The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  There was then a terrible scream from within the room. This was at such a pitch that it even startled Doctor Morran, gluing him to the wall for some moments. Pixie gasped as the tension burst around her.

  Not so much a scream, as a terrified roar, interspersed with shouts. Yet these were muffled and indecipherable through sound proofed walls. They all jumped at the noise within and stared at each other in amazement

  Finally Doctor Morran gathered himself, retook the initiative and burst in to investigate.

  25

  Clive’s hearing was sharp as Pixie picked up her jacket in the hallway and left for work. He was relieved that she’d allowed him to sleep over; discussed the present situation and agreed to follow up their information. The hope that she would brief him on the events of those missing months had been a perilous adventure. Or anyway she agreed to give him the benefit of the doubt. Or she’s refusing to think the worst, even while she didn’t restore him to his previous status.

  Miss Wright still had personal capital, not least the trust of her boss. Sir Septimus refused to believe the worst about her, contrary to evidence. Pixie had the poise to look after herself, Clive thought. She’d constantly proved that in her job and when helping Clive to gather intelligence against the deal. Pixie had taken risks by resorting to soft engineering techniques, simply by finding pin codes and passwords, transferring them over.

  However, even if he had lost the specific details, Clive couldn’t help being concerned. Was she brave enough to face ruthless business interests? These guys were the true power brokers. ZNT had all means at their disposal, yet no business ethics or respect for law or rights. Clive had gate-crashed their digital operation and they were not thrilled to share virtual space. Pixie’s profile was vulnerable simply by being associated with him; and she didn’t have any sentimental log out with these brokers.

  Meanwhile Pitt searched Pixie’s flat. In part he was doing this for her benefit, yet on another level he wanted to check her reliability. There had been many twists since they first became friends. He had developed suspicious instincts during that missing year, not only techniques of corporate espionage and surveillance. He didn’t exactly ransack her apartment but he did search thoroughly; pulling out drawers, rummaging cabinets and storage spaces, checking for evidence and hidden compartments.

  “Do I question her honesty?” Clive asked himself. “Isn’t this a sign of my paranoia these days? Or am I behaving like this because I don’t expect her to come back? Or maybe I don’t expect to survive myself. So what was I up to?”

  Due to the big clean spaces of minimalist design, his search didn’t take long. When the physical search was complete, Pitt went through her electronic accounts and digital traces. He was able to second guess text speak, passwords, because the system didn’t lock him out. Her on-line presence was predictable, with no references or links to him. To an extent she’d taken precautions to remove him, he suspected.

  Among her voice mail he discovered friendly messages from Winchurch. These were not entirely compromising yet Pitt was amazed to hear them, to find the financier’s voice converted there. While this was not incriminating, such contact was irregular; not entirely professional. The emotional import of these messages was coded, so that Pixie might miss the significance or nuance. But Pitt was able to decipher the inference.

  “Oh, hi, my dear young lady, how are you feeling? You were a marvel this afternoon (nervous cough/ drawing of breathe/ indecision) you’re a clever and delightful girl. Do you mind me saying so? Would have fallen apart without you... your input. (Begins to speak, reconsiders his thoughts) Look forward to picking it up at tomorrow’s meeting and thereafter...yes...so... sleep tight.”

  Digging deeper Clive located an encrypted address book and in this he discovered his old telephone numbers (professional and domestic), as well as a Hampstead address. Careless of her, he considered, not to permanently erase this evidence. Presumably the place in north London was where Pixie and he lived together. Was she clinging on to these memories, despite events of evil portent? It matched the concept of an apartment above shops.

  Clive found old photographs of himself. He took time to install software to isolate and retrieve these files. In a high cupboard in the guest room he found an external hard drive. She must have forgotten about this because the box was covered in dust. Pixie had consigned him to the dump bin but she hadn’t entirely deleted him.

  Taking a further search of her bedroom he located images of them together: a slide show of their adventures, their memories as a couple. This was an extraordinary find, as he retained no memory of even dating her. Pixie forgot to erase the memory of a neglected digital photo frame; some antique device that she kept at the bottom of the bedside cabinet. Pitt was startled, as well as fascinated, to look at these pictures. A few presented him alone, usually in a flattering or humorous light, yet a majority of these images captured them together, on time lapse. “My god,” he told himself, “she was right fond of me.”

  There was a great shot of him in a fishing boat off Cuba (as she had tagged it). But that had been a family holiday. He had normal recollection in regard to that vacation. Noreen and he went off to the Caribbean to celebrate a successful float, as it were, by snagging barracudas, in a Hemingway style.

  In that image he was happy and tanned, strong and golden haired; he was toasting his wife in rum, jokily but deeply, and posing at the wheel of that tough little round bellied boat. He was portrayed at the height of his success and power; caught at the peak of his earning potential. He radiated confidence and optimism, like a colossus.

  Then he located another image of Pixie and he together. It was dated later he realised, with the more mundane setting of a canal barge, possibly near to Camden Lock, was it? A bit more mundane than shark fishing in the Caribbean, he considered, but then, he assumed, it was dangerous for them to be spotted together.

  A sun set behind, putting their smiling features into shadows: Some place where a genuine bond was more powerful than a fat annual bonus.

  He didn’t look wired-up, or disjointed, in this picture. It didn’t seem unreal. Rather there was an extra alert quality to him. He was wearing a loose necked Irish fisherman’s sweater that Noreen bought for him on another holiday, around the Dingle peninsular. He was disgusted by the treachery he’d displayed towards his family. How shameful, he thought, to betray Noreen by having an affair with Pixie. But would he have worn that jumper with Pixie, knowing that it had special significance to his wife? Perhaps he was wearing that sweater as a signal to his wife, of his intentions or true feelings. Or wearing this garment may have been a sign of his damaged mind at that stage. It could be seen then as a warning that he’d become a type of clone in a blank dimension.

  But it was weird to him to go through these pictures. They informed him that he’d enjoyed a regular surface existence during that lost year; assuming that infidelity or espionage was at all regular. During that shadowy period he had conformed to his routine, even while he undertook incredible deeds, made dangerous moves to expose his employer. Yet these actions stayed beneath his surface awareness, like a microchip beneath the skin.

  Even to recreate his routine during that hidden, sinister period felt strange. It was disconcerting to think about himself living and breathing during that hazy year: To have selected his clothes each morning, to have washed and shaved, with Pixie in bed in the next room, not his wife. This was unnerving enough. Indeed to imagine fulfilling the duties and chores of an average day. To imagine waking up in the morning and falling asleep again at night - this was strange enough.

  Pitt was surprised that Pixie had neglected to destroy these images. Had sentimental regret made her so careless? She could have erased them if she had thought to. Despite himself Clive experienced fresh feelings towards her. His mind made contact with the sensual memories, imprinted by his nervous system. Not only was she breathtakingly l
ovely, but she was remarkably brave and smart. Too smart to forget to eradicate those dangerous images, if she chose, linking her conclusively with Pitt. He’d been so much obsessed with his own fate, that he’d overlooked the dangerous choices she was pressed into making.

  Pitt was sorry to lose the evidence of their relationship. He was tempted to save everything too. But he instantaneously overruled the impulse, to protect them both from risk. Pixie didn’t realise the protective value of her boss’ inappropriate tenderness. But to those hedge fund guys her mementos were like a batch of useless junk bonds. Her keepsake pictures might land her at the arbitrage desk from hell. She would be de-installed from the financial system, despite her impressive capacity in the job, like an obsolete network. So he eradicated all these ghostly traces left behind. He hoped it wasn’t a premonition of their fate or an expression of their fragility.

  Could he really be falling for Pixie again? He was no less a family man than before; or maybe no more of a married guy? Would he be in a position to forget about their affair, and his infidelity, the second time around? Desire for the girl flared up from the bottom of his soul like heat from hard discs.

  26

  Restlessly, finishing up his electronic housekeeping, Pitt took up her car keys and let himself back out. Crossing the threshold, he had to overcome his own dread of what could be waiting. In the outside corridor he encountered a woman in her night dress, in ridiculously fluffy slippers like pink porcupines, who was taking a little handbag doggie for a trot. He guessed that the animal was an illegal resident, as she hustled the creature back inside with guilty looks. However she seemed to recognise him and gave a half smile. Of course he had never seen this lady before in his life. Otherwise his progress downstairs was undisturbed. Pitt took the lift alone and passed through the lobby unchallenged.

  Pixie owned a car but, on a typical day, didn’t like to drive to the office. Not to possess an expensive sports car would be seen as an aberration in their work. You had to spend that part of your bonus that was not placed into shares, or some other tax avoidance gyration. Pixie was the owner of a car but opted for public transport. In fact she was a bit of a Sunday driver, with light dresses and soft leather gloves. As a tenant of this apartment block she could use its underground car park.

  Clive guessed that she would have such a perk. So he went down to find her car, holding the swab that informed him of the marque. On a typical day he would use the Tube and buses to get around town, or sometimes flag down a taxi when in a special hurry, but on this occasion he wanted mobility; not to mention independence of action.

  To complicate things there were a number of cars the same as hers. So he was forced to shift between the rows of vehicles, checking off number plates, as if stealing to order. Fortunately there was not another soul about, in the fumy subterranean area. After a few frustrated attempts to break in to a vehicle he had success; but realised he was about to drive around in a pink Porsche Carrera. To define the colour precisely, it was champagne pink; a highly personalised car that belonged to Pixie Wright. Now he’d draw attention to himself - be highly visible around London - by borrowing this sweet machine for a few hours.

  Pixie enjoyed the material benefits of working at Winchurch Brothers, as did they all. The luxurious life style was lately a symbol of everything she stood to lose. Apart from her life itself that was, because she couldn’t take it all with her. The ideal girl - who often out performed her male colleagues - had become a rogue element too - if only they would notice. But who’d asked her to undermine the deal? Who was the guy who persuaded her to ruin her life?

  Pitt settled his posterior into the soft sculpted seat. He quickly familiarised himself with the Carrera’s busy controls. He was confronted with a crowd of unfamiliar dials, like a lot of round competitive faces through the wheel, silently expressing complicated ideas to him. Yet he was an experienced driver. He worked up ferocity and unleashed a torque of acceleration. This was no particular problem - just the colour.

  Without a second of hesitation he smashed through a security barrier, emerging at the top of an exit slope. The parking attendant barely had time to wipe condensation from the glass of his booth. Pitt was out on to the streets of west London, which were eternally busy. Yet he had to sit and sweat through numerous sets of lights. The jams became frequent as he drove deeper into central London; Notting Hill, Marble Arch, Oxford Circus and beyond. All signs of that flash flood in the night had disappeared. Sunshine burnt through mist; fumes danced agitatedly in the air.

  At this point an imposing limousine pulled out in front of him, like a reflexion across a convex mirror. He was startled to be reminded of the car that took him virtual hostage in the City that day. Somehow this spooked him, this was deja vu. Didn’t he recognise that stretch limo? There surely couldn’t be two the same.

  He couldn’t be completely certain though. Not when there was a fleet of those vehicles working the city twenty four seven. Clive was piqued with himself because again he wasn’t able to memorise number plates.

  “You crafty devil, you’re not making my life easy!” Clive declared. He enforced a radical shift and turn.

  The only way to trace the limo was to give chase. But, even though he took risks and sharp turnings, this proved difficult in the confusion of West End streets. The Porsche got trapped alongside a theatre delivery van, turning down a one way street; and it was near impossible to turn back. There was even a fracas with a team of delivery guys, who were taking scenery into the Duke of York’s theatre. Clive was asking them to wait with a substantial piece of the forest, while they told him exactly where to go. This was terrible luck because the theatre didn’t change productions that regularly.

  The limousine meanwhile had slipped back in to the radiation, as if it had never been, like a cat under a fence. Clive shouldn’t try to give chase to every long car in London. Either he was mistaken about the vehicle, or they had provoked him into a futile pursuit. If they were playing games, then he had to keep control of his nerves. He couldn’t afford to panic; he had to keep a lid on that boiling milk sensation within, if he was going to extricate himself from such a dead end.

  Shaken, adrenaline pumped, he edged back to the Charing Cross Road, struggling to tame the effete beast of a car, hampered by a line of buses and crossing pedestrians. But he was determined to keep a clear head above the darkness.

  27

  Pitt became lost in Hampstead, when he came into the area. He had no satnav gizmos to navigate by. Impatient with himself and his directional skills, forever a perfectionist and his own worst critic, he tried to find his way around that warren of narrow streets and alleys. The imposing Victorian suburb was a maze of anonymous avenues, dead ends and misleads. For him it was easier to get from one side of Leeds to the other on the final shopping day before Christmas.

  Pitt didn’t remember living in the borough; there were no flashbacks, no images of the past. His heart thudded now, his stomach turned to an acid bath, like a foreigner on an expired visa. He suffered these episodes, in which hieroglyphs passed across his mind: the street scene went hazy, the ground swayed, and he was afraid of passing out.

  “This place is a bloody nightmare,” he complained, to himself. “It’s sending me crazy.”

  Finally he decided to park her car and to go by foot, as if setting the difficult game to one side. At least he’d obtained the address of the flat, where Pixie and he had supposedly lived together. He intended to track down this place, take a look at the property, to get a feel for their old life, as he had to begin from somewhere.

  Still, he had to ask frequently for directions; from a grandma with half term charges, a furtive chap carrying his newspaper back home. That wasn’t enough, so he turned to an African nanny and a group of Japanese youngsters who only had enough English to say they were tourists. Clive suspected that he enjoyed asking directions merely to feel back in touch with ordinary life a
nd regular people.

  “Now I am a tourist in my own life,” Pitt told himself bitterly.

  The Nigerian lady pointed him eagerly towards a stairway, and instructed him to continue down. There he reached another steeply inclined street of huge, austere Victorian mansions. Hampstead wasn’t dissimilar from districts of Manchester or Leeds, he realised, except its features were placed back in a different order.

  Pitt rolled his sleeves fully past his elbows and surveyed the landscape. He set off again and cut along a little footpath. This route had a rural quality, and he found himself looking over a series of cottage-like residences. Reaching the end of the lane he emerged on to a wider street, a busier thoroughfare, showing a row of boutique style shops. When he went down to investigate, checking off his scrawled address, Pitt realised it was there, in one of those flats above the shops, he’d been living with Pixie Wright. She’d bought the property as an investment. She’d been keeping up a second home - her love nest. Actually he’d been living with her only months previously.

  Approaching the line of shops Clive looked about, trying to pick up his bearings from the past, yet he couldn’t find the antiques shop. The address seemed to match his notes, but he only noticed a florists’, a wine shop and a furniture shop with apparently new stock. Heat and frustration was starting to get to him. Why did he want to return here anyway? It was out of morbid curiosity and a need to authenticate her story.

  A small dark man rushed from the interior of the florists’. He approached Pitt smiling broadly, extending arms towards him and looking extremely pleased - as if the prodigal son had returned.