Serendipity Foundation_292

by The Serendipity Foundation (retail) (epub)

  ‘Barrett wants to see you,’ said Ronston, peering over Liam’s computer. ‘Once more, looks like one of your books is upsetting a few people.’ He tapped his pen on top of the computer with a joyless grin.

  Liam looked up. ‘As opposed to your books, which we never hear anything about.’

  Ronston scowled at Liam. ‘Not everybody wants to write the type of books you write.’

  ‘Published ones?’

  Ronston laughed sarcastically. ‘Yeah, gotta learn how to offend working single mothers better. Get some quality publicity for myself.’

  ‘I very much doubt you have the ability to offend anyone.’ Liam shot Ronston a look, and he promptly retreated back to his desk.

  Liam felt anxious, but he was determined not to show Ronston his concern. Half an hour passed before he made his way to Barrett’s office in the corner of the newsroom: a glass enclosure, with half-drawn blinds.

  ‘Liam,’ Barrett said, without looking up. ‘You know, I didn’t even have to see or hear you to know it was you. It was as if your presence changed the chemical make-up of the room.’

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ he said, taking a seat.

  ‘Not really. It falls under my duty of care responsibilities.’

  ‘How conscientious.’

  ‘Thank you. Look, Liam’ – she sat back and finally made eye contact – ‘I’ve received a couple of emails over the last 24 hours, which should’ve gone to your publisher. I’m an innocent bystander in all this; but they don’t see it that way, and these aren’t the type of people you correct.’

  ‘Type of people?’ Liam said, leaning forward.

  ‘Your book seems to have pissed off a few people. Notably those whose operations you’ve recently damned as failures.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Liam rubbed his face. ‘You’re saying you’ve been contacted by terrorists who’re upset I didn’t rate their work?’

  ‘Yemeni. And using the word terrorist isn’t going to calm them down. We’re talking one-hit wonders who’ve got a single entry note in history and your book’s just pissed all over it.’

  ‘And what do they want?’ said Liam.

  ‘Retractions.’

  ‘Retractions? They’re demanding I retract my opinion of how bad their previous demands were. Do they not get irony?’

  ‘Your irony is killing me was my first thought as a response.’

  Liam sat back and ran his hands through his unkempt brown hair. ‘So what now? What is their threat if I refuse? Please tell me you’re not actually expecting me to agree.’

  ‘No direct threat yet. We’re cooperating with the police as we speak. But somehow those bastards next door have got hold of the story, so we’re going to have to address it somehow – I guess with some generic freedom of expression bullshit.’ She shook her head. ‘This is a book this paper had no involvement in and yet still your—’ She caught herself from finishing. ‘Anyway, continuing this feel-good theme, did you look into those kidnaps in Cairo?’

  Liam nodded.

  ‘And?’

  The nod morphed into a shrug. ‘Nothing much.’

  Barrett raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on it,’ Liam said reassuringly.

  Michael

  Thursday, April 16th

  London

  Michael consoled himself that at least, unlike Crest Voyager, the current ultimatum he faced didn’t risk fatalities. It could threaten the life of his government, but he had already planned a year-long programme of euthanasia for it leading up to the next general election, so he was mentally prepared for the sense of loss.

  The current crisis was just another example of special interests drawing lines in the sand, to which he had neither the energy nor the hope of finding a satisfactory solution. His Chancellor, Duncan Verso, headed an Exchequer that had informally seceded from Number 10. In a climate of austerity and cuts, Verso had delivered a budget of polarising imbalance. Unions argued that their members were shouldering an unfair share of the burden, and they would be forced to act: to avoid strikes they demanded the government push through promised reforms on bank pay and credit regulation to show everyone was ‘in it together’.

  Financial lobbyists quickly smothered any wavering MPs. By the end of the week, party whips admitted they didn’t have a majority for banking reforms, with sheepish citations of the dangers of union power and the importance of the City to the economy. Michael was left with two opposing sides unwilling to negotiate, a party he had no faith in, and a status quo that tempted him to jump ship and join the picket line. It didn’t help that a book had recently been published that detailed his silence during the Crest Voyager negotiations. Sections of the press had pointed out that he hardly had the glowing credentials to broker the current stand-off.

  Michael looked around his office. Its refurbishment had been supposed to be a grand personal statement when he came to power three years earlier. Down came the historic portraits. Out went the unreadable leather-bound volumes from the bookshelf. A photo of Martin Luther King hung from his wall to remind him that the right words preceded action. A tall bookcase stood against the wall to the right of the central window; it contained all his favourite books, in rough chronological order, from the age of three. On the wall to the left hung a whiteboard and full-length mirror.

  The refurbishment seemed childish to him now.

  ‘How’s the speech going?’ said Charlie as he sat down opposite Michael in his office.

  ‘Not bad at all, considering,’ said Michael, nodding in mock satisfaction. ‘So far I have . . .’ he coughed lightly. ‘It is said that hidden among us, vested interests lie in wait.’ He looked up. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Solid. I like an esoteric beginning,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Honestly, when we got into this, did you expect to be a sitting duck being shot at from all sides of the pond?’

  ‘No. I was very much hoping we’d be the ones to get the guns and do the shooting.’

  ‘I’ll presume you mean that figuratively,’ said Michael.

  Charlie shrugged. ‘We could maybe use the threat of force up our sleeves in light of these new opinion polls.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them. It’s like the start of the football season. Never look at the table until ten games in.’

  ‘We’re three and a half years into your term.’

  ‘You can’t win the title in January.’

  ‘I think we’d have been forced out by the foreign owners for wasting their incredibly hard-earned billions.’

  ‘Let’s just pretend we’re one of those shit teams that somehow gets promoted into the Premier League for a season. Enjoy the exposure, the primetime TV slots, playing with the big boys. We’ll treat every day like a cup final.’

  ‘You’re the leader of a state of 60 million people.’

  ‘Big fan base. Maybe an oligarch will buy us out,’ said Michael, resignation overtaking his humour.

  ‘Michael, we have an approval rating of 23 per cent. I know nothing screams “we’re doomed” like a big policy relaunch, but it’s getting to that stage . . .’

  ‘Did you know that the Nepalese king once held a referendum over whether to remain autocratic or become democratic. The population voted overwhelmingly in favour of never having to vote again.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘Are you even in the 23 per cent?’

  ‘You’ll never hear me admit to it. Political suicide.’

  Richard

  Wednesday, April 22nd

  London

  For the first week Richard felt as if he had been dumped. Admittedly the last time that happened was 15 years ago, by a woman he knew was his superior aesthetically, morally and intellectually; but the feelings of longing and defensiveness felt familiar. What he didn’t recognise was the burning need for revenge – against Monroe, the board, Fiona and the smirking critics of his imagination.

  His release should have come as a relief, but he missed the stage. He had spent the last decade directin
g others from a position of superiority. Unemployment did not sit easy with his temperament.

  He was bored. He frequented his local deli for a late morning coffee to get out of his minimalist apartment. The deference he used to be shown had been exchanged for a half-hearted welcome. He was now merely another member of the audience.

  It was evening. Richard was on his third glass of red wine, letting his luxury microwaveable meal breathe for a couple of minutes, when the phone rang.

  ‘It’s me,’ said the voice.

  ‘It’s me who?’ said Richard.

  ‘It’s me, Larry.’

  ‘Larry, you need to ring more than once a year in order to have the privilege of voice recognition.’

  ‘It goes to show you never listened to the audiobook I sent you.’

  ‘Your what?’ said Richard.

  ‘Well, the devil’s industry at least taught you how to lie properly.’

  ‘Self-taught, actually.’

  ‘Well, they can’t say you didn’t bring anything to the table. The CD that’s probably lying on the side of your kitchen counter is my vocal investigation into the relationship between the tetragrammaton and haiku poetry.’

  ‘Sounds accessible.’

  ‘I’m a sell-out. Last year we had our annual chat and I told you I was going to do something outside my comfort zone. Using a 17-syllable three-line Japanese poem as a tool to analyse the 88 names of God ticked the box. As, I imagine, unemployment ticks box one of your bucket list.’

  Larry was one of Richard’s genuine friends. Richard had no idea why Larry stuck by him – he was normal enough to have alternatives. They were university roommates who excelled at economics together. Larry travelled the world and wrote a bad novel, before making a fortune in the dotcom boom, despite knowing little about it. His strategy was based on the fact that neither did the investors. He took great pleasure in taking advantage of businessmen whose luck had been mis-diagnosed as talent.

  ‘I’ve ticked it now. It’s shit,’ said Richard.

  ‘Look, man, CEOs these days have chummy names like Bill, Steve and Larry. No one’s called Richard any more.’

  ‘There are a surprising number of successful Richards about.’

  ‘You’re missing my point,’ said Larry.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . just that maybe it’s time to leave it behind, change direction. Start focusing on what’s above ground instead of what’s below it. Really, who has oil actually made happy?’

  ‘I’d argue about nine billion people and counting.’

  ‘It was a rhetorical point. Anyway, I’m close to finishing building a boat: a 35-footer made of your finest sustainable timber. Why don’t you come on over and help? We can sail around the world together.’

  ‘I already own a boat.’

  ‘I was alluding to the sense of journey. Do you really miss it that much?’

  ‘What? The job?’

  ‘Of course not. You hated the job. I mean the power.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Richard.

  ‘I don’t know? Come on. Speak to me, man.’

  Richard fell silent. ‘I guess . . . look . . . I don’t know what the fuck to do. You know I hated some of the things I did, but . . . it . . . it defined me . . . fuck . . .’

  Larry gave Richard a space to be emotional, which he chose not to fill. ‘What you miss is being the central figure, so why don’t we just find you something more rewarding to be the centre of ?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Well, a year or so back a mate of mine started giving his money away – good projects, healthcare, housing, that type of stuff.’

  ‘Why don’t I just tattoo “Please fucking forgive me” on my forehead?’

  ‘Calm down. All I’m saying is that you can drive a project where you won’t have to be the bad guy any more. Have a think about it. I’ll book you a meeting with these guys who come up with ideas for what you can invest in. If you decide you don’t want to go, skip it. But you’re a man looking at his options, and this is just another option.’

  Richard remained silent.

  ‘I’ll email you the details,’ said Larry, and hung up.

  ‘So do you know what type of thing you’re after?’ said the sharply dressed man who welcomed him into the room and introduced himself as Si. He seemed too young to give Richard advice. The room had two seats separated by a coffee table. Pictures of uncomfortable middle-aged men next to downcast black children hung on the wall. Larry had emailed the details of the meeting he had arranged with Giving It Back, a philanthropic consultancy firm. Richard was torn as to whether to go, but had been at a loss for alternatives.

  ‘For example, are you looking for legacy? Like building a university in your name. Maybe you’re looking for good PR, which can take the form of creating a foundation, dabbling in healthcare, education and so on. Then we have what I call the joyriders club, for those looking for a bit of excitement, an immediate feel-good factor. You get involved in recent disasters: famine, war, natural disaster. It combines adrenalin and adulation in a photogenic tour package.’

  Richard stared straight back at Si. ‘Is this the standard pres-entation, or tailor-made for a cynic?’

  Si smiled. ‘Why an or?’

  Richard shrugged. ‘So where in the world deserves my money?’

  ‘Well . . . you could spend it here in the UK. People will see you giving back to society. It’ll work well if you want to go into politics. However, most of our clients give their money overseas, as it appeals to the romantic, adventurous side of philanthropy: destitution and salvation, darkness and light. There’s less bureaucracy in key areas. You basically take your pick: disease, food, education, water and sanitation. You want it, they’ve got it.’

  ‘Sounds like catalogue shopping,’ said Richard.

  Si smiled. ‘On the other hand, Asia’s good: India, Bangladesh, Burma’s opening up. Your money goes further. The only issue is their governments are less likely to let you do what you want, or let you take too much credit for it.’

  ‘What if I wanted to do what they want?’

  ‘Then you’d already have given your money to the Indian government.’

  Richard smiled at the scoring point. He took a few moments. ‘Let’s just imagine I don’t have billions, but I wanted to get into Time magazine. What would I need to do?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Si puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, most of our clients have a lower bar. You’re basically looking at taking a whole cause and being its benefactor. You could pick something small with a feel-good factor. Make a documentary. Say. . .’ – Si paused briefly – ‘maybe you could fight for the rights of a dispossessed people, or clean up a damaged environment.’

  Richard forced a brief smile to acknowledge the direction Si was heading. Donating to an area his company had destroyed would grab attention, but after Crest Voyager and his recent resignation, he had no intention of portraying his actions as redemptive.

  ‘Well, thanks all the same.’ He stood up and made to walk out the door.

  ‘There’s maybe another approach you could take,’ said Si. Richard remained standing by the door. ‘The world likes controversy. It’s the story that gets you into Time not the actions.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Look, you’re the oil guy. No one cares if you pour your money into the AIDS programmes. You’re competing with others. I get you don’t want to return to, er . . . familiar pastures. But what if your philanthropy undermined what you previously stood for, rather than just cleaning up after it? That would be a story.’

  Richard returned a quizzical look.

  ‘All right,’ said Si, ‘let me put it this way. I know you left the industry on bad terms, and I’m guessing you want revenge. So why not invest in ways that will put the spotlight on them?’

  Richard pursed his lips, nodded, and opened the door.

  ‘I’ll send you my invoice for the session,’ called Si as Richard walked away.

&nbs
p; The Kidnap of Fathima Ahmed

  No one noticed the day that Fathima Ahmed was kidnapped. The seventy-eight-year-old lived alone. Her family had moved away. Most of her friends were dead. There were no events from which her absence would be noted.

  No one noticed the day after, either. Had they been asked, neighbours or traders to the market stalls she frequented might have realised they hadn’t seen her. But no one did.

  On day three, the neighbourhood remained equally unconcerned. Had she been lying dead in her apartment the smell wouldn’t have hit the stairwell for at least a week.

  The following four days passed as unremarkably as the first – noteworthy, perhaps, only because of the absence of any strange events such as had so bewitched the community of late.

  The next day, a note was pasted on the walls.

  Our current hostage has been with us for seven days. To secure their release, all you have to do is work out who we have kidnapped.

  Few wanted to make the direct enquiry: I just called to check you hadn’t been kidnapped. Instead subtle calculations were made to absolve responsibility: if someone lived with someone else, worked somewhere else, or had closer friends or family, then surely someone else would check. The odd phone call was made to a parent who lived alone, or an employee who was absent through illness, but there was a presumption that everyone could be accounted for.

  There was no news that evening.

  The following morning, the neighbourhood awoke to a new note:

  And all it takes is a knock on a door.

  Many started the day normally; someone else’s conscience would scout the tenement. But as mid-morning arrived, people’s thoughts drifted to the vulnerable who chanced occasionally into their lives: the elderly, the sick, the lonely. Lunch-break plans factored in visits to old acquaintances who rarely laid claim to the time of others.

  In between childcare, mothers drew up plans of their building to establish where the vulnerable among them lived. Sorties went out and knocked on doors; those who answered were asked if they needed anything. The lonely found comfort in brief conversations. Responsibilities were allocated between strangers.