Influence

by Chris Parker

  Peter watched the young man lead his family, phone pressed to his ear, towards their undisclosed destination. He noticed a small, black tattoo of a crucifix on the back of his hand. The phone was the latest iPhone, released in time for the Christmas rush. His tracksuit was Nike’s latest design. His trainers were equally expensive. Peter saw the glint of a gold tooth as the young man laughed out loud. The phone conversation ended abruptly, the phone transferred from right hand to left as he looked back over his right shoulder and spoke briefly to his partner.

  The rain had increased in intensity, even during the last few minutes. Now it spiked down, bouncing off the dark blue covering of the pram, turning it an even darker hue. For Peter the sight of the young family was far more depressing than the weather. He realised suddenly that he was studying the young man for signs of a hidden weapon. His stomach tugged again.

  ‘They’d definitely get walk-on parts in Drenched Zombie Dawn,’ Nic’s voice cut through Peter’s observation. He used it to distract himself from the feeling in his gut. Nic went on, ‘The parents would attack us. We’d shoot them, relax for a moment thinking we were safe, and then the baby would fly out of the pram and bite your face off.’

  ‘I’ll keep my eyes on it then, in case it contains a six month old cannibal with wings.’ Peter knew the distraction would only be temporary, but he reasoned that any relief was better than none at all.

  ‘I never said it had wings. It’s a zombie film for Christ’s sake. Zombies don’t have wings.’

  ‘Then how come it flies out of the pram to bite my face?’

  ‘Zombie babies are surprisingly agile. They just stiffen up with age.’ Nic’s eyes were fixed on the stationary traffic ahead. ‘Just like you’re doing.’

  ‘You do realise that most people in this queue are either texting work or listening to their radio. What they are not doing is imagining a zombie world.’

  ‘I bet my students are.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ This time Peter couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘In fact, that’s how I’m going to start the lecture! If I ever get there of course. I’ll tell them to look out of the window at the weather, and create a name for a Romero film based on what they see. Even those with only half a brain should include the words “Day” or “Dawn” and “Storm” or “Drenched.”’

  ‘Personally, I’ll be really pleased when this module has finished. I’m all zombied-out.’

  ‘By Christmas, my love. Then we start the New Year with twelve weeks on the anti-hero in twentieth century cinema. Talking of which, did you remember to record MK this morning?’

  ‘Of course.’ He twisted very deliberately in his seat, trying to ease the tightness in his muscles, looking for the young family.

  ‘To be fair, though, we could all just as easily be in a Christmas remake of The Seven Dwarves rather than at the start of the Day of The Living Dead. After all, we are all busy doing nothing.’ Nic’s mood brightened suddenly, irritation turning into silliness, just as Peter had known it would. ‘So which would you sooner be – a dwarf or a zombie fighter?’

  ‘I’d sooner be a dwarf. As long as I was Happy.’ Especially right now.

  Peter kept his gaze on the pavement despite the fact that the young family was nowhere to be seen. Images tumbled through his mind. Images in full, rich Technicolor. Images that no cinematographer could ever show, that no audience would ever pay to see.

  Busy going nowhere, eh? That would seem to be the case. Only his gut was telling him that was about to change.

  3.

  Marcus Kline was also busy going nowhere. He was standing with his back to the television studios watching lines of pedestrians thread their way along the pavement. People-watching was far more than just a casual way of passing the time for the author and consultant. It was practice of the very highest order.

  He gave primary attention to the most obvious and yet most easily over-looked aspect of what was happening in front of him: the fact that hundreds of people were walking in both directions within the confined space of the pavement without frequently crashing into each other. Marcus’s gaze followed the lines of individuals weaving patterns of movement without shouting out instructions or warnings, without pausing to decide the best route to take through the crowd.

  This, Marcus reminded himself, was an activity unequalled in the animal kingdom. It was far more impressive than hundreds of ants marching in line, a lion pride hunting in unison, or even the great migration across the African plains. Here, now, there was no teamwork, no shared purpose, no primal necessity or seasonal change driving behaviour. Here, throughout the city, thousands of people were following their own path, heading towards their personal destinations, travelling at their own pace whilst working in silent collaboration with everyone around them to ensure the flow of movement continued. As people they all had much in common in terms of their biological and social make-up – what Marcus thought of as their collective DNA – but he also understood that each individual was as different from everyone else as it was possible to be.

  Marcus had long-since known – and this was one of the great secrets of his success – that what he was really watching was not hundreds of different people, but rather hundreds of different individual worlds working in unison to avoid disaster.

  Marcus Kline had built for a reputation as one of the most powerful experts in communication and influence in the world. His business, Influence: The Marcus Kline Consultancy, provided training and support for many leading international corporations. And when requested he worked personally with well-known personalities from the world of politics, sport, entertainment and business. He also worked for smaller, local businesses at greatly reduced rates, even working free of charge to help individuals and families overcome traumatic experiences, fears or addictions.

  He made sure that the media were always aware of his generosity and altruism. It was an important part of the very deliberately conceived Marcus Kline brand. He didn’t just want to be acknowledged as the very best at what he did, he also wanted to be recognised as one of the ‘good guys’. It made building a powerful network so much easier and it dramatically increased the number of followers he had around the world. The combination of a far-reaching, influential network and many thousands – possibly millions – of followers provided the foundation for his success, enhancing the two outcomes he desired most: Profile and Profit.

  Marcus’s almost magical ability to understand others was based on a simple and yet profound truth that he had learnt many years before. The truth was this:

  If you really want to understand another human being – sometimes more deeply even than they understand themselves – you have to give them absolute, skilled attention. You have to know, truly know, how to look and listen.

  You have to do this, he told his audiences, because everyone perceives and functions differently. Everyone creates their own particular patterns of communication, each with their own distinct elements and meanings, each with their own strengths and weaknesses.

  Marcus had titled his first book, the one that had given him an international profile, “Different Worlds”, to emphasise the magnitude and significance of these differences. In it, he had argued that, despite the uniting power of social and geographical cultures, every single human being created and then operated within their own unique world. It was a world made up of a mixture of beliefs, values and aspirations, expressed through individualised communication patterns that had, for the most part, been developed subconsciously.

  The gap between people, Marcus wrote, even those people who had known each other for years, who met each other every day, was far greater than that experienced between people from different countries. If you truly wanted to understand others, he said, you had to study them with the curiosity you would feel if knowingly entering an entirely different world.

  His argument for the development of what he referred t
o as skilled attention and his extravagant claim for the existence of different worlds had made the book impossible to ignore. There had been debate and disagreement; outrage from some who felt that his claims helped people justify a selfish, rather than a social, worldview. The fact that Marcus was willing on live television to demonstrate his ability to enter into, understand, and influence positively, the worlds of complete strangers, did much to strengthen his claims and enhance his growing reputation.

  Now he was simply part of the early morning mass. No one paid him any attention; all too fixed on their own journey, too caught up with thoughts about the day ahead. Marcus knew that the pattern of movement playing out in front of him was being created and managed by the collective subconscious of all involved. The fact that it was a subconscious process freed their conscious minds to think about the vitally important and very obvious aspects of their lives that, for the most part, determined their mood and behaviour. Marcus watched individuals thinking of family and friends, of recent arguments, of imagined futures.

  The tragedy, he knew from his years of work, was that far too many of these people were focussing on negative experiences, were imagining only the worst of all possible scenarios, were walking towards a personal future that frightened them. His skill – and a significant part of his professional purpose – was in teaching them how to break out of this vicious cycle and identify and move towards brighter outcomes.

  Marcus watched the crowd, made up of hundreds of different worlds, unconsciously creating patterns of movement that, for the most part, benefitted everyone. The power of the social subconscious at work, Marcus mused. It was the very heartbeat of the city, powering life and movement.

  He let his peripheral vision pull out one particular person. She was walking towards him from the right and was still half a dozen paces away. Marcus didn’t know what it was about her that drew his attention and he didn’t try to second-guess it. She had been chosen and, therefore she was going to be the focus for the next part of his practice. He let his gaze fix on and around her, let his eyes and face soften, his breathing travel down to his lower belly. He let his hands relax, felt his fingers stretch as if seeking to touch the pavement. He exhaled gently and deliberately through his nose. And then he looked.

  She had shoulder length hair, brunette in colour, which had obviously been straightened that morning. She was in her early thirties – 32 was the number that popped into Marcus’s conscious mind – and she was less than average build. She was wearing a knee length black leather dress, a white shirt, black woollen tights and ankle-high black suede boots. She was carrying a black Mulberry shoulder bag. She walked with the light yet obvious connection to the ground that was the hallmark of an athlete. She had the relaxed, very clear focus of a person driven by, and comfortable with, the need to achieve very specific goals. There was an unconscious rhythm to her movement. She was at once comfortable within the crowd and capable at the same time of moving to her own beat. So, Marcus asked himself, just who are you and what do you do?

  He found himself moving towards her even before the answers had formed. When he was two paces from her left shoulder he heard himself say, ‘Excuse me, Gemma?’

  The woman stopped and glanced at him, a mixture of surprise and confusion flashing across her face. He saw that she was ready to move on again quickly if need be. He was clearly not quite right. Marcus ensured that he was close enough to her to be heard and to force the crowd to move around them, yet far enough away to respect her personal space. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘Jemima.’

  Now curiosity replaced the confusion. He noticed the ease and the confidence with which she changed state. He watched as she scanned her most recent experiences, searching for information about this man who she felt she knew but couldn’t quite recognise.

  He paused only briefly before going on, ‘I’m sorry for the intrusion. My name is Marcus. We met at the party after the…’ Marcus glanced back at the crowd, using it to dampen his desire to try and think what the right word should be, letting the different worlds swirling around him create the space in his mind into which the answer could be pulled from his subconscious… ‘After the concert,’ he said, ‘Which I adored. And, if I may say, I have always been a particular fan of the…’ Marcus glanced up to his right and an image of Jemima as part of an orchestra flashed before his mind’s eye, ‘…cello.’

  Jemima smiled and, despite the chill in the air, a touch of colour brightened her cheeks. It was clear that Marcus had interpreted correctly and that she was increasingly comfortable in his presence. ‘Thank you! Obviously an orchestra is more important than any single performer or any particular instrument but, secretly, we all love to be recognised. And, of course, we all have a passion for own instrument.’

  ‘I think it is the sharing of passion that creates the emotional experience that only an orchestra can give an audience.’ Marcus matched her smile and moved just a half a pace closer. Jemima’s shoulders were now completely relaxed.

  ‘Yes, it is such a sharing, giving process,’ she said. ‘And we get emotion and inspiration back from you, too! We can feel it when an audience warms to us, when it is living in the moment with us!’

  ‘It’s what my business friends would call the ideal “win-win” situation.’ Marcus let his smile broaden as he glanced deliberately at his watch. ‘Anyway, it’s been lovely to see you again. And to be able to say, “Thank you” once more for a wonderful evening.’ He offered his right hand and Jemima took it. He matched the pressure of her grasp precisely. ‘By the way, are you still managing to maintain the work-out schedule?’

  ‘Absolutely. I was in the gym by 6am this morning as always. Five miles on the running machine, half an hour of yoga, and then I’m ready for anything.’ Jemima withdrew her hand from his. Her head cocked to one side. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It shows.’ Marcus glanced briefly at the pavement, shrugging his shoulders slightly, as if offering a silent, embarrassed apology in case his comment was too personal.

  ‘Yoga is transformative.’ Jemima’s breath showed in the cold air, for a second it closed the space between them, a subtle connection they both noticed. Jemima reached into her bag. ‘Here.’ She offered him her business card. ‘It has my mobile number on it. If you are able to come to another concert, let me know.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. Perhaps you would join me for a drink afterwards?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  She had beautiful, white teeth and there were delicate green flecks in the dark brown irises of her eyes. Marcus estimated that her heart was beating at fifty-eight beats per minute. He had been matching her breathing pattern from the instant she had stopped walking.

  ‘That would be lovely. I look forward to seeing you soon.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘Enjoy the rehearsal this morning.’

  ‘I will. Bye – for now.’

  Marcus made as if to walk away as Jemima set off towards her destination. He watched her consider glancing back and then decide against it. He saw how the rhythm of her walk had changed to a slightly faster beat, a result of the adrenaline release he had caused within her. He absent-mindedly crushed the business card between his fingers and let it fall to the ground as she disappeared from view.

  Marcus was not an athlete in the physical sense, but like an athlete he had to work hard just to maintain, let alone develop, his skill. Thankfully, he didn’t need to go to a gym or a track to do that. He had a world in which to practice. Or, to be more precise, he had an almost infinite number of different worlds he could visit.

  Marcus hailed a taxi, asked to be taken to the train station, and settled into the back seat. Jemima was a Hebrew name, he recalled. In the Bible, Jemima was the eldest of the three daughters of Job, renowned as the three most beautiful women of their time. In Hebrew the name Jemima literally meant “warm”, although because that was associated with “affe
ctionate” the name had long since come to mean “dove”. Jemima, the bird of peace.

  Perhaps, Marcus thought, meeting Jemima meant that he was going to have a peaceful day. And then he laughed out loud at the fact that even part of his mind wanted to make such absurd, childish connections.

  Superstitions reflected either the naivety of youth or the laziness of adulthood. The quality of your day – the quality of your life – did not depend on whether or not you wore your lucky charm, or stepped on a pavement crack, or walked under a ladder (unless, of course, something fell off it and hit you on the head). No, it depended on what you chose to do with your time and the quality of the associations you made. “It starts with creating and managing your own neural networks,” he had written once, “and then it spreads out into creating and managing your own interpersonal networks.” It certainly had nothing to do with a person’s name. Or the so-called bird of peace.

  Marcus decided to ignore the passing show and closed his eyes as the taxi made its way through the city. He was going to have a great day. It had started really well and it was going to get better. He was sure of it.

  4.

  Detective Chief Inspector Peter Jones was sure that something bad was going to happen. His gut never lied. It hadn’t been wrong since the day he made detective. Actually, he didn’t think it had ever been wrong since he’d been in uniform. It was just that back then he had allowed the voices of senior, more experienced colleagues to drown out the message he felt inside. Now, when his stomach spoke he listened. And when he spoke to his team, they listened to him. Now he was that senior, more experienced colleague. The man who stayed at the same rank so he could keep active in the field, rather than pursue a highly paid desk job.

  Peter Jones was not a strategist or a political animal. He was a detective. He solved crimes. It was a game he knew how to play. And he could play it better than most. Especially the people he pursued. Trusting his gut was an essential part of his approach. Nic loved to refer to it as his ‘almost-feminine intuition’. Their good friend Marcus Kline had assured him – in fact, over the years, he had demonstrated to him – it was actually the power of his subconscious.