Dave Hart Omnibus Page 7

  For a split second, an impulse of pure madness almost overcame me and I found myself thinking how fast I could run to get away, whether I’d make it to Bank underground station before the car could catch me.

  But of course I smiled meekly and got in.

  ‘How are you?’

  My jaw dropped. As if he could care. Actually Rory, I’m going out of my mind worrying about what I’m going to be paid in three weeks’ time – as you know only too well, you bastard. In fact you probably have the numbers right there in your briefcase.

  ‘Great,’ I smile back confidently.

  Rory nods to the driver, who slides the big car smoothly back into the traffic, muscling his way elegantly into the correct lane and heading for the Embankment, which is vaguely in the right direction for me, although Rory hasn’t actually bothered to ask where I’m going.

  ‘Good.’ He stares out of the window.

  ‘It’s a filthy night. Thanks for picking me up.’

  He ignores me and the silence stretches out. I look at the Bloomberg screen in the back of the car, the walnut desk top that folds down from the back of the front seat for him to place his laptop, so he can work on the way home, and the walnut cabinet where he keeps his whisky. I could use a glass right now, though of course I don’t say anything. The Bentley’s a slightly stretched version, so there’s plenty of leg room, and the seats feel like armchairs. This is definitely the way to travel.

  ‘Where did you first meet Bob?’

  ‘Bob?’ I’m genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Bob Harris.’ He glances at me, irritated, as if he thinks I’m playing a game.

  ‘Oh, sorry – well, Bob and I go back a long way.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘We were at university together.’

  ‘Really?’ He turns and looks at me again. ‘Weren’t you at…?’

  ‘Balliol.’ I say it almost guiltily, weighed down with the shame of the privileged under-achiever.

  ‘That’s right. Did Bob go there?’ He seems slightly incredulous, his eyebrows raised as if it’s somehow inconceivable that someone as clever and successful and different from the rest of us as Bob Harris could have gone to Oxford.

  ‘Yes.’ I can’t help a note of petulance creeping in.

  ‘What did he get?’

  I pause and look away. ‘I’m not certain – he was a couple of years younger than me. But I… I think it was a First.’ Actually, I know it was a First, but who cares what class of degree people get anyway? It really doesn’t say much about the sort of person you are.

  Rory just nods. ‘Do you think he’d come and work for us?’

  Now I’m startled. ‘Bob? Work for us?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘But… what would he do? Do you mean actually work on our team?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But, it’s not his field. He does arbitrage.’

  ‘He could learn.’ Rory turns and looks at me again, with what I think – hope – is a twinkle in his eye. ‘We could break him in doing your job.’

  I try to laugh, but it comes out as a sort of half-strangled gurgle, and I’m almost sure I catch the eye of the chauffeur in the rear-view mirror, sneering at me.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Rory slaps me on the thigh – yes, he actually slaps my thigh! We’ve just driven down the sliproad onto the Embankment and Rory leans forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. He pulls over to the side and stops, while Rory turns back to his laptop and starts tapping into it. I realise it’s my cue to get out, and open the door.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Rory ignores me, and I could swear the driver’s grinning. I close the door and pull my collar up to protect myself from the rain. It’s a damp, dark night, the nearest tube station is ten minutes’ walk, and there isn’t a cab in sight. Did he do this deliberately? Is he really thinking of hiring Bob? And if he is, surely he doesn’t think he’d take my job? Bob’s a heavy-hitter. No heavy-hitter would ever want my job.

  Would he?

  Wednesday, 24th November

  B minus 22

  THERE ARE rumours abroad.

  I know that rumours are worthless, empty, unreal garbage that aren’t worth the paper they aren’t printed on. But it’s twenty-two days till the bonus – twenty-two fucking days – each of them twenty-four hours long, with sixty minutes in every hour and sixty seconds in every minute, and those of us who have to live through each one of those seconds, wondering, speculating, enduring the uncertainty, need something to keep us going.

  There are three principal rumours. The first, which no one believes, is being spread from Paris by Jean-Luc, who claims to have heard that Rory is planning a team move to an American firm. Team moves were flavour of the month a few years ago when the market was booming and the Germans and the Swiss were hoovering up talent like it was going out of fashion – until of course it did go out of fashion, they dropped a bundle, and now we have to sit tight and wait while the market naturally corrects itself, the indigestion works through the system, and the next wave of dumb money comes along. But the Americans aren’t dumb. Greedy, sharp-elbowed, vicious, single-minded and utterly ruthless, yes – but they’re not dumb. And anyway Rory and most of the team would hate working for an American firm – if you think we have a tough time, you have no idea what an American firm does to its people. So this first rumour, that Something Is Happening on the team, is bullshit. Because if something were happening, I’d know about it. Wouldn’t I?

  The second rumour, which is only slightly less implausible, is that the entire bonus is going to be waived, because the firm as a whole is barely profitable (thanks partly to fixed income trading, and partly to private equity, neither of which has anything to do with our area, though that wouldn’t necessarily matter). The idea of the entire bonus being waived for the entire firm is ludicrous – even in the worst bear market, which this is not, you still get paid something. This rumour probably comes from management, and is more softening up to make us feel pathetically grateful for whatever scraps eventually come our way. Do they think we’re stupid, or what?

  It’s the third rumour that intrigues me. Someone on the team has been insider dealing – using confidential client information to make a killing in the stockmarket. My first instinct is to dismiss it. Who on our team would ever break the law? Well, on reflection I suppose it would depend what was at stake. Would I break the law for a million? No, probably not – at least, not unless it was a dead cert that I’d get away with it. You wouldn’t either, would you? Would you? To take a real risk, I’d need to make real money – five million upwards, and I’m your man. Oh, come on – don’t be so shocked, not after what you thought just now. I look around the desk and wonder who it could be – and how it is that the rumour has started. You actually have to be quite brave to break the law, and I don’t see any heroes on our team. Has someone confided in someone else, perhaps after they had a drink too many? I can only gaze around and wonder.

  The good thing is that this takes my mind off my latest dream. Did I tell you about the latest one? It happened last night, and it was Claire – again. I’d tied Rory to a chair, bound and gagged, but not blindfolded, so he could see what was happening. I’d tied her to the bed, the big four-poster, naked and frightened, her wrists and ankles bound with silk, while he watched, powerless to intervene. I straddled her, naked myself save for a black leather mask, her master, her dominator, all-powerful – until my fucking dick went limp. Can you believe it? I think it was Rory, sitting there bound and gagged, but still in control. His eyes said all he needed to say: have her if you will, but I’m still the one who’ll pay you.

  Or not. And actually thinking about it, I went limp. Just like that – in a matter of seconds I went from a strutting master to a servile wimp. But then, with Rory’s evil eye on me, it’s hardly surprising, is it?

  Friday, 26th November

  B minus 20

  TODAY AT WORK I did the headhunter trick. It backfired terribly
.

  You’ve never heard of the headhunter trick? Well, it goes like this. I pretend to have a call on my line. I get up and turn away from the rest of the team, as if seeking privacy, and as I do so I hit the ‘Privacy’ button on the dealerboard that stops other people picking up my line or listening in to the call. This usually acts like a beacon to attract everyone’s attention. It generally means either a row with the wife, a call from a lover, trouble with the bank manager, or a headhunter. Now, you can go into a private conference room at the edge of the trading floor, where everyone can see you talking through the glass walls, but most people prefer to try to be inconspicuous by hiding themselves in the general buzz of the desk.

  So I stand there, talking quietly to myself, saying, ‘Sure… How much?… Guaranteed for how long?… Sure… you’ve got my home number?…Okay. I can’t talk right now… Okay, bye.’

  And do you know what happened next? Nick Hargreaves – yes, Nick, the gay guy I felt so sorry for – gets up, grinning at me, and walks over to Rory’s office. He closes the door and sits with Rory, and points out at me. Yes, he fucking points at me! And Rory looks up and nods – and laughs. I can’t believe it. I can feel I’m going stupidly red, and I pick the phone up to call home – not that I need to phone home, but I need to be busy, and right now anyone will do.

  And then it all gets worse, because a man answers, and I don’t know who it is, and I realise I’ve dialled the wrong number. In my stupid anxiety I’ve dialled Rory, and now he puts me on the speakerphone, so he and Nick can hear me.

  ‘Yes?’ It’s Rory’s most superior, supercilious voice.

  ‘Oh… er…’ God help me, right now, please dear Lord, if I can only play one of my jokers now, let me do so. And then it comes to me. ‘Rory, are you planning to visit Paris for the football? I only ask because Dominique Dupont was angling for an invitation, and he’s given us a lot of business over the past twelve months. I’m going to be in Frankfurt, but if you were free, I’m sure he’d be flattered. Obviously I wouldn’t ask you to go especially, but if it could be combined with one or two other visits, it might…’

  ‘Definitely.’ He interrupts me, and I can see Nick is nodding seriously now, the laughter wiped from his face. ‘Put me down for it, and I’ll arrange to see some other people as well.’

  He clicks off the line and I close my eyes – Rory loves football. Thank you, God, I owe you one.

  Monday, 29th November

  B minus 17

  SOME BASTARD broke into my car. I couldn’t believe it. Why do people do these things? The driver’s window was smashed, so the alarm must have been going on and off all night. Lucky for us it was parked around the corner. They couldn’t take the radio, which is built into the dashboard, but they ripped the front off the glove compartment, which was empty, and then they took the fire extinguisher, which I found lying, empty, in the gutter. And they scratched the side of the car, all the way along the side, and for what? What do they think they’re doing? What are they actually achieving? They stole nothing, but caused hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds of damage. Who are these people? Who are these faceless, feral creatures who prey on the rest of us? I bet they don’t have to scare themselves shitless worrying about the bonus. They just fuck things up for honest, law-abiding people who work hard and try to do their best. Wendy had to take a taxi for the school run – it was that or walk – and she was seething with anger. I called the garage to collect the car and get it taken in for repairs and respray, and the insurance company to see about getting the repairs authorised. By the time I’d dealt with that, I was twenty minutes late for work, and this is not the time of year to be late for work.

  Bastards. I’d hang the lot of them, except that would be too quick.

  Which brings me to justice. Not justice in the legal sense, but what might be termed appropriate compensation – people getting what’s coming to them. I’m a great believer in the principle that what goes around comes around. I knew Rory by reputation some years ago when he was at Swiss Credit, who were our great competitors for a piece of business that my then boss, Harry Braithwaite, was after. I was very close to Harry, I’d been to his house for dinner many times, and he’d even agreed to come to our flat once for supper – at the time we lived in Kennington, so it was quite a commitment on his part. So we turned up for the beauty parade at the client’s offices, and there was Rory, leading their team, sitting in the foyer when we arrived and trooped in with our presentations and handouts.

  Rory set the tone at once. ‘Oh, here come the coach party.’

  Harry said nothing, but was obviously seething, and headed off to make some calls before we were summoned to present to the client’s top management. The rest of our team were stony-faced, ignored Rory’s remark, and sat down to wait.

  I know you’re going to ask, so let me tell you – I smiled at Rory’s remark, made eye contact and nodded to him: as one professional to another. I’m not quite sure why I did this – he was a competitor, after all, and we needed to win the business. But anyway, we didn’t, Rory did, and Harry was fired.

  This was a source of great regret on the team, because Harry was the closest thing I’ve known in the City to a popular team leader. But popular, as they say, is for girls, and within days of Swiss Credit winning the business, Harry was gone.

  And then his successor was appointed – an outside hire, there was a lot of buzz going around about the amazing package the firm had come up with, and suddenly the announcement: Rory was joining to head our team.

  Naturally, on his first day in the office, we all went to see him, offering our observations on the rest of the team, trying to get the measure of him, putting ourselves forward as his obvious deputy and right hand.

  And he didn’t like me.

  I can’t say for sure that he disliked me, but when he looked at me, there was no respect, no warmth, none of the familiarity that had briefly existed between us for one tiny instant when he had insulted my boss – and, I suppose, my team and my firm, in fact technically myself too – and I had smiled and nodded to him. It was almost as if he didn’t recognise that this wasn’t reflex ingratiation with a powerful, senior figure from another firm, or subconscious arse-covering in case I ever wanted to apply to him for a job, or he became – as he now had – my boss, but instead the natural acknowledgement of one bright, quick-witted, high calibre individual by another.

  So there’s no justice now, but one day there will be. One day I’ll have my moment in the sun. Because Rory should have acknowledged that we had history together, that we had connected before he even met the rest of the team, and that we were two of a kind. But he didn’t then, and he hasn’t since.

  It’s okay. I can wait. My time will come. You don’t believe me? Just wait and see.

  Tuesday, 30th November

  B minus 16

  A LUCKY BREAK. Rory noticed I was late yesterday, and called me in for a chat. Apparently the verdict on the team is that my acting was so good about the car being broken into that it couldn’t possibly be true, and someone – probably that slimy sycophant Nick – had spoken to him.

  He actually appeared solicitous, as if he cared. He asked me about Wendy – he called her Mandy – and what our plans were for Christmas, and how things were going, and I could tell he was looking me over, trying to work out if a loser like me really could take another firm in sufficiently for them actually to make me an offer.

  Would it bother him to lose me? It’s not as if I actually do much, but then none of us really does much, though the hours are long and the travel is punishing. But enough business always seems to come our way that when the markets are strong we can talk the board into paying us and covering our overhead and expenses and the whole great bandwagon keeps trundling on.

  After that, I decided to take a lunch break. No, I didn’t have a client lunch – not even one of those ‘client lunches’ that the firm pays for but the client never actually makes it to (usually because he hasn’t been invited –
hey, no one’s perfect!). No, this was an actual lunch break. The sort everyone is theoretically entitled to, but which our macho culture means that no one actually takes. A sandwich and a bottle of juice at the workstation, because markets are moving and we’re too essential, too committed, too serious about our work, to do anything as frivolous as taking a lunch break. It’s just about acceptable to slip out for forty minutes to play squash or work out at the gym if the markets are quiet, but taking lunch is for cissies.

  So I took lunch – God knows why, it was just a moment of madness brought on by stress and anxiety – and now Rory really was worried.

  When I got back, he called me in again.

  ‘I thought things were clear between us. What’s going on?’ This time he looked positively hostile. At least I thought it was positive, because it showed he was concerned. One way or another, I was on his radar screen, and payday was just around the corner.

  I played it cool. Yes, idiot that I am, I actually played it cool. ‘I just went out for lunch.’

  This clearly perplexed him. ‘And?’

  ‘And that’s it. I was grateful for our chat this morning, I know you’ve got my best interests at heart – that’s it. It’s an important time of year, and I trust you.’

  ‘Ah.’ He leant back in his chair and made a bridge out of his hands, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and staring at me. ‘I see.’

  At this point I felt somewhat less cool and confident than I had a few moments earlier. I realised I might have overplayed my hand.

  ‘So you’ve dealt.’ He was really fixing me, looking for the slightest clue.

  ‘D – dealt?’ I had to cough to clear my throat. ‘What do you mean?’

  He gestured out to the trading floor. ‘This doesn’t matter any more. You’ll wait to be paid, and then you’ll be off. You’ve done a deal with another firm. You’re leaving.’