Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  “There was no more fun left in life without you... so I started to find my own.”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  He hiccupped. Bonnie hoped Raymond was right about him not vomiting.

  *

  Annie Lawrence and Bridget Casey moved slowly round the shelves of Jamieson’s Supermarket. Every so often, they stopped by a display of bottles or cans and consulted what looked like a shopping list. To anyone watching, they seemed like two friends buying weekend groceries for their families.

  They were friends. The two women had known each other for some years, ever since their husbands became local officials for the Associated Union of General and Technical Workers.

  The two women turned into a new aisle. Annie pointed to a shelf. Bridget took down a bottle of cough medicine in a box while Annie checked her list.

  Annie nodded, “This is one.”

  From inside her coat, Bridget took out a page of stickers. She peeled one away from its wax paper backing and stuck it firmly on the box and replaced it on the shelf. Within minutes, the two women had stickered twenty bottles of “No Cof”, the non-sedating cough cure manufactured by the international drugs company, Norton-Hunter.

  By the time Annie and Bridget left the store, they had stickered every Norton-Hunter product they could find, including shampoos, headache pills, cures for the common cold, indigestion treatments and health drinks.

  *

  Morris Jackman, Norton-Hunter’s sales director, dropped the cardboard box on Norsteadt’s desk with a loud crash.

  “All total waste. In the last week we have been forced to pull thousands of pounds’ worth of this company’s products from supermarket shelves,” he said. “It’s happening right across the country.”

  Norsteadt looked inside the box and picked up a bottle of hair conditioner.

  “Every time fresh supplies are put on the shelves, the same thing happens.”

  Next, Norsteadt examined a carton of cough syrup. Across the front of the box, obscuring most of the packaging, was a sticky label. Norsteadt picked at it with his thumbnail. It started to tear.

  “They’re impossible to remove. We either have to scrap or repackage everything,” Jackman said.

  Norsteadt looked at the sticker again. It was a picture of a skull and crossbones, the international sign for poison. Beneath it were the words, “Justice for the Norton-Hunter Two”.

  Twenty-One

  The coach trundled through the London streets, its windscreen wipers slip-slapping back and forth trying to cope with the heavy rain. Finian walked down the aisle between the two rows of seats with a large cardboard box.

  He broke open the lid and took out an armful of plastic bags. “Pass these out,” he said to a woman close to him.

  He picked up one bag and ripped it open. “I want you all to wear one of these.” He held up a large white T-shirt. Across the front was the slogan, “Justice for the Norton-Hunter Two’. On the back was a skull and crossbones and the words, “Danger. Industrial Poisoners About’.

  “Who’s going inside?” Finian asked. Eight women and four men put up their hands. “Okay. You know the plan. Keep these covered till the right moment. And whoever gets the microphone first – go for it.”

  The coach was full, with sixty men and women, each struggling to pull T-shirts over their heads. All had either worked with Laslo Potter and Ivan Getz, or had volunteered through their branch office of the Associated Union of Technical and General Workers.

  “This is where we really stick it to them. We’re taking our campaign to the very heart of Norton-Hunter – to the owners of the company.” A cheer came up from the passengers.

  The coach pulled up to the kerb. Finian was first off. He looked at his watch. “We’ve got about thirty minutes to get set up.”

  From the back of the coach, volunteers took boxes containing flyers they would hand out, and two large banners. “We’re just a couple of streets away from the hotel... and it’s that way,” Finian said, pointing.

  Entrance to the Regent-Carlton Hotel ballroom was on a side street, away from the main door and the flow of guests. Finian split the union members into two groups: one for each side of the door. Two larger banners, calling for Norton-Hunter to admit their involvement, were held up high.

  The rain started to ease as soon as the first people arrived. “Justice for the Norton-Hunter Two... Justice for the Norton-Hunter Two... Justice for...” the group chanted. To get inside the hotel, nobody could escape passing a row of volunteers, all dressed in their special T-shirts, thrusting flyers into visitors’ hands.

  Finian was a couple of streets away, carrying out a final check. He pointed to one woman and said, “You’ve got to keep the shirt better covered or you’ll spoil everything.” The woman tugged her raincoat even tighter.

  “I want this to be a surprise, so go in singly, or in twos, and everybody – sit in different parts of the hall. That will make the effect even greater when it happens.”

  Inside the lobby of the Regent-Carlton was a sign: “Welcome to the Norton-Hunter Annual General Meeting”. A large table had been erected where people could register. By the time the union volunteers entered, two long queues already trailed back to the door.

  When the first of the union members reached the table, a pretty girl asked, “Shareholder or press?”

  “Shareholder,” the woman said, just as Finian had told them.

  For that’s what they were. The twelve members of the AUGTW were all registered shareholders of the company. Each was the official owner of just ten shares. Not a major holding, but enough for them to legitimately attend the company’s annual general meeting and vote if necessary. The shares that Finian had asked Reg Ashlin to buy had proved useful after all.

  The room was like a giant cinema, with row upon row of seats leading to a stage. It was almost full. Like many companies, Norton-Hunter looked after its shareholders. One of the big attractions was the bags of company products given away free at the end. Another was the free drinks and buffet lunch.

  On the stage, behind a row of tables and peering out at a sea of faces, sat the directors. Norsteadt had just finished his chairman’s report. The applause was thin and polite. The audience was not pleased that the value of their shares had dropped over the last few months as a result of the union campaign.

  “Now I would like to throw the meeting open to questions. There are several young ladies placed strategically round the hall with microphones.”

  Bonnie had a seat in the front row. She looked around to make sure the girls were in position.

  “If you have a question for me, or any other member of the board, just raise your hand,” Norsteadt said.

  Several hands shot up, including those of the union members. Norsteadt pointed to a woman – not one of Finian’s people – who asked about progress in finding a cure for diabetes.

  Norsteadt asked Michael Shalcross, Norton-Hunter’s director of research, to answer. He droned on for three minutes and it was clear at the end that the woman was no wiser.

  When Norsteadt asked for the next question, more hands went up. He pointed to a man who wanted to know about the company’s investment policy towards third world countries. Norsteadt handled that himself and invited the third question. Up went a dozen hands again.

  Norsteadt pointed to a woman sitting next to one of the union volunteers.

  “I did have a question but the gentleman next to me has been trying so hard to catch your eye, Mr Chairman. Would you mind if I let him have my turn?”

  “Of course not.”

  The man took the microphone and thanked her. He moved to the aisle. As he did so, his colleagues from around the hall rose and moved from their seats.

  The man cleared his throat. “In ten years...” His voice cracked and he started again. “Ten men have died in various accidents at Norton-Hunter plants.”

  Norsteadt jumped to his feet. “I don’t think that is a proper question for this gathering.”

&nb
sp; “That is one a year.” The man now had the microphone clamped firmly in his hands and wasn’t going to be put off. “The most recent were two engineers who died of a hideous wasting disease – they were just eaten away.” His voice was getting stronger with each word.

  “Please sit down,” Norsteadt said.

  Normally, question and answer sessions at any annual general meeting were just a boring ritual, of no interest to anybody except the person asking the questions; just a hurdle to be cleared on the way to the free drink and food at the end.

  Suddenly, people realised this was different. They craned their necks to see the man.

  “Despite repeated attempts by the Associated Union of General and Technical Workers, justice has been denied. What do the employees of Norton-Hunter have to do to ensure they are properly protected? And, if something does happen, that their families are decently looked after?”

  There was silence throughout the room. As everyone tried to take in what he had said, the twelve union members started to move. From their places around the hall they came towards the stage, and the board. Stripping off their jackets and coats, they revealed the special T-shirts handed out by Finian. At the platform they turned, linked arms and faced the audience.

  Bonnie was first to understand what was happening. She rushed to a member of the hotel’s security staff who stood in a corner. “Get those morons out of here. Now.”

  The security man shouted orders into a mobile phone.

  “And don’t bother to be gentle,” Bonnie said.

  Security staff flooded the room from all sides and started escorting the union members out of the hall. They had made their protest; there was no point in resistance.

  One woman started to limp. She stopped to hold onto a seat to steady herself. As her escort loosened his grip, she took a handful of leaflets from inside her coat and hurled them into the audience. They fluttered down and people grabbed at them to find out what was going on.

  The commotion caused by people grabbing leaflets distracted the other escorts. As they looked away, each of their charges threw hundreds more leaflets into the air.

  Norsteadt was shaken. He stood up. His hands were trembling, but he didn’t let it show. Bonnie’s training was working again. “Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to apologise on behalf of the company for what has happened. There will be an immediate enquiry into how this breach of security occurred. In the meantime, I can tell you that those responsible will not be allowed to get away with this... this... disgraceful action.”

  Bonnie followed the last of the protesters from the room. As she emerged from the dim light of the hall, bright television lights forced her to screw up her eyes.

  “How in God’s name did they know this was going to happen?” she said out loud and then looked to a man being interviewed by a television reporter on the pavement.

  “This is just one more step in an on-going campaign by the union.” Finian said.

  “No, my friend, this was the last step in a campaign that has run its course,” she said.

  *

  Finian leaned forward and switched off the DVD player.

  “Just one more time,” said Reg Ashlin. “The bit where Norsteadt is running for his car and Bonnie fends off the microphones.”

  “I shouldn’t laugh at my own daughter, but it was funny,” Nathan said.

  Finian and Nathan had joined Ashlin and Cook for a celebratory drink in the union offices. Cook passed Finian the whisky bottle to refill his glass.

  The phone on Ashlin’s desk started to ring. Cook took a brief call and replaced the receiver. “That was security. There’s a young man downstairs with a letter,” Cook said.

  “So what?”

  Cook looked worried. “It’s a hand delivery – for you personally. He’s on his way up.”

  A young man appeared at the office door. “Mr Ashlin?” he asked looking at the four men.

  “That’s me.”

  “My name is Philip Kawasaki. I have a letter for you. But I need you to sign for it first.” He produced a formal-looking sheet of paper. Ashlin scribbled his name.

  “I’m with Jackson, Rhodes and Ray. We’re solicitors to Norton-Hunter,” Kawasaki said. “This is for you.” He gave Ashlin an envelope and left.

  Ashlin opened it in the now silent gathering and read the letter. He passed it to Cook and sat down in his chair.

  “They’re going for an injunction. There’s a High Court hearing tomorrow.”

  “It looks like we’ve really got them pissed now,” Finian said.

  “What are you going to do?” Nathan asked.

  “We’re going to defend it. We haven’t come this far just for fun,” Ashlin said.

  The phone rang again. This time Nathan was closest and instinctively picked up the receiver. Before he could say anything, a voice rapped, “Finian.”

  Nathan quickly put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I think it’s Bonnie – for you.”

  Finian took the receiver and he could hear Bonnie shouting, “Finn, Finn, I know you’re there.”

  “What do you want, Bonnie?”

  “You’ve really gone too far now. If we can’t stop your stupidity, perhaps the courts can,” she said.

  “My dear sister, isn’t this taking sibling rivalry a little too far?”

  “Bastard,” she yelled and slammed down the phone.

  *

  Unlike the day before, the sun was shining. Finian and Cook agreed to meet Josh Sukula QC outside the High Court, in the Strand. Sukula had represented the union in many cases over the years.

  “I see we’re before Mr Justice Dangar,” Sukula said.

  “What’s he like?” Finian asked.

  Sukula shrugged. “Not as barmy as some of the old farts.” He looked across the Strand. “That worries me more.” Sukula pointed towards Oliver Postgate QC. He was talking to Norsteadt and Bonnie. “The opposition is looking even more smug than normal.”

  The three were joined by a fourth man. He had been running and seemed breathless. He took what looked like a thick file from his briefcase and passed it to Postgate. The barrister quickly scanned the pages and said something to Norsteadt. Norsteadt beamed and slapped the man on the back.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Finian asked.

  “I don’t like what I see,” Sukula said.

  As Sukula left them, Finian said, “It should be me and Norsteadt in there. Not a couple of barristers acting as surrogate champions.”

  *

  The hearing had been going for thirty minutes and Postgate was in full flow. “There is no evidence that the two men were poisoned. In fact an autopsy showed nothing unusual, except of course their unfortunate wasting.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No, my Lord. Nothing but the presence of an enzyme known in the medical profession as B-Gal,” Postgate said. “While there is no explanation for it being there, I am assured it has no bearing on this case.”

  Mr Justice Dangar glanced at Sukula, who seemed to accept what was said.

  “Furthermore, the union contends that these two men contracted some form of industrial poisoning while going about their duties as maintenance engineers,” he said. “The result of this was that they developed a wasting disease which led to their deaths.”

  “That seems to be the nub of the matter,” said the judge.

  “This is a sworn affidavit from Mr Foster Crawford, the company’s personnel director.” Postgate opened what looked like the same file he had been given earlier.

  “So that’s who he was,” Sukula said quietly.

  Postgate looked at a note. “It says that for the past two years Mr Potter and Mr Getz were not part of a two-man team – but in fact there was a third man.”

  Sukula turned to the two sitting behind him: his supporting junior barrister and the union’s solicitor, Margot Rorty. “What’s he getting at?” Sukula asked.

  Rorty shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows?”

  “He was a Mr Freddy Goug
h. The work records of this team are attached to the affidavit.”

  “Where is this taking us, Mr Postgate?” the judge asked.

  “A few more moments, my Lord, and I think all will be clear.” Sukula scowled at Postgate. “Mr Gough also goes by a nickname – Two Pies. The reason for that will be apparent once you have seen a photograph of the man.”

  Postgate passed over an envelope to the court usher.

  “You will see that the man is... substantial. In fact he is well over twenty stone. I also have here a copy of his most recent medical examination. That was held only last week and shows him weighing in at...” Postgate paused for effect, “twenty-one stone, three pounds.”

  “Let’s not forget the three pounds,” Sukula said quietly.

  “I have no reason to believe that things have changed in the last few days.”

  “We’ve been sand-bagged.” Sukula said in a whisper to his junior.

  “Your contention is what?” the judge asked.

  “My contention is, my Lord, that the union’s claim is fundamentally flawed. There is no way that the two deceased could have contracted the wasting disease while working on Norton-Hunter business. If they did, how was it that Mr Freddy ‘Two-Pies’ Gough was spared?”

  Sukula slid down in his seat. There was a groan from his junior.

  “Mr Sukula obviously sees the wisdom of your case,” said Dangar. “As do I.”

  Sukula knew what was coming and started to pull together his papers.

  “We have heard much circumstantial evidence – but nothing that directly links the company to the deaths of the two men. Medical evidence has been produced, but none that throws light on the cause of death.

  “Because of the harm the union’s campaign has done to the business of Norton-Hunter, and the effect it has had on businesses associated with it, I am granting Norton-Hunter an injunction, banning the activities of the Associated Union of General and Technical Workers... immediately.”

  Outside, Finian and Cook waited for Sukula and Rorty. “I wish I had known about their fat friend before,” Sukula said when they emerged.

  Rorty shook her head. “I don’t know if it would have made any difference. They had us beat.”