The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  “Apparently you’ve had a bit of a scare,” the lawyer conceded.

  Pitt reluctantly took a turn around the lawyer’s territory. He still wore that silk kimono, and a pair of matching slippers, like a hoity-toity invalid. Clive fluttered in the hot breeze like an irradiated butterfly. They explored together along sharply cut crazy paving over sprinkled lawns. Humidity rose, the horizon shimmered, but they were safely distanced from the dead heat of recent afternoons. The garden’s fresh colour was a relief to the eye. Doug employed a father and son gardening team, and he kept his sprinklers running over grass and flower beds. All was maintained and sustained to the utmost, in contrast to the withered condition of the surrounding countryside. Indeed this was a shocking contrast, like golf courses in West Africa.

  “Compared to that dirty blot against my reputation,” Clive said, “who bothers if I had an affair with a girl in the office?”

  “Still, it would help to know the identity of that girl,” Breadham argued.

  “She wouldn’t be thrilled to see my face again, whoever she is,” Clive remarked. “That was how Pixie reacted to me Friday afternoon!”

  They stood at the apex of a little wooden bridge over an artificial stream. Exotic carp raised their sensuous lips to the surface and made circling ripples.

  “If it’s Pixie then she can explain more. She can tell you the type of man you are. You can free yourself from this predicament.”

  “I’ll turn barmy if this can’t be sorted out... forced to the margins of society like a criminal. I’m inclined to follow your advice... speak to Pixie... in the hope she’s the right person.”

  “Perfect strategy, because you need an alibi,” Doug suggested.

  “But she isn’t going to welcome me back with open arms. She was totally horrified to see my face again.”

  “You have to speak to her. See what she knows. Try not to drag her in after you. As a former colleague, I am inclined to support you, but the law doesn’t follow. Especially in this case, when all your intuitions appear to be founded on practically nothing.”

  “They might be trying to discredit me, to destroy my life. But the Winchurch family didn’t seem to bring the law into this,” Clive reminded him. “Where were the coppers in all that time?” he asked. “Doesn’t that strike you as bloody peculiar?”

  “I don’t know, Pitt. That’s not my concern,” Doug replied. “Maybe this wasn’t a crowd control issue,” he suggested. “At times of crisis a powerful individual has to sort out his differences like a gentleman.”

  “Which century are you living in?” Pitt retorted.

  11

  Clive stuck around Doug Breadham’s place over that weekend, hoping for a profitable hunch. Then early that Monday Doug dropped him back at the tube station. Pitt had decided to make a return trip into the City, pending further investigation. They set off early, tensely, while the air was cool, as Doug had a busy schedule to fulfil, with hearings and meetings in the square mile.

  In town on Saturday he’d purchased new clothes for Clive, though he was careful to throw away receipts and even packaging, as if this linked him to the disgraced banker. Yet on Sunday he’d gone out speed surfing with friends and lunched with them as planned. Of course he didn’t invite Clive along. Pitt tried to talk about old times in the evening; falteringly, beating out the dark regions of medium-term-memory - that lost year - as if scaring grouse from undergrowth.

  The idea of returning to the City disturbed him; his life was upside down. He was without a position, virtually unemployed, as he understood. Thanks to Breadham he was wearing another well fitting suit (made from the wool of a dozen Australian lambs), newly soled and repaired Church’s shoes. He was snug again in a pair of black silk Thomas Nash boxers. Also Doug had placed a new wallet, containing spending money, into the fresh cut trouser pockets. Clive appeared like normal, as if returning to a secure job, but his whole life was decentred. Now he was obliged to step back into that danger zone to discover what had really happened to him. Regardless of risk, he had to debunk his legend as a dishonest banker, a deviant personality, even as a sexual criminal.

  “Don’t try to contact me,” Doug insisted. “Best not to. Even top lawyers don’t enjoy a charmed existence,” he argued, as he released his Ferrari.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me your contacts,” Clive pressed.

  “Far too dangerous, Pitt. Give me some wiggle room, will you?”

  “What are you afraid of, Doug? Do you regard me as toxic?”

  The lawyer fixed his gaze. “Precisely in which situation would you intend to contact me?” he challenged.

  “I don’t know exactly, yet,” Pitt admitted. He noticed as they drove into the small town; which was the nearest settlement with a train link to the capital.

  “It’s too risky! They know that we are already associates. They will be curious what we have discussed. They will be watching out for something like that.”

  “You admit something’s going on,” Pitt noted.

  “Whatever tight spot, you don’t want to have company.”

  “You don’t want to be seen with me?” Pitt concluded.

  “Can you blame me?” the lawyer replied. A ripple of discomfort went through his sharp profile. “How can it help?”

  “I look like a million dollars anyway,” Clive remarked.

  “Don’t think anything of it,” Doug told him.

  “No, I won’t,” he replied. “You’re throwing me back to those wolves, even if I have a clean shirt.”

  His tetchy attitude had the effect of disconcerting Doug. Breadham was one of the most polished dissemblers in the entire profession. That was the closest Pitt dared to a description of his limousine encounter with that hidden power broker with a disguised voice; who had sent him spinning on the roulette wheel of time.

  Pitt was dropped outside the tube train entrance, seeming to blend in with the bustling early-hour commuter scene. As soon as he snapped back the long car door, like a fearsome red jaw, Breadham ripped away, even with a squeal of rubber. If by different means, they were both heading for the same area of east London.

  Inside the building Pitt tested his company credit card and found, as expected, that it had been stopped. He dipped into Doug’s cash gift to pay for the journey instead, trying to separate a wad of fresh notes, much to the incredulity and alarm of the desk assistant; as if he was attempting the buy the network.

  He shuffled about on the platform, waiting with the others, as if finding protection in a crowd. Compared to the Beijing subway, he considered, the London underground resembled a rusty old bicycle with a hard seat. There was a recognisable feeling of being crushed and isolated in the mass; but concealment added to his security. This claustrophobic recipe now included an unfamiliar ingredient of unpredictability and danger.

  Pitt could sense peril about him; yes he could smell danger like bad stock; even if the exact quality was not yet established. On the surface of things the daily commute to work looked harmless, but normality was a sinister illusion. His nerves told him that his new ‘reality’ was menacing; peripheral warnings nudged his subconscious. Even the surface of his skin warned him to remain at a high alert. In the metropolis he knew that murders could happen in public in daylight; and he couldn’t be sure that anybody would intervene to help.

  Could there be somebody tailing him on this journey? Did that explain his instinctive unease and sense of being not quite alone? Or was the danger more concealed than this? Why was Breadham so eager to get rid of him and to stay out of touch? What kind of old friend was he, anyway? Sending him out like this, naked to the markets to be butchered, in a new suit and silk tie.

  Clive alighted at Bank and followed the tunnels to the surface; he held his place in the frothing tide, as humanity met finance. For all this Pitt visually blended and was not suspicious to others. He c
ut a strong, rugged, lithe figure; he was a tall striking fellow, strong shouldered and confident with his shock of stiff blonde hair. He retained the outline of his last expensive haircut, in a Sweeny Todd joint around the arcade. That’s if you didn’t meet the troubled gaze of his cracked, swivelling blue eyes. His beautiful new suit and clothes drew admiring or grudging attention, even in the City’s anonymous morning hustle. To other people he had a trim and energetic image, like a guy who knew the reason for all this stress and effort; who’d had a happy weekend with a loving family. Now he was returning to his high status desk. You only had to look at this guy to understand he must be a powerful player. But what was lurking under that pricey barnet, as an old East Ender might ask?

  His heart thumped and his mouth was dry, acid splashing about his stomach, as he emerged from a subway. ‘Scrapers and hyper-baubles loomed into the sizzling bluish haze above him, as if they’d ruptured the sun. How should he orient himself about the square mile? Pitt didn’t know if he had a job, or his own office - somewhere. He was lost, but he was not a reflection in a mirror. It was hard to know how fast to walk. He was a sapper in a minefield, a jobless and homeless stiff; a mere individual in that mass of commercial purpose. He’d never been intimidated by the City before; in fact, after acclimatising himself, it had danced joyfully in his blood. He had the feeling of being anonymous now but, much worse, notorious. He was sought by the invisible hand of the market.

  Pitt had to identity the woman he’d been going out with - allegedly. He had to find that mysterious girl, so that she could tell him more about the missing year. She would have to brief him about those lost episodes at work and play, because he’d completely lost the plot. The oppressive sense of guilt and shame was not a useful clue.

  To start up, where did that scar under his left eye come from? The mysterious jagged wound, roughly healed, was a symbol of his predicament. That was entirely sinister, like the sick tension in his stomach, the fuzziness in his head, tuning out into blackness from time to time; an overall feeling of being completely out of sorts, like the onset of chronic fatigue.

  It might be hasty to fix Pixie Wright as his possible lover. He didn’t retain any memories of having had an affair with her. If you slept with someone, he obsessed; you’d surely remember something about them, about the whole experience, right? Did he recall her signatures; such as her underwear preference, the feel of her skin, her erotic temperature, her sexual mannerisms and techniques? He was being pushed into fantasy land here, visiting a lad’s porn site of the imagination, just trying to think about it. Intuitions could be amazingly insightful, but they could also be disastrous and lead to further trouble; he should know that in his line.

  He had vague memories of talking to her in the office; being friendly; of confiding in her. They had shared concerns about the company; about the way of conducting business for their clients; gradually the substance of these objections was coming back to him and settling into detail.

  That’s essentially what they were up to, even after the big crash, the ‘casino economy’. There was always some rusty nail working against his conscience. He’d been concerned about phoney deals and fabricated products, in what he’d called ‘virtual finance’. These annoying, stubborn scruples of his no doubt came from his Dad, from his background, he supposed; although he was implicated all the same.

  A hard-working, conscientious father, who’d seen him through university; who had not insisted that he follow into the building society. From his Dad he got the idea that finance was a force for good that changed lives and careers. He came down to London full of ideals, not just greed and ambition. City finance should be dynamic, able to get the people and the country’s economy moving, roaring, again. The financial system provided vital resources for enterprising people to launch their ambitions or to build their enterprise; helping them to employ other people and to create prosperity for others too. Pitt’s drive and ability had been recognised by Winchurch, hadn’t it? He was offered an internship, then a full time job on excellent terms. What profession could be more exciting and worthwhile? What other business could be so dynamic, rewarding and creative? Pitt and his young colleagues were considered the brightest and best the country can produce. Talent and hard work deserved high rewards. High IQs married to quick wits merited generous annual bonuses. They provided vital expertise; an essential service and resource. Finance is the fuel of the economy.

  Being attracted to Pixie was not so ridiculous - only the idea of trying his luck. She was sexy and fascinating: her voice alone was a complex perfume. She was tagged “the head and shoulders” girl in the office, for her ability to read the peaks and troughs of various commodity prices. But Pitt shouldn’t have been free to flirt; and “the head and shoulders” girl was already dating another guy. Furthermore she was a favourite of their boss, not only for her abilities as a banker, but also due to her looks and charisma. Pixie Wright could do no wrong in the eyes of Sir Septimus, even during the most turbulent market conditions.

  No doubt these hunches, or neural prompts, had some basis, but it wouldn’t be easy to face her. Last time, when he’d shown up in the street, she had been as amazed as she was terrified. Despite being impatient for the truth, Clive knew it would be fatal to break into the office again. He physically craved to confront his former colleagues, demand to know their intentions and what was going on. The job was trained into his nerves, by practice, education and routine. Pitt was a junkie for the stimulus of market risk. At this point he was playing with more than the markets. This time he wasn’t gambling just with other people’s capital.

  Clive called into a coffee bar at a precinct across the road. He broke into another of Doug’s fifty pound notes to afford a cappuccino and a Danish pastry: the staff here were used to large denominations. It would have been different in Halifax, when he returned to visit relatives. He took his purchases over to a thick rounded glass window (as if bullet proofed). He perched himself on a high stool there, where he obtained a long view of comings and goings. Either he resembled a shark in a tank or the sharks were outside. Or was he a slaughtered calf in formaldehyde? Was this the golden calf that had been exhibited in a glass tank for the amusement of diners?

  The shopping precinct outside, reaching up the cobbled lane, had certainly undergone a facelift - since he was last present. He got many unfamiliar messages from the environment, subtle changes, as if returning from a posting abroad.

  Pitt watched the denizens going about their business. Did he belong among them any longer, and if so then exactly how, and where did he fit? Even though he looked the part, did he have any position in the financial world? The whole recognisable street scene looked counterfeit - as counterfeit as many financial products during the boom years - as if his amnesia was more real; as if the lost year had solider outlines. Pitt was the man out of sync and trapped in a double-exposed mind, like a primitive 3D print out.

  With the morning dragging on, as he grew fatigued and bored, he spotted another top of the range BMW. This model resembled a killer whale and it halted at the kerb outside the Winchurch building. A brown uniformed chauffeur emerged from the driver’s side and moved around the car, where he let out his passenger with a flourish.

  In a second Pitt recognised his old boss; the very man whose daughter he was alleged to have attacked. There he was back in the flesh, the same as ever, even while the whole situation and relationship had changed. Sir Septimus Winchurch was a short man, barely five feet tall; yet spry, dynamic, rounded on his nimble little legs. He dashed around the limo, sprang to the pavement, towards the rotating door at the building entranceway. A perpetual smirk of knowing good fortune gave his face a friendly expression, as he flipped back a proud, rococo wave of tightly-crimped sterling-silver hair.

  Pitt found it most surreal to observe the financier again in these extreme circumstances. It was most surreal to believe that Winchurch detested him; even though he’d been so
taken with Clive as an intern. Pitt had been a favourite for many years, advancing into a high position of trust; an embodiment of the knighted banker’s shrewd pick of character.

  But if Clive was responsible for the terrible crime against his daughter, why didn’t Winchurch prosecute him? Why did the financier dither and waste time about the issue? Sep was a known advocate of traditional criminal justice, including a return to the death penalty. Pitt should have been rotting away in prison, or even swinging at the end of a rope. Certainly he’d be in that position if there had been a referendum and change of the law as Sep advocated. Perhaps it was the ignominy and scandal, knowing his own daughter was the victim, which prevented Sep from turning to traditional justice. But then what else did he have in mind for Clive - the perpetrator of this outrageous crime? Clive didn’t have the answers, but why he was still at liberty, allowed to roam and prowl the City’s lanes and alleys?

  Breadham argued that the financier avoided doing his dirty laundry in public. Indeed such a family scandal might prove ruinous to business, putting off new clients and alienating existing ones. The markets didn’t operate through sentiment. If there was a scandal attached to the firm, sullying their reputation, then investors would avoid Winchurch Brothers like a street hawker with forged lottery tickets.

  Pitt also knew that he was being pursued by other people or interests. There’s been that guy near to his old home, walking two kids from school, seeming harmless and ordinary at first, who’d attacked him with a stave. Maybe this would-be assassin was part of an organisation hired by Winchurch. Then he was tormented by an after image of the guy’s smashed face, streaming blood into the dust. The attack was singed over his mind’s eye. If only he could remember the lost year so vividly, he complained.

  Pitt observed as Sep disappeared between spinning glass doors into his company HQ. Perhaps the CEO really had hired people to get rid of him, to satisfy an instinct of revenge and, most pressingly, to safeguard business.