He reads out pairs of statements, and I'm to tell him which most applies to me. For example, he offers “I like to look at my body” or “My body is nothing special.” And “I am much like everybody else” or “I am an extraordinary person.” He must think I'm stupid. Does he really expect me to incriminate myself like that? We reach what seems to be the end of the test, he puts his paperwork on his desk, and with a smile he says, “That's it for today. We'll see each other again on, let's see, Monday.”
We shake hands, his small, weak, and clammy in mine. His ill-fitting suit smells of old smoke, and he needs to see the dental hygienist. I've every confidence he'll reach the correct conclusion about me: he surely recognises superiority and top-drawer sanity when he sees it.
39
Gyges Holdings Saved by Chinese Takeaway?
Gyges Holdings, the troubled £4.5bn open-ended real estate fund, last week agreed a debt-for-equity swap with Lucky Li International, the Guangzhou real-estate giant with substantial development projects in central London. Although this is believed to have put the fund on a firmer footing, investor redemptions remain suspended, according to a source close to the business.
Investment guru Sven Mortenson claimed, “Desperate times need desperate measures. Gyges has been run in such a cavalier way that the only way it can survive is to accept a bail-out from a third party. Gyges’ exposure to such an out-of-favour asset class has meant substantial write-downs. Gyges has been lucky to survive so far, but further market uncertainty could be fatal without a fundamental restructuring.”
The whereabouts of founder and CEO Reynard Xavier are unknown, with rumours circulating that he may be considering stepping aside. He is believed to have been receiving treatment for an unknown health-related issue.
Gyges Holdings did not immediately respond to our request for comment.
“A source close to the business?” A cunt, more like. Roger? Lucija? One of the faceless backroom boys? Almost certainly something to do with Uncle Ish. As soon as I'm out of here I'll find out who it is and take steps.
With each day it’s as if I shed another skin, stripping away the extraneous layers to reach the core of Reynard. Quite what I will find there is so far unclear to me.
Akemi, wearing a demure white blouse and close-fitting black trousers, arrives just before lunch with her father's lawyer. Michael Tanaka is anonymous-looking, mixed-race, instantly forgettable, but already has a firm grasp of the detail. Clearly an upgrade on that cunt Julian; I make a mental note to replace him once I'm out of here.
Michael says, “I know this isn't what you want to hear, but I'm afraid the agreement is clear. Unusually unambiguous in fact, and it appears to me that the process has been adhered to well.”
“Fuck. So what can I do to get control back?”
“The critical point is that of capability, as determined by an independent assessment that you are fit and capable of work. So, effectively, you're in the hands of the doctors here. If they sign you off, you can take back executive control of Gyges.”
“And if not?”
“Then the status quo persists.”
“Straightforward.”
“The process is straightforward, yes. But I'm a lawyer, not a doctor, so I can't comment on the medical aspects of this, okay?”
“You don't need to. Everyone knows I'm fit, strong, and sane as a button.”
He smiles. “That's good to hear.” He hands me his business card and says, “Contact me directly if I can help further. It's a favour to Akemi and her father. You clearly mean a lot to her, so all I can say is that you're a very lucky man.”
And with that they're both gone, Akemi's fragrance lingering like a delicious memory.
This solitary confinement – because that's what it is – isn't helping my recovery. When I'm alone, new fears create themselves, amalgamate, swell, and magnify, such that they threaten to be overwhelming. Silence accelerates this process. I hate the sound of it; that background hiss and whirr that, once it's there, can't be banished. It gets louder and louder and soon threatens to engulf everything.
Sleep comes now and then, but any dreams are unusually anxious, not the usual glorious epics starring Reynard the King. Perhaps there's some biological explanation for all this — the death throes of my addictions — but sleep's now saturated in the banal, the enervating. The tedious day-to-day worries of the common man, which just don't interest me at all.
Instead, I want mythical beasts in my dreams. I want huge wild black cats, vertiginous cliffs, and brooding moors. Violent storms. Choirs of ten, twenty, a hundred thousand performing Dies Irae. The beginning and the end of the world all in a single moment.
I want all of this and more. But instead there's the slow creep, the pigeon-steps along a gloomy corridor, the ticking of the second hand and the beep of a heart monitor. Where are the vast imagined landscapes, the wild peoples, the roaring jungle, the treacherous seas of my childhood?
Another day edges past. There's little sense that things are moving forward; instead there's only stasis. You might call it stability, even calm, but I don't. In the unchanging there's nothing of interest; things have to change to get better. If one waits, one waits only for death.
Imprisoned in here, there's this growing, unsettling sense that I'm diverging from who I really am. Forcibly separated from the essence of my true self. Stripped, cleansed of all I considered essential: alcohol; cocaine; tramadol; cocodamol; glistening quim. I'm a husk, a hollow core. The staff here encourage me to see a clean lifestyle as a revelation – the unveiling of truth, but I'm just not that credulous. I've seen and done enough to recognise it simply as a different pair of blinkers. Who's to say this truth is an improvement over the previous one? And anyway, who's got the time or the inclination to concern themselves with thinking about the truth? It's like devoting your life to the problem of perpetual motion.
In academic studies, even the most inveterate liar thinks of himself as honest — even the serial criminal, the most prolific thief or rapist, still considers themselves to be fundamentally good. So, even if I display the occasional hypocrisy or self-delusion, that's normal. I'm no worse nor better than anyone else, but at least I know we all deceive ourselves. Show me a genuinely honest person, and I'll show you an idiot, a lunatic, or a corpse.
40
Back in Mr Browning's office. I wear Polo Ralph Lauren beige chinos, Polo Ralph Lauren army green cable knit sweater, Lanvin sneakers. Mr Browning, wearing the same smelly suit as last week, can only marvel at that sort of effortless style.
He says, “It appears, Mr Xavier, that there's nothing that a good rest won't sort out. I detect no disorders to be concerned about. You just need to take it easy for a while. Any erratic behaviour can be attributed to alcohol and drug abuse, so it's critical that you abstain completely in future, aside from the obvious medical reasons for doing so. My view is that once you're strong enough, you should be moved to a rehabilitation centre to ensure your full recovery. There's a very comfortable retreat on the south coast that I recommend to those patients with the necessary means.”
“I agree, Doc. You clearly know your stuff.” And I wink. He smiles back and reaches out to shake my hand. I shake it warmly and look deep into his eyes. There's nothing of interest there, just an ordinary, naïve, passive little man.
Armed with a promise to sign me off after two weeks of compliant rest at the rehab centre, I'm collected by a disappointing Ford Galaxy, and the anonymous driver noses us south through heavy traffic across London. In the boot are two of my Louis Vuitton suitcases containing a decent array of my casual clothes. Next to me is Akemi, in Ray-Ban sunglasses, Saint-Laurent cable-knit sweater, and jeans. Her hair is tied up.
I get the driver to stop outside a Caffè Nero, and Akemi gets me two Espresso Con Panna and a cappuccino for herself. She licks the froth off the top, smacks her lips, and smiles at me. “It is not so bad, is it?”
“I prefer espresso, as you know.”
“I mean it
. You know, life. It is good.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
She removes her Ray-Bans, as if making a point. She turns to me and says, “Reynard, you are lucky to be alive, you know? You have a second chance, and you should make the most of it.”
“I will, once I've been released into the wild again. It's a ridiculous charade, all this. I'm more than ready to take control again. I'm just playing along because I have to.”
“It is for your own good — the doctors know best. Plenty of rest, clean food, no alcohol or anything, you will feel good. I know you, though, so you make sure you do what they say. No sneaking off to do bad things.”
With a smile I say, “I always do as I'm told.”
She places her hand on my thigh and says, “Only when I have tied you up, darling,” and there's an instant surge of blood to my cock; the first proper erection in weeks. Happy days are here again, n'est-ce pas?
“Mmm,” I say, lost in daydreams.
We sit in silence, focusing on our coffees. Eventually, I say, “I can't believe it's come to this. It's all a plot, you know, devised by Uncle Ish and carried out by Roger. He's been in Ish's pocket since day one. He stopped me getting St Saviour's, held me back, stopped me doing great things with Gyges. Once I get Gyges back, there's no way I'm letting them anywhere near it. Gyges is mine, or no one's.”
“Reynard, do not rush into something, okay? You are detoxing, you will be a bit grumpy. You have to relax for a couple of weeks. I packed some books – you should try reading and forget about work for a while.”
“Why?”
“Because it will do you good. Help get your head straight. Please, darling?”
“Look, I appreciate your help and everything, but let's get the facts straight, shall we? My body's fine, my head's straight, I'm ready to rock and roll, I'm only playing along because I have to.”
“You have to rest for two weeks.”
“Only according to the doctor. I'm only doing this because I have to. There's no other good reason why.”
“Please take a look at yourself. Look! You are too skinny, your skin is yellow, your hands shake. That is not great, is it?”
“I thought you were on my side.”
“I am on your side. That is why I am here.”
“I'm not sure you need to be here, do you? I'm not a cripple, and I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“I thought you would appreciate it. Silly me.” She leans forward to talk to the driver, but I can't hear what she says. Soon the car pulls over. “Good luck, Reynard. Call me if you need me, okay?” She opens the door, and I watch her walk, head bowed, down a side street.
I tell the driver to carry on, and we ease back into the throng of traffic edging across Putney Bridge.
A couple of hours later, I'm checked in to the Vista Wellness Centre, a Grade II listed hospital for addicts, faded celebrities, losers, and me. My off-white room has uninspiring views of the grey English Channel under a dark grey sky.
I fall into a feverish sleep. In my dream, the end of the world is coming: Putin’s Russia is shooting down planes over Europe. I've been chosen to breed to secure the future of the human species. There are four of us (two women, two men), but it’s unclear who's to breed with whom. One of the girls (long limbs, black skin, short hair) asks if it matters which man ejaculates into her last.
In the dream, I get up from the bed to urinate. I walk into the corridor to find a door with a gents symbol on it, but on closer inspection the symbol is me. Behind the door is an oak-panelled room with a small single bed, which I realise immediately is where I'm supposed to die. I lie down, and a searingly bright light shines through the curtains.
41
Time passes so slowly here, I'd swear it moves backwards as well as forwards. Frankly, the stultifying tedium of this place is enough to drive anyone over the edge.
My consultant, a first-generation Asian with a slick manner and decent shoes (Loake?), says he's happy with my progress, and I continue to play along, ostensibly meek and compliant. I'm firmly on the straight and narrow, and it hurts. I decline his invitations to attend group therapy; I know myself, and I know what's best for me.
The relentless banality of this place is such that I spend most of my time in the gym. I sense the admiring and lustful looks from fellow patients – sorry, guests – although none of them are worthy of my attention. I've resumed bench-pressing enormous weights, doing innumerable crunches, enduring seemingly endless planks. My stomach's rock solid, my pecs are powerful. Ripped like a steak, even if I say so myself. The flouncing Greek homosexual in the beauty treatment centre clearly relishes tidying up my beard and body hair, although I make it clear that I'm not interested in taking things any further.
The silence here is oppressive. Into the space vacated by noise comes the pitter-patter of intrusive thoughts; the invidious creep of doubt. Apparently the common man suffers from imposter syndrome. I don't, but I can see how it could take hold in place like this. Into the silence creep memories. Not those clichéd memories of formative experiences, but instead episodes of injustice.
Over a week in this place, and I've changed in some way, I know it, although I can't quite put my finger on what exactly.
I’m reclining on a sun lounger by the indoor pool, relishing the humidity and trying to read The Alchemist, although I can’t get on with it at all.
Some WAG flounces around in the shallow end, all Botox and silicone-enhanced breasts. She pouts, flutters her eyelashes, then moves her hands around in the water like she’s ironing. Whereas once I’d be straight in for the kill, for some reason she leaves me cold. Even her superficially perfect breasts leave me unstirred; they remind me of shrink-wrapped grapefruits rather than anything remotely sexual. Give me the natural beauty of Akemi any day.
I return to The Alchemist and reread the first page, but I see little point in it.
There’s a cough to my right, and a middle-aged woman in a white tabard says, “Mr Xavier? There’s a Mr Mutch waiting for you at reception. Do you want to see him?”
I nod and tell her to put him in the bar. I pull on a T-shirt, slip on the de rigueur repellent white flip-flops, and steel myself.
In the bar — rattan furniture, bamboo partition screens — Mutch stands in front of a signed photo of a dead magician. He wears his trademark beige raincoat.
“Mutch!” I cry out. He turns and smiles.
“Reynard, how the hell are you? Bit of bad luck, by the sounds of it?”
I gesture at a pair of armchairs. “Shall we?”
We sit and peruse the menu. I say, “Nothing alcoholic, I’m afraid. The closest you can get is a Virgin Mary, a Bloody Mary without the vodka.”
“A bloody shame, that’s what it is. I’ll just have a cup of tea, please,” says Mutch.
I signal over to the waitress and order two cups of English breakfast tea.
“Look, Mutch, you’ll appreciate why I haven’t been able to fund your retirement yet. You do know I’ve been in a coma?”
Mutch tilts his head to one side, then smiles. “It’s a good excuse, Reynard, and I’m a reasonable man, lucky for you. But you’ve got to act fast. Cryx is being a right pain, you know, and threatening to go to my boss about his allegations.”
“Well, if he does that, the deal’s off. You have to deal with Cryx, otherwise we’re both done for.”
“What?”
“You’ve got to make sure he shuts up for good. Look at it from my point of view. Say I pay you the three million, you bugger off to Ipanema, and then Cryx simply goes to your successor. I’ve still got it all hanging over me, I’m just three million quid poorer.”
“How do I shut him up?”
“How? I don’t know. Stitch him up or something. Look, we’re in this together, Mutch. I appreciate you’re only trying to make the best of your own situation, you’re leveraging up the information you have, but for this to succeed we’re going to have to work together.”
A waitr
ess places tea on the table.
“I’m sorry, Reynard but that’s not the deal. You can’t get me to do your dirty work. You got yourself into this, and you have to get yourself out of it.”
“No, we’re in this together. If you don’t help me sort out Cryx, I’ll drag you down with me.”
Mutch spoons two sugars into his tea and stirs. “You won’t risk that. You’re hardly in a position of strength, are you? You tried to bribe a banker, clear as day. I’d simply say that you tried to bribe me as well. I bet there’s plenty of other dirt if I start digging. Shall I start digging, Reynard?”
I sip my tea. “Not necessary. Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll get you your three million, but in exchange for you turning a blind eye to anything else. And that includes any misfortune that could happen to Cryx.”
“Okay, deal. When can I have my three million? You know Cryx could go to my boss at any point.”
I say, “Then stop him. Why not tell Cryx you’ve referred his case to another unit? Maybe because of the gravity of the accusations.”
“Genius! I’ll tell him it’s gone to the Serious Fraud Office.”
“Okay, great. Can you get him to sign something that looks like a gagging order? Insist that any breach of confidentiality will jeopardise the case?”
Mutch watches a young waitress restocking the cutlery station. After a while he says, “Leave it to me.”
The Greater Fool Page 16