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by Freddie P Peters

  “This is Henry.”

  The familiar voice of James shoved GL back into his life, the sea of desks, the constant tension on the trading floor, the highs, the lows, a wild energy that he had found hard to leave behind. Sitting in the window of this small cafe, he suddenly felt the urge to belong again.

  “Hey Jamie, what’s up?”

  “H, bloody hell, WHERE have you been? I thought I was never going to get hold of you.”

  “That bad, hey,” chuckled Henry.

  At least James had called him, there must be some hope.

  “Have you spoken to DMac at all?”

  “Nope, can’t get hold of the old man and I had a little mishap with my phone, I’ll call him later,” continued Henry, trying to sound confident. “In fact, why don’t I call him right away and call you back afterwards I might—”

  “H. Henry,” said James. “Listen, I am so sorry mate, I am sorry to have to tell you that you’re wasting your time. He won’t take your call.”

  “And how would you know?” said Henry now squeezing his BlackBerry to breaking point.

  “Because McCarthy called me in to discuss succession–” James had no time to finish his sentence.

  “What! I am gone for less than three days and you shits have already decided to screw me over.”

  The entire cafe went silent.

  “Of course not,” replied James. “Do you think I decide for McCarthy? Wake up Henry. That guy has always been a selfish bastard and he certainly—”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck about what you think of McCarthy. I don’t believe, I know he would have spoken to me.”

  “Henry where the bloody hell have you been for the past fifteen years? This is investment banking, my friend. This is the trading floor and YOU are in the deepest shit because you’ve got a murder hanging around your neck.”

  James was also shouting.

  “And,” finished James, “because DMac wants to be the CEO of the combined bank. Do you really think he is going to stick by you?”

  “So bloody what! He WILL lead the combined bank,” replied Henry emphatically. The sudden realisation of truth punched Henry in the guts.

  “NOT if he sides with you he won’t,” replied James. “Ted has been named head of your team.”

  A heavy silence fell between the two men. James was about to ask whether Henry was still on the phone when the noise of a smashed piece of crockery deafened him.

  “That motherfucker cannot, will NOT, head up my team. I’m coming in.”

  “H, let’s meet outside,” said James now regretting his frankness. “We can come up with a plan. We are the A-Team aren’t we?” said James trying to coax Henry away from an impending disaster.

  Too late, the phone had already gone silent. The whole cafe had been hanging onto Henry’s words, no coffee had been stirred, tea drunk nor pastry eaten.

  Henry smashed the phone on the small table. He closed his eyes, the beast within was loose. Henry had not yet reopened his eyes when he felt the pressure of a small hand on his arm. He turned around with a jerk.

  “The cup is broken,” said one of the young female waitress.

  Henry did not bother to reply and slammed a twenty-pound note on the table.

  “And your hand is bleeding,” she added, handing over some tissues.

  The hand holding the shattered cup was dripping, Henry looked down, used to the sight of his own blood. He had not felt a thing and started laughing. Blood was indeed on his hands.

  Henry dislodged a piece of porcelain that had planted itself inside his palm and grabbed the tissues as he stood up to leave. The waitress offered more assistance that Henry ignored.

  He walked out of the small cafe without a reply and was transported thirty years back, to a squalid street on one of Belfast’s estates. Three against him, no chance, a rain of insults and then one of the boys started pissing in his direction. Henry’s rage propelled him. He struck the first boy in the throat, the boy fell, his eyes bulging in pain and amazement, the other two stopped laughing. Within seconds their astonishment had been turned to Henry’s advantage, a quick punch in the head and the nose of the smaller boy exploded, a well-adjusted kick to the groin of the last boy brought him to his knees and then it happened, a frenzy. Henry carried on kicking and punching. He could not hear the screams. He could not see the blood. Nothing else mattered but this elated release, the joy of inflicting pain, a newly discovered power.

  * * *

  Nancy was walking at a pace, her hands deep in her coat pockets. The satchel on her right shoulder felt heavy. She had not felt the weight of her lawyer’s bag for a long time. It was uncomfortable. She quickened her steps and realised that her high-heeled shoes were hampering her. She stopped at a traffic light. The light turned green. She waited. Some young man grumbled past her. She was in his way. He pushed forward and crossed the roads towards Temple Inn. What was she doing? Henry’s outburst was predictable. She had known it would come. Could she handle the case at this moment in her life? Could she even be bothered? For so many years she had removed herself from the circle of power. She had done it deliberately, with the utmost determination, a slow process that had finally borne fruit. She liked the Nancy she had become, but was her life sterile? Henry’s encounter was a passage, she knew, his story a vital moment between old and new. She also knew that the air tickets debacle had shaken her complacency. She could still make mistakes.

  Her time with Jacques Vergès resurfaced. Defending a war criminal: it had sounded so daring, so impossible. The Klaus Barbie affair in France had made the front page of the papers for months.

  The light turned green again. She started walking, wincing in pain. Damn shoes, she thought. Her chambers were thankfully very close. She needed to reconnect with her old practice, in a fresh way. She entered the familiar rooms. In seven years nothing had changed. The wood panels, the smell of ancient leather and books. Her sore back relaxed as she spotted that her favourite armchair was free. She sank into it and paused for a few moments. The severe face of her tutor, the first barrister for whom she had worked, materialised in front of her. She had learned from him that appearances were indeed deceptive as he had taught her everything he knew. No fuss, no need for thank you, he simply liked to impart knowledge. And after the Klaus Barbie affair her admission to the Bar was not a trivial matter. She remembered the ambition and disliked now what she was then but it had been a necessary transition. She thought she had moved away from it all and yet here she was. A young barrister brushed pass and apologised, intrigued by this face he did not recognise. Nancy pulled her satchel onto her lap and retrieved her old address book. Leaving her belongings behind, she moved slowly towards an old telephone booth. The old-fashioned devices were still there. Chambers operated in the past, how refreshing.

  The number rang a few times and Nancy wondered whether her contact’s number might have changed. She had not called Whitehall for a few years. A polished voice finally answered. That voice had remained the same in the twenty-five years she had known him. He was then a young barrister intent on entering the civil service. She smiled at the thought.

  “Nancy Wu,” exclaimed the man, a little taken aback. “I cannot believe it is you.”

  “It is good to speak again, William. I should have called you earlier. It must be at least a couple of years.”

  “Possibly more.”

  “You might well be right and yet, here I am calling you to ask for a favour.”

  “Well, my dear Nancy. In the spirit of our old friendship. I take no offence and will make an exception for you. I do not speak much with lawyers these days.”

  “You may want to know a little more about the subject matter before accepting.”

  “Very true, how considerate.”

  Nancy had never abused his friendship and probably never would.

  “It is about the Albert–Crowne affair.”

  The phone remained silent for a moment.

  “You have come indeed to the
right man,” replied William slowly. “Let’s meet at Tate Britain in thirty minutes. I make the habit of escaping there to gather my thoughts and grab a tea.”

  “I remember. The William Blake room.”

  “The William Blake room indeed.”

  Nancy put the receiver back into its upright holder. She gave it a tap of satisfaction. Her Whitehall contact had a view.

  * * *

  “Pat, I am sorry to labour this with you but …” Pole was going to get what he wanted out of his Irish colleague. He knew Nurani was also on the call and he wanted to reaffirm his instructions.

  “Jon, the deal with Liam will be solid. It won’t be done in writing, no lawyer present. Liam knows I can only request it from the guys in Dublin but if I don’t, all hell will break loose for Bobby.”

  “Right,” replied Pole, still measuring the impact of this next move.

  “Liam has gone around the block a few times Jon, think about it. He has always been smart enough to protect his brother and, after all these years, he won’t let go. He won’t let him down,” carried on Pat with absolute certainty.

  “I think you’re right. Christ, what a choice: his best friend against his insane brother.” Pole was now convinced, blood ties would be the strongest.

  “Will you do this on your own?” asked Pole.

  “Yes. We have discussed it with Nurani,” hesitated Pat.

  “It is better that way, not an easy discussion,” added Nurani quickly

  “Fine, we are all on the same page. The floor is yours, Pat.”

  This was the breakthrough Pole needed.

  * * *

  The ‘chat’ with Liam lasted five minutes at most. Pat entered the room alone as planned. Nurani observed through the tinted glass although the sound had been cut off. Liam stood up abruptly as Pat put the deal to him, no introduction, no soft landing. Liam walked to the wall and, facing it, leaned against it, smashing his fist into it. Twenty years of hatred and destruction came flooding back. He sat back at the table. He could not look at Pat at first and when his cold blue eyes locked with his, he uttered only two words.

  “Take Henry.”

  Pat handed over a pad and a pen. Liam started writing.

  * * *

  Tate Britain was buzzing. The Turner Prize was on display, creating the predictable degree of attention. Nancy was a little early and decided to pay a visit to the new installation that had won the much-wanted recognition. She surveyed the display of Richard Wright’s work. Her mind could not quite focus. The abstraction in front of her had to be intellectualised to be appreciated. She decided she was not in the mood and made her way to the William Blake room. Her contact was there already. She could see the delicate frame of his body standing in front of a favourite piece, an illustration of Blake’s book The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Nancy glanced at the room around her, it was a little too full for her liking. She moved slowly forward.

  “Good afternoon, my dear.”

  The slender man had seen Nancy enter the room, but waited for her to approach, a gentle way of reconnecting with an old friend.

  “Good afternoon William. I thought I might be late.”

  Nancy extended a graceful hand which the man took with warmth.

  “No matter how often I come here, Blake always inspires me. Something profound about human despair, and hope, maybe.”

  Nancy turned towards the piece she knew well and smiled.

  “He is still one of my favourites although you may buck at what interests me these days.”

  “Do not tell me you have gone contemporary,” William said.

  “I’m afraid I have.”

  “Well, we must debate this although perhaps later. I gather we have a more serious matter to discuss.”

  “Indeed, shall we find a corner?” Nancy asked.

  “The members’ room is usually quiet at this time.”

  They found a couple of comfortable armchairs and settled there, waiting for their orders to be delivered.

  “I am advising Henry Crowne in the Anthony Albert’s murder case.”

  Nancy had decided that there was no point in fishing for information. William was far too astute to play games and he was also a friend.

  “Are you fed up with retirement? Selfishly, of course, I would very much enjoy seeing you again at the Bar.”

  Nancy accepted the compliment but shook her head.

  “The profession is no longer for me. Let me simply say that I am helping a friend.”

  Her contact raised an inquisitive eyebrow but said nothing more.

  “I am convinced that there are many moving parts still in this affair. Call it intuition if you will. I know I can mention this to you,” said Nancy, touching her friend’s arm with warmth. “And you won’t think I am a female lunatic reading the runes.”

  “I am all ears, Nancy but you will have to give a little more. Your intuition is right as always, however. I can’t comment as openly as I once could. Seniority is a burden to bear.”

  The sentence had been spoken with no vanity, a pure statement of fact. He was indeed a very senior man at Whitehall.

  “Let me therefore elucidate. I believe that the crux of this particular matter is rooted in the intense rivalry between Crowne and Albert.”

  Nancy paused to observe her contact and allow the waitress to serve their tea. The slight tension in his jaw and bat of his eyelid encouraged her to go on.

  “It is an unusual form of rivalry, something visceral, rooted in the deepest of hatred.”

  “Although I do not know these people personally, let’s be clear. I know enough of them through their work to be in utter agreement.”

  “In the battle for pre-eminence during the takeover, I wonder who would have been designated to head up the combined team. As I suspect there would have been a merger between Albert’s team and that of Crowne.”

  Her contact took another sip of his tea and considered his answer.

  “Albert,” he said, a statement of fact, no speculation.

  “And this is not a last-minute change?”

  “It is a very good question. I was assured it is not.”

  “So even before Henry’s fall, Albert’s name was going to be put forward as head of the combined team.”

  “Are you in doubt?”

  “On the face of respective aptitude very much so. Which begs the question. What did Albert know to warrant this good fortune?” said Nancy, still incredulous at the outcome. “Was Albert aware?”

  “You mean, would he have been told informally?”

  “Or seen the signs and for that matter what about Henry?”

  “They might have suspected, but then again these very large deals make rational people behave in the most unpredictable of fashions.”

  “Was McCarthy being blackmailed?”

  “I could not possibly comment,” William replied with a faint smile.

  Nancy paused. She drunk a little of her tea. William had chosen well.

  “Is GL’s financial position seriously affected by the current subprime crisis. I mean, beyond the fact that all banks are affected? I remember reading they are big in the CDO business.”

  “I do not see the relevance.”

  “I am trying to establish whether there would be any particular reason to frame Henry or to sacrifice Henry?”

  “I don’t think Henry would have been framed, as you put it. Sacrificed, well – it’s a takeover.”

  “Are you protecting someone, William?”

  Nancy’s contact shook his head in deep approval.

  “This is your strongest quality, Nancy, and whether I reply one way or the other, you will make something of it.”

  “How very kind of you to say so. But you have not answered my question.”

  “Not someone, my dear, something.”

  Nancy looked at her contact with a frown, slightly taken aback. After a short moment her questioning look was replaced with astonishment.

  “Do you mean …?”

>   “Yes, the UK financial system. I leave the rest of the world to the Americans.”

  “And I thought this affair was complex.”

  Nancy’s contact shrugged his shoulders. He would not be fazed by the enormity of the task or indulge in the absurd idea that he could defeat the monster he was facing.

  Their conversation was nearly over. Nancy decided to enjoy a few moments with her friend and moved the conversation onto other interests they shared. They soon parted and Nancy decided to hail a cab. She raised her hand and a black Mercedes S-Class slowly pulled alongside the pavement where she had stopped. The window came down with a mechanical purr.

  “Good afternoon Ms Wu. Would you care for a lift? My current commission is taking me to the City. I could make a small detour?”

  Nancy recognised Charlie’s voice.

  “Most kind of you Charlie. But I would not want to impose.”

  “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

  “In that case, to Islington.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The black cab screeched to a halt but Henry did not notice. Nor did he, as he stepped out into the road, remark upon the cabbie opening his window, shouting insults and gesturing in an unequivocal fashion. Henry was going back to the bank. No traffic lights, men in suits or uniforms would stand in his way.

  His mouth was dry, the blood pumped in his ears, his security card had not left his wallet. It had probably been deactivated by now but he knew most of the security guards by name. He might find a way. No, he would find a way.

  Henry was rehearsing what he would say, if the card didn’t work. He saw himself going up the flights of escalators and launching into Ted’s office. The concern for his team had vanished with the news they were not his any longer. They could have put up a fight for him and they had not. Still a pang of pain hit him and he clenched his fist. It was Ted he now wanted to see. The little shit had taken his job away, he who called himself a friend. Yes, he would see Ted. Henry could already savour the pleasure of savaging him, this nobody, this coward – Henry would grind him to nothingness, a worm beneath the sole of his shoe, less.