The Mark and the Void (40 page)

I step out of the lift to find the office submerged in a kind of silent panic, a frantic gloom that envelops everything like a fog. Through windows, around corners, senior management can be seen having agitated conversations, then hurrying off in different directions. I go to my desk, moving calmly, as if I am being watched.

The man in black is in Liam English’s office, interviewing staff.

‘One of the accounts got tapped,’ Gary McCrum says in a low voice.

‘Whose?’ Jocelyn Lockhart says. ‘How much was taken?’

Gary McCrum shrugs.

‘What’s going to happen?’ Kevin asks.

‘They’re talking to everyone,’ Gary says. ‘But I reckon they already know who it was.’

‘Who? And … how?’

‘And how’s he supposed to’ve done it?’

‘I heard there was some security fuck-up the night of the margin call,’ Brent ‘Crude’ Kelleher says. ‘A bunch of doors got left open. Including back office.’

‘They think someone went in there?’

‘They found something on the floor the next day.’

‘I heard that too,’ Terry Fosco joins in huskily, spinning round in his chair. ‘I heard they found a Goldman Sachs business card.’

‘I heard it was a USB key,’ Dave Davison says from the water cooler, ‘and on it there was a virus the IT people had never seen before.’

‘It was a sweet wrapper,’ Thomas ‘Yuan’ McGregor says. His eyes are bleary: he has been summoned from his bed.

‘A
sweet
wrapper?’

‘What, back office don’t eat sweets?’

At that moment, the office door opens and everyone falls silent. An apparatchik from Sales emerges, looking pale and traumatized. He glances at us, then steps quickly away, fingering his collar. Liam English comes to the threshold with Rachael and the man in black. Rachael is holding a clipboard, in a cursory way that makes it look like a prop. The man in black looks over the room; his eyes, quite without life or expression, pause on me …

‘David Davison,’ Rachael calls.

‘Fuck,’ Dave mutters, getting to his feet.

‘You think it was him?’ Kevin says breathlessly, once the door closes. ‘Dave?’

‘They’re talking to everyone, you tool,’ Gary says.

‘Well
someone’s
in for it,’ Jocelyn says, then rolls back to his desk.

The others follow suit; I turn to my terminal, where the numbers scroll across my screen, twittering among themselves like birds, amidst a general silence so taut you could punch a hole in it –

The lift doors open. Ish bounces across the floor, autumn air clinging to her coat. ‘Hey, guess what! The Ark’s reopened!’

‘Oh yes, I saw that,’ smiling at her queasily.

‘Want to come and have a look?’

‘I don’t think anyone’s supposed to leave.’

‘They’re interviewing
alphabetically
. They won’t get to us till midnight. Come on, Claude, a coffee at least …’

My limbs are heavy as stone; I don’t think I have the strength to go anywhere, except maybe to hide under my desk. Ish, however, won’t take no for an answer.

‘Pretty mental, isn’t it?’ she says in the lift. ‘You think it’s true? Someone’s pulled a Pierrot?’

I shrug, burble nothings.

‘I heard it was the Dublex account,’ she says, and then, ‘Where’d you go earlier?’

I tell her about the birthday party, and Paul’s good news.

‘For real this time? He’s not trying to knock the place off again?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Sounds like someone’s beaten him to it, anyway,’ Ish remarks.

I thought I’d feel better once I got into the fresh air. Instead the dread only seems to intensify, sparking in my hair and teeth and fingertips.

‘Claude!’ Ariadne throws her arms around me when we step through the door. ‘We’re back! Can you believe it?’

‘Yes, it’s very good,’ I stammer at her weakly.

‘An investor comes out of nowhere, give us everything we needed. We don’t even know who he is! I thought maybe it’s someone you called?’

‘One of my clients? Hmm, no, no, I don’t think so …’

She seats us, gives us menus, scampers away again. Ish gives me a long look. ‘All coming up roses for your mates today, isn’t it?’

I wrinkle my forehead perplexedly. ‘ “
Coming up roses
… ”?’

She laughs. ‘All right, never mind.’

The Ark is aglow. The light seems warmer, the smells sweeter than ever before; the waitresses beam at each other as they pass with their trays. Even the customers seem enlivened, swiping their phones with a flourish, adding winks and grins to their presentations, treating themselves to an extra sachet of artificial sweetener. But the celebratory atmosphere only makes me feel more remote, like I’m a hole that’s been cut out of the page.

‘So tell us about this book, then,’ Ish prompts. ‘It’s the same set-up as before? All about you?’

‘Well, about a fictional Everyman,’ I say. ‘Working in a bank.’

‘And what’s the story?’

‘Paul has not decided yet,’ I say with difficulty. ‘But he is thinking that perhaps the banker … ah … robs the bank.’

‘Robs it?’

‘Yes …’ On the tabletop, my phone flashes awake a moment, then darkens again. ‘Yes, only … only …’

‘He fucks it up,’ Ish says.

My eyes snap up. Ish looks back at me expressionlessly.

‘He leaves something behind,’ she says. ‘They’re on to him straight away.’

I gulp, cover it up with a sip of coffee that makes me gag in turn. ‘That seems to be how the story’s going,’ I admit.

Ish’s kind eyes study me with concern. ‘Bit of a downer, eh? As an ending?’

‘It’s probably more realistic,’ I say stoically.

‘Couldn’t there be a twist or something?’

‘What sort of a twist?’

Ish looks down at her hands for a long time. ‘How about he’s got a mate?’

‘Who does?’

‘The banker. He’s got a mate, and his mate’s got – she’s got something the bank doesn’t want anyone to see.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a report,’ she says. ‘On a flash drive.’ Everything freezes. I feel my mouth drop open, my eyes stare like they’re going to pop out of my head. ‘He told her to get rid of it, but she didn’t,’ she continues. ‘And the day the government’s about to approve the bailout, she sends it to the newspapers.’ A shaft of sea-light tumbles through the window, flashes from the last blonde streaks in her hair. The strangest sensation steals over me, as if an invisible sun, hidden for decades behind an eclipse, were for the first time coming into view.

‘If people knew what the bank had been up to, might be tricky to justify bailing it out, mightn’t it?’ she muses. ‘And without the bailout … well, it’s goodbye bank.’ She glances over her shoulder in the direction of Transaction House, as if half-expecting to see it crumbling into dust here and now.

‘She’d lose her job.’ I am barely able to speak.

‘She’d lose her job of being an arsehole,’ she says. ‘She’d probably be grateful.’

I flop back in my chair. The space around me has taken on a wild, kinetic feel, as if it’s gained an extra dimension.

‘Why?’ I say.

‘Eh?’

‘Why does she do it?’

‘Why did
you
do it?’ she returns. My cheeks flare; she softens. ‘Some things are too big to fail, aren’t they?’

Outside, the rainbow flag cracks in the wind; the blue air seems to tinkle, as if with secret chimes. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘Just seemed like a better ending,’ she says.

‘So what would you do next?’

‘It’s not me, is it, it’s the character.’

‘Okay, what does the character do? In the epilogue? I can tell Paul.’

‘I don’t know … maybe she takes up anthropology again. Goes back to the island, lives with the tribe, tries to help stop them being washed away.’

‘That would work.’

‘Then she meets a handsome island chieftain and falls in love.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s tall, has a nice body.’

‘Of course.’

‘And he’s really good at racquetball.’

‘Let me write this down.’

‘What about you, Claude? What happens to you?’

Before I can reply, Ariadne appears at the table with a plate of baklava. ‘You want to try?’ she says. ‘I have changed the recipe.’

She waits while we dig in with our spoons.

‘Fuck,’ Ish says. ‘This is incredible.’

‘
Nostimo
,’ I agree. ‘Very
nostimo
.’

‘That’s because this time I use Greek honey,’ Ariadne says;
then adds, looking at me, ‘Once you taste it, always you will be coming back for more.’

With that, she dances away again. Ish raises an eyebrow.

‘What?’ I say.

‘You need to ask her out.’

‘In the book, you mean?’ I say. ‘Or in real life?’

Ish grins at me over her cup.

‘That’s up to you, mate,’ she says. ‘That’s up to you.’

Thanks to Simon Prosser, Mitzi Angel, Anna Kelly and Caroline Pretty for their invaluable editorial work; to Natasha Fairweather for her support and insight; and to all at United Agents. Thanks to Donna Tartt for her inspired early reading. Thanks also to Anna Ridley, Cliona Lewis, Patricia McVeigh, Neil Stewart, Mark C. O’Flaherty, Tim Jarvis, Ronan Kelly, Jonathan Hanly, Jon Ihle, Stephen McGovern, Adam Kelly, Sarah Bannan and Linda Fallon. A big
ευχαριστώ
to Viviana Miliaresi for all of her help. Thanks to the Arts Council of Ireland, An Chomhairle Ealaíon, for their financial assistance. Miriam and Sam – for real life, my love and gratitude to you always.

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.

First published 2015

Copyright © Paul Murray, 2015

The moral right of the author has been asserted

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-141-96894-0