Secret Skin

by Frank Coles

  ‘You’re sensible business minded people,’ he said, striding along the stage. ‘You made your money in property and now you want to make more. A lot more. Am I right?’

  The audience agreed, but he didn’t give them time to rest.

  ‘You are not passive, you are not naïve, you have used your money wisely, and that, that is why you are here,’ he said, ‘you are the chosen ones.’

  ‘That’s why we invited you and not somebody else. Because you are something else, a new breed of investors,’ he smiled, ‘you didn’t just luck out in a property boom.

  ‘You are the Bentley people,’ he yelled, applause. ‘You are the Ferrari people,’ more applause. ‘That’s why you are here. Wise investors in the right place, and, most importantly, at the right time. Our new partners.’ More applause, ‘Please,’ he gestured at the paneled wall behind him, ‘watch the screen.’

  The lights dimmed and a display wall the length of the room lit up behind him to another round of applause. The floor to ceiling words

  SUNSET HEIGHTS

  drifted right to left across the end wall. Two female dancers and one male pirouetted and cart wheeled onto the platform in front of the projection, pretending to pull animated building blocks onto the stage. They threw them at the screen and the digitized shapes flew off into the depths of the animation to become the exteriors of buildings in Sunset Heights.

  The dancers ran and leaped across the stage miming the pull of real objects onto the display. Digital interiors slid onscreen, designer names were manhandled in to place. They ran through arched and wonderful corridors, flew between sensuously curved facades, and strolled hand in hand through tree lined parks, dodging the imaginary spray of unreal fountains.

  In the darkness the gullible expressions of middle income faces from my home country filled the seats around me. One man sat with his mouth wide open, entranced by the dancers and their beautiful backsides, the flashing lights of the animation reflected in his glasses. He saw me looking at him and smiled warmly back, one of the lucky few to have been invited. He gave me the thumbs up.

  I felt sick. I’d seen this slick sales pitch so many times since arriving in Dubai, but that was for real developments, this was a non-existent project – it was impossible to tell the difference between reality and fiction.

  The music crescendoed towards a finale, the screen lit up with the faces of the backers and the board. Lawrence was there to represent his bank and his platinum investment package. These were his premier customers. His prime suckers.

  His mug shot confirmed what I already knew, the smooth talker was the same man I’d floored with a fire extinguisher. The kiddie fiddler; the child fucker. Pictures of other investors and backers flashed on screen. Companies I’d never heard of before, Tiberian Enterprises and Cerberus, most likely corporate fronts for Akbar and Orsa.

  They showed me a smiling picture of an older man in traditional dress. His beard and eyebrows were unbelievably black – Saudi prince style – with the purple sheen of hair dye. He was the man I’d come to see, the unhappy partner the banker had told me about. Sheikh Hamza.

  As the show wound down, the level of hubbub rose to excitable levels. The shades on the windows were drawn back with a dramatic flourish reminding us all where we were.

  The view was quite incredible. We were on a black and chrome pleasure cruiser with floor to ceiling windows running along both sides. The islands of The World development were on our port side. The Downtown district with the Sheikh Zayed skyline and the towering Burj dead ahead. The iconic Burj Al Arab hotel, crucifix bared, skulked to starboard along with the lowlying bulk of Palm Jumeirah in the distance.

  Motor boats, jet skis and yachts vied for space around us. It was a busy morning on the Arabian Gulf.

  ‘Please, please,’ Lawrence called, waving his hands for calm. ‘I know you’re all eager to find out how you can be a part of this exciting project and join the miracle that is Dubai.’ He motioned to the uniformed men and women who waited expectantly. ‘Our sales staff, key investors, designers and strategic partners are all on hand to answer any questions you may have. So take your time, relax, enjoy the food and drink, and of course the rest of our cruise.’

  Inevitably these willing victims wouldn’t be getting off until the Sunset Heights people had taken deposits and statements of interest from everyone on board – a truly hard sell, imprisoned until you buy, please enjoy the canapés.

  When the receptionist had refused me entry to the private function, I did what I always did, I lied my way in. I told her I was visiting for four days and wanted to invest half a million pounds in deposits – a mere 20% of my total investment – she suddenly found a place for me.

  As a result of the car crash my Scott Walker business cards lay in a ditch somewhere on the side of Sheikh Zayed Road. When she asked for my details, the name Stanley Matthews popped out. To anybody that knew he was an old school footballer. I hoped nobody would pick up on it.

  It was nice to be rich for a change, but as a mark with confirmed money, I’d barely left my seat before an eager young Indian sales rep cornered me.

  ‘Mr. Matthews?’ he asked looking at my name tag.

  ‘Why, yes,’ I said smiling genially, the off-duty millionaire looking to pass the time.

  ‘I am Philip,’ he said in an educated Mumbai accent.

  ‘That’s not your real name surely?’

  ‘Pradeep,’ he said, ‘sorry. We always anglicize our names for these occasions. I’m a client liaison officer and I understand you want to invest some money with us.’

  ‘I may be persuaded,’ I said, ‘that was an impressive presentation.’

  ‘It was,’ he agreed. ‘We like to give serious investors preferential treatment, could I confirm how much you are interested in placing with us.’

  ‘Half a million sterling to start with….’ I left the figure hanging and watched the smile spread to his face.

  ‘You could see a handsome profit with that kind of investment sir.’

  ‘Yes I should think so and I’m sure you will receive a handsome commission.’

  He blushed and stuttered a response. While he floundered I scanned the room looking for my own mark. Hamza stood to one side and tried to avoid eye contact with the wannabe big shots that filled the room.

  In contrast Lawrence charmed the wealthy punters and worked the floor with firm handshakes and ‘son you never had’ smiles.

  Pradeep began to ramble as he tried to evade the ugly subject of commissions. ‘Look,’ I butted in, ‘I expect sales men to make good commissions otherwise what’s the point in selling.’ His face brightened and the tension left his shoulders. ‘What I would like to do is discuss my investment with one of your core people, you understand?’ Yes he nodded. ‘Someone who has already invested their own money. I want to see what makes this project tick, yes?’

  ‘Yes of course, I could ask Mr. Lawrence?’

  ‘I was thinking Sheikh Hamza. Do you think you could ask him to come and talk to me?’

  ‘Certainly, please wait here and I will see if he’s available.’

  ‘I can see he’s available Pradeep, ask him to come here would you?’

  ‘To come here?’

  ‘Please, I can always take my money elsewhere.’

  ‘Of course, Mr. Matthews,’ he said and bowed out.

  With a plate of picture perfect food to hide behind I watched as Pradeep waited his turn to talk humbly with the Sheikh. I could see the surprise on Hamza’s face when he told him I had demanded an audience.

  I turned my back on him when he looked over. A few moments later I heard a polite ‘Ahem.’

  Pradeep introduced us and then hovered.

  ‘You wish to invest in our humble project sir?’ Hamza asked smoothly.

  I returned his polite but false smile. ‘Yes, I wanted to talk to you in private Sheikh Hamza. A mutual acquaintance said you could tell me about…exit strategies.’ I leaned closer to him and said, ‘I hear thin
gs are not quite what they seem.’

  He waved Pradeep away.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘A journalist,’ I said quietly, ‘One who is interested in telling your side of the story.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘How you were an innocent victim in one of the biggest property frauds in Dubai’s history.’

  ‘What?’ he said, eyes agog with disbelief. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘I know that you have invested millions of dollars of your own money and that you are having problems retrieving your assets from the project.’

  ‘Yes, that is true,’ he said, a look of relief spread across his face. ‘Then you understand what is happening here? Your story will help me you say?’

  ‘Yes, it will also tell how hundreds of so-called platinum investors are being hoodwinked into tying up their money for years with the promise of big returns.’

  ‘I don’t care about these silly little people, I just want my money back, I am about to lose everything,’ he grabbed my arm, ‘you will help me.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said hiding my contempt, ‘but first you need to help me. I need you to confirm how they are doing what they are doing.’

  ‘Can you not see? Open your eyes man. Ja-a-ames,’ he said camply, rolling his eyes and motioning his head towards Lawrence, ‘finds these investors through his bank, pays those designers, architects and marketers to make things look pretty, then via Sunset Heights the cash he raises goes out to the “developers”.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘A very bad man called Orsa.’

  ‘The huge white haired Russian?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ Hamza said. ‘Of course there are the owners of the land deeds, air-headed young men with baseball caps and Maseratis who have no idea what is really going on. You will find them at the bar mixing vodka with their fruit juice. And then there is Lawrence. That man is playing with fire. Mohammed Akbar was Orsa’s original partner, and well, he seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘A hostile takeover by the Russian shall we say.’

  ‘Do you have any proof?’

  ‘No, just my intuition. This is not the first underhand property deal in Dubai. It’s not even the biggest. It certainly won’t be the last. Some things become obvious as you grow older.’

  ‘So Orsa and Lawrence are going to walk away with all of the funds, what about you?’

  He examined me skeptically, ‘What I am saying to you is that, I will happily walk away with my life and no money. I value it, even though with empty pockets it will be worth nothing to my children or my wives.’ He chuckled. ‘There isn’t a man in this room that will walk away with his life and his money if Orsa is involved.’

  ‘Not even Lawrence?’

  ‘Not even him. He is a salesman; maybe he could talk his way out, but then again maybe not. As I say the Russian is dangerous, if you can do any damage to him with your story, then please quote me, it may help me later on…but please, no names.’

  ‘No problem. Do you think we could meet again, somewhere more private where we can talk this through?’

  ‘Yes, you are right, this is too public.’ He handed me his card. ‘Call me tomorrow, or the next day, we will arrange something.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I said. We stood for a moment and took in the room together, the eager investors throwing their money away. I shook my head in disbelief. ‘How do they get away with it? Why doesn’t anyone stop them?’

  ‘A few million gift wrapped dollars to the right people is all it takes to….’

  The sudden slap on my shoulder startled me. Hamza grimaced.

  ‘Well hello!’ Lawrence smiled, dark hair falling over his eyes. ‘Who have we here then?’ he said, reading my name tag, ‘Stanley Matthews eh?’ He looked doubtful. ‘Wasn’t he a footballer? Cloth cap and whippets sort of guy?’

  ‘He sure was,’ I responded in a jovial tone that matched the salesman’s demeanor of enthusiastic expectancy. ‘My father never let me forget it, his biggest hero, hence the name. Just call me Stan. I left the whippet at home.’

  ‘Well Stan it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he said, shaking my hand.

  ‘And you Mr. Lawrence,’ I said, returning his enthusiasm. ‘That was an impressive show you gave earlier, it’s an interesting development. Sheikh Hamza was just telling me about his own investment in the project?’

  ‘Was he indeed? He gave us a good report I hope,’ he said, staring coldly at Hamza, wondering if he had already said too much.

  ‘Oh definitely,’ I said trying to placate him, ‘He’s certainly aroused my curiosity. I’d really like to find out more.’

  ‘Oh that is good,’ he said not taking his eyes from Hamza, happy to bully his partner in public, but Hamza wasn’t backing down.

  ‘What happened to your nose? You look awful,’ Hamza said, throwing Lawrence off balance.

  I examined it closely for the first time. The dark bruising was inexpertly concealed beneath heavy layers of foundation and he was beginning to glisten with the exertion from his performance.

  ‘Hah,’ Lawrence said, a schoolboy who has been found out and hasn’t yet thought of a good excuse. ‘Rugby practice,’ he said. ‘Yes…I tackled the winger harder than I intended and caught a knee in the face, broke my nose you see,’ he said smiling at his own improvisation. ‘I don’t normally wear makeup, it’s a tad girly to be honest, but I had no choice what with the presentation today.’

  We laughed companionably at his dilemma. I searched his face for signs that he might have recognized me. I squinted at him for a moment blocking out the rest of his face, just leaving his eyes.

  I remembered the young girl shaking as she walked from the stage. The memory made me want to hurt him again.

  He stopped laughing and stared back at me. ‘Mr. Matthews,’ he said slowly, ‘have we met before?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

  He hesitated a moment and then turned back to Hamza. If he recognized me he was hiding it and I had no escape route if he did. I felt my stomach tighten and hoped the big Russian wasn’t lurking nearby.

  ‘So Sheikh Hamza, what wonderful things have you been telling our new partner about our project?’ Lawrence said.

  Hamza swallowed, ‘Well,’ he began, ‘We were discussing expected yields for the first five years….’

  ‘Bryson!’ yelled an unmistakable voice, ‘Bryson you old coot, what the hell are you doing here? I thought your whip was still lashed.’

  Before I could deny anything Martin was standing beside me and grinning wildly, ‘Didn’t you hear me Bryson? What’s wrong with you? Still drugged up after our little accident are you?’ As usual his booming unsubtle voice was already forcing people nearby to stop their own conversations and stare. ‘Well bugger all that, guess who I’ve just had a meeting with?’

  Hamza and Lawrence were both listening to him with bemused fascination.

  ‘Martin….’

  ‘Just guess.’

  ‘Martin….’ I began again and gave up. ‘I’ve no idea Martin, who?’

  ‘Orsa.’

  Oh god, he’s here.

  ‘Vladimir bloody Orsa son, how cool is that?’

  ‘He hates journalists apparently.’

  ‘Yeah doesn’t everyone, but listen,’ he tried to whisper and failed miserably. His whispers were a conversation for anyone else, ‘I’m also a businessman with connections in Sudan, know what I mean?’ he said tapping the side of his nose.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Neither could the two men beside me.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Why are you all looking at me like that?’

  ‘Because we’re all speechless,’ said Lawrence, ‘it would appear Mr. Bryson has some explaining to do.’

  Martin looked confused for a moment and then ignored Lawrence because he was saying things he thought were unimportant.

  ‘Whatever,’ he said, ‘look there’s Orsa. Hey Vlad!�
�� he yelled.

  Lawrence was beaming, Hamza looked terrified. Orsa strode across the room standing head and shoulders above the investors.

  ‘Vlad, let me introduce you to a friend.’

  ‘Oh hell.’ I said under my breath.

  I felt Orsa’s baritone before I heard it. ‘The fucking journalist,’ he said with cheerful malevolence, his granite eyes boring into me.

  ‘Hey!’ Martin laughed, ‘you’d better not be referring to me.’

  ‘He’s referring to me,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He hates journalists, remember?’ I said pointing at Orsa, ‘But the weaselly looking fella with the broken nose just loves to fuck little girls.’

  ‘Oh he’s that prick.’

  ‘Yeah he’s that prick.’

  Lawrence blushed through his tan as one or two heads turned to see who I was referring to. Their interest grew when they realized it was their platinum host.

  ‘Mr. James Lawrence, fraudster and pedophile,’ I said loudly.

  ‘I am no such thing. That is quite simply slander. Mr. Bryson, you’re just a trashy journalist looking for a cheap headline. You’re simply jealous that other honest people are making money while you scratch a living making up nasty little stories.’

  Orsa looked like he wanted to damage every single one of us. With an audience of investors he resisted the temptation and waved for security to intervene. Two impressively muscular men joined our little soiree and waited for Orsa’s command.

  Martin was scared, sweating, his face dappled with red blotches.

  ‘Bollocks to this,’ he muttered and then bellowed, ‘that man Lawrence is a child rapist you say?’ At least half the heads in the room turned to face us. Jesus what was he doing? Orsa and Lawrence’s faces told me we would be scratching the inside of coffin lids before the day was out.

  ‘Tell me again, how do you know he likes to fuck children?’ Martin looked at me with pleading eyes. The whole room was quiet and focused on us. One salesman remained undeterred still in mid-flow with a couple who were more interested in the impromptu entertainment.