Haterz

by James Goss

  THE SUNDAY MORNING, Vampantha was on a panel about ‘Murder International.’ In the middle of it all, having mentioned her award a dozen times, Vampantha suddenly announced, “The secret of anyone’s success is to have good publicity. A lot of people will say that, in order to do that, you need to have a publicist. Well, up until recently, I had one. And let me tell you. He did no good, seriously. His name is Brian McMullen, and let me tell you all to avoid him like the plague...”

  This was only the start of the diatribe. It went on for eight minutes and thirty-four seconds, with frequent stops for applause. It was a masterful bit of character destruction that I wasn’t even aware of (apart from wondering why I was getting a few odd looks in the lunch queue). But it neatly ensured how formidable Vampantha and Derek were. Had I suddenly rushed forward to expose them both, it would simply have appeared to be sour grapes by Brian McMullen, the recently sacked publicist who had told her, and I quote, “Girl authors should suck it up.” There was also a t-shirt made of that. Christ, who makes these t-shirts?

  I LEFT KETCRIMECON in a hurry after someone threw a glass of wine over me. At twelve quid for a glass of house red, they must really have hated me.

  I WENT HOME, chalking up Vampantha as a failure. I’d met my match.

  I couldn’t expose her. It was too late to switch horses and try and bump her off—Brian McMullen was an obvious suspect and an investigation of him could lead back to me.

  MY GOD LADY, I thought, you’re worse than me, and I’m a murderer. But fine. Vampantha was utter poison, but that was okay. I’d bide my time and try again in a bit. After all, there was no shortage of awful people.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THREE LITTLE PIGS

  THREE PEOPLE WALK into a room.

  If they were interesting people, and this were a joke, then they would be an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman. The Englishman would say something sensible, the Scotsman something mean, and the Irishman would say something stupid. If the joke were working at a slightly higher level, then the Irishman would still say something stupid, yet walk away the winner.

  Or perhaps the three are a priest, a vicar and a rabbi walking into a bar. Oddly enough, it’s never a priest, a rabbi and an imam, which implies rather unfairly that imams don’t have a sense of humour or can’t order a soda water.

  Actually, one of the three walking into the room was a woman and another Jewish, but it honestly has nothing to do with the tale. By even mentioning it, I’m skewing how you perceive the tale, because it’s not a joke, it’s about money. And everyone knows that money is serious.

  AS I SAID, the three weren’t that interesting. Annette Gough had a bird-like alertness, but, put together with the black dress, it was the alertness of a raven. Her face was settled into a small near-smile, one that you just knew was only waiting to be alone so that it could switch off completely.

  Jamie Beaston looked like a cheap boiled ham served up with the string still tightly wrapped round it. At some point he’d been an athlete, but he’d now gone to seed, wearing an expensive suit that didn’t look it, his face flushed as though the central heating was on too high. His nicely striped shirt didn’t even try to hide his expansive waistline. He was a man who entered a room as though acknowledging delighted applause.

  Wilson O’Reilly exuded the air of an unpopular headmaster who, following the mysterious death of a relative, had found himself enormously wealthy. He had a shifty alertness to him, as though already preparing an answer to exactly what had become of the skiing trip money.

  The only thing the three of them had in common was something that none of them could hide. They were all enormously pleased with themselves.

  Well, except when they noticed each other. Then the three’s faces became hard and wary. Each suddenly adopted the expression they used when appearing on the news to say things like, “That’s a good question, David, but...” “What you don’t seem to understand here, Michael...” or, “If I may, the thing I’ve actually come here to talk about today, Samira, is...”

  They all, as one, pocketed their smartphones and looked each other shiftily up and down. This wasn’t what they were expecting. They nodded to each other, but said nothing more. None of them wanted to be drawn. Each was feeling a little disappointed, but wouldn’t show it. Each had thought themselves the only person invited to this meeting, but, realising the other was there, was already accepting it. This was business. The invitation had seemed too good to be true, and, as they all knew, there’s very little in life that is good or true.

  They helped themselves to coffee, fingered the biscuit plate for chocolate ones, then settled down into a harrumphing silence which went on just long enough. Any longer and one of them would ask the other about holidays, family, the news, or the journey down. The one thing that they didn’t talk about was business. Occasionally one would sneak a hopeful look at the door, expecting a fourth person to come in, but no-one did. Fingers tapped the formica desks, chairs rocked back, and the smartphones came out again. But annoyingly, there didn’t seem to be a network.

  Without any fanfare a projector sprung into life. For a moment it glowed blue and flashed ‘NO SIGNAL’ as it paged through its connections. Then it went to a PC desktop. A disembodied mouse pointed at a file on the desktop labelled ‘Presentation.PPT.’ It double-clicked.

  The presentation started to load up. As it did so, some anti-virus software popped up to recommend an update, and then Java Updater joined, in along with Adobe. The mouse shifted across the screen and dismissed all three with a trace of annoyance.

  Then the presentation began.

  LEVERAGE:

  A PROPOSAL

  Monday July 13th

  In attendance

  Jamie Beaston, MooLaLa

  Annette Gough, BettyPoke

  Wilson O’Reilly, Ubanker

  SLIDE TWO: AGENDA

  • Thank you for coming.

  • A brief introduction to

  why I’ve called you here.

  • An offer you can’t refuse.

  • Coffee.

  SLIDE THREE: THANK YOU FOR COMING

  • Firstly, apologies for not being here in person

  • The reason for this will soon become clear

  • Anyway, if I were here

  • I’d simply be reading these

  bullet points aloud to you

  • And don’t you just hate that?

  • We could all read by the age of 8,

  couldn’t we?

  • So why waste time? After all...

  • TIME IS MONEY.

  SLIDE FOUR: MORE INTRODUCTION

  • Forgive the slightly unusual

  nature of this presentation

  • What I’m about to offer all of you

  is well worth your while

  • But I need your absolute

  discretion within this room

  • Instead of making you sign a

  blah blah blah NDA

  • I’ve blocked all mobile

  signals during the presentation

  • And locked the door.

  • Don’t worry about the last part!

  • As soon as we’re done it’ll open.

  SLIDE FIVE: EVEN MORE INTRODUCTION

  • So, there we go. That’s the

  introduction over with.

  • Apart from a health and safety note.

  • We’re four floors up, so don’t

  try jumping out the window.

  • Kidding.

  • But seriously, four floors. Ouch.

  SLIDE SIX:

  CASE STUDY ONE—MOOLALA

  1. CEO: Jamie Beaston (38)

  2. Started in 2011

  . Offers payday loans

  • Slogan: ‘Slip a little moolala into your pocket.’

  • Our little secret: Interest rate of 12,000%

  • The media say: ‘Borrow a fiver.

  Pay a million two years later.’

  SLIDE SEVEN:
>
  CASE STUDY TWO—BETTY POKE

  1. CEO: Annette Gough (47)

  2. Started in 2007

  3. Bingo, poker, online gambling

  • Slogan: ‘Feel lucky tonight.’

  • Our little secret: Beginner’s luck algorithm designed to lure people into betting more than they can afford

  • The media say: ‘I thought he was just playing games, but now I’ve lost the house.’

  SLIDE EIGHT:

  CASE STUDY THREE—UBANKER

  1. CEO: Wilson O’Reilly (54)

  2. Started in 2004

  3. Online banking, investment and finance

  • Slogan: ‘Hassle-free banking.’

  • Our little secret: Unsecured savings placed offshore, investment portfolio set to report a massive loss, 83% of accounts over-charged fees, donated £3million to the government. Paid average bonuses of 217% of salary to senior executives while making 200 call centre staff redundant.

  • The media say: ‘Guilt-free banking.’

  SLIDE NINE: ANY QUESTIONS?

  There weren’t any questions, but the three little pigs huffed and they puffed. But there was no-one in the room but each other. They sort-of looked each other in the eye and said things like “outrageous” or “nonsense,” or affected to be bored.

  Annette ran a hand through her piled-high hair and said, “We’ve heard all this before,” with a weary chuckle. Wilson muttered, “This has been before a select committee, you know.” Jamie looked around the room, thought about saying something, but kept his silence. He affected a knowing smile that said, ‘well, I was expecting this.’

  SLIDE TEN:

  • Basically,

  • You’re all shits.

  SLIDE ELEVEN:

  • And what are we going

  to do with you?

  At this point, Jamie Beaston stood up. “Hey guys, you got me,” he spread out his hands and did a monstrously fake laugh. “All very funny, I’m sure. But I won’t waste my time on this.” He made for the door.

  SLIDE TWELVE:

  • Please don’t touch the door.

  At the time, no-one noticed that slide. Because they were too busy staring at Jamie screaming as he tried to tear his hand from the electrified doorknob. After a few seconds, the current cut out and he fell back, leaving a smell of cooking bacon in the air.

  But that wasn’t all.

  “Jesus,” he swore from the floor, “I’ve shat myself.”

  The other two stared at him in disgust.

  He stared back at them from the nylon carpet tiles, defiant. “Oh, don’t be such babies,” he said. “It’s not a full on jobbie, more of a wet fart. Jeez. I’m the one who got fried.”

  The other two continued to stare at him.

  “Listen, I don’t suppose either of you have a paper towel or...”

  They both hastily shook their heads with the thoughtless haste of people being asked by a tramp if they had a spare cigarette.

  “Fair enough,” Jamie Beaston stood up, eyeing them warily. He sat back down. “Thanks. I should have known better than to ask a banker for a loan.”

  “Coming from you?” snapped Wilson.

  “Yeah,” said Jamie, the Yorkshire accent strong is his voice. “And go fuck yourself.”

  “Could you perhaps sit further down the table?” asked Annette.

  “No.”

  A surly silence settled over the three.

  SLIDE THIRTEEN:

  • Shall we continue?

  SLIDE FOURTEEN:

  • I have a proposition for you.

  • It’s really easy.

  • And accords with all of your institutions.

  SLIDE FIFTEEN:

  • ‘Charity is at the heart of MooLala’

  – Jamie Beaston.

  • ‘BettyPoke likes to give back’

  – Annette Gough.

  • ‘We’re an ethical reinvestor.

  That’s at our core’

  – Wilson O’Reilly.

  SLIDE SIXTEEN:

  • Actually, what that last quote means,

  no-one really knows.

  • But only 27% of Ubanker’s

  money is invested in arms.

  • Woo.

  Annette had started nodding and now she stood up, smiling wearily. “This is all some childish attempt at blackmail, isn’t it? Yes, that’s right.” She nodded to herself.

  SLIDE SEVENTEEN

  • No. Not Blackmail.

  • Charitable giving.

  One of the others started to speak, but Annette held up a hand and carried on talking. “To the charity of you, is that it? Well then. We’ve been stupid. We’ve walked into this. Call it a tax on our stupidity. How much do you want?”

  SLIDE EIGHTEEN

  • Ah.

  The suggestion of rounding up some rotten bankers came from the Killuminati. I was kind of happy with it as an assignment. For one thing, these were the kind of people it was easy to hate. I wasn’t going to end up having the same pangs as I did towards Harry Paperboy. Or even Todd.

  Also, after Vampantha I needed an easy win.

  The great thing about the three money makers I’d selected was that they were fairly easy pickings. They managed a great overlap.

  • They were all publicly known about and loathed.

  • They all had lots of money.

  • Were clearly horridly corrupt.

  • All high-profile ‘Talk to me’ business leaders.

  • And yet thunderingly stupid.

  On that basis it was fairly easy to hire a business suite anonymously, and invite them all to a meeting there, having sent them a set of proposals for an investment portfolio that just looked too rich to refuse. I was careful to make the investment opportunity satisfyingly, but not suspiciously, juicy.

  I was making no mistakes. I had never at any point met any of them personally. Nor was I actually in the business suite at the same time they were. I’d kitted it out and specced it up, but had made sure that I’d done so in a disguise.

  The big thing was making sure they couldn’t summon help. This was actually pretty easy. The building had wifi, but needed a password. And, thanks to Google, I was able to build a fairly decent mobile phone signal jammer, just the sort of thing they use in cinemas and schools. I’d buried it under one of the floor tiles.

  Not that there was anyone around. I’d picked a slightly miserable building on the edge of London’s Silicon Roundabout. The kind of place that charged an outrageous price for a view of Wetherspoon’s and a dual carriageway. This meant that the meeting room I’d booked was the only busy thing on the floor. And all I needed was to keep the three there for an hour.

  The thing is, they were stupid, but they were cunning. I gave them a five minute break, watching on the webcam as Wilson paced back and forth, Jamie remained sat down, and Annette started jimmying away at the window latch. The locks were fairly tight, and I was pretty confident that they wouldn’t be able to open one. But if they did, who would she call out to? This was London, after all. People tended to avoid paying attention to other people who shouted...

  SLIDE NINETEEN

  • We’re going to start with three case studies.

  • Each one a noble cause.

  • Between you, choose which

  one to donate to.

  Jamie looked at this with a wry smile. “I know where this is going,” he said.

  “Oh, aye,” Wilson paused in his pacing. “You’re the man who knows where everything is going, don’t you, laddie? Well, I never listened to my dad, so I don’t see why I should take advice from someone sitting in his own shit right now.”

  Annette carried on doggedly working away at the window. She was now on her third meeting room pen, their shattered carcases mounting up like crashed rocketships.

  “Fair enough,” said Jamie, rubbing away at the burns on his hand. “Don’t say I didn’t try—”

  “I’m firing my PA,” announced Wilson. “She se
t this meeting up.”

  “Harsh,” said Jamie. “You came. We all did. Our own look out.”

  Annette snapped another pen but carried on working. She nearly had leverage, but then bent back one of her fingernails and fell back with an anguished cry. She sucked at the damaged finger, her face flushed. For a few moments there was none of the glacial calm people associated with her. There was just rage. Rage in a tight black dress.

  She reminded me a bit of a parent throwing a wobbly at their kid in a shop. Just a lot of screaming, and the others looking at her like frightened children.

  “Wow,” whistled Jamie. “Just wow.”

  Wilson nodded approvingly to himself. “Ach, seems I’m the only one not an infant.”

  “Jeez,” said Jamie. “You’re always scoring points, aren’t you?”

  “Getting ahead,” intoned Wilson, “is all about staying ahead, laddie.”

  Jamie rolled his eyes.