Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  ‘But you haven’t tried Everest?’

  ‘Everest?’

  ‘The big one – it’s more of a climb than a walk. Or K2?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Mount McKinley?’

  He shakes his head again.

  ‘Or how about some of the little European peaks – the Eiger, the Matterhorn, maybe Mont Blanc?’

  Same response. She leans towards me and slips her arm into mine in a semi-proprietorial way. I like it when she does this.

  ‘Dave has.’

  ‘Really?’ He looks at me, astonished. I say nothing and sip my wine.

  ‘He does free-fall too.’

  ‘Free-fall?’

  ‘He did a jump over the North Pole.’

  ‘The North Pole?’

  She nods and I carry on sipping as if she’s talking about someone else. A true hero has no use for self-aggrandisement. ‘And he goes heli-skiing in Canada. And he’s been diving under the ice in the Antarctic. White water rafting in the Amazon. And filming big game in Africa.’

  He’s looking at me as if I’m some kind of freak.

  ‘Oh, and one other thing…’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Just as the bell goes to warn us before summoning us back in for the second half, she grins at him. ‘He’s captain of the British extreme ironing team as well – they get to iron shirts in the most amazing places…’

  Pissed as we are, we crack up, while Ras seethes and Vlad tries to keep a straight face.

  Christ, she’s good.

  * * *

  I’M AT home – alone once more – in my apartment in Whitehall Court, lying on my bed and reflecting. Like most men, most of the time I spend reflecting is devoted to sex.

  Sex is a commodity. You can buy it by the yard, just go on-line to an escort agency website, look at the photos, choose your girl, choose the services you want and make the call. So why is sex with Two Livers different?

  Partly it’s because she’s damned good in bed, knows all the moves and loves it. She really is a natural. But the same is true of a lot of other women. Partly it’s because we always have a laugh, but if I’ve had enough to drink and done a couple of lines of coke, I’ll be laughing anyway. I’m starting to wonder if it’s something else. Is it possible that it’s because she sees me as I am, and despite that we still click together? This thought troubles me. If she can see the real Dave Hart – whoever that is – why should she care? And why should I care if she cares? But I clearly do. This troubles me even more.

  Have you ever wondered to what extent we live our lives through others’ perception of us? Labels are meant to describe us, but the fact of having had a label applied can actually define you, changing you from what you really were to what people think you are. Have a medal, now you’re officially brave, and what happens – you start to act brave.

  I’m a villain. That’s my label, I chose it myself and I like it just fine. At times people think I’m controversial, but who cares? Who wants to be uncontroversial? There are enough of those already. Between respecting people’s human fucking rights, health and fucking safety, and political fucking correctness, we’re turning this country into Bland Land. Somebody has to be Doctor Evil, so why not me? Besides, the villains always get the best parts.

  I just wish I didn’t keep thinking about Two Livers…

  * * *

  TODAY IS a disaster. I have to be in Madrid for an important presentation to the Development Ministry on New Start for Africa – we’re going round all the EU nations, but the Spanish are the most important, because they currently hold the EU Presidency – and the unions representing airline ground staff have decided to go slow.

  ‘Going slow’ is an interesting concept for people who never seem to go fast. People who work in the City may not always be the best examples of moral virtue, but they are bright, sharp and work damned hard – otherwise they don’t work in the City for very long, if they ever get there in the first place. The problem with working in the City is that it spoils you for the rest of the world outside the Square Mile, where many people are slow, stupid and lazy.

  As a result of the industrial action there’s mounting chaos in the skies over Britain, and all the small airports are closed, including Biggin Hill, where the Grossbank jets are based. There are no vacant slots available at other airports, so I have no choice but to fly commercial, taking my chances with the great unwashed on public transport.

  Naturally I asked Maria to book an entire aircraft for myself and Rory, who is accompanying me to carry my bags. But with hundreds of flights cancelled and thousands of irate passengers desperate not to miss their vacations, democracy prevails and I have to line up with everyone else, which is appalling.

  They say the secret of happiness is low expectations. At least that’s what Rory always used to say to us at Bartons just before bonus time. But at British airports expectations have to be below rock bottom, and even that is probably way too high.

  The first trauma I have to suffer is the indignity of airport security. I’m convinced airport security is a job creation scheme for the terminally stupid and surly. Great lines of us stand around waiting to be processed, while one half of the airline security staff watch the other half watching us line up waiting to be processed. At any moment you sense that someone might do some work, but no, these people are highly trained, and are probably psychologically profiling us to determine which of us will be first to go stark raving mad with frustration.

  When it’s eventually my turn, I take my shoes and belt off and place my bag on the conveyor belt to be screened. I can’t help thinking the Al Qaeda terrorists must be rolling around the floors of their caves in Afghanistan laughing at the sight of thousands of us meekly lining up like this. Airport security must cost more and cause more delay to the economy than any number of terrorist attacks.

  But it does at least keep bad people off the streets, like the obese lesbian working the x-ray machine, who spots my nail-clippers in my wash bag and triumphantly takes me aside.

  She unpacks everything from my overnight bag and lays it out for the masses to gawp at. Luckily I’m prepared, and stand proudly beside my change of Calvin Klein underwear, custom-made bespoke shirt from Dege and Skinner of Savile Row, wash bag and grooming kit from Penhaligons, and family-size box of Durex, while the Lumpenproletariat file past, the Ugly Brothers and the Scary Sisters, all making the most of the chance to see what underpants I wear.

  It’s the grooming kit she homes in on, eagerly seeking out and finding the deadly Ninja fighting nail-clippers that I might have used to storm the flight deck. I agree to surrender them, and she joyfully drops them into a large transparent plastic display cylinder full of similar items, which airport security seem to think will reassure us that they are doing a really great job.

  As I repack my bag, I smile and thank her for her contribution towards winning the war on terror.

  * * *

  IT GETS worse.

  We are meant to be flying British Atlantic, and go to their so-called Business Class lounge, which is full of travelling salesmen, lower level bankers, management consultants and assorted riff-raff. There are no spare seats, and the bar is running dry.

  While Rory queues to fetch me a gin and tonic, I push my way through the crowd to the ogre on the reception desk.

  ‘I’m flying on the 13.15 to Madrid. Can you tell me if it’s on time?’

  The ogre is theoretically female, probably early fifties, square-jawed, broad-shouldered and ugly. A couple of centuries ago, someone would have hitched a plough to her. Today she seems to relish the misery all around her.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘But do you know anything? Have you been told anything?’

  ‘If I had, I’d tell you.’ She looks pointedly at the next person, who has a similar question and gets a similar response. I spot another airline employee, a very camp man in his late twenties with a pencil moustache, scurrying around with a sheaf
of papers, looking busy and important, but as far as I can tell not actually doing anything.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m meant to be on the 13.15 to Madrid. Do you know if it’s on time?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, we only know what we’re told. You’ll have to ask at the desk.’

  ‘The desk don’t know anything.’

  ‘Then neither do I, sir. I’m terribly sorry.’

  Terribly sorry my arse. I get out my Frequent Flyer Card and use my mobile to call the Gold Card enquiry line. After irradiating my brain for ten minutes, and having still only reached position number seventeen in the queue, I give up and get Rory to call, while I sip my gin and tonic. Even that’s lukewarm – they’ve run out of ice.

  This is when the ogre on the desk joyfully announces a series of flight delays. The 13.15 is now the 15.15, and she’ll give us more information when she has it. That means I may well miss my meeting, but it isn’t her problem. In fact it isn’t anyone’s problem, except mine. So many people are involved in this chain of irresponsibility, that no one is actually accountable.

  We’re prisoners. We’ve checked in, we’re through passport control and airport security, and now we’re theirs. Hundreds of us. They can abuse us horribly. They can keep us here for hours, feeding us misinformation, supplying gin and tonics without ice cubes, while our business deals crash and burn, and no one is to blame. Of course none of this is necessary, they could do it properly, but as long as we accept it with passive, sheep-like apathy, it’s all we’ll get.

  In the so-called business lounge, I look around at the crowd, at the simperingly ineffectual wimp still wandering about looking important with his sheaf of papers, Rory who still has his mobile tucked under his chin, holding for the Gold Card enquiry line, and I decide that Something Must Be Done.

  Since no one else seems capable of doing anything, it had better be me. I’m going to nail these motherfuckers.

  I call Paul Ryan. British Atlantic have several billion dollars of debt outstanding. A couple of years ago they borrowed enormous sums in the international markets, issuing bonds to pay for new aircraft and facilities and to invest in new routes, none of which they could manage, because they clearly don’t know their arse from their elbow.

  Their debt is trading at a discount to issue price, and potential predators have been circling, with a view to buying it, forcing the company to repay it, and when they can’t, driving them into bankruptcy.

  That would be a wicked plan, because once a company like this is in bankruptcy, you can restructure it, laying off workers, selling off assets, and then re-launch it. People like the ogre and the wimp with their great approaches to customer care might not have jobs after a restructuring, and that would be a terrible thing.

  ‘Paul – start buying. Let’s go large.’

  My next call is to one of the most feared men on Wall Street, Jerry ‘Scarface’ Scarpone, the managing partner of Drive-By Capital, known in the hedge fund community as ‘the Sicilian’. Drive-By are a rare beast – an honest hedge fund, which is to say that they do what they claim to do. They make great returns for their investors by putting their money into anything bad: gaming companies, arms manufacturers, tobacco companies, even rap artists. The Drive-By Vice Fund was up a hundred and twenty-four per cent last year, which has to tell you something.

  ‘Jerry, have you heard anything about a major lawsuit hitting British Atlantic?’

  ‘A lawsuit? No.’

  ‘Between you and me, this could be big. But don’t deal in the stock, okay? This is inside information and you’re offside.’

  ‘Understood. We won’t deal.’

  I look up the British Atlantic share price on my Blackberry. Within seconds it’s plummeting. That’s the great thing about sharing confidential information with hedge funds – it’s far more efficient than issuing public announcements to the market.

  The ogre has a TV screen behind her, currently tuned into a classical music channel, presumably on the principle that calming music might stop us going completely berserk.

  ‘Excuse me, would you mind switching to EuroBizTV?’

  She can’t think of an immediate reason not to, and since this is the business lounge, she reluctantly changes the channel. A few moments later, she looks up as she hears mention of British Atlantic. A newsreader is describing unexpected share price movements following market rumours.

  ‘British Atlantic stock has fallen five per cent today following rumours of impending legal action against the airline. Market commentators have suggested that they may be implicated in the ongoing fuel surcharge row, or in a broader price-fixing investigation in the United States. Meanwhile their bonds have risen dramatically in price, giving rise to speculation that a hostile consortium might be preparing to take control of the airline and force it into bankruptcy and restructuring.’

  This gets her attention. Bankruptcy and restructuring? Of her firm? Isn’t it strange how our inability to sympathise with our fellow human beings doesn’t extend to ourselves?

  My next call, leaning on the counter while she ignores me in case I require customer care or want to ask a question, is to the Silver Fox. I want to do a live interview from the lounge. If I’m really going to be stuck here until 3.15, I might as well have some fun.

  After this I call Ron Monk at Toddlers Group. It takes him half an hour before he’s doing a ‘down the wire’ interview for EuroBizTV. It turns out Toddlers are also buying British Atlantic bonds.

  ‘We feel the top management of British Atlantic have been guilty of the twin evils of arrogance and complacency. The market has moved on, the expectations of the travelling public are that much greater, and an airline like this either needs to slash its prices and cut its costs accordingly, or raise its standards of service.’

  ‘Twin evils’ – I like that. It was my line but I don’t begrudge him. My mobile rings and it’s Paul Ryan, sitting round a conference phone with the Grossbank heads of private equity, corporate finance, and a bunch of lawyers and Team Xerox guys.

  ‘Dave – we’ve got roughly a billion and a half. We’re raising our bid, but others are in there competing with us now – Toddlers Group, Downtown, Drive-By, and some of the prop desks. How far should we go?’

  ‘All the way. Let’s push it. I want to drive this airline under.’

  The ogre is giving me a strange look. The wimp has wandered over and is chatting to her about the latest news reports. They’re concerned. This could be a real-time disaster. Not the minor, every-day disaster of people’s business trips and holidays being messed up, meetings cancelled, deals failing, family reunions, weddings or funerals missed, bags going astray, precious personal possessions lost, unnecessary, life-shortening angst, hassle and stress, but a real catastrophe – one that might affect them personally.

  My next call – with her eavesdropping – is to Vlad the Impaler. OneSib have hired a new prop trading team and they really need a corporate situation to get their teeth into. We call them the Red Army Trading Team, and they have huge capital to make a splash with.

  ‘Vlad – welcome to the club. We’ve formed a wolf pack and we’re taking down a big, fat, lazy cow.’ I stare at the ogre as I say this. ‘It’s called British Atlantic – your guys will find their bonds are moving and it has a target sign pasted to its backside. Time to get off the bench and play, Vlad.’

  ‘Excuse me, what are you doing?’ It’s the ogre, only she doesn’t look quite so daunting now.

  ‘Just some work stuff.’ My phone goes, and it’s the Silver Fox. I look at my watch. ‘Five minutes? Sure.’ I hang up and turn back to the ogre. ‘I’ve been asked to do a live interview for television. Is there somewhere I can go to talk privately?’

  This snaps her back into normal unhelpful mode – ‘This is the Unhelpful Desk and we’d really like you to fuck off and die’. But she can’t exactly say that. ‘I’m afraid not. We don’t have private facilities for passengers.’

  ‘Okay, no problem, I’ll do it from here. But m
aybe you could make a short announcement to ask people to quieten down? I know they won’t like it, but if you wouldn’t mind…’

  As soon as she realises she has the chance to do something unpopular and blame it on someone else, she leaps at it.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please could we have some quiet in the lounge?’ Her voice booms out over the tannoy, much as it would if she were summoning prisoners back to their cells at the end of their exercise period. ‘A gentleman at the desk has been asked to do a live television interview. If we could have some quiet in the lounge, we’d be very grateful.’

  The noise does die down, as people stare curiously at me, and right on cue the Silver Fox calls, gives me a few final hints, and then I’m live on EuroBizTV, simultaneously talking from the reception desk while an old library shot of me is on the TV screen and my voice is broadcast to the lounge.

  ‘Dave Hart, chairman of Grossbank, market rumours suggest that you are behind moves to take control of British Atlantic. Can you comment on this?’

  ‘Yes, I can. I’m happy to confirm that Grossbank, working with a consortium of institutional investors, has acquired a sufficiently large holding in British Atlantic’s bonds to force a meeting with management and potentially to take control of the airline. We’ll be holding talks over the next few days, and there will be further announcements in due course.’

  ‘Mister Hart, what does this mean for passengers and staff?’

  ‘We’ll be scrutinising performance very closely. As you probably know, British Atlantic has a poor reputation for service.’ A loud murmur of agreement goes up from the crowd. ‘Naturally there may be some redundancies, and I’ll be taking a personal interest in much of the detail.’ This time a cheer goes up. Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s the wimp, looking very pale and servile, and he’s brought me a chair to sit on.

  ‘Mister Hart, are there any areas that might be early candidates for closure?’