by Neil Rowland
Title Page
THE CITY DEALER
Neil Rowland
Publisher Information
Published in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Neil Rowland 2013
The right of Neil Rowland to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Praise for Neil Rowland’s writing
A substantial, profound and funny novelist - James Wood
(Literary critic for The Guardian, then The New Yorker and New Republic)
Fresh and cliché free - Jill Dawson
(acclaimed novelist and a tutor at UEA Writing Course)
A very accomplished writer - Karolina Sutton
(Curtis Brown)
A confident and original writer - Jo Unwin
(Conville & Walsh)
This was a real page turner - riveting - Paul Harrison
University of Bedfordshire
...the plot was original, very interesting and not like much else I have ever read. I didn’t know what was going to happen or how it would end - Michael ki-Fun
(writer)
The concept and story is a fascinating one - Donald Winchester
Dedication
To friends and family
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Paul Harrison for being a first reader, offering encouraging criticism and advice. Also to Michael Ki-Fun for reading the script in a constructive way. Abdul Ahad and others for nagging me to keep writing. Richard Taylor for his literary passion over the years.
James Wood, Jill Dawson, Louis de Bernieres and all those people who have encouraged or supported my writing, in smooth times or rough.
Thanks to Paul Andrews for getting the monkey off my shoulder.
Special thanks to Will Hilton for photographic images
www.willhilton.com
1
Clive couldn’t remember to save his own life.
He knew that he should.
Clive Pitt was a 32 year old merchant banker at the famous British company of Winchurch Brothers, at the heart of the City of London. He’d been head of M & A (mergers & acquisitions); involved with asset purchasing, corporate reorganisation and even defence. His talent had been cherry-picked at an early stage and, following his internship, he made a rapid rise. Clive’s origins were from the north of England, but he’d adapted to his London career with aplomb and found that it offered all that life can afford.
Clive had the sensation of high flying above the square mile. He peered down at the towers below, at the Gherkin on Saint Mary Axe, the Cheesegrater in Leadenhall, The Shard in Southwark, the rising scale of financial organ pipes. Until he hung so far above that dogleg of the Thames, that all the shapes below were hazy through broken cloud. Still the perspective across London was more superb than from the highest niches of any of those constructions. Objects on the ground, including buses and taxis, jetties and bridges, were on a tiny model scale.
It was definitely one of his “my life is flashing before my eyes” moments. There was a feeling of euphoria as if he was just experiencing the common dream of being able to fly. But he was able to feel a noisy rush of air about his face; powerful currents around his limbs. Previously, he had jumped out of an aircraft to raise funds for charity. He had overcome terror to bungee jump on a trip to New Zealand with his family. He had looked out across the Grand Canyon without any thought to abseil. Similarly Clive had stared through the glass curtain of Niagara Falls without any inclination to squeeze into a wooden barrel.
This experience was too real, too superbly scary, suspended in gaping space above the City, as if from the thumb and forefinger of an invisible giant, with only the super jumbos going into Heathrow above his shoulder. These flying machines so close that they exaggerated the void and a terrifying drop underneath.
There was not time to look back along the Thames to fully enjoy the view, even if he was inclined. There wouldn’t be such a soft landing, or a parachute, he considered. What if his wax wings became gluey and sent him hurtling, crashing back down to earth, with a discrete splash?
Except that he didn’t plummet. Instead he felt himself swooping, gliding and swinging downwards, drifting and circling. There was a swooping motion, in the way he had been lifted, but then he began to descend more gently, to drift and to circle like a leaf. Soft and beautiful, as long as he could shut off the noises and smells; the clamour and frenzy of the City. He didn’t sense much speed or weight, until he touched the ground again, as softly as a baby in a crib.
Above their heads pedestrians hadn’t taken much notice of him. Probably they were focused on their typical daily routines. Clive had been indistinguishable; just as you might ignore the swoops of a seagull. There was disbelief when he landed on his toes, as deftly as a trapeze artist or flying ballet dancer. The nearest person to him, when he touched down, seemed totally astounded, as if witness to a miracle. A particular suited business woman, full of awe, asked how he had achieved this remarkable stunt, but Clive himself didn’t fully understand.
For a while he staggered, shadows clawing inside his mind. He felt he was at risk of passing out, right in front of people, and then how could he recover? His insides were churning violently, while he stood in a strange posture, stock-still in an open armed gesture towards the sky. At first passers-by wanted to check his welfare, interrogate him or to simply express wonder, admiration. However, this knot of humanity quickly moved on, back into their busy lives. Soon there was nobody thereabouts who’d witnessed his re-entry to the City.
It took him a long time to orient himself after this bizarre experience. He had an impulse to lie down on the pavement and to go to sleep: but this would be as fatal as a soldier trying to rest in freezing weather. What had he been doing beforehand? After long consideration he realised that he was hungry and must be out on his lunch break. This was the time to reintegrate with his working routine, and to recover his bearings. Clive realised he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket and neither did he possess his work cases. Logically this indicated that he had broken away from his job for a while, and that his possessions must be around his office. Clive puzzled why he shouldn’t be able to remember that precisely, without delay.
The narrow and dusty streets of EC1 were even hotter than he recalled. People had shed layers of clothing to try to cool off. Arms and shoulders were exposed, as ties were loosened and blouses unbuttoned, on what was a sweltering afternoon. Clive had done likewise, and yet his shirt was soaked through. Whatever people were doing in the east of London, they sought temporary respite and refuge from the heat, craving shade or any draught or even a vent of cooler air.
Accordingly Clive turned off Cornhill and pressed into his regular café, feeling perspiration instantly freeze and shrink on the skin of his face within the shop’s shadows. He placed his arms on the counter and allowed himself to re-familiarise. He asked for his typical double espresso and Panini, with a filling of smoked
salmon, fresh as if pulled out of the River Ure that day.
Yes it was great to return to his regular office pattern, those familiar haunts and paths of his job, after that amazing scare. He was reassured to be back among fellow City workers, as bodies squeezed into the café for a caffeine fix and calorie count. However, one of the guys working at the place gave him a filthy look. This negative and suspicious glance spoilt Pitt’s feeling of getting back into the old groove. This guy was recognisable to him, and may have been Italian, Greek or even Romanian. In a great city like London you didn’t stress about ethnicity. Clive knew that he often shared some matey banter across the counter with this guy. He could recall a shared joke about the daily grind, the private lives of footballers. But not this time - this time the man was edgy in his behaviour, suspicious, and made Clive feel like a heel scraping. What exactly was his problem? What was going on there exactly?
Whatever the cause, Clive returned outside, into the pattern of side streets. He intended to eat lunch at his favourite square, finding welcome shade under tree canopy there. Why didn’t he check his watch and be sure there was enough time? He was pleased to get out of the crowds and traffic. Afterwards he could join friends for a drink at their favoured bar, The Banker and Flower Girl, clock permitting.
The recent experience of flying and plunging was still affecting him. How would he explain that sensation to others? They would argue he was guilty of over-working, over reaching himself in the bid to excel. While all the guys at Winchurch Brothers were expected to work hard, few were as driven as Clive; as they would tell him. This had led to resentment and criticism among some colleagues, he suspected, as he had been rapidly promoted in the organisation.
Yet even in these criss-crossing old back streets, within the original medieval maze, containing shops, bars, restaurants, storerooms and varied businesses, City people went about their complex tasks, running in and out of doorways, which no doubt led to offices similar to those he’d left behind. Clive got an inkling of unease about his job, as if there was a negative factor about his entire career. He was oddly nervous about the prospect of going back to the office that afternoon. It was unusual to have enough time to be out to lunch. He had to remember where he’d broken off.
He didn’t have any trouble finding his way around; the City was mapped into his mind. Perspiration streamed down his forehead, from a thick blonde fringe, stinging burnt blue eyes. Recent expensive hair styling was coming unravelled, but he was already too distracted to bother. He threw back another take-away espresso on the move, in one gulp, then crushed and tossed away the paper cup. His heart was still doing uppercuts into his rib cage as he paced along the next street. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and further loosened the collar of a bespoke, monogrammed shirt.
The idea was to reach the square and sit down, drink something icy, try to cool down. He anticipated the refuge of manicured bowling greens and flowerbeds, surrounded by that Lord Mayor’s luncheon of architecture. There he might reflect for a while, watching sports men and women, breaking their trades to spin their wooden globes, in that oasis amidst the hubbub.
2
Before he could make any more progress he was obstructed on the pavement. He was deliberately blocked off by an enormous uniformed guy, a coated and booted giant, square shouldered as a concrete block in North Korea, with a shiny peaked cap pulled over black shades.
Clive gradually took in the situation. He realised that this corporate giant stood in a catching position close to a limousine - an immense black limousine. This suggested that he was a professional driver, or even a chauffeur. The limo was comprised of no less than three compartments, with a long antenna at the rear, like a whip. Yet this was not the showy type of limo that people hired for significant birthdays or other glitzy celebrations. This model belonged to a significant personage and it was not ridiculous or improbable in shape or function. The car had an unusual, even other-worldly sleek design, curiously of no recognisable manufacturer: anyway Clive didn’t recognise the make and he had a decent knowledge of cars.
“What’s going on here then?” Clive asked. He approached the brute and found that his route was cut off.
“There’s nothing to be suspicious of,” the giant replied.
“What’s your problem?” Pitt objected.
“I don’t have a problem, do you?” the driver said politely.
Clive resolved not to be intimidated. There were many pricey marques around town. Clive had an expensive motor himself, as you’d expect in his job.
“I said get out of my way!” he persisted.
Despite Clive’s determination, the chauffeur did not step aside. The guy was blocking him tenaciously, surprisingly agile. He danced on his toes and did a little cage-fighting shimmy to stop Clive from out-manoeuvring him. Clive had played rugby himself when younger, and he knew many dirty tricks and sharp moves. But this guy was equal to everything and large enough to throw a motorway over. Clive was up against a uniformed terminator.
“Come on, mate. What are you trying to pull?” Clive demanded.
“No need to get upset sir,” the driver insisted.
“Why don’t you go and take a piss or somm’ut?” Clive suggested.
“No need for that sir, I’m on an empty bladder right now.”
“What’s your beef with me?”
“Don’t get upset,” he argued, offering shovel hands.
“I’m on my lunch. I need to get back. How am I going to explain this?”
“My boss is waiting patiently to talk to you.”
“What does he want with me?” Clive retorted, standing square to the guy.
“Just behave like a gentleman, Mr Pitt.”
“How do you know my name?” he wondered.
“Although this is a polite form of no choice,” the chauffeur considered.
“Nothing in the world’s going to make me get in that car,” Clive assured him.
Reading Clive’s growing panic, the driver changed tack. “Consider this a form of business, sir.”
“Nobody gets into a strange car with people they don’t know.”
“You’ve never seen a car like this before, have you? This is a limousine among limousines; like the one that occasionally figures in your fantasies.”
“How do you know about my fantasies?” Clive asked, seeing himself doubled in the guy’s ovular shades.
The chauffeur squeezed a door open - at the central section. It eased open like an oiled luxury safe deposit box. “Jump inside sir. You don’t want to be rude to a brilliant, talented young man. My boss just wants to have a little conversation with you.”
“What does he want to speak about?”
“This and that, sir.”
Clive searched for any available help in the vicinity, but strangely there were no options. “Just like the movies, huh,” Clive commented. “A big Mafiosi boss? Some new guy in town from the CIS regions, with his personal gas line on the table?” he wondered.
“You don’t want to prejudge him. He just wants a little chat and then you’re free.”
“How do I know what you’re up to? I don’t negotiate in the back of limos. He’s wasting his breath.”
“No need to be hostile, Mr Pitt.”
“I need to know who your employer is.”
“No cause for agitation. We’ll drop you back to the same place, to the exact paving stone in fact. Now come along, Mr Pitt,” he said firmly. The driver put a huge leather glove on Clive’s bare sweaty arm, nodding suggestively at the plush interior. “Hop inside and let my governor have his fill. Let’s keep him satisfied.”
The car’s long black door reached across the pavement, blocking his way like another strong arm. Finally Clive was forced to follow instructions. Then the door was snapped behind him with barely a sound. He was immediately sealed into a silent comp
artment, with intimate smells of luxury, like a pretty girl aroused. Again he was battling with his heartbeat, trying to regain composure and not to plunge into a vortex.
Clive sank into a creamy leather seat, attempting to control his breathing and a strange light headedness. He was reassured by being able to observe outside shapes through reinforced tinted windows. But nobody could possibly see him inside the car from outside. There was toughed reinforced glass in front and behind. He couldn’t see the driver once he had returned, presumably, to his seat. Neither did he see whoever was sitting in the compartment behind, within the third and final compartment of the stretched limousine. He could only sense “them”, without identifying them.
Soon there was a purring sensation, as the engine started up, followed by smooth and soft movement. They were apparently setting off on a tour of the square mile.
A suave and correct voice, like the big brother of all CEOs: “Good afternoon Mr Pitt, greetings.”
Clive’s nerves turned to steel; as if this time he was going to fall hard from the sky and finish up like the butcher’s scraps.
“You getting a bit hot under the collar, my dear young man?” the velvety voice continued. “Did I interrupt your daily routine?”
“So why don’t you get to the point?” Clive asked.
“You have a reputation for being blunt, don’t you, Clive. Isn’t that right?”
“Why don’t you show your face, for starters?” Pitt suggested.
“My face doesn’t belong to you, Mr Pitt.”
“I don’t do business like this. What do you want?”
“Scrupulous as ever, huh? Would you care for a drink?”
“Let’s get the thoughts off your chest first...whoever you are.”
There was rich sardonic laughter. “Take a whisky from the cabinet in front of you. Reach down. Don’t you appreciate what my Scots are doing up there with their mud and rain water? Who are we to complain, when they are performing miracles for me?”
