Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  Barry turned to Martin and grinned.

  Martin smiled back.

  11.

  Barry was musing on this little incident a week later, as he paced back and forth in front of his dark oak fireplace, cigar in hand, holding forth on a range of issues that appeared to be diverse but were – each in turn – soon reduced to the common theme of the superiority of Barry’s view of them: the level of influence and power wielded by Susan’s father and the high degree of reliance placed by him upon Barry’s own sage counsel; the state of British commerce and how Barry would fix it come the day that he was given the brief by a discerning Prime Minister of the future (probably not Jimmy . . . ); etc; etc.

  The rhetoric was accorded the full degree of gravity that Barry considered it was due, despite the audience on this occasion, regrettably, being limited to just Martin and Joan; the former called to the Hadley Wood mansion for Saturday dinner, the latter constrained to suffer this sort of thing more as a matter of course.

  Barry had decided that it was high time that Martin be admitted to the inner sanctum of 'Rogers Towers', the mock-Gothic pile that he and Joan shared on the top of a hill girded with spruce pine and a patchy brick security wall broken in its whole circumference by just one iron gate at the front and a locked door at the back. (Barry was uncommonly fixated with security, which merely confirmed, for many, the suspicion that the company he kept was as much to be feared as cherished.)

  He had issued the summons to Martin, furtively, during a lull in proceedings at the Sachs party and it was evident – somehow – that the invitation did not extend to Susan. Martin was becoming increasingly valuable to Barry’s operations and Barry, in turn, was becoming increasingly intimate with Martin. For her part, Joan seemed largely content, this evening, to lounge tastefully on her Arab divan and appraise the young tyro beadily as she belted brandy after wine after gin down her maw.

  For Barry, the house was one of the central planks of his prospectus to the world – along with the yacht in Antigua, the chalet in Vail and the Porsche on the drive; proof – to those who would doubt – that this was a man to be taken seriously, not for a ride. It has been built in 1965 for Giles Premander, the acclaimed film director who – along with Hitchcock – had done so much to hold up Britain’s end in the overpowering Hollywood of the post-war years. Its steeply-pitched roofs, pointed arches and oriel windows bore witness to the deep impressions made upon him (consciously or otherwise) by the homes of the stars he befriended on Mulholland Drive and Bel Air Road in those heady days.

  Barry had initially been dubious about buying the property, essentially because it seemed to him so unusual – rather less like the status symbols of other people in the area (by which he took his measure) and rather more like something he remembered from the Addams Family movies. But, when Joan explained that this was exactly the Spanish-style gothic favoured by the likes of Howard Hughes and Orson Welles back in the day, he was sold – although there always remained in the back of his mind the nagging suspicion that he had, in fact, allowed his vixen of a sister to trick him into buying something that would ultimately be revealed as an elaborate joke . . . played at his own expense. But that might, of course, be equally attributable to the old friend who always walked hand in hand with this new master of the house – Brother Paranoia.

  For Joan, however, this place clearly suited her gloomy temperament perfectly, and, in her own mind, she was immediately installed as the tragic mistress, somewhere between the tortured sister Madeline in the House of Usher and the insane Rebecca de Winter, cruelly destroying her husband’s beloved Manderley.

  As he spoke, Barry might have felt the presence of the figures in the huge picture that hung over the fireplace behind him and dominated the area all around. This was the – now (in)famous – image that had originally been created more than 20 years previously, when the Rogers siblings (only ever the two of them) had been rather more outgoing and high-spirited than latterly. They had run with a fairly hectic crowd that swept incessantly across national and continental borders in an increasingly desperate attempt to maintain the initial rush of euphoria from when they had first discovered high-octane partying in their youth. It was a privileged slice of society that took the dissipation of family wealth only marginally less seriously than the parents took its preservation and Barry and Joan duly burned through a good portion of the funds built up by their stockbroker father over many years of diligent graft and carefully husbandry.

  Thus it came to pass, one evening, that the two of them blew into a fetish-themed party at a friend’s large townhouse in Paris, 1983, clad in matching black leather outfits that exposed more flesh than they covered, accessorised with dog collars, leads and whips. At the end of a bumpy and grinding night of pouting, frisking and squealing, the pair were caught in a series of photographs that included the truly arresting image of Barry on his hands and knees, wild-eyed, sweating, snarling at the camera and straining at the leash being pulled hard on his neck by the statuesque figure of his sister towering above and behind him, legs wide apart in fishnets, nipple piercings, a biker’s cap and swirling a black strap high in the air as an apparent prelude to delivering a sound thrashing to the exposed buttocks of the brother beneath her. A bizarre husky sled, pulled not by a noble canine but a coke-addled fiend taken a wrong turn somewhere on the frozen tundra.

  This was the image that now hung above the sober Victorian fireplace and totally transfixed one’s gaze from the moment one entered the room. When Barry first saw the photographs (some weeks after the Paris party and when he’d forgotten they’d even been taken) he was unsure of his reaction – deep down he couldn’t deny a certain thrill of titillation at such a thing (with himself at its centre !) but, at the same time, he wasn’t so naïve that he’d fail to recognise the possible damage that such images could do to his reputation in the serious commercial world he was just then beginning to probe.

  It was only when his mentor at the time (a well-established developer helping Barry out) jokingly suggested it should be framed to intimidate his guests, that Barry started to wonder about the picture’s potential for knocking people off their balance and promoting in them a healthy wonderment as to the kind of man they were dealing with. He realised that such a bold statement – along with other little plays he was also wheeling out – could contribute to the creation of a useful mythic aura about the person of Barry Rogers, the feared market raider who made his own rules. This all appealed to Barry’s rampant ego.

  And thus it was that he had the image blown up to fill a frame that moved with the siblings from house to house, its notoriety happily feeding their own, until it now took pride of place at the top of the hill, lording it over the sceptical neighbours in this splendid Enfield manor. Whenever the subject of the picture was brought up, Joan would simply smirk inscrutably, glad that the picture at least admitted an element of ambiguity into the question of who was the true master of this confused household.

  She was not looking at it now but across at the winsome features of their young guest. Martin was sat back from the hearth, on the left, gazing up at the preening speaker, either rapt in attention or miles away – it was difficult to tell.

  “He’s spoilt that girl, I’m telling you now.” Barry was extemporising on the subject of the younger Sachs daughter. Joan groaned and took another gulp of her brandy.

  “No, no, Joan – I’ve told you: she’s simply spoilt.” Barry stabbed the cigar in his right hand in the direction of his sister. Joan simply rolled her eyes as if to say, ‘Here we go again’.

  “She’s always had anything she wanted. Anything. And she goes around with her nose stuck in the air as though she’s better than anyone else. Not grateful at all. Turns down every marriage proposal that comes her way, like none of them are good enough.”

  “Including Bertie,” drawled Joan, sardonically.

  “Yes, including Bertie,” Barry spat back, emphatically.

  “And what’s wrong with Bertie?! Father’s a
multi-millionaire. Good family. Gone to the best schools. A smashing lad.”

  “And look what she did to him,” Joan could be heard to mutter under her breath, if your hearing was good enough. Martin turned his head to look at her just as Barry intoned: “And look what she did to him.” Martin’s and Joan’s eyes met.

  It was 10 o’clock now and the room was only dimly lit by candelabras on the walls and pedestal tables holding actual candles (another Joan touch). The reflection of one of the flames could be seen flickering in each of Joan’s dark irises.

  “Poor Bertie,” Barry was pressing on – oblivious – with the story of Susan Sachs’ humiliation of Bertie Sanchez; a story that clearly still rankled with Barry, representing – as it had – a serious setback in the grand plan for his personal entrenchment in the upper echelons of London society.

  Bertie Sanchez was the only child of Daniel and Abril, who – having cashed in massive landholdings in their native Argentina to migrate to these shores – had spent the last 15 years buying their way into the connections and affections that bound together the moneyed classes of their adopted country. Barry had, somehow, got his claws into the pair when they were still finding their feet and managed to cling on – tenaciously – ever since, despite the warnings given them from many, more reputable, quarters as to the fitness of the Rogers’ provenance.

  Straight after the completion of his degree, Bertie was brought into ‘Uncle’ Barry’s firm for some expert tuition in how to invest/spend other people’s money (including Daniel’s) and, in time, Barry rather came to view young Bertie as the son he'd never had. Of course, Barry’s friendship with the Rt. Hon. James Sachs had played its part in maintaining his grip on the Sanchez imagination and, when Bertie and Susan began spending time together, he immediately spotted a stupendous opportunity to cement his own position as the vital link between the two grand families.

  All had gone perfectly well right up to the point where Bertie, rather boldly (and rather disastrously, in fact), chose to pop the question to Susan without warning in front of a roomful of friends and family one fateful Christmas Eve. Susan – not unnaturally – was struck rigid by the suddenness and horror of the situation; slapped down the plaintive Bertie with a look that shrivelled his nerve; and stormed out, leaving the assembled throng aghast but warm with the glow of schadenfreude and a terrific story to tell.

  That episode was nearly enough to sever the ties that bound Jimmy and Barry; but only nearly, as they both, ultimately, knew the value that the other brought to their ‘arrangements’. Nevertheless, Barry never quite forgave Susan for the humiliation and the mere mention of her name in his presence invariably triggered an observable narrowing of the eyes.

  “I know you’re friendly with her, Martin,” he droned on, “but I’m telling you now: be very wary of that young lady. And I don’t care if she’s Jimmy’s daughter or not. She’s still a little bitch”.

  “Barry !” Joan barked at her brother with unmistakeable outrage.

  Barry had managed to get himself rather worked up and now, realising he may have overstepped the mark, put his hands up with a (slightly grudging) 'Sorry . . .' to Joan and, then, Martin. Joan glanced across to see Martin receive the apology without any sign of intent appearing in his demeanour, whether to be gracious or to glower. And she wondered.

  “Martin can come and keep me company while I have a smoke,” Joan announced and promptly swung her elegant legs down from the divan to stand upright, brandy glass still clamped in hand. She looked the full Vampira tonight, complete with the figure-hugging black velvet dress, heavy kohl makeup and the trademark fringe that suggested both innocence and villainy. This prompted more narrowing of Barry's beady eyes but she glided across to Martin, nevertheless – hand outstretched and determined to grab some time alone with the boy, regardless of her brother’s feelings. Like a gentleman, Martin got to his feet to take Joan’s hand, nodded to the sullen-faced Barry and trotted after the mistress.

  Out of the room they walked through a short corridor that opened into what appeared to be a large conservatory. Martin looked up to see the night sky through the glass ceiling above them, the silhouetted tendrils of unidentifiable vegetation reaching up, imploringly, to the moonlit panes. They might have been triffids for all Martin knew. They looked like triffids.

  The air in the glasshouse was noticeably more humid, clearly to suit the displaced fauna planted within it. They hadn’t taken many steps along the stone path that cut through the jungle before Martin could feel the sweat rise out of his skin and trickle down the back of his neck. Joan momentarily looked back to check that he was still following her lead in the gloom and, just for a second, the iridescent moonlight that flashed across her showed the wet beads that were forming on her white cheek too.

  Soon enough they reached the other end and Joan eased Martin through a high glass door onto a crunchy pebble path at the edge of the garden outside. Even though it was, in fact, a warm summer evening the contrast of the fresh air from the wet warmth they had just left made it feel cooler and a slight breeze accentuated the effect.

  The path led round to the back of the house, which looked out over the garden to the city below and Joan sat them both on a curved wooden bench positioned to make the most of the view. The moon was bright tonight, rendering the scene ethereal and rare, the silver rays catching the edges of walls and the canopies of trees so that they glistened like snow. Even the centre of the metropolis, though a good distance away, could be glimpsed faintly as a filmy presence brooding on the edge of the horizon.

  Joan said nothing as she lit a Dunhill pulled from the red pack in her clutch and remained silent as she blew the wafts of smoke heavenward.

  Finally, she said what was on her mind – “He likes you . . . you know that?” Joan looked slyly at Martin from the corner of her eye to gauge the younger man’s reaction. There was none but, after a moment, he turned to look at her with an odd look that didn’t seem entirely friendly.

  “How do you mean, Joan?” He was staring straight into the older woman’s eyes and she detected a hardness in his gaze that she hadn’t expected and made her wince inwardly.

  “You know . . .” Another drag on her fag as she searched for the right words.

  “Well . . . you’re a nice boy, aren’t you, Martin?” The words hung in the air.

  Martin smiled. “You’re nice too, Joan.”

  She thought she saw his shoulders relax.

  “And so is Barry.”

  Joan blew more smoke out in front of her and narrowed her eyes to try and see through the cloud.

  “Sometimes he is."

  Martin raised his eyebrows and, with a somewhat laconic expression: “Not always . . ?”

  Joan turned down the corners of her mouth and returned the sarcasm with a stare – “I don’t suppose any of us could be nice all the time, could we?”

  She thought she saw a chuckle sparked, then smothered.

  After a further pause, she continued.

  “My brother – for whatever reason – needs to be on top, Martin. To dominate.”

  Martin said nothing.

  “Sat in this place, he thinks he’s Citizen Kane,” she laughed, drily, “and dreams of Xanadu.”

  “So, there’s a Rosebud?”

  Joan seemed miles away before she replied, “You fucking betcha.”

  She waited for a supplemental question but none came.

  “Look, Martin – I know that everyone views me and Barry as odd. That a brother and sister could live together – stay together – as we have but I don’t give a fuck, OK? No-one knows what is what in other people’s lives and the truth isn’t always so clear. You know what I mean?”

  Joan seemed to want an answer to this and Martin replied straight off: “Yes, I do, Joan.”

  “I’ve had a strange life and I rather think you have too,” Joan’s gaze ran over Martin’s lovely face as she spoke. “You know it’s not easy when you’re trapped; properly trapped. When you know t
here’s no escape.”

  Joan stubbed the cigarette butt on a stone flag, turned to face Martin again, close, and he could discern the slightest signs of tremor under the skin around her eyes and mouth.

  “I want to tell you that you don’t want to pass up all the chances you get, Martin. There may come a day when you wish you had another. Take it from someone who knows.”

  She didn’t cry but bit her lip and a single tear snaked down her smiling face. She let her head drop onto Martin’s shoulder and he put his arm around her, to comfort her. She felt slight, bony. Like a child.

  “You know, not a lot of people realise that Barry and I are, actually, twins.”

  12.

  Martin Dash is sitting on the standard issue executive chair in his office on the sixth floor of Stone Rose’s building. It’s black faux leather upholstery and chrome tubing and it tips back, encouraging you to swivel around and gaze through the window behind you at the city outside – as Martin is doing now.

  He looks as though he’s contemplating something. 'Or is he just gazing vacantly?' thought Susan as she, in turn, gazed across at Martin. She was standing at the printer in the central area of the floor, amongst the secretaries, waiting for a contract to spew out to take to discuss with Martin. 'But, if he is thinking, what is he thinking about?'

  Maybe the new development he was doing with Barry. Since the successful conclusion of the Crack Harbour deal a year ago Barry had gone from strength to strength, apparently bucking the wider property market that was now showing distinct signs of a major slowdown, if not slump. Property traders were now looking to sell their assets and Barry was only too happy to oblige in buying them.

  Bad news had been filtering across from the US for several months now. New Century Financial, which specialised in sub-prime mortgages, had filed for Chapter 11 Bankruptcy in April; last month (July) investment bank Bear Stearns had told investors they would get little, if any, of the money invested in two of its hedge funds after rival banks refused to help bail them out; and, on this side of the Atlantic, French bank BNP Paribas had, just yesterday, issued the news that money could not be withdrawn from two of its own funds because it couldn’t value the assets in them, owing to 'a complete evaporation of liquidity in the market' – a clear sign that the contagion of credit crunch was now beginning to sweep across the whole world’s financial markets.