‘Because he knows you for what you are, laddie, he knows you for what you are. The City’s full of piss-heads. They’re part of the baggage in any firm, laddie. And now he’s left his baggage behind to go wherever it is he’s going.’ He pulled Smaller closer, ignoring the stench from his soiled jacket. ‘A good man, Tom Lawrence, a superstar, some would say. I’ve no doubt he’s taking his team somewhere or other on superstar terms with superstar packages. But he knows when to cut his losses, laddie.’ Donaldson turned to look at Scott, who was sitting silent and grim-faced at the end of the table. ‘Yes, he knows when to cut his losses.’
After Dark
JUST AFTER 2am. The house is dark. They’re asleep. First I need to secure the upstairs. I walk slowly along the landing. No sounds from the bedrooms. I turn around and check again in the master bedroom. In the light cast from a street lamp outside I can make out a slumbering shape in the large double bed. Good. All clear. Now, no noise. I walk slowly and carefully back towards the top of the stairs. The key is to control your breathing. I’ve done this so many times that it comes easily to me now. Downstairs in the hall there’s a red security light blinking on and off. The downstairs alarm’s been set. I walk slowly down the stairs, taking care to stay out of range of the sensor. First priority is to sort out the alarm. No problem. The control panel is in the cupboard under the stairs. I open the cupboard door, take out a penlight and shine it on the panel. Three, six, nine, eight, four. I tap in the manufacturer’s master code to disable the sensors. Wouldn’t want the police coming round and spoiling things. Next, the study. The door’s a bit creaky, but I take it very slowly, an inch at a time. When I’m inside, I’m equally careful about how I close it. Wouldn’t do to be disturbed. The desk drawers are locked, but that doesn’t bother me. It’s the briefcase I’m after. It’s sitting on the couch by the bookcase. A brown leather briefcase with the initials C.D.B. on it – Curry, Dylan and Butterfield, one of the country’s top firms of acquisition lawyers. I try the catch. It’s locked. I expected that, and it doesn’t matter. It’s a combination lock, and they’re supposed to change the numbers regularly. But I’ve done my homework, and I start trying the usual possibilities – birthdays, anniversaries, home phone number – bingo! It springs open. Inside there’s a thick ring-binder of papers and an old-fashioned leather desk diary. I take out the ring-binder and shine my penlight on the cover: Project Cannonball. Where do they get these names? I flick through the documents inside. This is where my real expertise comes in. In professional circles they call me The Man With The Edge. What no one knows is where I get my edge. It’s a hostile takeover, about ten days from launch. Cannonball is a pharmaceutical company, it’s in the Footsie, revenues are here, market capitalisation, balance sheet and accounts, offer timetable, everything except the name. Shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to work it out, but let’s see what the diary tells us. Let’s see, the last few days, here we are – Wednesday 14th – Cannonball planning meeting, 11am, Sir Michael Peters’ office. Perfect! Sir Michael’s chairman of Cordon’s, the second biggest pharma company in the UK. Perfect. But who’s the target? Let’s see, further back, yes, here we are – Monday 5th, 10.30am Xenon Pharma briefing. They think they’re so smart, these corporate lawyers. But the really smart operators are people like me. Now, I’ve got to make sure all these papers go back in the briefcase just the way they were. We mustn’t arouse any suspicion, must we?
What was that?! I heard something. A floorboard. There’s someone outside. Christ, I’m stuck in here now. Jesus, the door’s opening.
‘Surprise!’
The light goes on. It’s the children. They can’t have been asleep after all. Standing there in their pyjamas.
‘What’s happening down there?’
‘It’s all right, it’s Daddy. We heard him sneaking around and we surprised him.’
She enters, still pulling on her dressing gown.
‘Justin, darling, what on earth are you doing?’
She sees the ring-binder in my hand, and the open briefcase.
‘Justin – what on earth – oh, my God! Those are my papers, Justin. They’re confidential. Your firm isn’t even involved in that deal. What on earth are you doing with them? And how did you open my briefcase?’
I search desperately for something to say, but can think of nothing. What will she do?
‘Mummy, is Daddy in trouble?’
She pauses and looks at me, stunned.
‘Yes, darling. Very big trouble indeed.’
If You Can’t Take a Joke…
‘HURRY UP, FATTIE! I want my bloody coffee!’
He hobbled along as quickly as he could, but one leg seemed to refuse to bend, and his progress across the trading floor was slow and awkward. Others saw his difficulty as he squeezed down the crowded aisle, trying not to spill the tray of coffee, but no one stood aside for him. Finally he got back to the desk and started distributing the coffees to the team.
‘For fuck’s sake, Fattie, I said a tall skinny latte, not a grande!’
He looked at his accuser. He seemed disappointingly unruffled.
‘No – I gave you what you ordered.’
‘For fuck’s sake, I know what I ordered. Am I right, lads, or am I right?’
They all nodded and confirmed that he was right.
‘No problem, I’ll go again.’ He seemed unperturbed.
‘Don’t bother. You fucked up once and you’ll probably do it again. Just put it here and fuck off.’
He placed the coffee cup on the desk and went back to his seat at the end of the row. He found it hard to sit down because of his leg, and when he had lowered himself onto the chair, one of the others called out again.
‘Oi, Fattie – where’s my sugar? I always have two sugars!’
‘No problem. I’ll get some more.’
He heaved himself up and hobbled off.
They looked at each other and laughed.
‘Who is this guy, Nick? He’s either Mr Unflappable or we should start calling him “No problem”.’
‘Dunno, mate. Personnel are sitting on his papers. They say we’re getting a reputation for chewing up trainees, and they reckon he might survive.’
‘We’ve only nailed three this year, and one was a girl, so she doesn’t really count.’
‘Yeah, but we need to be careful. That guy Hunt had a nervous breakdown. It’s good for the juniors to be kicked into shape, but we mustn’t nail them all.’
As the weeks passed, they experimented with different tactics. ‘Fattie’, or ‘Hopalong’ as they sometimes called him, was sent on a variety of errands – fetching the senior traders’ dry-cleaning, taking their shoes to the shoeshine man on his weekly visit to the trading floor, going on ‘buttie runs’ to fetch bacon rolls on mornings when they were hungover, but he seemed immune to humiliation and remained unflappable, no matter how great the provocation. On one occasion he returned to his desk to find a screensaver installed on his computer with a graphic moving image of two men having sex. He called the IT help-desk and patiently listened as they talked him through the process of removing it. Another time his chair disappeared, then his computer, and finally his telephone. Every time he left the desk, something else was gone. He moved and sat at a vacant desk in the next aisle. One afternoon he found a post-it note on his desk with a phone call to return, and found himself talking to a prostitute who believed he was a client, while the whole team listened in on his line. He politely declined her services.
The trickiest test was when he returned to his desk to find his e-mail open at a ‘Sent’ e-mail from his terminal. It was addressed to Alison Harvey, the deputy head of compliance, and began, ‘Darling squashy boobs, I want to rub my…’ He closed it, called Harvey, told her it was someone’s idea of a joke and no, he had no idea who might have sent it. There was a big stink and an enquiry into that one, but everyone kept quiet. After six weeks, they were getting fed up. No-one had lasted this long before, especially in the face of a concerted
team effort.
‘So tell us, Fattie, what did you do before Barton’s?’
‘I was in the army.’
‘What?!!! A fat git like you in the army? Hey, lads, Fattie was a war hero! Don’t tell me your gammy leg’s a war wound. You’re pulling my plonker, Fattie.’
He said nothing.
‘Oi, Fattie – I’m talking to you. When a senior trader talks to you, you fucking answer. Now STAND UP when I talk to you!’
He dutifully struggled to his feet.
‘Now fetch me a fucking coffee – and for once try to get it right. Off you go, left, right, left, right, let’s see if you can march.’
They laughed as he hobbled off to fetch the coffee.
The next day they had another idea.
‘Oi, Fattie – Nick wants you in his office.’
He hobbled off towards the big glass-walled corner office. Nick was waiting with two of the senior traders. The mood was sombre.
‘Sit down, Fattie.’
He lowered himself carefully onto the couch. Behind him a line of faces pressed against the glass, waiting for what would happen next.
‘Fattie, I’ve got some bad news. The boys tell me you were in the army once upon a time, and I guess that’ll help with what I’ve got to tell you. Fattie, we’re having to let you go. In fact, we’re not just letting you go, Fattie, we’re firing you.’
As he said this, he reached into his desk drawer and produced a revolver. He raised it towards his victim and took aim.
‘Goodbye, Fattie.’
There was a ‘pop’ from a cap in the toy gun and they all roared. Nick was doubled up with laughter. The traders outside were in stitches.
‘Oi, Fattie, what’s wrong? If you can’t take a joke you shouldn’t have joined.’
The trainee was deathly pale, his lips were pressed tightly together and his hands were shaking. He was staring at the smoking toy gun. Then they looked down and saw the dark patch spreading across his trousers.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake – Fattie’s pissed himself!’ They were uncontrollable.
‘Get up, you fat bastard.’ Nick was beside himself, not sure whether to laugh or be angry. ‘That’s my fucking couch you’re sitting on.’
He rushed forward to pull the younger man to his feet before the couch was soiled. Fattie shook himself free and hobbled from the office as fast as he could, tears in his eyes, as the traders laughed and jeered and Nick and his co-conspirators exchanged high fives.
Fattie stayed away for the rest of the week. After two days, Nick told one of the others to call his home number, but there was no answer.
‘Oh, shit – I hope he hasn’t done something stupid. Nick, do you think we should go round to his place? It was a bit over the top. The poor bastard’s probably too scared to show his face.’
‘For fuck’s sake, drop it! Like I told him, if he can’t take a joke he shouldn’t have joined. Let’s see if he shows up on Monday.’
On Monday morning, bright and early, Fattie returned. Instead of the dress-down casual clothes they were used to seeing him in, he was wearing slacks and a dark green blazer with a badge on the pocket, and a smart striped tie. He hobbled to his position at the end of the desk. Nick looked up.
‘Hey, Fattie - I’m glad you’re back. We kind of missed you.’
He was pale and he looked tired, with dark shadows round his eyes.
‘Are you all right?’
Still he said nothing, but looked round the team, taking in the faces.
‘What’s with the fancy gear, Fattie? What’s the badge and tie? Not the SAS, is it?’
Nick laughed, expecting the others to join in. For once, strangely, they were silent, and everyone seemed to be staring at their screens.
‘Green Jackets.’
‘What? What did you say, Fattie?’
‘I was in the Royal Green Jackets.’
Nick was unsure how to respond.
‘Oh, all right. Well…that’s fine. I’m very pleased for you.’
‘Until I was shot.’
‘Shot?’
‘Shot. In Belfast. That’s why I’ve got so fat, you see. Can’t exercise.’
‘Oh…well, sure. I guess that’s pretty tough.’
‘Nick, I want a word. In private.’
Nick sighed.
‘Oh, fuck. Don’t tell me you’re fucking resigning. My name’ll be mud with Personnel. Let’s go to my office.’
They went to the big corner office. This time there were no faces pressed against the glass. The other traders said nothing but looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.
‘Take a seat, Fattie.’
‘I’d rather stand. I find it easier that way.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Nick relaxed in his big leather power chair.
‘So what’s on your mind?’
‘Nick, I’m firing you.’
Nick laughed.
‘Fattie, never pull the same gag twice.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I’m really firing you.’
Fattie reached behind his back and pulled something from his waistband, where it had been concealed underneath his blazer. It was a revolver. Nick looked at it, stupefied.
‘Fattie, I hope you’re joking.’ There was a note of panic in his voice. ‘Fattie, if that’s real, you can fucking put it down right now.’
The sound was more like an explosion than a shot. Nick was catapulted backwards out of his chair and crashed onto the carpet, arms and legs splayed. A big patch of red started to spread out from his chest as he lay face down and still.
‘Fucking hell!’
It was another of the traders, standing in the doorway, staring at the body.
‘I’ve just fired Nick.’
Fattie sounded very calm.
‘I’m firing you, too.’
He fired again. Outside someone screamed. He looked from the big glass-walled office towards the desk. They were all standing, staring, open-mouthed. He raised the revolver, took careful aim, and fired again. The glass wall shattered with a great crash. He picked his way carefully over the glass and started to hobble towards the desk. There was pandemonium on the trading floor. Everyone was running to the exits, chairs were knocked over, people were screaming. And hobbling after them went Fattie, rounding them up like a half-lame sheepdog with its flock. From time to time, spotting one of his former tormentors, he fired again.
‘Come on, guys!’ he called, as he limped awkwardly after them, ‘You know what Nick said – if you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined!’
The Inside Track
A MASSIVE PAIR of brass balls hung above the big glass doors. They were illuminated by spotlights to make them stand out in the dark and drizzle of the early morning.
‘Impressive – I hope they don’t drop off and hit someone on the head!’
The driver laughed briefly at his own joke, then stopped as he caught the glance of his passenger.
‘When’s my regular driver back?’
‘Next week, sir. He’s having a week in Cornwall with the family.’
His passenger said nothing, but turned to contemplate the brasswork suspended above the entrance. The driver closed the rear passenger door and got back in to drive away, breathing a sigh of relief.
‘Good morning, Mr Barnes!’
The plate glass doors swung open and a smiling uniformed security guard stepped out to usher him inside.
‘It’s another filthy day, I’m afraid, sir. Still, spring isn’t far away.’
Barnes said nothing, but then he never did. Looks like he’s in an even fouler mood than normal, thought the guard, still resolutely smiling. On a good day Barnes might only shout and swear and storm around having tantrums. But on a bad day…
The lift doors opened on cue, rescuing the guard from further contact with the Prince of Darkness, as the traders called him. Phew, that’s over for another day.
When the doors opened on the fourth floor, two sm
iling receptionists rushed forward to relieve him of his fine cashmere overcoat and his scarf and gloves.
‘Good morning, Mr Barnes,’ they chorused.
This time he did respond.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he growled, looking them up and down and carelessly scratching himself. ‘Coffee.’
‘Yes, Mister Barnes,’ they chorused back, and one of them hurried off to fetch him a cup.
He walked from the reception area, through his outer office, into his inner sanctum, the room that looked into the trading floor. He had a massive antique oak desk, and behind it a leather chair that was a full six inches higher than the visitors’ chairs in front of the desk – a point that mattered to a five-foot-one-inch man with a Napoleonic ego. Against one wall was a set of bookshelves full of leather bound volumes – unread, unopened, still in the pristine condition in which they were supplied by the interior designers. On another wall were pictures of him, short, fat, balding, but uncharacteristically smiling, with various luminaries, dignitaries and other celebrities whose time and attention could be bought with the right donations. A conference table filled the far side of the room, and was dominated by an overlarge bronze statue of a bull and a bear fighting – the only truly personal touch in the room. And finally there was the inevitable bank of screens showing markets, prices and news as the day unfolded around the world, as well as the firm’s own trading positions and real-time profit and loss.
He slipped his jacket off, revealing bright coloured braces, put it across the back of his chair, and loosened his tie. It was a morning ritual. He barely grunted as one of the receptionists entered and put a fine bone china cup and saucer on his desk.
He looked out into the trading room. The view from his office was its most impressive aspect. The ‘window’ was effectively an entire wall of the office. It stretched from floor to ceiling and gave him a clear view of all the major trading desks.
The trading floor was not as large as the trading floors of the major investment banks and stockbrokers that dominated the City of London, but it was much higher tech and the scene at 7am was one of bustling, chaotic activity. Young men in shirt sleeves with their collars undone and ties hanging loosely were talking urgently into telephones, shouting across the room or running up and down the rows of dealing positions, squeezing between desks, chairs and each other in their haste. The dealing positions themselves had banks of screens in front of them, and were cluttered with telephones, microphones, keyboards and papers. There was a constant backdrop of noise coming over speakers and ‘squawk’ boxes. On the walls were giant screens and the obligatory clocks showing times around the world.
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 41