For the Love of Money

by Bill Whiting

  In return, Miller complained about the bad and lingering smell which King left in the toilet ‘after taking a dump’. Miller said this was a result of King’s spicy diet. It was a, “well-known scientific fact,” he said, “that the smellier food is when it goes in, the smellier it is when it comes out.” He predicted bowel cancer for King and said, “I bet even the sewer rats scatter when one of your stinking logs floats down.”

  One night they extended the dispute even further, by arguing intensely about which one of them would make the most repellent gay partner.

  As a consequence, as Miller drove to the supermarket that day, he resolved not to use any of the ‘Twenty per cent off all Curries’ vouchers, which King had given him. But, as he was still racking his brain for business ideas, the voucher did stimulate a train of thought.

  He wondered if anyone had thought of marketing plastic surgery vouchers. They would be the perfect way to give a friend or relative a face lift or breast enlargement. Or, he thought, a liposuction voucher would make an excellent Christmas present for a wife with a big bum problem – especially if enclosed with a pair of skimpy panties, which would be sure to fit post-surgery.

  His mind then wandered on to the possibility of vouchers for medical problems. Maybe a private hospital hip replacement for Granddad? Or a new knee possibly? Or what about a £500 anger management voucher?

  He also thought it might be possible to market vouchers which could be used to pay for traffic offence convictions, such as a £90 speeding penalty voucher or a top-of-the-range £500 careless driving fine voucher. But, as he reached the supermarket car park, he dismissed this idea, as he concluded it would be immediately condemned as an incitement to crime.

  However, after circling the parking lot several times, his mind turned back to the task in hand. He had not anticipated that getting parked would be such a competitive activity. There seemed to be only two ways of getting parked easily in this place: be either one of those people denominated by the signs ‘Disabled’ or ‘Mothers with children only’. After twelve exasperating minutes, Miller decided to be handicapped and drove into one of the many vacant disabled places. He figured he was not the only able-bodied shopper to do this but, as he walked to the store with a pronounced limp, he felt he might be one of the few who felt slightly guilty about it.

  Already tense, Miller, hitherto unused to such shopping, was about to discover that all normal rules of courtesy are abandoned inside grocery supermarkets. He soon learned, however, that the only way to make reasonable progress is never to give way, never to make eye contact with rival shoppers – and never to employ any forward or peripheral vision to avoid collision with a rival shopper’s trolley.

  His competitive instincts were roused, in particular, by a track-suited and seemingly well-heeled woman. She had pushed in front of him at the store entrance and had become a frequent obstacle as they toured the fixtures, in a broadly similar sequence. Miller did not like her sour face, which looked both miserable and aggressive. Early on, having just arrived at the apples before Miller, she riled him by taking a plastic bag and licking her fingers to open it. She then used the same fingers to pick through the fruit for the best specimens. Repelled, Miller moved on; they could live without apples, he decided.

  Then the same woman blocked him again at the busy bakery department, making things worse by parking her trolley, not in the centre of the aisle but beside her, and pressed against the shelves, thus blocking five feet of picking space. Miller tutted and glared at her, but he was evidently just another invisible person in her ‘me-now’ world. With Miller’s anger rising, it was inevitable that things should come to a head, and they did so at the pre-packed cooked meat section. Arriving just before Miller, the woman again parked her trolley blocking the shelves from Miller’s reach. She then started a long and meticulous search for the longest ‘sell-by’ dates. Finally, with a loud huff, Miller moved her trolley so he could access the ham.

  “Excuse me!” the woman said indignantly.

  “I’ve been excusing you all around the store,” Miller answered.

  “I was here before you,” she responded. “Can’t you wait your turn?”

  “Look,” Miller said, “I could die here waiting for you. If you want a sell-by date of next year, you should buy stuff in tins. But if you have to poke through everything for hours on end, move your damn trolley out of the way, so people with a life to live can get a look in.”

  “I’ll call the manager,” she said. “Are you drunk?”

  “No, you stupid damn tart, but I wish I fucking well was!” Miller shouted.

  As he drove out of the store car park Miller was still uptight, but annoyed with himself for letting it show. He thought that modern supermarket shopping was just one of life’s more Darwinian ‘survival of the fittest’ tests. He should have just pushed, shoved, picked, poked and parked along with everyone else – and kept his mouth shut. But now, thanks to his outspoken rage, he not only had no groceries to show for his trip, but had been banned from the store.

  And his dwindling self-esteem was not lifted when he returned to the office.

  “I think I’ve cracked this advertising problem,” Rachel told King and Miller. “I’ve won back three advertisers including Wyatt and Watson. I think the personal touch really works.”

  “Personal touch, my arse,” Miller said.

  “No, my arse actually,” Rachel responded.

  “Exactly, Rachel,” King said. “You’ve got all the ads and I’ve written all the stories. And Jamie here couldn’t even get the shopping in.”

  “Well, thanks, pal,” Miller said. “It’s actually quite humiliating when you don’t have a useful role to play around here. I’m used to always pulling my weight.”

  “One of Napoleon’s generals had that problem,” King answered. “The general was in charge of Napoleon’s rear guard and he was fed up doing nothing, while the rest of the generals were fighting. But to make him feel better, Napoleon told him that, in fact, he was serving a great purpose just by being there: the rear guard didn’t actually have to do anything to be valuable.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Miller asked. “We haven’t got a rear guard.”

  “Good point,” King said. “Come to think of it, you’re quite right to be miserable then – because you’re surplus. A non-contributing, excluded, waste of space.”

  “Bill!” Rachel protested.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just blokes’ stuff, Rachel,” King answered. “If I slap him around the face and then you cuddle him, he’ll be alright; if he’s too isolated he might turn all funny.”

  “Good point that,” Miller responded thoughtfully. “Belonging is what makes the world go round. Not just belonging, but being seen to belong. People take their identity from belonging. Their entire self-assessment is based on the summation of what they think other people think of them. The problem is, in the modern world, things change so much and so fast, that people suffer identity crises. Come to think of it… we could make money out of that.”

  “There, see!” King said. “He’s thinking positively again already. It’s all bollocks as usual, but he’s thinking.”

  “Not bollocks at all,” Miller said. “I’ve thought about these issues for a long time. You know, ever since religion waned in the West, it left a huge vacuum and people have been looking for a substitute ever since. Religion is the ultimate identity experience: it’s a one-to-one, personal-speaking-terms relationship, with God.

  “And when people had religion, they had membership of a club, a tribe even. That gave them a powerful sense of identity. And it was made even more powerful by demonising other religions. It’s the same with ideologies too: socialists demonise the far right and vice-versa.”

  “So where’s the money come in?” King asked.

  “Somebody always benefits,” Miller explained. “The politburo members, the Naz
i leaders, the bishops, they all benefit. They run the business for the punters and get all the top-dog rewards.”

  “You’re the ultimate down-and-out cynical bastard, aren’t you?” King responded.

  “The truth isn’t cynicism,” Miller said. “Everybody needs to identify and be part of something: environmentalists, animal rights people, sexual gender campaigners, football supporters, Nike trainer wearers. And especially celebrity followers – celebrities are the modern idols; today’s prophets and Saints. They don’t need to be any good at anything. They just need to be famous and followers flood in to be part of it.”

  “So what do we do then?” King asked, mockingly. “Start a new religion?”

  “Brands are the thing,” Miller said. “If you can create a strong brand, you’re in business. Think of the crucifix, the swastika, the hammer and sickle, and Nike and Coca-Cola. Brands make the world go round, always did and still do.”

  “Well, keep thinking, Batman,” King shrugged. “Let us know when you can turn the Chronicle into a global brand.”

  “Yeah, well maybe I’ll give it some thought,” Miller answered. “You never know.”

  FOURTEEN

  “These people are turning out to be serious trouble,” Basil Hathaway said as he sat in a restaurant with his banker, Alan Weir. “I thought I’d see them off quickly with a few advertising discounts and promotions. Not yet, though. If anything, I’m losing ground.”

  “Your pockets are deep enough to see them off,” Weir told him reassuringly. “You’ve been here before, Basil.”

  “Not like this I haven’t, Alan,” Hathaway responded. “I’m sinking a lot of good money into beefing up the editorial too, but the Chronicle’s also beating us on that front. And it costs them nothing; they’re just making the stories up. They take no salaries either. Their costs are minimal. And I’ve heard on the grapevine that their likely financial survival time is stretching by the day.”

  “So what are you going to do, Basil?” Weir asked.

  “I’ll take another twenty-five per cent off the advertising rates,” Hathaway said. “That should kill them off. I mean, I’ll be down to below cost myself.”

  “What’s that going to do to your bottom line?” Weir probed.

  “Well, if it takes three months, I’ll be down half a million,” Hathaway replied, “and then it’ll take time to get my rates back up to the original level. So I reckon a million at least before I’m finished.”

  “Look, Basil,” Weir said, leaning forward. “Buy them out. Give them half a million now and you’ll be in pocket over the long run.”

  “No, I couldn’t do that,” Hathaway said. “I want blood.”

  “You know very well not to bring emotions into business decisions, Basil,” Weir counselled. “Bite the bullet now, cut your losses and move on.”

  “No, I couldn’t bear the gloating faces,” Hathaway said. “One look at the smug swines and I’d be back fighting.”

  “Let me do it then,” Weir said. “Cut your losses, Basil. Buy them out. Get back to your local monopoly position and you’ll be in clover again.”

  Hathaway sat silent. He took a sip of brandy and swilled it round his mouth. “Okay, Alan,” he said finally. “Okay, half a million. But that’s absolute tops.”

  “Half a million: no more,” Weir said.

  They parted at the door and, as Hathaway was chauffeured away, Weir walked down the street to the Chronicle office. There, he walked in to find King sitting at his desk beside Rachel.

  “Can I help?” King asked.

  “I hope so. Are your fellow proprietors in?”

  “Why?” King asked, feeling nervous.

  “I have a business proposition for you,” Weir said. “I think you will find it much to your advantage.”

  King introduced himself and Rachel and called Miller from the kitchen. “Here we are then,” King said. “So what’s this all about?”

  “I’m the corporate services manager at Ross Bellow Bank,” Weir began, “and I’m here representing Sir Basil Hathaway.”

  “Another threat, is it?” Miller snapped.

  “No threat at all,” Weir answered calmly. “It’s purely business. You are proving very troublesome to Sir Basil. Indeed, you’ve made him very angry. In fact, he’s so angry, he has a mind to destroy your business, even if that causes serious collateral damage to his own company. But I think everyone involved in this fight should be cool-headed and rational. This can be solved without tears, and to the satisfaction of both parties.”

  “What are you suggesting then?” King asked.

  “Well, it seems you have two choices,” Weir answered. “You can stay here and fight the Post until you are broke. Or you can leave now with two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

  Rachel’s mouth fell open and King and Miller stared at each other, open-eyed. Then King broke the silence. “We’re making a real go of this business now, and we can beat Hathaway hands down. The Chronicle is worth a lot more than that.”

  “It’s only worth as much as Sir Basil is prepared to pay to reduce his losses,” Weir replied sharply. “In the end, your business will be worthless if Sir Basil continues the dogfight. And, as a matter of fact, he wants to fight you, but I’ve advised him that paying you is cheaper than killing you. But, of course, if that’s the way you want it, that’s entirely your choice – suicide always is.”

  “It’s worth three-quarters of a million,” King said, after a few seconds’ silence. “We’ll consider that. Nothing less.”

  “Mr King, I don’t have the authority to offer you that ridiculous amount,” Weir said, “and it would be a waste of time putting that to Sir Basil. In fact, it would just inflame him further and result in a complete withdrawal of any offer.”

  “How about if we split the difference then?” Miller said. “Half a million, definitely nothing less.”

  “I’ll see,” Weir said, and then shrugged, took his phone from his pocket and walked out into the street.

  “Are you nuts?” King said to Miller. “A quarter of a million would get us out of deep shit.”

  “I agree,” Rachel said, “and a third of that money is mine. You should have spoken to us before you let him go out.”

  “We can get more,” Miller insisted. “Another fifty grand at least, I reckon: fifty grand for five minutes’ work. And if we can get that, are we all agreed to take it?”

  “I will,” Rachel said. “That guy’s right. If we wind Hathaway up too much, we’ll get nothing. We won’t keep our advertisers if he slashes rates again.”

  “I agree too,” King said. “Rachel’s nice bum won’t counteract another Post rate cut. We’re never going to make a fortune here, but it’ll be enough to start again – a second chance.”

  “Fine,” Miller said, “but you’ll see. I know how to negotiate. We’ll get three hundred.”

  After pacing the street, glued to his phone, Weir eventually turned back into the Chronicle office.

  “I can’t offer you half a million,” Weir announced. “Hathaway is adamant.”

  “Four fifty then,” Miller said, before King and Rachel could draw breath. “Final offer.”

  Weir’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Miller. “I can offer you four twenty-five,” he said, “but that really is as far as my mandate will stretch. I think I can just about square that with Sir Basil.”

  “Done!” King shouted, before Miller could get another word in. “When does it happen?”

  “We can do it quickly. But we’ll need to get legal documents together, and they will specifically restrict you three from operating any other publication in this county for at least twenty years.”

  “We can wait,” Miller said.

  “Okay,” Weir said, “but there had better be nothing in this week’s paper to damage or even annoy Sir Basil, or the deal will be off.”
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  “No problem,” Miller said. “We’ll make sure of that.”

  “Well, thank you then,” Weir said, as he shook hands with King, Miller and Rachel. “I’ll be in touch very soon. And by the way, you have my congratulations. I gather you struck a very poor deal when you came here. You’re leaving with a much better one.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic!” Miller shouted, as soon as Weir had gone. “That’s a hundred and fifty grand each to start again. I’ll be glad to get out of here and into a decent bed.”

  “Nice one, Jamie,” King said. “I think we owe you a drink. How about we all go out and get pissed?”

  “No, we need to think what to do next,” Miller said.

  “Sod that,” King spouted. “Who cares? Live in the now for a while.”

  “I thought you wanted to be seriously rich,” Miller said. “A hundred and fifty grand isn’t rich. It’ll last for a year or so, and then you’ll be back where you started; back in China no doubt.”

  “Well, I’m a lot better off than I was an hour ago,” King said, “and after the last few weeks here, being back in China would be a dream. I didn’t know when I was well off.”

  “I think I’ll open a shop or something,” Rachel said. “I’m about to get more money than I dreamed of. I feel like I’ve just won the lottery.”

  “Listen, just listen,” Miller implored. “Bill, your dream was to get some serious money – fuck-off money, you called it. You wanted financial independence, to be a free man. Get another regular job now and you’ll never make it. You’ll be in another rut and under somebody else’s control. You’ll be tending those worms again.

  “And you, Rachel. What’s this shop thing? An Eliza Doolittle-sized ambition. You can do better than that. Don’t you want to be different, special, out of the herd?”