Truth and Lies

by Marguerite Valentine

  Truth and Lies

  Marguerite Valentine

  Published by Sideways On Publications 2017

  Copyright © Marguerite Valentine

  www.margueritev.org

  Print version available from Amazon

  The primary purpose of literature is to tell us the truth about ourselves by telling us lies about people who never existed.

  STEPHEN KING

  Part 1

  — 1 —

  October 2008. Something was wrong. The economy was in deep trouble. The high octane energy of the City of London seemed to continue as it always did. Its workers still pitched up for work, but the trading floors in the Stock Exchange were quiet. Some knew what was coming, but to others, it came as a shock. The international money markets were in a state of collapse. Businesses, starved of funding, including the megalithic Lehmann Brothers, were slowly unfolding like a set of badly stacked dominoes.

  Directors and CEOs were told to ‘stand down’ and those that remained had been informed, that for the interim, their bonuses would be curbed. The impact of this slow, lingering death soon spread to the high streets of Britain. Long, snaking queues of account holders were pictured, evidence that made even the smallest punter aware the financial situation was dire. Faces etched with anxiety, they forlornly waited outside the banks and the building societies, hoping to find somewhere safe to deposit their hard-earned money.

  The Government meanwhile was treading water; ministers desperately trying to keep their head above the waves of criticisms and recriminations coming at them from all quarters. For a time, their response to the situation appeared dilatory, if not indifferent, but with the passing of each day, the outcry became more urgent, more vociferous, until it was blindingly obvious to everyone in the City of London that the Government must intervene, and soon. The question was, how?

  The financial institutions of the City and the Western world, the factory owners of the UK, and the world’s press, waited. Seb, a young City financier, cynical, and angry, also waited. Sitting in front of his state-of-the-art, wall-mounted television he tore open a bag of vegetable crisps, grabbed a handful, stuffed them into his mouth, and leaned back in his chair. The much-publicised Government press conference was about to begin. On the screen before him, standing behind two lecterns placed side by side, barricaded off, were the Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and facing them, the press, tablets balanced on their knees, expressions of intense expectation written on their faces.

  The Prime Minister glanced at his notes, then at the cameras arrayed round the room, and with a final look around the hall, began to speak. His words were measured, his tone authoritative.

  ‘A global storm, a worldwide crisis in the money markets, caused by excessive risk-taking without sufficient underlying capitalisation, has created a grave economic situation. The financial markets are in a state of imminent collapse. This is not an abstraction, but an economic crisis. Restoring trust and confidence in the markets is essential. Urgent action is required.’

  He paused and looked up. Only the sound of the assembled journalists tapping their electronic notebooks broke the silence. Taking a deep breath, he sketched out a raft of government measures. Designed to prop up the rapidly deteriorating money markets, the Government, he said, proposed to take more control of the banks, enforce a return to medium-term lending, and inject billions into the three banks most at risk of crashing, namely: The Royal Bank of Scotland, HBOS, and Lloyds TSB.

  Seb chucked the empty crisp bag on the floor, pulled a chair close to him and, propping his feet on the arm, leant back. What a fucking mess. He’d been aware for months that the economy was not as it seemed. Like many in finance, he read the international as well as the national financial press, many of which had observed and commented on the huge amounts of debt piling up across the globe. The Government proposal, he thought, was interesting, but predictable. It was too little, too late. Even taking into account how little room for manoeuvre the Government had, anyone with half a brain knew if the banks collapsed, the consequences would be disastrous. The impact would travel like a tsunami across the world.

  Along with the observations of the debts piling up, was the mood of hysteria which had slowly crept into the international money markets. While a minority of economists and financial journalists had predicted an imminent melt down, mostly they’d been ignored. Nobody wanted to know, or they didn’t care, or things were moving so fast there seemed no possibility of stopping the conveyor belt of madness. Besides, there’d been too much money to be made and the British and American governments had, for whatever reason, turned a blind eye.

  The camera moved to Eric Friedman, the BBC Business News Editor. He pointed firstly to the obvious: the financial sector was in meltdown. Secondly, that many economic historians saw the present panic as comparable to the debacle after the First World War. His third comment addressed the view that the bail out of the banks was a form of nationalisation and a betrayal of shareholders.

  Dismissing these critiques, he argued that such opinions represented an outmoded neo-liberalism, and were no longer applicable to today’s collapsing international financial sector. The UK banking system, he stressed, had been insufficiently regulated. Consequently the banks had built up too much power. While acknowledging there was some agreement on this, it all depended on who was doing the talking. He finished his analysis with a dramatic statement. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘is a day of humiliation for the banks.’

  The idea that bankers and financiers would feel humiliated by the present financial situation seemed impossibly naive and caused Seb to loudly guffaw. They might know the dictionary meaning of the word but, in practice, it would be an alien concept. Humiliated bankers were an unknown species. He knew the bankers and brokers in the City too well, and the government hadn’t a hope in hell of controlling them. They wouldn’t give a flying fuck whatever was said, whatever changes were made. They ducked, they dived, they employed accountants and lawyers with nerves of steel who knew the tax laws backward, exploited every loophole they could and invested any surplus, and there was lots of it, off-shore.

  They were well used to sailing close to the wind. Deals were done with a nod and a wink, and with friends in high places, politicians could be bought off with large donations to their party. It was a system that had worked perfectly, until now. A balance between the aphrodisiac of political power and financial greed, with money as the go-between, it was a system made in heaven for those with a penchant for the creation of wealth, but made in hell for those with more immediate concerns on their mind.

  It was Friday, early afternoon, and Seb had just worked out at the gym. He showered, wrapped a towel round his hips, stood before a mirror, and stared critically at himself. The work was paying off, the long hours running, the press ups, the weight lifting, the finger and hand exercises. He was tanned, toned, fit and his body looked good, but even so, despite his appearance, his father was right, he lacked the killer instinct. Not that he cared what his father thought. There wasn’t much he did care about, but insofar as he was also aware of that, he didn’t care about that either.

  He took his time, got dressed, went to the bar, removed the nicotine chewing gum from his mouth, and ordered a carrot and orange juice. He glanced around, eyed up the women. No one he fancied. Anaemically pale or artificially tanned, beautiful bodies but intrinsically boring, the type turned on by the size of an expense account ─ he’d slept with more of them than he could remember, gone through the rituals of flirting, wooing, screwing, but in the end, he always moved on. None of them had had a hold on him, but, if he was honest with himself, and occasionally he could be, he regretted th
is. Something was missing from his life.

  He pushed open the glass swing doors of the gym, took the lift to the ground floor, passed the ornate and beautiful bronze sculpture, noted but ignored the discreet security systems, walked down the steps into Canada Square straight into the middle of a noisy demonstration. The anti-capitalists, earnest, non-violent, but as irritating and as persistent as a cloud of midges, were, yet again, out in force. He began shoving a way through them, until forced to a stop. A young woman holding a bunch of leaflets stood directly in his path. He glanced at her – attractive, tanned, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, dark hair cropped, challenging, light green eyes. She removed a leaflet from her pile, pushed it into his hand, looked at him, and waited for a response.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ he said.

  She put her head on one side and smiled up at him. ‘Why not?’ she asked.

  ‘Not my scene.’ He took out another piece of chewing gum, pushed it into his mouth and stared at her.

  ‘You haven’t read it.’

  ‘I don’t need to.’

  She sighed, keeping her eyes on him, but didn’t move. He stopped chewing, and continuing to stare at her, paused, then said, ‘Another day, maybe.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  She flashed him a smile. Her teeth were exceptionally white, almost perfect, except for the tiny gap between the front two, an imperfection which added to her charm, giving her the look of an urchin. He held her glance for a split second longer than necessary − his intention to make eye contact with her. It always worked. She looked away. He turned to walk towards the car park and immediately put her out of his mind, aware only of the rising level of noise surrounding him. Cordoned off by the police, the shouting, the catcalls and the whistles by the demonstrators were increasing minute by minute. The press and television were rolling in, and the atmosphere in the Square had become as taut as a tripwire

  Thank Christ he was leaving for the weekend, not that he was looking forward to it. His parents’ thirtieth anniversary, a party celebrating the fact they were still together despite everything, but money talks; an aphrodisiac, the glue for some couples, and cheaper and prettier than a divorce settlement. He reached his Audi, checked the presents for his parents were still in the boot, swung his brief case onto the back seat, pulled off his jacket, loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt and drove out, away from London, towards Lavenham in Suffolk.

  He leant forward to play his current favourite music, a thrash metal band, but it didn’t take long before a wave of irritation passed through him. It was too loud, too over the top, a mind fuck, it drowned out all thought, and right now, he just wasn’t in that mood. He switched it off, and drove the rest of the way in silence.

  The party was the weekend’s big event. His mother had invited at least forty guests, all rich, all local, all in business. He wondered whether his parents’ respective lovers had been invited and if so, how they’d play the game. The event could take their mind off the international money markets assuming, of course, they knew that the economy was on the brink of a free fall; but they’d be stupid if they didn’t know. In any case, it would be amusing, watching how the bored and affluent made out in the face of the upcoming disaster. The rich at play − like Nero, they ‘fiddled as Rome burned’. He put his foot hard down and overtook three cars at once; the party, at least, would be a distraction.

  Not that the financial situation would affect him, he was getting out of it, but even so, he’d be expected to socialise, make polite conversation, say what he was up to and talk about his career. That however was no longer possible. His upcoming new job was a no-go area. He flicked the steering wheel with one finger, pulled the gum out of his mouth, and pushed it out through the side window. Enough. A beer was in order. Before hitting home, he’d call into The Swan.

  It was early evening when he arrived and he liked The Swan. He knew the landlord, but the best thing about it was, he’d be left alone. He greeted the landlord with a brief nod, ordered half a Bengal Lancer and moving well away from the bar, began watching the news on the large wall-mounted TV. The top story was the demo at Canary Wharf, and the usual suspects were all there.

  The self-elected caring, sharing, groupies, the great and the good, all united by their common enemy: bankers, the new pariahs. Not that any of them would give a damn, considering boardroom bonuses were up by fifty per cent. A camera was shoved in the face of a protester. Ready with a speech, she was on a high. She reeled out a list of organisations opposing the banks and their attendant personnel, arguing passionately for a system based on people not profit. She kept her trump card till the last. The Archbishop of Canterbury supported them, she said. The camera moved away. Well, good for him, he thought.

  She’d reminded him of an incident from school, when a member of the God squad at morning assembly had announced it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than the rich to enter the kingdom of God. The boys, seated in the pews facing him, including himself, sniggered. They were all from wealthy backgrounds, but that seemed to have escaped the speaker, but it hadn’t them. They spent the next fifteen minutes making faces, gesturing and nudging each other until one of the masters noticed, and fixing them with his evil eye, had stopped them. Even now, the thought amused him. He turned away, put on his headphones to listen to music and watched the pub fill up.

  The medieval village of Lavenham with its half-timbered houses, its self-conscious affluence and long history going back centuries had always attracted tourists, and tonight their numbers outweighed the regulars, but he was in no mood for talking. His aim was to keep himself to himself and psychologically prepare for the evening’s entertainment. So, aware of his ambivalence in attending the planned party, and despite the influx of excitable, noisy tourists, he stayed as long as possible before reluctantly standing up to leave.

  He’d reached the door when the landlord called over, ‘Seb, I’ll call a cab for you.’

  He paused, smiled. ‘Nah, I’ll be alright. It’s not far, but thanks. See you again.’

  ‘Yeah. Enjoy, and be careful.’

  It was gone nine and dusk as he approached his parents’ house. An old manor farmhouse, down a remote country lane, and set in two acres, it was gated and electronically controlled which meant to open it he was forced to stop, retrieve and operate the zapper hidden in the glove compartment. Can’t be too careful, his mother had said. He pushed the button and the gates swung open. The drive was gravelled; it wound under trees and past ornamental shrubs. His mother loved her house and she loved her garden. When they’d first moved there she’d employed two landscape gardeners. She’d had an affair with one of them. Nothing serious, she’d said. He’d been fourteen when she told him and back from school for the holidays. He was young and innocent then ─ it hadn’t lasted long.

  At the time he was close to her. He’d been telling her about the English teacher who had taken them through Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover. The sex scenes between Lady Chatterley and Mellors had shocked him, but also fascinated him. But he didn’t tell her that. His mother had laughed. Her laugh had irritated him, probably because she chose that moment to tell him she had her own ‘Mellors’. She thought the coincidence amusing. He hadn’t. He’d rather not have known about his mother’s sex life, but that was his mother. Inappropriate. In his face. She’d never change.

  He parked the car a little way from the house and walked up the drive. It was cluttered with sleek cars, the party was in full swing. The lights were on all over, the house lit up, the front door wide open. Nobody seemed to have heard of climate change or if they had, it was of sublime indifference. He walked into the hall and was greeted by a woman, he hadn’t seen before. Probably employed for the occasion, she was fair, pale, with light blue eyes. She directed him towards the drawing room. ‘From Polan
d?’ he said. She coloured up. He smiled, ‘I’m the son. Their one and only. Thanks. I know where to go.’ She looked at the floor, frightened as a rabbit. He hesitated. Before venturing into the throng, he’d go to his bedroom, dump his holdall and chill out.

  It was almost a year since he’d last visited. He walked upstairs and tried the door but it was locked. He knew the key would be hidden on the top of the wardrobe on the landing. He retrieved it, opened the door and looked around. There was a faint smell of perfume. It was familiar; it was one his mother wore. What she’d been doing there, he had no idea. Other than that, everything looked the same, and just as he liked it. The possessions and valuables of his childhood and youth, all kept in one room.

  He walked over to the book shelves. Lines of school books, biology, physics, chemistry, exercise books, books from university on the economy, the political system, philosophy, a few paperbacks, mainly thrillers, pens, biros stuck in a pewter mug, a hockey stick lying under the hand basin. All where he’d last left them. His school blazer was still in the wardrobe. His mother had given away the rest of his uniform, but he’d wanted to hang onto that.

  He picked up a photograph taken when they’d sailed round the Dodecanese Islands. It had been his favourite holiday. His father had charted a boat and for the duration of the holiday and for the first time ever, his parents hadn’t quarrelled. In the photograph, he was standing between them. All three were smiling. A farce. Everything appeared normal, but it wasn’t and never had been. There were other photographs, some faded, some of his school friends, many he’d lost touch with, but the framed photo of Helen, his first girlfriend, he still hung onto. Blonde, pretty, straight talking, she wanted to be a lawyer. He’d thought he’d love her forever, but after she got to university, she’d dumped him. Too uncommunicative, she’d said. He’d been devastated. For a long time he thought he’d never meet anyone like her again and he’d been right, he hadn’t. She was a one-off, but there were always others. Not the same, but in their different ways, they amused him, even if only temporarily.