Too Small to Fail

by Morris Gleitzman

  Mr Langrish paused at Oliver’s desk.

  Oliver had trouble breathing.

  ‘… unexpected,’ said Mr Langrish. ‘And, I have to say, impressive.’

  He dropped the sheet of paper onto Oliver’s desk and moved on.

  Oliver grabbed it and gazed happily at the red squiggle in the corner.

  The lunchtime investors meeting was rowdy, with a lot of angry shouting.

  Oliver was glad he’d decided to hold it on the other side of the footy oval, well away from any teachers.

  First he asked if anyone had any questions.

  Lots of people did.

  The same question.

  ‘Where’s our money?’

  Oliver waited for the shouting to die down. Then, before any karate could begin, he told the meeting how sometimes investments could be a bit late paying up. But, he quickly added, there was no need for stress because insurance was available to guarantee that everyone would get their money.

  He held up a bundle of credit-default-swap certificates, which he’d been up half the night making out of pages torn from his maths exercise book.

  ‘Only five dollars each,’ he said.

  The meeting was still a bit doubtful and suspicious.

  Oliver reminded them that his parents ran an investment bank, so he knew about this stuff. Then he showed them how Mr Langrish had given credit default swaps an A+.

  Suddenly the meeting was rowdy again, but only because everybody wanted one.

  After school, Oliver took refuge in the toilets and locked himself in a cubicle with his school bag.

  He needed the school bag to carry all the cash. Once he’d explained how credit default swaps meant nobody would lose anything, there’d been a blizzard of money that hadn’t stopped, mostly from new shares. That’s why Oliver needed time in the toilets, so he could take a breather and count today’s assets.

  Oliver counted them. He counted them again. It was incredible, so he counted them a third time.

  Seven thousand eight hundred and twenty-five dollars.

  He tapped the numbers into the calculator. He added the amount he had at home.

  Grand total, ten thousand seven hundred and eighty-six dollars.

  Only two hundred and fourteen dollars to go and then he could pay Nancy back. And it was only Thursday afternoon and he had till Monday to do it.

  Barclay was saved.

  Oliver would have shouted with joy, except shouting in the toilets was against school rules.

  Plus, underneath the joy, Oliver was feeling a bit anxious.

  It was to do with his liabilities. Sooner or later he’d have to give everyone double their money back. About twenty thousand dollars, as far as he could work out.

  The only way he could get twenty thousand dollars was to sell another tap, tap, four hundred share certificates.

  But then he’d have to pay, tap, tap, forty thousand dollars back.

  If he sold forty thousand dollars worth of shares, he’d have to pay eighty thousand dollars back.

  And so on.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Oliver stared at the cash in his school bag.

  Cash he didn’t have two days ago.

  Thanks to the miracle of investment banking, money could be made out of nothing. You could get rich. A dog’s life could be saved. It was a brilliant system, more brilliant than Oliver had ever dreamed when he started it. But there was one little thing he hadn’t thought of until now.

  ‘Help,’ whispered Oliver, alone in the cubicle. ‘I don’t know how to stop.’

  7

  Oliver told the security man in the foyer of Mum and Dad’s bank building that he was here to see Hayden Dorevitch.

  Just Hayden.

  Mum’s assistant.

  Nobody else.

  ‘I get the picture,’ said the security man, picking up his phone.

  Oliver doubted that he did. The picture was looking very grim. Oliver had worked out that if he kept selling new investments to pay back the old ones, in a couple of weeks he’d owe the kids at school more than eighty million dollars.

  He was pretty sure even the most successful pet shop in the world couldn’t earn that much.

  Oliver waited impatiently by the lift doors, desperately hoping there was something Hayden could tell him that would explain where he’d gone wrong. Something he’d missed in year five maths. Otherwise he’d have to find another way to save Barclay. And there were only three days left.

  ‘Hi, Ollie, what’s happening?’

  Hayden came out of the lift.

  Oliver kept his voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard.

  ‘I need your help,’ he said.

  ‘Walk and talk,’ said Hayden, steering him into the lift. ‘Things are going crazy upstairs.’

  By the time Oliver explained the problem to Hayden in a way that made it sound like a maths project, and managed to do it without mentioning Nancy or Barclay, and told Hayden not to bother Mum and Dad with any of it, the lift had reached the eighteenth floor.

  ‘The thing I don’t get about investment banking,’ said Oliver, ‘is how to stop.’

  Hayden gave him a grin.

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ said Hayden as they stepped out of the lift. ‘We never have to.’

  Oliver stared at him.

  Was he joking?

  No, he wasn’t.

  ‘Keep the money moving,’ said Hayden. ‘That’s the secret. Never stop and the big bikkies keep rolling in. You can put that in your homework if you like.’

  ‘But what if you owe so much,’ said Oliver, ‘you can’t ever pay it back?’

  Hayden thought about this.

  ‘That’s when you have to be too big to fail,’ he said.

  Oliver frowned. Dad had said that too.

  ‘What does too big to fail mean?’ asked Oliver.

  ‘Simple,’ said Hayden. ‘Why don’t big banks ever go broke? Because we’re too important. If we get in the poo, the government gets us out. Pays our debts. Good, eh? But don’t put that in your homework. Not many people know that. It’s our little secret, right?’

  Oliver nodded doubtfully.

  It was an interesting secret, but it didn’t help much. Oliver was pretty sure he knew what the government would say if he asked them to give eighty million dollars to the kids at school.

  ‘Got to go,’ said Hayden. ‘The share market’s a dead cat today.’

  Oliver wished Hayden wouldn’t use financial expressions involving pets.

  ‘Bye,’ he said to Hayden. ‘Thanks.’

  Hayden hurried into the trading room.

  Oliver saw what was happening in there. People were running around waving phones and pointing at screens and yelling at each other. Dad included.

  They looked even more stressed than usual.

  Oliver envied them. They were lucky. They were big. They had millions of dollars to play with, and millions more from the government any time they needed it.

  He sighed.

  It was all very well being too big to fail, but what could you do when you were too small to succeed? And a dog was depending on you?

  Oliver was about to turn away when he saw something on the other side of the trading room. In Mum’s office, behind the frosted glass, was the silhouette of somebody sitting with their head in their hands.

  They looked upset.

  Oliver hurried over, just about managing not to get trampled by frantic maths geniuses.

  He tapped on Mum’s door.

  No reply.

  He opened it and peeked in. Mum was slumped in her office chair, staring out the window.

  ‘I said no interruptions,’ she snapped.

  Then she looked up and saw it was him.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ she said. ‘I thought you were Hayden. What are you doing here? Where’s Vickey?’

  ‘Downstairs in the car,’ said Oliver. ‘Are you alright?’

  Mum gave a long sigh.

  ‘We’re having a bit of
a stressful day,’ she said.

  Oliver went over and gave her a hug. A cautious one. Usually she didn’t like being hugged in the office. But today it was OK, she let him.

  He made it a long one.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Mum, almost to herself, ‘I wish we didn’t have this bank. I wish we had your pet shop instead.’

  Oliver thought she was joking. But there was something in her voice that didn’t sound like a joke, and when he looked at her more closely he saw she meant it.

  He didn’t know what to say. He’d never seen Mum looking so miserable. Not even the times she tried to ring Granny and Grandpop on the cruise ship and their phone was always turned off.

  Oliver hugged her again.

  I know why she’s so sad, he thought. It’s because she’s got a kind heart and she can’t bear seeing even a few investors in the poo.

  ‘Mum,’ said Oliver. ‘I think I might know how to help.’

  Mum looked at him.

  ‘The customers who lost their money,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you say you gave them a credit default swap each for their birthday last year and forgot to tell them? Which means now they’re insured, and you’re allowed to pay them the money they lost after all.’

  Mum closed her eyes.

  For a moment Oliver thought it was because she was so moved by the brilliance of the idea.

  When she opened them again, he saw it wasn’t.

  ‘Thanks for trying, love,’ she said gently. ‘But you’re in a bit over your head here. Why don’t you go home with Vickey and I’ll see you later.’

  She kissed him on the cheek, stood up and steered him to the door.

  Mum’s right, thought Oliver as he waited for the lift. I am in over my head.

  At school tomorrow he had to make a choice. Give up trying to make the money to save Barclay, or end up owing millions.

  Oliver sighed.

  He knew what he had to do and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  8

  ‘I don’t want it back,’ said Lachlan Bernanke, outraged. ‘No way. Get lost.’

  Oliver ignored him and stuffed fifty-seven dollars into Lachlan’s pocket.

  He’d known it would be difficult, giving all his investors their money back, but he hadn’t realised it would be this difficult.

  Lachlan pulled the fifty-seven dollars out and stuffed it into Oliver’s pocket.

  ‘I don’t want it back till it’s doubled,’ said Lachlan. ‘You can have more time, but I want it doubled.’

  For a few weary seconds Oliver was tempted to keep the money. It would be the easy way to save Barclay. But then he thought of the eighty million dollars he’d owe in a couple of weeks. And how disappointed Mum and Dad would be with him when they had to pay it.

  Oliver looked at the crowd of angry investors milling around him in the playground. He tried to think how Dad would deal with this problem.

  He’d be honest, that’s how.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Oliver yelled to the crowd. ‘I can’t do this any more. I made a mistake. I got the maths wrong.’

  ‘That’d be right,’ said Nathan Fisher bitterly.

  ‘Shut up,’ said a year-six investor to Nathan. ‘If you start a rumour he’s rubbish at maths, there’ll be widespread panic.’

  ‘But he is rubbish at maths,’ said Nathan.

  The crowd started to look anxious. Muttering and jostling broke out.

  Oliver held up his hands for silence.

  He didn’t get it.

  ‘I’m trying to be fair,’ he shouted. ‘Nobody’ll lose their money. Everyone’ll get their fifty-dollar investment back, and their five-dollar credit-default-swap fee, plus two dollars interest. So each of you will get, um …’

  His stressed brain wouldn’t do the sum. He counted the money he was holding in his hand.

  ‘Fifty-seven dollars,’ said Oliver. ‘The two dollars interest is from me to say thank you because I’ve had your money for a day or two. It’s a fair amount, ask any investment banker.’

  The crowd glared at him sullenly.

  ‘If you don’t agree,’ said Oliver, ‘I’ll have to go bankrupt and place all the money in the hands of an administrator. That’s what Google says would have to happen.’

  The investors looked alarmed.

  ‘The administrator would probably be Mr Langrish,’ said Oliver.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said Jai Fleming. ‘Mr Langrish wouldn’t give us a cent till we’d handed in all this term’s maths projects.’

  The investors looked even more worried.

  Oliver held out the fifty-seven dollars to Lachlan Bernanke.

  Sulkily, Lachlan took it.

  The other investors grumpily stuck out their hands too. Oliver unzipped his school bag. As he gave back fistfuls of cash, he could see from everyone’s faces that they’d never forgive him. Life at school would be even more miserable from now on.

  Oliver tried not to think about that.

  He had something bigger to worry about. It was Friday afternoon. In two days Barclay would be facing the knife.

  Oliver glanced at his phone to see if Nancy had replied to his text. The one he’d sent earlier that morning, begging her for more time and promising to come up with a new idea to get her the money very soon.

  Nothing.

  ‘Do you know what you are?’ said Lachlan Bernanke, putting his face close to Oliver’s. ‘You’re a no-hoper. You want to be a big shot, but you haven’t got what it takes. Say hello to your loser life, dumbo.’

  The other investors jeered their agreement.

  Oliver struggled not to get angry and start a fight. He pretended to be busy with something in his bag.

  As he did, a voice yelled out across the playground.

  ‘Which of you mongrels is Oliver Newton?’

  All the investors hesitated.

  Then pointed at Oliver.

  Oliver’s insides froze. For a second he thought it was Nancy, coming for him, knife in hand.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was a girl, walking angrily towards him. She was about his age with a mass of tangled yellow hair and torn jeans and a faded t-shirt and a furious face.

  She stopped in front of Oliver, glaring at him. She was a bit taller than him, which made Oliver feel even more nervous.

  ‘Oliver Newton?’ she said.

  Oliver could see she was extremely angry.

  He hestitated.

  The investors, who’d been a bit stunned at the sight of a girl in the school grounds, all nodded.

  The girl punched Oliver in the tummy, hard.

  Oliver doubled over, choking with pain, and sank to the ground.

  ‘That’s for your parents killing my dad,’ said the girl.

  Oliver lay curled up in agony, eyes closed, trying to make sense of what she’d just said.

  Mum and Dad?

  Kill someone?

  Impossible.

  Oliver was desperate to ask the girl what she meant, but he couldn’t speak. When he finally managed to take a painful breath and open his eyes, she’d gone. All he could see were investors, staring down at him, stunned.

  ‘Oh poop,’ muttered Lachlan Bernanke, looking at him nervously. ‘I’ve just insulted someone whose parents are in the mafia.’

  ‘One other thing,’ came the girl’s voice.

  Oliver rolled over. The girl was almost at the school gate, glaring back at him.

  ‘You can forget about the dog,’ she said.

  She turned and walked out the gate.

  Oliver stood up, trying to grab onto his scrambled thoughts.

  Dog?

  Was she talking about Barclay?

  Oliver realised Nancy must have sent her.

  He felt sick.

  The bell went. The investors hurried into school. All except for Freddie MacLaren, who stayed behind, hovering.

  ‘Your life’s a total mess,’ said Freddie to Oliver. ‘Do you think you should talk to Ms Hinchley?’

  Oliver
shook his head. Ms Hinchley was the school counsellor. There’d be time for that later. Right now he had to find out what the girl had meant about Barclay. And about Mum and Dad.

  ‘Thanks,’ Oliver said to Freddie. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Freddie shrugged and went into school.

  Oliver picked up his bag and hurried to the gate. He peered up and down the street.

  There was the girl in the distance, standing in the bus shelter with her back to him.

  Oliver took a few steps towards her, then stopped.

  Talking to her probably wasn’t the best idea. It would probably be him talking and her punching. If he wanted to find out what was happening to Barclay, the best idea was probably to follow her.

  9

  ‘So we’re just gunna sit here, are we?’ said the taxi driver.

  Oliver peered through the windscreen past the school gate, to where the girl who’d punched him was getting on a bus.

  ‘Just till that bus goes,’ said Oliver, pointing. ‘Then I’d like to follow it, please. But not too close.’

  The driver gave Oliver a look, and started the engine.

  ‘S’pose I should be grateful,’ muttered the driver. ‘If you weren’t such a rich poshy, you’d be getting the bus yourself.’

  Oliver didn’t reply.

  He scrabbled around in the bottom of his school bag, hoping there was a bit of money there that he hadn’t given back to his investors.

  Each time the bus stopped and the girl didn’t get off, he groped for a bit more. By the time the bus stopped for about the tenth time, Oliver had found all the money that was left.

  He watched the bus door anxiously. The girl still didn’t get off. Oliver glanced at the taxi meter.

  Thirty-eight dollars.

  He counted his money.

  Forty-six dollars.

  That meant he only had … not much more. He hoped the girl got off soon.

  Then he had another thought. If Nancy was a farmer now, this could be a very long ride.

  Did city buses go to farms?

  ‘Surprised a bloke like you has to count his cash,’ said the taxi driver. ‘Thought you’d be rolling in it.’