by James Goss
“Basically, if you rang up the bank and wanted a mortgage in one of these areas, you got it. It didn’t matter if you didn’t have quite enough dough, or were a bad bet. In fact, it actually weighed in your favour. The bank was, if you’ll forgive me, banking on you taking all the risks for them. It hoped that your area would indeed be up-and-coming, partly thanks to nice people like you moving into the area. It was hoped that you’d keep your head above water for a few years—right up until the interest rates soared. Then, yeah, your mortgage would get a little more pricey. With luck you’d default and the bank could then seize your property and sell it off. According to projections the property would have doubled or trebled in value. So the bank would be left with a tidy little return on their original outlay. Especially as Wilson had a relationship with a property speculation consortium.
“The bank was making a nice profit, the developers were making a nice profit, and the little people were taking all the risks.
“Super brilliant. But all of it hidden behind a lovely, friendly website and an advertising campaign featuring cartoon animals. But for all the laughing squirrels, every bit of data you clicked and checked was counting on your failing. On losing your house. On being in rented accommodation all your life, on not having a proper pension. Because, let me tell you something—if you’ve got a pension with us, it’s doing really badly indeed.
“How do I know? Because I’ve a pension with Ubanker. I’ve a mortgage with this bank. I’m so screwed. I should have known the first time my girlfriend came over and said ‘Oh? This is where you live.’ I thought she was impressed because we were an up-and-coming area. But it was quite the reverse. She recognised the mortgage. She even asked me if I owned the flat, and I proudly told her that, as I worked for Ubanker, I had a three-year fixed rate mortgage. She stopped talking about that then. I just thought I was boring her. You know, it’s an early date and you’re talking about your mortgage.
“It’s only now, now that the bank is tanking, now that they’ve announced that the chief executives are being paid ‘top ups’ to replace profit share bonuses because there is no profit, that we realise how screwed we are. There’s not just no money to pay a few staff, they’re getting rid of a thousand of us.
“So, yeah. There are rumours that they’re looking at flogging off the bank to Sodobus. Not that it matters to the people who run it. Turns out they get massive pay-offs if that happens.
“Basically, like their mortgages, whatever happens, they won’t lose.”
The little man stood up, shaking his head. “That’s why I’m speaking out. Because I’m going to lose anyway. That’s the world we live in, isn’t it? I wonder if that’s why we’re all so angry all the time. Because we’ve no power left. Never had. Never will have. But it’s so obvious. So clear.”
THE SLIDESHOW ENDED, and Wilson made a few dismissive clucks about “wee sour grapes” and “what they don’t understand is that the pay is in line with similar institutions.”
“Really?” scoffed Jamie. “Similar failing banks?”
Annette nodded at him approvingly.
IN TRUTH, IT hadn’t been hard to source these three videos. I’d asked for submissions on YouTube. They’d come rolling in. There were quite a few more, but I’d chosen these three as reasonably representative.
SLIDE TWENTY-ONE
• There we are.
• All I want is for you to
choose one of the three.
• And pay off their debts.
• Then you can go.
END OF PRESENTATION
Annette started to laugh. Rueful; a good-old fashioned word like that described her manner well. “It’s a game,” she smiled with that little Jack Frost smile of hers. “I’m good at games.”
Jamie, more for want of something to do, joined in her bonhomie. When he laughed he looked like a schoolboy who’d never really grown up.
Wilson, who’d never been blessed with a sense of humour, found their behaviour remarkable. “Genuinely interested,” he said, “but what do the two of you find so funny?”
Annette waved a hand around the table. “This!” she exclaimed, “Oh, dear me! All of this! We spend all of our time telling the press that these poor people only have themselves to blame and only got themselves into their mess... and then it happens to us! Oh, it’s a hoot, really!” She rubbed her chin. “Really, solving this is fairly easy, isn’t it? We just have to pick one of these three...” She paused, fishing for a word.
“Boobies,” said Jamie because he’d always liked the word.
“Very well, then,” Annette tried not to frown. “Three boobies. Which one should we bail out?”
“I’m not playing this game,” snarled Wilson.
Annette tutted. “Oh, come on, surely it’s simple enough.”
“I really need a shower,” pointed out Jamie.
“Fine,” said Annette. “Then we’ll decide between the two of us. I vote for the vicar’s wife.”
“You would,” smiled Jamie, slyly. His smile didn’t hide his quick calculation. “But that’s because she’s your client.”
“Oh, more than that, she’s my ideal demographic. If I rescue her, I’ll be a hero to middle-aged ladies. It’ll reassure them, give them a comfort blanket. I’m one of them, after all.”
“On the same level,” said Jamie, “I’d say let’s bail out my client. He’s just a kid. He could do with a break. I mean, he’s a stupid idiot and deserves everything he gets, but, if we have to pick one of these idiots... Then he’s going to come out of it the best.”
“We’ll have to agree to differ,” sighed Annette. “Wilson?”
“Yes?” Wilson looked up grudgingly.
“We’ve hit a stalemate. I don’t suppose you’d care to have a casting vote, would you?”
Wilson shot her back a pitying look. “I’m not playing.”
“Oh, come on, I’m a gambler,” said Annette, “And I know when something is a safe bet. Some crusader has brought us all here to teach us a lesson. But, like most do-gooders, he’s not realised that the benefits could well outweigh the cost to us. If we rush out a press release, we can make it look like we’re acting benevolently.”
Wilson shook his head. “We’ll get begging letters.”
“What of it?” Annette smirked. “We don’t have to answer them. We’ll have a golden example to point to and we can say we prefer not to talk about the rest of our charitable giving...”
Jamie laughed. “And then do bugger all?”
“Precisely,” Annette beamed.
Wilson stood up and crossed to the window, staring out at the traffic failing to crawl onto Old Street. “You know what,” he drawled eventually, “let’s say we do...”
“Oh, hello,” sniggered Jamie, “He’s going to suggest we bail out his bank manager.”
Wilson held up a hand. “Not at all... not necessarily. Let’s try and work out what the costs to us will be of each case.”
“You mean just a total sum?” Annette pulled up a notepad and started totting up figures. Jamie moved over to help, but when Annette wrinkled her nose slightly, sat back down. “Hurry up,” he growled. “I really need that shower.”
“Quite,” said Wilson. He had the air of command about him, dominating the room. “Of course, it’s not just about the money—”
“Of course not,” muttered Annette softly.
“—but it’s simply one co-factor important in evaluating the best outcome.”
“Uh-huh,” Annette said, the pen carving across the pad.
“I mean obviously”—Wilson waved a hand loftily in the air—“we can discount the laddie from my firm. That’s sheer sour grapes with no quantifiable harm done. Simple bad luck on his part and an inability to accept blame. So, as I said, we can discount that...”
Jamie looked up. “Really? This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that if you settled his case, it could count as an admission of guilt in a billion-dollar fraud?”
T
o his credit, Wilson didn’t flush or even blink, but simply stared ahead, holding to the line. “Simple sour grapes, that’s all. Moving on, naturally, Annette, to your case, the poor woman in question...”
Annette looked at her calculations “I’m guessing in the region of thirty-to-fifty grand.”
“I see,” Wilson nodded gravely. “And the young student?”
Annette again glanced at her pad. “Jamie’s client is down about three thousand.”
Wilson nodded again. “So it’s between those two, isn’t it?”
All three nodded.
“The thing is,” said Annette, “I’d happily pay them both back their money—”
“As would we all,” agreed Wilson.
“It’s just that, as the lady said, it’s not so much the money as the feeling of betrayal. That can’t be paid back. In many ways—”
“—we’d be rewarding her for her dishonesty?” suggested Jamie.
“Quite.”
“Whereas your student—”
“Has his whole life ahead of him...”
“...a simple naïve error...”
“...too young to understand the consequences...”
“...impoverished background...”
“...so hard being young...”
“...if we are not to offer a helping hand...”
“...then who is?”
All three nodded.
“Anyone got the cash on them?” asked Annette.
Jamie patted down his pockets. “Not quite. And also...”
Wilson sniffed. “Indeed. Let’s settle this by cheque. Our money’s good.”
“Is it a chequebook for your bank?” asked Annette, to which Wilson barked with rare laughter, “Of course not!”
All three produced chequebooks from a distinguished private bank and each wrote out a cheque for a thousand pounds.
SLIDE TWENTY-TWO:
• Thank you for your generosity.
• You may go.
“That was barely the cost of a heavy lunch,” said Wilson. The other two nodded.
“Talk about getting off lightly,” agreed Jamie.
They went to the door. Annette reached out a cautious hand. It sprung open. All three breathed sighs of relief. Annette paused on the threshold. “You know, I’ve got to thinking, there might be useful synergies arising from this.”
“Indeed?” Wilson arched a brow.
“What say you all come for a drink at my club and we can see how we can turn a profit from this.”
“Capital idea,” Wilson suddenly shone with ebullience.
Jamie coughed. “I’ll just pop to the office, shower and change.”
“The G&T will be waiting for you on the table,” Annette assured him. “Reward for a tough day.”
“Indeed.”
THEY WERE ALL about to vanish into a long a boozy afternoon, when a noise alerted them: the projector.
SLIDE TWENTY-THREE:
• One more thing...
SLIDE TWENTY-FOUR:
Every word of your conversation has been broadcast to
• your customers,
• the media,
• the police.
SLIDE TWENTY-FIVE:
• Enjoy your drinks.
CHAPTER TEN
SKULL AND CROSSBONES
REMEMBER GUY’S GIRLFRIEND Amber? You’ve probably forgotten her. But I hadn’t. For some reason I spent ages following her on Facebook. You know what it’s like. You actually, genuinely, literally mean to do the washing-up but suddenly half an hour has sailed by and you’ve been looking at someone’s holiday in Thailand from 2008?
That. It kept happening with Amber.
Which was strange as I hadn’t seen her for ages. I hadn’t seen either her or Guy really. They’d got on with their lives and I’d been busy saving the world. But I’d kept up to date with her—liking photos of their weekend in Paris, or their long country walks (turns out they really were a couple who did that kind of thing). I felt bad that I wasn’t really seeing as much of Guy as I used to, but I think things were awkward between us. It was like an unspoken argument. We’d kept on trying to rearrange lunch, and then he’d announced he was doing yet another fun run, and this time, I’d not put £20 forward for it. After that, arranging lunch had kind of petered out.
Meanwhile, Amber’s life had been roaring ahead. Remember I told you she was Far Too Cool for Guy? Well, she was in a band. She sang and played guitar. I think Guy’s highest musical achievement at school had been an uncertain ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ on the recorder. But Amber was both absurdly hot and talented. I mean, I say that, but I’ve never really been one for music. But I can tell you objectively that Amber was good at music, because her band had been signed up by a proper label, the kind of people who definitely don’t run their business from a garage.
Although, actually, the label’s office was a converted ex-garage in Old Street, but it was achingly cool. And Amber’s band were signed to them. High Visibility Kevin (‘HiVizKev’) were pottering along nicely. A fair bit of air play, a few festival bookings, support act at the Roundhouse for someone who’d come along from Sweden to scream about how miserable his life was.
The plan for HiVizKev was to spend the summer touring and then release an album in the Autumn off the back of the following they’d built up at festivals.
Amber was sharing this news enthusiastically. “A whole summer of camping! I’m double-washing my clothes now to get ahead! My family are so furious, aunts I’ve never heard of keep ringing me up in tears.” And so on.
It was all going brilliantly well. She was posting daily updates from the studio and then getting ready to do a few gigs around London before hitting the festivals.
She looked so happy I risked a direct message: ‘Looks like you’re having an awesome time!’
She replied, ‘x.’ I guessed that was good.
TO BE HONEST, I had other things on my mind, and it felt awkward that Guy and I weren’t really speaking. It was a bit like we’d had a fight without ever having bothered having the fight. It felt like those rows at school that’d be solved by you both saying “whatever”. Only it was never that easy online.
Eventually, I messaged Amber about it:
How is Guy?
You 2 still not speaking?
Not really :(
Shame. You’re not expecting me to wade into this?
Nope!
Thank God. Listen, and this is awkward... but it’s partly because of Danielle, you know.
Understandable
[that was an understatement]
Hey, I’m not exactly going to be on his side on that one. But it’s all the stuff that goes with that.
Yeah.
Come to the gig in a couple of weeks. He’ll be there. Plus it’ll be AMAZING.
Sure it will!!
CU x
BUT A WEEK later was her Facebook Dresden. She posted in quick succession, ‘FUCK YOU ALL,’ ‘FUCK EM,’ and ‘U!N!B!E!L!I!E!V!A!B!L!E!!!’ and then a lot of weird pictures from the recording sessions.
There was a small spate of ‘u ok hun?’ and ‘pay no attention to h8rz’ and that kind of thing, but no actual answer from Amber. Until someone posted, ‘Hey A, speaking as a friend, you might just want to check your privilege on this one. I’m sure your life can at times be tough, but you’ve got an amazing job, a hot boyfriend and (fingers crossed) working ovaries. Stuff’s good for you, gal. So don’t sit and stew in it. You’re about to be famous. HUGSxxx’
To which Amber replied, ‘Fuck it all and fuck you. You KNOW NOTHING!!!!’
I SENT HER a message to ask her what was going on. Which led to us going for a drink at 1am in a little place down the road. She turned up drunk, and had been crying so much her make-up had done the Sad Clown Run.
“What’s the problem?” I asked her.
She made a face. Even utterly miserable and pulling a face she looked stunning.
“Seriously? Do you not check Twitter?”
“I’m, er, not one for online, really,” I said.
She reached for an olive, squished it, and then squished a couple more.
“HiVizKev are doing amazingly well on SoundCloud. Like several hundred thousand listens, along with a hundred thousand more on YouTube.”
“That’s amazing,” I beamed, topping up her glass. Her face didn’t move. “Isn’t it amazing?”
She pushed a piece of paper across to me:
Dear HighVizibilityKevin,
It has been brought to my attention that an illegally pirated copy of the entire ‘Double Yellow Stripes’ album has been published online. While we have issued takedown proceedings against the relevant sites and torrents, we believe that the audience the pirated copies have reached far exceeds the predicted sales forecasts for a relatively niche album.
Regrettably, therefore we have taken the tough decision to cancel the official release of the album pending the results of an investigation into how the leak occurred.
I’m sorry not to have better news,
Regards,
I read it a couple of times. “What?”
She shrugged angrily. “You can read, can’t you?”
“Yes, yes I can, but I can’t work out what it means. Did you leak it?”
“No!” she shouted loud enough for someone else in the bar to glance over. “No!” she repeated in an emphatic hiss. “Of course not. We’ve been pushing for this for years. We wouldn’t be so suicidal.”
“Well, you know, you might... you, or someone else in the band, might have got so excited at the prospect that you... ah... you know... made a copy for a friend and then...”