by Roddy Murray
The physical recovery had been impressive and with a job requiring him to visit several gyms on a regular basis it could only get better. With Paddy's help he got a nice rented flat near the sea front. With some help from Mary and the kids he got the flat looking really nice. Assisted by dire threats from Paddy he realised he had probably kicked the drinking habit. Life was good.
This job had lasted for five years in total and his sobriety at least as long. The all new Frank Chisholm had even started studying and had gained some qualifications in fitness training and in social work. He ran along the sea front promenade every day whatever the weather and worked out in two different gyms every day. That side of the job had been easy. Gearing up to talking to men's organisations and trying to spot potential suicides had taken longer. As a sergeant in the army he was used to standing in front of groups of men delivering
information. The change from shouting at soldiers of The Parachute Regiment and addressing the likes of the local Round Table took some adjustment in the style of his delivery. But not too much he soon realised, as part of the job was to be a macho figure saying that talking about such things was okay and didn't make you any less of a man. He gave out leaflets at the presentations and at the gyms and got talking to lots of interesting guys. Whether by his efforts or by chance, the rate of suicide in the region fell steadily enough for the initial three years to be extended to five. After the five years the project was judged such a success by the local politicians that they cancelled the funding and moved on to other hot topics of the day.
Had this happened in the first three years Frank might have struggled to cope with the termination of his contract. But by the end of five years he had grown strong enough mentally and gathered enough useful qualifications to take it in his stride. That is to say he didn't immediately hit the bottle again. He had also developed a plan to set himself up as a personal trainer to the wealthy, a plan he had discussed at length with Paddy and Mary at their house over Sunday lunch each week. This ritual had started as a means of Paddy checking Frank for any signs of a return to a liquid way of life, but as time went on and Frank clearly wasn't drinking, it became something they all looked forward to.
The idea of becoming a personal trainer had started as a bit of a joke, with Frank imagining himself in Hollywood as a personal trainer to the stars. However, it slowly began to take more realistic shape as he learned more about the technical side of physiology, anatomy and the industry itself. He had also started to take a serious interest in nutrition and its part in health and fitness. If you are what you eat then Frank had been a dustbin for about thirty years of his life. A dustbin preserved in alcohol. The all new Frank was quite different though. He had learned about cholesterol, fats, minerals and vitamins. He was now very careful what he put into the finely tuned machine that his body had become. He had attended any formal seminar on the subject which he could and had made a lot of contacts in both the fitness and the scientific communities in Scotland. He had even taken part in a number of studies. He was now in good shape and knew it, which made him a useful source of material for some. Similarly, almost a lifetime of heavy drinking followed by a late conversion to healthy living made him a gold mine of study material for others. Either way he was fairly confident that his new life would last and survive getting the push from the outreach role.
By the time the five years had finished he already had the qualifications, the contacts and even the business cards to set up as personal trainer to the stars; or at least a few fairly wealthy punters in Ayrshire and Glasgow. After a year he had enough clients to pay the bills. He even ran boot camp training sessions on the seafront near his flat. Not quite P Company, he knew, but a profitable little side line.
"I always wondered why more people didn't become soldiers. Looking at you lot, now I know why. You're not up to it. You're weak," he would shout at them as he made them suffer. He would shout and scream at them as though they were recruits. They lapped it up; at £10 an hour each. The more like basic training he made it seem the bigger the classes would become. He even had to get Paddy down to help him out sometimes when he had too many people for one class. Big Frank the Tank was still on a roll.
And so it might have remained if he hadn't had that phone call. It came out of the blue from a research unit on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The boffin who phoned had given his name as Dr Robert Bartleman which had meant nothing to Frank. Bartleman sounded like a Yank, but nobody's perfect, Frank thought to himself. The unit was a commercial venture spun off from one of the universities in Edinburgh and Frank remembered it as one which had carried out some extensive testing of fit people in their middle age some years before. He had taken part at the time and had enjoyed every minute. Total of five hours in the gym each day for a week with scientists who could answer his every question on the human body. An education he would have gladly paid for at the time. Instead he had been paid for his troubles and had been housed at one of the capital's finest hotels throughout. Lovely room, swimming pool and hot and cold running women to talk to every night in the bar. Soft drinks all round of course.
Now they wanted him to come through again, at their expense, for further tests as his profile was "particularly interesting". They would of course pay him and at a more generous rate to compensate for him for having to leave his own business interests and arrange cover. Three weeks in total was on offer. Just him this time apparently, which he reckoned was a big result over the other subjects from the first trial. In a way he was right but not exactly how he imagined at the time. He thought it over for about four seconds before agreeing. They seemed very flexible on exact dates but were keen that it was sooner rather than any later than could be avoided.
Frank started with a call to Paddy to see if he could cover some of the classes. The morning boot camps on the seafront would be easy enough and useful cash into the bargain. The private clients were a non-starter for Paddy though as he was busy with work and committed to being stuck in his office.
"I'm still in touch with a lot of the lads," he told Frank. "Leave it with me and I'll have a ring round"
That evening Paddy phoned Frank back with two names he knew who were reliable and lived in the area. Paddy had seen them recently enough to know they had kept themselves in good shape. Both worked shifts but between them they could cover almost all of Frank's personal training commitments. Hopefully the few clients in the gaps would be understanding enough.
Frank had been busy too. If this trip was anything like the last one he would need to look his best, especially in the hotel bar at night. He had been shopping like a woman he thought; new shoes, new gym kit, new clothes for the evenings and even a new pair of designer pyjamas. He had kept the receipts in the hope that his new fans might pick up the tab. They had sounded so keen for him to come and seemed to have money to burn that you never know. If you don't ask you don't get, he thought. Sometimes you did ask and still didn't get but it was worth a punt.
A new suitcase and a new designer sports bag were included in his new possessions. He wanted to look the part wherever he went with this crowd in the hope that there would be further work from them. He had carefully packed all the new gear in his bags and then gone for a long run in his old running kit. When he had finished the run he stripped off, throwing all of his kit except his training shoes into the bin then had a shower. He dressed in the new tweed jacket he had treated himself to, matched with a very expensive pair of designer jeans and waited for the courtesy car which Nebus Bioscience had kindly insisted on sending for him. He had visions of a stretched limo with a big black driver-cum-minder from New York in livery wearing a matching peaked cap, but anything smart and free would do.
In the event, five minutes before the appointed time, a large Audi estate pulled up from one of the local agencies that serviced Prestwick Airport with a local guy in a wellworn suit. Only slightly disappointed, Frank grabbed his bags and placed them carefully in the boot of the car.
"I'm Frank," said Frank to
the driver of the Audi.
"Bob," the driver replied shaking hands and wondering vaguely why someone would pay the agency rates to drive Frank to the outskirts of Edinburgh. But really he didn't care. Frank was chatty and pleasant enough, unlike some of the passengers he'd had to drive over the years. The whys and wherefores didn't matter.
Chapter Four
This year’s visit was going particularly well, Blaine thought to himself. As the plants in the U.S. struggled to even maintain volume, Scotland was benefitting hugely from European demand. Old Cumnock was close to its capacity workforce of 450 and he and his European manager had already discussed a second Scottish plant in serious terms. All they needed now was a sufficiently frightened local authority to pay for it all, and they had one in mind on the other side of the country. Money was being made here which more than made up for the drop in profits in the States, and that meant that Blaine could stay bullish about the whole company in his quarterly results briefings when the CEOs of other similar companies could not. This made him popular with shareholders, staff, business journalists and the banks. All the faces in front of him, for all their poor grooming and apathy, had brought him success whether they liked it or not. He certainly liked it. He genuinely hoped that they were pleased with his lavish praise and promises of job security for the foreseeable future.
Delores had excused herself from this particular presentation for two good reasons. Firstly, she was reading a good book and wanted to finish it. Secondly, it was to the night shift of Old Cumnock and was taking place late at night. As a result she had stayed at the hotel and taken advantage of its wide variety of health treatments and its visiting hairdresser, a pretty, local girl called Jean Blackmore who had taken great interest in Delores' hair. Thus pampered and groomed to perfection she was sitting in the lobby of the hotel reading her book. She knew Blaine would be some time yet but hopefully by the time he had briefed the nightshift her book would be finished and she could focus on making his dreams come true in the hotel room. That was what he wanted and that was what he would get. Partly because he was fun and worked very hard at pleasing her in bed. Partly too, because this had given her career a boost when others had struggled. Most of all, though, because when she was with Blaine she felt safer and further away than she had ever felt before from the grinding poverty she had grown up with.
Although the book was absorbing she couldn't help looking up each time somebody walked into the hotel. People-watching was almost as much fun as a good book. Where were these people from? Was that man with his wife or his secretary? Was she really going out with him? No doubt some people-watchers asked the same questions about Delores and Blaine. At 50, he was 20 years older than she was. He had put on a few pounds more than suited him. Quite a few pounds. He was quite tall but neither dark or handsome. But what was clear as soon as you looked at him was that he was confident, rich and successful. That would be reason enough the watchers would think, for a girl like Delores to go out with him.
As the automatic doors whirred open near midnight, Delores looked up and almost dropped her book. Through the door strode the Chairman of Nebus, Dan Bartleman.
Dan was a billionaire several times over and the largest shareholder in Nebus. He was the largest shareholder in a number of companies but took a particular interest in Nebus as he saw it as the best bet for stellar growth at this time. He was in his early 70s but had the drive and determination of a man half his age. And one who had better knees. He limped as he walked but he still walked quicker than most people. As a result he had left his travelling companion some distance behind. Dan turned and shouted "come on man" to an unseen figure in that unique way of his which was at the same time both jovial and career threatening.
After a pause long enough for the automatic doors to close and then open his companion caught up. Delores was again taken by surprise. The trailing figure was the corporate doctor, Victor Zelnik, who, as far as she was aware, had never left Nebraska before on company business. He may never have left Nebraska full stop. She had a moment’s panic in case Dan was annoyed at her missing the nightshift's presentation but she needn't have worried.
As soon as he saw her he limped over at speed and said, "Good evening Delores. I am so please to find you here alone. Vic and I have taken the jet over to see Blaine on a matter of supreme urgency. Having you here will cushion the blow."
Delores was reeling at this and asked what was wrong. A dozen different possibilities swirled round her head, most of which involved Blaine getting fired.
Unfortunately, Dan had said all he was going to say on the subject for now.
"Can't say any more till Blaine gets here. He has to hear it first," he said.
Delores knew better than to press for details but was worried sick, as much for her own future as for Blaine’s.
Dan moved to the reception as his luggage was brought in from the car. A single suitcase which she recognised as the emergency one he kept with the corporate jet. No luggage arrived for Dr Zelnik. This was even more worrying, suggesting as it did that he had been dragged away from his routine of annual health checks in such haste that he had not been given time to pack. This was confirmed as she heard Zelnik organise a toothbrush, paste and other basics from the receptionist.
Dan ordered a waiter, so that he could order a drink and joined Delores while he waited. They sat in silence which was unusual for Dan. When the waiter arrived he asked for a double scotch, to which the waiter reeled off a long list of available options. Dan looked up bemused and impressed at the same time before remembering that he was, after all, in Scotland. After a pause he ordered a Macallan which was in truth the only one of the list he could remember. He looked at Delores to suggest she also ordered a drink. She rarely did but decided that in the circumstances a gin and tonic might be wise. When Zelnik, a lifetime teetotaller, ordered a large bourbon she knew there was trouble ahead.
Before and after the drinks arrived Dan forced them all into making small talk about the company, his flight over, the Scotch, in fact anything that came into his head. In this way they passed the time till Blaine arrived back from briefing the Old Cumnock staff.
When he did arrive at the hotel, greatly anticipating a beautiful and fragrant Delores waiting alone for him in the lobby, he was rather annoyed to see her sitting with two older men. When he realised who they were though, he immediately cancelled any anticipation of a night in the sack with Delores and put on his best poker face. The one he wore to emergency meetings when they occurred. The face that said to everyone: "Whatever it is, Blaine McCoard can deal with it, so don't worry." He wasn't sure this time if it was working.
Dan Bartleman rose to his feet when he saw Blaine and limped a swift three paces to shake his hand.
"How'd it go, son?" he asked.
"Good thanks. I think job security is the biggest issue here and I was able to give them that in spades," said Blaine. He noted Dan's head nodding and also noted that Dan didn't give a shit about his answer. This was not good but Blaine couldn't think why on earth Dan was here or why old Zelnik had tagged along. Maybe Dan was ill. He saw Dr Zelnik sneak a sip of Bourbon and thought: "Christ! Dan must be very ill."
Dan didn't sit down but gestured that Blaine should. He paused without speaking for a second or two and did some strange hand rubbing thing that none of them had seen him do before. Usually he got straight to the point; went straight for the jugular if necessary. But not tonight.
"Blaine, Vic and I have flown in with some news for you. Not good news I'm afraid," said Bartleman. “I’ve asked Vic to give you the low down then we'll talk together in private."
With that he indicated without room for doubt that Delores should follow him as he limped at speed to the residents’ lounge. She followed looking back at Blaine with a shrug of the shoulders which told him she was no wiser to events than he was. Blaine was starting to worry. Things had a pattern in Nebus under Dan Bartleman. Everyone in senior management knew where they stood, especially if it was on t
hin ice. ‘Dan the man’ did not shy away from delivering bad news, whether it was to shareholders or board members. If he was here to fire Blaine, and he could think of no good reason why he would, he would have delivered the salvo himself. He would never deputise that one and certainly not to old Doc Zelnik who had nothing to do with business operations.
"Nice place here," mumbled Zelnik and then started again. "Blaine I'm here with the results from the last annual medicals. You know we do every possible test we can on the senior staff. I like to think it's because we work for a caring employer but we both know it is so that any threat to the bottom line from senior staff's ill health is picked up as early as possible. We can then hopefully treat them successfully or minimise the impact of their illness with succession planning before things go public."
Blaine was hearing Vic Zelnik talk but the words were from Dan Bartleman's vocabulary. What on earth was this about? Was Dan about to snuff it and wanted Blaine ready to step in? Dan could be a terrifying person to deal with but Blaine felt they had always got on well. He liked Dan's no nonsense approach to business and, if he was in fact ill, Blaine would genuinely miss the old bastard.
Zelnik's next words hit him like a rifle shot.
"I'm afraid you are very ill, Blaine. There's no easy way to break this but you are terminally ill with cancer."
Blaine sat back, wounded. He stared at Zelnik hoping he had mixed up the words and said the wrong thing but the unusually steely professional look staring back at him said no. He had always found Dr Zelnik, or Old Vic as he was affectionately known, a figure of amusement at Nebus. Unconcerned by profit margins or quarterly figures, he seemed to bimble about his medical suite taking samples and dispensing painkillers or other basic pills to the staff at head office almost as a bit of comic relief to the serious matter of making money which engrossed everyone else there. Now he was not a figure of fun, there was no amusement from the calm, bedside manner he used to describe Blaine’s impending death.