Shadow Banking

by C. M. Albright

  ‘And me? Where am I off to, Al?’

  ‘I don’t know. Where do you want to go?’

  Imogen looked across at Francois who was sitting talking to Miles. It was him that Imogen was referring to when she said, ‘I like him. I really like him.’

  Since Imogen had split up with Miles and started seeing Francois, Al had made even more of an effort than before to give the impression to Imogen that he was anything but a lovesick ex – a self-portrait with which he tortured himself from time to time. He wasn’t convinced how well he had played the part but when she said, ‘I really like him,’ he realised that she was clearly convinced by it because why else be so cruel as to tell someone who is still in love with you that you’re in love with someone else?

  ‘I’m glad. He seems like a good guy. Amazing job – by the sound of things.’

  ‘He’s very talented. But that’s not why I like him. I guess I have to admit it’s because he has nothing to do with the City.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you talk like that before. You’ve always defended your choice of career.’

  ‘Not any more. I’m going to get out, cut my losses. I got it wrong. I can see that now. Francois seems to think he might be able to sort out some work for me. He says I’ve got a good eye. I know that some of that is probably bullshit based on the fact that he likes to get into my pants, but I’m going to take the risk. At Trenchart Colville, everybody keeps telling me that I’m afraid to take on risk. Well, maybe I am, but then again, maybe it’s just a certain type of risk that I’m afraid of taking.’

  ‘What are you saying, Imogen?’

  ‘I’m getting out, and it feels great.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you, I really am.’

  Al could tell that some of what Imogen was saying was bluster, over-compensation but there was no denying that she looked happier than he had ever seen her look and appeared committed to her new life with Francois.

  ‘So what about you, Al. Are you happy?’

  ‘Yeah, I am.’ For a moment, Al felt an almost unstoppable urge to tell her that he would never be truly happy again until she told him that she loved him. But that would do neither of them any good.

  ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

  Was he seeing anyone? There had been a couple of girls since he had split up with Imogen and one of them, Sophie, was someone he was seeing on a more regular basis. But she didn’t feel like a girlfriend, not like Imogen had. That didn’t stop him from feeling disloyal to her when he said, ‘No, not at the moment.’

  ‘Young, free and single, eh?’

  Al forced a chuckle.

  ‘Why did we split up, Imo?’ The question surprised him almost as much as it appeared to surprise Imogen. Its forthright nature might have had something to do with the large glass of Balvenie that he had just thrown down his throat.

  ‘Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘Well, I never figured it. Your mum and dad caught us at it in their living room and poor old Molly kicked the bucket – neither of which were exclusively my fault. But that was it. Red card.’

  ‘Does it bother you?’

  ‘A little.’ Rarely had an understatement of such magnitude passed his lips.

  ‘I’m sorry, Al.’

  ‘And then Miles.’

  ‘I should have told you.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t. Ignore me. I’m just a bit drunk, that’s all. Weddings always make you think about your own life, don’t you find? You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. I’m the one who should be sorry for giving you the third degree.’ Al needed something that might divert attention away from the awkward moment and there it was, right there in front of them. On the dance floor, Rhys Griffiths, the little fella, was sweating as he danced with a woman who was as large as he was small. She was double his body weight and stature. And not unattractive. But the fact that the smallest man at the party and the largest woman should be so well refreshed and clearly feeling things towards each other that could only lead one way made Al and Imogen smile. That it was the Little Fella, who took the virtues of being sensible and regimented in all things to absurdist extremes, made them laugh out loud.

  ‘I’m sorry Al.’ She put her hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I hope we can always be friends.’

  Friends. There it was again. Why not tell her now? Tell her the truth. The Balvenie was urging him on. But fate intervened as Francois waved to her and she waved back.

  ‘Sure, we will be.’

  She squeezed his hand and made her way back to Francois. Maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was true – and that made him feel even more paranoid – but he detected something in her demeanour that made him think that this little meeting between them was something that she had had planned. Was he some unresolved business which she felt she needed to get out of the way, a ghost that needed laying to rest before she got on with her new life?

  As Francois made off with Imogen, Al took the seat next to Miles.

  ‘So what’s he like, then?’ asked Al.

  ‘Francois?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Depends on whether you’re in love with Imogen, I guess.’

  Miles’s comment sent a shiver through Al. Miles had that ability sometimes to come out with a comment that was at the same time incredibly intuitive and also wildly enigmatic at the same time. What did he mean by it? Was he suggesting – did he know? – that Al was still in love with Imogen? Or, was he saying that he was still in love with Imogen?

  ‘And are you? asked Al.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘I like the fact that you even have to ask. I tell you what, I’ll say no, I want you to lie to me.’

  ‘OK, then yes, I’m in love with her. You?’

  ‘No.’

  Miles nodded his head. He knew the truth – always had done – and Al found it strangely comforting that he did.

  They went out onto the terrace to watch Rob and Georgina leave. Georgina threw the bouquet. Imogen didn’t catch it. Al had already worked out the angles and logistics of her doing so. Couldn’t help himself. She was a long way off. Miles ordered cigars and brandies and they sat on the terrace and looked out over the distant lights of North London.

  ‘Feels a bit like the end of an era,’ said Al after the first sip of Courvoisier.

  ‘I guess so, although I think era is pushing it a little bit. It’s not even three years.’

  Al could detect a sense of frustration in Miles’s demeanour and rather than glide over it, he decided he would find out what was bothering him. Miles’s perennial self control rarely allowed chinks of pure emotion and feeling to make their way through his façade of ruthless charm. So Al knew that it must be something of importance, and curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘They’ve been good years though,’ said Al, looking into Miles’s eyes. ‘Haven’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, of course they have,’ he conceded. ‘But it’s time to move on. TC was useful. I made some great friends of which you’re the best.’ Al hadn’t expected that. A well thought-out argument about the impact of the bank that you start out at, yes, he’d expected that. But not emotion, not affection. Al felt a sudden urge to look away, to break the eye contact that they usually maintained so easily. He was blushing, he could feel it, because despite everything that had gone on with Imogen over the past two and a half years, he felt the same affection towards Miles. They felt like brothers. They could screw up but there was a solid bond between them that defied the strictures of traditional friendship. Circumstances dictated that they should have fallen out, particularly after Al had felt so stung by Miles’s betrayal. But he could forgive Miles his behaviour over Imogen. He could forgive him for it because he could imagine himself capable of behaving in a similar way.

  ‘Likewise, Miles. I’ve met some great people too but you and Fergal are the best.’ They both looked away to sip on their brandies and pull on their cigars. They we
re dangerously into ‘you’re my best mate’ territory but it felt right. Tonight was a night for nostalgia and old friends.

  The Rabbi who had presided over the wedding ceremony and his wife walked past the terrace, making their way to the car park. The Rabbi turned around and seeing Miles and Al sitting on the terrace, he raised a hand and waved them goodbye. Al and Miles reciprocated.

  As the Rabbi and his wife sat down in their car – a Volvo estate – and started the engine and switched on the lights, Al’s attention was drawn to a sudden commotion in the bushes. There trapped in the powerful beam of the headlights was the little fella hunched over the large woman with whom he had been dancing so energetically earlier on. They were locked together, she with her dress pulled up around her middle, leaning forward, the top half of her body within the bushes while Rhys worked away energetically behind her. It reminded Al of that moment when he had been caught in a similar situation with Imogen. This, however, far surpassed it in terms of the very public nature of their embarrassment.

  By the time Al had nudged Miles and said, ‘Take a look at that,’ others, who were coming out of the hotel, had taken in the scene. Such was the time of night and the amount of alcohol consumed, cheers went up which attracted more attention from those inside the party who came to the windows to see what all the noise was about. Rhys was trying to do two things at once: the first was purely remedial, trying to hide himself and his new-found partner from the wide eyes of the Rabbi and his wife, not to mention the increasing numbers of eyes peering out at them from the hotel; the second was purely instinctive and driven by primeval lust. His mind was telling him to stop and take cover but his loins had no reverse gear and were charging ahead, his buttocks wobbling as he continued to thrust. Al laughed.

  ‘Of all the people. The little fella. Mr Sensible. A place for everything and everything in its place. Bloody marvellous.’ Finally, Rhys had managed to override his animal desires and was pulling up his trousers and straightening his shirt as the large lady was crawling ever deeper into the bushes. ‘I don’t suppose you had Carry On films in the states when you were growing up, did you?’ asked Al as the Rabbi and his wife drove away. Miles didn’t answer.

  Rhys was helping the woman to her feet and dusting off the leaves that were stuck to her clothes. Al couldn’t stop chuckling.

  ‘So, you’re going all the way are you Miles?’ Al said it with a grin, ribbing his friend for his ambition as he always did.

  ‘Well aren’t you?’

  ‘Sure, if I can. I see no merit in mediocrity.’ Al was smiling as he said this but when Miles spoke, he was deadly serious.

  ‘Me neither. But supposing we’ve got it all wrong. Perhaps we’re blinded by the money and we’ve taken a wrong turn in life.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that.’

  ‘Not now, but maybe I will, one day.’

  ‘Well the key is to have so much money by then that you can buy yourself whatever life you want.’

  Al looked at Miles. Was he joking? It didn’t look like it.

  ‘I’ll tell you what then, Miles, let’s make things interesting here. If we’re both going all the way why don’t we put a little wager on it.’

  ‘I don’t gamble.’

  ‘Some people would say that everything you do is gambling.’

  ‘No, what I do is something far more calculated.’

  ‘Anyway, how about we keep it nice and simple and say that we’ll keep score with our money and whoever has the most when we die, wins.’

  ‘Very funny, Al.’ Miles was smiling but it wasn’t a happy smile. He seemed impatient, edgy.

  ‘I’m not taking the piss,’ he lied.

  - BOOK THREE -

  13 The Player

  USD/THB: 35.65

  Gold: 322

  Dow Jones: 7778

  Fergal looked out of the window of the Boeing 767 as it flew low across Victoria Harbour towards the high rise apartment blocks that looked perilously close to the single woefully thin runway of Kai Tak airport. The people in the windows of the buildings were close enough that Fergal felt as though he might be able to wave to them and they would see him and wave back.

  Fergal was drunk, not roaringly so, but having embarked at Heathrow, he had decided to dull his occasional fear of flying by setting out to try and beat the Australian cricketer David Boon’s 1989 record of fifty-two beers drunk on a Hong Kong flight – a record that he had had his sights set on for some time. But sadly for Fergal, he had lost count of the exact number of beers he had consumed when he was somewhere in the mid-twenties. Nonetheless, he had drunk enough to feel sentimental and teary-eyed as he looked out of the window at Hong Kong’s expansive horizon punctured by the winking skyscrapers of the central district. Here was the theatre of operations, the arena, for his new life. Fergal had never thought of himself as a potential ex-pat. He had felt enough of an ex-pat in London after his childhood in Dublin. But ever since Keith Peake had first mooted his possible relocation to the Far East, Fergal had known that moving to Hong Kong was the right thing to do.

  After the plane had landed and taxied over to the terminal building, Fergal pulled himself gingerly to his feet and looked around at his fellow passengers as they pulled bags from overhead lockers. Many of them were in their mid to late twenties like him and wore that slightly vacant stare that only a twelve hour night flight can engender. But he felt little camaraderie with them, feeling as much as ever like the outsider. Even back home in Dublin, he never felt as though he completely fitted in. Maybe part of it was to do with his size and appearance – that was enough to set anyone apart – but it was also something psychological too. He had always felt as though he was wired differently from other people. Then again, as he walked down the aisle towards the cluster of smiling air hostesses by the door, he thought that he really only had himself to blame regarding his sense of being different from others. No one else on the flight had managed to drink over twenty-five beers during the journey, something that made him feel wobbly on his feet as he steadied himself against the headrests of the seats that he walked past.

  Sally, the attractive Chinese air hostess who he had wedged himself next to in the galley and chatted to during part of the flight, smiled at him as he reached the door.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘And good luck.’ She knew all about his relocation to Hong Kong; he had given her a potted Fergal Quinn autobiography while she had supplied his beers and she had told him that she had lived in Hong Kong all her life. She mentioned some restaurants and bars that he should try – all of them now long forgotten. And for a moment, as she smiled at him, he thought that he might try to find out her phone number and maybe give her a call. She could show him the city. Maybe a relationship could develop. Maybe Sally was the one? Stupid, she smiled like that at everyone.

  ‘Great to have met you, thanks for putting up with me.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she giggled.

  Fergal held out his hand and she shook it. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in Hong Kong some time?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said and that was it, there were people behind him who wanted to move, no time for further pleasantries. But the need to bid her goodbye in more than vocal terms overcame him and he bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. Sally’s face maintained a rictus grin as Fergal manoeuvred himself through the door. In a world of inappropriate behaviour, Fergal was the master.

  Sally. Yet another woman that he could have quite happily lost his mind over who might think of him as a good friend, a soul mate even, but never a lover. It was ever thus. Then again, maybe his luck would change in Hong Kong?

  Fergal could spot him straight away in the arrivals hall. It wasn’t that he was taller than the locals, he was just twice as wide.

  ‘The Little Fella!’ Fergal shouted it at the top of his voice and abandoning his luggage trolley, he lunged forward through the crowds and scooped Rhys up in his arms.

  ‘Hello Fergal. Nice flight?’

  ‘Yeah it was gr
eat, had a few beers.’

  ‘You smell as though you’re wearing most of them.’

  ‘I actually had less than I had intended but probably more than I should have done. Jesus, it’s great to see you. I haven’t seen you since Rob and George’s wedding.’

  Rhys blushed and made a grab for Fergal’s luggage trolley: ‘Here, let me get this.’

  Fergal could see his discomfort. ‘Oh shit, sorry mate, I’d forgotten about that. Ha! You played a blinder that night. That’s the sort of thing that I usually do. Don’t worry about it. It’s only embarrassing if you let it be.’

  ‘Yeah, Basher.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  By now, Fergal was talking to The Little Fella’s back as he navigated a course through the crowds of people.

  As they emerged from the airport building and made their way towards the taxi rank, the humidity wrapped itself around Fergal like Clingfilm. His excessive beer consumption on the journey had already made him dehydrated but the sweat that was evacuating his body and soaking into his jeans and highly inappropriate Aran jumper left him with a dull headache. They got into a taxi and set off through the streets.

  And what streets they were. Fergal knew that it was a risk taking a job in a place that he had never visited – Keith Peake in particular who was now his boss just as he had been at Trenchart Colville thought he was a lunatic – but it all fuelled the exotic new-life feeling in which this entire venture seemed to be bathed. The cavalcade of humanity that was hurling itself towards the car from all sides looked like nothing he had ever seen before. Taxis, so many of them, vied for road space with rickshaws and bicycles. And the sound collage, the city’s musical score, sounded so alien to his ears, he might have been on another planet.

  ‘How are you settling in then, Little?’

  ‘I’ve only been here two days.’

  ‘Had some fun with Keith?’

  ‘Keith’s currently on a major health kick. Ever since he got here last week, he’s been visiting gyms to work out which one he’ll join. Says that if he doesn’t do something about his health, the climate here, not to mention all the misbehaviour, will see him dead by the time he’s forty.’