Shadow Banking

by C. M. Albright

  Al moved on to the next table, spread out the table cloth, arranged the carnations in the vase and pushed a candle into the end of a bottle. He looked out across the tables. This was his business empire now. Not a single computer terminal or trader in sight. No voices barking out their orders, nothing but the sound of the sea breaking on the sand, the distant bark of a dog and a car on the coast road.

  Imogen climbed into her dad’s MG roadster. She breathed in and whether her nostalgia was fooling her or not, despite the thousands of miles of air that the car had sliced through in the past nine months since her father had died, she could still detect his unique aroma. She felt closer to him when she drove the MG than at any other time. By the time she had loaded up at the wholesalers, the car would be full of food, piled up high on the passenger seat and footwell and squeezed into the boot. An estate car would have made things so much easier. It would have been practical. But nothing about her and Al’s French adventure was based on what was practical or sensible. It was all about living for the moment – and enjoying it. They had both had lifetimes of being practical and sensible. This was something different, something special.

  Imogen steered the gear lever into third and enjoyed the throaty surge of the engine as the car climbed the gradient away from the sea. She twisted the button on the car radio and Hotel California came through the speakers: ‘You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave ...’

  Coming in the opposite direction was a blue Ford Focus, its radio tuned to the same local radio station playing the same song. Miles had always liked it. He didn’t notice the MG Roadster coming in the opposite direction, he was more concerned about the speed limit. Driving too fast wasn’t something that he had ever given much thought to in the past. He had habitually broken speed limits. He wasn’t a reckless driver and he had only been pulled over a few times but now, he knew it was something that he couldn’t afford to have happen. It might be a little slip up like that which could spell his downfall. Miles wasn’t sure whether the limit on this stretch of road was 50 or 80 kph so as he was doing 75, he put his foot on the brake and watched the needle on the speedometer drop to 50.

  Miles picked up his iPhone from the dashboard and clicked it onto Google Maps once more, and saw that the little blue flashing dot was almost right upon the red pin icon on the map. Fifty yards up ahead was a lay-by. Miles indicated and pulled over. Parking up the car, he climbed out, locked up with a flick of the key fob. He looked down at the beach below and the tables arranged on the sand. A figure stood at one of them putting flowers into a vase. This was the place. Miles took a deep lungful of sea air and made his way down through the dunes.

  His footsteps were rendered inaudible by the soft sand as he made his way towards Al standing at the table, forcing a candle into the neck of a wine bottle. Miles didn’t want to surprise him, didn’t want shock to add to the welter of emotions that his arrival might arouse in his old friend. He stopped and watched Al for a moment before alerting him to his presence. He remembered what Al had said to him all those years before about his dream of one day running a little bistro on the beach in Biarritz. Miles had supposed that it was just one of those things that people said when they felt trapped by their careers, like an emotional comfort blanket, a vision of an idealised future to help him get out of bed and go to work in the morning. But here it was, exact in every detail, right down to the red and white check tablecloths.

  ‘Al.’

  Al turned and looked at him. For a moment, his face was smiling and welcoming before he realised who it was who had addressed him. The smile faded, the expression darkened. Miles felt alert. It was the same feeling that he always had before he made a big trade. Is that was this was, a big trade? No, this was all together more complex and morally confusing than that. This was a compulsion, a need. It was psychological necessity that had driven him to see Al. He had thought about trying to get in touch over the past few months but there was no way that he could employ conventional means of communication. He couldn’t just call him up; he didn’t know who might be listening.

  ‘Miles Ratner.’ Al didn’t say it like it was anything other than a statement. Miles had let this moment play out in his mind a thousand times. He had little else to occupy his thoughts since he had left Aden. Left Aden? It wasn’t like leaving one company to move to another. He had fled in fear of his life. It was hardly the usual severance arrangement.

  ‘Hi Al.’

  Al continued his work with the candle but Miles thought he could just make out a tremble in his hands. Miles moved closer. In one of his many mental rehearsals, Al had punched him. Al wasn’t averse to reacting with violence at moments of extreme emotion just as he had discovered in New York on 9/11. Miles didn’t care if Al did hit him. If it made things easier then it would be a good thing. It might allow them to talk more freely. Because despite all the myriad thoughts about how this moment might play out, he had never managed to nail down the dialogue. What the hell could he say to him after all that had happened?

  Al put down the bottle with the candle sticking out of it and turned to look at Miles again. He looked thin, clearly hadn’t been eating properly. But even in a physically diminished state, the glow was still there, the same glow that had surrounded him when they first met in the lift at Trenchart Colville. He hated the word ‘aura’ – it sounded like some sort of new age bullshit but there was no denying that Miles had one. Only that morning when he had awoken next to Imogen, he had thought of Miles and where he might be, what he might be doing, what he might be thinking. And here he was standing on the beach not six feet away from him. Miles didn’t hold out his hand. It was a good thing, avoided an awkward moment for them both. In the old days, Al might have hit him. He had wanted to hit him a few times over the years.

  Al fixed him with a fake genial expression and said, ‘Table for one, sir?’

  ‘Is it too early in the morning for a glass of wine?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  Al didn’t reply. He took a moment to study Miles. He was as smartly dressed as ever but the clothes were high street designer brands; there was a couple of days of stubble on his face. His hair had been allowed to grow about two weeks longer than he used to let it. And despite everything, despite all the calculated betrayal, Al could feel that same attraction to Miles that he had felt the very first moment that he had met him. But now, for the first time, he could recognise it for what it was. Beneath the steely brilliance, the intellect, the fearlessness and the ambition, there was a vulnerability to Miles that Al couldn’t help but feel a need to bandage with his friendship. No one else could see it but him; behind the façade was a frightened child.

  ‘What do you want, Miles?’

  ‘I just wanted to see you.’

  ‘Why? So you could try and steal Imogen away from me again, perhaps? Or maybe you wanted to try and get me sacked from my own restaurant. Was it that? Or maybe you wanted to father another child for me? Come on, Miles, what was it? Tell me, I’d really like to know.’

  ‘I know you must be furious—’

  ‘I’m not. Not any more. I feel sorry for you, Miles. That’s all it is. I’ve got so much and you’ve got so little. All I ever offered you was friendship and loyalty. I tried to help you when you were in trouble and what did I get in return?’

  ‘I know. I’m not here to try and excuse what I did.’ Miles looked as though he was momentarily lost for words.

  ‘I guess I should thank you for helping me get out. Still want that glass of wine?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And if you think I’m going to get you the wine list so that you can critique it, you’ve got another thing coming.’ ‘Just get me something that Fergal would have drunk.’

  Al couldn’t help but smile as he said, ‘Very dangerous.’ Miles smiled too as Al turned around and made his way towards the cottage.

  Miles stood on the beach and looked out to sea. There was a gentle breeze and he was than
kful for it. He hated this feeling of helplessness. Loss of control was something that he had sought to avoid for all his life. Until now. If he was to change, if he was to become a different person, he had to embrace it. It was a start. When Al returned, he poured two large glasses of the red wine and passed one to Miles. Al held out his glass and Miles clinked his glass against it.

  ‘What are we drinking to?’ asked Miles.

  ‘Fergal.’ ‘Fergal.’

  They both took big gulps of wine.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Miles.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You and Imogen. This.’ He gestured to the tables on the beach. ‘You seem to have done pretty well for yourself.’

  ‘How did you know about Imogen?’

  ‘It’s not a secret, is it?’

  Al shook his head and took another sip of wine before he said, ‘So what about you, Miles, what line of work are you in at the moment?’ Al didn’t mean his question to come out sounding as sarcastic as it did.

  ‘I’ve retired.’

  Al laughed. ‘People like you never retire, Miles. Why don’t you admit that you’re on the run?’

  Miles stared at Al for a moment and then he nodded his head.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Al. ‘You can’t keep running. Rumour has it that you took the Russians for a shit load of money. They’re not going to give up on you for a good long time.’

  Al’s words made Miles’s countenance darken and Al couldn’t resist putting the boot in. ‘Do you remember how we used to talk about money buying us freedom? Do you remember that, Miles?’ Miles didn’t say anything, just looked at him. ‘It’s ironic really that you made so much. You accumulated more assets than the rest of us combined and yet here you are, trapped.’ Al enjoyed the power that he suddenly felt over Miles. He didn’t want to stop. ‘You might have been the superstar trader, Miles; you might have been the master of the universe but you’re emotionally bankrupt, morally redundant. I’m worth nothing but I’m free. You’re a prisoner of your own hubris.’

  Miles broke eye contact and looked down at the sand. He drained his glass of wine, put the glass down on the table and walked across the sand to stand at the water’s edge and look out to sea. Al was grateful that he had because the pleasure he had derived from letting it all out had spurred him on and if Miles hadn’t walked away, he was about to tell him that he was a parasite, that he infected everything that he touched. Al was glad that he hadn’t said that. It would have sounded petty and vindictive. Whatever might have gone on between the two of them, he didn’t want to demean himself. These past few months with Imogen in Biarritz had been a game changer. His life was different now. He didn’t need little moral victories over Miles to make him feel better. Miles, the perpetual competitor, the man who had spent his life hungering for victory, had lost. It wasn’t all about the money.

  Al put down his wine and followed Miles, enjoying the cold water on his bare feet.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Miles. ‘Everything you said is true. You were my friend and I betrayed you. And for that, I’m truly sorry. There’s nothing that I can say or do that will change what I’ve done. But I’m not finished yet, Al. I might not be able to change things between us but I’m not going to give up. It’s never too late to change. Remember our favourite Keynes quote?’

  ‘‘When the facts change, I change my mind’. Don’t tell me you’re a reformed character, Miles.’

  ‘It’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Anyway, I always preferred Keynes’s other quote: ‘in the long run, we are all dead’. Christ Miles, we used to think we were making a difference, that we were at the forefront of something important. But we were just shadows of who we really are.’

  Up on the road beyond the bistro, a Mercedes saloon pulled up alongside Miles’s Ford. The engine was turned off and a man dressed all in black stepped out of the car and made his way towards the sea, looking down on the tables on the beach and the two men standing talking at the water’s edge.

  The man in black made his way through the sand dunes, ensuring that he kept the two of them in his line of sight. The sun was bright. He reached into a pocket, took out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. His right ear was deformed, little more than a semi-circle of raised scar tissue and provided only just enough of a protuberance to cradle the arm of his sunglasses. Once on the beach, the man kept his gaze trained on Al and Miles as he walked towards them across the sand.

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  173A Cavendish Road

  London SW12 0BW

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © 2015 by C. M. Alright

  The moral right of C. M. Alright to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781910859001

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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