Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  ‘We’re dangerous enough, my friend. I can’t allow you to do this.’

  He hangs up. What kind of remark was that? We’re Grossbank. We can do what we want, because Grossbank rocks. Doesn’t it?

  When I get home that night, I can’t sleep. I realise I’m going through a kind of cold turkey – with all the security everywhere, I can’t misbehave the way I’m used to, and my body is tormented by the absence of the poisons and the pleasures it’s come to depend on. Half a bottle of whisky later I doze off on the bed, still fully clothed, but keep seeing faces hovering over me: black men with dreadlocks; ugly hate-filled faces of men and women in jeans and combat jackets carrying placards; smooth, evil men in sharp suits carrying nasty little machine-guns; and angry men with beards in Arab dress, their mad eyes filled with hatred. The rational part of my brain is wondering whether there’s any other serious hate-group out there that I’ve somehow failed to antagonise, but I can’t come up with one.

  In the middle of all this, the phone rings. Thank God for that. I hope it’s Dan Harriman, suggesting I sneak out and play hookey, or hooker, or something. I’m damned if I’ll hide away in here forever. These schmucks think they can threaten Dave Hart? Think again, pal. You think I care? Bullshit.

  ‘Hello, Dave, is that you?’

  It’s a familiar voice. Female, sweet, innocent. ‘Sally! It’s been so long. Where are you?’

  She’s crying. ‘I’m here. In London. I’ve come back, Dave. I thought I could run far away and forget about you, but I was wrong. Wherever I went, there was news of you. You were in the papers, on the radio, on the television news at night. I couldn’t escape. I’ve told Trevor. He’s heartbroken. I don’t think he’ll ever understand. I feel so guilty, Dave, but I can’t help myself. I love you.’

  Am I dreaming or what? It can’t be the drugs, and I’ve only had half a bottle of Scotch. This is it. I am definitely going to get inside those perfectly white cotton panties. At last. Tonight.

  ‘Sally – where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Euston station. I’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Stay there. I’ll be right over.’

  I know – I should have told her to take a cab. She’s only a woman, for God’s sake. If it had been Ilyana, or sweaty Sveta, or Breathless Beth, or glorious Gabbie, or any of them really, I would have done. But this is Sally, and I’ve been waiting a long time.

  I hang up, rush downstairs and grab my jacket and car keys. Tom’s long since left for the evening, so I’ll drive myself.

  ‘Mister Hart, sir – where are you going?’ It’s one of the goons who’s here for the night shift.

  ‘Out. By myself.’ I run to the front door, and step out into the street, where H1 PAY is parked.

  ‘Mister Hart, sir – please wait a moment. Let me check the car first.’ He’s got a hand-held radio out and as he hurries after me, he’s calling for a car to follow me.

  ‘No time – sorry.’ I definitely don’t want a bunch of goons overseeing my great romantic moment.

  I jump in, slam the door, put the keys in the ignition, and for a moment wonder if I should just wait a minute or two. Will it really make that great a difference? I promised Mike Moss I’d do as I was told. Fuck it. When have I ever done as I was told? Sally’s waiting, and it really has been a long, hard chase.

  I turn the key and there’s a loud bang and a blinding white light. I feel rather than see the windscreen shatter in front of me and a great blast of hot air engulfs me.

  Shit.

  THE THIRD INSTALMENT OF

  DAVE HART’S ADVENTURES IS

  AVAILABLE NOW

  THE EGO

  HAS LANDED

  by David Charters

  from Elliott & Thompson

  I’M DEAD.

  I know I must be dead because I’m walking slowly up a long staircase in bare feet, wearing an old-fashioned nightgown, and I’m surrounded by puffy white clouds. Sitting or standing in the clouds are groups of beautiful young women, all dressed in long white gowns, all singing heavenly arias. I recognise Ilyana from Kiev, and Breathless Beth, and Fluffy and Thumper from the Pussycat Club, and there’s a stunning redhead from Warsaw whose name I’ve forgotten. Choruses of heavenly hookers, all serenading me as I ascend the final steps to a pair of huge iron gates, and standing in front of them a very ancient man with a long beard, who is staring at a book on a lectern.

  ‘Name?’ He has a deep, gravelly voice, commanding and stern, the sort of voice that makes me worry in case he somehow knows my guilty secrets. All of them.

  ‘H – Hart. Dave Hart.’ My mouth is dry and it’s an effort to get the words out. But at least I get a reaction as he looks up from the book.

  ‘Dave Hart? Are you kidding? You’re a fucking investment banker. Get out of here, you wanker!’

  And suddenly a great wind is blasting through the railings of the gates and I’m tumbling, falling head over heels back down the stairs, and the girls have stopped singing and are all pointing at me and laughing, and I want to scream, need to scream, desperate to scream…

  ‘Aaaaaaargh!’

  I open my eyes. I’m lying in bed in a small room with white painted walls.

  An institutional room. The bed is narrow and uncomfortable and is surrounded by medical equipment with wires running under the covers and dials and flashing lights. I know I’m in hospital, but as I scream the door of my room bursts open and a policewoman runs in followed by a nurse.

  A policewoman? In a hospital? Oh, for fuck’s sake. Now it’s coming back to me. I rest my head back on the pillow and try not to laugh.

  I’m an investment banker. And not just any investment banker. I’m Dave Hart. I run the investment banking operations of the Erste Frankfurter Grossbank – ‘Grossbank’ to its friends – which I’ve turned from Sleepy Hollow into one of the most happening places in the City of London in a little over twelve months.

  And most of my friends are investment bankers too. I still can’t recall exactly what I’m doing in hospital, but instinct takes over and I look at the policewoman and the nurse and grin.

  My voice is croaky and it’s an effort to speak. ‘Don’t tell me – Dan Harriman sent you.’ Dan runs European equities at Hardman Stoney. He’s what passes in investment banking circles for one of my closest friends – which is to say that he’s always there when he needs you. But now it’s my turn and he’s done me a favour.

  ‘All right, get your kit off.’ I nod to the policewoman. ‘You first. I’ll start with a blow-job.’

  They look at each other, pretending to be surprised, and neither of them undoes so much as a button. I stare at them. They’re not actually that pretty.

  ‘Come on, I don’t have all day.’ Actually I do have all day. I’m aching all over, and can feel wires attached by sticking plaster at strategic points all over my body. What’s going on?

  The one who’s dressed as a policewoman speaks first. ‘Mister Hart – I’m Police Constable Hardy, attached to the Anti-Terrorist Squad.’

  Now I’m impatient. You can take role-playing too far. ‘Honey, cut the bullshit – just get your top off.’ A thought is forming in my mind. I’m starting to blame that cheapskate Dan Harriman. Probably only paid for topless hand relief.

  I close my eyes and sigh, half impatient, half exhausted, and am dimly aware of murmured voices, then something wet being rubbed on my bare arm, a sharp jab, and I drift off again.

  THE EGO HAS LANDED

  DAVID CHARTERS

  For ‘Two Livers’, wherever you are.

  Author’s Note & Acknowledgements

  ONCE AGAIN I am indebted to a number of people who contributed to Dave Hart’s further adventures. Lorne Forsyth, Jane Miller, Joanna Rice, Adam Shutkever, my oldest son Mark and my sister Margaret all contributed thoughts and comments, while my family put up with me while I was working on the latest instalment. But most of all I’m grateful to the investment bankers, hedge fund managers and others from the Square Mile who provide such extr
aordinary inspiration. And of course ‘Two Livers’, to whom this book is dedicated.

  I’M DEAD.

  I know I must be dead because I’m walking slowly up a long staircase in bare feet, wearing an old-fashioned nightgown, and I’m surrounded by puffy white clouds. Sitting or standing in the clouds are groups of beautiful young women, all dressed in long white gowns, all singing heavenly arias. I recognise Ilyana from Kiev, and Breathless Beth, and Fluffy and Thumper from the Pussycat Club, and there’s a stunning redhead from Warsaw whose name I’ve forgotten. Choruses of heavenly hookers, all serenading me as I ascend the final steps to a pair of huge iron gates, and standing in front of them a very ancient man with a long beard, who is staring at a book on a lectern.

  ‘Name?’ He has a deep, gravelly voice, commanding and stern, the sort of voice that makes me worry in case he somehow knows my guilty secrets. All of them.

  ‘H – Hart. Dave Hart.’ My mouth is dry and it’s an effort to get the words out. But at least I get a reaction as he looks up from the book.

  ‘Dave Hart? Are you kidding? You’re a fucking investment banker. Get out of here, you wanker!’

  And suddenly a great wind is blasting through the railings of the gates and I’m tumbling, falling head over heels back down the stairs, and the girls have stopped singing and are all pointing at me and laughing, and I want to scream, need to scream, desperate to scream…

  ‘Aaaaaaargh!’

  I open my eyes. I’m lying in bed in a small room with white painted walls.

  An institutional room. The bed is narrow and uncomfortable and is surrounded by medical equipment with wires running under the covers and dials and flashing lights. I know I’m in hospital, but as I scream the door of my room bursts open and a policewoman runs in followed by a nurse.

  A policewoman? In a hospital? Oh, for fuck’s sake. Now it’s coming back to me. I rest my head back on the pillow and try not to laugh.

  I’m an investment banker. And not just any investment banker. I’m Dave Hart. I run the investment banking operations of the Erste Frankfurter Grossbank – ‘Grossbank’ to its friends – which I’ve turned from Sleepy Hollow into one of the most happening places in the City of London in a little over twelve months.

  And most of my friends are investment bankers too. I still can’t recall exactly what I’m doing in hospital, but instinct takes over and I look at the policewoman and the nurse and grin.

  My voice is croaky and it’s an effort to speak. ‘Don’t tell me – Dan Harriman sent you.’ Dan runs European equities at Hardman Stoney. He’s what passes in investment banking circles for one of my closest friends – which is to say that he’s always there when he needs you. But now it’s my turn and he’s done me a favour.

  ‘All right, get your kit off.’ I nod to the policewoman. ‘You first. I’ll start with a blow-job.’

  They look at each other, pretending to be surprised, and neither of them undoes so much as a button. I stare at them. They’re not actually that pretty.

  ‘Come on, I don’t have all day.’ Actually I do have all day. I’m aching all over, and can feel wires attached by sticking plaster at strategic points all over my body. What’s going on?

  The one who’s dressed as a policewoman speaks first. ‘Mister Hart – I’m Police Constable Hardy, attached to the Anti-Terrorist Squad.’

  Now I’m impatient. You can take role-playing too far. ‘Honey, cut the bullshit – just get your top off.’ A thought is forming in my mind. I’m starting to blame that cheapskate Dan Harriman. Probably only paid for topless hand relief.

  I close my eyes and sigh, half impatient, half exhausted, and am dimly aware of murmured voices, then something wet being rubbed on my bare arm, a sharp jab, and I drift off again.

  * * *

  VOICES ARE talking in my head. One of them is female, deep and husky, a measured, unhurried voice, oozing sexuality, the sort of voice that could hypnotise you. She’s talking to some kind of medic, a man, who seems nervous, almost intimidated by her.

  ‘So how long till he wakes up?’

  ‘Any time now. We’re letting him rest. Sleep is a great cure. The body needs to heal itself, but so does the mind. What he went through must have been extraordinary.’

  A hand rests on my shoulder and I can smell the unmistakable scent of Un Bois Vanille by Serge Lutens. ‘He’s tough. He can take a lot more than most of us.’

  Before I can feel a surge of manly pride, the medic cuts in.

  ‘Well, he certainly has. And our guess is that although he’s been taking it for years, he really maxed out in the past twelve months. He’s tested positive for opiates and cocaine – exceptionally high readings in both cases – his liver shows massive stress from alcohol abuse, and he seems to have been taking an enormous volume of drugs normally associated with penile erectile dysfunction.’

  Penile erectile dysfunction? Me? Who does this guy think he is? Let him try shagging four hookers a night when he’s high on coke and plastered with cocktails and champagne. That’s it. I’ve had enough. My eyes pop open and I struggle to sit up in bed.

  Standing next to me, wearing a pale grey Donna Karan trouser suit with a pashmina and huge diamond earrings, probably by Graff, is a vision of blonde loveliness. No, she’s not a hooker, though she could earn a fortune if she chose to be – film stars, Presidents and tycoons would sell their souls for an hour of her company. And Dan Harriman definitely didn’t send her. A woman this beautiful surely shouldn’t have a brain as well, but Laura ‘Two Livers’ MacKay is an investment banker, one of the most dedicated, focussed, over-achieving storm troopers in the Square Mile. We call her Two Livers because she has a biological advantage over the rest of us: she can drink for England, and frequently has done, giving her an advantage that mere intellect could never compete with. In fact, she’s not just any banker, she’s my number two running all corporate business at Grossbank, and suddenly a whole flood of memories return.

  She sees my eyes open and leans close, so that I can feel her breath on my cheek.

  ‘Hi boss. You okay?’ I love it when a woman calls me boss. Especially a beautiful one.

  She’s got a sexy half smile on her face. It’s the sort of wicked, ‘come to bed’ look that makes me want to tear the covers off, pull the wires off my body and… but instead I smile weakly and a pounding takes over in my head.

  ‘Boss – you’re not in great shape.’

  ‘Wh – what do you mean?’

  ‘There was a bomb under your car.’

  I lie back and close my eyes. I remember. I’d just had a phone call from the love of my life, Sally ‘Perfectly White Panties’ Mills, mother of Toby, Jasper and Monty and wife of Trevor the underachieving teacher, a woman who can’t be bought, who comes from a planet in a different galaxy to investment banking, and who was finally leaving her husband and children to be with me.

  And I blew it. I rushed out of the house, ignoring my bodyguard, leapt into the car and turned the key in the ignition. I’m not quite sure what happened next, but I never got to see those perfectly white panties.

  There were bad guys circling. Grossbank had seized the funds of a string of dodgy institutions who seemed to be a bit too close to the terrorist finance action. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a hero, just that they sort of pissed me off, and events took on a momentum of their own. I got on the wrong side of them and I suppose they wanted to make an example.

  Two Livers reaches across to a bedside table and holds up a newspaper. It’s the Post, and there’s a photograph of two figures illuminated by a huge explosion in the background as a fireball engulfs a car. Shit. That was my car, my Bentley, with the personalised number plate, H1 PAY. ‘Nine Lives Hart survives bomb, saves bodyguard’. I shake my head in bewilderment.

  Two Livers touches my arm, reassuring, tender. ‘It didn’t go off properly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The police have told us. When you turned the key in the ignition, you set off the detona
tor. There must have been a small explosion, but it didn’t set off the explosives under the fuel tank. At least not straight away. The bodyguard pulled you out and was dragging you away, when this happened.’

  I look at the picture again. I vaguely recall being manhandled out of the car, leaning on someone strong, then another blast and we span around together – and were photographed. I take the newspaper and start reading despite the thumping in my head. We were photographed by a thirteen year old girl called Anna Mahaffey, who was walking along the street and just happened to have a camera on her mobile phone. She snapped what became the defining image of the Dave Hart car bombing, wired across the world to every newspaper and TV station. And she caught us spinning around with the force of the explosion in that split second when it appeared the bodyguard was on top of me, and that I was carrying him.

  Damn, I’m a hero. Again.

  ‘You were pretty badly shaken up.’

  ‘Sh – shaken up? What do you mean?’ I point at the wires and the monitors. ‘Y – you mean I wasn’t injured?’

  ‘No. Nothing more than a few scratches. You’re in here now to deal with the drugs and the booze.’

  * * *

  I’VE OFTEN heard it said – mostly by me – that compromise is the enemy of achievement. When it comes to PR, the best firm in the business is Ball Taittinger. They are quite simply the most shit hot outfit there is with the best connections and the most clout. If what you are doing requires the very best, then you hire these guys. For everything else, use an ordinary firm. They’re reassuringly expensive, and I insist on paying top dollar. Or at least I insist on Grossbank paying top dollar. Naturally, I’m looked after by the super cool, sleek, grey-haired senior partner, a man in his early sixties with almost as many miles on the clock as I have myself – although I think my clock’s been round the dial once already – and whom I call the Silver Fox.