Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) (7 page)

Moscow Narodsky was one of Russia's biggest banks, the article said. It lent money to Russian companies producing oil, gold, nickel, platinum, aluminium and other resources. Yapolovitch, a leading Russian banker, was well known in financial and business circles. He was married with three children and had houses and flats in Moscow, London, Paris and New York. He owned a football club in Moscow.

I began to panic, held Jazz's lead tightly and ran across several roads, dodging between cars. I wasn't looking properly and we were lucky that we weren't knocked over. I tried to think logically and calm down. Had to make a decision. I could go back to the police and give them more details, but they would find that my finger prints and DNA matched those on the rope. I could be a murder suspect. If they let me go, I would be in the newspapers and the killers, who were probably Russian, would try and get me. Baton, the liquidator, would find me and take the 10K from the brokers. Better to hide on Hampstead Heath for a few days, collect my money at Wardle and leave London. I felt my cap and realised that the murderers saw me wearing it, when I was running away from them. So I took it off and threw it in a dustbin.

We headed back towards the Heath and reached a station called Gospel Oak. Nearby was a large red brick wall. It surrounded a swimming pool and a long queue of mainly parents and kids were waiting to get in. There was no way I wanted to be with people in my mood. So I did my best to avoid them. We walked around the wall, following the path that led to the cafeteria that I had seen in the morning.

A little later we came across a pond where dogs were barking and swimming. Jazz ran in, chasing after another dog's stick. Both of them were swimming towards the deep water. Some swans were nearby, but I was so involved in my problems that I didn't notice what was going on.

'That swan is going for your dog,' shrieked a woman. 'It will drown him.'

I looked up and saw the large white bird swim rapidly towards Jazz. The swan was on him, pushing him down with its wing. Jazz was a strong swimmer but he couldn't escape. There was only one thing I could do. I threw off my jacket, waded in and swam towards them. The swan was on top of Jazz. If it pushed him under water, the dog would drown.

I grabbed some sticks in the water and threw them at the swan. Missed. At last I reached the bird, but by now Jazz was under. Keeping my face away from the vicious beak, I touched a wing. The bird was startled and withdrew from me. It then took off and flew across the pond to the other side. Thankfully the other swans kept their distance. Jazz was underwater. I couldn't see him because it was muddy, but I felt for his body, found his hind legs and pulled him up. Then I put my arm around his neck, lifesaver style, and swam back to shore. By then a big crowd had gathered. I shook Jazz, but he didn't stir. Then I hugged the dog, feeling helpless.

'Jazz, Jazz. Come on boy, come on!'

I shook and pumped him. Jazz my friend, my only friend. What would I do if he died?

6 - FISHING FOR GOLD

I'm sitting on the sofa in a large room. A beam of sunlight filled with tiny particles, crosses the room. It comes through a dirty window and reaches a dusty bookcase. Books. Lots of books. Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, Melanie Klein. Nearby, 'The Criminal Mind', 'Dangerous Severe Personality Disorder'.

The psychiatrist opens the door and walks in. He's about fifty with owl shaped glasses. He's short with a fat tummy. Floppy, black hair. Dandruff on navy blue jacket.

Walks over to desk. Takes out a brown file, notebook and pen. Sits down on large leather chair. Silent. Observes me. Then talks softly. Yellow teeth match nicotine-stained fingers.

'I can see that you've made yourself comfortable.'

'There wasn't much else to do.'

A hollow laugh. Must have heard that line umpteen times.

'I'm Dr Klugheim. Did Mrs Small tell you about me?'

'She told me that you're her boss. Asked me whether you could read my notebook. I said it was OK, provided no one else did.'

'Very interesting. .. Looks like the beginnings of a book. Who taught you to write?'

'Dunno. . . Not school. . . Teachers were useless. It just comes out.'

He waits. Says nothing. Me sullen. Staring him out.

'You've been here three months. Mrs Small thought that it might be a good idea if we met. Talk things through.'

No reply.

'The wardens report that you don't mix much. Keep to yourself.'

'I'm OK. Just keep my head down. Count the days until I'm out of here!'

He opens up the file and reads some pages. I notice they're typed.

'It says here that you were feeling down. How about now?'

'I feel great. What do you expect? It's a holiday camp. How do you feel?'

'The bridge. Those nightmares. Still having them?'

No response.

‘Are you finding that writing helps you?'

'I just think about the past and write stuff down.'

'Good!'

Silence again. Eyes on the minute specs in the sunbeam. Away from him.

'Your parents. It must have been hard. . .'

Begin to lose my cool. Doesn't take a genius to understand why I'm here. The Governor, screws and doctors are panicking. Ernie Shiren managed to hang himself. Happened last week.

A kid of eighteen dead. Did you have little talks with him?' I snap.

Klugheim winces: 'We're here to talk about you, not Ernie.'

I'm silent again. Thinking, calculating. Better play along with him. He's the best chance I've got. Could get me out of this place. Recommend me for good behaviour.

'If you think I'm going to top myself, you're mistaken . . . I've got better things to do.'

'Good. Sometimes things can overwhelm you,' he says.

I sit there. He waits. I wait. Wonder what he's thinking.

'You were depressed. But you still jumped in and saved your dog,' he says after a couple of minutes. 'Brave, but reckless.'

‘I can swim.'

'You cannot believe how many people die trying to rescue animals.'

'It's a funny thing. . . That swan attack got me going.’

'Go on. Tell me what happened.'

I don't know why, but I feel relaxed with this guy. My head slips back on to the sofa and I let go. Talk freely. Will write it down later.

*   *   *

An old woman held Jazz down while I pumped him. She was the owner of the dog that had been swimming with Jazz, when the Swan attacked. We thought that it was all over. He just lay there as I pumped and pumped his tummy, pushing down on the soft fur. Jazz stirred, coughed and slowly lifted his head. A mixture of water and vomit dribbled from his mouth. He rose and stood unsteadily on his feet, his tail down. Then he shook himself. The crowd clapped and cheered and began to move away. The old lady gave Jazz a treat and his tail began to wag. Then another treat.

'I think he'll be OK,' said the lady, touching my hand. 'Let's go and have some coffee.'

I picked up my jacket and we followed a path towards a gate at the corner of the Heath, near some tennis courts. The lady was seriously strange. She talked to her dog as if the animal was a person. 'He's getting better all the time, Pattie. You watch over him OK?'

My wet clothes chafed me while we walked, but the sun was hot and my shirt was drying quickly. Dogs have amazing powers of recovery and Jazz managed to keep up.

We sat outside an Italian restaurant, near the Heath gate.

'Two cappucinos. Lots of chocolate,' shouted the lady.

'Pizza. Plenty of ham,' replied the waitress, who obviously knew her.

Couples nearby, observed us without a word. Me, in wet muddy clothes, covered with weeds from the pond and the short, dumpy old lady with straggly grey hair. Her blue jumper had several holes in it and her shirt, a frayed collar. The black skirt was creased and blue and red odd socks protruded from her muddy shoes.

'You sir? Anything to eat?'

'No thanks.'

'Two pizzas. You're not Jewish are you?' asked the lady.

'No, I'm not Jewish.'

'Lots of ham.'

As we waited the lady introduced herself as Martha. She asked me about my parents and where I came from. Where I was staying in London. I told her how I had lost my money and that the Heath was my temporary home. The large and flat pizzas, covered with ham, arrived. Martha picked off her ham and held up some pieces. The dogs, in sitting position, waited obediently and caught the meat when she threw it.

'Pattie! Stop! Give Jazz a chance. Be good now!'

I piled into my delicious pizza, while she snatched some ham from it and gave it to the dogs.

Martha was strange. She spoke loudly, maybe because she was a bit deaf. The waitresses and owner of the café seemed to like her and didn't mind the dogs. She joked and patted the dogs and I began to feel a lot better. The bill arrived and I searched my pockets for money.

Martha pulled out some coins and put them on the table: 'I'll pay. They give me a discount. Now you and Jazz come home with me to have a nice bath.'

'Are you quite sure? I can go to the men's pond and have a shower there.'

'No! I can tell that you're a respectable lad. You saved your dog. That's good enough for me.'

We walked up the road past some restaurants until we came to her place. It was a cottage. The white paint on the walls had turned grey and was peeling. Inside, the room was cluttered with dusty furniture. The curtains hadn't been cleaned for years. Books were piled on shelves around the room.

She took me to the bathroom, which was decorated with faded floral wallpaper.

'Just relax and have a bath,' she said, as she passed me a towel, a shirt and trousers.

'You're about the same size as Tony,' she said.

'Who's Tony?'

'My husband. He died twelve years ago.'

I looked out the bathroom window. Pattie and Jazz were in the small back garden, overrun by weeds. He was following Pattie happily, making his mark on bushes. I scrubbed the bath before I got in, reckoning that Pattie must have been in it, many times. The water was hot and I lay there. It felt good.

I had almost fallen asleep when Martha called: 'You ready? I've got some tea for you.'

I came out wearing her husband's suit trousers and blue striped shirt.

'How long have you lived here?' I asked.

'About forty years . . . Estate agents pester me . . . Offered me nearly a million. But I don't want their money.'

'Million for this place? Wow! Live here alone?'

'No, with Pattie. We meet friends in the park. We're never lonely. What about you?'

I don't know why, but I started telling her things about myself. How I came to London, looking for Sandy. How I had lost my money and my things.

'What's this?' she asked as she went to the table and brought me my coins and the battered James Manson book, "How I made $5 million on The Stock Market".

'Dad left me some shares. I want to find out what to do,' I said.

'Have you read it?'

'Not yet . . . Bought it at the Hampstead Community Centre. Just saw it there.'

She opened it and looked at the inside page. 'Published in 1960! Don't you think things have changed since then?'

'Maybe. Maybe not.'

'Maybe that book was there for a reason,' she said. 'Just lying there waiting for you. Why don't you finish your tea and read it.'

*   *   *

The first part of Manson's book was about his life story. His father was English and his mother, Russian. She was an actress and she taught him 'method acting'. Becoming the character he was going to play. Thinking and feeling like the character. It was something like a personality change for the part. Manson was short, stocky with average looks. He didn't become a star, but managed to get good character parts.

One day some guy offered him a job in a small theatre. It was a strange deal. Instead of cash, the theatre owner paid Manson shares in oil companies. The oil shares soared and from that time onwards, Manson was hooked on the stock market. Manson acted in all sorts of places. He travelled from London to Paris, Frankfurt, Vienna, New York, San Francisco, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Johannesburg and other cities. He never got the big roles. He remained a character actor, managing to earn enough to enjoy travelling and experiencing different countries. Even when he was thousands of miles away from the New York and London stock markets, he continued to buy and sell shares. Communications were bad in those days. Since there were neither mobiles nor the Internet, he had to go to the post office to telex orders. Long distance phone calls were very expensive. Sometimes he did well and other times badly. Brokers and friends gave him tips on what stocks to buy. He made money on some, but he mostly lost.

To try to stop losing money, Manson decided to find out everything about shares. He gave some examples. An oil company like OilFinder has its shares quoted on the stock market. Manson would read the news reports about OilFinder and ask his stockbroker to send him all the information about the company. Whether it was doing well or badly. Then he would study the oil industry to see whether the oil price was going up or down. If the oil price rose, OilFinder's profits would increase and vice versa. But despite all this research, Manson still found that he rarely made money. Even if a company's profits soared, its shares could go down.

It was all about fashion. If the big pension funds and other investors liked the shares they would buy them. On the other hand, a share could go unnoticed for a year or more because it was unfashionable. There were other complications. Regardless whether an individual company's profits rose or fell, a change in economic, business, geopolitical and other events, would influence its share price. Shares were small boats in the market sea, sailing happily in good weather and struggling or capsizing in a storm.