by Mark Dawson
Richard Tanner is dancing with his secretary, looking like he’s having the time of his life. I back into an alcove as I spot Wilson and Fulton at a table, deep in conversation. I don’t think they notice me. As I’m cowering in the shadows, Rachel wanders past. She’s sipping at a multicoloured cocktail.
‘Hi,’ I say.
Her thoughtful air melts into an awkward smile. ‘Hi, Daniel,’ she says, ‘How are you?’
‘Not so bad.’
‘What are you doing hidden in there?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ I say. ‘Just taking a rest.’
‘I heard about you losing your job.’
‘It’s nothing. I needed a change. This is probably an opportunity.’
‘That’s good. Good you can see it like that.’
‘It’s just a job,’ I say.
‘Probably the way to deal with it.’ An awkward pause.
‘You look nice,’ I say. She’s wearing a simple black dress that brings out her figure. And she’s got great legs. She looks better than nice.
‘You too,’ she fibs (since I know I look like death). We stare uneasily at each other as Dawkins arrives.
He sidles up alongside Rachel and slips his arm around her waist. I keep expecting her to squirm away but she doesn’t.
‘What are you doing here, Tate?’ he says to me. He turns to Rachel and says, ‘Is he bothering you?’
‘No,’ she says, ‘we were just talking.’
‘Do you think you could pop over to the bar and get me a drink, sweetheart?’ he asks. ‘I’d like a quiet word alone with Tate.’
She nods and pecks him on the cheek. I gape. ‘Nice seeing you,’ she says to me. ‘And good luck.’
‘I don’t want to make a scene,’ the Dork says when she’s out of range, ‘but if you’re not out of here in five minutes I’m calling security. It might’ve escaped your attention, but you got fired today. You don’t work for us any more.’
‘Us?’ I say. ‘I never worked for you.’
‘If you’d waited another week before showing everyone how negligent you’ve been that would’ve been different. By the way, did you see me with Brian? I thought I’d bring him along tonight.’
‘You’re full of shit,’ I laugh. ‘Brian told me you just bumped into him outside.’
He smiles at me tensely. ‘Is that what he said?’
‘And he thinks you’re an arsehole,’ I add smugly. ‘Just so you know.’
‘Look - just do us all a favour and fuck off.’
I GET WHAT’S COMING TO ME
‘What are you doing with Rachel?’ I ask.
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
Surge of dizziness. Lack of breath. Sudden blindness.
Shooting pain.
‘You know something, Tate,’ the Dork says, ‘I never thought you’d make such a mess of things. This might surprise you, but there was a time when I thought you were a good lawyer. Better than good, actually. You used to be really on the ball-’
Gasping. Half-stagger. One step towards him. One step back.
‘-really impressive. And now look at you. You’ve been sacked, you look awful and - Jesus - your breath stinks. .. I mean, you’ve completely gone to seed. You’re an absolute wreck. Have a little pride, man. Pick yourself up-’
Dull headache. It inflates. Shards of pain. Long shudder. Trembling. Legs unsteady. Oh God. Not now.
‘-and do something with your life. Although, I have to say, we’ve all had more than enough of you, Tate. To be perfectly honest, everyone I’ve spoken to is glad to see the back of you, glad you got the push-’
Bubble of vomit. Taste stained on back of mouth.
Another bubble. Another. Another.
‘-because watching you mope around the office all day’s tedious, watching you fuck everything up and giving the firm a bad name. Failure sticks, Tate, it sticks. You know what Phillip Schofield was telling me earlier? He’s got no confidence in you. And that affects all of us. Selfish, that’s what you are - selfish - and-’
Balance haywire. Sudden fury. With who? Dawkins?
No. Struggle to hear him. Nothing making sense. Sweat slides into eyes. Stinging. No strength. Need to sit. Say something.
‘What are you talking about?’ the Dork says.
Dizziness. Say something.
‘That’s gibberish.’
Feel incredibly drunk.
‘What?’ he says.
Starting to sway. Feet planted but whole body rocking forwards and backwards. Dawkins talking. Hectoring. Shut him up. Colours in front of eyes start to blur and merge. Oh shit. Words stop connecting. Sounds with no meaning. Oh shit. Feeling of detachment. Spaced out like really bad trip. Body heating up. Blood pulsing through veins and head.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
‘You’re bloody drunk.’
Dawkins’ face wobbles into line of sight. Looks as if underwater. Ripples passing across surface. Distortion. Deformed. Stagger backwards. Half-swoon. Somehow stay upright.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
Force words out. Legs buckle. Drop onto floor. Bang to side of head. Pocket of people forming. Dawkins on his knees. Looks half-startled and half-revolted. Look up. Brian forging through the crowd. Brian kneeling down. Cohen there. Elizabeth there. Rachel back again with drinks. And Hannah? No. Can’t be. Impossible. Must be hallucinating. Must be completely out of it.
‘What’s the matter?’ asks Brian.
His voice stretched and comical. Like tape with dead batteries. Look up. Anxious faces. Richard Tanner is there. Secretaries and lawyers. Shouldering each other for better view. Cohen speaking into mobile telephone. Girl that looks like Hannah still there with hand over mouth. Guy that looks like Vincent Haines behind her. Arm around her waist, leg in a cast.
Try to speak. Nothing comes out. Please no. Close eyes because of strobes from disco. Stabbing pain. Darkness gathering at edge of vision. More people. Brian loops arm underneath shoulders. Pulls into half-sitting position. Propped up against his knees. Brushes hair out of eyes. Please.
Brian asks: ‘Can you hear me?’
Need to tell him: letter; tape; ticket.
‘Say it again, Daniel.’
Reach into pocket.
Ticket.
Account number.
Money.
Explain.
‘Come on, Daniel, keep talking to me.’
Sudden movement unsettles balance in stomach.
Bring up strange-coloured fluids, thin and opaque, all over lap. Dawkins shoots up and jumps back. Bile all over shoes. Brian has some on him. Ignores it.
Ticket.
Number.
Letter.
Money.
PLEASE.
‘Let’s have some space here,’ Brian is saying.
Blackout.
‘Keep your eyes open, Daniel.’
Ticket. Number. Letter. Money.
Two men. Blue uniforms. Approaching. Crowd parting. A leather bag. Liquid warm in lap.
Get to office. Stop letter. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE.
‘Keep your eyes open. Don’t go to sleep.’
Blackout.
Brian slaps cheek. Cohen talks to men. His voice a buzz making no sense. The men, nodding. One crouches down. Pulls back eyelid. Shines light into eye. Shines light into other eye. Pain. Can’t turn head. Drowsy. Want to sleep. Been a long, long day.
Throw up again until nothing left but spit and phlegm and peptic acid. Sharp tang of vomit in back of throat.
‘Daniel- it’s me - Brian. Can you hear me?’
Something trips in mind. Pictures spool in mad collage: Hannah in New York; secretaries gawping; Ecstasy memories of Ibiza; Brian on stage; crowds of journalists calling a name; Hannah and Haines; the Empire State; Brian, concern on face; snow, deep and cold and white.
Must get to office. Urgent. But so tired. Just five minutes’ rest. That’s all. No longer. Sleep. Need sleep to feel better. Sleep it off. Close eye
s. Snow expands. Fills hazy darkness. Perfectly clean. Virgin snow. Then nothing.
Blackout.
Whiteout.
‘Daniel.’
Can’t breathe. Static fills ears. Blind. Exit. Check out. Shut down.
‘Daniel.’
Everything wipes clean.
‘Daniel.’
Snow.
AN EXTRACT FROM SCOTT DOLAN’S GUEST LIST
An Italian man was charged by police yesterday for blackmailing Black Dahlias’ singer John French. Cops said Giovanni Caselli forced French to hand over £10,000 or else he would go to the press with stories he had made up saying that French was gay.
Unemployed Caselli, 32, claimed he and French were in a homosexual relationship. Police said Caselli had been unable to prove his claim and friends immediately condemned him as a liar and a thief.
‘To say John was gay is the biggest load of rubbish I’ve ever heard,’ said stunned Dahlia Martin Valentine. ‘The sad thing is, even though he wasn’t gay, I’m sure this would’ve upset John and it probably had a lot to do with his suicide.’
Caselli was bailed to appear before London magistrates next month.
AN EXTRACT FROM MEDIA LAWYER
Busy Times for White Hunter
US firm Harris Lambert has poached White Hunter’s highly rated media lawyer David Cohen, 28, tempting him with what sources have called ‘a very significant leaving offer’. Cohen will become the youngest partner in firm’s London office, heading up their new litigation and arbitration department. Charles Hunter, senior partner at Cohen’s old firm, said: ‘We’re very sad to see David go but this is a great chance for him to make a name for himself. He’s an excellent lawyer and I’m sure he’s destined for big things.’
Hunter took the opportunity to announce that the boutique media firm has made up corporate lawyer Caroline Lewis to replace Miles MacKay, who died last month. Lewis, 31, emerged after a lengthy selection process that Hunter described as ‘difficult’. It had been rumoured that the place in the partnership was initially offered to Cohen, who turned it down before leaving the practice. Hunter was not prepared too be drawn on that suggestion.
No Word on Missing Lawyer
Finally, in a busy week for White Hunter, there is still no word on the whereabouts of ex-assistant Daniel Tate, who disappeared last week. Tate, 27, collapsed at the firm’s Christmas party but hasn’t been seen after checking himself out of hospital. Hunter said: ‘Although Daniel’s no longer with us, he still has a lot of friends here at the firm and we’re all very concerned about him. We’d all be much happier if he made contact with the authorities.’
TUESDAY (LATER)
WISH YOU WERE HERE
The sand is gritty and warm as it plays through my toes. I’m walking back to the hotel from the tiny shop in the village along the beach, treading on the soft margin between the wet sand smoothed out by the tide and the fine powder further up the beach. I’m carrying a cut of pork and two bags of black beans and rice, the ingredients for feijoada completa, a local dish I’m going to cook tonight. Two pieces of correspondence poke out of the pocket of my shorts.
The cove ahead is empty and, turning, I can follow my footprints back until they disappear around the curve of the bay, the tide lapping at the indentations. Not long ago I was leaving tracks in snow. A group of bare-footed kids kick a thin plastic football around the beach and I watch as it swerves, jerking, in the lazy breeze. The sun is hot, even though it’s only just past nine in the morning. It’s at my back as I follow the curve of the beach, warming my skin and casting a long shadow ten feet before me.
Something - the angle of the sun, perhaps, or the rumble of my empty stomach - reminds me of the time. I sit on a rocky outcrop and put the bag of groceries down beside me. From a pouch fixed around my waist I take out a syringe and a tiny glass bottle of clear liquid. I slide the needle through the rubber membrane on the bottle and draw the insulin inside it up into the barrel and, after rolling up my shorts, inject it into my thigh. I’m told that doing this twice a day will eventually deaden the nerves so that I can’t feel the needle and I’ll have to find somewhere else to inject: the other leg, my belly, an arm, wherever I can find a vein. For now, the point of the needle as it pushes against and then slides through my skin, brings a brief pain - a reminder. Like all the other facts of living with diabetes, apparently this is just something else you get used to.
The hospital diagnosed hyperglycaemia - a diabetic coma - almost at once. Brian recognized the signs, as Lisa is diabetic. He probably saved my life; the paramedics agreed with his diagnosis and shot me up with insulin. I had all the symptoms: thirst, nausea, fruity smelling breath, impaired judgment, mood swings, irrational behaviour and, ultimately, loss of consciousness. Stress and my drink problem probably triggered the disease.
‘Now you’ve woken it up, it’ll be with you for the rest of your life,’ the doctor told me sternly when I woke up.
ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE
The surroundings here are extraordinary; the mountains back right up against the ocean and in the early mornings, like now, the sun casts them in a vivid ochre that balances the lush green of the forest vegetation and the cerulean blue of the ocean. The water is so clear here you can see all the way down, stingrays and blacktipped baby sharks basking, and just after the sun rises it casts the water with a gorgeous wash, like spun gold. And the golden sunsets - bloody reds and cadmium yellows - are miraculous.
Things look great: money won’t be a problem. Since I couldn’t stop the letters to the banks or to the police, I followed through with my plan. It worked perfectly. I reach into my pocket and read this morning’s telegram from Sao Paulo for the second time. It’s from a branch of Banco America do Sul, confirmation that the sum of approximately two million cruzeiro - £600,000 - has been safely remitted by Banco Bradesco in Rio. Next week I’m going to travel to the bank and make a withdrawal from my account. I’m going to empty it, bit by bit, and move the money into a safety deposit box. I’ve already washed it through blind accounts in Belize, Cayman and Bermuda.
Once it’s stashed in the box, there’ll be no way of tracing it. As far as the band and the label are concerned, the money will have vanished.
EVENTS IN LONDON
I set off again. I take out the other letter from my pocket, the one that was waiting for me in an anonymous post-office box in town, and examine it as I walk. The envelope is stamped with a London postmark. I slice it open with my penknife and take out the letter. I recognize Cohen’s handwriting. I sent him the details of the post-office box once I’d established myself here, and asked him for the news.
He recounts events at White Hunter before he left.
The Dork had no choice but to quit when first Cohen, then Caroline Lewis, were offered partnership in preference to him. He’d told everyone that the job was his and he couldn’t bear the humiliation of being overlooked twice. Cohen crossed swords with him at court last week. He’s been taken on as a junior partner in a tiny firm of media lawyers south of the river. It’ll be a steep drop for him, in terms of both prestige and paycheque. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.
I flip through the pages. Cohen hopes I’m OK about Hannah. Skin Trade is doing well, and it’s rumoured that she’s about to take the step up into film. And it was her and Haines at the party. Renwick invited them both.
She didn’t send me a card while I was in hospital; she didn’t visit, either. With the distance between us now I’ve had to force myself to put her out of my mind. It isn’t easy and I still miss her. But I keep myself busy. That helps. It’s only when I’m idle that I think about regrets. I’ve got more than a few. She’s still the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think about at night.
Cohen reports that Vincent Haines’s case came to trial last week. He was cross-examined for two days, during which time he gave a virtuoso display, making a joke of his broken leg and denying all knowledge of the contract he st
ood accused of breaching. But at the end of the second day, just as the court was ready to adjourn, the other side introduced an audio cassette as vital new evidence. On the tape, speaking to an unidentified interlocutor, Haines was heard to admit that he was in breach of the American contract. The court was spellbound. There was uproar. The Judge quickly found against him and ordered damages in the high six figures.
‘And it’s funny,’ Cohen writes, ‘but just after this mystery tape turned up, Extravaganza started to run a series of exclusives based on confidential information it’d dug up on White Hunter clients. The partnership went nuts. Six sensitive files with this information in them had gone missing from the office… Four of the clients have already sued for breach of confidence. You can see where I’m going with this? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about them, would you?’
Smiling contentedly to myself, I fold the letter and slide it back into its envelope.
BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS
£20,000 of the band’s money has already been spent. It was added to the £20,000 Scott Dolan paid me for the White Hunter files, the total spent buying a battered hotel here on the Espirito Santo coast. It’s ramshackle and needs a lot of work but progress has been good. The area is popular with surfers and travellers and, once the hotel is in decent shape, it ought to be a busy hangout.
Nelson loves it, of course. He came with me when I flew out. He basks on the sun-cooked wood and chases insects the size of mice. His favourite thing is to lie on the pier and stare down at the brightly coloured fish that swim around the pilings, knowing that they’ll always be just out of reach. His vigil reminiscent of life in the metropolis: the glittering few observed and admired but impossible to catch.
As you round the final languid curve of the bay you come upon the hotel. It’s built on a rocky outcrop and surrounded by palms and banana trees, hibiscus and pampas grasses. The walls are weather-beaten wooden planks that need replacing and the roof leaks in several places. It’ll be daubed with tar next week. A terrace reaches down from the rocky ledge to abut the beach, and the morning’s high tide is already licking up against the rimey wood. Spume clings to the knotted surface and a green-painted rowing boat bobs at its mooring, buffeted by the swells.