The Greater Fool

by Joseph Hannay

  “Great. Flatter him, make him feel important, that’s how you get people on your side.”

  “Okay, sounds like a plan. Thanks, Reynard. So when can I have my three million?”

  I look at my watch. “Well, I’m due out of here in five days, give me a few more to sort out the Bitcoin, so can we say 10 days from today?”

  “So, the 24th. Okay, but no longer.”

  I hold out my hand with a smile. Mutch tentatively takes it and we shake. I look deep into his grey eyes. There’s something in his manner that doesn’t convince; perhaps he finally realises that he’s out of his depth.

  42

  At the northeastern edge of the retreat's grounds is a lake bordered by tall pines. A light drizzle falls, an infrequent sun illuminates the lake's surface, but there's no rainbow. It's quiet and calm here. Perhaps the occasional bird glides gracefully across the lake, but it casts no shadow, and it doesn't dive for fish. Everything's undisturbed and unblemished, because that’s the way it's meant to be. Silence. Or rather, not silence, but an absence of the noises made by other people. Instead: birds, the wind in the trees, the scurrying of unknown animals.

  There's a sudden but profound bitter sweetness, like the most delicious aria ever heard. As if I've never looked before, there's the world in all its beauty: the rain with its insistence and necessity, the grateful pines, the ferns and the rhododendrons, the azaleas and the bracken. The improbable, perfect coherence of each of them.

  There's regret, too, not for what I have or haven't done, but instead the fundamental sadness of never having seen properly before. The constant, permanent miracle. For once feeling part of a whole, finally admitted in just when it's too late. Or perhaps the point is that it's not too late. Perhaps it's a final dawning – the most dramatic and revelatory of them all, coming as it must before the final dusk.

  Then the words that seem to appear from nowhere, but perhaps they've been there all along, just waiting to be uncovered: I don't need this. I don't need Gyges; I don't need the hassle. I've more than enough salted away to last me the rest of my life; in fact, to last generations. I've made my mark, I've left my legacy. I’ve nothing left to prove. Time, surely, to move on to better things? Not necessarily bigger, but better. But first, I need to tidy up, undo what I’ve done — or, if I can’t do that — at least cover my tracks.

  There's that familiar drive, that constant, undiminished quest towards something. I don't know where it comes from, nor do I nourish it, or usually even pay it much attention, but still it persists. Something has always pushed me to achieve. But now the way in which it manifests itself is different. Instead of the need to succeed, to win, now instead I know that I must right some wrongs, but most of all I must cast aside the old Reynard. It’s a simple truth, like a ray of hope, glorious in its brilliance, almost blinding in its possibilities.

  But now, back in my room, already the hope and the possibilities begin to fade. Perhaps I was naïve to expect to be saved in such a dramatic manner. Surely things do not happen like that? But still the slimmest of hopes remain that they could: that's what keeps me going. Without that hope, what is there? A man without hope is a dead man.

  43

  Late morning, I'm wired up and made to do a series of exercises while the Asian consultant watches. At the end, as I towel myself down and rehydrate with an energy drink, he peers over his laptop screen and says, “I'm impressed, Reynard. You've made really quite remarkable progress. Your liver's still damaged, natch, but you're in very good shape otherwise. Astonishing, quite frankly, given your age.”

  “I'm only thirty-nine.”

  “Yes, exactly – you're not a young man anymore. But in great shape nonetheless.”

  “Can I go home now?”

  He sucks his biro, then says, “Let's give it a couple more days. Get lots of fresh air, keep on doing the exercises, and we'll continue to taper you off the medication. By the time we discharge you you'll be completely clean. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks, Doc. Thanks for all your help – I owe you one.” I'm back. Reynard’s reborn, revitalised.

  After a shower and an unsatisfying goat’s cheese and walnut salad, I head out for a walk under a grey sky. I follow a tarmacked path that winds through an orchard, skirts around a meadow, then heads towards the sea, an angry mass of dark grey and white beyond the cliff edge. As I approach the wire fence along the clifftop, I glance down. There's a sudden rearing up of the sea below, a discombobulating rotation of something, the merging of colours and shapes, a sudden acceleration from somewhere to somewhere else. I stumble, but I don’t fall.

  The path, no longer tarmacked but instead irregularly shaped flint set into cement, stretches east and west along the cliff edge. I head west, the wind blowing more strongly now. I pull up the zip on my jacket and thrust my hands into my pockets. Momentarily, the sun glints across the crest of each wave. In that instant, there's nothing but me and the welcoming sea.

  The path follows a blind corner round an outcrop, then the view opens out to reveal a large open green space, and a mile or so farther distant, a small village huddled on the water's edge. I continue to follow the path, and ahead I see a wooden shelter, beneath which there are two benches facing out to sea. To my irritation, I see that one of the benches is already occupied. As I approach, I see a thin, hunched figure of indeterminate gender. Long thin legs in jeans, dark anorak with hood up, trainers.

  I sit on the other bench and face the sea, from where the wind whips up more strongly: it’s now relentlessly bitter. I turn my face away and towards the other figure, which then stands and walks towards the waist-high fence along the cliff top. The figure leans forward and places its hands on the fence. A leg is raised, and the figure is now straddling the fence, its head still bowed. The other leg then swings around, and the figure is on the other side of the fence with nothing between it and the cliff edge, the sea roaring far below.

  I find myself standing then walking towards the figure and reaching out over the fence to rest my hand on its shoulder. The head turns to reveal the face of a young man, red and puffy and wet with tears. The quivering lip and the collapsed gait of someone in pain.

  “Are you okay?” I hear myself asking.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I'm concerned.” And perhaps I am. It takes one to know one, and this is a man – barely more than a boy – in distress.

  “What's it got to do with you?” A good question.

  “Nothing, but I'm here now too, so I suppose that makes it something to do with me.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I would imagine it's for the same reason as you.”

  He looks me up and down, much as a clothes shopper might examine a suit on a hanger. He then looks me in the eye and says quietly, “I'm going to kill myself. Jump off the edge, and that's it.”

  “Why haven't you done it yet?”

  “You interrupted me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  We stand there in silence. The wind whips around us, ruffles his anorak, his hair. In time, I ask, “Why do you want to kill yourself?”

  “There's no reason not to. There is no point to anything. College, my mum, TV, apps, girls. My dad knew it; he fucked off when he realised. It's all pointless.”

  “Does there need to be a point to anything?”

  He looks out over the sea, apparently lost in thought. Finally: “If there isn't any point, then why carry on living?”

  “Why not?” I say.

  “What?”

  “Why not just carry on living? You might enjoy it.”

  “I don't.”

  “You could, you know. Who needs a meaning of life? You don't need permission to do whatever you want.”

  “My mum says—”

  “Bollocks to your mum. I don't mean to be rude, but you have to do what you have to do.”

  “I'm scared.”

  “Life can't be any scarier than throwing yourself off that cliff. Life
's pretty good if you look in the right places, you know?”

  He tilts his head and says, “So why are you here?”

  “Perhaps I think the same as you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not anymore, but I used to, when I was your age.”

  More confidently, he says, “So why are you here?”

  “It must be fate.”

  “What? I don't get it.”

  “Maybe it's just your lucky day. What's your name?”

  “Matthew.”

  “Nice to meet you, Matthew. I'm Reynard. Can I ask you a question?”

  “If you have to.”

  “What do you want to do with your life?”

  “Shit, you sound like my mum. How the fuck should I know? I'm only seventeen, so how am I expected to know what it's like to be a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant? I only lost my virginity a few weeks ago.”

  “Who did you lose it to?”

  “Just some girl at college. Lauren.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Epic. I thought it was going to be amazing, but it was even better than that.” The hint of a smile.

  “I remember my first time. Long time ago now, but I remember it felt like my balls were going to explode. And I couldn't stop smiling for days afterwards. And then my second time, third time. It just keeps on being amazing – the gift that keeps on giving. Don't you find that?”

  “What? Oh, I've only done it once.”

  “Why? What happened to the girl?”

  “Lauren?”

  “Lauren.”

  He turns away, but I see he's coloured slightly. “I found out she's done it with loads of boys. I was just one. I really loved her. I thought she loved me but she's just a slapper.”

  “Don't let that put you off. It's amazing what a good fuck can do to one's state of mind.”

  “No point. Too late for that. At least I did it once.”

  “Tell you what, come away from the edge and I'll pay for you to do whatever you want to a beautiful girl, all night. Worth you not having a wank for a few days beforehand – you wouldn't start a long car journey with an empty tank, would you? In return, just step away from the edge and come back over the fence. It's all going to be okay.”

  He turns to face me, an incredulous expression on his face. “Why would you do that? What's it got to do with you?”

  “Well, nothing, I suppose. But there's something in you that I recognise. Let me guess: you get really good grades at school, without even trying?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you find most people impossible to work out – you don't get what makes them tick, right?”

  He half-smiles. “Yeah.”

  “But when you can be bothered, you can get them to do what you want?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  I move a step closer, extend my other hand, and reach out to take his forearm. I say, “Well, congratulations, Matthew, that means you're destined to do great things. You probably think that it's only other people who do great things, don't you? That the popular kids in class will make a real success of their lives, will get all the money and the cars and the girls, and that you're just a loser?”

  “Yeah, exactly.” He turns to face me, and there are now tears cascading down his cheeks. He sobs, sniffing like the snotty little kid he is.

  I say, “Well, that's complete bollocks. All untrue. You've got all the ingredients to be king of the world. You can be rich, successful, have as much pussy as you want, cock too, if you really want.”

  “Ugh, no thanks.”

  “Okay, just unlimited pussy then. I guarantee it. I'll show you how if you come with me.”

  “How do I know you're not just some pervert?”

  “Take it from me, I'm not. Deep down you know you’re like me, right? Come on.” I grip both his forearms and steady him as he steps carefully back over the fence to safety.

  Through the shriek of the wind, a woman's voice: “Matthew! Matthew! Oh God!” A middle-aged woman, somewhat dumpy, scurries across the grass towards us. She brushes past me, muttering, “Matthew, Matthew, thank God.” Then louder: “What on earth were you doing? Did you stop taking your pills again?”

  “Mum, just stop it, will you? It's cool.”

  She holds him close, then even closer, almost as if trying to inhabit him. Matthew's so much taller than his mother, he's able to tilt his head and rest it on hers. He closes his eyes.

  In time, she gently levers him away from her grasp and turns to face me, but still holding onto Matthew’s hand. She says, “Thank you so, so much. I saw what you did. He's not well. You saved his life.”

  She turns to Matthew. “This man saved your life. I hope you're going to thank him.”

  I insist, “There's really no need. I did what anyone would have done.”

  She says, “But there was no one else. You saved his life. Thank you so, so, so much. You're a hero.”

  “Yeah, cheers,” says Matthew.

  His mother insists on taking my name, address, and phone number. Reluctantly, I agree, shake hands with them both, then I head back to the retreat through driving rain.

  44

  I’m waiting impatiently in Vista’s reception, with a note certifying my fitness to work. I'm wearing Lanvin wool and silk blend charcoal trousers, Lanvin wool-Jacquard claret sweater, and Lanvin leather sneakers. I'm not entirely sure about Lanvin, specifically whether it projects quite the right image. My driver's three minutes late, and then he clumsily manhandles my Louis Vuitton cases into the boot of his humdrum Mercedes E Class. He's a poor conversationalist, so as we pull away, with Vista's staff sadly waving goodbye, I make it clear that I want to be left alone. There's no screen between him and me, so I put my Bose headphones on instead.

  Edging along the A3, Akemi calls.

  “Darling, you are an enigma!” she says.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Have you seen the Know Yourself blog?”

  “No, of course not. Why would I?”

  “I will send a link. Are you going home now?”

  “Yes, home sweet home. Can't wait to get back and get back on the horse.”

  “Okay, see you later!”

  And she's gone. A couple of minutes later, she's messaged me a link to a blog post.

  The Kindness of Strangers by Angela Thornbury-Cross

  As regular readers will know, mental illness is well embedded in my family. Both my parents suffered from depression, my brother is bipolar, and at least one of my grandparents committed suicide. My firstborn son, now seventeen, is also receiving treatment for depression. An unhelpful genetic inheritance, no doubt, but everyone has a cross to bear.

  Earlier this week I witnessed an act that restored my faith in the human spirit. My son, unbeknownst to me, had forgotten to take his medication for five days. As parents of teenage sons will know, they tend not to be compliant at the best of times! And so my son, chemically unbalanced and lost in the maelstrom of dark thoughts that is familiar to many of us, found himself on the edge of a cliff, and was threatening to throw himself off.

  Enter a kind stranger. A man who showed all the unjudgemental compassion and kindness that you would hope you would be able to show in such a situation. This kind man talked my son away from the edge, held him close, gave him hope. Saved his life.

  This man, obviously quiet and modest, maybe even shy, wanted no reward for such a selfless act. Only my persistence led him even to telling me his name. Having saved a life is reward enough in itself for some, perhaps, but in these dark times, when individualism is king, when caring and sharing is dismissed as being woolly, and we are all encouraged to bow down to Mammon, I think it only fair that selflessness and pure, old-fashioned goodness is publicly recognised. This man is a role model for us all, and his name is Reynard Xavier.

  Mental illness can be incredibly isolating, but let's all try to take heart from the fact that there is much good in the world, and there are people like R
eynard who help to make life worth living.

  I forward the article to everyone in my list of contacts; there's no need to be shy about finally being recognised as “a role model for all” and as the man “who makes life worth living.” Perhaps it will start to undo some of the damage caused by other recent coverage.

  Later, D.I. Mutch emails back: Very admirable, Reynard. Big brownie points to you. Hope to hear from you soon. Kind regards.

  Ish: I assume you wrote this blog? P.S. I hope you're feeling better.

  Back in London, where I belong. The king is in his castle, the cock (as it were) back in the farmyard. The flat's impeccably clean, the Bokhara Suzani rug restored to its former glory.

  I head out for a walk through Mayfair and down Regent Street. A ceaseless procession of vacuous and narcissistic but physically attractive young women, wearing chain-store clothes, staring at their phones when they should be looking where they're going, little awareness of (or interest in) the life immediately around them. Nash's majestic architecture noticed by no one.

  Although I’ve only been away for weeks, it’s as if London has changed in some fundamental way, and I’m not sure I like it.

  45

  I’m back in the office, greeted by the back-office guys like Jesus returning from the wilderness. In a meeting room with a frail-looking Roger, Lucija (hair pulled back, a masculine trouser suit), Julian the lawyer, Michael Tanaka. In this small room the stench of adrenaline, of fear and anxiety (not mine) is pervasive.

  An hour later, Michael Tanaka says, “Congratulations, Reynard, you're now officially back in charge.” He shakes my hand and smiles.

  I say, “Excellent. And not a second too late, by the looks of things. Michael, thank you again. Julian, you can go. Roger, Lucija, let's talk.” The lawyers leave the room, and I close the door behind me.

  I stand while Roger and Lucija remain seated. “I don't want any excuses, got it? You did what you did. I'm prepared to accept that you thought you were doing what was right. And because I'm such a nice guy, I'm not even going to consider you disloyal. But — and this is a massive but – let me make it crystal-clear that I make the decisions around here. It's my business, I set it up, I own the fucking thing, and so what I say goes. If you don't like it, go. Got it?”