It's dark when I leave the club. I slip unnoticed, shrouded in my Givenchy overcoat, through the quiet streets. Ubers and the occasional bus pass blindly by. Inside St Saviour's it's dark and silent. I navigate through the nave by the light of my phone and towards the altar. The painting of the Last Supper is bizarrely distorted in this alien light, Christ transformed into a grotesque, barely half-human form. A chink of light leaks around the closed office door, so I call the Reverend's name, but there's no answer.
Slowly down the steps, and I knock, but still no answer. I push the door open, and I'm dazzled by light. I turn my head away, but not before I see a large shadow cast from the ceiling. As my eyes adjust, the shadow reveals its detail: the Reverend's puffy face with bulging eyes, his swinging body, shrouded in a black cassock. Two ceiling tiles have been removed and a blue rope looped over the joist and around his neck. On the floor is an upturned chair.
To see the late Reverend Anthony Thwaites hanging there is to evoke images of smoked fish – of Arbroath smokies, in fact; of aubergines; of black pudding; of mermaid's purses. I'm fascinated by the abnormal angle of his head where it meets the body, the surprised expression on his purple face, the way the eyes protrude but also lack depth. I'm careful not to touch him with my hands, so instead I nudge him in the thigh with my elbow, which sends him off in the slowest of rotations as the rope twists and untwists. His face is visible at first, then hidden, then visible again. The heft of him surprises me: his sheer dead weight. What also surprises me is the strong feeling of absence – the Father is both here and not here.
On the table is a handwritten note.
The burden's too much to bear. A revelation from nowhere and I can't see any way back. Sorry. Amen.
Anthony
I could stay here for hours, observing as the body stiffens, but it's time to move on.
I've done the world a favour, nudging that dangerous old paedo towards his rightful destination. A man who paid the fair price for having transgressed. A man who wouldn't play the game, and so he lost.
But then, just as the body has almost completed its rotations and come to rest again, there's a noise from upstairs, then a voice calling, “Hello? Hello?”
I have to react quickly, so I shout, “Help, down here! Quick, please!” There's a shuffling noise on the stairs, then the door opens to reveal a tiny old man holding a can of furniture polish.
I shout, “Thank God you're here, something terrible's happened. Help me,” and I right the chair, then to try to manoeuvre the body into a standing position on the chair. I tell the little old man to hold the body in position as I climb up onto the table, reach across, and loosen the rope from around the neck.
“We're too late,” I tell the little old man, who's wheezing heavily now. I climb back down and help the old man with the body, but I lose my grip, and the body topples forward, landing face down on the kitchen table with a thump, like meat on the butcher's block.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” says the little old man as he frantically tries to haul the body back up, but he's not strong enough.
“I'm sorry, we're too late. He's dead,” I say.
“Oh Father, why?” the old man wails while pawing at the Rev’s cassock, then he goes down on his knees to cradle the corpse's head. I pull out my phone and dial 999.
Later, with my statement dictated to the police, the old man taken to hospital for precautionary tests, St Saviour's cordoned off and a forensic team crawling all over it, I'm finally left alone. Back at the club, I ask Henry for two V&Ts, and I down them both in one.
He raises an eyebrow and smiles. “Rough evening, sir?”
“Yes, you could say that. A good friend just killed himself, and I found the body.”
“I'm so sorry, sir. Please do let me know if I can do anything.”
“Yes, you can. Bring me another V&T, will you? And the wine list.”
“Yes, of course, sir. And will sir be dining with us tonight?”
I glance at my Rolex Cosmograph Daytona; it's nearly midnight. “No, I'm done, thank you. Just the wine list.”
Halfway through a consoling bottle of Clos du Calvaire Châteauneuf-du-Pape, I ask, “Are you a religious man, Henry?”
“Me, sir? Not especially. But there must be something else out there, mustn't there?”
“You think so? I'm not so sure.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yes, because if there is some supreme being up there, why all the chaos? Why isn't everything all peaceful and calm? Surely a divine power would make sure no bad stuff happened?”
He looks up at the ceiling. “Like your friend dying, you mean? It must be tough to take, sir.”
“It is. Do you know why he killed himself, Henry?”
“No, sir. I wouldn't want to pry.”
“Don't worry, you're not. He killed himself because he was a vicar who didn't believe in God anymore. He stopped believing, or he saw the light, or however you want to describe it. And without that belief, he was nothing. Sad, really.”
“Yes sir, very sad. Did he have nothing else in his life?”
“It seems not. We'd talked over his loss of faith in the last few days, but I'd no idea he was so desperate. Poor old fucker.” I raise my glass in front of me. “Here's to believing in whatever you must.” I smile, raise my glass higher, then down it in one.
24
Don’t judge me too harshly; you’ve surely done things that in retrospect were suboptimal. And of course, you’re familiar with fundamental attribution error. Also known as correspondence bias, as you know it’s the tendency to ascribe the behaviour of others to their character, personality and motives, to 'who they really are', rather than situational factors. This is in contrast to the usual assessment of one's own actions, which assigns a greater significance to external factors.
Which is not to defend myself, merely to point out the difficulties of interpretation, especially when in possession of imperfect knowledge.
Shit happens, as they say. Which is not to be blithe about this; it is of course a terrible thing that the Reverend decided to kill himself. I'm devastated. But even though the world has changed irrevocably, life must go on.
It’s a slow start to the working week, understandable given my grief over Anthony's death. I dress in black Paul Smith suit, Paul Smith white shirt, and a black tie that club staff source for me. I arrive at the office just after ten.
Jenny looks emaciated and sexless in black trousers, black polo-neck, and flat shoes. Little make-up, and hair scraped back; widow chic. Quite what I ever saw in her escapes me now. Lucija wears that green dress that accentuates her heavenly body; a goddess amongst mortals.
Roger's back in the office but not looking well. He fusses into my office, closes the door, and fidgets in front of my desk as I check my email.
“Can I help you, Roger?”
“Morning. We need to thrash out a coherent plan, boss. Lucija and I spent the weekend working on various options, and we'd like to go through them with you.”
“Okay, but a friend of mine died over the weekend, so I'm not quite with it. But life goes on, I suppose.”
“Very sorry to hear that. Was it anyone I know?”
“I don't think so. The Reverend Anthony Thwaites. He was the rector at St Saviour's.”
“St Saviour's? Isn't that the place you had your eye on?”
“Coincidentally, yes, it is. But Anthony and I go back a fair way, saw each other socially.”
“I'm very sorry. Was his death, erm, unexpected?”
“To me, yes it was, although not to him. He killed himself.”
“Oh my God. I'm really very sorry to hear that.” And, to his credit, he looks it: pale-faced, wrinkled forehead, downturned mouth, the head tilted slightly to one side. Then a prolonged look into my eyes.
I say, “Thanks, Roger. Get Lucija to bring me a triple espresso will you, and then let's go through these master plans of yours. Oh, and remind me later to talk to you about our in
tern programme — it needs a shot in the arm, I think.”
An hour or so later, I'm feeling restless and irritated. I say, “As you know, I'm a bit simple, so let's make sure I've understood this correctly. You've presented me with three options, all with something in common. Basically, you're offering me three slightly different flavours of shit.”
Roger grimaces. “I wouldn't have put it quite so, um, pithily. Realistically, Gyges is going to have to be different to how it was in the past. That's just how it is.”
“There you go again, Rog, timid and fatalistic. Where's your fight?”
Lucija leans forward to show me her cleavage. “I think Roger is just trying to be realistic. Even with the disposals we’re still around one hundred and sixty million in the hole. Everyone knows we are in trouble — we have no chance of getting book value on anything we offload. That means an even bigger write-down for every single investor, guaranteeing that we are responsible for them losing even more money. You can be sure that they will get even more dissatisfied. And even if we do fill the hole, what happens then? We are paralysed. We cannot lift the suspension because there will be more redemptions. More redemptions means offloading more assets, bigger write-downs. Even with the best luck in the world, if we carry on like we are without taking radical steps, it is all over for Gyges.”
I say, “With all due respect, what qualifies you to make that judgement? Beauty can only get you so far. Sadly.” And I reach over to touch her arm, but she's already sitting back in her chair with her arms folded across her chest. I watch her long legs cross themselves.
Roger says, “Lucija's extremely well qualified, as you know, Reynard, and we're trying to stick to the facts, that's all. Objectively, we're on the edge of the abyss, looking down.”
“Okay, I get it,” I say, and I nod to Lucija, who nods back. I continue, “I'm sure you're right. So, basically, we can’t feasibly fill the hole in a week or two, so we have three options. One, we run to the broker, pull down our trousers, and let them help themselves. Two, we magic some angel out of nowhere and hope that they can bail us out, or at least tide us over. Three, I liquidate enough of my personal assets to at least keep the wolf from the door in the short term?”
“Basically, yes,” says Roger. “Remember, AIFMD is clear that we have to act in the interests of our investors. So we can't just let Gyges fail without there being grave implications for everyone.”
“Forget the regulations, I just wouldn't want to let it fail. It would be like letting one of my children die.”
“Except you don't have any children,” says Roger.
“Metaphorical children, of course. So we have to carry on, but we have to get some external help? Much as I hate to admit it, it looks like we have no alternative.”
Roger and Lucija exchange glances. Roger says, “So, just to clarify, you are dismissing option three?”
“Option three?”
Roger says, “Yes, you liquidate some of your non-Gyges assets, and you lend the business some money to tide it over.”
“Correct. I've more than enough skin in the game already. I already have far more to lose personally than anyone else.”
“It is your business, so that's not unreasonable.”
“Exactly. I took the risk, no one else, I bear the weight of the responsibility, so it's only fair that I reap the rewards.”
Roger smiles that curious half-smile of his. “What I actually meant was that it wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect you to put up some of your personal assets in order to secure Gyges' future.”
“Really? What's that expression: you reap what you sow? And as you say, it's my business, and I have to make the tough decisions. Let's find some third party who can dig us out of a temporary hole. It's a great opportunity, you know? Whoever gets into bed with us will look back and see it as the best move they ever made.”
Roger exhales noisily. “Please, Reynard, just think about it for a little longer. Look, on this sheet I’ve mapped it out, gone through all the scenarios, showed how you can dig the business out of this hole. All you need to do is—”
“No! No, no, no. I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Okay, if that really is your decision,” says Roger.
“Okay?” I say to Lucija, who uncrosses her arms.
“Okay,” she says, resplendent and painfully erotic in that dress.
With a smile I say, “Great stuff. I fancy some sushi. Anyone else?”
Fifteen minutes later, Jenny brings in some takeaway sushi. As she places it in front of me on my desk, she says, “Reynard, I'm really sorry about Saturday night. It's just that I couldn't, you know, I'm in a long-term relationship and that matters to me a lot. Which isn't to say I'm not hugely flattered. And thanks for a lovely dinner.”
I open the sachet of wasabi, squeeze its contents into the little pot, pour in soy sauce, and mix them together. “As far as I'm concerned, it didn't happen. It's irrelevant, in the past, and therefore unimportant.” I look up at her and fix her with a piercing look. “As you grow up, you'll learn that in life all that ultimately matters is the decisions you take. You won't always make the right decisions – take Saturday for example – but as long as you learn from your mistakes, you'll be okay.”
“Thank you, Reynard, that's very kind.”
“Obviously, it would be better if you never made any mistakes, but you're not perfect. Very few people are.”
“Absolutely. Thank you. Was there anything else?”
“Not for the moment, thanks.” She turns and leaves, and I watch her boyish peaches as they disappear from view. Nothing – not the faintest of stirrings.
Lunch: tuna sashimi, then I squeeze out two pods of edamame, then salmon nigiri, California roll, two more edamame pods, more salmon nigiri, salmon sashimi, another California roll, one more edamame pod, and I'm done. Nice enough, but the downside of eating the best food is that mainstream stuff like this tastes vastly inferior in comparison. I call Roger in and tell him to close the door.
“Roger, that intern's just not working out.”
“Jane? In what way?”
“Insolent, over-familiar, immature, and has a horrible sense of entitlement. Get rid of her.”
“Jane? She struck me as really nice. Bright, eager to learn, and quite humble, actually.”
“She's obviously got you wrapped around her finger. Beware the female of the species, Rog. Look, it's clearly not working out, so just get rid of her, soon as you can.”
“She's only here until the end of the week.”
“So?”
“So maybe we should just let her see out the week?”
“Just get rid of her, understand? I only want the best people working for Gyges.” I hand him my half-finished sushi. “And tell her the sushi was shite.”
Small man that he is, he takes the sushi box and heads out towards the office kitchen. He then gets down on his haunches next to Jenny's desk, mutters a few words, then stands and leads her off to a meeting room. Five minutes later, Jenny hastily pulls her anorak from the shared coat stand and half-walks, half-runs out of the office, her flushed face downturned like a penitent's. Heads briefly appear from behind desk partitions then disappear again. Lucija stands from her desk, walks over to where Roger leans in the doorway of the meeting room, then the door closes behind them.
As the light fades outside, I get Lucija to arrange a meeting with Uncle Ish, pronto. She then fields a call from the cleaning company. I authorise an eight-hundred-pound bill for an ultra-deep clean, although frankly the Bokhara Suzani rug needs a miracle. Perhaps I'll put it up for auction and see what I can get for it, which will surely be significantly more than I paid. The flat clean will continue tomorrow morning, so it means another night at the club.
En route I drop into Starbucks, as agreed with Mutch; he’s already in situ, chowing down on a pain au chocolate and cappuccino at a window table.
I sit opposite him and place the Waterstones bag between u
s on the table. “Been shopping, Reynard?”
“Something like that. A present for you. Take a look.” He reaches his hand out. “Discreetly, Mutch,” I add.
Mutch holds the bag upright then peers inside. He smiles broadly. “Good man. Money well spent.” He rolls over the top of the bag then places it on his lap. “Can I get you a drink or something to eat?”
“No thanks, feeling rather sick, actually.” I lower my voice. “This is the last I want to see of you, got it?”
“Oh, I get it, Reynard.”
“A deal’s a deal.”
Mutch sips his cappuccino then leans back in his chair. “Yes, it is. I did say that I would leave you alone, and so I will.”
I stand. “Great, we’re done. I never want to see you again.”
25
The next day, I’m ushered into Ish's office by his unattractive PA.
Ish stands to greet me, a miasma of compost and uric acid. “Back again so soon, young man? You must be getting desperate.”
“Au contraire, Unc. It's important that families stick together, don't you think?”
“Yes, I agree, although I'm not stupid enough to think you're here just to strengthen family ties.”
“Okay, I'll cut to the chase.” Ish beckons to a chair, I sit, and he returns to his desk chair. I say, “I'm here to offer you a fantastic opportunity.”
“Oh dear ... where have I heard this before?”
“Hear me out, will you? Gyges has some short-term funding issues, that’s all. It just needs tiding over until things settle down.”
“How much do you think you need?”
“Let’s call it a hundred and sixty million. In the next week or so.”
The Greater Fool Page 11