Too Small to Fail

by Morris Gleitzman

  A bank on the eighteenth floor of a big tall important building like this one was much safer.

  For money and dogs.

  Oliver hurried through the gold-framed sliding doors and told the security man who he wanted to see. Then he sat on the squeaky leather sofa and waited for somebody to come down and collect him.

  He felt better now he was here.

  Mum and Dad would make everything OK. They were upstairs now, doing very fast things with numbers and earning heaps of money.

  Making big bikkies, that’s what Dad called it. Big bikkies meant millions of dollars, so how could a measly eleven thousand dollars be a problem?

  Eleven thousand was little bikkies.

  The important thing, Oliver reminded himself, was to keep Mum and Dad calm. He mustn’t get them worked up. If Dad heard an investor was threatening a dog with a knife, he’d probably get police snipers involved very fast.

  Oliver imagined Nancy and Barclay in a hail of bullets and started to feel sick and anxious again.

  The lift door opened and Dad strode out.

  ‘Ollie, what a nice surprise.’

  ‘Hi Dad,’ said Oliver.

  ‘What’s wrong? said Dad. ‘You look stressed.’

  Oliver opened his mouth to ask Dad about Nancy’s money. But Dad didn’t give him a chance.

  ‘Maths test today, huh?’

  Oliver stared blankly at Dad.

  Then he remembered the maths test at school. It had been first thing after lunch. Which felt like weeks ago.

  ‘What did you get?’ said Dad.

  ‘Seven out of twenty,’ said Oliver in a small voice.

  He saw Dad give a sigh, and try to hide it with a sympathetic nod.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Dad.

  Oliver wished Dad wouldn’t keep saying that each time he had a maths test. It wasn’t bad luck. He was just hopeless at maths.

  ‘That’s not why I’m here, Dad,’ said Oliver.

  Dad wasn’t listening, he was flicking through messages on his phone.

  ‘Come and say a quick hi to Mum,’ he said, steering Oliver towards the lift without looking up from the screen.

  Oliver got ready to grab his chance in the lift, because once they were upstairs he knew Dad would be too busy. No problem, eighteen floors was plenty of time to ask Dad about Nancy’s money, and for Dad to chuckle and explain it was OK, the money wasn’t really lost.

  They stepped into the lift.

  ‘Dad,’ said Oliver as they started to go up.

  Dad’s phone rang.

  Oliver tried to stay calm. Dad must be the only person in the world whose phone worked in a lift.

  Above the lift door, numbers were flickering. Oliver stared up at them. He only had fifteen floors left. Or fourteen, or … he couldn’t work it out. Not when he was stressed.

  ‘Yes to ten million,’ said Dad into the phone. ‘Yes to sixty-two basis points. Seventy-four mill? He’s dreaming.’

  He hung up.

  ‘Dad,’ said Oliver.

  ‘I love lifts,’ said Dad. He was looking up at the numbers too. ‘They make me feel like an asset-backed derivative starting off at one dollar and going all the way up to eighteen dollars.’

  Normally Oliver would have asked Dad what an asset-backed derivative was, but not now. He only had one floor left.

  ‘Dad,’ said Oliver. ‘Nancy who used to be our housekeeper thinks you’ve lost her money.’

  The lift came to a stop.

  Dad stared at Oliver, frowning.

  ‘Clients shouldn’t be pestering you, Ollie,’ he said. ‘Where did you see her?’

  Oliver started to explain how each day after school he spent time in the shopping centre while Vickey was in the supermarket.

  Dad’s phone beeped.

  ‘Walk and talk, Ollie,’ he said, steering Oliver out of the lift.

  Before Oliver could tell Dad about Barclay, they were past the reception desk and outside the trading room.

  Oliver knew he had no chance now. The trading room was big, almost as big as the living room at home, and full of computer screens and maths geniuses wearing Bluetooth headsets, most of them wanting to ask Dad things.

  But today Dad paused before he went in.

  ‘Listen, Ollie,’ he said. ‘Customers come to us because we’re smart and we make more money for them than regular banks. But if people want big bikkies, they’ve got to understand there’s risk. Some investments turn to poo. That’s just how it is.’

  Oliver couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Dad often talked about big bikkies, but he’d never mentioned anything about poo.

  ‘Mum’ll explain more,’ said Dad, and went off with a man who’d been yelling ‘Tokyo’ at him.

  Oliver stood there, stunned.

  It must be true.

  Mum and Dad had lost Nancy’s money.

  Oliver felt cold panic rising inside him. He hurried over to Mum’s office, trying not to think how Barclay must be feeling.

  Mum was having a meeting with a couple of people. When she saw Oliver she signalled to him to wait. After a couple of minutes she came out.

  ‘Love,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here? Where’s Vickey?’

  ‘In a traffic jam,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s not her fault.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Mum. ‘Is it the maths test?’

  Oliver shook his head.

  ‘Something else,’ he said. ‘Remember Nancy from when I was little? She was at the shopping centre today and she’s really upset about you losing her money.’

  Mum stared at him.

  ‘Nancy?’ she said. ‘Housekeeper Nancy?’

  Oliver nodded.

  ‘I don’t get,’ it he said. ‘I thought you and Dad were really clever with money.’

  Mum sighed.

  ‘We are love,’ she said. ‘This doesn’t happen often. Well, it didn’t used to.’

  She turned to a man at a nearby desk, who Oliver remembered was her assistant.

  ‘Hayden,’ said Mum. ‘Could you check our client list for a Nancy Turner. See if she’s one of the … you know.’

  ‘Difficult ones,’ muttered Hayden.

  ‘I don’t like that expression,’ said Mum.

  Oliver hesitated. He didn’t want to take sides against Mum, but this was urgent.

  ‘I think Hayden might be right about Nancy being difficult,’ said Oliver.

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Mum.

  ‘If she doesn’t get her money back,’ said Oliver, ‘she’s going to do something to her dog.’

  Mum looked puzzled.

  ‘Do something?’ she said. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Kill him,’ said Oliver.

  Mum blinked.

  ‘Did she actually say that?’ said Mum.

  ‘No,’ said Oliver. ‘She didn’t actually say it out loud. But…’

  ‘But you thought it,’ said Mum gently.

  Oliver nodded.

  Mum gave his shoulders a weary squeeze.

  ‘Love,’ she said. ‘Do you think you might be watching too many scary movies?’

  Her mobile beeped and she glanced at the screen, then looked back at Oliver.

  ‘An investor wouldn’t do a thing like that,’ she said. ‘Not even an upset one. You’ve got an amazing imagination, Oliver, and a good heart. Just try and worry about things a bit less, eh love? Except for your maths.’

  Oliver wanted to tell Mum he hadn’t imagined it. Before he could, one of the people in Mum’s office came out and tugged the sleeve of Mum’s jacket and put a phone into her hand. Mum tried to push the phone away, but the person whispered to her, and Oliver could see it was urgent.

  ‘Sorry love,’ Mum said to Oliver. ‘We’ll have to talk later at home. Hayden will look after you now.’

  She gave Oliver a kiss on the cheek, went back into her office and closed the door.

  After a moment she opened it again.

  ‘How many?’ she said.

  ‘Seven out of
twenty,’ said Oliver.

  Mum sighed and gave him a sympathetic look. She started to say something, but one of the people in her office tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the phone in her hand. Mum wearily closed the door again.

  Hayden came over.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ he said. ‘The lift’s this way.’

  Oliver started to thank Hayden and remind him that people in year five could find their own way to lifts. But Hayden was already striding ahead.

  Oliver decided to do some walking and talking.

  ‘Hayden,’ he said, catching up. ‘When an investment turns into poo, will the bank ever give the person their money back if they really need it?’

  Hayden stared at him, then chuckled all the way to the lift.

  Oliver assumed that meant no.

  It didn’t seem fair.

  ‘Why not? said Oliver. ‘The bank can afford to give them some money back. You’ve got millions.’

  ‘That’s right, we have,’ said Hayden. ‘And that’s the whole point. We’re big. We can’t worry about every little investor. It’s like when you build a sandcastle. Sometimes grains of sand roll off the sides. But if you want a big castle, you don’t stop and worry about every little grain.’

  Oliver thought about this.

  Before he could explain the difference to Hayden between people and grains of sand, the lift doors opened.

  ‘You’re a very lucky boy,’ said Hayden. ‘Your parents are building a very big sandcastle. One day you’re going to be a very rich man.’

  In the lift, while Oliver watched the numbers flicker from eighteen all the way down to one, he tried to tell himself that Hayden was an idiot who didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Trouble was, Hayden had a PhD in Applied Mathematics, Mum had said.

  Which means, thought Oliver sadly, Hayden probably does know what he’s talking about.

  The bank isn’t going to give Nancy her money back, and unless I can get it for her, an innocent dog will die.

  4

  Oliver was feeling too anxious to stay in his bedroom, so he went out onto his balcony and stood staring at the lights of the city.

  At night there were squillions.

  Normally he found them relaxing to look at, specially the ones on the eighteenth floor of Mum and Dad’s bank building across town. If he used his binoculars, he could see their office windows. Some evenings he was sure he could actually see them, working late into the night and getting even richer.

  Tonight he didn’t even bother looking.

  All he could think about was a poor scared dog. Barclay was out there somewhere, probably locked in the ute and terrified.

  Oliver spent a few minutes trying to spot the ute with his binoculars. But he couldn’t see all the city streets, not even from up here in the penthouse, not even if he squinted till his eyeballs hurt.

  ‘Don’t worry, Barclay,’ whispered Oliver. ‘I’ll get the money somehow.’

  He looked at the list he’d made on his iPad of the things he could sell. Starting with his iPad. Followed by his computer, his Xbox, his PlayStation, his 3D-TV, his blu-ray burner, his leather jacket, his binoculars, his noise-suppression headphones, his skis (never used) and his souvenir test footy bedside lamp (only used with a forty watt bulb).

  Three thousand dollars for the lot if he was lucky. Buyers could be really stingy on eBay, Oliver had checked.

  Plus nine hundred and eleven dollars in his savings account.

  Grand total, three thousand nine hundred and eleven dollars.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Numbers didn’t lie, not when you used a calculator.

  Oliver stared at the moon floating in the dark sky like a big zero.

  Seven thousand and eighty-nine dollars more. That’s what he needed to save Barclay’s life. And he didn’t have a clue how he was going to get it.

  Oliver sat at the dining table eating his dinner and wondering if there was anything else in the apartment he could sell that Mum and Dad wouldn’t notice missing.

  Small things would be best. Dad’s spare diamond cufflinks. Or Mum’s expensive Italian shoes, just the ones she didn’t wear any more. Or the very small genuine eighteenth century antique painting in the guest toilet. Or the remote for the car, which Dad was always moaning cost heaps to replace each time a driver lost it.

  ‘Oliver, what’s wrong?’

  Oliver looked up, startled.

  Vickey had come out from the kitchen.

  For a second he was tempted to tell her everything. But he didn’t. Vickey was very strict about not doing more than she was paid for, and Oliver was pretty sure she wasn’t paid to save dogs from killer ex-housekeepers.

  ‘You’re not eating,’ said Vickey. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  Her face was pink from cooking and her curly hair was drooping from the steam. Oliver felt sorry for her because he knew how cross Mum got with housekeepers if he didn’t eat properly.

  ‘It’s delicious,’ said Oliver, taking a mouthful of lobster wrapped in bacon.

  ‘So eat it,’ said Vickey. ‘I knock off soon.’

  ‘You’re a really good cook,’ said Oliver. ‘You should go on telly.’

  Vickey rolled her eyes.

  ‘I mean it,’ said Oliver.

  He did. If Vickey got sacked, at least after being on telly she could open her own restaurant or invent a chopping board.

  ‘If I went on telly,’ said Vickey, ‘I wouldn’t want to cook, no way. I’d do something that didn’t make my hair go flat. Like hosting a glamorous lifestyle show about rich people. I could start with you lot. I heard your dad say this dining table cost twenty-eight thousand dollars.’

  Oliver stared at the table.

  ‘I know,’ said Vickey, going back into the kitchen. ‘Ridiculous, eh?’

  But Oliver only half-heard her because he was deep in thought.

  Oliver lay in bed, too excited to sleep.

  He’d been through the plan umpteen times in his head and he was pretty sure it would work.

  There were three simple stages.

  (1) Use his savings to buy a table that looked like the real dining table (yellowy-coloured wood with specks in it) but was much cheaper.

  (2) Advertise the real dining table on eBay.

  (3) Sell it for eleven thousand dollars.

  (4) Give Nancy her money and save Barclay’s life.

  OK, four stages, but it couldn’t fail.

  Could it?

  All around Oliver’s room, tiny red and green and orange lights glowed and winked in the darkness.

  ‘Too risky,’ they seemed to be saying.

  Oliver sighed.

  They were smart, his Xbox and PlayStation and iPad and blu-ray burner and 3D-TV and noise-suppression headphones, but sometimes they worried too much.

  ‘Mum and Dad’ll never notice,’ said Oliver. ‘They only eat at that table about once a year.’

  He realised he was doing it again.

  This is pathetic, he thought. I’m talking to electrical goods like they’re pets.

  Oliver rolled over in bed so he wouldn’t have to look at the winking lights. As he did, he heard Mum and Dad come out of the lift into the living room.

  A few moments later, Mum crept in.

  ‘Are you still awake?’ she whispered.

  She sat on Oliver’s bed and switched on his bedside lamp.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about your visit to the bank this afternoon,’ she said. ‘You looked so stressed.’

  Oliver opened his eyes. Mum reached out and held his shoulders tight. She looked at him with a strange expression. Sort of sad.

  Suddenly he wanted to tell her about Nancy and Barclay again. So at least she’d understand later on if she spotted the dining table was missing.

  ‘Mum …’ he said.

  She put her finger over his lips.

  ‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘I need to say this. Me and Dad know we work very long hours. We wish we could be at home more.
But we’re doing it all for you, love. For your future. So you’ll be safe and secure. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oliver.

  He tried to give her a grateful smile.

  ‘We owe you a lot of time, love,’ said Mum. ‘One day we’ll pay you back. In a couple of years we’ll be able to sell the bank and retire, and then we can be together as a family. Which’ll be wonderful.’

  Oliver nodded.

  It would be. Really wonderful.

  ‘Go to sleep now,’ said Mum, kissing him on the head and switching off the lamp. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Oliver opened his mouth to have one more try at telling her about Barclay, but she’d gone.

  ‘Night,’ he said sadly.

  He closed his eyes and thought about how you can’t tell somebody something if they don’t want to hear it. He’d learned that from the electrical goods.

  A couple of moments later, Dad came in and sat on the bed and switched the lamp back on.

  ‘G’day mate,’ he whispered. ‘You still awake?’

  Oliver opened his eyes and nodded.

  He decided not to try to tell Dad about Nancy and Barclay. Dad would probably listen, but Oliver had a horrible vision of the army being rung and of an entire ute, including a small dog, being torn apart by SAS gunfire.

  ‘I just want to put your mind at rest,’ said Dad. ‘About any rumours you might have heard.’

  Oliver looked at him.

  ‘Rumours?’ he said.

  ‘There’s been some stuff in the news lately,’ said Dad. ‘About investment banks like ours having problems. It’s all just gossip. Our bank’s fine, so you don’t have to worry.’

  Oliver tried not to.

  He also tried not to think about Barclay.

  It wasn’t easy.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Dad, ‘even if things do get a bit wobbly out there for a while, we’ll be OK. Our bank’s been successful for a long time. We’re too big to fail.’

  Dad looked happy at this thought. Oliver wasn’t so sure. He remembered hearing at school how Freddie MacLaren’s big brother, who was the tallest kid in his high school, had run into a goalpost and got concussion and flunked year twelve. So you were never too big to fail.