The Greater Fool

by Joseph Hannay

  I wave my hand dismissively and remain silent.

  Mutch says, “Okay, let’s say it was something like that. To keep me off your back for good, I want double that. Let’s call it a nice round three million, shall we? Paid in Bitcoin for the sake of us both.”

  “Three million? You’re joking, of course?”

  “This is no laughing matter, Reynard. You know if Cryx’s allegations became public your reputation would be shit. You can kiss goodbye to your privileged little life and will have to get used to prison instead. It’ll be game over, as they say.”

  “And if I pay you the three million?”

  “Then I’m out of here. I’ll be on a beach somewhere, maybe Brazil or Thailand. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  “Why the fuck should I believe you this time? You said you’d leave me alone once I’d paid you a hundred thousand.”

  “Well, you know, you’ve got to think big, haven’t you? I counted the hundred k, did a few calculations, and realised I wasn’t really much better off than I was before. And how can that be fair when you’re sitting on hundreds of millions and you’re just a common criminal, no better than anyone else?”

  “I’m not sure what fairness has got to do with it. Look, I don’t have that sort of money lying around. It’ll take me a couple of weeks to get it together.”

  “Okay, two weeks today I need to be in possession of the full three million, or I’m going public.”

  “What about Cryx, though? What happens if I pay you and you bugger off? Cryx is still around, what’s to stop him raising the issue again once you’re gone?”

  “Well he’s certainly still around — he keeps on chasing me for progress updates. I’ve told him that things are moving forward, just slowly. But I could tell him that we can’t go ahead with a case because of lack of evidence.”

  “In which case, why do I need to pay you anything? If there’s no case to answer?”

  “Because if you don’t pay me, I’ll pursue the case anyway. You know it could drag on for years, and what self-respecting investor is going to stick by you when you’ve got that hanging over you? There’s no smoke without fire, they’ll say. And sure enough, Gyges will wither on the vine. There’ll be nothing left. Game over.” He coughs again, then we both watch a lanky brunette in short skirt and heels cross the square and use the zebra crossing.

  Mutch says, “Oh, and I saw you in the paper. Just some friendly advice, you might want to think about keeping your nose clean for a bit. We wouldn’t want to have another reason to investigate you, would we?”

  31

  Later, in my office, changing into the funeral outfit Lucija's laid out for me. I've left the door open so she can watch: it's important to keep staff morale up. But she's not at her desk, so I find her in the kitchen, bent over the worktop, fiddling with the espresso machine. Her peaches are displayed in tight pinstripe trousers like an open invitation, but I keep my hands in my pockets.

  “Hi, Lucija. Thanks for sorting the outfit. How do I look?”

  She grunts, lifts her head, and says, “Hi, Reynard. Very smart. I hope it is not too bad today. I know you were friends.”

  “Thanks. Yes, he was a good friend. It'll take time for me to get over. It's all such a shock still. I knew he was questioning his faith, but to do what he did, well it's just so drastic. It's left us all feeling so hopeless. But life goes on, doesn't it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. When do you think you will be back?”

  “Maybe early afternoon. One or two, depending on drinks, et cetera, afterwards. Any particular reason for asking?”

  “No, not really, just that Roger and I thought we could go through the numbers again. You know, the rescue plan?”

  “There's nothing to talk about, is there?”

  “But it's the only way out. You do understand that, don't you? Do you want me or Roger to go through it with you again?”

  “No need, thanks. I've made my decision.”

  “And do you want to make a statement about the article, you know, about Jane?”

  “No. I’ve got my lawyer on it. Just continue to say that I’m unavailable. See you later.” And I leave her standing there.

  Back at my desk, there's an unusual sense of disquiet, so I take a couple of tramadol to ease my way through. The insistent, nagging pain under my ribs has returned. Something's not okay. Apparently verging on disequilibrium, I seek to counteract the tramadol's effects with a double espresso and then four cocodamol, rounded off nicely with a line of Leo's. Thus fortified, I'm ready.

  But heading out for the short walk to St Saviour's, there's something in the air: a profound sense that something's very wrong. The threat of rain's gone, the sky's clearing, but still there's a malevolent force, an unseen weight bearing down from above. Strangers wearing black are congregated under the portico of St Saviour's, their voices muffled and indistinct. Some heads nod as I approach; a few shake. A few admiring glances at the Berlutis, the Givenchy overcoat, my chiselled features. The sea of black cleaves down the middle as I make my way towards the door. A blurred face nods, and there are some words in the air, but they make no sense. I need to sit so I go through the door, past an indistinct figure in purple and into the nave. I sit on a pew and my eyes close.

  My eyes open. The service is underway. I'm hemmed in, cramped by anonymous people who are everywhere. Ahead, a figure in purple hunches over the lectern, his face downturned, words spilling incomprehensibly from his mouth. The words slip past and are lost before they make sense. Singing starts quietly from somewhere; something I've heard before. The gentlest of whispers into the void, then plaintive, soaring, powerful, finally foreboding; a warning. I feel the music itching under my skin, agitating its way in, burrowing deeper into my core where it will find ... what?

  I sense then a shadow moving across me, and looking up, there it is, angular like the deltoid black wing of a crow, then another, then another, until millions are all suspended there inches above my head, but no one else reacts. The music soars, strings reaching higher, higher still, then suddenly stopping.

  Prolonged silence, then a cough. We wait for something, and then I understand. We're waiting for the truth. The truth about the Reverend; about Edward Cryx; about everything. The truth woven into the words and the shadows and the music, and it will soon be unpicked, unravelled, and displayed for everyone.

  More words spill from the figure in purple, then noises around; all the people in black are standing. Then sudden applause like a thunder crack, and I know I'm being called to somewhere else. I'm out of there, slipping out quietly at first, then quicker, sprinting as fast as I can, but the shadows are still there, dark even here out in the streets. The sky's thick and black with them, allowing barely enough light to find the path away from St Saviour's, away from the office, back towards the sanctuary of the flat.

  Safer here on the living room floor, but still, even with all the lights on and all the windows open, still the sunlight barely penetrates, and it's just shadows I see. In the bathroom cabinet there's some tramadol, which I sluice down with some Grey Goose. The shadows lift in one smooth movement, and I know that infinite truth is about to reveal itself, but suddenly the air is thick and clotted and I'm on the floor and I know nothing can save me now.

  32

  Darkness.

  33

  Light comes first, then blurred shapes, disconnected from a body. Then finally an unknown voice that says, “Reynard?” I try to turn my head, but I can't. “Don't try to move, just relax. You're safe now. You're okay.”

  Later, a different voice says, “You stupid, stubborn man. What were you doing?” The light's too bright, so I have to close my eyes again. I know the voice, but there's no name, nothing to identify it. The distant voice says, “Doctor says you are going to be okay.” And I want to ask what that means, but there are no words. I try to move, but I can't.

  Later still, a silhouette appears, then speaks. “How are you, darling?”

  “I
don't know. Where am I?”

  “In hospital. You are very lucky to be here.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “You took an overdose. You silly man — why did you not just talk to me?”

  “Mum?”

  “What?”

  “Mum, is that you?”

  The silhouette is lost, and there are no more words.

  The weakest of lights, no longer in front of me, but instead off to the side somewhere. Light of a different hue.

  The voice again, “Reynard, are you awake?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Oh, darling! You are back!”

  “Akemi, is that you?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Where's Mum gone?”

  “Sorry, Reynard, but she is not here. But you are in hospital and lucky to be alive.”

  “So where's Mum?”

  “Your mum? Did not she die when you were a boy?”

  A deeper voice says, “He's confused, that's quite normal. He needs to rest more than anything. I'll adjust this, it'll keep him comfortable.”

  Something touches my hand, the weak light fades, and is gone.

  A brighter light, and I call out, “Hello? Hello?”

  “I am here. It is Akemi.” And indeed it is: a vision, dressed in white, light around her head.

  “Hello, Akemi.”

  “Hello, Reynard. How are you feeling?”

  “Bit groggy. And odd. What happened? Oh God, where’s Mutch?”

  “What? You took an overdose. What were you thinking? Doctor said you are lucky to be alive.”

  “I was in the church, and these shadows wouldn't leave me alone. Horrible, weird stuff.”

  “That is the drugs, I think. Doctor said you should be gone. Why the hell did you do it? Why did you not talk to me?”

  “What? I talked.”

  “I mean why not tell me the truth? I am shocked, Reynard.”

  “The truth?”

  “Yes, the truth. Why not tell me how bad it was?”

  “Everything's fine. Nothing bad, only good.”

  “Then why did you take an overdose?”

  “I didn't.”

  “You did, unfortunately. Doctor is cleaning you out, give you something else to get you off the tramadol.”

  “It's not necessary. Can I go now? Mutch to sort out.”

  Something rests on my arm. Akemi says, “You joke, right? You go nowhere. Ah, hello, Doctor.”

  “Hello both. Welcome back, Reynard. How are you feeling?” A blond young man, barely out of adolescence, in a white coat.

  “Odd,” I say. “When can I go home? Important things to do.”

  “It'll be a little while yet. Your body's been through an awful lot; it's still trying to flush out all that poison. We're tapering you off the tramadol and giving you something called naltrexone so the withdrawal symptoms aren't so bad. We'll continue to monitor you very closely, and we can give other medication to make the journey less painful. You know, Reynard, you're very lucky to be alive. Presumably Akemi here has told you all about how she saved your life?”

  “No, Akemi hasn't said anything.”

  “Really? Well she should – you owe her everything. I'll pop in every so often to check up on you. Do you feel ready for some food?”

  “Not really, no. Feeling quite sick, actually.”

  “Well that's to be expected — your body's been through a lot. As you can see, you're nicely wired up to keep you going so you're not going to starve. But maybe you'll feel like some real food soon. I'll leave you two alone for a while so Akemi can tell you all about what happened.”

  He winks at Akemi, who beams back at him; that angelic, transformative smile. How could anyone ever do without it? The doctor leaves the room, and we sit there in silence. Finally, Akemi says, “Do you want to hear what happened?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “It is up to you. I thought you might be interested, but I am not going to make you listen.”

  “Go on then.”

  “Well, last Sunday I need some clothes for a concert that night. I realised that the dress I want to wear, you know that black cotton-taffeta Fendi one you get me, was still in your closet. I call you but you do not answer so I send you a message and then I go to your flat. I ring the bell but there is no answer so I use my key. You just lie there, surrounded by stuff.”

  “What do you mean, 'stuff'?”

  “Uh, I mean, you know, poo and sick and some weird kind of green stuff. And some blood, maybe. You are on the floor and I think you are dead but then you lift your head and look at me with these weird eyes, like you had no pupils, and then sort of smile, your eyes close and your head hits the floor.”

  “And then you called for an ambulance?”

  “After doing CPR and all that stuff, yes, I call for an ambulance.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I just hope you've done the right thing in saving me. I hope you don't regret it.”

  She wrinkles her forehead then smiles. “I am sure I will not.”

  As I slip once again into dreamless sleep, the same thought recurs obsessively: how can she be so sure?

  34

  They've moved me to a different room in a quieter part of the hospital, although I remain bed-bound and trussed up with wires and tubes. Out of the window there's a view of sorts: a scrappy shaded courtyard with a couple of benches and some skeletal shrubs. Encouragingly, there are signs of the old Reynard returning: my strength's growing by the hour, the mind's reemerging, although the feverish sweats and aches continue.

  Akemi's barely left the hospital for days, an impressive display of stamina, but I insist that she goes home and gets some rest. As soon as she's gone, it's too quiet in here. Nothing happening, nothing to think about. The past is elusive; time and again I try to engage with it, to make sense of it all, but it always slips out of reach.

  Sleep comes and goes, febrile and fragmented.

  I wake. Roger and Lucija stand at the end of my bed. Lucija has her hand over her mouth.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello,” they say in unison. Roger says, “How are you feeling, Reynard?”

  “I've felt better, to be honest. Why are you here?” And then it hits me. “Oh fuck, Gyges. I need to get back, get the show back on the road. What's been happening? What day is it?”

  “Whoah, slow down. It's all okay,” says Lucija, and she gently eases me back. A redheaded nurse appears and starts fussing with the tubes and wires around me. She reattaches the cannula to my right hand and says, “Please try to lie still, Reynard, it's for your own good, remember.” She turns to Lucija, “Try not to overexcite him – he just needs to rest, okay?”

  Lucija apologises, retakes her position at the end of the bed, and says, as the nurse leaves the room, “Reynard, it's all okay. Gyges is fine. We sorted it.”

  “What do you mean you sorted it? What the fuck have you done?”

  “Please calm down,” says Roger. “Gyges is okay, Cryx is happy, everyone's happy.”

  “Except me, Rog. What about me? I am Gyges, it's my fucking company, remember? What the fuck have you done? The minute my back's turned, off you go meddling in things you don't understand!”

  The nurse reappears. “Okay, final warning to you all. No swearing, please, and you two, stop getting the patient excited. Please remember that he's still very frail, and it's going to be a long, slow road to recovery. You mustn't jeopardise that.”

  Roger and Lucija apologise again, and the nurse slowly leaves the room.

  Sotto voce, I say, “So what the fuck have you done?”

  Roger looks at Lucija, then back at me.

  I say, “Roger...?”

  “Well...” begins Roger, but Lucija interjects. “Fine, I'll tell him. Reynard, we had to take some drastic steps to save Gyges. It was looking like you weren't going to pull through, so we had to assume executive control.”


  “What? You crowned yourselves king and queen, did you? Just like that? You can't do that. Gyges isn't a banana republic, you know?”

  Roger quietly says, “That's not a fair representation of what actually happened. You were incapable of running the business, so I took over, as per the documented process.”

  The fever's mounting; the sweat's pooling along down my back and between my buttocks. Roger, weak, frail-looking, yellow-skinned. Ineffective and dispensable. I try to lean forward, but I can't. In a voice that barely registers, I ask, “What process? What gives you the right to fuck up my business like this?”

  Roger nods to Lucija, who pulls a piece of paper out of a slimline document folder. “Here,” she says.

  She goes to hand it to me, but I say, “Read it out, will you?”

  She says, “The relevant bit is the following. Blah blah blah, 'the death of Reynard, the resignation of Reynard pursuant to clause 17.1(D) or the inability of Reynard to perform his duties by reason of any injury, sickness, mental capacity, or other incapacity'...”

  I don't want to hear this. “Okay, but I'm back now, and what I say goes, got it?” There’s a stabbing pain in my right side, and one of the machines starts to beep insistently. The nurse appears and says, “Okay, lady and gent, that's it. The patient must be left alone to rest now.” She fiddles with the cannula again, checks the machines, turns off the beeping noise. She mops my brow, plumps up the pillows behind me, and eases me back onto them. Roger and Lucija quietly say goodbye as they file out, and Lucija hands me a package containing my phone, a charger, and two batteries.

  Soon, sleep arrives, polluted with images of Roger and Lucija walking down the aisle of a cathedral with an infinitely tall spire. As they arrive at the altar, the Reverend Anthony Thwaites descends silently from above with the rope still around his neck.

  35