My diary is open on my desk on today’s page, the computer pushed to one side. I sit and shut my eyes as the day rolls out in front of me: meetings and lunches and the constant drill of phones that signal incoming shuttles of work. A day like most other days at Teller Productions, but it wasn’t always this way. ‘Luck is a residue of hard work,’ David says, even though this phrase contradicts his modus operandi – ‘Ask and the universe shall supply’ – but all are variations on control, so whatever works best at the time, works for David.
Our success is, though, very much the result of mine and David’s determination and vision. These last fifteen years have seen us expand from small corporate videos to long-form commissions for cable channels and several for the BBC and other terrestrials. We specialize in programmes that peek into the dysfunctional worlds of people with either obsessive habits, bizarre jobs or secret desires; a modern version of freak-pointing at the circus. Publicly we assert that we are impartial, but a good editor can cut a story to make our judgement forefront. Without a viewpoint the programme would be bland, and even though the viewers would cry out if it were proved we were biased, they are as complicit as us by not tuning to another channel. Secretly they know we only give them what they want, and the appetite of the masses for voyeurism never ceases to surprise me. It keeps David and me in immense comfort.
Neither David nor I are at the frontline of production or camera any more; from my desk I exec everything that passes through the office – no project gets the sign-off without my say-so – and David is the deal maker and confidence builder, his days stacked around forging connections with influential people. After months of tennis matches and boardroom breakfasts, we landed a major series, one we hope will sell internationally and get repeat commissions year on year – we hold out for these golden geese above anything that has BAFTA potential. David told me of the programming executive, ‘I know all his secrets, all his friends who jumped the interview process, and I even know who he’s fucking behind his wife’s back. I could bring him down just like that.’ He clicked his fingers and froze the gesture at the side of his head for several seconds too long after he’d finished speaking, the smile on his face in traction.
The result of all this work is that the money keeps piling in. We have all we need but we keep on making more, as hobbyists or collectors do, storing the excess and watching the numbers on the page grow bigger month by month, like sediment at the mouth of a river. But money’s not the only currency that David deals in: power and charm are in abundance too, and he uses all these assets like a tool to be switched on and off dependent on the job in hand. Recent talk of expansion, of joining forces with another company overseas and making our brand international, was quashed without debate; he’d rather keep it local. David wouldn’t trust another office without himself at the helm, infecting every deal with his purpose and insight. Plus another element would be missing, and that would be me: my ability to pick a winning pitch above any Arts Council frippery, but more importantly my knowledge of David and the ways in which we conduct our trade – all the above-board and the number of shady dealings to which I’ve recently been introduced. With David there’s no definition of what he’s chasing; he will never arrive as there will always be somewhere else to go. Men like him don’t retire, they fall dead on a squash court, racket in hand, doing a deal, and we share and tolerate these and other unspoken secrets between us out of habit and shame, not only because we know each other so well, but because it’s too late for either of us to change. There’s too much history and too much to lose. These things make us unique and desirable. We are a team. I keep David’s secrets and he keeps mine, although since the accident a dangerous imbalance has tipped in David’s favour.
Yesterday’s half-finished glass of water is on my desk. A membrane of dust lies between the air and water, reminding me of a chemistry experiment at school when the teacher pulled a thread of nylon from between two liquids and curled the strand round a pen. I swig from the glass of old water to wash down two pills, the period between painkillers getting less and less, then sit back in my chair and press my stomach. The pain has no one rhythm or position, but when I think of the homeless man and the caravan I saw this morning, the sensation peaks. Instinctively I know that until what I’ve done has been made good, this discomfort won’t go away. Nothing and no one can alter the fact that a man has died, but where there are clues to how he lived, there could perhaps be some resolution.
The front door opens and shuts with a double clang. I jump in my seat. As I stand and peer from my office door, I see the cleaner pause by the silent alarm pad, scratching his head. He switches on the bank of lights and my eyes blink at the clock. 7.00 a.m. Opening the store cupboard, the man takes out the vacuum and untangles its lead from the trolley of dusters and cleaning fluids, all the while mumbling to himself, though I can’t make out what he’s saying. He turns on the machine as I walk silently to the glass banister and watch him push the nozzle over the wooden floor in slow sweeps. Intermittently he stops to stare out of the window and chat a bit more, as if the cleaning is interrupting an important conversation, then leaves the vacuum to one side and begins to dust the desks.
The phone rings. On impulse I pick up the nearest extension. The cleaner’s head spins round. He sees me. His expression is vacant, and he stands with his paunch out and shoulders down. I’m on his time; normally I wouldn’t care, but today I blush.
‘Hello?’ I say into the receiver.
The cleaner continues his dusting.
‘What are you doing?’ It’s David.
‘I thought I’d catch up on some things before the office got busy.’
‘Have you seen my Hunters?’
I stare through the window. Grey light has bleached away the dawn.
‘They’re in the boot room,’ I say. ‘I put them there last night to dry out after you took the dogs for a walk.’
There’s a pause, then down the phone line comes the squeak of David’s leather slippers on the marble floor. An aside of skittering claws accompanies him, our two dogs probably curling in and out of his legs and jumping up. I visualize his route from the quality of sound down the receiver: across our tiled hallway and dining room, then through the kitchen to the back utility room we call the boot room. ‘Naughty lady didn’t take you out, did she?’ His voice is muffled and I know he’ll be holding one of the dog’s heads, rubbing her soft ears and putting his mouth against her forehead as he speaks, imagining they share a telepathic connection.
David comes back on the line. ‘If I’d known you were leaving so early I would’ve got up too. I won’t have time to go to the gym now. I’ll have to take the girls out instead.’
‘David,’ I say, ‘let them out in the garden. The dog walker will be there at ten.’
‘It’s not fair on them. You should have thought this through before you left. Get Kelly to reschedule our lunch meeting so I can go to the gym later.’ I hear him breathing down the line. ‘I’ll be in shortly to keep an eye on things there. You’re becoming next to useless, Rachel.’
He puts the phone down and the hiss of quiet fills my head.
In front of me in my diary the day’s tasks ladder down the page. I enjoy the tactile feel of paper and pencil, finding it easier to see what there is to do from pages smudged and scribbled over, like a dentist’s appointment book. David always tuts at the sight of the computer sidelined to the back of my desk. ‘What must it look like to clients when they come in,’ he said once, ‘you peddling away with your scratchy little pencil? That’s the person I met, Rachel, with your two-ring cooker and baked beans on toast. It’s not who you are now.’
I draw up a list of requirements for the day and prepare the paperwork and myself to sit next to David through all these meetings: shoulder to shoulder, interjecting only when I disagree with a client or filmmaker, the bad cop to his good. Anyone else would be honoured with the trust he bestows on me, but my talents have long been replaceable so I know it’s more
practical than that. The main reason we work together so well is that I understand him more than anyone else, I know what he wants before he’s even thought of it, though sometimes I worry that I know too much. If ever I was free of David, my insider knowledge of the man, not just the business, would be of great concern to him. I’ve watched him win then fail then rise again, over and over, from student days with a sideline of a T-shirt stall, to promoting club nights and starting a record label, followed by a switch to production when he realized that young people only had a finite amount of money. He sat up night after night studying the workings of each new venture, taking higher-ed courses at obscure and far-flung colleges in camera operating and offline editing. I was the one who witnessed his humiliation at every setback, followed by his disbelief in the idiots who ran the business, those who were unable to recognize his potential. His incredulity was always followed by a volcano of ambition for the next pitch. What began as my support, bankrolling his humble and secret apprenticeship as I worked as a business administrator, turned into a pooling of our ideas and talents when I finally understood, as always, that David’s plans had legs. I quit my job and became the financial and production partner to his technician.
In the early years the two of us pitched to commissioners and were mostly turned down, but the few jobs we managed to win enabled us to build our reel. Over time we gained more confidence and this was boosted by growing admiration in the industry. We expanded year on year until we achieved our current success in the Reality programming market. I have to applaud David’s foresight – he stuck to this vision rather than pursuing more instantaneous but ultimately less lucrative avenues – but now we’ve reached the level we have, our TV formula a stylized roll-out to be adjusted to any unfortunate human dilemma, I sense that David’s adrenalin is running low: more visits to the gym, impulsive sackings when a warning would have done, more frequent requests to top up his stash. I would be happy to sell the business, but for David our production company is family; if nothing else, he’s loyal. So instead he’ll branch out to other business ventures, whatever he can turn into success, whatever he can manage locally, and he’ll hold on to what he’s already created. Hence these new illicit openings outside of our known arena, such as David’s involvement in Alex’s development, which ticks more boxes than merely making money. When I questioned the lack of paperwork involved in our investment, unchecked by lawyers or traceable by the tax man, David told me to grow up. ‘I’m trusting you to keep schtum on this, Rachel,’ he said. ‘I know you can hide this amount in your productions. This could be very profitable for us so I don’t need any of your ethical hysterics.’
The first meeting today is at 10.00 with a children’s charity who need a publicity video for fundraising, so there’s plenty of time to organize myself for clients who are effectively asking of us a favour. We’ll farm the project out to someone fresh and keen from film school, and the new recruit will give us their time for free in exchange for a foot in the door. For this appointment, David will wear his philanthropist’s uniform of jeans and T-shirt, though in reality we’ll be giving little away. In return we gain a stronger profile. Later in the day, David will change into the suit and open-necked shirt he keeps at the office for ‘real’ meetings. Today’s was a late lunch with an ex-commissioner who’s in between channels, though this will now be cancelled to make way for David’s more important visit to the gym. ‘Small fry,’ David has scribbled next to the woman’s name in my diary.
A click and low rumble signals the heating coming on. I move to a radiator and press my hands against the metal as the warmth creeps up its surface. The stairs reverberate with the clang of the hoover plug announcing the cleaner’s growing proximity, so I go into David’s office where there’s more space and an en suite, and lock the door.
David’s large desk takes up a fair portion of the room. I sit in his chair and face the two banks of drawers which hang either side of the chair area. Some of these drawers used to contain stationery and other paperwork relating to current projects, though each one I pull now is locked. Usually David only secures the drawers containing financial information, and because I might need these statements, I was the sole person who knew where the keys were kept. I check behind our wedding photo on the windowsill, but the keys are no longer there. My hand runs over the rest of the sill and then across the shelves next to the wall, and finally I rummage through his spare gym bag until I hear the jangle of metal inside one of his training shoes.
As he clearly has so much to hide, it’s time to redress the balance of secrets between us.
In one drawer there’s a folder containing paperwork I’ve never seen before, detailing financial transactions between numerous companies, plus bank accounts I don’t recognize. The first company that money has been sent to is in the UK and it’s called Manorhall Construction, but the rest of the accounts are located in many different countries, and they amount to multiple transactions, the funds changing currency as they’re paid on to each business, filtering through the various jurisdictions. I knew that David had stopped trusting me, but I had no idea the extent to which he had become involved in rinsing our money clean. Far greater amounts are detailed in the paperwork than was the original investment in the development, but this money hasn’t been taken from any bank account I know of. There must be other sources, and I’m amazed and almost impressed at how fast David has taken to this new line of business.
Another drawer has a folder containing information on a man called Tyrone Aldridge. I recognize him as the leader of the camp of activists who was pictured in the newspaper at Mum’s house. Here his mugshot is of a younger self with dreadlocks, and the paperwork details various arrests, mostly for dealing small amounts of cannabis, plus also his past memberships of various organizations: CND, Socialist Worker, Anti-Vivisection League; our debt collection agency has ways and means of sourcing more information than merely the financial assets of our clients. His first arrest was years ago at the poll tax riots, so he’s older than I originally thought. In the bottom drawer is a notebook, exactly the same type as the one we keep at home for our household expenses. This one has only recently been started, and inside is a list of payments amounting to several thousand pounds. The first amount is dated the day of the accident. Next to the dates are the names of people I’ve never heard of, and pseudo-cryptic words that don’t take a huge leap of imagination to work out: ‘Fixer’, ‘Burn’, ‘Hush’.
There are voices outside the door, staff who’ve arrived early. The cleaner knocks and asks if he can come in. ‘Give me a moment,’ I call to him through the door. I scan as many of the bank statements as I have time for, my courage fading fast, then load the information on to a disk – another thing to hide from David, but I’ll deal with that later. When I finish collating the paperwork, I put everything, including the background file on Tyrone plus the new ledger, back in the places where I found them, lock the drawers and hide the keys where they belong. I delete the scans and cancel the history on David’s computer, then sit down on the sofa to settle my pulse before the day starts.
At 7.55 David pounds on the door. I’ve left the key in the lock and he can’t get in from his side. Jumping up, I brush the creases from my clothes, flatten my hair with damp palms and instinctively sling my bag over my shoulder before opening the door. Kelly, our receptionist, is behind David. She holds a basketful of croissants, and peers round his back, her smile filled with questions. She has large front teeth and her top lip rarely seems to close over them.
‘You look terrible,’ David says. ‘Great Willow will be here at eight fifteen.’
Another of the ever-popular breakfast meetings, our days stretched to fit in all the business that needs to be done, but the meeting isn’t in my diary. I have a vague recollection of scheduling the appointment, though obviously didn’t write it down. I forgot. It’s not the first time recently. A month ago, before the accident, I never would have made this mistake, plus now I haven’t got all the paperwork
ready for the meeting. Great Willow Films are a rival production company who’ve fallen on hard times, mostly through their more traditional treatment of documentaries, and for some time we’ve been hoping to either put them out of business or absorb them. With their roster of work added to ours we’d be leaders in the Reality corner of the market.
David comes into his office and locks the door behind him. He sits at his desk and unlocks the middle drawer, taking out a small glass tube with a stopper. He examines it closely but it’s empty so he goes back into the drawer and pulls out an oblong packet of folded-up paper, like basic origami, about three centimetres long. Next he takes out a mirror and a razor blade and unfolds the paper carefully, revealing compacted white powder. He scrapes a corner of the clump on to the shiny surface and, with manic little chops of the blade, turns the granules into a strip of dust. Inspecting the line with a couple of turns of the head, like a cat with a half-killed mouse, he puts the end of a small silver straw up one nostril, and with a quick loud sniff inhales the cocaine up his nose.
‘This is a shit batch, Rachel,’ he says, tossing his head back and pressing shut the other nostril with his thumb. He sniffs loud and shakes his head vigorously, more of a shiver. ‘Bloody hell! It’s cut with bleach or something.’ He shunts his head forward and stares at me. ‘If you score from the same dealer again, I’ll break his kneecaps.’ He pauses to let his words sink in. ‘And I’m not joking.’
With his recent fast-tracking into the underworld – the man who disappeared my car, our dodgy investment in Alex’s development, and now the reams of money that are leaving accounts I’ve never heard of – I don’t doubt that if David has the inclination to find Will, it won’t be a difficult task.
The Liar’s Chair Page 10