by Paul A. Rice
James snarled as he thought of that place, lips twisting in anger. ‘That pissing bank… bastards!’ The place he had made so much money for. ‘Those pathetic little bastards, they fired me, me…’
He remembered that smug little prick, Rupert Charlton, mincing down the corridor with a notice of termination held in front of him, his woman-hands shaking the damned thing as though he were offering McBride a million-pound bonus. He’d wafted it in the air with his girlish voice deliberately raised so the rest of the staff would be able to hear McBride getting the good news. ‘Sorry, James, but you know how it is, old boy, times are hard and we all have to tighten our belts…’ That was a joke. It had felt more like a noose they’d tightened around James’ throat. The thought made him raise one hand to his neck and loosen the red silk tie.
He had taken the note and left the building that very same morning, his parting comments shattering the waiting silence of the office. They all knew he wouldn’t go quietly, and James didn’t disappoint them. ‘Shove that notice up your arse, Rupert! That’s if there’s any room left up there, you little wanker!’ Charlton had been unable to reply as there’d been too much blood filling his mouth. After all, there’s nothing quite like a good old-fashioned head-butt when it comes to saying goodbye.
Filled with vengeance and malice, no more working like a dog for other people to take the piss, McBride had decided he was now going to divert all his attentions, and considerable talents, into making money for himself. He’d devised a plan, and a very clever plan it had been too, one based on years of experience and the thorough knowledge of how this particular game was played. He’d done a lot of investing for charitable organisations before and he knew how easy a target they would be.
James had always silently laughed at them, because he knew the truth and they didn’t… ‘If only they knew how much of the money they donated actually made it to the needy recipients in the first place, most of it is just sucked away by bureaucracy and outright corruption, long before one poxy bag of rice was even purchased, nevermind shipped to some starving family in the middle of fucking nowhere!’ Yet they still threw cash at the idea. ‘They’re nothing but damned idiots, the whole lot of ‘em!’ The thought of them, all of them, angered James. He cursed them, he blamed them, and he hated them.
McBride had decided to get some of that action for himself – in fact, James had decided to get all of it. The charities had come to him in their droves, leaving him with the hard-earned cash that the pathetic do-gooders had so willingly donated. The returns he promised would enable them to achieve so much more… He scoffed at their naivety. ‘Easy come and easy go, well…perhaps they should’ve read the small print just that little bit more carefully!’ His laughter rolled across the room again.
As if prompted by his thoughts, the laptop beeped once and a small pop-up window displayed the two words that were to change everything. ‘Transfer Complete!’ McBride touched the keypad and then watched as the machine went into shut-down mode. Leaning back, he ran his hands through the gelled hair that slicked its way back from his pale forehead. Laughing loudly, he shoved the chair away from the desk and stayed sitting whilst it rolled across the oak floor, the rubber-wheeled castors rumbling as he spun like a two-year-old in the park. Stepping out of the chair, he walked to the window and looked down on the city lights sparkling below him, his thoughts shining with their own, perfect clarity.
‘Yes, indeed, they should’ve been more careful! Definitely they should have – a lot, lot more careful!’ He grinned, whispering to himself: ‘That, I’m afraid to say, is not my fucking problem!’ The words had come easily to him at the time, and they still did. Four years of planning and five years of living with the results had given him all he’d ever wished for, including the plush apartment he was currently sitting in.
As he sat, lounging on the leather couch with a cosy fire smouldering in the hearth, he let his thoughts meander idly through the recent past. James smiled when he thought about the money, of how much he’d managed to squirrel away, the millions he’d managed to hide. The figures involved gave him a feeling of intense satisfaction. They were all his, every penny of them, all cleverly hidden within his indecipherable web of deceit and ingenious accounting.
He smiled to himself once more as he thought about how perfectly everything had turned out. The stupid investors had all gone down, hand-in-hand he had pushed them over the precipice, overnight their worlds had been flushed down the deep, financial toilet that he, James McBride, had opened the lid on. All of their silly little ideas and poncey charitable plans, all poured down the bloody bog. ‘Well, that’s just tough shit, isn’t it?’ he whispered, with a bitter smile. The irony amused him.
The investigation had gone on for months – years even – but they couldn’t pin anything on him. It was all part of the global credit crisis, hedge funds being mismanaged, sub-prime borrowers endlessly defaulting – the wicked, twisted web in which the entire financial world had become entangled only served to provide a perfect camouflage for one who was so deviously cunning as James McBride.
The best bit by far was in the blatant anguish and bitterness of the prosecutors who knew that he’d fooled them, they knew it absolutely and yet they couldn’t prove a single, damned thing. His footwork had been way too fancy for them – they’d been much too busy looking for a Waltz, whilst in the meantime, McBride had been doing the Tango. They never even came close to getting in time with his devious rhythm. The Judge herself had said as much, looking down at him in anger as she announced her decision. ‘Case dismissed!’ It didn’t matter what she thought, what anyone thought, the defence team had proved that there had been no case to answer, and that, as they say, was that. James McBride had walked away scot-free and, to be honest, he’d walked away laughing.
The biggest whiners had been those losers from the children’s charity, crying and wailing, berating him outside the court house. Their screams still rang in his ears. ‘People will lose their lives because of you, innocent children, for God’s sake! They’re ill and they needed that money, they needed it to stay alive! Without us they’re as good as dead, you heartless bastard!’ McBride had ducked just in time to narrowly avoid the egg which some prick at the back of the crowd had hurled. It smashed against the lamp post next to him, spattering his fine mohair coat with yellow goo and little pieces of fractured shell. He’d turned to smile at them and then hurriedly climbed into the Mercedes. Flash bulbs ignited the interior of the car, even the darkened windows couldn’t hide the howls of protest from the idiots he had duped. The hollow splat of a second egg, destroying itself against one of those windows, had been the signal to send them on their way.
James had laughed, saying: ‘Take me to the club, Charlie – I need a stiff one!’ The driver’s eyes had acknowledged him in the rear-view mirror, with its tyres squealing in protest the car had sped away from the distraught crowd and into the early evening traffic.
***
McBride thought about the present and it made him spit with anger, these days he spent even more time than was usual talking to him-bloody-self. Still, at least it made him feel better. ‘That was five years ago, five years and I’m still taking shit from those pillocks!’ he whispered. Feeling better for the release of some spoken words, he bent forward and opened a slim folder. As he lifted it, several newspaper cuttings escaped their cardboard prison and fell onto the glass top of the table below. There were more inside the folder, lots more – he kept all of them, and the hate mail too. McBride was getting bored with this endless game, and in a bid for the final big move, had called his lawyer, Julian, earlier in the day.
Their meeting was due in an hour and James would make sure those pricks received the message this time. ‘A fat lawsuit will shut those fuckers up, shut them up once and for all!’ he said, maliciously. Picking up one of the cuttings, he glanced down at the libellous headline. Eyes swimming with tears of anger, he read the words once more. ‘McBride’s Legacy – Third transplant-dependent
child dies. Charities say missing funds would have made the difference!’
He blinked the bitter tears away and whispered to himself once more, his thin lips tight with resentment. ‘I’ll make sure that bastard editor is first in the queue!’ With an angry shake of his head, McBride slid the newspaper cuttings back into the folder, then rose to his feet and gathered some other pieces of paper from the sideboard. He placed the folder into his briefcase, looked at his watch and lifted the telephone to his ear, punching one of the numbers with his forefinger.
His call was answered immediately.
Without any form of greeting, McBride said, ‘Get Charlie to pick me up in five minutes – yes, just me, to Oxford Street.’ Placing the phone back in its cradle, he picked up his coat and headed out the door, slamming it behind him. After sliding into the rear of the silver Mercedes saloon that sat waiting for him in front of the building, James sat and stared out of the darkened window for a while, thoughts angrily whirring away. Snapping back into the present, he looked up and said to his driver, ‘Okay, let’s go.’ With a nod, the man snicked the car into gear and accelerated away from the pavement.
A short time later, when almost halfway there, James became filled with the urge to have a cigar, that was strange because he hadn’t touched the filthy things for years, but the craving was strong. He wanted one, and as everybody knew, what James McBride wanted, he usually ending up getting. Leaning forward, he spoke to his oversized driver. ‘Charlie, pull over at the next newsagent and get me some cigars, I don’t care what sort – anything decent will do.’
The driver nodded, and two minutes later the car slid expertly through the traffic to come to a halt outside a brightly-illuminated shop. A neon sign announcing the fact that you were lucky enough to be outside ‘Ali’s Convenience Store’ flickered intermittently, its fluorescent glow almost strobe-like as it illuminated the group of hooded youths who stood loitering on the pavement outside the grubby shop. Their pale features were only relieved by the occasional red glow of a cigarette, which they passed from hand to hand. The uniformity of their raised hoods and dark clothing gave them the much sought after aura of menacing anonymity.
Leaving the engine running, Charlie stepped out onto the pavement. Just as the driver’s door was closing, McBride heard one of the youths say: ‘Nice wheels!’ The rest of the sentence was lost as the door sealed itself shut against the outside world.
Charlie walked up to the gang of youths, paused, and then gave the boys his special stare, an evil expression that was in little need of any further explanation, ‘Touch my car and I’ll kill you and all of your miserable family!’ is what it said, and he would have. They shuffled their feet and looked away. Upon seeing their capitulation, Charlie turned and walked into the store with a confident stride, he was more than capable of sorting out any of them if they decided to be clever, and they knew it. Seeing the size of the Mercedes’ driver, the gang turned and took another longing glance at the highly-polished car. Then, deciding against anything stupid, they walked off down the street, laughing as they went.
In the silence of his car, James McBride turned the other way to watch the slow-moving traffic filtering down the street past his side window. ‘The rat-race, going home for egg and chips…screw that for a game of soldiers!’ He sneered at their mundane routine and reached for his briefcase – it was time for a quick check at the file, which Julian had sent him last week.
Hearing the driver’s door open, James lifted his head, fully expecting to see Charlie climbing into the seat. His eyes widened, there was definitely a man getting into the seat, rather a large man, too. However, it wasn’t Charlie.
McBride leaned forward, angrily saying: ‘Excuse me, but what the fuck are you…’ The sight of the front passenger door, also swinging open, turned his anger to fear. Swivelling his head towards the door, he was just in time to take a mouthful of the aerosol that a second man sprayed into his face.
It was only the tiniest squirt, but the effect of the spray hit McBride’s senses like a swinging shovel. Fire and ice shot down his nose and throat – his whole being became frozen, whilst an overwhelming smell of burning electricity filled his head. Like an unbalanced mannequin, he slid sideways and flopped onto the hand-stitched leather armrest. In seconds, the silver Mercedes had pulled away from the sidewalk and melted into the dusk-wrapped traffic.
The potion McBride had inhaled was already beginning to work its magic upon his frozen neurons. It caused him to dream in Technicolor, vivid scenes of money and children, dead children, arriving to fill his mind. He twisted within himself, unconscious on the outside, and yet on the inside, in his head, he was able to see those dreams. His sub-conscious writhed in abject fear, but no matter how hard he tried, James was unable to escape the bonds of his own, self-perpetuating remorse.
***
Charlie had to get the Tube home that day. It wasn’t the first time, and he wrongly guessed that it wouldn’t be the last. Smiling ruefully to himself, the big man slipped one of McBride’s cigars between his lips and headed for the nearest underground station. The cigar turned out to be of a rather fine, smooth-tasting brand. ‘Thanks, McBride,’ he thought, ‘there’s nothing quite like a free smoke – I’ll bet that tight bastard asks me for them tomorrow!’
Wrong again, Charlie, wrong again.
2
Recovery
After emerging from his coma, it had taken Ken a further two weeks on the intensive care ward before he was transferred to a private hospital nearer to their lodge in Scotland. Once there, bedded in his own room, the recovery he made was remarkable. Within three days of being in the comfortable surroundings, he had managed to rise from the bed and wobble his way to the en-suite bathroom.
He still had a titanium rod inserted through his thigh bone that the hospital staff had said would probably stay for about another year. However, at the rate he was recovering then maybe it would be only six months. Ken reckoned on half that time, personally. The leg didn’t inconvenience him too much, but it was very weak and he couldn’t wait to get some physiotherapy done. He was glad they had removed the external fixator as the sight of its metal screws, piercing his thigh, had made him feel sick every time he looked at them, it was that and the fact they itched like hell!
‘Good riddance to them!’ he thought, grimacing at the memory of the itchy bolts. He gently fingered his cheekbone, it had healed well and all that now remained was a small spearhead-shaped scar, sitting just below his eye.
The Doc said that some basic plastic surgery would remove the scar completely. Ken thought plastic surgery should only be for those who had been seriously scarred, or maybe had a bad birth defect or something similar. In his book, anything else was just vanity and he was sure that he would quite happily be able to live with the thumbnail-sized scar.
Ken had looked at him in such a way that the doctor couldn’t prevent the shake of his own head. Quietly, he admired the tall man, and he’d told Jane that he wished that some of his other more self-centred patients had been able to take a leaf out of her husband’s book.
Jane laughed. ‘Yeah, he’s always been the same! Ken thinks he’s made of rock, but let me tell you, he’s as soft as a baby’s bum! It’s all show – he’s really just a big marshmallow…’ she had said, nodding gently towards her sleeping husband.
The doctor grinned back at her, but he doubted her words. He had seen the scars on her husband’s body from previous injuries, and had spent a lot of time reading the notes about Ken’s latest trauma. He knew that anyone who was able to come through those types of injury, and still be alive, never mind up and walking, was unlikely to have been made of some fluffy, pink candy. ‘No, this one was as tough as they come – bloody nice guy, too!’ He let his thoughts cross his face, smiling once more before heading off on his rounds.
After another week in hospital, and several intensive CT scans on his head, the Consultant allowed Ken to go home. It was one of the happiest days of his life, the hospital wa
s driving him crazy and as much as he thoroughly appreciated all they had done for him, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
They had filled the hole in his head with some kind of resin – the plate in the back of his skull would remain with him forever, as would the physical scars, which surrounded his other injuries. Other than those scars, he was basically good to go. They had said he would need the occasional check-up, but apart from that, it was only rest, a good diet and plenty of exercise that were prescribed. So, after some emotional farewells he and Jane left the hospital without looking back.
Three months of doing exactly what the doctor had ordered saw Ken almost back to full fitness. The fresh air, fine food, endless walks, runs and mountain-bike rides, turned his somewhat weakened frame back into the stringy person he’d been up until a chunk of flying metal, and the dreams, had changed everything.
Jane offered to get him a multi-gym, Ken declined as he’d never been a big fan of repeatedly lifting inanimate objects, instead preferring hard work and a generally active lifestyle to keep him fit. Plus the fact that the sight of grown men, looking at themselves in the mirror, whilst endlessly flexing some ‘quad’ or ‘lat’ made him shudder. No, he stuck to the basics, which, when added to some old-fashioned wood chopping and endless hours of winter gardening, soon had him back in decent shape.
He’d been right about the pin in his leg, too. The surgeon was very pleased with his progress and said it would be removed much sooner than at first thought. And so, after another tedious bout of surgery followed by some heavy physiotherapy, all that remained was a decent scar and a slight limp, which after some hard work eventually disappeared as well. In almost no time at all the ropey body of one Kenneth Robinson was nearly as good as new. However, it would be quite some time before his slightly diminished grey matter would be as fortunate, quite some time indeed.
