Room 119

by T F Lince

  Dean knew this one would take some explaining, too. James and Sarah gave each other another look.

  Dean shook Albert’s hand and gave Betty a kiss. “Well, it’s all well and good making a promise, but you lived up to it.”

  Albert laughed again.

  “That was Betty’s fault. She kept saying through the years, ‘Remember that nice man who beat you at pool? We promised to be there for him.’ I couldn’t have lived with myself if we hadn’t been.” He took Betty’s hand and kissed it.

  As Dean and Sarah turned to leave, Albert called them back.

  “Hey, Dean, I won’t need this anymore.” He took a battered folded beermat out of his pocket. It could barely stop itself from falling apart as he carefully unfolded it and gave it to Dean.

  Sarah took it from Dean and read the message out loud.

  “Albert & Betty

  Beachy Head

  11 May 2017 – 8pm

  I might need you there.

  Dean Harrison, Room 119 x”

  She looked at Dean. “This is really old.”

  Albert replied, “We have been holding that promise for over forty years, Sarah. We are so glad we were there to help.”

  She carefully put the beermat into her pocket and gave Albert and Betty a kiss before heading back inside with Dean and James. Stopping in the middle of the room, she looked at her husband.

  “I don’t pretend to know what went on, Dean, but that beermat is really old, so can you answer one thing? How is the message in your handwriting?”

  “Sarah, I will tell you everything one day, but some things are better left where they are, at least for now.” He gave her a kiss, then turned to James Rhodes. “You have a very special place here, James. Whatever you are doing, keep doing it.”

  The doctor shook Dean’s and Sarah’s hands.

  “We will do what we can, Dean. Days like today make it all worthwhile.”

  Dean took a last look around the room at every one of the patients before leaving Sweet Dreams Nursing Home with Sarah and going home.

  Chapter 41 – Bulls On The Rampage

  Dean opened one eye the next morning to see Sarah was not in bed beside him. The unmistakable aroma of breakfast was making its way up the stairs, accompanied by Sarah singing along to BBC Radio Two. Dean got up, had a shower and put on a suit – making millions in his pyjamas did not seem right, somehow.

  Dean’s confidence was born from seeing his guides at Sweet Dreams the day before, confirming that Room 119 had not been a dream after all. And if it was not a dream, then Death had showed him Hugo Hodgkinson’s name for a reason. The only gamble was that the reason was to give Dean a fighting chance in Second Chance Saloon.

  No one did a better breakfast than Dean’s wife, and today’s breakfast was no exception. Dean finished everything that was in front of him then switched on the news and the trading board in his office. He homed in on Howell Media’s share price, which had gone down even further overnight. As 10.30am in Jamaica was 4.30pm in the UK, there was no need to be trigger happy. It was a waiting game, and Dean was waiting.

  The shares were trading at $8.76. Dean switched the view to cover the week. The price had been tumbling all week, and the month and six month views were not much better. It looked like a flight of stairs dropping down to the basement. Nobody in their right mind would touch them with a bargepole, let alone two and a half million bargepoles.

  The one thing bugging Dean was why the shareholders had agreed to merge with Astra Zing. He decided to ring Jack.

  “Can’t talk now, Yorkie.”

  Dean was taken aback by this.

  “You’d better have a good reason why, Jack.”

  Jack laughed.

  “I have. I’m in your kitchen.”

  Dean walked back into the kitchen to see Jack eying up the pans on the hob.

  “Do you want breakfast, Jack? There’s loads left.” Sarah always cooked too much on the off chance a passing army might need feeding. Today Sarah’s ‘just in case’ was Jack’s gain.

  “I’d love one, Sarah, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Nothing is too much bother for you, Jack.” She accompanied that comment with a smile that would have melted butter.

  “Have you seen the price, Yorkie?” A slice of sausage disappeared from Jack’s plate into his mouth before he added a mumbled, “Are we going to pile in straight away?”

  “Jack, it will go down further.”

  “So, what’s the angle? What’s going to stop us buying all of those shares and our friend Hugo still taking the company to the cleaners?” Jack carefully mopped up the baked beans and egg yolk residue with some fried bread.

  “Let’s just say I know that deal won’t be signed by Hodgkinson. You’ve got to trust me on that one. I’m more worried that Howell Media will pull out. Why would the shareholders agree to kill off their own company?”

  Jack had left the plate cleaner than if it had just come out of the dishwasher. “Sarah, thank you, I needed that. Well, Dean, Astra Zing is a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde company. If the son does the deal, he’s a good man who has turned companies around with mutual benefit to both. Hugo Hodgkinson himself hardly does any deals now, but when he does, he crushes them into the ground. And my sources say Hodgkinson is all over this one. He seems to take pleasure from power; he could not care less about the consequences. He normally buys off the board and the CEO, and they make false promises to the shareholders.”

  “But how does he get the board on board, if you pardon the pun?”

  Jack took a sip from his coffee. “I can’t confirm this, but it seems Hodgkinson is in bed with some nasty people. I’m not saying the board members would wake up with a horse’s head in their beds, but he would make life very difficult for people who didn’t comply.”

  Dean pondered on this thought.

  “He’s a first class prick, Yorkie. So what have you got on him? How do you know he won’t sign? He doesn’t sound like the type to back off.”

  Dean knew it had to come out sooner or later. If he couldn’t trust Sarah and Jack, who could he trust?

  “OK, I know you’ll think I am mad, but…” He paused. “OK, I’m going to say it. Hugo Hodgkinson will die at 10.26am in Jamaica, and the meeting is at 10.45am. He can’t sign if he’s dead.”

  Jack looked at Sarah.

  “Did he just say that out loud, Sarah?”

  Dean felt verbally naked. He’d put a hand grenade on the kitchen table and pulled the pin out, and was now waiting for the explosion.

  “Jack, there has been a lot of weird stuff going on. I don’t know where Dean was when he was in hospital, but I know that he met people. I even met them, for real, in a home.”

  Sarah stood by the side of her husband.

  “What, a mental home?” Jack continued before that could be taken the wrong way, “Well, Yorkie, I’ve put in my and Holly’s nest egg for our retirement. Nobody put a gun to my head. I trust you. By the way, when am I going to die?”

  Dean laughed. “I don’t know about everyone, only two people.”

  “Who else, Dean?” asked Sarah nervously. “Who else is going to die?”

  Dean realised what he had just said. “Oh, it’s OK, he wants to go. It’s Benjie. His time’s up, but he wants to see Bobo, so he’s ready. On 2 November at 3.20am, Benjie will leave us.”

  Sarah let out a big sigh. “Oh, thank God, I thought it was you. I thought you were leaving me again.” She gave Dean a hug. “Don’t leave me again, Mr Harrison.”

  As they kissed, Jack looked at them both.

  “Yorkie, who the fuck is Benjie and who the fuck is Bobo?”

  Sarah and Dean turned and looked at Jack, replying together, “They’re clowns.”

  Sarah gave Dean a playful punch before offering her little finger for a pinkie shake and a perfectly timed “Jinx”, then added, “Do keep up, Jack.”

  “Oh, that’s OK, then, it all makes sense now. You know Hugo Hodgkinson is going to die at 10
.26am in Jamaica, and the next day Bobo the fucking clown is going to die in England.”

  “It’s Benjie, Jack. Bobo died a few years ago.”

  Jack carried on his rant. “Are we going to buy four million quid’s worth of shares in Billy Smart’s fucking Circus when Benjie goes?”

  “Stop swearing, Jack, and calm down. You said you trusted me. Don’t you?” Dean said this laughingly.

  “Well I did before you went loopy – sorry, fucking loopy.”

  “Hang on a minute,” said Dean, his serious head back on. “What do you mean, four million quid’s worth, Jack?”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention. Have you not checked your trading account this morning?”

  “No, not yet, why?”

  “You were well thought of at work. People trust your judgment, Dean. Some of the other guys heard about the deal and they are in. The older guys are leaving if it comes off. I’m glad I didn’t tell them about your clown mates.”

  “It will be OK, Jack, I have a good informer.”

  “Does he have a red nose and a honking horn?”

  Dean pictured Death in his mind, showing him the old book with Hodgkinson’s name in it.

  “No, Jack, this guy is no clown. He’s as serious as they come.”

  “OK, Yorkie, they don’t need to know about your clown mates. Some of the boys have taken the afternoon off. Sarah, they’re coming round about three pm, is that OK?”

  Sarah looked at her messy kitchen and then at her watch. It was 1pm already.

  “Do I have a choice, Jack?”

  Jack pulled his head into his shoulders.

  “Not really, Sarah. Sorry.”

  “Well you’d better give me a hand tidying this lot up, then.”

  It was 3pm and people were starting to turn up. There was just over £4 million in Dean’s trading account. Looking at a spreadsheet of who had paid what, he took a deep breath.

  “Jack, are we doing the right thing?”

  “The famous Dean Harrison having doubts over a trade? Whatever next.”

  In a way Jack’s words felt reassuring, but normally Dean traded with the company’s money. Gambling with real people’s money was a different ball game, especially when they were his friends. The fact that so many people were involved was a good thing, but if the trade went belly up, they would not be happy with him, no matter how much they had known the risks beforehand.

  Sarah had laid out some nibbles and was offering coffees and fresh orange and apple juice around, but this was not a party. This was work and the champagne was hidden away for now.

  Howell Media had slowly been creeping down every hour and was now trading at $5.89. Dean and Jack had been watching it fighting a losing battle in Dean’s office. It would occasionally rally, and when it did, Jack was all over buying. Dean knew better; he had the inside track and had to time things to perfection. Jack’s trigger finger was not helping, so Dean was relieved when some of the guests arrived and gave Jack something else to think about.

  “Jack, go and sort some drinks out for people. You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’m making myself nervous, Dean. I think I need the toilet.”

  “Again, Jack? Sort yourself out, say hello to the guys and tell them where I am.”

  Dean’s eyes never moved from the board where the candle was flickering blue and heading in an upward direction.

  Oliver and four of his young colleagues were in the kitchen.

  “Hello, Mrs Harrison.”

  “Hello, Oliver, I like your haircut. You don’t look so much of a prick.”

  Oliver’s Army laughed, but the teasing didn’t bother Oliver anymore. He had done a lot of growing up in the last six months.

  “Thanks, Mrs Harrison. You know Martin, and this is Laura, John and Steven.”

  “Pleased to meet you all. Help yourselves to some nibbles. Coffee, anyone?”

  They all wanted a coffee. The Nespresso stash was going to take a beating today.

  Jack joined them in the kitchen. “Hi, guys, this is exciting, isn’t it? Now remember, if you want to pull out, now is the time. If it all goes wrong then you have no one to blame but yourselves. Anyone got itchy feet?”

  “No, we are all OK. What will be, will be, Jack. Where’s Dean?”

  Jack pointed to Dean’s office. “He’s in there. He’s not taken his eyes off the trading board for the last hour. It’s still dropping, but occasionally flickers the other way.”

  Dean had a big office, but it looked far from big right now. People were coming and going, a few disappearing into the garden for a nervous fag, others popping out to the kitchen for another coffee or a bite to eat. It was 4pm – 10am in Jamaica. Dean was in the box seat, his eyes trained on the trading candle which had tumbled to $4.60. It seemed like everyone in the trading world was on a different page to the Harrison household and could not get rid of Howell Media shares quickly enough. The company’s assets alone were worth ten times what the shares were trading at right now, which only meant one thing – Howell Media was going under.

  Jack was getting twitchy again. “Dean, it won’t go much lower.”

  Dean was staring at over £4 million on his laptop with the trade set up ready to buy. He did not flinch, blink or reply. There was no need to reply.

  “Fuck, I need another wee.”

  Dean and Sarah’s house had three toilets, and all of them had nervous queues at the moment.

  At 4.07pm, the shares went for another tumble to $4.22. The candle was red and the price was falling. Dean’s eyes were still not blinking, staring at the screen as if nobody else was in the room.

  A shout of, “Dean, make the fucking deal,” was followed by, “He knows what he is doing, back the fuck off.”

  At 4.11pm the shares hit $4.03.

  “He’ll put it on now.”

  Dean had not spoken for over thirty minutes; he was in the zone. Then he broke his silence.

  “OK, just a bit longer.”

  Jack walked back in just as the candle turned blue and shot up to $12.

  “Fucking hell, Dean,” was followed by a team, “Shhhhh!”

  Jack looked at Dean. “I can’t fucking stand this,” he said and walked out again.

  At 4.15pm, the candle turned red and went down as quickly as it had flown up. It was back to $5.76.

  “OK, just a bit longer. That was its last flip, like a fish dying in the bottom of my dad’s boat. They always give a last flip when they are on their way out.”

  Everyone was listening; there were no more shouts. Dean looked at his watch, it was 4.24pm and thirty seconds. The candle was red and flying down; it hit $3.00, then $2.50. The company was more or less worthless, but still Dean did not make the trade.

  Dean now had his watch in front of his face – five, four, three, two. On one, he hit Buy. The price was $1.56.

  The confirmation appeared on the centre of the screen. “Right, we are on, boys and girls. Say a prayer, cross your fingers, touch some wood, stand on one leg, salute a magpie – do whatever you think might help. There is no turning back now.”

  The price tipped down to $1.34, and then something happened. The candle flickered blue, and then red, then blue, blue, blue – $1.30 became $2.30; $2.30 became $7.30, and it kept going up. There were no more red lights; the Bulls had taken control and were running riot.

  “Fucking hell, Dean, you called a Bull Run.” Being at the start of a Bull Run was what traders’ dreams were made of.

  Dean took a deep breath, which felt like the first breath he had taken for hours.

  “It won’t turn back now. Look at him go.”

  The price was already up to $23.60, and if Dean took his eyes off it for a second, it had gone up a couple of dollars more by the time he looked back.

  “What makes something turn like that?” one of the traders in the room asked.

  Dean turned on the TV on the other wall and went to see Sarah in the kitchen. She was with Jack.

  “We got $1.56, Jack. Sarah, ca
n I have a coffee, please?”

  Sarah gave Dean a kiss. “I assume that’s good, Dean,” she said. Jack answered for him as Dean was catching his breath.

  “Good, Sarah? Your husband’s…can I swear?”

  Sarah patted him on the back. “You’ve been swearing like a trooper all day, I don’t think you need permission now.”

  “Have I?” Bemused by the thought of it, Jack continued. “OK, your husband is a fucking star, clowns or no clowns.” He started to dance. “It just needs to turn now, Yorkie.”

  “It already has, Jack. We have what we call a…Sarah, can I swear?”

  Sarah had an ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ look all over her face. “You may as well, Dean, every other fucker has been.”

  Sarah always had been able to make Dean laugh, and at that moment he realised why.

  “OK, Jack, are you sitting comfortably? We have a fucking Bull Run.”

  Jack’s face straightened out, then he looked over to the office where everyone was cheering and shouting. There was even some singing.

  Oliver ran out. “Jack, Jack, it’s running – $38.”

  Martin popped his head round the door. “It’s $41, actually.”

  Jack picked Dean up and carried him back to the office. The gathered traders jumped all over him.

  “OK, guys, OK. Calm down,” he said, getting up from the bottom of the pile. “Even running Bulls get tired. Let me see what’s going on.”

  Dean had one eye on the board and another on Sky News. The shares were trading at $65 and still climbing.

  “Right, quiet!” There was silence; a flicker of red lit up the trading candle. “What is it I say about trading, Oliver?” Dean asked.

  “It’s about when you get in and when you get out,” Oliver answered. With that one statement, the atmosphere again became tense. The Bull was getting tired as more and more Bears got in its way.

  Dean looked at the figure on his spreadsheet. “OK, that will do. That’s covered Dexter, no need to be greedy.”

  The candle was still more blue than red and had a last burst just before Dean sold the shares as quickly as he’d bought them.