A Cursed Place

by Peter Hanington

  24 Wishful Thinkers

  SERGIO’S, GREAT TITCHFIELD STREET, LONDON

  It was Carver’s custom to reward himself for sitting through the godawful monthly BBC management meeting with a second breakfast. A cheese toastie and large cappuccino from the Italian café just round the corner from Broadcasting House. Today was no exception, although as he worked his way steadily through the warm focaccia and mozzarella sandwich, he was aware that he wasn’t enjoying it as much as he usually did. It was Elizabeth Curepipe’s fault. Certain parts of her presentation kept popping into Carver’s head. How the BBC would help provide a quality news service to Public Square’s millions of users. Newsifying the site she had said – Carver winced again. In return the BBC would receive cash to invest in local journalism; it was impossible to object to that. And both the BBC and Public Square would learn more about their audiences. Win-win. That was the other rather annoying thing she kept saying.

  Carver could feel a familiar sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was a feeling unrelated to the quantity of cheese-slathered bread he’d eaten. This was a fluttering sensation, a premonitory feeling that he’d experienced throughout his career. It had rarely steered him wrong.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  He finished eating, paid the bill and headed back to Broadcasting House.

  He caught the lift heading down, down as far as it would go, past the canteen and lower ground, all the way to the basement level. He was looking for Donnie – a colleague, a contact and, as far as William was concerned, one of the best-kept secrets in the BBC. Usually, locating Donnie would involve wandering the building in the hope of seeing the familiar sight of a round-shouldered man in a beanie, headphones on, pulling a red roll-along vacuum cleaner down one of the many long corridors. Carver had tried phoning him, but Donnie changed his number frequently and rarely answered his phone, even if you did have the right number. Face to face was the best way and it turned out that today Carver was lucky; when he knocked on the black metal door marked Maintenance, Donnie answered.

  ‘I’m on my break, fuck off.’

  ‘Hey Donnie, it’s me …’ Carver pushed the door open. ‘Lucky for you I’m not management.’

  ‘I thought you was management.’ He folded away the companies section of the FT that he’d been looking at and squinted over the top of his spectacles at William. ‘What d’ya want Carver? I thought you’d retired.’

  ‘No. Who said that?’

  ‘Don’t recall, a fellow wishful thinker I guess.’

  ‘Good to see you too.’ Carver looked around. Donnie was sitting in the centre of a tatty brown sofa; the only other furniture in the room was a wooden folding chair and a row of battered green lockers. Assorted cleaning equipment was scattered around the poured concrete floor – the roll-along vacuum cleaner with its unconvincing smile, a mop standing in a metal bucket. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place.’

  ‘Yeah, I had that Marie Kondo lady come in. You heard of her?’ Carver shook his head.

  ‘Thought not. I refer you to my previous question … what d’ya want?’ He unpeeled the lid of the Tupperware box that was sitting on his lap and sniffed the contents – a meaty stew of some sort. The more Carver thought about Elizabeth Curepipe’s impressive pitch to the BBC bosses, the more uneasy he felt about it. He wanted to know what Donnie thought.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve already heard about this proposed partnership between us and Public Square?’

  Donnie laughed.

  ‘Course I heard about it Carver. But it’s no proposal man, it’s a done deal.’

  ‘Not yet … not according to the meet and greet she did with the management team this morning anyway.’

  Donnie shook his head.

  ‘Window dressing. From everything I hear … the deal’s already done. They just need to do the paperwork.’ He glanced up from his Tupperware lunch. ‘Cross some i’s, dot some t’s. How come you care?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s something about it just doesn’t feel quite right.’

  Donnie waved a plastic fork in William’s direction.

  ‘Millions of people get to listen to and read BBC stuff – your stuff. Public Square ploughs a few million back into local journalism. I thought all that would be right up your street?’ Donnie was smiling now. Carver got the feeling he was being tested.

  ‘You’re not sure about this thing either. Are you?’

  ‘I haven’t given it too much thought.’

  ‘Why not? You work for the BBC.’

  ‘I work for a cleaning company that works for the BBC. Big difference.’

  ‘Come on Donnie. Tell me what you think’s going on?’

  Donnie put his food to one side.

  ‘All I know is that if Public Square want to work with the BBC then it’ll be because one way or another, they’re gonna make a shitload of money out of it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Not sure. Not off the top of my head but there’ll be a way. Public Square talk all that philanthropic talk – just like all those big tech companies, but underneath that they still adhere to their one true God.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Shareholder value. That’s all that matters. That plus paying your execs a big pile of money. Everybody’s so dazzled by these guys, the whole world seems to think they’re performing some kinda magic trick – they’re not. It’s the same old wine, just shiny new bottles: squeeze costs, put your production somewhere cheap, automate where you can and don’t pay tax. Same. Old. Shit.’

  ‘Elizabeth Curepipe is offering to pay more tax.’

  ‘She is? She said that at this meeting you were at did she?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Donnie pondered this new piece of information.

  ‘Maybe she thinks she’s got to. To seal the deal.’

  ‘Or maybe she’s different?’

  Donnie laughed.

  ‘Maybe. Hey, while we’re thinking along those lines, maybe Beyoncé lost my phone number?’ Donnie put the lid back on his Tupperware. ‘So you’re telling me the UK arm of Public Square’s about to cough up some real tax?’

  ‘She gave her word.’

  Donnie nodded.

  ‘Okay, that’s interesting. I might have to look at my portfolio. Limit my exposure a little.’

  ‘You’ve got shares?’

  ‘Sure.’ Donnie got his phone out and started tapping away. Carver watched.

  ‘So, Donnie, the thing is … you’re good with numbers …’ Donnie looked up. ‘… you’re better than good. I wondered if you might take a proper look at Public Square’s accounts for me, see what you can see?’

  ‘What would I be looking for? Lemme guess. Something that might suggest a partnership between them and the BBC isn’t such a great idea? That pretty much amounts to you investigating your own employer. Isn’t that …’ Donnie paused. ‘… a little disloyal?’

  Carver shook his head.

  ‘It’s the opposite.’

  Donnie laughed.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Great, thanks Donnie.’ William reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tatty-looking chequebook.

  ‘Don’t worry about money right now Carver. I can do a few hours on this in return for that information you just didn’t give me.’ He stood and stretched. ‘Also … it’s not actually so bad seeing you again. Things got a bit boring around here while you were away.’

  25 Favours for Friends

  THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG

  Back at the ranch Dan persuaded Patrick to have one beer, just to take the edge off the day. They found two seats in a reasonably quiet corner of the bar, most of which was given over to the Women in Business social event. Standing amongst the tasselled lamps and hand-painted Chinese screens were groups of smartly suited women, each holding a champagne cocktail, a cube of brown sugar fizzing and falling slowly apart at the bottom of each tall glass. Dan pointed at the drink.

  ‘How about I rustle us up a couple of those?
’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘Just a beer for me please man, I need to work.’

  ‘Course yes, understood.’

  He worked his way across the room, in the direction of the long bar, generating a fair amount of comment as he went. Patrick checked his bag, first making sure that his digital recorder was switched off and then giving the stack of faxes that McCluskey had sent him a reassuring pat. A quick drink, cut and mix the radio package with Brandon and then he could spend the rest of the evening taking a proper look at what she’d sent and try to figure out why she thought he might be able to help. He’d order room service and hole up in his bedroom. He also needed to speak to Rebecca. She’d sent the tersest of replies to his many apologetic text messages and he knew that only a proper, uninterrupted conversation was going to do if he was going to get them back on the right track. He also wanted to know if Rebecca had seen or heard anything more from the mysterious woman who she believed had been tailing her. Dan returned with Patrick’s beer in one hand and a Long Island iced tea in the other; he tilted his head in the direction of the women.

  ‘I reckon it’s just as well you’re only havin’ the one drink …’ Patrick gave him a quizzical look. ‘The cougars are circling. I think they’ve got you in their sights.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s me they’re interested in.’

  ‘It’s you those fine-dressed ladies at the bar were talking about.’ Patrick could feel himself beginning to redden. He took a long swig of beer.

  ‘I’m taken.’ He paused. ‘You are too I think? Viv told me that the pair of you are out on a date later?’

  Dan grinned.

  ‘Is that what she said?’ Patrick nodded. ‘Then I guess that’s what’s happening. What d’you think we should do? What does she like?’ Patrick suggested a couple of places that he remembered Viv mentioning. She hadn’t had the time to ride the Star Ferry yet and he knew she’d wanted to do that. Dan listened attentively. ‘Viv’s your boss, right?’

  ‘Well, not really.’

  ‘She’s in charge of the whole BBC operation out here isn’t she?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then she’s head honcho for everyone. You included.’

  ‘I suppose so, but it’s never really felt that way.’

  ‘More like a friend?’

  ‘Yeah, more like a friend.’ He took a gulp of his drink. ‘She comes across as very confident most of the time, Viv. But she’s actually pretty sensitive.’

  ‘I see that.’ Dan smiled. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. You sure you don’t want to stay, have one more?’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘I need to get this package done and then I’ve got some other stuff I need to do too.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Nah, not really. Just a favour for a friend.’

  ‘Another friend? You’ve got lots of friends.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’ Patrick drained the dregs of his lager and stood, picked up his bag. ‘Have a nice time with Viv.’

  ‘We will. I ’preciate those pointers.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Bet on it … and thanks for today bud. I mean it. I learnt a lot – hanging out with you. Maybe we can do it again sometime?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. Good night Dan.’

  26 Playing the Slots

  PUBLIC SQUARE HQ, CUPERTINO, CALIFORNIA

  Fred stood and walked to his office window. Lines of Public Square employees were queuing, waiting for the private coaches that would take them home to their poky little apartments down in the Bay Area. Elizabeth was in London, even his most dedicated employees were packing up and heading home. He looked at his watch. He’d worked most of the previous night and all day with only a couple of hours’ sleep on his office couch in between. But he wasn’t tired. He deserved a break. More than a break in fact – Fred deserved a treat.

  In the executive bathroom down the hall from his office he brushed his teeth and gargled several times with a strong peppermint mouthwash. Behind one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors was a concealed cupboard; from inside he took a new button-down blue shirt from one of the drawers, shook it out and changed into it, binning the used shirt. He picked a striped tie from a wooden rail of almost identical striped ties, put it on, rebuttoned the shirt collar and then stood in front of the mirror for a while, staring at himself. His treat would be a trip to the Cherrywood Hotel. To play the slots as Elizabeth used to call it. Walking back down the hall past his office and towards the lift, Fred kept his eyes on the floor and tried not to think about the computer on his desk. Nor the laptop. He could check the red-flagged searches later, at home. He knew that if he sat back down in front of a screen now then he would be there for the duration. A few hours at the Cherrywood Hotel would be fun.

  He walked slowly across the Public Square campus. Fred preferred it at night when there were fewer people about. The huge beehive shone brightly in the moonlight and walking past, Fred slowed, then stopped. The dull murmur of bees that had been so loud when the hive and a million plus bees first arrived from Mexico was quieter now, almost inaudible. He moved closer and put his ear, rather nervously, alongside the wooden slats. Nothing. Or almost nothing. He took his phone out and called his secretary. She picked up immediately.

  ‘Speak to the bee guy and get him to come check the new hive. Mrs Curepipe will be pissed if all her bees disappear or die while she’s away.’ He ended the call before she could respond, but his secretary texted straight back – this was Fred’s preferred method of communication. She confirmed that she’d call the apiarist and have him check the bees first thing. Apiarist. Fred was unfamiliar with that word; he wondered if his secretary knew it already or had looked it up. He’d check that later.

  His silver Tesla was in the second spot at the front of the Public Square car park; he drove slowly down the long gravel drive and was waved respectfully through the security gates and out onto the freeway. It was only a fifteen-minute drive to the Cherrywood at this time of night and Fred left his car with a valet at the front of the hotel. He gave the kid ten bucks and told him to park it and plug it in. The car had plenty of charge on it, more than enough to get him back home, but he liked to keep it topped up around full. Same with his phone and laptop. He waited and watched as the kid drove it twenty yards and parked it at the end of a long line of similar cars, reversing into the space with exaggerated care.

  Inside the lobby, the receptionist greeted him by name and asked if he was planning to eat with them that evening, Fred shook his head.

  ‘Just a drink tonight, I think.’

  ‘The main bar or the Comma Club, Mr Curepipe?’

  The Three Comma Club was a separate bar and dining room reserved for the richest of the rich: the men and women that the Forbes Rich List named as billionaires rather than plain old multi-millionaires.

  ‘Main bar’s fine.’

  He walked down the thick-carpeted corridor, past the hotel boutiques with their glittering display cabinets of jewellery, watches, Chanel dresses and objets d’art. Halfway down, he passed a smoked glass door with a trinity of chunky Helvetica Bold commas painted on it in gold leaf, but Fred walked on. Elizabeth Curepipe hated the exclusive club and regularly poked fun at it. Fred understood why. With more than two thousand billionaires knocking around the planet these days, it no longer felt like a very interesting thing to be. What’s more, whether they’d made their stack of money selling plasterboard or chicken parts, in property or tech, members of the Three Comma Club were – generally speaking – not very good company. The Club’s only redeeming feature was that it remained an excellent way to impress the impressionable.

  The main bar at the Cherrywood Hotel was a venture capitalist or VC hang-out where money came to meet good ideas. Elizabeth’s phrase – playing the slots – summed the place up nicely. Idealistic young entrepreneurs wanted to get funded, the middle-aged multi-millionaires wanted to feel alive. The VCs would bet anything from fifty thou
sand dollars to a few million on a start-up they thought might turn into the next big thing – the next Twitter or Facebook or Public Square. Sometimes they won big, sometimes they lost the lot, but the fear of losing a few hundred thousand was less of a concern to these men than the fear of missing out. The bar was busy, heads turned in his direction and he was pleased he’d decided to come. The first person to approach Fred was an old business associate who had invested in Public Square early and sold his shares for a handsome profit, but in retrospect, too early and unwisely.

  ‘Hey! Your old lady letting you out on your own now then Mr Curepipe?’ The man had a long face, a sharp nose and an unconvincing toupee.

  ‘Hello there Ferdy.’

  ‘How come you’re all on your lonesome? Where’s America’s sweetheart?’

  ‘She’s in London.’

  ‘What’s she—? Oh I know, I read something about that. You two are doing some kinda news thing with the Brits aren’t you?’ Fred nodded.

  ‘I don’t see that working.’

  ‘You don’t see a lot of things Ferdy, that’s probably why you fell out of the Forbes top two hundred.’

  ‘Very good …’ He grinned. ‘I’ll be back … as our old Governor used to say. In the meantime, I’ve still got just about enough left to buy you a drink. What’ll you have?’

  Fred asked for a Jack and Coke and walked outside to get some fresh air while Ferdy went to fetch it. On the terrace, casually dressed VCs stood around in open-necked shirts and blue blazers, drinking thirty-dollar cocktails and talking about money. Fred found a quiet spot at the rail; darkness had rubbed out most of the view but he could still see the outline of the mountains against a clear starlit sky and in the centre of the Cherrywood’s impeccable gardens, a turquoise swimming pool shining brightly in the gloom. Beneath him, stooped figures shuffled around in the dark, working to keep the perfect gardens perfect. They wore torches strapped to their heads and work belts round their waists; the shift had just begun and would see them working right through to five a.m. All of the gardening and maintenance work at the Cherrywood took place at night, so as not to spoil the look of the place during daylight hours. Ferdy returned with the whiskey and a creamy looking cocktail of his own, and the two men drank and chewed the fat. Ferdy was after information, tips or useful gossip and the longer the conversation went on, the more obvious the interrogation became. Fred tired of it and his restless attention turned in the direction of a young couple at the far end of the terrace.