The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  “My god is that really you, Clive Pitt?” he observed, peeling off Ray Ban aviator shades.

  Obviously he had not been communicating with Reg.

  “Doug, I’ve been stuck out here all night,” Clive gabbled.

  “Where did you come from?” Doug wondered, taking him in.

  “You’re the only guy I can depend on,” Clive told him.

  “Do you think so?” Doug replied, nonplussed.

  Pitt shrugged helplessly.

  “Look at the state of you? Where’s Reg got to, anyway? He should have hopped down here to open the gates. What am I bloody paying him for?” He stared irritably along the driveway as if he too was excluded.

  “I need your help mate. I find myself in a dreadful spot.”

  “What’s keeping him, do you know?”

  “Literally, mate, I don’t know where I am.”

  Breadham looked him over apprehensively. “You’ve been missing for months, and now you show up here. Where have you been in all that time?”

  “That’s the whole point,” Clive told him. “I was relying on you to explain, to fill in some of the gaps in my memory.”

  An ironic smile touched his friend’s lips. “You shouldn’t have disappeared off the map. Then you wouldn’t need me to do the talking,” Doug retorted. “Are you really trying to claim memory loss?”

  “I’ve lost track of everything that’s happened to me, over the last year.”

  “Judges in my experience are not sympathetic to pleas of amnesia. That’s one step short of extra-terrestrials in their book.”

  “What about contact with the devil?” Clive wondered. “At least I encountered a maniac who claims that title.”

  Breadham gave a jump, laughed and took in Pitt’s bedraggled appearance again. “Let’s continue this discussion indoors. What are you talking about? You didn’t bring any cops or heavies on your heels did you?”

  “I had to sleep in the open last night, or as good as. The cops may be searching for me, I don’t know. But I was attacked last night, when I returned home.”

  “Don’t you realise that there’s nothing for you at home any longer?” Doug said.

  “I discovered that for myself,” Clive confirmed.

  “Who do you think attacked you?” he wondered.

  “I suspect they don’t want the police to be involved somehow. This was a private individual who attacked me,” Clive explained. “It was totally weird...some ordinary guy and his two kids.”

  “Sound quite unusual,” Doug considered. “A description?”

  “Just somebody apparently on the way home, collecting his kids from school. But I get a sense that individuals and organisations are looking for me. That may sound paranoid to you, but they are certainly out there.”

  “So why did you sleep rough, when you could have been staying in the house?”

  “Thanks for the consideration, but Reg wouldn’t allow me inside last night.”

  “Oh god, so Reg wouldn’t let you in? He made you spend a night under the stars? Maybe he heard some talk... and you don’t look so appealing... so he was afraid to allow you in,” Doug reasoned.

  While he manually opened the gates, Clive was less charitable in his assessment.

  “Hop into the motor and we’ll drive to the house, shall we? You’re a bit filthy, but allow me to make amends...for my man servant’s inhospitable attitude...with a charitable offer.”

  Clive ducked down and felt paradoxical relief in the air-conditioning. They glided towards that mansion, cushioned from the seething oiled efficiency of the Morgan’s engine.

  Reg showed his face again, upright as he strolled to welcome them, wearing a different silk suit.

  “So sorry, Mr Breadham, I completely forgot to unlock the gates for you.”

  Wasn’t he a touched spoiled? He took his severe ticking off in good grace, while getting a coded approval in Breadham’s tone. The idea of a comfortable mansion being completely vacant, while Pitt slept in a drafty barn, very much appealed to Breadham’s sense of humour.

  “What’s wrong with your damn memory anyway, Reg.”

  “Where’s the best place for us to talk?” Pitt asked, as they came into the oak lined hallway. “The billiards room? The smoking room?”

  “There’s plenty of time to talk things through. You look terrible Clive, so go upstairs and run yourself a hot bath immediately. Then we can discover what’s on your mind.”

  “You want me to soak in the bath?” Clive replied.

  “Yes, why ever not? I would offer you a change of clothes, but we’re not the same size. Never mind, I’m sure we can arrange your couture later. Borrow one of my bath robes and Reg will give your things a quick laundry.”

  “We don’t know, do we, who might come knocking on the door for me,” Clive said. “You keep firearms and your dogs, but is that any defence?”

  “You really are in a paranoid condition, Clive. You can’t think properly looking like that,” Douglas advised. “No man can think straight while un-bathed and needing to polish his shoes.”

  “I don’t think our discussion can wait, Doug.”

  “Come along, Clive.” Breadham’s narrow features quivered, either in response to body odours or as a nervous reaction. “This has to wait because I refuse to talk until you are clean. You’ve not the only one who has to adjust. You suddenly appear at my house, looking for explanations, when for months you have been evasive. It’s like you vanished and only your name existed, as a kind of ugly rumour,” Doug told him.

  “Really? What’s the truth of this ugly rumour? Have I been like a ghost for this past year? Do I have to read about myself, or learn about myself from others?” Clive despaired.

  “Sorry to put this so bluntly, but I absolutely refuse to open my mouth, except to recuperate with a drink,” Doug insisted.

  “Make sure you unlock your gun cabinet,” Clive added.

  “You should really keep a check on yourself,” Doug said.

  A change of clothes and a scrub down didn’t sound a bad idea, following that long night alone: shaking and tumbling out of his mind. Only someone mentally robust was able to keep body and soul together, and try to calculate an escape strategy. After all investment banking could be a highly physical business. The company recruited with the consideration of stamina, concentration and quick thinking, not academic qualifications and high IQ alone.

  But there were further shocks to his system when he tried to get on line in Doug’s study. He realised that all his electronic accounts, either professional or social, had been frozen or deleted. He couldn’t network or make any useful contacts; he was unable to search any information about himself, despite his technical expertise and strategy. He had been eradicated from virtual presence. Frustrated in that area, he tried to retrieve archived media stories relating to the affair.

  There must have been a cover up, a block or a blackout, as he didn’t turn up any interesting or relevant news. An electronic wall had been constructed around the ZNT deal, following its conclusion. Perhaps his other devices were still in his suit jacket somewhere; lost or abandoned. Or they were left in a departure lounge or hanging on the back of a chair in a mysterious office: picked up and stored as lost property that went unclaimed. Without his vital electronic devices - stripped of memory, contacts and agendas - he was out of the network, a disconnected ‘squawk box’; a manual worker standing at a street junction in Silicon Valley. Intellectually he’d been ‘kettled’.

  Clive stepped back from those blind XD display units, trying to squeeze angst from his mind and rigidity from his limbs. He decided to get that hot bath, do some thinking, as he was a mess; while Doug fixed himself another drink. Or perhaps a cold shower would be more effective. Hot water was dependable and reassuring, in the absence of knowledge or strategy. He
could hear water gushing, from the bathroom already. In passing along the landing he offered Reg a silently expressive look. The servant didn’t even flinch and danced away with jaunty steps.

  Pitt enjoyed the steamy luxury of his friend’s bathroom, comparing favourably to a drafty, splintered barn. There were baskets of ready soft towels and an impressive selection of quality gentlemen’s products. In a deep tub he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and almost drifted away. He was only brought back to consciousness by a sense of panic, a rapid arrhythmic heartbeat. Sloshing water over the brim, he burst back up through the suds, slipping around until he found his feet, as if afraid of drowning. Gasping, gulping, he fought to regain composure and clarity, watching his featureless image in a full length fogged mirror.

  10

  Clive found his way back down the twisting oak staircase, gripping a thick banister. He had an idea about how to get around the house; which must come from previous visits, he assumed. He ambled back into the sitting room, garbed in a floral silk Japanese robe and pointed slippers that Reg had left out. Reg did not linger around to help their guest into these clothes; as a luxury servant he made himself invisible.

  Breadham was awaiting him in the back lounge, dressed smart casual, seeming to be agitated. The financial lawyer clutched a dimpled tumbler of single malt and surveyed the distant horizon of his knotted and floriferous grounds. This particular room was filled with hunting mementoes and trophies, portraits of dead Jacobeans and Restoration fops, accumulated by previous owners of the estate. Doug gave a jump when the banker entered the room, as if this reunion with Pitt was a nightmare rather than an unexpected pleasure.

  “Ah, here you are at last!” he declared, with false surprise. “Did you enjoy your soak in the bath? Come here and sit yourself down,” he offered.

  “You’re still cool about having me here?” Clive asked, padding over.

  “To imagine that I am sheltering a fugitive,” Doug commented. “I suppose that implicates me already. I could be struck off, regardless of our past relationship.” He forced an ironical guffaw.

  “Wait a moment, Doug, before we talk about my situation... Look, I found something else very strange. When I was having a shave, when I cleared the mirror, I noticed a scar....on my face. Under my left eye there, do you see?” he suggested, leaning forward. “It’s like somebody thumped me one, don’t you think? The guy was wearing a big ring on his forefinger, whoever he was.”

  “Oh yes. That must have been nasty. But how can you be so specific?” Doug said.

  “’Cause it’s bloody obvious, mate, that’s why. It must have been a while ago, because it’s closed up...although not smoothly. I didn’t get stitches in that.”

  “That scar may have been caused by an accident,” the lawyer argued. “By any daily mishap.”

  “Do you know anything about that?”

  “I don’t have a close knowledge of your physiognomy,” Breadham remarked.

  Clive looked at him doubtfully. “So you don’t know if anybody thumped me at any stage? Someone with a big fist and a ring on their finger?”

  “Why should I?” Breadham replied, tipping back the heavy crystal tumbler again, as if whisky could disguise a bad taste.

  “You’re a top City lawyer, aren’t you? You may have some inside information...if something happened to me.”

  “Inside? Regrettably I’m unable to account for your scrapes,” he replied.

  “Well, it’s definitely strange,” Clive insisted. “I didn’t get this by having a bad dream!”

  “There’s no need to obsess, because it doesn’t show very much,” Doug told him.

  “Is that the point? Do you think this is about vanity? For a start you might explain something about my situation. Then I can leave, because you’re not comfortable,” Clive offered.

  “Who says I am not comfortable, old chap? Why don’t you fix yourself a drink too?” Doug suggested, pacing up and down, in front of the wide window.

  “Not at the moment. It wouldn’t help.”

  “Something to smoke perhaps? Pharmaceutical? Top quality.”

  “No thanks, mate, not interested. I’ve never been interested in taking drugs.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, with a hint of disapproval. “Of course you must be ravenous. I’ll ask Reg to magic breakfast for you. He’s an absolute whizz in the kitchen.”

  “Later, thanks. Right now we have to talk.”

  “In Reg you see domestic service rationalised to the finest margins,” Doug argued. “The climbing roses are more trouble than he is, frankly.”

  “What happened to my wife?” Clive bluntly challenged.

  “Your wife? Her? What do you imagine happened to her?” Doug risked.

  “I don’t know,” Clive said, levelling his bloodshot gaze. “D’you have any idea why she went away?”

  “You don’t know?” said the lawyer, astonished.

  “The last year, I am not aware of its passing,” Clive confessed.

  “You stick with your amnesia claim,” Douglas realised. “But if you lost your memory how did you manage to return here?”

  “There are different levels of memory, I guess,” Pitt replied.

  “I can’t explain your thoughts and actions,” Doug told him. “I can’t fill your shoes.”

  “Just help me to put my shoes back on,” Clive suggested. “Allow me to re-assume my identity... find out who’s been knocking me about.”

  “What do you know? What can you remember?” Doug prompted.

  “I remember going out to lunch... about a year ago. Then I am falling...I am afraid of smashing to pieces at the bottom. Suddenly my body is caught...my tumble is halted and I’m suspended there, in space. Then I am looking down on my life...literally flying above the City... and the whole world, for that matter.

  “A type of hallucination then,” Doug said. A hint of distaste spoilt his smile.

  “For a bit I have an eagle eye view. Next thing I know, I’m down there like a sewer rat. I’m back in circulation, thinking about my regular life and job. When I return to the office I discover that my life is destroyed. Job gone, home and family gone. I’ve been fired by the firm, at some stage. God knows what the reason was.”

  “You claim to have no knowledge of the background?”

  “Just a bit of malicious talk overheard in the locker room.”

  “Are you saying you actually went back to the Winchurch building yesterday?” Doug replied, staring at him.

  “Why not? I’ve been employed there for ten years. I still worked there, as far as I knew.”

  “How did you manage to avoid security and... and escape?” Breadham asked.

  Clive blinked hard, raking his almost dry hair. “Did you expect them to keep me prisoner then, mate? As I already explained, I intended to return to my desk as normal... then I overheard locker room gossip. I did bump into two colleagues on the street outside. I couldn’t get much sense out of them. To be honest, they reacted as if I was some monster dredged up from the bottom of the lagoon.”

  “Were these male or female colleagues?” Doug wanted to know.

  “Female, if that’s relevant,” Pitt complained. “What’s notable about that fact? Trading algorithms don’t discriminate for gender.”

  “Didn’t they try to raise the alarm? Did you recognise these girls? Who were they?” the lawyer persisted.

  “Definitely I recognised them...Pixie and Olivia. The trouble is that they recognised me as well,” Clive said.

  “They were afraid of you?”

  “What’s been going on with my job lately? Do you think my recent experiences are connected to work? My recollection is hazy...scrambled,” he considered. “It seems as if I have been taken out of the system. They extracted me like a processor.”

  “We’re not
in the same profession,” Breadham pointed out.

  “Fair point, but we work in the same geographical location,” Pitt replied.

  “So does the shoe shine,” he cut back.

  “When I returned ‘home’ yesterday I discovered that my wife had left me.”

  “A very peculiar business, admittedly,” Breadham observed.

  “I found out, from a neighbour, that Noreen ran off with another bloke,” Clive confided. “That’s impossible to get my head around. I didn’t see that one coming. She left me and took Josh with her. They’ve emigrated to America!” he declared.

  “Seattle, Washington State,” Doug confirmed.

  Clive was amazed. “You already know about this?”

  Breadham nodded steadily. “You had no prior warning?”

  “How did she manage to sell up? More than half was in my name! How was she able to tidy up her affairs so quickly? Then obtain a visa, get permission to remain in the States?” Clive puzzled.

  “These are all excellent questions,” Doug agreed. “Your wife had a remarkably fast schedule. Didn’t she need your agreement at many stages, and your signature? Did she have contacts to cut corners? It would be fascinating to know how she pulled that off,” he argued.

  “Then help me to discover the truth. Help me recover my mind.”

  “Perhaps her lover assisted her...pulled strings with the right people. He was a businessman of a kind. It’s conceivable that he had legal contacts.”

  “On what grounds did she leave me?” Pitt wondered.

  “Noreen called by here to talk about her plans. I was surprised to see her. I didn’t believe she would confide in me... that we were ever close enough.”

  “She obviously trusted you with sensitive information, mate,” Pitt said.

  “Noreen explained that she and... her new gentleman friend... were leaving for Scotland. They had bought an estate around Dumfries. The guy thought conditions would be better for business. Then I got a message from a contact to say they were relocating to Seattle. He’d got family in America already and a cousin offered him a job... didn’t your wife already have a sister in the States somewhere?” he wondered.