Clapham Lights (12 page)

‘No, it’s not that.’

There is a buzzing noise coming from Emma’s pocket. She types out a text whilst Craig carries on trying to explain what he is looking for.

‘Look Craig,’ she cuts in, ‘I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you at the moment.’ She gets to her feet. ‘Keep checking our website. If you do see anything you like, or you have second thoughts about the IM-Mobile job, get in touch.’

She leaves the room and trots backs downstairs. It takes Craig a
couple
of minutes to realise she’s not coming back, so he lets himself out.

It’s muggy on Clapham High Street. There are extensive roadworks and large swathes of the pavement are cordoned off meaning
pedestrians
have to walk between plastic barriers that curve out into the road. Buses, cars and vans crawl along and the traffic grinds to a halt every few seconds. A deep hole outside of Boots containing a damaged pipe is filling up with water but the workmen in high-visibility vests don’t seem concerned. An old women and a greasy teenage girl in a tracksuit have stopped in the middle of the pavement for a chat, oblivious to the people trying to get past.

Craig buys himself a Lucozade from Somerfield and then waits at a bus stop on Clapham Common next to a hunched man in a tweed flat cap who is grumbling to himself. He calls two other recruitment agencies and cancels his appointments.

A number 345 bus arrives but he hasn’t got enough money on his Oyster to travel so he’s forced to get off. He throws his empty plastic bottle in the bin and trudges home.

The wireless Xbox controller has run out of batteries. After minutes of fruitless searching, Craig takes the batteries out of the remote control to his television. He kicks off his running trainers and resumes England v Holland in the World Cup semi-final on
Pro
Evolution Soccer.

The sun starts shining directly onto the screen, so he pauses the game and lowers the blinds. Then the wireless controller stops working again. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says, turning the Xbox off.

He flicks on a Keane CD and goes into the kitchen where he takes his last two slices of bread from the freezer and drops them into the toaster. There is no butter in the fridge and no spreads in the cupboards so he has to eat them dry.

He goes to his room and counts the 1p and 2p coins he collects in a jar. It comes to £1.24. He loads them into his pocket, puts his trainers back on and walks to Asda.

‘I
ordered for you, Mark. I hope you don’t mind,’ Harry Todd says. ‘I thought you might not come.’

‘No,’ Mark says, slipping his suit jacket over the back of the cow hide-covered seat. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘You are almost an hour and a half late.’

‘I got stuck in the office and the tubes were delayed. I got lost on the way here as well.’

‘I thought you would know this area well.’

‘Why would I know Kensington?’

‘I thought it’s where the young and wealthy go partying, at least it used to be.’

‘No. We all go out in the City or Soho.’

Harry pours Mark a glass of wine. The restaurant, an Argentine Abattoir steakhouse, is air-conditioned and dark. The tinted windows let in almost no light and the interior décor is all black. Framed cow hides hang on the walls near the open kitchen, which is the only part of the restaurant fully illuminated. Thirty candle-lit tables are well spread across the floor, and all occupied.

Despite the cool atmosphere, Harry is still sweaty. He is wearing a starched white shirt and blue silk tie. The hair he has remaining around the sides and back of his head has been neatly trimmed and he is wearing a new, more modern pair of frameless glasses.

‘You do like steaks don’t you?’ he asks.

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Well, vegetarians,’ Harry says, pouring the remains of the white wine into his own glass. ‘I like this restaurant. I brought my wife here after we’d been to the open-air opera in Holland Park. Have you ever been to the opera, Mark?’

‘I went once, on a trip with work. To be honest, I didn’t enjoy it.’

‘What did you see?’

‘Umm, I can’t remember what it was called.
Der Fieldmouse
, or something like that.’

‘
Die Fledermaus
?’

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

‘I’m not a fan either.’

Harry excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He has lost weight since their last meeting and has less trouble getting up.

Two plates of oysters and crab cakes are delivered to the table. Mark orders another bottle of Harry’s choice of wine, examines an oyster and puts it back into the ice.

Harry drops back down onto his seat and arranges his napkin. Mark says that he’d rather just eat the crab cakes as he doesn’t particularly like seafood. Harry offers to order him something else but Mark declines.

They polish off a second bottle of wine as Harry gives Mark an insight into the bitter rivalry that exists between the Kent and East
Sussex
branches of the Kent and East Sussex Regional Development Agency, and lectures him about the campaign for his home town, Maidstone, to become European Capital of Culture 2019. Mark doesn’t attempt to conceal his boredom.

The main courses arrive: two huge fillet steaks with peppercorn and mustard sauces, and three side orders.

‘I’m trying to watch what I eat,’ Harry says, pouring mustard sauce over his mixed salad. ‘I went to see the doctor the other day and my
cholesterol
reading was forty-eight.’

‘What should it be?’

‘About five.’

‘Oh.’

‘The doctor said that there’s a real chance my heart could give in at any moment, unless I change. I’m to avoid stressful situations and intense physical activity.’

‘Shouldn’t be that hard,’ Mark says, chewing on a hunk of medium-rare steak.

‘It’s harder than you think, Mark. Talking of stressful situations, isn’t your appraisal coming up soon?’

Mark stops cutting his meat. ‘Yes. It’s next Friday. How do you know?’

‘I was sent an email by Justin Fortesque.’

‘Oh,’ Mark says, concern spreading over his face. ‘What did he say?’

‘He asked for some feedback on your performance.’

‘Harry, let me explain.’

‘No, let me finish, Mark,’ he says putting his cutlery down. ‘Justin said there was a big bonus pool this year and that my feedback would be important when deciding what slice of the pie ends up in your back pocket.’

‘Harry, look, I think it’s important to realise that although you may not think I’ve been-’

‘Mark, relax, relax.’ Harry twists round in his seat and produces two sheets of A4 from his suit. ‘What I’ve done is drafted a couple of emails to Justin. Let me read them to you while you get on with your meal. Here’s the first one,’ Harry says, lowering his glasses:

‘
Dear Justin, thanks for your email, I’d be more than happy to provide some feedback on Mark
.

‘
I cannot speak highly enough of the young man. He is a credit to your company. Mark has made investing with MenDax, which I expected to be complex and stressful, an absolute pleasure. His encyclopaedic knowledge of foreign investment markets has helped KESRDA reap returns in the first quarter which I didn’t think possible
.

‘
I had met with a number of representatives of companies similar to your own but Mark’s enthusiasm and professionalism really stood out and were decisive factors when it came to deciding who to invest with. Whenever I have a question or query, Mark is always on hand with an answer which is testament to his exemplary work ethic
.

‘
He has done a magnificent job for KESRDA and deserves to be rewarded handsomely for his efforts. It has been a privilege to have such an intelligent and capable young man as Mark working on our behalf. Regards, Harry
.’

‘That’s perfect Harry, thanks,’ Mark says, exhaling. ‘I was a bit worried for a minute there. Shall we get some more drinks?’ He looks around for a waiter.

‘I think you may like to hear version two first, Mark.’

‘Look, Harry, it doesn’t really matter, I’m not fussed about the wording. The first one is perfect, so just send that.’

Harry stares at him. ‘I think you should hear the other email.’

‘OK, if you insist,’ Mark says, glugging down more wine. ‘The steak
is beautiful. Don’t let yours get cold.’

‘
Dear Justin
,’ Harry reads,
‘thanks for your email, I’d be more than happy to provide some feedback on Mark
.

‘
Since I first met Mark in May I have been astonished by his work ethic and professionalism
.’

‘Harry, I told you, just send whatever.’

‘Mark, let me finish,’ he continues, not looking up from the paper in front of him. ‘
I have been astonished by his work ethic and professionalism because they are both non-existent. Initially I was impressed with Mark. He seemed to have a detailed knowledge of the investment markets and spoke at length about MenDax. KESRDA made the decision to invest with MenDax in good faith, encouraged by the close relationship that MenDax likes to harbour with its investors and promises of regular meetings and performance updates.

However, since we officially invested on 2
^nd
June this year, Mark has not been in contact with me once, despite my repeated phone calls and emails. All the KESRDA has received is a one-line email from your accounts department to acknowledge that our money has been received. Having invested such a vast amount I am appalled by the utter disrespect that both I and the KESRDA have been treated with, and as our supposed investment portfolio manager I hold Mark Hunter solely responsible. I have absolutely no idea where our money has gone, whether it has actually been invested as promised, or if it’s just sitting in MenDax’s petty cash. As an FD, this is a completely unacceptable situation and if we are not fully informed within seven days of exactly what has happened to our money we will have no option but to start legal proceedings to recover it
.’

‘Woooaah, whooaah, hang on. It’s been invested like I said,’ Mark counters.

‘Really? And you know that do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me finish.
Mark promised that we could withdraw our money instantly but having studied the investor information on your website, I discovered that MenDax require twelve months’ notice if you wish to withdraw investments of over one million pounds. Incidentally, Mark also told me that MenDax have a corporate box at the Oval cricket ground which I, as a client, may be invited to use. I telephoned the Oval out of curiosity and no such box exists
.’

‘I didn’t mean the Oval, I meant Lord’s.’

‘I’ve not finished yet.
Mark Hunter is without doubt the most unprofessional, duplicitous and clueless individual I have had the misfortune to deal with during my long career. How he manages to keep his job is a complete mystery to me and can only be the result of a severe managerial oversight. The thought of Mark making any financial gains from the KESRDA investment, into which he has put in a grand total of just over an hour’s work at a pizza restaurant, is totally abhorrent to me. Whatever you decide to award Mark, he won’t have earned a penny of it, if my experience is anything to go by. Regards, Harry Todd
.’

Mark sits back in his chair and runs his hands down his face.

‘So, Mark, tell me which would you rather me send?’

‘You can’t send the second one.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Because if you do, I’ll show everyone that picture you sent me. What would your wife say? What would they say at work?’

‘I don’t think you’re in a position to make threats, Mark. Besides my wife and my colleagues know I’m bisexual. You started this. You tried to seduce me. You gave me a business card saying you wanted to suck my tits.’

‘That business card was a mistake. It wasn’t meant for you.’

‘Come on, Mark. I saw you looking at them all the way through that lunch.’

‘Only because they were bursting out of your shirt. It was hard to miss.’

‘You like them, Mark, don’t you?’ Harry says, subtly cupping his left breast.

‘No, I don’t like them,’ he says angrily. ‘Not at all.’

A waiter breaks the tension by asking if they are enjoying their meals. Mark doesn’t say anything.

Harry spoons some more new potatoes onto his plate. ‘Do you want your bonus, Mark?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Do you need it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I mean
really
need it.’

‘Yes, I really need it.’

‘How much?’

‘Desperately.’

‘It would be a real shame if I sent the second email to Justin, wouldn’t it?’

‘Please don’t. I need that money. If I don’t get it, I’m in serious trouble. It makes no difference to you. Do you know how much money I earn?’ Mark says, stabbing his fork into his last piece of steak. ‘Forty grand. Forty grand! How am I meant to survive on that? I need my bonus to live. Do you want me out on the streets, eating out of dustbins? Would it make you happy if I was begging outside a tube station with people throwing coins into my Paul Smith trilby? If I don’t get this bonus I’m finished, Harry, finished. I’ve got responsibilities. I want to put down a deposit on a flat in Imperial Wharf and I’ve got to pay for next year’s ski trip to Meribel. You can send the email if you want, but you’ll have to live for the rest of your life with me on your conscience.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic. It’s quite simple, Mark. I’ll send Justin a glowing report, but you have to fulfil your end of the bargain. You be a good lad and you’ll get your bonus.’

‘I’ll do whatever you want. We’ll have a weekly meeting, in whichever restaurant you want, on me. I’ll send daily investment updates, close of play every day. I’ll give you forecasts for the next ten years. I’ll get tickets for the Test match at the Oval. I’ll pay for them myself.’

‘That’s very generous of you, Mark, but I don’t want any of those things. Let’s get another drink first.’

Harry orders two bottles of Domingo Molina 2008 and proposes a toast.

‘It’s this way,’ Harry says, pointing down Phillimore Walk. It has gone ten o’clock but the night sky is bright.

Mark drags his feet and hiccups. Harry holds him under his arm and leads him towards Holland Park, which is less than a hundred yards away. An elderly man walking two Dalmatians eyes Mark with contempt as he passes. Mark looks back over his shoulder and walks straight into a metal bollard, hitting his knee. Harry rubs it for him when they stop for a rest at the gate.

The pathway is well lit, but tall, groaning trees shroud the central areas in darkness. Harry takes Mark along a path away from the noise of traffic on Kensington High Street and the pair stagger deeper into the
park. They cross into an ornamental garden and stop behind a hedge which shields them from potential onlookers.

‘I feel sick,’ Mark says, hands on knees and spitting at the ground.

‘Get it up,’ Harry says, patting him on the back.

‘It’s not coming.’ Mark stands up straight. ‘I need some water.’

‘You can have some water afterwards. Let’s get this over with. Come on, quick.’

A car alarm is going off in the distance and a dog is barking. Harry takes his tie off and stuffs it in his pocket, then pulls his shirt out of his trousers and unbuttons it. It flaps open in the breeze exposing his
colossal
stomach which sags down over his beltline. Mark stands side-on to him, leaning against the hedge.

Harry licks his index fingers and rubs his big pink nipples, closes his eyes and starts shuddering.

‘Come here, come here,’ he says, holding out his arm. ‘Come here.’

‘Don’t make me do it. Don’t make me do it,’ Mark pleads.

Harry yanks him by the shoulder. ‘You’ll do this because you want the money. Now stop messing around and get on with it before
somebody
sees us.’

He opens the left half of his shirt and jangles his breast. The scent of Old Spice wafts into the air. His chest is thick with hair and his nipples are erect. ‘Come here, Mark, come here.’

Mark leans in and Harry clamps his hand on the back of Mark’s head, drawing it forcefully to his bosom. Mark’s protests are muted by flesh.

‘Suck them, Mark, suck them. Like you said you wanted to. Don’t just put your face there. I want to feel your lips.’ Harry holds him in a headlock. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Like a piglet.’

Mark beats Harry’s chest. ‘I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,’ he cries.

‘Keep your voice down.’