Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  “But he wouldn’t feel any disappointment, would he?” Vanessa simply said this as it occurred to her but straight away caught Gerry’s accusatory look and felt a twinge of shame.

  “So that it wouldn’t count, you mean?” Gerry had picked up on the same implication that was seeping through Vanessa’s thoughts and there was a silence while this sank in for both of them.

  “What if he’s making it up? Have we considered that?” – Vanessa, a little hesitantly.

  “Why the hell would he do that? He tells prospective employers that he has what is, basically, a personality disorder; it strikes me as a high-risk strategy and for what? To get sympathy? He doesn’t need it; look – he’s got all the skills, the track record and, you must admit, he is a bit of a charmer. He’ll go far with that package without having to resort to some bizarre made-up condition. That just wouldn’t add up, Van.”

  Finally, she said again: “It is odd.”

  “That aside, he’s the best candidate we’ve had for the department in a long while. Look at the work he’s been doing: all top-draw jobs. That development for Balloch in Huddersfield – Cornel tells me that he ran a team of six on that for nigh on two years. They all worked like billy-o for him; dealt direct with the CEO, Josh McGivern – do you know him? Yes, well you know what he can be like and, apparently, there was no problem at all. The whole thing went like a dream.”

  “I wonder if Josh knew about his . . . thing?” mused Vanessa.

  “Yep, told him up front. Cornel reckons he was tickled by the idea of no feelings . . . ”

  “No scruples; yes I can imagine how that would appeal to Josh – he’s a dream lawyer for a property developer !”

  Gerry laughed and Vanessa had to smile too.

  “Cornel reckons he’s ready for partnership but he’d be coming here as just an Associate – he’s an outstanding lawyer, Van, and we’d be getting him cheap !” Gerry laughed again at his own joke.

  “For the time being” – Vanessa, in a more sardonic tone. “How long before Mr No Scruples is clambering over our corpses?”

  “If he’s ambitious, so much the better. That’s what we always say we want in our young lawyers. He’ll put the work and the time in – we need someone at that level. We need someone able to get onto that riverside job.” One of Stone Rose’s major clients – Grudge Developments – had optioned a whole swathe of Thameside real estate that had missed out on the initial wave of developments in that area in the 80s and were now building a whole new complex of offices and shops that would net millions of pounds, ultimately.

  “I’m fronting it, of course, but I can’t do everything and I need someone like Martin as my wingman. Since Charlie went, I’ve been right up against it.” A perceptible cloud momentarily descended on the proceedings with the mention of Charlie Turner, the previous incumbent in the post of trusty lieutenant, now departed under something of a cloud of his own. However, Gerry was clearly in his stride now and it occurred to Vanessa that he’d put some thought into this Martin proposition.

  “Or wing woman – what about Orla?” she challenged.

  “Oh, Orla’s all right but she’s not got what Martin has, you can see that,” sputtered Gerry. Vanessa raised that same eyebrow again.

  Realising what he had said, Gerry waved his hand dismissively. “You know what I mean. Anyway, Orla’s up to her neck with the Hammersmith job. Everyone’s rammed out at the moment, you know that.”

  “Well, Martin could take that over from Orla and she could do Grudge” – Vanessa’s last stab.

  “I want Martin for that work. I just know he’s the right man for the job,” Gerry suddenly quite firm. So Vanessa called it quits at that point as she realised that, for whatever reason, Gerry had fixed on the idea of having this soulless smoothie as his personal protégé. “Very well, I can see you mean to have him but on your head be it.”

  4.

  Martin Dash is standing in the living room of his flat in Roundhay, Leeds, ironing some work shirts and listening to Radio 4. It’s 9 o’clock, Saturday morning, and the news is on. Martin keeps himself informed of what’s going on; then, when conversations with colleagues or clients turn to politics (not often) or football (more often), he generally knows the subject and can converse.

  Occasionally, he looks through the window of his flat out onto the park where the odd perambulator ambles along the tarmacked paths splitting the carpet of green laid between the railings, trees and bushes and a group of kids are playing football in the far corner. It’s a dull cloudy day outside and in.

  Martin had taken the tenancy of this flat not long after he’d arrived in Leeds (having spent the first few weeks simply renting a room in a B&B) and had renewed it six-monthly ever since. His flat was on the first floor of the middle of a row of three-story 60s blocks just a couple of miles from Chard Bone's offices in the centre. This was convenient as it meant he could cycle to work, take the bus or, even, walk as it might suit him (although he was not like the “Two Jakes” at work – Connery and Twemlow, respectively – who jogged to and from work, religiously).

  The blocks were in a perfectly respectable neighbourhood and populated with young professionals like himself; shopkeepers; firemen; chauffeurs; beauticians; pensioners; and some families (most of them the single parent variety) – normal people, basically. The pale, sandy brickwork and the bright green and blue doors all trimmed with brilliant white panelling meant that the blocks presented a pleasant aspect to the park-goers passing by and the occupants (Martin excepted) were duly pleased.

  His own flat was rented through an agency in the town acting for an unknown owner (in fact, he had seen their client’s name on some original tenancy documentation – a Mr Clough or Clowes or some such). It had been in good condition when Martin took it on and he had maintained it as such since then. It was also furnished, which was another reason it had suited Martin at the outset. This avoided the need to go out amassing furniture and the fact that it represented someone else’s taste was of no concern, particularly as the décor was neutral, like Martin.

  There was very little in the flat in the way of personal possessions, the things that ordinarily give a clue to someone’s personality – CDs, books, DVDs, magazines, booze, clothes, food even. When, on the one occasion that a colleague from work had actually been in Martin’s flat (one of the Jakes, in fact – Connery), he had explained this lack frankly – in the context of his condition – by pointing out that he didn’t really listen to music on his own; there were two CDs he had acquired almost as a mere fact-finding exercise, to hear what was in the records that were being released that seemed to stir people – Girls Aloud: Chemistry and Coldplay: X&Y. Similarly with DVDs, he had The Bourne Supremacy and Saw.

  He had a few more books but even these tended to relate either to his job (there were textbooks on Property Investment and Contract Law) or current affairs; he explained that he felt it important to be able to exhibit some understanding of what was going on in the world when conversing with successful and influential clients. In fact, he advised that much of what he knew was gleaned from television, in any event. Jake had left with the distinct impression that, apart from sleeping and eating (the kitchen’s contents were equally perfunctory), Martin didn’t really do much, on a permanent basis, aside from watching TV.

  Or iron his shirts, as now.

  He heard the clack of his front door letter box, sat the iron back on its haunches, and went to retrieve the missives – a bank statement and an envelope which, he saw straightaway, was from Stone Rose. Inside was a letter, signed by Gerry Bild, confirming that he had got the job.

  Heralding a new start.

  5.

  Martin Dash walks along Rheidol Terrace on his way to Angel Tube station. It's his first day at work for Stone Rose and he’s had a lie-in as he’s not due there until 9:00 am to meet the HR Director to begin his induction. It’s a bright summer morning, June 2006, and he’s just walked out of the door to his new flat at number 23. This was
probably not the most convenient place to live, given that Stone Rose’s offices were in Mayfair but neither was it the most inconvenient – a short walk to the Tube, one change, and then the Piccadilly Line straight down to Hyde Park Corner. The point was that Cornel Vine owned the Islington flat – basically as an investment – and, conveniently, had it coming vacant at the point when Martin was finishing his notice period at Chard Bone. He’d offered it to Martin to rent, without hesitation. He knew he’d have no trouble with him as a tenant, so it suited. He was beginning to look like Martin’s full time sponsor and Martin was duly grateful. In any event, Islington is a perfectly nice place to live, with its mix of solid Georgian houses and laid-back vibe.

  Sunshine bathes the area and it's warm already. The weather has been great since Martin arrived at his new residence on Saturday lunchtime. A number of the houses he passes have window boxes holding splats of colour – purple and yellow pansies, red carnations, blue chrysanthemums – that brighten the scene, happily and confidently.

  There are quite a number of people on the pavements and cars on the road, all hurrying to their work at the start of a new week; many – like Martin – scurrying to the Tube station or bus stops; most – like Martin – to get to the offices in the city centre, throbbing in the distance, to play their roles as accountants, bankers, brokers, consultants, financiers, and lawyers. They are dressed well – in fashion – and Martin blends in perfectly, with his Hugo Boss suit, Thomas Pink shirt and Alden shoes. In fact, you’d probably have to say that he stands out; with that shock of bright blond quiff and moody blue eyes, you might imagine (or, rather, he might be doing the imagining) that he is being (secretly) filmed or, at least, (secretly) observed but he doesn’t have the air of a dandy seeking attention (and yet you will, if you are sufficiently heedful, spot an admiring glance here and there from the women – and some men – who become aware of Martin in the crowd). In fact, you’d almost say that he looks as though he feels awkward or at least self-conscious. His gaze appears to be fixed almost exclusively on the grid of paving slabs as they pass under his feet down below. He looks as though he’s thinking.

  In any event, he’s now moving down Upper Street – the High Street of Islington – with the rest of the mass; past the wine shops, flower shops, bars and cafés and the fresh morning light twinkling on the car mirrors, shop windows and motorbike chrome; the clap-clap-clap of the multitude of footsteps on the pavement like a muted applause for the strivings of Man, echoing the tide on the shore animating smooth pebbles to chat, chat, chat in a syncopated babble; the babble of shore and the squeak of shoe.

  It’s the hub-bub of city life, an alien horror to most country folk but a comforting blanket to those accustomed to it; written afresh at the start of the new century but repeated through the ages of urban history.

  Martin’s ice cream hair bobs along like a fleck of foam on the dark river of North Londoners being drawn into the vortex of the great financial centre that is London. Down the plughole that is the Angel Tube station, into the underground of pipes that rumble through the substrata. Down there with the sewers and drains, the mighty worm holes channelling the food to the belly of the beast.

  6.

  Susan Sachs is sitting in one of the firm brown leather chairs at the back of Café Nero in Curzon Street, reading The Guardian as she sips at her espresso and chews on her Milanese Panini. She could read it online on her laptop but a certain cussed streak in her means that she continues to get her news from the inky, dirty, rustling thing. She feels it’s more authentic.

  Susan loves old film noir, 40s glamour fashion, and basically aches to be Ava Gardner in The Killers. She dresses accordingly, although women’s fashion has, by now, gone through so many permutations it’s reached the point where almost anything can appear to be up-to-date and most of Susan's contemporaries would reference a look like hers to Dita Von Teese rather than the Hedy Lamarr image to which it’s actually directed. So she is now wearing a figure-hugging, knee length cerise dress (on a figure designed for hugging), with rather boxy shoulders and tight sleeves that cling all the way to the bases of her thumbs; maroon three-inch heels; and her auburn hair, glossy and wavy, laps down to her shoulders where it curtains an alabaster throat. Everything about Susan is soft yet firm; everything glistens; everything has been thought through and executed and, to be fair, the result is a job of work. The finishing flourish is a coat of vibrant crimson lipstick applied to full pouting lips, just to make sure you get the picture.

  Her violet eyes flick across the pages of the paper and occasionally she glances at the rest of the café when she turns another page and, at one such point, she sees Martin Dash enter from the street. Her immediate instinct is to catch his eye and wave him over but something makes her hold back, at least for the moment, so that she can observe him, undisturbed, for a little while.

  Gerry Bild had introduced Martin to the team the day before and it looked like she was going to be working with him. He had intrigued her straight away. Firstly, the way he looked – the outright near universal consensus amongst the girls at the office was that he was lush, i.e. gorgeous, fantasy fodder. That baby soft blond hair, the high cheek bones, shimmering blue eyes and sulky full lips ticked all the boxes. He had straight away reminded Susan of someone but she hadn’t been able to pin down who it was. Then, as she watched him at the counter (happily, he hadn’t noticed her skulking behind her newspaper in the gloom at the back), she suddenly recalled who it was – John Fraser as Bosie in The Trials of Oscar Wilde.

  Susan was a film buff and had spent a large part of her young life gazing intently at the stories unfolding before her on the small screen and big screen (she didn’t mind which). Initially, as a girl, she had simply watched what everyone else watched – Grease, Titanic, Footloose – but then gradually honed in on films which bore a certain mark that she considered her favourite style – mostly noir, classic or modern, but really anything that had a germ of real originality, something different (and she would always consider such things as, essentially, noir anyway). So Double Indemnity, Body Heat and Gilda but also Daughters of Darkness and The Trials of Oscar Wilde. She loved the latter mostly because of John Fraser’s Bosie; he was just so achingly beautiful, and bad . . . and she couldn’t quite believe that a facsimile had been plonked right in her lap like this.

  Added to which was the double whammy of this anhedonia thing. Gerry had briefed everyone in a team meeting before Martin’s introduction because, as he put it, “the lad’s behaviour might otherwise appear a little odd.” Peoples’ ears had pricked up immediately and they listened intently as Gerry explained that this was a condition that was essentially only a problem for the unfortunate subject and in no way meant that anyone was at any more risk of harm from the sufferer than from the average man in the street – from Gerry himself, say.

  “Oh God, we’re in trouble then,” joked Davey – Davey Hood, the other solicitor in Gerry’s team, who was at a similar same level as Susan, in the second / third year of 'proper' employment after their two years as trainees. With the other associate, Howard Harvey, the two secretaries and the current trainee, this amounted to seven people in Gerry’s team (including Gerry), now upped to eight with the arrival of Martin. Vanessa’s team of eleven was also in the meeting as the two teams often worked together and were dealt with, administratively, as one unit.

  Gerry explained that Martin was happy for his condition to be disclosed – and, indeed, had asked for that – as he felt it was not something he had to or ought to hide. Maisie, the younger secretary in Gerry’s team, asked quizzically, “So . . . he has no feelings?” It was apparent that she was struggling with this idea, as were a number of the group, to be fair, although it was always a good bet that any question from Maisie wouldn’t be entirely innocent, nor delivered without a degree of mischief.

  “That’s exactly it,” said Gerry, adopting a matter-of-fact tone, as though he were telling them which University Martin had attended. “It’s a psych
ological condition that means the sufferer can't enjoy any of the normal things that the rest of us take for granted, like the taste of food, the sound of music, sadness, laughter . . .”

  “. . . or love,” Maisie finished, smirking.

  “Yes, I’d got money on you being the one to bring that up,” said Gerry wearily but good-naturedly. Vanessa looked less indulgent and actually appeared properly cross.

  “Maisie – all of you,” she retorted with a definite note of irritation. “We realise that this is a little unusual – I mean, the fact that we’re disclosing a person’s medical details at all – but, as Gerry says, it’s something that Martin feels is important to be out in the open and, in fact, as a firm we feel that it’s part of our duty of care – as employers to a new starter – that he not be placed in a position where his behaviour, or rather his demeanour, could be misinterpreted in any way. We want this group to carry on functioning just as well as it’s always done and the fact is that Martin is a thoroughly personable young man and, more importantly, is damn good at the job. He’s come with a very good record and references from Chard Bone and we think he’ll be a valuable addition to the team. As everyone knows, we’re all run off our feet and desperate for good people. Martin looks to be just the sort of person we need to fill Charlie’s shoes and do the liaison – with Gerry – on the Grudge account.”

  “In that event, Susan, you’ll be working closely with Martin, going forward.” Maisie gave Susan a raised eyebrow which suggested she hadn’t taken on board one iota of the admonishment from Vanessa. Word had got up to the Sixth Floor from the girls in Reception that Martin was a bit of a looker and, so far as Maisie was concerned, this meant that the game was on. The fact that the boy in question was apparently the Ice Man himself simply meant a greater opportunity to show what she was really made of. Maisie frankly liked men, or rather men’s attention, and her exertions in the field over a number of campaigns meant that she had come to feel confident that she could actually break the resolve of any man she wanted, if she just put her back into it. She had come to know that every man – virtually – was programmed to react to certain stimuli, if you just knew where the buttons were to be pressed.