“You went back too quick, dude. Tell them about Buster. Say it was the stress. They’ll understand.”
“I burned them.”
“You mean you got a little angry; lost it like you did with the priest.”
“The priest was a warm-up. I pretty much took a flamethrower to the place.”
Dillon’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He put his head, forehead first, on the table, between the chopsticks on a fancy rest and the tea-light lamp. His shoulders shook with laughter. Mace waved a bewildered waitress away and moved the lamp.
Nolan had asked for it. Mace had been in the office ten minutes when he’d confronted him. Not quietly, but as though he’d swallowed a megaphone and was organising a building evacuation.
“You’d better have a note from Gates, Zuckerberg, Page and Brin if you think you can slink in here after five days without accounting for yourself.”
Mace stood up, maybe not the smartest thing to do because he towered over Nolan. He said, “I left you a voicemail. I have a doctor’s certificate.”
“That certificate had better come directly from Steve Job on cloud nine before I’ll take any notice of it.”
He’d opened his mouth to respond, only to realise the whole department was prairie-dogging it above the workstation partitions to see what happened next. After that it went from danger Will Robinson to Armageddon.
There was a meeting with HR. Instead of booking a room, Nolan staged it at a table in the middle of the open plan office. Mace was to be written up for a history of unacceptable absenteeism and insubordination. He’d get a formal warning, and if he didn’t change his ways, stop thinking he was better than everyone else, he’d be officially performance-managed out. HR had a problem with that and there was an argument, which only made it worse because Nolan kept using his newly acquired megaphone voice to broadcast it all.
Mace had thought about defending himself for about five seconds, during which he clenched his fist so hard he cracked the scabs on his knuckles and made them bleed. He’d specced half the projects the department worked on, was a leader in every critical response issue, and the most requested tech, with the highest satisfaction rating. The job was boring but it was convenient, safe, it provided a regular income and it looked decent on his resume, but the flamethrower was already in his hands and its heft felt good.
It was a classic take this job and shove it moment and he took it large.
He told Nolan he was a no-talent micromanager who wouldn’t know decent source code it if gave him a lap dance and charged him for penetration. He used his normal voice, but it carried in the artificial silence that meant every ear on the floor was tuned in. He said the company’s IT program was short-sighted, overblown, unimaginative and would cost a fortune to upgrade. He grabbed Cassie, the redhead from HR, bent her over the table and kissed her senseless, while she gripped his arms and gave him tongue and Nolan made noises like a cat in heat.
When the cheering started he stood on a desk and told bad programmer jokes that got roars of laughter, until Nolan’s threat to call security looked likely. He didn’t log off or pack up his desk, he tossed his company phone in a drawer, grabbed his satchel and high-fived and hugged his way to the lift well, tipping an imaginary hat to the two security guards who were on their way in to the department to throw him out. When the lift doors closed and the show was over, he felt like his Vans had sprouted wings. He was high on the adrenaline, his own freakish audacity and the whole fuck yeah of it.
But fuck yeah, if they didn’t get Ipseity up, he’d fucked the only decent job he’d ever had and his chance of getting another one without a reference. If he couldn’t sell the house quickly, he’d need a new job because there wasn’t going to be any severance pay and the funeral had tapped his savings out.
But all considered, he still felt pretty freaking happy. The only thing he regretted was kissing Cassie. It’d felt right in the moment and she’d had no complaints, he’d found a post-it note with call me and her number in his back pocket. But now he wished he’d saved the impulse: changed towers, stormed the executive floor, found Jacinta, hauled her into the nearest bathroom, and had insane monkey sex with her till neither of them could walk.
When Dillon sat up he was still laughing, and he laughed harder after they ordered and Mace related the events of the day.
“Move in with me and rent the house. You won’t have to work on anything but Ipseity.”
“I want to sell the house and with the money we get from it we can finance ourselves for a while.”
Dillon took another helping of the tea-smoked duck. He kept his eyes on the table. A quiet Dillon was a Dillon you worried about. “What?”
“It’s your house, Mace. Buster’s legacy. It’s long-term security, dude. I don’t think you should sell it.”
“Why not?”
“If we fail, you’ll have nothing.”
“We’re not going to fail.”
“Most start-ups fail. Most founders lose everything. You know the successes are so few they’re more like miracles.”
It’s not like he needed to hear that again. “It’s Buster’s legacy. You think she’d want us to give up? When did we ever talk about giving up?”
“Shit, you’re serious about this.”
“It’s one of those moments, Dillon. Do or die.”
Dillon shook his head and his body followed in a shudder. Buster would’ve said someone walked on his grave. “Jesus, Mace.”
He shrugged and emptied the beer he could no longer afford down his soon to be homeless throat. Dillon was serving up shock and awe, but it was preliminary to battle stations.
By time the restaurant kicked them out they were both thoroughly hammered, and Dillon was considering forging his own sick certificate to avoid work the next day. But they had an order of proceedings: debug the software, find headroom in the business plan, sell the house, cohabit; which meant Dillon had to ditch his existing flatmate who was his current on again, off again girlfriend—no biggie. Rework the Summers-Denby pitch and sleep with the next door neighbour of every other VC in the city.
The first part of that workload was shared; the second part was on Mace because he had the time, the talent and the form. He wasn’t taking it gay though. There was only so much he’d sacrifice for success.
It seemed entirely reasonable, except he only knew one woman who lived next door to a VC and she was the only woman he was interested in sleeping with. He thought he might love that woman Lucinda, and he’d kill Antonio if he was anywhere near her with his boofy hair and his yachty shoes.
“We can’t lose,” Dillon said, but because the next thing he did was trip up a gutter it wasn’t convincing. Not that Mace was any better off. He thought the streetlights may have been dancing. He sat on the kerb with Dillon and posted his Wentworth security tag down a drain. It took him three goes to poke it through the metal slots, because they kept moving.
It occurred to him that’s what that Anderson Priest dude had done, washed them down the drain and that wasn’t fair. He wondered if Jay the bread baker knew about it. Maybe the Priest hadn’t told him. Maybe Mace could tell Jaybird he made really good bread and he was sorry he’d been such an arse and he liked eating bread so Jay should give them all his money.
That was a plan.
Then he could kiss Lucinda again in her swimming bath, because that was really nice and if she let him cuddle her he might forget about missing Buster, just for one night.
He woke up on Dillon’s couch to the sound of Dillon chucking in the bathroom. It was sometime in the middle of the day because the sun was up and his eyes only functioned on peep. His tongue was a football wedged in his throat and the skin on his head was pulled too tight like cling film on his brain. He remembered dancing streetlights and tea-flavoured duck, and standing on a desk and making everyone cheer. His face worked well enough to smile at the memory of Nolan’s expression; purple and scrunched, like a cranky passionfruit, and his yowls of outrage.
Buster was dead and she’d be so disappointed he’d drunk himself sick.
The last time he’d been hungover he’d cut his foot, he had the scar to show for it. But he hadn’t been this drunk for years. He rubbed his arms where the welts from Buster’s whipping had once been. He didn’t have a job anymore, but he had a plan, not that he could recall what was in it right now, but they’d written it on a linen napkin they stole from the restaurant.
He needed to sell Buster’s house and she’d be okay with that. He needed to talk to Jay, just for a minute, a minute of his time for the next few years of his and Dillon’s.
He remembered her name was Jacinta not Lucinda, and he was Antonio, and he wasn’t waiting any longer for her to call him, because as soon as he could get the cling film off his head, borrow some money and buy a new phone, he was going to call her and ask if he could come over and swim with her in the bath.
20: Security
The first thing Malcolm did was call out to Alison. “Get security up here.” He didn’t otherwise blink. If Jacinta had harboured any illusion he’d engage in a mature and professional discussion, aimed at uncovering their mutual benefit, she’d have been knocked on her butt.
She still rocked on her Valentinos. “You’re going to throw me out?” She didn’t see that coming.
“I’m going to have you escorted off the premises.”
“Christ, Dad,” she spat the word, a vain attempt to splatter him with vitriol, “you didn’t even do that to Bryan or that guy in finance who was issuing fake credit cards.”
Malcolm exhaled with great pomp. “You resigned. Or did I not hear you say the words, ‘I quit,’ while you stamped your little feet like a spoilt child because you didn’t get your own way.”
She’d said the words. “Good morning, Malcolm. I quit.” Not a whole lot to misinterpret there. But maybe amputating her arm would’ve been less shocking.
Standing in his office, saying it, made the decision real. She’d expected it to feel empowering and a bunch of other management-speak and clichés Bryan would’ve laughed at, starting with a weight lifted from her shoulders and cascading on down to up yours. But it felt like she’d taken a run at a brick wall as a joke and forgotten to pull up short; like she’d fatally wounded her identity in a head-on collision with an immoveable object she’d secretly thought would step aside or flex with the blow.
There was no flexibility in Malcolm. What she saw in him was as close to glee as he’d ever been. When he’d had Bryan removed, he’d been furious. He’d made the walls tremble with his shouting. His footsteps had been aggressive for months afterwards. It was another shock to realise how little he cared about her that he couldn’t be bothered to fake anger about losing his COO.
“What did you expect? A cheer squad to encourage you on your way out? You’ve resigned. It’s effective immediately. You are no longer an employee. You can no longer be on the premises.” Malcolm raised his voice. “Alison.”
“Security is on their way, Malcolm. There’s an incident in Tower B,” she informed from outside.
Jacinta put her palms on Malcolm’s desk, closed her eyes and laughed. It rose up from deep in her belly and burst forth in great gulps of sound, gushes of air. Malcolm was a loathsome person, a true corporate psychopath, with no empathy, no basic decency and she’d finally gown up enough to accept there was no way to be him and retain her own humanity, and it was fine, good, outstanding to be free of him.
Her laugher spilled all over Malcolm and he didn’t like it, too raw, too real, too human. He curled his lip in distaste and pushed back in his chair and stood. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
She looked up, biting her lip to stop the flow of rude and joyous noise coming out of her. “I’ve only just found them.”
“You have disappointed me greatly, Jacinta. I brought you up to be different to your mother. Stronger, more rational, less highly strung.”
In spite of thinking there was nothing Malcolm could say that’d hurt anymore, she flinched. “Do not bring my mother into this. Do not.”
“I thought you were more like me. But with all this lamenting about morals and civic responsibility, I see I was wrong. You have her artistic temperament after all. It will do you no good. It cannot provide a useful living, or a contribution of any value in the real world. If you must have aesthetic stimulation, read a good biography,” he shook his head, and threw up a hand; that anyone should need alternative outlets was incomprehensible to him, “or go for a walk outside with the trees.”
She took a slow breath and tried to still the thrum of anger that beat at her temples. “I’ve often wondered how you sleep at night.”
“I never have difficulty sleeping because I have no use for ambiguity and even less for the kind of nanny state namby-pamby you were advocating over this bomber person.”
If she lost her temper, she’d prove Malcolm’s point, and she was done proving anything to him. “His name was Roger Kincaid. He killed himself yesterday. He was a customer several times over, and we did to him what you did to my mother.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You honestly expect me to have sympathy for a murderer?”
“No, for an ordinary man who was pushed to the point where he lost his mind and for an event which may have been preventable.”
Malcolm made a sound of loathing, it gurgled in his throat like sewer water. “I think you’ve quite finished here.”
She was only turning on the tap. “This bank took Roger’s livelihood and his home without any consideration. You took my mother’s confidence and then you forced her to do things she was frightened of.”
He sniffed a sharp breath, his eyes flicking towards the door. “You will leave my office now. Alison.”
“She gave up the things she loved for you; her art, her writing, her music. I always thought she was less of a person because she was beautiful. But now I see you made her less, you reduced her to something decorative you could control. She never would’ve skied that mountain but for you pushing her to. This bank has a responsibility to provide a duty of care for our customers. You had a responsibility to love and care for my mother. You fail on both counts.”
“Get. Out.”
“With more pleasure than you can possibly imagine. You have no idea how grateful I am to you for this gift of clear sight. “
“Alison.”
Alison appeared in the doorway with a startled expression and two uniformed guards. Malcolm sat and opened a folder. He issued his instructions without looking up.
“Escort Ms Wentworth to her desk. She’s to take nothing but personal items with her, which excludes the car. See that she is off the premises within the next thirty minutes and has vacated the company apartment with only personal possessions no later than forty-eight hours from now.”
This was the last time she’d see Malcolm, other than in the pages of the business press or the occasional television appearance. That thought made her feel nothing. Not sadness, not relief. It spoke to a void in her heart where emptiness flourished.
“You were never a parent to me. You paid for my food and shelter, my clothing and education. You made me useful according to your view of the world. You were never a father. You were always a bank.”
He looked up with irritation on his face, as if to say are you still here?
“And I am your worst risk, your biggest default, because I will use everything you’ve taught me to live a life that proves you wrong.”
“Thirty minutes. Forty-eight hours. The terms of your contract are clear. By resigning you leave with salary owing. All other bonuses and entitlements are forfeited.”
She might as well not have spoken, not have issued that empty threat. You couldn’t threaten someone who didn’t care. She looked down on him. She’d seen him sit like this; dismissive, imperial, hundreds of times. Only this time, his clenched fists were different. It was enough. He no longer mattered. If her legs would carry her, she was more than ready to leave. She turned an
d nodded to the guards.
“Jacinta.”
She didn’t give him the courtesy of slowing her steps, to falter might be to crumble.
“If you try anything stupid, you will not find another financial institution in this country to employ you. You cannot hurt this company and I will ensure that.”
She couldn’t help but hear what he meant. He would poison her reputation within the industry and sue her to keep the bank from harm if she threatened him.
“Ms Wentworth, are you all right?” The older of the two guards got her attention. She knew his face, but not his name. He peered at her with genuine concern.
“I’m fine. Shall we?”
They fell in beside her. “Very sorry to have to do this, Ms Wentworth.”
She nodded to Alison who mouthed, “I’m so sorry.”
She said, “All in a day’s work,” and meant it to soothe Alison and the two men. All she wanted now was to get out of the building into untainted air she could breathe.
In the doorway to her office, Mel was on her feet, white-faced. The news was already out, less than five minutes and a two hundred metre corridor later.
“It’s all right, Mel. This is the best thing.”
“Can I come with you?”
She hugged Mel quickly. “I’m not going to a new job yet. I’m not sure where I’ll end up.”
“Em called. There is a press release being drafted. They’re saying you’re taking time off to peruse private passions. Is that true?”
She smiled. “True enough,” given how long it would take to get a new job, and a face-saver for the bank.
“If there’s anything I can do.”
“I’ll let you know.” She turned to the two guards. “I get the deal. I want five minutes to make a call and I’ll be ready to go.”
“I’m sorry, Ms Wentworth. We can’t allow you to do that.”
She almost let it go. After all, she’d let it go for a week. “You can’t allow me one phone call?”
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