The Greater Fool

by Joseph Hannay

  My strength's surely returning. I try a light breakfast of scrambled egg and toast, but it passes straight through me. Some sweet, milky tea tastes good.

  Roger sits in a chair placed to the side of my bed, close enough for me to be able to smell him: the adrenalised stench of the hunted animal. He says, “I hope you understand, Reynard, that we had no alternative. Realistically, it was that or let the business fail.”

  “So let me get this clear. You’ve shat out a debt for equity swap, you’ve basically given away a quarter of my business to the Chinese in exchange for them assuming our debt, even though I explicitly said that under no circumstances should we do anything like that?”

  “As I said, we had no alternative.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “I’m sorry, Reynard, but we had no choice. Time was running out, the restructuring guys were circling, the regulator was sharpening his knife. We were lucky, actually; we had someone help us to get the deal done with the Chinese. Without him I don't think the deal would have happened, and it would have been game over.”

  “Do you want me to congratulate you? Pat you on the back and call you a good boy? Christ.”

  Roger says nothing and looks up at the clock on the wall.

  Finally, I break the silence. “So who was it, this helpful deal-maker chap? That property lawyer chap, Staunton?”

  “Michael Staunton? No, not Staunton. It was your Uncle Ish, actually. He pulled a few strings, got his Vietnamese pals to leverage influence through the Chinese deal in Da Nang, and somehow nailed it. Lucky for us.”

  “Fuck. You fucking cunt!” I've got a hand across his throat, but I can't get much purchase, and before I know it he's standing by the door.

  Shaking his head, he says, “Reynard, you need to calm down and be rational about this. You know, I was expecting a mixed reaction, but I didn't expect to be assaulted. I'll come back tomorrow with the lawyer and we can talk further – I must be a glutton for punishment.”

  And he's gone, taking his acrid epileptic stench and pitiful body with him.

  36

  Out of bed, and another good sign: I'm increasingly needing intellectual stimulation. Noticeably less feverish and more capable of cogent thought. In the papers there's some irrelevant stuff about pensions, refugees, football. The front page of The Independent talks about “Britain's housebuilding crisis,” with developers “accused of profiteering on the back of the country's housing crisis” by restricting supply. No shit. Like I've been saying all along, it's purely about demand and supply. If demand exceeds supply, prices increase. It's not rocket science. Quite why others can't see this is beyond me. The sooner I get back control of Gyges, the better.

  Late morning, Roger arrives with Julian the lawyer, and we spend at least an hour wading through tedious detail. The gnawing pain in my right side makes concentration difficult.

  Finally, I say, “Okay, you've made your position perfectly clear. I'm going to get a second opinion on this. It just doesn't seem right to me.”

  Julian (Roman nose, porcine eyes) says, “Of course that's your prerogative, Reynard, although I'm comfortable that any lawyer worth their salt will reach the same conclusion.”

  “Big assumption, but assuming they agree with you, then what's the process for me getting back control of Gyges?”

  Julian puts his hands together, fingertips touching. “The key point here is that of capability. You'll need to have an independent medical assessment that gives you a clean bill of health. That means both physical and mental health.”

  Forcefully, I say, “Whoah, hold your horses. There's nothing wrong with my mental health. I'm sane as a button. I accidentally took too many pills, and my body's paying for it, that's all. Once it's flushed out all the bad stuff, then I'm ready to rock 'n' roll.”

  Roger and Julian exchange glances. Julian says, “Well, Reynard, as I said, that's for the medical experts to determine. I'm just the lawyer.”

  With a winning smile I say, “And not a very good lawyer at that!”

  Julian maintains his cold, hard stare. Perhaps he's worth having on board after all. He says, “Again that's a value judgement that I'm not prepared to make. Before I head off, is there anything else I can clarify for you, Reynard?”

  “No, you can go now. It's starting to smell a bit funny in here.” Both Julian and Roger stand, but I say, “Roger, a quiet word, if I may?”

  Julian closes the door quietly on his way out. I say, “Roger, I wanted to apologise for yesterday, for grabbing you by the throat.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. You didn't deserve that. I know you think you're only doing your job.”

  “Well, I am doing my job. I had no choice, and it means that the business is on solid ground for the first time in a long time.”

  “Well, that's for me to decide. Just so you know, I'm going to get back control as soon as I can, and then things are going to change, big-time.”

  His hand goes up to his forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “You'll see.”

  He shrugs, fakes a smile, and then weakly says, “Okay then. In the meantime I'll continue to run your business and make you even richer than you are now, shall I?”

  “Sounds good to me!” I laugh for the first time in a long time, but Roger remains silent.

  Eventually, he says, “You know how to get hold of me if you need me. Get well soon.” He nods as he leaves, and I nod back.

  I message Akemi and ask her to find out who her father's UK lawyer is; I need a big swinger on my side, not some parochial pen-pusher.

  Later, with the blond doctor.

  I say, “Yes, I've been getting the pain on and off for months, maybe longer. There, just down from the ribs, on the right side.”

  “It could be a number of things, so to be sure we'll go the whole hog and put you down for a CT scan. It shows up everything in the most fantastic detail.”

  “Okay, great. So, when can I go back to work?”

  “It depends on what the CT scan shows, but we're most likely talking weeks, not days.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Well, firstly, we need to get you fully cleaned out. We're still weaning you off the tramadol, which is why we'll keep you on naltrexone for a few more days. Can I ask, did you also take any recreational drugs, for example cocaine, crack cocaine, heroin?”

  “Occasionally a bit of coke.”

  “Occasionally? Once or twice a year?”

  “A bit more often than that.”

  “What, once a month?”

  “No, more than that. Most days, in fact.”

  “Yes, I did wonder. Your current physical state is largely due to the fact that you're basically going through an enormous detox as your body learns to live without these things. Did you drink at all?”

  “Erm, yes, the occasional snifter.”

  “Occasional?”

  “Most days. A few vodkas.”

  “We'll get the CT scan done ASAP – you've put your body through an awful lot. And then aside from physical recovery, there's the mental side of things.”

  “What the fuck is this? My CFO said something about that. What's going on?”

  “There were some reports of erratic behaviour. I'm not a psychiatrist, so my colleague Mr Browning will do the full assessment, but it's vital that we fully understand your condition before deciding how to treat you. The worst thing we could do is to discharge you if you could be a danger to yourself or others.”

  “What? You're joking. I'm not a fucking danger to anyone.” I slap my hand hard on the table; my phone drops to the floor.

  Quietly, the doctor says, “Well as I said, Mr Browning will make the assessment. And I'll get the CT scan lined up pronto.” He places my phone back on the table in front of me and says, “I'll see you soon. Take it easy, okay?”

  Left alone once more in this dreary room. I need to get out of here. I message David Bligh, explain that I've been taken ill, and urgently need to see him. He messages back wi
thin the hour and agrees to come over tomorrow morning.

  Akemi arrives late afternoon with the details of her father's lawyer. She looks so out of place here, a transcendent, ethereal being in the realm of the humdrum.

  “I need to get out of here, Akemi.”

  “I understand, darling, but you have to do what the doctor says. You are still very weak and not ready for the real world yet.”

  “Or is it that the real world isn't ready for me?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Oh, nothing, don't worry. I'm being dragged down here to their level; I need to get out.”

  “You have to rest.”

  “I can rest somewhere else.”

  “Look, Reynard, I know you. The day you rest you will be gone. That nearly happened, remember? Listen to the doctor, please, you have to get your strength back.”

  “There's nothing wrong with me.”

  “Oh, Reynard, look at you. You are not well, look!” She takes a compact from her Chanel handbag, opens it, and holds it up for me to see my reflection.

  “Yeah, what? So it's me. What do you want me to say?”

  She moves it closer to my face. “Take a look, darling. I do not mean to be rude, but you look like poo.”

  But there in the mirror, it's me. Reynard. Still the same eyes, the same blessed bone structure. Still the leader of men, the winner. If a little tired-looking. I say, “Admittedly, I'm not looking my best, but these hospital gowns aren't very flattering. I'm still gorgeous, though, admit it!”

  “Oh, Reynard. I like your spirit, but I am sorry, you are not very gorgeous at the moment. Never thought I would say that. In fact, you look like someone who nearly went ten days ago. No surprise.”

  “My abs are looking amazing,” I say, peering down the neck of the gown to see them, ridged and powerful.

  “Yes, you have lost lots of weight. We can get you looking gorgeous again, but for that you need to do what the doctor says, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, although I'm now more concerned with emailing her father's UK lawyer. People are either with me or against me. It's time for me to rise again.

  37

  I’m taken for a CT scan down in the green-walled basement. I'm made to swallow some dye then I have to lie dead still, like a corpse stretched out on a table. The table slides backwards and forwards under the scanner, and I'm periodically forced to hold my breath while fighting a strong urge to run.

  Afterwards, the little bearded radiologist tells me, “Well done,” so I ask him “What for?”

  He says, “Well, you know, for keeping still. You did a great job.”

  I thank him then realise that's the first compliment I've had for months. Without warning, I'm hugging him, holding him close, his beard surprisingly soft against my cheek, tears in my eyes. He gently prises me away, the redheaded nurse appears from somewhere, and takes me back to my room. I sleep feverishly until lunch. I wake to find someone has filled the wardrobe with some of my casual clothes. In the air, the vestiges of Chanel and Lancôme.

  Later, when I'm propped up in bed and picking at an uninviting prawn sandwich, David Bligh blunders in with a large package.

  “What on earth have you done to yourself, Reynard?”

  “Just a temporary inconvenience. I'll soon be right as rain.”

  He asks me what happened, and I give him the sanitised version: accidental overdose, fine now, on the straight and narrow, feeling good and normal.

  I continue, “I need you to sign me off, though. You know, mental capacity, as well as the physical stuff.”

  “Obviously you're fine, but I'm your friend rather than your doctor. I can't just saunter in here and sign you off on spec. Do they have concerns over your mental health then?”

  “Apparently. But they won't tell me what specifically. Uncle Ish must be behind it – it's just a tactic for getting me out of the way while he takes control of Gyges.”

  “Are you sure? How would he take control?”

  “I haven't worked that out yet, but he must be behind this. There's no other rational explanation, is there?”

  “Well, obviously I'm not party to any of the detail, but it sounds to me like the medical staff are merely fulfilling their duty of care. They have to be sure that you're not going to leave here and do something silly.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like take another overdose or do something bad to someone else.”

  “But you know me, Dave, we're good friends, right? I'd never do anything like that.”

  “Sure. I thought you'd be getting bored in here, so I brought you some reading material.” He hands me the very heavy package, which he helps me to open. Inside are two large coffee table books, one on Bauhaus, the other on Caravaggio.

  “Thanks very much, David. They both look interesting.”

  “I had a quick flick through. Both are beautifully illustrated, so if you're not up to reading the text, you can always just look at the pictures.”

  “Great, thanks. How are things with you, then, Dave?”

  “Wonderful, thanks. Couldn't be better.”

  “Great. Sign me off, will you?”

  “What? Sorry, I can't. The system doesn't work like that.”

  “Fuck the system. Just sign me off.”

  “Sorry, I can't.”

  “How's Debbie?”

  “Well, thank you. Oh, I see where you're going with this. She knows, Reynard. I told her about Elena. She seemed oddly relieved, actually. I've moved in with Elena and we're blissfully happy, thanks very much.”

  “Okay, well, yes, I'm delighted for you, obviously. On another note, I'm sure the General Medical Council will be very interested to hear where I got all that tramadol. And the super-strength cocodamol and the pregabalin.”

  “You shit. But then given your habitual drug abuse, your use of prostitutes, your erratic behaviour, and clearly fragile mental state, you're hardly the most credible source, are you?”

  “So you're prepared to risk professional ruin?”

  He stands. “I stuck my neck out for you, and now you're blackmailing me? I thought we were friends.”

  “Exactly. Friends stick by each other.”

  “Sorry, but I can't sign you off. You need to be fully assessed by an independent psychiatrist. I could take a good stab at what your condition is, but I'll hold fire. You might not like what you hear.”

  “I'm not sure I'd trust your diagnosis – you clearly have very poor judgement. I'll find a psychiatrist who will sign me off. I'm sure there are plenty out there.”

  “Unlikely. Count me out, alright? I guess we're done, then, Reynard.”

  “Yes, we are. Bye then, traitor.”

  He leaves silently, shaking his fat balding head, and leaving me alone with the remains of the prawn sandwich and a searing pain on my right side that spreads to my back.

  Time moves too slowly. For want of anything better to do, I leaf through the Caravaggio book. There, on page 36, an amusing coincidence for a Bacchian like me: Caravaggio's painting of Bacchus, who, although a young man, looks remarkably similar to me, and who's dressed in what looks like my hospital gown, although happily I don't have the same ruddy complexion. Apart from that, it's a striking likeness and a diverting little coincidence.

  But then I arrive at page 88, and it’s as if there are greater forces at work. According to the accompanying text, The Incredulity of Saint Thomas shows the ‘Doubting Thomas’ episode in which Christ encourages Thomas to touch His wounds caused by His crucifixion. Christ guides Thomas's hand into the deep wound directly under his right rib, i.e., exactly where I feel my pain. The Christ figure, although somewhat different to the Bacchus figure, also looks exactly like me. Is this the truth I’ve been waiting for?

  38

  The blond doctor points with a young finger at his laptop screen. “Here, Reynard, that's your liver. See that mottled area there, that's damage. Based on what you've told me, it's almost certainly caused by your excessive drinking, along with that c
ocktail of drugs. If you mix cocaine and alcohol, a substance called cocaethylene is produced. That causes the extra buzz you might have experienced, but it's also incredibly toxic, and your poor liver has to try to clean it up. You probably drink enough to cause cirrhosis of the liver on its own, but chuck in the cocaine and you're really asking for trouble. You'd have to be very self-destructive to put your liver through anything else on top.”

  “Like tramadol, you mean?” I smile winningly.

  “Yep. Or cocodamol, or pregabalin. You know, Reynard, this isn't a laughing matter. Carry on like you are, and your life expectancy is dramatically shortened. You're what, almost forty, but you've the liver of a seventy-year-old alcoholic. Just to be clear: that's not a good thing. The long-term effects of alcohol and cocaine use are well documented – just google it. As well as the physical damage, I suspect that they may have had a significant impact on your behaviour.”

  Ah-ha – a light flicks on. “Yes, I see what you're saying. I think you're almost certainly right, and I thank you sincerely for pointing it out. So, Doctor, what do I need to do?”

  “I'm glad you asked. It's simple, really. Stop drinking, stop taking cocaine, stop taking any other drugs, eat well, get fit. Basically everything your mother ever told you is true.”

  “It sounds very dull to me. Where's the fun in that?”

  “Where's the fun of dying of cirrhosis of the liver before you're forty-five? You're a clever chap — you can see you've only one real course of action. Mr Browning will assess you, then we'll work on a detailed plan, agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  That's it. The party's over. Just what have I achieved? Made hundreds of millions; slept with countless women (actually I can count, but a gentleman never tells); had an awful lot of fun. But now that's all over and done with.

  Is that a life of value? I can’t answer that. Time to move on.

  Mid-morning, I'm led to a small office on the second floor, in which Mr Browning, a small, fussy man, asks me a series of disingenuous questions. He clearly underestimates me; presumably he's used to dealing with the common man: dull, uninspired, blinkered. We discuss my upbringing, my education, my career, friends and family, dreams, aspirations, likes, and dislikes. He nods sagely at every response I make, irrespective of how true they are. Although my chair is significantly lower than his, if I sit upright I'm still higher than him, my eyeline level with his thinning hair and shiny forehead.