“Come in, come in,” came the abrupt response. Inside, among the rows of labelled jars and lit bunsen burners, there was Bill huddled over a pile of messy papers. Without looking up, Bill said, “I can’t make head nor tail of it. We’re going to go bust. That’s all there is to it.”
“What are you trying to do?” replied Gordon cautiously.
“I’m trying to make some more of that fertiliser that fool of a Scientist was making. If I can’t get more of it, we won’t be able to make enough carrots and I’m finished.”
Gordon wasn’t sure why Bill was being so honest with him but he figured that illegally burying a body must bring men closer together.
“Did he have any instructions or a formula to follow?” asked Gordon.
“He did, but I can’t follow it. Here, you have a go. I need to put the men to work.” Bill strode purposefully out of the hut thrusting a pile of crumpled up papers into Gordon’s hand. Before he left and walked up the hill, Bill poked his head round the door and said, “You’re a good lad. I know you won’t tell any of the others about this, okay?”
Gordon just nodded.
*
Joan was frantic; she had been phoning Richard’s office at Shure Stock for 2 days now and getting no response. In fact, no-one was answering any telephones in the whole office. She had even gone next door to see if Richard’s parents knew what on earth was going on but, again, no reply. There was even a few days’ worth of milk on the front doorstep until Joan decided to put them in her fridge.
“Just sit down, love. I’ll make you another cup of tea,” said Pete in his most calming voice after watching his wife pace around their front room for another 20 minutes.
“I won’t sit down. And I don’t want another cup of tea. Is that your answer to everything?” ranted Joan at the top of her voice.
“A nice cup of tea wouldn’t hurt, would it?”
“I don’t want tea. I just want to know what has happened to our money. Where the hell has Richard gone? And why is no-one answering the phone?”
“I’m not sure what’s going on over there but I’m sure it will work itself out. Even if we lose the money, it’s not the end of the world. We have some saved up and we own this house. It was a risky investment anyway. Carrots…I ask you.” As Pete was talking, a pained look came over Joan’s face and she sat down.
“Do you know how much money we invested, Pete?” asked Joan, looking directly into Pete’s eyes.
“Of course. 10 thousand pounds. Now do you want that cup of tea? It will calm you down.”
“Sit down, Pete. I have something to tell you.” Pete sat down opposite Joan, a puzzled look creeping across his face. “I didn’t invest the 10 thousand like we talked about. I thought it was a sure thing. All those things Richard kept saying to me. God, I feel like such a fool now.”
Pete stood up, his left hand trembling a little. “What did you do?” he asked nervously.
“I invested a 100 and 50 thousand pounds in the carrot farm.” And, with that admission, Joan began to cry.
*
Gordon had been working on following the Scientist’s formula all morning with varying levels of success. He knew what the end-product was supposed to look like: a strange shade of greeny-blue; and what it smelt like: a distinctive blend of cabbage and cheap aftershave. But the best of his efforts were wildly off. He knew, given time though, he could manufacture the formula. Walking up the hill and completely lost in his own thoughts, Gordon walked past the house where his lunch was waiting for him. It wasn’t until he had an impromptu coughing fit that he realised where he was. He was about to turn round and walk back to the front of the house when something caught his eye. It was Bill’s wife in the back garden. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the sun occasionally glinting off the trinkets on her fingers. She appeared to be burying something in the back garden. It looked like a large casket of some sort. Gordon shook his head, filing the information, and walked away to his lunch.
*
“You did what? How?” exclaimed Pete at the top of his lungs.
“I invested all the money I could find. I thought we would be rich,” said Joan, sobbing.
“How on earth did you get that much money?” Pete sat down deflated, holding his head in his hands.
“I used all of our savings, and then I…”
“GO ON, WHAT?”
“…I re-mortgaged our home.” Joan’s crying reached the point where she became incomprehensible. Pete sat down for a moment and seemingly composed himself with a few deep breaths.
“Right, a cup of tea, I think.” Pete got up and walked shakily to the kitchen. Joan heard the sound of the kettle boiling above her now quieter sobbing and the fridge door opening.
“Where the hell did all this milk come from?” exclaimed Pete in a shrill voice. Joan then heard a loud thud. She rushed into the kitchen to find that Pete had fainted.
*
It was nearing the end of the working day when Bill walked down the hill from field 2 to the Scientist’s hut. He held out little hope that Gordon could make any more of the fertiliser and had convinced himself that the farm was going to go under. As he neared the hut, thoughts of his wife leaving him filled his mind, then…
BANG
BANG
BANG
Bill stood wide-eyed, speechless and slightly deaf as a singed Gordon emerged from the hut clasping a bottle of greeny-blue liquid. The smell of cabbage and cheap aftershave hung in the air.
“EUREKA!” shouted Gordon.
*
Joan cradled Pete in her arms applying a cold compress to a growing lump on his head. “It will be all right, my love. We will think of something. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Then I will call the doctor to have a look at your head.”
“Okay, dear,” replied Pete weakly.
*
Bill stood before his 27 workers at the main gate with one arm around Gordon. They were all looking at his blackened face with quizzical expressions.
“We’re all going to the pub. All the drinks are on me. Today has been a very good day for the Carrot Corporation™ and I would like to thank Gordon for that. It’s him we are drinking to tonight. And don’t worry about the hangovers, lads. Tomorrow morning we will be starting an hour later. Okay?” A cheer went up among the workers as Bill whispered into Gordon’s ear, “Don’t worry. My wife can draw you on some more eyebrows.”
5
“It's amazing that the amount of news that happens in the world every day always just exactly fits the newspaper.”
Jerry Seinfeld
“Pete, it’s me. Quick, turn over to channel 2!” shouted Joan down the telephone before hanging up. Pete jumped out of bed where he had been resting for the last couple of days, doctor’s orders, and switched on the television. He switched to channel 2 and was greeted by the chirpy, pretty face of the news presenter.
“Welcome to a special news update with me, Pelexia Brown. Big news today in the financial sector, as we saw. Shure Stock, the country’s second largest independent brokerage house has filed for bankruptcy. The managing directors are citing mismanagement of funds as the cause. On the videophone from Uist we have Aldrich, channel 2’s own financial guru.”
“Good afternoon, Pelexia.”
“Tell me, Aldrich, with such a large financial establishment going bankrupt, what effect will this have?”
“The effects are already being felt at the highest levels, with the CHASDAQ down 230 points in less that 3 hours. This will most likely have a ripple effect on interest and exchange rates. A more direct consequence will be on the companies that used Shure Stock to invest on their behalf, with 3 already filing for bankruptcy.”
“And we can’t forget the private investors.”
“Absolutely not, Pelexia. Unfortunately, they will have lost everything.”
“Is there anyway they can claim any money back?”
“Unfortunately not. 3 years ago, it would have been a differen
t story, with the government legally having to insure private investors with 20p in the pound against just this scenario. After the fiasco of Exo Oil, with the government having to pay out a record 60 million to investors, they changed the law. At the present time…”
“Sorry to interrupt but I’ve just been told that we’re out of time. More from this late breaking news at the usual time of 8 o’clock. Goodbye.”
And with the usual wink from her sparkling brown eyes, Pelexia was gone, replaced by an advert for a documentary on the benefits of a high fibre diet. Pete quickly turned the television off, lost in his own thoughts. What the hell were he and Joan to do? Against doctors orders, Pete had a shower, a cup of tea, put on his best suit and went to the bank.
*
Richard’s fiancée had just opened the mail: only 2 letters today. 1 was a final demand for a mortgage payment and the other appeared to be hate-mail from sources unknown. She chucked them both away without reading either; it wasn’t the first letter of its kind and probably wouldn’t be the last. Apparently, some people had blamed Richard for the decline of Shure Stock and needed to vent some anger, thinking he was still living here. Her most pressing problem was that being without Richard meant having no money and, very soon, nowhere to live. So, against the psychiatrist’s advice, she went to see Richard.
*
Leaning on the gatepost at the top of the driveway to the farm, Bill watched as an increasingly familiar-looking stranger walked slowly towards him. Pulling his dog-eared hat further down his head in an attempt to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun, the stranger’s face became apparent. An invisible icy hand clamped around Bill’s heart as his mind tried desperately to make sense of what he was seeing. The only feasible explanation seemed to be that the ghost of the Scientist had come back to haunt him, arising from his shallow grave to cause untold mischief. Bill was blinking uncontrollably by the time the ethereal-looking figure stood before him, the sunlight radiating from a pristine white lab coat, the tails of his coat blowing in the wind like an angel’s wings. Bill gulped as his mouth became as dry as the dusty road upon which they both stood.
“Good afternoon,” said the man, without a trademark cough.
“Erm…Hello,” squeaked Bill, nervously, a bit like a teenager asking a girl out at a disco for the first time.
“You seen my brother about? He left this address as a place where I could find him.”
“Brother…Erm, no.”
“You sure? I thought he was doing some work for a farmer round these parts. I’m assuming that would be you.”
Bill’s mind somersaulted a few times before his wits returned enough to form a coherent sentence.
“Ah, I remember now… A fella looking just like you sold me some fertiliser a while back. Didn’t work as I recall. Ain’t seen him since.” Bill was so impressed by his own answer he stopped blinking.
“I see,” said the Scientist with a puzzled air about him. “When was that?”
“Must be a couple of months ago now.”
“Really… it’s not like him to not tell me where he’s going,” he muttered half to himself.
“Well, I best get some work done,” exclaimed Bill in a friendly manner. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked briskly away in the direction of Gordon’s hut.
The Scientist stood for a few minutes, lost in his own thoughts. Eventually, he lifted his head and sniffed a few times. Caught on the breeze, tantalisingly faint, came a very familiar aroma of cabbage and very cheap aftershave. Realising something quite strange was afoot, he decided to follow Bill over the rolling expanse of fields - at a discreet distance.
*
Pete found himself sat in a very small uncomfortable chair listening to a very short man sat behind a giant desk in a very large chair. He was introduced to Pete as the assistant manager of the bank by his secretary. While the short man looked for Pete’s bank details, Pete found himself wondering how big the actual bank manager’s chair was.
“There we are, I’ve found your details. I’m sorry to hear about Shure Stock. You must be devastated.”
“We are,” replied Pete, snapping out of his chair daydream.
“Unfortunately, as you probably know, there is no chance of recovering any of your money.”
“I know. What is the…you know, situation with our house and the repayments?” asked Pete uncomfortably, using his hands to help him talk.
“You re-mortgaged your house and withdrew all your savings. As it stands now, you are overdrawn over your limit after the first mortgage repayment came out this morning. Do you have any more money in any other banks or such like?”
“No,” replied Pete rubbing his face in an attempt to hide from the probing eyes of the assistant bank manager.
“The only thing I can suggest, I’m afraid, is this. It’s clear, looking at how much both of you earn, that you will have to move out of your house and find alternative accommodation. This will allow the bank to repossess it and then we will have to look into some form of long-term payment plan for the interest accrued on the mortgage to date and the overdraft. I’m sorry it had to come to this.”
“Okay,” said Pete, dejected. “I think I need to talk to my wife.”
“1 more thing before you go: you will need to be out of the house by the end of the month.”
*
As Richard’s fiancée made her way up the driveway to the Dullstand Psychiatric Hospital, she noticed how pretty the place was, with large open well-groomed lawns surrounded by trees and hedges cut into the shapes of animals. While admiring a particularly good likeness of a rabbit, a large gentleman in a lab coat walked up quietly behind her.
“Can I help you miss?” he asked in a disturbingly gentle voice.
“Actually, yes. I have come to visit my fiancé.”
“Can I take your name and see some identification, please?” came the softly-spoken response. After giving her name and driving licence to the man, she was led slowly up to a bright new-looking building made mainly of glass. As they walked through the front door, the large man stopped and turned to face Richard’s fiancée.
“You liked the rabbit?” he asked softly, leaning in close and looking intently.
“Erm…it’s very nice.”
“Good,” he replied with a smile and a nod. “You can wait over there, while I see if I can go and get Dicky.” He pointed to a collection of seats.
“Dicky? You mean Richard?”
“We give all our…” he made quotation marks with fingers, “…´patients` alternative names. It speeds up the recovery. New start and all that.” Richard’s fiancée took a seat while the man ambled off down a corridor. After 20 minutes of listening to cheery ambient music, she watched the large man return without Richard.
“Where is he?” exclaimed Richard’s fiancée when the man had got close enough.
“I’m sorry. You won’t be able to see Dicky today. He has some gentlemen with him.”
“What gentlemen? I really need to see him. Do you not understand?”
“There’s no need to take that tone with me, miss. I’m only doing my job. I’m not sure who the gentlemen are but it’s quite impossible for you to see him today.”
Without warning, Richard’s fiancée side-stepped the big man and ran down the corridor he had walked out of. She ran as fast as she could, clattering down a maze of corridors in shoes not made for the task. She rounded a corner and ran into a large bright room; at the far end next to a desk, Richard was being handcuffed. She jogged over. The 2 men with Richard, both wearing suits, stopped and looked at her.
“What’s going on? Where are you taking him?” Richard’s fiancée asked the men breathlessly. Richard just stared at the floor in a heavily sedated stupor.
“Who are you?” asked the shorter of the 2 men politely.
“I’m his fiancée!”
“We’re taking him to the MSD for questioning.” The shorter man motioned to his colleague and he started walking Richard t
owards a glass door behind the desk. A black car could be seen parked outside.
Richard’s fiancée looked at the man in front of her, all the while trying to catch her breath. He wore an immaculately pressed black suit with a washing powder advert white shirt and a dark blue tie. He was closely shaved with a short military-style haircut. She glanced down, noticing his suit jacket was open just enough to show a gun holster.
“You can contact the MSD for further information,” he said handing her a card. Before she could reply, a hand clamped her right shoulder and twisted her around. The hand belonged to the large man in the lab coat. He too was out of breath.
“You aren’t supposed to be back here,” he said in the same unruffled soft tone.
*
Tim works for the Monetary Stabilisation Division, or MSD, for short, a well-known and feared department amongst government law enforcement agencies and the general public. He has worked in law enforcement since he left university 15 years ago and has risen through the ranks quickly. As a senior field agent, he gets paid 65 thousand pounds a year for his efforts. His job consists of being assigned cases by his boss, then using all his investigatory know-how to bring swift justice upon any perpetrators of crime.
The MSD building is fairly large, much too large to justify the number of staff who work there. The architect knew that law enforcement in the financial sector is much more about image than actual work, so the building was designed to look as imposing and bleak as possible. Many people actually shudder when standing in the shadow of this strange gothic building and to be summoned there has been likened to receiving a letter to attend one’s own funeral. In fact, a recent study has shown that on average 3 people a year have heart attacks while opening a letter from the MSD (Statistics from: Heart Attack Monthly – A practitioner’s perspective).
The Shift of Numbers Page 5