On the Floor

by Aifric Campbell

  22:30

  ‘WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?’ The Grope must have been sitting right in Julie’s lap since the call transfer is instantaneous.

  I’d been staring at the clockface for a full minute before I understood I’d slept for nearly three hours, which would be a cause for celebration if it wasn’t for that fact I could tell without moving that I was alone, that Stephen was gone, had left for his flight and that I had been once again abandoned in a hotel room with a stale and empty bed like the remake of a bad movie. Only this time with a critical message gone undelivered and me running late for a plane. The red button on the phone flashing warningly, three folded notes shoved under my door.

  ‘I got held up.’ Standing there by the mirror with the reflected disarray of the bed sheets behind me.

  ‘You saw our man.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw him.’ Saw him. There is a disorientating echo on the line that makes me feel dizzy, like a little schoolgirl parroting her answers at the back of the class.

  ‘Well, what’ve you got? On a no-names basis,’ he adds in warning. Like my fucking hotel room is bugged or something. Like the Mandarin hotel might be recording my line.

  ‘My man says our information is out of date. He now owns 20%.’ 20%. And I think a low tooth whistle rolls back at me.

  ‘He believes the target is undervalued.’ Undervalued.

  ‘And?’

  ‘My man says he has not spoken to the board. He knows they are hostile but he will go his own way.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He only cares about price.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He says the right price is up 30%.’ 30%.

  ‘Up 30%?’

  ‘Up 30%.’ And it feels like we could swap the echoed number back and forth in chorus.

  ‘Up 30%,’ he repeats again, since it is after all the simplest messages that often go unremembered.

  ‘I have to get to the airport.’

  ‘Fuck the airport! What’s your best guess, Geri?’ The Grope couldn’t care less if I’m road kill as long as I deliver the goods. ‘What’s your gut? That’s where he trades?’

  ‘My man is always guided by pure self interest.’ Much like yourself.

  Honkie cabbies rarely speak English except for hotel and street names, which are all in English anyway, so when we judder to a halt in the god-awful tunnel with the entire weight of Hong Kong harbour pressing down on the brickwork, I ask my driver if he thinks we’ll make it to the airport on time and he grins at me, nodding, ‘Yes, yes.’ I suppose I look like a half-wit to him as well. A warm trickle of spunk seeps out into my knickers and I shift so it won’t leak into my skirt. I wonder if I will still stink of Stephen’s sex when I step off the plane at Heathrow in fourteen hours’ time. The cab inches forward and I think of The Year of Living Dangerously when Mel Gibson was trying to get to the airport for the last flight out of Jakarta, Sigourney Weaver waiting in the open door. Although I know from experience that this traffic jam is standard for this route this time of night, there is always the chance that the airport has been shut down for security reasons and we will have to turn back and there will be troops on the streets in Central because China has just airlifted in the military because they can’t be bothered to wait till 1997. And in all the chaos of foreigners trying to check back into the Mandarin I will find Stephen who is also abandoned and we will leg it round to Steiner’s office where Tom and myself and a bunch of other expats fill rucksacks with tinned food and chocolate. We’ll take a train out to the New Territories where we’ll buy donkeys from the locals and start heading towards – where? Tokyo, the Soviet Union, wherever we figure the best chance is. We’ll have to learn not to wash so that dogs can’t track us down, but just in case, everyone will agree to destroy their passports, figuring that Brits and Americans are definite targets, but I’ll keep mine in my underwear saying that Ireland has never threatened anyone, though this will really piss Stephen off as he’ll think I might be compromising their safety.

  Then Tom gets shot by the Red Army, and the rest of us get arrested and thrown in rat-infested prison camps, where we break stones under a white sun glare for three years three months and three days, before being liberated, by which time Stephen has gone insane and the rest of us have forgotten our English.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck them all.

  8

  the coefficient of restitution

  wednesday 16 january 1991

  09:45

  london

  ‘HOW LONG’S A PIECE OF STRING?’ snorts the cabbie. Because, wouldn’t you just know it, on top of everything else we’ve hit the school run as well as the rain. The A4 corridor is jammed with eastbound traffic so from Heathrow to the City could take the whole fucking morning. ‘Could be it eases up after the Hammersmith flyover,’ he shakes his head at the world conspiring against us and sinks down behind the wheel, abandons all talk.

  An unscheduled stop in Bahrain to fix an unspecified technical problem had us sitting on the tarmac for three hours staring into a desert night, a stone’s throw from the theatre of war and exactly where no one wanted to be. A million troops just down the road while Saddam and his boys larged it up in Kuwait, checking their watches.

  We all know he’s not about to make a graceful exit; volte face is clearly not the guy’s style. You don’t grow that kind of ’tache and commission giant statues of yourself only to back down in front of the whole world. Death is nothing, history is littered with the corpses of guys who just kept bringing it on.

  The man in 8A bent the stewardess’s ear in anxious complaint and it was easy staring out the porthole to imagine a fireball rolling towards us down the runway. I could have become a war statistic gunned down in active service. Geri Molloy: she gave her life for a simple answer to a simple question.

  The rain whips and lashes at the cab window like some vengeful god willing me to consciousness. I think about Stephen, how his plane was undoubtedly NOT delayed and landed on time hours ago, how he’d already be showered and scrubbed and back in the saddle at Unwin & Leider. And will he even be thinking of me and what does it all even mean? Was Hong Kong the goodbye we never had or was it tinged with a regret and the glint of recovery? And why did he leave without waking me, or did I not actually tell him I was flying out too? The truth is I cannot recall exactly what passed between us, my memories are smothered by a flight load of booze and the pill I found at the bottom of my bag. I know what lies beneath, this is not the bugle call for some new dawn.

  The cab vibrates, the engine drilling right into my skull. I smooth my creased skirt, my hands shaky. I am crumpled and sticky carrying Stephen’s bodily fluids across the globe.

  The radio putters war news as we inch towards the flyover.

  And in early morning trading shares in Vulkan Valve—

  TURN IT UP, I yell at the cabbie.

  Yes, let’s have a look at the morning markets and breaking news on Vulkan Valve. And over in the City we have Peter Jensen. Peter, can you tell us what’s happening?

  Well, Sara, so far there has been no official announcement but even as we speak Vulkan shares continue to rise. Dealers report very heavy volume with the stock up now to 221p which is just over 10% already. Speculation is rife as to what’s behind this sudden move, Vulkan had already been performing very well in the run up to potential hostilities in the Middle East and there’s been a lot of media coverage about a new portable radar that is expected to boost their sales. But there’s some serious buy interest this morning so it looks like Vulkan Valve is very much in play. Dealers are hoping to hear some kind of statement from the company very soon. Back to you, Sara.

  ‘Good news?’ says the cabbie over his shoulder. I am hanging over the back of his seat, my head stuck in the Perspex window.

  ‘Yep.’ I flop back in the seat. Looks like the party has already started. So once Max-a-Billion got the nod that Felix Mann would be amenable to getting out at up 30%, he decided on a dawn raid. Or maybe this was the plan
all along, that Texas Pistons would pounce and take Vulkan by storm, it would certainly fit with Max-a-Billion’s Stetson style. Of course, I would be the last to know. I could be dead in a Hong Kong ditch and the Grope wouldn’t care less now that he’s seized his moment of glory with my simple answer to a simple question. Either way my work here is done and I am now surplus to requirements, am not even supposed to be involved. So it seems pointless rushing into the office.

  ‘Slight change of plan.’ I lean forward right on the crest of the flyover. ‘Take me to West Hampstead instead,’ and the cabbie doesn’t say a word, just swerves to the left in time to catch the A40 exit.

  Rex hits me with a breath-stopping whack in the stomach and although I saw it coming I am flung backwards against the wall. He skitters off down the corridor, does a 360 on the lino and then gallops back to hurl himself at me with a strangled howl. Pie Man stands grinning in a voluminous scarlet tracksuit that makes him look like a giant gnome. The trouser legs pooled in multiple folds around his ankles. Giant white trainers like snowshoes.

  ‘Sorry to show up unannounced but I was on my way to the office and then I found out I didn’t need to go anymore. So I thought I’d come by and pick up Rex.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve – um – just come back from a walk.’ He gestures at his outfit as if it needs explanation. The door of another flat creaks open and a nose and glasses peek out at the commotion. Pie Man gives a tentative wave and ushers me into the flat and a lingering smell of fried food.

  Improbably daintily fringed wall lamps cast a weak pink glow over the hall and once he’s shut the door, he flusters and flaps, touching things and saying, ‘Well, Rex slept here,’ and ‘There’s his bowl,’ as if I’d come by to check up on him.

  ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ I ask and he disappears into a galley kitchen. Rex snout-nudges my hand and I follow him into the living room. A green Draylon couch bears the imprint of Pie Man’s butt, a favourite spot hollowed into a big crater dip. Rex flops down on a shaggy rug by the radiator beneath the window and yawns contentedly as if he’s lived here all his life.

  There is a thick stack of newspapers on a coffee table and a scrap of paper on the couch with an intricately annotated graph of variables in Pie Man’s tiny perfect hand. So at odds with his size, lumbering now through the door with a mug.

  ‘Can I just check something on your TV?’

  He rummages about between the couch cushions and hands me a remote that is brown and sticky around the buttons. Then Pie Man flops happily down on the couch and Rex hops up beside him, settling quickly as if we all live here now and life is sweet.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind him up there?’

  ‘Oh, he’s been doing it since he got here.’

  ‘All that dog hair—’

  ‘Oh, I’m not fussy,’ Pie Man brushes imaginary Rex-hair from his sweatshirt, but this somehow just accentuates his size and he seems now more gargantuan than ever.

  On the CEEFAX page I read what I already know about Vulkan in neon courier so I flick to the news. Tanks rumble and bump across the screen. Stealth bombers, the same old library footage looking very stale now. Stormin’ Norman in his fatigues outside a large tent. A dust cloud, a camouflaged heap of something, those nets like sand crabs. John Major at the despatch box. Bush. Baker. A library shot of Saddam smiling thickly beneath a massive chandelier. And then back to the anchorwoman at her desk.

  And now, let’s hear from Charles Martin who is over in the City.

  Well, Anna, it all got off to an exciting start this morning when shares of Vulkan Valve were chased up 12% within minutes of the opening. Speculation was rife that the company was in play; of course Vulkan is a big player in the UK’s defence sector and a regular in the news these last few weeks as we move closer to hostilities in the Middle East. Well, news just in a few minutes ago finally revealed what’s going on and I can tell you that Vulkan’s shares have now been suspended, there IS a bid. Vulkan Valve IS the subject of a takeover.

  ‘For Chrissake, get ON with it,’ I mutter.

  And we have just heard that the mystery bidder is—

  ‘TEXAS PISTONS!’

  British Electronics—

  ‘WHAT?’

  —who are offering 260 a share for Vulkan Valve. What’s more, British Electronics emphasise in their statement that they have the full agreement of Vulkan’s board. There’s a press conference scheduled for later this morning but it’s clear that the board will be recommending this bid to shareholders. And since the board of Vulkan Valve own 10% that should make it very likely that British Electronics will get this deal done.

  ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Pie Man struggles to his feet. Rex stands on the couch, barks.

  ‘What about Max-a-fucking-Billion?’

  And we’ll keep you up to date on all that’s happening with Vulkan.

  ‘British fucking Electronics?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘SHUT UP.’ But the screen has already left the City and swung back to Anna and the war.

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ I turn to look at Pie Man who stands picking nervously at his sweatshirt.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Geri.’

  ‘That’s ’cos you’re not supposed to.’

  ‘I‘m just going to open a window if you’re going to—’ He nods at the cigarette I have already lit. ‘I get a bit out of breath sometimes.’ He jerks open the window and I lean out looking down four floors below me into the back of the building where the rubbish bins are stored.

  ‘Fucking goddam.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to – eh – help?’ Pie Man’s voice is small behind me. I lean further out into the cold light rainspit, imagine Maxa-Billion going beserk on the 21st floor, trampling his Stetson, his foot smashing into the screen. The Grope apopleptic about his moment of glory being snatched from him. His big chance to look good in front of Kapoor, his last-ditch attempt to make up for lost career ground. And I will be the perfect target for his frustration, given that I deserted my post and went awol on an island bender. Or maybe they knew this was happening all along. Maybe I was dispatched on a fool’s errand, some sort of decoy for Felix? But that doesn’t make sense, this has all the eerie feel of the unexpected.

  There is a slow cold crawl up my legs, the sneaking suspicion that I might have missed something, that a secret lies buried in my lost hours adrift from the office; the red blink of the message phone, the answer I gave, the missing piece of the puzzle. But what? You are out of your depth in unfamiliar waters, my dear. Felix’s voice comes back to me. Everyone wants to talk to me all the time. I stub out the cigarette on the window sill, let it drop to the ground.

  ‘Where’s your phone? QUICK.’ I am snapping at Pie Man’s heels as he shuffles out to the hall. When I snatch the receiver from him, he hesitates and then retreats slowly from my glare, watching me punch at the keys.

  Zanna answers on the second ring. ‘Hey, how was the trip, are you downstairs?’

  ‘I need you to find out something right now. I need to know the name of the bankers acting for British Electronics?’

  ‘Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘Because I’m not in the office.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, just look it up for me, will you?’

  ‘I’m just on my way to—’

  ‘Please, Zanna, I need you to do this.’

  ‘OK, OK, hang on a sec. Yeah, I heard the news break about the bid this morning.’ She taps away on the keyboard. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘And why aren’t you in the office, anyway? I thought you were due in straight off the plane.’

  ‘Come ON.’

  ‘Hang on, Geri, Jesus. OK, OK, this should show it, the bid notice – yadda yadda, et cetera. Here we go – the bankers acting for British Electronics in their bid for Vulkan Valve are – blah
blah blah – yes, Unwin and Leider.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. Unwin and Leider. That’s what it says.’

  ‘Stephen.’

  ‘Stephen’s bank.’

  ‘Fuck—’

  ‘What? Geri, what’s the problem? What’s going on—’

  ‘I don’t bel—’

  If I was even half awake and concentrating I might have heard the clues that Felix dropped like sirens and that should have sounded the alarm in my ear.

  Perhaps there is another shark circling. If I hadn’t been shitfaced, broken hearted, broken down, malfunctioning, I might have actually paid attention to what was really going on.

  My intelligence tells me that various parties have been nibbling at the stock. But I was mooning about my ex, distracted by Felix’s bedside story about his dying granddad, imagining the malnourished horses leaping out from their frames, and so failed to raise my antenna and do what I should have been doing: my job.

  Background, my dear, is not always essential to the development of the plot. Vulkan knew that Max-a-Billion was threatening to bid so they hired Unwin & Leider to mount their defence. And clever old Stephen came up with the idea of a white knight and found the perfect candidate in British Electronics – a good old domestic company that the MOD would just love.

  The defence business is a national asset and politically very sensitive. Stephen wanted to talk to Felix because he was clearing the stage for the knight to come galloping to Vulkan’s aid. Maybe he told Felix all about British Electronics. And maybe Felix did talk price. Maybe he told Stephen exactly what he told me.

  My investment strategy is always guided by the simplest principles. Value. Price. Or maybe Felix refused to comment and Stephen was about to fly home empty-handed until Geri dropped the goods in his lap.

  All I have to do is tell Kapoor to tell his client he can have what he goddam well wants if he pays up 30%.

  There are any number of permutations. I could have been everyone’s pigeon seeing as I have made a career out of doing exactly what I’m told by all the men in my life. Even when Stephen dumped me in Venice I rolled over in submission instead of throwing things at him or beating him to the finish line. And when Stephen pitched up in Hong Kong looking for an audience with the grand master, Felix could have decided to set me a little test just for the hell of it. It’s exactly the kind of mind game that would amuse him: see if Geri reveals all in a desperate bid to win back Stephen’s affection. Felix the puppeteer tugging at the strings.