Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) (4 page)

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We walked up the stairs to the flat and bumped into Gill. She offered me a bed for the night. That puzzled me a bit until we were inside. I couldn't switch on the TV. They had cut off the electricity. It was still light enough to go through all the letters and photos in the small leather case. I kept some and threw out others. I went to Bill's cupboard and put his clothes into two black bags and carried them to the living room. That would be for Oxfam or some other charity.

I kept thinking about Dad's letter as I walked around the flat, putting some photos, a few family things, jazz CDs and a few books in his large brown suitcase.

Bill's favourite Louis Armstrong CD, a photo of Dad and Mum and her engagement ring were put in the side pocket of my backpack. My passport and birth certificate went in my inside jacket pocket. There was nothing for me here. Might as well go to London. Far more opportunities there. Try to find Sandy. There was just enough money to get there. I could be a waiter, get a job in a shop or something. Had plenty of experience selling fish and chips.

When I was finished, I felt much better. I had made a decision. The backpack and sleeping bag were on the bed, with a towel, trousers, shirts, socks and a few other things. It was beginning to get dark. After feeding the dog, I had a lukewarm bath and got into Dad's bed. It made me feel close to him.

The early morning sun woke me up. Jazz was fast asleep in the corner of the room. I thought of Dad's letter and remembered Baton examining the battered basket. By mentioning it in his letter, Bill had obviously made the liquidator suspicious. Jazz woke up, jumped out of the basket, stretched and wagged his tail. I went over to the corner where he slept, picked up the basket and took out the dog's cushion. I felt the basket to see whether there was a false bottom or hidden compartment or something. Same as Baton, I found nothing.

Just when I was about to put it back in the corner, I noticed that the floorboard wasn't nailed down. I knelt down and touched the board. It moved slightly. I took out my pocketknife, pushed it into a crack and started loosening the floorboard. It came out. The gap was about a foot long and about four inches wide. A crumpled newspaper was inside. I pulled out the paper and found a black metal box. It was locked. I lay flat on the floor, put my hand in the hole and found the key. Jazz cocked his head when the box opened. Inside were two envelopes. The first was another letter from Dad.

The letter was dated June 17, about a fortnight before Bill died. It said that there was a document in the other envelope. I was the owner of 600 OilFinder Global Ltd and 500 MineDeep World Ltd shares, which Dad had transferred into my name. He wrote that he had once saved a mining prospector from drowning. The grateful geologist gave him the shares. They were worth around ten thousand pounds, the letter said.

I opened the second envelope and found the document. It said that the shares were registered in the name of Jack Miner. Bank Gorde, Amsterdam was holding them in safekeeping. I couldn't understand why Bill was banking with a Dutch bank, but I suppose he wanted to keep the shares a long way from the creditors. If he knew that he was bankrupt and owed people money, he should not have given me the shares. Baton was looking for his investments.

The letter added that if there were any further questions, the bank should call Fred Carrender, the prospector. Carrender lived in Johannesburg, South Africa. His address and telephone number were in the letter. A folded paper napkin was at the bottom of the box. I picked it up and notes fell on to the floor. They came to £250. I put the empty box back into the hiding place, found a hammer and some nails and nailed down the corner plank. Knowing that Baton was bound to investigate further, I decided that I had better leave Bridlington soon. I didn't know anything about the stock market, investing and that sort of stuff and had to find out what I should do about those OilFinder and MineDeep shares.

I looked through a few of Dad's old books and found: 'Investing In The Stock Market'. Before putting the book in my rucksack, I paged through it. People could buy and sell shares through any bank or stockbroker. They could be sold in London.

After Jazz helped me finish the remaining milk, bits of cereal and a half loaf of stale bread, I wrote a note to Mrs Derby.

Dear Gill,

I've decided to go to London. Thanks for all you have done for me. I'll keep in contact.

See you,

Love Jack

P.S. Here's £50 towards your rent. I'll try and pay it all some time. Please don't tell Baton where I've gone and look after Bill's suitcase. You can give the bags to Oxfam.

With the backpack and sleeping bag strapped on, I struggled downstairs with the suitcase. I left it with the flat's keys outside her front door and put the letter through the letter box. It was around 6.30am that Friday when we made our way towards the station. Only street cleaners were around.

4 -
THE
BROKER

I was thinking about Sandy as the train entered King's Cross Station. Dreamed that I would bump into her on the street and we would hug each other. I could still taste that kiss and feel the grain of sand between our lips.

The Tourist Office gave me some maps. I bought a guidebook and worked out how to get to Hampstead. My backpack and sleeping bag were dumped at 'Left Luggage', but I kept my passport, documents and cash. I had only been to London twice with Dad. We went to tourist places like Oxford Street, the Tower of London and best of all, Chelsea football ground. The score was Newcastle United 2 Chelsea 1. We, the Newcastle supporters, went wild.

Jazz edged close to me on the escalator on the way to the underground. The air was stale and hot. Down below the place was grim. All those people crowded on a narrow platform, fighting for space, pushing us towards the edge. We waited and waited. The crackling sound system blared out something. No one could make out what the announcer was saying. Probably explaining why the trains were late. About half an hour later, we heard what had happened. A woman had fallen on the line and a train had hit her.

'Another suicide!' complained a commuter. 'Why here? Why don't they just take an overdose?'

Men, women, children and a dog stepped back, cramming each other towards the back wall. Better to be squashed and safe.

A train arrived at last. We shoved our way into the packed carriage. Passengers, like cattle, crowded into the narrow space between the doors. It was remarkable how the long aisle between the seats was virtually empty. The crowd had no common sense. I headed for the aisle, keeping the dog between my legs. Relief. After a few stops a seat was vacant. Just after Camden Town, midway to Hampstead, the train coughed and spluttered and came to a halt. The coach was boiling hot. An old guy opposite me looked as if he was about to faint. I offered him my bottle of water. He shook his head.

A man next to me was reading a newspaper and I glanced at the story. Moscow Narodsky, a Russian bank, had crashed because of fraud. British banks that had loaned money to the Russians could lose money. I leaned over, trying to read the sports pages. The Ashes Test was starting. England against Australia. Cricket at Lord's. Mike Swann, Sandy's cousin was playing.

We sat in the train without air conditioning. Waiting and boiling. Nothing happened. Twenty minutes passed by, but it seemed much longer. At last the train began to move. First a jolt, then slowly forward. The doors opened at Chalk Farm, the next station. Relieved passengers escaped. Then on again until we arrived at Hampstead. The guidebook said it was the deepest station in London, but only one lift was working. The queue was long and the lift slow. Fed up, I decided to walk and Jazz and I panted our way up the narrow winding stairs in semi-darkness. They went on forever.

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We were outside at last. It was a beautiful day and Hampstead looked great. According to the guidebook it was one of London's 'villages', but was only about four to five miles from the West End and the City. McDonalds was near the station and I bought two hamburgers for Jazz and myself. I wondered where Sandy was staying as we slipped into Flask Walk, a quiet street with quaint little shops. I sat down on a bench outside a pub and shared the hamburgers with Jazz. The dog was so thirsty that he lapped up all the water in the pub's bowl.

Afterwards we went back to the high street, down the hill past some banks and restaurants and shops. I couldn't believe how much everything cost. Ties for forty pounds and Polo shirts for a hundred. Cars including a Porche and Ferrari were trapped in a traffic jam on the narrow street.

A community centre, near a post office and next to a flower shop, was across the road. I saw a notice board and went over to see whether I could find work and somewhere to stay. There was nothing for me, just cleaners, nannies and typists looking for jobs and leaflets about meditation, fitness and art classes.

Stalls selling second-hand clothes, jewellery and bookstalls were inside the community centre. A dark blue tracksuit cost seven pounds, with a T-shirt thrown in. At a second-hand bookstall, I paged through a National Geographic magazine. 'Russia's Icy Wealth' was the cover story. Inside there were pictures of oil fields and gold, diamond, platinum, palladium, nickel and aluminium mines in icy Siberia.

'This isn't a library,' snapped the bookstall owner who had stubble on his chin and a black ponytail. I put back the National Geographic and was about to leave when I noticed a tattered paperback: 'How I made $5 million in the stock market.'

The book's pages had turned light yellow. It was published more than forty years ago. On the back cover was a faded picture of the author, James Manson. He was an actor. Bill and I used to watch a lot of old movies. I remembered James Mason, but had never seen or heard of James Manson. If some unknown actor called James Manson could make money from stocks, then anyone could. The book cost 50 pence and I put it in my jacket pocket.

A flower shop was next to the community centre and I thought of Sandy again, but was in and out quickly. No way was I going to buy roses at those prices!

I decided to take Jazz for a walk on Hampstead Heath and examined a map on the notice board. Further down the High Street, we turned into a road that led to the Heath. A few yards down the road, next to some posh restaurants, was a shop with a sign 'Wardle & Co - Private Client Stockbrokers'.

A stockbroker in Hampstead? Thought that they were in the City. It was a good opportunity to sell my shares. I tied up the dog and walked inside.

Five desks had computers on them, but only two men were working. Both were wearing blue shirts with white stripes and their ties were similar. They looked as if they were in some sort of brokers' uniform. The one sitting close to the window was on the phone talking in a heavy Scottish accent: 'Bank shares are down . . . Market's bad . . . Not a good time. OK we'll sell . . .'

I stood there behind the chair opposite him, waiting for him to invite me to sit down. He ignored me and picked up another phone: 'Sell 500 Barclays and 1,000 Lloyds at best.

Book them to Mrs Thistle.'

He turned to me: 'If you're looking for a job, there's a community centre up the Hill.'

'I don't want a job. I want to sell some shares.'

'What shares?' he asked looking me up and down. 'Shouldn't we be speaking to your father?'

'He died last week. See . . . I own 600 OilFinder and 500 MineDeep shares,' I said, passing him the share registration document and my passport.

The guy at the other desk had stopped working and was listening. That wasn't really surprising. A large mirror was on the back wall. I looked a mess. My light blue shirt was creased and my trainers were dirty. I looked like someone who was living on the streets.

'What 's a stockbroker doing in Hampstead? Aren't you guys supposed to be in the City?' I asked, seating myself in the chair at last.

'We serve HNWs,' grinned the young man sitting nearby. He was an Asian guy, well built, with silver rimmed glasses.

'HNWs?'

'High Net Worth individuals.'

He pointed to a woman parking a convertible Merc outside the shop: 'Designer car, dress, watch and pram. Matching baby. Maybe VHNW.'

'VHNW?'

'Very High Net Worth. Seriously rich!' he said, smiling.

'Wait here,' said the guy opposite me. He took my documents and went into an enclosed office at the back of the room. An older man, in his late fifties with short grey hair came out. He didn't have his jacket on and was more casually dressed than the younger guys. I stood up.

'Mr Miner, we don't normally deal with minors,' he said with a deadpan face. The other brokers grinned.

'Name's Jim Wardle. Haven't run away from home have you?'

'I come from Yorkshire. My father left me the shares before he died,' I said, showing him Dad and Mum's death certificates and my birth certificate.

He glanced at them. 'Both dead! Where in Yorkshire?'

'Bridlington.'

'Bridlington? I'm from Filey . . . My Dad and Mum are still there.'

That cheered me up. Wardle chatted a bit about Filey, the town near Bridlington and then introduced his staff. The guy who had asked all the questions was David Drummond. He was from Glasgow. The other was Shri Khosler, a Londoner. David was really well groomed with a silk paisley tie and matching handkerchief. His hands were manicured and he wore a gold signet ring. He fixed his gaze on me and I turned away. Jim let me sit in front of a terminal. The screen kept changing, showing hundreds of shares and prices, mostly in red. Only a few were blue.

'Red means losses,' explained Drummond. 'Bad market. Bearish.'

'I've worked that out,' I said. I had read Bill's stock exchange book on the train. I knew that the bears were the sellers and the bulls, buyers.

Jim looked at Drummond and Khosler and began: 'All potential clients should be taken seriously. Let me tell you a story. A long time ago, when I started in this business, a man walked into our office.