The Greater Fool

by Joseph Hannay

  “Jesus H. Christ, you’re joking!” He slaps his desktop twice with his open hand.

  I say, “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “No, in fact you look unusually sincere. Most unlike you. So you’re seriously asking me for a hundred and sixty million pounds sterling, pretty much straight away?”

  “Well…”

  “I don’t keep that kind of money down the back of the sofa. You’re in dreamland, frankly. Are you sure that you’ve exhausted every other option? You’ve no other ways of plugging the shortfall?”

  “No.”

  “Seems like finally you’ve woken up and smelt the coffee. Well, Nephew, here it is, sit still and listen carefully. I’ve been through Gyges’ portfolio ad nauseum, got my team to work on numerous scenarios, and actually I’m not sure things are as black as the broker says. There are some wonderful assets there, diamonds in the mud.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying. Why the hell won’t people listen? Hang on, where did you get the full portfolio?”

  “What? I think you know…”

  “Roger, of course. Treacherous bastard.”

  “He might just have saved your bacon, Reynard. You know he’s working purely in the interests of the business.”

  “Yada yada, so what’s the deal, Unc?”

  He leans forward. “I can pull together a medium-term financing deal with my Chinese partners, Lucky Li. They see an arbitrage opportunity: a disconnect between the underlying value of Gyges’ portfolio and what you’d have to accept if you liquidate it now.”

  “Okay, great. But why don’t they just buy my assets?”

  “Because I persuaded them of the value of your investor base. You know access to a world-class bunch of investment decision-makers like that is not be sniffed at. But of course, it’s all part of a bigger plan, so don’t flatter yourself and think that you’re the grand prize here. It’s win-win-win: I can help you and Roger out, protect my stake in Gyges, and make money longer term when asset prices recover.”

  “So what’s the catch? Ludicrous borrowing costs?”

  “No, we’ll match the terms you got from the broker.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “Equity in the business.”

  “You're joking, presumably? Do you want a kidney as well?”

  He shifts in his chair. His stench hits me, and I gag. “I'm sorry, Reynard, but this is a serious business. I know just how desperate things are for Gyges. You're hanging by a thread, which could snap at any moment. You should know by now that the business's structure is all wrong.”

  “Then why do you want a piece of it?”

  “To protect my investment.”

  “Okay, how much equity do you want? One percent?”

  “What?” His fat ursine face creases and contorts. “Ha! One percent? You must be joking!”

  “Well, what then? Two percent. No more than five, my final offer.”

  “Fifty percent. I want nothing less than half the business, because without me there is no business. That's my offer: take it or leave it.”

  “You fat fuck, you owe me.”

  “I don't owe you anything, sunshine. Don't forget your little fund wouldn't have even got off the ground without me.”

  “Bollocks. You're fucking deluded.”

  He smiles, supercilious, arrogant. “Listen, young man, this is business. If you can't even be polite, I suggest we end the meeting right now.”

  Suddenly, I'm standing over him, his letter opener in my hand. All it would take is a stab through the heart or an eye, and he'd be gone.

  Ish freezes, his face the palest grey. “Don't be a twat,” he says quietly.

  I thrust the letter opener hard into his desk, but it barely breaks the surface and falls.

  Ish picks it up and stands slowly, that cumbersome bulk with its associated smells: musk, sandalwood, the acrid tang of the fat old man. Urine, body odour, decay. He points the letter opener at me and says, “Sit down, little boy.”

  And I do; the chair sighs. He pours us both a glass of Glenfiddich, and he returns to his chair. “Well, young man, time for some home truths. We haven't always seen eye to eye on everything” — my snort goes unacknowledged — “but that's neither here nor there. My loyalty remains to your father's memory.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Shut up and listen, sunshine. You might learn something. Let me put this in easy-to-digest, bite-size pieces. Number one, I don't owe you anything. I'm not under obligation to help you out in any way. Number two, your business is still only afloat because I haven't redeemed my investment, even though I probably should have.”

  “What the fuck? Don't talk shit.”

  “Listen!” he roars, half-standing from his chair, Glenfiddich slopping onto his desk. Then, more quietly and controlled: “Listen, just talk to Roger and he'll confirm it. You know, if you paid a bit more attention to the business and a bit less to yourself, you'd understand that already.”

  “It's my business, and its success is all down to me. I don't need you or anyone else.”

  “There you go again. Go away, check the facts, and then we can carry on our discussion. I don't expect to be talked to like this by anyone, least of all by a little twat like you, nephew or otherwise.”

  “You're the twat, Unc. I'll talk to Rog, and I'll be back.”

  “Well, of course I'll look forward to that immensely. Quite how your father produced such an ungrateful little runt is beyond me.”

  I drain my Glenfiddich and leave his office without saying goodbye and without turning back. As I stride towards the lift, his PA canters after me with my Givenchy overcoat, which I let her help me into. And then I'm gone.

  Back in the office, Lucija wears grey pinstripe trousers, a pale blue blouse, her hair tied up. Funereal make-up. Roger looks even pastier and more fragile than normal. Pale yellow skin, violet bags under his eyes, an aura of weakness. His voice trembles as he speaks.

  “Reynard, seen the email? Cryx isn’t our relationship manager anymore, I spoke to them, but they won’t tell me why. Any ideas?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Well, I know you were trying to persuade him to change his mind about pulling the plug. How did you get on with that?”

  “What? Oh, I didn’t really get anywhere. Met him for a drink, he made it clear that he wasn’t going to change his mind, so I didn’t push it. You know what bankers are like.”

  “Yep, I suppose. I wonder if they’ve shunted us over to restructuring without telling us.”

  “A quiet word, Rog?” I nod towards my office.

  I close the door behind us. I say, “I know you’ve been going behind my back.”

  “What do you mean?” says Roger.

  “You’ve fucked me over, spilt the beans to Ish, got me over a barrel.”

  “Reynard, I’ve been taking the necessary action to try to save the fund. You know what the implications could be if we fold?”

  “Yes, and I’m not thrilled at the prospect either. I could lose tens of millions, my name will be dragged through the press.”

  He stares at me, open-mouthed. “I meant the wider implications, you know, investors potentially losing billions, taxpayers bearing the brunt of this. Ish and Lucky Li is the only way out of this.”

  I lean towards Roger. His frightened scent oozes from him. “Listen,” I whisper. “Forget Ish, alright? Your loyalty's admirable but misplaced. You work for me, not him, got it? Self-preservation's the name of the game here. Shit, Roger, you must be financially sorted for life. I can see you on some Caribbean beach this time next year, so come on, sort yourself out.”

  He stands unsteadily and turns to me. “That's not the point, Reynard. We have a legal and moral duty to do things properly.”

  “You can't even fart without the FCA's permission, can you?”

  Roger takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Reynard, the Financial Conduct Authority gives clear guidance on how we operate. If you're in th
e game, you have to play by the rules.”

  “You don't have to be so black-and-white about this. There are hard rules, and then there are soft rules. You just have to know the difference.”

  Roger puts his glasses back on. “No, there aren't. There are rules, period. I won't countenance any deviation from what we're allowed to do.” Typically obstructive.

  “I've every intention of doing this properly.”

  “You have a moral duty, right? And there’s one way out of this, and one way only. We have to go with Ish, whether you like it or not.” And he leaves my office, closing the door quietly behind him.

  26

  I’m pleased to be back in the flat, although the oak floor's looking bare without the Bokhara Suzani rug, now off with the specialists for some restorative work.

  I've found the optimal combination of tramadol, cocodamol, and coke, so I'm off the pregabalin. The hours slip by, and clarity returns. The facts are simple.

  Gyges is my business: I had the vision, I thought of the name and devised the investment philosophy. I (or my divorce) provided its first cash injection, I sourced other seed capital via Ish and his contacts, I nurtured it from almost nothing up to five billion pounds. Five billion pounds — that’s equivalent to the GDP of many African countries. I’m responsible for Gyges’ trophy cabinet being laden with awards. Best UK Real Estate Fund; Best Property Fund Manager; King of Alpha; Best Risk-Adjusted Return; Innovation in Physical Property Investment Management. The literally billions of pounds worth of performance that I’ve created out of nothing for investors. The hidden boost to public finances.

  If you’d invested a million pounds in Gyges at inception, then a couple of months ago it would have been worth over five million. That’s alchemy, with Reynard as Chief Alchemist. It happened: there’s documentary evidence. Nothing can change that. And surely still Gyges remains the glittering star in the Real Estate firmament.

  If you're a billionaire Chinese (or Russian, or Uzbekistani, or Arab, or Nigerian, or whatever) chap, of which there are many, but can trust no one in your own country not to rip you off, then the rational thing to do is to squirrel your money away somewhere safe. And where better to squirrel it away than in London? And where better in London than in prime central London property?

  This is simple, but not reductive: just Occam’s Razor in operation. You can’t argue with any of it. They are the facts, and it is the objective truth whatever angle you look at it. There is no alternative interpretation.

  But now, simply because bed-wetting is en vogue, simply because the market consists not of logical and rational participants but instead of timid ovine yes-men who are afraid of being contrarian in case they lose out, suddenly you’re telling me Gyges is not viable, cannot survive without interference from third parties?

  It makes no sense, no sense at all. There’s a disconnect somewhere, a critical fault in their logic, or perhaps a malevolent exogenous influence, a malign force intent on destroying Gyges and my reputation.

  Correlation — the statistical relationship between two variables — is frequently misunderstood. The popular press will invariably “reveal” that there is a link between some lifestyle activity (food, alcohol, smoking, sunbathing, use of deodorants, etc., ad nauseum) and cancer. So the headlines scream “Coffee linked with cancer” or “Dying for a coffee?” and then barely months later, “How a cup of coffee can save your life.” But correlation is everywhere. Big feet are correlated with wearing big shoes. People who wear reading glasses have worse eyesight than those who do not. But that is not to say that buying a large pair of shoes causes your feet to grow, or wearing reading glasses damages your eyesight. One cannot ascribe global warming to the increase in the number of children christened Chardonnay.

  But one can connect any two completely independent things. The mind fills in the gaps and invents causation where there is none. There's a fundamental need to make sense of the world, and so one finds an explanation, a coherent narrative, irrespective of whether it's true or not.

  Which is to say that people have got the wrong end of the stick. Gyges is not incorrectly positioned; UK property is not fundamentally over-valued; Gyges is not in existential trouble.

  And so I refuse to accept there is truth in what people tell me, people who should know better. That I must go, cap in hand, and accept the help of others. Not just others, but the one man who I cannot trust, who I can see through. A man with a rotten core: Ish.

  I cannot, I will not believe this is happening.

  Akemi messaged me yesterday to let me know of a lunchtime concert performed by her string quartet today. I’m in need of distraction, and I don't mind a bit of Shostakovich so I stroll on over to Passington Hall. It's not a patch on Wigmore Hall, but it's comfortable enough and the acoustics are good.

  The quartet emerges to polite applause. First, three middle-aged chaps dressed all in black with bad haircuts and paunches; clearly my inferiors. And then Akemi, a goddess in the Hervé Léger embellished bandage dress I bought her last year: shimmering sequins around the shoulders and waist. I'm transfixed by her transcendent beauty as she starts to play. She's perfect — too perfect for whoever she's currently dating. I must get her back.

  The concert eventually ends, and I join in the applause, watching Akemi as she bows, smiles entrancingly, then leaves the stage as I rise from my seat. I leave the auditorium before anyone else, and rather than following the signs for the exit, head in the opposite direction, presumably backstage.

  In the bowels of the building: utilitarian lighting, mottled carpet, tired paintwork. I follow the guffaws of self-congratulatory laughter to find the three middle-aged musicians patting each other on the back and smiling broadly. One of them (badly receding hair, too-short trousers) sees me and asks, “Hi, can I help you?”

  “Yes, I need to speak to Akemi, please.”

  “I'm not sure she's available. Can I ask who you are?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Okay ... so who are you?”

  “Tell her it's Reynard.”

  “Ray who?”

  “Reynard.”

  “Okay...” He turns to his colleagues and asks, “Presumably she's back in her dressing room?” He tentatively turns, heads down the corridor, and knocks on a door. I follow him. From inside, Akemi asks who it is. Before the anonymous musician can answer, I say, “It's Reynard, let me in,” and I push the door open and walk inside. Akemi stands there in jeans and Iron Maiden T-shirt as she hurriedly ties her hair up. “It's okay, Ollie, we’re old friends,” she says, and he leaves, quietly closing the door behind him.

  “You were amazing, Akemi,” I say.

  “Thanks, Reynard, it is a team effort. The boys were really great. Anyway, nice you could make it. How are you?”

  “Me? You know me, I'm always great. How are you?”

  “I am okay, just getting on with life, you know? Father said there were problems with your company. Is it alright?”

  “Your father? What does he know about it?”

  “He is an investor, remember?”

  “Oh yes, of course I hadn't forgotten. How's your father?”

  “He is very well, thanks. Still lots of energy for his age. But your company, is it okay?”

  “It's been better, but I'll get through it.”

  “That is good. There are lots of good people behind you, you know?” She waits for a response, but I've nothing to say. “Are you sure you are alright, Reynard? You have lost some weight, I think,” and she reaches out towards my left arm and places her hand gently on my forearm. A jolt of electricity, memories of divine ecstasy, an instant invocation of the primal, the bestial. I reach across with my right hand, take her delicate fingers in mine, and pull them up to my mouth. I brush my lips gently against them then leave the gentlest of kisses there.

  She pulls her hand away and says, “Whoah! What are you doing? I just asked how you are, that is all. This is nothing else.”

  Poor Akemi: she's delusio
nal. In denial. I fix her with the look, but she turns away, clearly fighting the strength of her feelings for me. My cock straining in my underwear, I take a step forward to enclose her in my aura.

  She edges away. “Reynard, please just stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “You know what. It is over. People move on. I have moved on.” She's looking straight at me now. In her eyes there’s something I don't recognise. “Listen, are you sure you are okay? I am properly worried about you. You look sick. You are a bit odd too, something not quite right.”

  “Maybe I'm lovesick.”

  She laughs, like the bark of a small dog. “The only person you have ever loved is you. Sorry to say that.”

  “I loved you. Love you, even.”

  She shakes her head, then reaches up to adjust her hair. “No games, please, Reynard. I am serious.”

  “I'm serious too.”

  She stands in silence, still fiddling with her hair. Finally: “I think you should go now. And please go to a doctor. Please Reynard – just for me?”

  “I know my own body. And you know you want to come back, so let's just stop the messing around, shall we? I don't need to write you an invitation, do I?”

  “Please go.” As she walks past me to the door, I'm lost in her fragrance, like a cartoon dog following the smell of sausages. Give me the curve of her peaches, her glossy-black hair, her limpid eyes, her tight little cunt. I lean over to her, place my hand on her right peach, and whisper, “Come back.”

  She lifts my hand away and opens the door to reveal the loser musician still standing there. “Goodbye, Reynard,” she says, and the loser looks aggressively at me, some pathetic little runt challenging the king. I push past him shoulder-to-shoulder, which sends him sprawling: my dominance immediately asserted. I don't look back, and I head to the flat for a quiet night in.

  Tucking into a new package of Leo's finest, I sport an impressive and insistent erection, so I call Victor and ask for Yasmin to be sent over immediately.

  “Would love to, young man, but you still haven't paid your bill. No pay, no quim, as they say.”