The Greater Fool

by Joseph Hannay

  “How much is it?”

  “I sent you the invoice last week and the week before.”

  “Sure. Just remind me.”

  “Thirty-two thousand three hundred and fifty.”

  “What? Pounds sterling?”

  “Yes, young man, pounds sterling. A not insignificant sum, I'm sure you'll agree. I must have payment – you're causing me a few cash-flow issues.”

  “Okay, I'll pay you tomorrow, I promise. But send Yasmin over now, will you?”

  “No can do, sorry. You can have her as soon as you've paid, but not before. Terribly sorry and all that. Jacinta also made a complaint. I know it wasn’t you personally, but that has to be the last time you share my girls with others. I’m surprised at you, to be honest. Pay the bill, or I’ll have to escalate it.”

  “You cunt. After all I've done for you.” I hang up. If only Akemi were here; I call her, but no answer. I message her and ask to meet for a coffee tomorrow.

  Darkness falls, and lights go on around the square. Through the binoculars, I spy the widow's daughter opposite dressed in pink Lycra, bending and stretching in front of an exercise DVD. My cock really likes that, a lot more than expected, so I strip off and start on a naked Berserker workout in front of the mirror. If anything, my abs are even more clearly defined than they were before, the pecs still rock hard, the thighs strong and muscular. The scrotum tucked in and primed for action, cock like a crowbar: the ultimate weapon.

  With a sweat nicely developing, I take the binoculars in my left hand and watch the widow's daughter as I masturbate energetically with my right hand. Unknown blinding flashes of light, which dissipate as soon as they arrive. Then I'm powerfully ejaculating onto the oak floor what feels like litres of thick, fecund cum, enough surely for an entire convent.

  27

  Everyone else is making it up as they go along. The trick is to appear calm, measured, thoughtful, clear signals to the world that you're wiser and more knowledgeable than anyone else. Most people want to be shown the way, and few are born to lead.

  And so this morning, as usual, I stride confidently into the office, mock-salute the back-office chaps, and fix Lucija with a winning smile, and you can feel the troops aligning themselves behind their leader.

  I find Roger waiting in my office. Sans pleasantries, he simply says, “Where have you been? We're in dire straits here, and we need you here to give the go-ahead.”

  “Whoah, get back in your box, Rog. What's up?”

  “We just might be saved. But you need to give the go-ahead.”

  “Tell me more, ” I say, rubbing my hands together. Lucija, slinky in a Cavalli jumpsuit, brings in an espresso, closes the door, and sits next to Roger.

  “Well, Lucija here has worked her magic on Ish and Lucky Li International, and they’ve agreed in principle to a plan that'll sort us out.”

  I fix Lucija with the look. “Good girl! With a body like yours, you could persuade any man to do pretty much anything! You're our secret weapon.”

  Lucija's eyes open wide. “Reynard, with all due respect, fuck off. Give me some credit, will you?”

  “Lucija,” says Roger.

  “What?”

  “Please show some respect to Reynard.”

  She slowly turns her head towards him and says, quietly, “Then show me some respect. It's like you're living in the nineteen seventies. You can't just treat women like objects. Remember my CV? I've the highest GPA, a prestigious scholarship, two Masters degrees. No-one else here can beat that.”

  I say, “Time out, okay? Let's concentrate on what really matters. What's the master plan, Lucija?”

  Ten minutes later, Roger says, “Smart, eh? Everyone wins, right? We can meet those redemptions, deleverage, clear the decks with Cryx’s lot. Let's keep the suspension in place for the time being, but at least we’re back on solid ground again.”

  “No, sorry. I’m not letting go any equity, let alone a quarter. Over my dead body, frankly.”

  Lucija crosses and then uncrosses her legs. “Reynard, I'm sorry, but you have to. If you don't, we’re done for.”

  I stand, put my hands on my hips, then lean over the table. Quietly, almost whispering, I say, “Lucija, you don't seem to understand me. I don't have to do anything. If I don't want to sell, I won't sell. I don't want to, so I won’t.”

  Lucija shakes her head then says, “We have a duty, you have a duty to do what's right for investors.”

  “It's my fund.”

  Roger interjects, “Yes, Reynard, but even you have to be compliant. Trust me, you don't want the FCA involved, but we would have no choice.”

  “Compliance is your responsibility, right? And I'm not selling, got it?”

  Lucija says, “But Reynard—”

  “We're done,” I say, and I gesture with both hands towards the door. “And Lucija?”

  She looks at me with parted lips, clearly liking what she sees.

  I say, masterfully, “Good try, well done. Bring me another espresso, will you?”

  They silently file out. Time for some reflection. I message Leo and send one of the back-office chaps out to The Spider's Web with a brown envelope. He returns an hour later with a little bundle of happiness.

  Fortified by a sneaky little line, I go for a walk. Pinned to the locked door of St Saviour's is a black-bordered notice with the heading “The Reverend Anthony Thwaites, B.A., M.A.” His funeral's tomorrow morning. As a close friend and the man who discovered his body, I should of course attend. I message Lucija, telling her to sort out a suitably sober outfit for me, then head off to the Bacchus Club for the afternoon.

  A couple of V&Ts and a light lunch of salmon carpaccio and I'm seeing things even more clearly, if that were possible.

  Yes, all things move towards their end. But there's no foreseeable end to all of this. All you ever get is a redistribution of the really big money from one group to another. Check it out for yourself: walk down Maddox Street, turn into Old or New Bond Street, and check out the nationalities. These days there are fewer Saudi princes and Russian oligarchs; instead it's the Chinese. And it will continue to be the Chinese until some external force – shifting exchange rates; some unforeseen government intervention; a major terrorist attack; a surge in the oil price – means that some other group takes over.

  Imagine a plane that's kept in the air only by the collective belief of those on board. Financial markets are also kept airborne only through sustained collective belief. The Global Financial Crisis was caused by the loss of belief in what was a pretty shaky contention to start with: that the sub-prime property market would continue to rise forever, and so lending to those who could not afford to repay their mortgages didn't represent an egregious risk. Which was a perfectly safe assumption as long as it continued to be true. Property prices did continue to rise, and everyone was okay. But then repayments were missed, foreclosures started to edge up, the bad loans were bundled up and misleadingly labelled – the ultimate turds rolled in glitter — and shipped on, like some toxic game of pass-the-parcel. And then the music stopped.

  But this is different. The party goes on, and I just can't see it coming to an end. It’s not perfect, I know that, and yes, there's some bed-wetting going on, but it's not enough to derail this gravy train. There are too many people and institutions reliant on it carrying on down the track.

  The entire British economy benefits from Gyges’ continued health. Everyone's borne along by these tides, entirely at their whim. All you can do is ensure that you stay afloat. When the tide eventually goes out, then we'll see who's been swimming naked. Me? Yes, of course: I'm butt-naked, with a probe up my arse and a mouth around my cock, but where's the fun in doing otherwise?

  Back at home after a light dinner at the club, alone.

  This new batch from Leo is surely the best ever. A couple of lines offer more than a glimpse of the divine. I know ultimate truth, I hear the word and the music of God, understand the underlying meaning and purpose of everything. The ribbo
n of time stretches infinitely in both directions, and I'm simultaneously at every single point along the way. Omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent — and utterly unstoppable.

  28

  As agreed, Akemi and I meet in Caffè Nero.

  I say, “Look, I'm sorry if I was rude. It's been a tough time for me. I'm starting to feel like a marked man. Gyges is under unnecessary pressure, a friend’s dead just like that, it really makes you think, doesn't it?”

  “Really sorry to hear about your friend. Did I know them?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “Well, I am very sorry anyway.” And she looks it. She continues, “I thought you said Gyges was okay?”

  “Let's not talk business, shall we? Look...” And I look away, then at my espresso, and take a deep breath. “Akemi, I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay, I am listening.”

  “Look, you know me well, probably better than anyone. I'm not usually willing to reveal weakness, but I just have to. Look, Akemi, I really miss you. You know, really miss you like I can't go on without you. I wanted to ask, are you happy without me?”

  She pauses, then says, “No, but do not be flattered. I fell in love with someone, but it did not work out.”

  “Not that loser musician guy? Ollie?”

  “What? Ha, ha! No, not Ollie, he is not my type, but he is an excellent cellist. No, it was a lovely girl, not a middle-aged man, actually.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “I think no. Just a girl I met, Megan. Lovely Megan. But she only saw me as a quick bit of fun. I think it is all over already.”

  A silent tear falls, and she stares over my shoulder into the distance. I take her hand and say, “Poor, poor Akemi. It doesn't matter how lovely she was, she didn't deserve you.”

  Akemi wipes her eyes and then her nose on a napkin, carefully folding it and placing it on her saucer. A brave smile, then she says, “Thanks, Reynard. It is going to take a long time to mend my heart, I think.”

  “You know the best cure for a broken heart?”

  “What?”

  “A damn good shagging from a big cock.”

  She laughs, the terrier's bark. “I guess you mean your big cock?” She smiles and raises her eyebrows.

  “Exactly. It's looking forward to feeding your Tamagotchi again.”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry, Reynard, just friends from now on, okay? And can we change the subject?”

  “Okay.” I stand and offer her another drink. I head over to the counter and order another espresso and a smoothie, then return to the table.

  Akemi says, “I know you do not want to talk about business, but please be honest with me, Reynard. Is Gyges really okay? I'm worried.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  “Honestly, no, it's not really okay. It's struggling. It needs help. It's in danger of being derailed by the stupidity of others, by weak people who've got their knickers in a twist.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. But you will pull through?”

  “It's really touch-and-go.” I look at the perfect symmetry of her delicate visage, the brow ever so slightly wrinkled in concern, the warm limpidity of her eyes. “Akemi, look, I'm so sorry if I didn't treat you as well as I could. I clearly didn't realise what we had.”

  Akemi shakes her head slowly and bites her lip. “Reynard, no! You were talking about Gyges?”

  “Yes, Gyges. It could be very bad for me.”

  “Will you lose everything?”

  “No.”

  “That is good then. People like you and my father can afford to lose lots of money.”

  “Not so sure I can!”

  “Yeah right,” she says and points at my Vacheron Constantin Royal Eagle watch.

  A waitress places the espresso and smoothie on the table, Akemi stirs the smoothie with a straw then tastes some of it. “Delicious. You want some?”

  “No I'm okay, thanks.” Then suddenly the old pain in the right side is back, but with a vengeance. First, the usual initial stab under the ribs, then a spread of warmth, but unusually there's a second wave, far stronger than the first, like the twisting of a red-hot, serrated blade. “Fuck, aargh,” I hear myself shouting, and I'm bent over, my left hand across my abdomen, my right hand clenched and pummelling the table.

  “Oh God, Reynard, are you okay? Help, please!”

  Two people appear next to the table, but I wave them away.

  Akemi says, “Right, Reynard, I'm taking you to the hospital, now! This is just not right.” She stands, takes a twenty-pound note from her purse and leaves it on the table, then motions to help me up from my seat.

  “I'm okay now, Akemi. The pain's gone. This happens occasionally. Back to normal. Let me have my espresso, okay?”

  “You are ill, Reynard. Let us go to the hospital. Or please make a doctor appointment. Please?”

  “Please sit down, Akemi. I'll make an appointment, okay?” And she slowly sits, her eyes fixed on me.

  “Reynard, you look ill, you need to see a doctor soon.”

  “Yes, I've just agreed to make an appointment. It's probably nothing anyway.”

  “I hope so. Can you tell me when you have made the appointment? I am really worried about you, Reynard. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  I raise an eyebrow and fix her with my look. “Come home with me, Akemi.”

  “We have already talked about that. Sorry, I cannot. We have to move on.”

  “Well, I'm not going to beg you.”

  “Have you ever begged anyone?”

  “No, exactly. But I think it would be best for you if you came back. At least back into bed.”

  “I think it would be best for you if you went to hospital now. Look, you sweat!” She reaches over to dab at my forehead with a napkin, then shows me how saturated it is.

  “It's hot in here.”

  “At least promise that you will go home and not back to the office.”

  “I promise.” I keep this promise.

  Later, I'm comforted by a double dose of tramadol washed down with Grey Goose. The flow of time slows, then almost stops, so this is ameliorated by a soupçon of Leo's finest. Mutch wants to see me tomorrow; reluctantly I agree.

  With dark skies outside, an urgent bowel movement. An unheralded torrent of the palest shit; rancid, uncontrolled, concerning. A quick shower to get rid of the worst of it, then I'm immediately asleep in bed, buoyed up by images of a procession of Akemis, each one more beautiful than the last, every single one with a pair of angel's wings, a halo, and a Hermès handbag.

  In this way the night passes.

  From Calpol to paracetamol, Anadin and ibuprofen, to pregabalin, cocodamol, tramadol, cocaine. The stars shine more brightly at night, but I never see them, I'm so deep in sleep. Each star has a name, but I know not what. The fallacy that everything must have a name, a meaning. Not so. Give me a world without meaning. Release me weightless on the breeze, completely at the mercy of external forces. Yes, that would be fine. More than fine, that would be wonderful, glorious.

  A brazen morning sun blooms around the curtains, transforming this room from womb to illuminated mile-high eyrie. If I listen carefully, there above the rumble of the traffic, the clamour of the voices on the street, the wind idly plays with the shrubs in the square. Perhaps a bird sings.

  29

  Property Millionaire’s Sordid Secrets

  Meet Reynard Xavier (small picture left), multimillionaire founder of Gyges Holdings, the property fund that manages £5 billion of client money, much of it belonging to Local Government and pension funds. Looks like the kind of respectable chap we need looking after our cash? Jane Clack (main picture) disagrees! She interned at Xavier’s company and alleges that he:

  Snorted cocaine at his desk

  Regularly used £1000-a-night escorts

  Exposed himself to colleagues

  Sexually harassed Jane, 20, and others

  Used company money for his own entertainmen
t, such as slap-up meals at West End restaurants and boozy nights out

  Fired hot student Jane after she rejected his advances

  Gyges Holdings is believed to be in financial difficulty and desperately seeking partners to fill a £160m hole in its funding.

  Speaking exclusively to The Daily Globe, redhead Jane told us, “I think taxpayers need to know what sort of man he is. Do they really want him to look after our hard-earned money?”

  We think the Financial Conduct Authority, the regulator whose job it is to make sure these fatcats don’t misbehave, should get involved.

  Xavier, 39, did not respond to our requests for an interview.

  30

  I know it's a cliché, but you can tell so much by looking at a man's shoes. This morning I'm wearing the Berluti lace-up Oxfords, made in Italy from a single piece of Venezia leather, polished to a beautifully nuanced patina. They cost well over a thousand pounds, more than the average man in the street earns in, I don't know, a week, perhaps. But if you want the best, you have to be prepared to pay for it. Knowing that I'll be changing into my funeral outfit later, I'm dressed more casually now than normal: a beige pair of stretch-fit cotton corduroy trousers by Gucci, a Thom Sweeney blazer and Cucinelli cashmere sweater. Examining myself in the full-length mirror, I can't help but be struck by the nonchalant power, the brooding sexuality, the undeniable superiority of the man who stares back.

  In Hanover Square a light drizzle falls. There’s a pain like the constant sawing of a serrated blade under my right rib cage. Through Ray-Bans I finally find Mutch sat at one end of a bench; I sit at the other.

  We face out across the square and down towards Maddox Street.

  I say, “What now, Mutch? I thought we were done.”

  He coughs. “No, Reynard, we’re not. One more deal to be done. Remind me, how much did you offer to Cryx? A million, a million and a half?”