by Tom Anderson
Jeff was wearing a jacket and a tie, and my dad had done his best, too. He’d put on a light blue shirt which I didn’t know he had, and tucked it inside his best jeans. He didn’t have a belt on, so the bottom of the shirt looked scrunched above his flies, and his pointy black shoes were dirty and worn. I’d met one or two of his old posh friends from the past – they usually showed up whenever he hinted at buying something no one else wanted – and they could pull this look off okay. The ‘I dress down coz I’m so powerful look’. Trouble was, you had to be powerful to try it.
The conmen at the jewel market would have less chance seeing him coming than Jeff, though, I thought. Jeff looked like he was trying unbelievably hard to be someone he wasn’t. Which was exactly the case. His tie looked old, wide and cheap, his shirt was dirty and his jacket and trousers neither fitted nor matched – plus he’d still forgotten to comb the short mop of weedy brown hair that seemed to spin around on his head from day to day.
And this was supposed to be our expert guide to the jewellery trade.
‘Get rid of your school jumper, Luca,’ my dad ordered. ‘You’ll be alright with the trou and shirt combo, then. It’ll pass for office wear or sales floor. Hang on… Let’s have a look at your shoes. Fine. Not ideal. They’ll do though.’
Jeff pulled a pair of shades on.
‘So here’s the plan,’ said my dad. ‘We’re gonna arrive and wander around for about an hour. Then Jeff’s arranged for us to meet with this contact of his at four. And that’s when we need to come across as proper pros.’
I wanted to say that we were nothing of the sort, but Jeff’s smile made me feel too angry.
‘There’s gonna be plenty to look at in the meantime,’ my dad went on. ‘Diamonds, silver, sapphire, black pearls, emeralds, ordinary pearls. Everything.’
‘Black pearls?’
‘Better than ordinary ones,’ said Jeff. ‘For selling. Easier to spot fakes. Plus they’re rarer. From Tahiti normally. Tahitians are easier to trust.’
‘Is it Tahitians selling them then?’ asked my dad.
‘Er…’
As if Jeff would know.
* * *
It was a long way to Birmingham, and there was plenty of silence for me to enjoy and for Dad and Jeff to try and break with various nonsense conversations about the meaning of life, the keys to success and the money they were going to make once they could do a few jewel deals. There was just enough distraction here for me to not be able to think about anything else, and then my phone went off with a text.
Gaby.
Not like her to bother with me in office hours, but she had done.
It read: ‘Not in work? Where are u?’
Ah, the power you get to hammer out the real you behind the safety net of an iMessage. I replied:
‘Office hours. Why should you care?’
There was a Gaby-is-typing sign, then it went away. Then it started up again, and a another message dropped in from her:
‘Not in school aren’t you. Therefore you EXIST…’
I ran through the various swear words I could fire back at her, or maybe at Dad and Jeff instead. They all seemed lame though compared to shoving the phone back in my pocket, which my head was telling me to do right away. My arm wasn’t listening though.
Until my dad spoke up and told me himself.
‘On your bloody phone already? Come on, man! Luca. It’s rude. Put that thing away.’
Then he turned to Jeff. ‘Youth of the day eh! Stuck to their phones aren’t they? They wouldn’t know how to breathe if the phone didn’t tell them. Mind you, his mum’s just as bad. Don’t you reckon, Luca? Is that where you get it from?’
I stayed quiet but stashed the phone. Gaby didn’t deserve a reply right now anyway.
My dad would be the wisest man in the world if he stuck to the things he said and thought. You’d almost think he meant that crap about using phones too much, but then Jeff was texting away to his heart’s content seconds later and that went unnoticed. Dad’s own phone was too old and cheap to text without having to tap each key about three times per-letter, otherwise he’d have probably be on it as well, while he drove.
Another thing Gaby thought was cool – Dad’s old phone.
What’s the matter with the lot of them, I thought, as the traffic slowed and Birmingham began sucking us towards its centre and Dad and Jeff’s date with greed.
* * *
D’you know how cool gold is?’ said Jeff, as we waited for our van to be checked and to be given an official parking space round the back of the jewel market.
‘Listen to this stuff, Lukee,’ said my dad, quickly.
‘It’s what makes things real,’ said Jeff. ‘Gold. It’s the heaviest metal, man, so there’s like the least atomic movement in it. Back in the day when it was just men and dinosaurs they reckoned the heavier something was, like, the more it existed. So a cloud was like, you know, half way to being not real, and the soul was like…’
‘Alright, get on with it, Jeff,’ said my dad. ‘We’re here to talk money, and to educate Luca, not fill his head with the sort of mumbo-jumbo his mum would actually approve of.’
Jeff laughed. ‘Right. Fair point. Aye, okay.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Economics it is, see, Luca my boy. When they invented money, it worked coz it was made of precious metals. Then when they invented banking people didn’t need the metals coz they could just use notes from the bank.’
‘IOUs,’ said my dad.
‘Aye, that’s right. IOUs. That’s all a bank note is. A “promise to pay”. Read what’s written on a tenner. Technically, see, a tenner’s not actually money. It just means if you ever handed that thing in to the bank and actually formally asked them, then they would change it for some metal. A tenner’s worth. If you insisted, like. Which no one does.’
Two men in security uniform were standing by the van now, tapping codes into some handheld device. I could hear one calling out our number plate to the other.
‘Thing is, though, see,’ said Jeff. ‘All that money that it says the bank has got, all the numbers on your dad or my bank statements – they have to equal something real. That’s where gold comes in, see. Britain and America’s whole banking system is built on foundations of the stuff. Literally! That’s how it works. There’s a big reserve of gold hidden in each country’s banks, underground in places like Fort Knox in America and in the Bank of England’s vault, and that gold is used to “underwrite” the numbers the banks play with. Brilliant, in’t it? They play with make-belief numbers, but the gold in the cellar makes it real. Gives it substance, like, innit.’
‘Long as it actually exists,’ said my dad, trying to pretend he knew as much as Jeff.
‘Exactly, Steve. Long as it’s actually there.’
The men were waving us through. We weren’t even worth bothering to search. Must have been my dad and Jeff’s outfits, or maybe the fact the open window probably meant all of Birmingham was hearing Jeff’s crappy gold stories.
‘Rumour has it, see, boys, that some of the gold in Fort Knox, and other places, might not actually exist. The surface of all those bars is gold, but we don’t know what’s actually in them. Clever, eh? People have become so happy to trust a piece of paper that they are happy to believe in something that’s not there.’
‘Bit dumbass of them?’ asked my dad, trying his best to talk like Jeff.
‘Well. Long as no one checks then it’s fine. That’s the beauty of gold, see. It’s the metal that makes ideas real. It makes things exist.’ Jeff tapped a closed fist on the dashboard, to knock his point in.
‘Looks good, too, mind, gold,’ said my dad.
‘Aye! That too. Plus it sells, genuine, on the cheap to people like you and me around here if we play our cards right.’ He was reversing the van into an underground parking bay, guided by another man in security uniform.
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‘Start with the basics, though,’ said Jeff, like he had the remotest idea what he was on about. ‘Basics first. Turnover, see. All about turnover. Just keep schtum, boys. I’ll talk for us. Look like we’re interested in nothing at all – and if there’s gold market games to be played then my contact will find us a way in.’
‘Got that Luca?’ said my dad.
‘Got what?’
‘F…’ He went to curse at me, then saw the grin.
‘Aha! Good boy. Funny when he wants to be, see, Jeff.’
Jeff laughed and thumped me soft on the shoulder, just like Gaby did.
‘You have got it, though? Right?’ said my dad.
* * *
The market was in some kind of hotel or officey-type building. We had to go up some escalators, and came out at this big room which was like a lobby. It had a front desk, and we signed in, putting Jeff’s contact’s name down, then we had to sit down and wait for the guy to come and fetch us.
I spent about twenty minutes watching each of the people who arrived, showed IDs and then got waved through, while my dad and Jeff talked more crap together. Most of the people were wearing suits and ties, posh, shiny shoes and had little metal suitcases, like the ones my dad sold a trillion clay poker chips in once for about a quid of profit. There were loads of foreign-looking people, too, and they were always really neat and clean. Still, it didn’t stop Jeff moaning about immigrants taking over the country.
‘We’re in England, Jeff. That makes us immigrants, too,’ said my dad.
Jeff’s mate arrived – a tall guy with curly grey hair tucked behind his ears and a round, tanned face, who was not dressed in a suit but a tight jumper and faded jeans. He introduced himself as ‘Haz’, short for ‘Harry’. Jeff rubbed his hands against his trousers nervously before shaking hands, and then Haz took us through.
Beyond the double-doors to the main market, we hit a wall of chilled air. There was some noisy machine blowing it across the hall, so the whole place felt like the frozen aisle of a supermarket. On each side of us were little rooms, often dark, with stacks of glistening jewels, necklaces and rings inside them. They had notices pinned besides their doors, like menus.
‘You guys got to pay in and show you can shift before you get a bigger deal,’ said Haz, as we turned into one of the rooms. He walked behind a glass desk filled with rings, and then added, ‘So you reckon those stalls you can run in Wales are busy then? Tell me what your customers are most likely to lap up, and we’ll get you a big batch, below wholesale. Make it worth your while, like. Then you’ll make a wedge as you shift that, and if it goes okay then I can get you a sniff of something a lot better, like I said.’
‘Good,’ said Jeff. ‘Me and these two boys here, we’re good for it, see.’
Haz looked at me. ‘Young?’ he said.
‘Not really,’ said Jeff. ‘He’s eighteen.’
‘Is he bollocks.’
‘He is, mate, I can tell you. He’s sharp with figures.’ Jeff could spin a slick fib when he wanted, you had to admit. I’m pretty sure he knew about the extra Maths I was getting forced to do in school for being so dull with numbers. ‘Steve’s son, this is,’ he added, and it seemed only now that Haz properly noticed my dad.
‘So what’s Steve for?’ he asked, dead serious.
‘Sales. He’ll sell ice to an Eskimo, this fella. And his kid, Luca, is tight with numbers. Between them they can work discounts in, while raising prices, and you’d be none the wiser.’
Haz laughed. ‘I’d be all the wiser.’
‘Plus, Steve will pay in,’ said Jeff. ‘Long as you show him the end product.’
Haz stared at us again. He pushed air out of his nostrils, and then said, in a lowered voice, ‘Well, we’re a mile past security now so fine.’
He reached down into the bottom shelf, and pulled out one of the metallic cases people had been walking in with. He lifted it to the glass counter, and it made a thud as it landed. He reached for a key in his trouser pocket, and unlocked the case on two sides, then lifted it open. A glow seemed to slip out almost before the lid had lifted. Underneath, on a surface of foam, was a chunk about the size of an iPhone of metal so bright, so reflective that it could have been made of early-evening sun. I wondered if it would scorch you to touch it, and I had to breathe soft, long and slowly to stop myself wanting to reach a hand out.
‘Congolese gold,’ said Haz. ‘Highly pure.’
The three of us just stared, waiting for whatever he wanted to tell us next.
‘Twenty-two carat,’ he explained, his voice gentle, as if the wonder of it had got to him just as much. ‘Soft, and shiny. Same as doubloons or bullion bars.’
‘Thought they were twenty-four?’ said Jeff. ‘Bullion. It’s normally twenty-four carat.’ Bullion. Doubloon. My mind just flashed images of pirate legends and sea-shanties at the mention of those words. Weren’t doubloons the coins that poured out of treasure chests in all the cheesy pictures you’d see as a little kid?
‘This is blended with silver, though,’ said Haz. ‘We can fetch copper blend in from the same suppliers, but it’s not as bright.’ He looked at me, and said, ‘How much you reckon you get for that, then? It’s meant to be two and a half grand for a hundred grams. That’s eight hundred there…’
My dad looked at me like he was about to cry.
‘Er… A lot?’ I said.
Haz exploded with a throaty giggle immediately. ‘Funny kid.’ My dad’s face shifted to almost proud. Then Haz added, ‘Shit at sums though, isn’t he!’ and then we all laughed.
When his face went serious again, so did ours. ‘This stuff’s way cheaper, anyway,’ he said. ‘Remember I said it’s the same mix-up as old doubloons from back in the day? Well, that’s coz it is doubloons!’
Jeff nudged my dad and said, ‘Yeah, man, Steve. Listen to this!’
Which of course my dad was more than willing to do:
‘It’s not Congolese at all,’ said Haz, ‘although we’ll get the paperwork to say it is. It’s actually salvage gold melted down, though. That’s where it really comes from. Off wrecks hundreds of years old. And that’s why we’re willing to go to start-up investors, see. Guys like you can help shift this into the main gold markets as clean metal.’
‘Salvage is illegal, see,’ said Jeff, now fully finding his flow. ‘Can’t go into wrecks and draw up treasure anymore.’ Haz dropped three battered but equally bright coins out of the bottom of the case.
As if Jeff was in a position to raid shipwrecks anyway. I mean, look how much of an army of divers he had to help him. Me… My dad…
‘Oh salvage is legal alright,’ grinned Haz, putting one of the coins into his palm. ‘If you can get permits. That’s where this stuff comes in. It’s un-licenced salvage. Only going to reach full value if you can melt it down and turn it into something legit.’
Great. Un-licenced meant stolen, right? Not to Jeff and my dad by the looks of it.
‘So how do we get involved in helping clean these doubloons up, then?’ asked Jeff.
‘You don’t. Not until you sell watches.’
The coins and bar went away so quickly it was as if Haz needed to hide them from someone coming around the corner. Still, though, he had the two grown-ups who’d brought me here virtually hypnotised, and by the time he began showing them through a range of chavvy watches, they just looked like they wanted to buy something for the sake of it.
‘Coupla hundred units, fellas,’ said Haz. ‘And that’s gonna bring you back with a coupla grand! Plus I’ll give one doubloon of copper coated in leaf to your boy, to get him in the mood, like.’
He reached under his desk and flicked a chewed-up coin at me. It shone like the other bits of gold he’d shown us, and had the same worn-away markings on it – some sort of shield or badge with a ‘V’ and a ‘+’ sign under it.
‘W
orth a hundred quid that,’ laughed Haz. ‘Keep it, Luca. Fake of course, but you don’t have to tell people, do you? It’ll bring you good luck anyway.’ He turned to my Dad and Jeff and winked. ‘So, we in then, gents?’
‘Bring it on,’ said Jeff. ‘What you reckon, Steve? You keen?’
‘Keen as mustard,’ said my dad.
I wondered if these watches were ‘un-licenced’ too, as I watched my dad sending a text to Mum. It was right then, with freezing air-conditioning all around us and this grey-haired conman grinning, that I suddenly felt unbelievably, heart-stoppingly sorry for him. The nerves crackling in his body were causing his face to twitch slightly, as he waited for her to reply. Despite all his stupid plans, he always tried to make it feel as if she was in on it in some way, as if she had the final say. Gold laced with cheap copper, I could see the blend of metals in his heart – hope, fear, excitement shame and, somewhere, mixed badly in amongst the rest, was some sort of love. He wanted to do this stuff for us. I knew it. My mum probably knew it, but still, what could she say?
His phone pinged, and he tapped at the screen.
‘Well,’ said Jeff.
‘Hang on… Yeah. She’s cool. Got the go-ahead. Let’s do it.’
* * *
Talk about purity? This place had nothing of the kind. The lights of the city made even the darkness seem somehow dirty, as we drove the van out of the security gates, the back loaded with four boxes of crap watches.
I thought about texting Gaby or trying to find a tune, but the shaking van was making me travel sick, and I couldn’t forget the way my dad had seen my mum’s permission as being so important. Feeling the copper doubloon in my left hand, I watched Dad steer the van through traffic. I was looking for any more of the worry I’d seen back there in that creepy office. It was gone, though. I was struggling to imagine my mum really coming back to him with such a positive reply. It wasn’t what normally happened, and I wondered why he found the need to claim she was on-side. Unless she actually was? In which case, something definitely wouldn’t be right.
