and being aware of her problems we are on the way to resolving them, I feel, and I suspect you’ll fully concur.’

  ‘What problems?’

  ‘Naomi Gage would clearly be one object of my pre-research. It would have been a slight on you and her to neglect it.’

  ‘One object?’

  ‘And perhaps the principal one. But, then, this unusual business arrangement you seem to have with Ralph W. Ember – the two of you allowed by the Iles cop to run your trade alongside each other as long as this keeps battles and bloodshed off the streets. Unique? I think Iles must read that very heavy journal, The Economist. It’s been arguing for years that drugs should be legalized. The editors think gangster power would be smashed if the substances were easily available. I’d say Iles does his own take on that theory. He lets you and Ember run the trade as if it was legal, but only if you guarantee not to war with each other.’