TUESDAY MORNING I picked up the post from the hall table and start to thumb through the piles of envelopes that I witnessed grow larger week on week. I had no subscriptions and had removed myself from the public elector's list to save the planet’s trees, but the advertising industry was obviously not interested in saving trees. I’m applying for a mortgage and that required paper bank statements forcing me to undo the paperless option now adding more junk to the growing pile. I was certainly keen to pick up this morning’s post though. After carefully slitting the top of the statement envelope I remove the sheets and quickly scan the ‘money in’ and ‘money out’ columns.
‘Ummm very healthy, one hundred and twenty thousand in, ten out this month’, that’s fantastic I think with a renewed sense of pride, things are finally moving in the right direction. Three months earlier I had been sitting in the offices of Glegg and Jones Insurance Brokers, broke, on commission only B2B sales, to scrape together the £800 a month I needed for the one bedroom I’m renting in a tiny Canary Warf apartment, the price of my upmarket address. My luck certainly changed the day I picked up that flyer which brought me to my current job. It slipped right out of the pages of City AM as I walked over the bridge at McKenzie Walk: such a random event.
Three months ago I would not have believed that I had be looking down from this window at my own sleek black Maserati Grand Turismo albeit it a 2009 version. Handing over thirty grand in cash from my first month’s earnings at Rofocal Investments was intoxicating. Just look how I have parked it, unashamedly in the first parking bay right next to the entrance of Callum’s apartment block, my god it’s awesome even from four floors up. My plan now is by the end signing the mortgage agreement for a 1.6 million pound two bed apartment on the Southbank with a healthy seven grand a month mortgage by the end of this month. Callum, my junior city solicitor landlord, is looking for a new lodger. I’m trying not to snigger at the sixty grand debt he has to clear for his law qualifications, a bloody waste of money.
I recall the protracted and somewhat enigmatic recruitment process to get this job at Rofocal. It felt a bit weird at the time, but with those smackeroos in my bank account now, that memory is fading quickly. The office of Rofocal Investments is located in the old quarter of the city in Tudor Street by Black Friars to be precise. I still recall seeing the building for the first time, its traditional Gothic exterior and then being blasted away by the ultra-modern interior. It was clear that the building was once some kind of masonic lodge, the original features that remained, strange creatures and abstract designs, suggested a former opulence and ceremony but I couldn’t quite make out from the very ornate carved dark wood panel the exact nature of the carved depictions.
I had made it into my fourth month at Rofocal, a fantastic achievement, but still not met my boss in person. I had spoken to him over the phone a couple of times, while this too seemed odd I soon understood that this was quite normal in large multinational enterprises. The team at Rofocal was small, three women and five men, no one appeared to be above the age of thirty-five. It appeared to me that they were all thoroughly addicted to work, they were also extremely sophisticated, smart and good looking, clean cut if you get what I mean. I have tried hard to penetrate their clique, but talking to them is a real chore. they’re so bloody knowledgeable about anything and everything that is worth knowing. I feel out of my depth in conversation with them, though chatting is kept to the minimum and strictly during the morning and lunch breaks. I guess the strict discipline is why they are so good at making money, and at the end of the day, that’s what counts.
I felt a friendship of sorts growing between Candice Hardwick and me. We both worked on acquiring Pansanto shares in my first month of employment at Rofocal. Saying employment felt odd after all my position is entirely self-employed. Anything I earn gets paid through a convoluted system of offshore banking and various deposit schemes. It was Candice who had shown me the folly of indulging in ethical considerations; it’s pointless time wasting she said. When investing in markets where transactions happen regardless: if it's not you it's someone else. Candice said one has to act fast, because it’s all over at the speed of light, the touch of a keypad on a mobile phone, the window of opportunity open and closed quicker than a blink of an eye. Make money first then and only then, if you really feel you must right a wrong, use the resources you’ve made to do that she reasoned. 'Become a philanthropist', when you are a multi-millionaire she said, though not with any sincerity I suspected.
Buying into Pansanto’s GMO Seeds for Africa Project, was exciting. Watching the dollar investment jump from three to six figures in seconds was exhilarating. In my mind, Candice’s logic was spot on and her approach increased my determination to keep focused and to act quickly and gambling on food and pharmaceuticals had brought in the biggest gains so far. Did I just say gambling, no that’s not right, investing, investing that’s the correct term; I should watch my words, especially in front of the lovely Candice.
What’s that on Sky now, breaking news, farmers protest over continued production losses caused by manipulation of the markets by investors? God look at those scrawny peasants, farmers being evicted from their land and bulldozers crushing wooden chalets like matchsticks. Better turn that shit off before I get bitten by the guilt bug. None of this is my problem the world is as it is and everyone is the designer of their own fate; each is his own god that’s my mantra. I am finally on my way to becoming my own master. I am nearly at the end of my fourth month, good on you Nathan; I need a pat on the back even if it is from myself. I am right on target for my first million, and that, my dear boy, means a night out at that elusive and exclusive members only club for one thing. I have already been scouting a new outfit from LN-CC in Shacklewell Lane.
During the break at work this morning, Uberto suggested I look at the arms market, defence of course he added as smooth as the Black Ivory coffee we had been sipping from small red leather Deviehl cups. Uberto, is an Italian, who had been working in London for the past six years, and I find him intriguing, even more so than Candice. Uberto is the most reticent of the team, hardly speaks but has this intense gaze, the others seem to be able to read him but not me. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m a woman’s man, believe me, but it’s really weird that I feel an intense attraction towards Uberto, he’s tall, dark, handsome, chiselled features, broad shouldered the stereotypical Mediterranean. It was not Uberto’s outward appearance that attracted me though, it was something else, his demeanour, some kind of mystique, something untouchable. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about him, but whatever it is, it makes me feel confused.
Another day at the desk but this morning I’m searching for trends in the arms industry and potential investments, all but the Russian market is steadily falling. The mention of crypto currencies is something to watch out for but, hold on a second, what’s this I’ve spotted amongst the listings of precision strike technologies, Bio-Crill from a new company called Sinclair Defences. Now this is fascinating, a novelty idea in biological solutions for use in military combat zones. From what I read I understand Bio-Crill to be a fast growing creeping plant that is able to adapt to extremely varied environmental conditions from tropical to arid desert, and that has the ability to carry bio-warfare materials across specifically targeting landscapes aimed at affecting enemy combatants in guerrilla type warfare situations. The promotion material talks of the ability to clear and keep large areas free from human combatants for the duration of hostilities and eliminates the detrimental effects of out dated chemical spray methods reducing collateral damage. Now this sounds just the right investment to push me over the million pound target this week and to think just last night I had nearly lost it listening to the bloody news; it’s all propaganda one way or another.
I need to get in now, a small upcoming company with a limited product range is always good. There is some high level interest hovering on the side there to watch, I’m going in now, there it done, 20 million shares at $1.50 a share, one click and it is done. A moment between life and death, that’s what it feels like, it’s the biggest buzz I I have ever felt in the entire thirty years of my life. Dropping $50 million of someone else’s money into the unknown and knowing that it is my head on the block should I lose it. I just want to jump and thump my fists on the desk but I’ve got to keep a cool head. Stop pacing up and down, they’ll notice me, shit I can not control myself, I must look like a demented idiot. I must get my coat on and get out of here, say my goodbyes and get off home.
I have never been a great cook, but I did not even notice what I had eaten for dinner; usually, it is so crap that it is depressing. Where is the remote, got to check the Bloomberg listings, then I will check the news on my laptop. Bio-Crill, nothing, nothing is coming up on my searches not Bio-Crill nor Sinclair Defences, that can not be right. Three pages of search results is when I come across an NGO site claiming the loss of whole village populations in a remote area of Sumatra. Pictures flash across the screen showing dead bodies, women and children, and field workers strewn across acres and acres of land. The NGO claims that the deaths coincided with the appearance of an unidentifiable creeping weed, government forces had quickly moved in with sprays and the weed disintegrated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving the affected land, in the absence of the peasant farmers, free to be bought up by multi-national bio-fuel companies for peanuts. Shit, not again, I am thinking of Candice’s wise words now and quickly slap closed my laptop.
The phone rings and with some hesitation I answer, to my relief, I hear my mothers voice, now that feels weird. I haven’t spoken to her since I started work at Rofocal, my job is going well this time, I assure her, tell her of my impending home ownership, and promise I will be down for the weekend. Family relations are difficult, my mother has never been happy with my unhealthy obsession with money as she sees it; my determination not to be shit broke and at the bottom of the heap like them, is how I see it. We have always rowed she had never been happy with any of my jobs, my girlfriends or lack of. This time it will be different, when I arrive home in my Maserati and show them pictures of the apartment I’m about to buy, then take them out to dine at the town’s most prestigious restaurant, they will be just like everyone else, and realise that money is indeed everything. They will be the first to be bragging to their loser friends that their son has made it big in the City. I cannot sleep now dogged by a mix of excitement and anxiety.
On time as usual, 08:50 and sitting at my desk when the phone rings. Well eff me, it is Mr Lucis, the big boss man himself, calling to ask about the end of day trading raid I’d made on the Sinclair defence shares. Lucis speaks in a deep but soft and measured tone, but I cannot for the life of me picture his face.
‘I have every confidence Mr Lucis, the price will rally today, I will be out by 4 pm with a substantial profit’, I answered in an attempt at an equally confident tone.
‘This deal will make or break you Nathan, let us see what you are made of, this Saturday could be your night Nathan, be prepared.’
‘Yes Sir, and thank you’, I say as I put down the phone and log straight into my trading account.
I have an odd feeling of being watched all day. I am sure I had caught Candice and Marilyn staring at me from the corner of my eye. I go back to checking the day trading lists, and it is getting close to three o’clock, I had not traded anything all day but merely watched the Sinclair share prices steadily rising. I had heard from a contact in the morning that several western governments and Russia were showing an interest in Sinclair right after I had bought in. The clock is counting down, I have to make a decision, it is three thirty now and suddenly Sinclair’s share prices began pumping by the tens of dollars until five minutes to four when the price stands at thirty dollars a share. I, Nathan, tap on the keyboard with such rapid movements that for a moment I felt as if these fingers are not my own, not my hands at all, and all the time my heart beats painfully against my ribcage.
Trading closed and I just sold 20 million shares netting $340.4 million. No sweat, I’m trader of the month and a night out with my colleagues at Burzum is defo. Neither Callum nor I had heard of Burzum. Apparently, it’s a Swedish club, who cares, it will be a night out to remember, eat your heart out my solicitor chum. My bonus will be 32 million a neat 10% of net profits the calculation makes my hands tremble; I can’t imagine that amount of money, and for less than twenty-four hour’s work. It is hard to keep thinking straight, I definitely feel elated, but anxious all at the same time, and that’s a bummer kind of feeling. How I get out of the building without tripping up or making some crass remark to the others on my way out I don’t know.
On Friday morning I arrive at the customary 8:50 am and go straight to my booth, open up my laptop without noticing that I had not said good morning to anyone. Five minutes later Candice brought me a coffee, that was out of the usual; breaks were always and only in the dining area.
‘Oh thanks, is this allowed?’ I ask Candice taking the cup from her very pale slim hand. Her trinket bracelet slips from beneath her jacket sleeve, a little Gothic I think when I spot the silver and red stone bats and skulls dangling from their chain. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I consider the possibility of another side to her very sleek and serious exterior.
‘Nathan, you’re the man of the month, we haven’t seen such a large gain in a long time. Hence the exception, drink it while it’s hot’, replies Candice with a generous smile revealing her perfectly straight white teeth behind the dark crimson of her lips. ‘We are all looking forward to Saturday Nathan, be prepared for a long night of fun, fabulous people, and lots of drink and dancing’, she adds Candice giving me a wink before departing. Even Jason comes over and congratulates me; I think that must have been the second or third time he has addressed me in the whole four months of being at Rofocal.
The coffee incident plays on my mind all day and the thought that twenty million pounds after duties and fees will be in my bank account by Monday morning keeps me from concentrating on the day’s trading. At four fifty-five my phone rings and it is Mr Lucis for a second time this week.
‘Hello Nathan, Lucis here, congratulations, a spectacular trading week’, came the smooth, silky voice out of the phone.
‘Thank you Mr Lucis; I hope to continue to serve the company well’, I reply, my stomach churning for some unexplainable reason, what did I have to be nervous about, I’ve just become a multi-millionaire?
‘I hope so too Nathan, the feedback on your performance is excellent. You’ve won the approval of your colleagues, and you’ve shown your aptitude for making skilful decisions. I look forward to a long lasting relationship with you Nathan. Be ready by 9 pm tomorrow; a car will pick you up and bring you over to Burzum. I must apologise, but there’s a no uninvited guest rule; strictly members only.’
‘Yes I understand and thank you Mr Lucis,’ I reply.
‘So we’ll see you at your best tomorrow evening then, goodbye,’ says Lucis ending the conversation.
I return to my desk with a discernible knot in my stomach and put the phone back in its stand before I close down for the evening. This evening I make a point of saying good bye to everyone in the office before leaving for the underground car park and the drive back to the flat. I am definitely one of them now. I put Chris Brown on full blast like I am the man now and cruise home on wings, windows down taking in the last of the day’s sunshine which surely shines on me. The audio blasts, ‘Superhuman, I feel superhuman, Superhuman, I feel superhuman, yes that’s just how I feel driving down the A13, with not a worry in the world.
It is 9:15pm and I am standing here at Callum’s window, probably for the last time, I could even pay to stay at the Dorchester until the purchase of the apartment is completed. I might even go for something a little bit more upmarket; I could afford it. I am assuming that is Rofocal’s car pulling in, time to go, the big initiation Nathan, I tell myself as I pull on my newly acquired Balmain jacket and a splash of Clive Christian No. 1, I literally feel like a million dollars. I look the job, look out Candice or who knows who else I might meet this evening. As I turn to leave Cullum is standing looking down from the balcony to the car waiting in the lot outside the block, he turns to me looking pale and concerned, he tells me to be careful and for a second sounds rather uncomfortably like my mum. What the hell, I am off for a well-earned night out at some swanky member’s only club, and he, the junior solicitor at some crumby struggling human rights law firm who is destined to be renting out his spare bedroom for the rest of his life, is trying to advise me.
I leave Callum standing on the balcony, take the lift, then approach the waiting limousine, the chauffeur who is already standing by the car, opens the rear door and politely ushers me in with ‘Good evening Sir, this is your lucky night then’, in a cheerful cockney accent. It certainly is and as we drive along London’s now dusky streets, dazzled by the glowing city lights, uptown hotels and clubs and all those sweet girls, I know I have finally arrived at the place in life that I have always dreamed of. The knot I had felt earlier after talking to Mr. Lucis has unravelled and I’m on top of the world and it feels fabulous. Having money, enough money to not have to worry about anything for a long time is freeing and empowering, and I love it.
The limousine pulls up outside a building with a large wooden Gothic door on a street I don’t recognise. I’m assuming it is the Club, but there’s no visible sign on the outside. The chauffeur is out in a flash and opens the door for me. ‘Here we are Sir,’ he says and I get down from the vehicle and he directs me to the door, raps on it twice with the back of his hand, the door opens and he exchanges words which I could not here with someone inside. In I go and the chauffeur is gone.
‘Welcome Mr Dodd, come this way please’, says a young attractive man who escorts me to a second door over which hangs the sign ‘Welcome to Burzum’ in large illuminated red lettering. I follow the young man through the doors and into the lobby of the club where a line of young men and women are queuing to get in. Music streams through the half open entrance and strobe lights cut across their faces and bodies as they move from the lobby and beyond the doors.
I feel a little nervous, wondering if the others are here, Candice, Uberto, Marilyn, Jason, even Mr Lucis, I did not want to end up standing around on my own, that would be awkward, this is where having money was not helping. My turn to pass through the doors came, ‘Mr Dodd, welcome to Burzum’, I reply, ‘Just call me Nathan’, Dodd sounded so northern working class. ‘Nathan, you’re in for the night of your life, we have a special event this evening.’ With that he pushes me through the doors into the club, I inch my way through the saloon teaming with beautiful people, then make my way around the dance floor and in the direction of the bar. The DJ is playing those trance tracks you hear in Magaluf, Lost Frequencies, ‘are you with me, are you with me.’ I am a sucker for most dance tracks and I feel my spine loosening as the rhythm and the lights begin to take hold of my senses.
At the bar I order a ‘Tom Collins’, the waitress is sweet, she serves it to me with a long arms stretching forward over the counter giving the most glorious view. I can not help the broad smile that breaks across my face, yes, yes, this is it. I turn toward the dance floor and feel completely relaxed now, helped by a second Tom Collins and the lovely barmaid. ‘Wave after Wave, my feet just don’t touch the ground, drifting away’, fills my ears, tanned arms snake through the air, and gyrating bodies, pull me closer to the crowd. The urge to dance is getting stronger but I don't have a partner. Then I spot Candice dancing with Marilyn, I feel relief, would it be lame if I join them? Marilyn spots me too and is waving me over and I make my way over to them in a flash. A loud noise makes me turn my head away from them for a moment. Looking in the direction of the entrance I see two bouncers lowering a bar across the door, no more admittance here tonight I think, then I turn back to the girls and join the dancing.
We must have been on the dance floor for about fifteen minutes when Candice takes my hand and we leave . Marilyn joins the guy I think I had seen on the day of my interview. I just assumed he had not got the job with Rofocal because I had not seen him since, but here he was and Marilyn seems to know him well from the intimate way they are dancing together. Candice leads me to a corner table, and we are brought drinks by a male waiter in a very tight shirt, his muscles threatening to rip the delicate material stretched over them, the sight makes me feel inadequate. Candice looks even more stunning, her almost black hair and those yellow green eyes are intoxicating. She seems so relaxed and open now, laughing, constantly running her hands over my shoulder and down my thigh. The atmosphere is hot and electric, I remove my jacket now and place it down without a care despite the price tag.
‘So Nathan, how does it feel?’, ‘You mean money or this?’ I reply, ‘Both’ she laughs. Now I ask her ‘How far will you go Candice’ as she strokes my arm, and she replies ‘All the way Nathan, all the way’. My heart is pounding I don’t know how long I can contain myself. ‘Nathan’, she continues, there’s another great investment opportunity coming up, I’ll introduce you to Steven, the guy who is dancing with Marilyn. He has had staggering returns in the arms sector.
‘That sounds like another bad news story in the making’, I half joke, the words fall out of my mouth before I have time to check myself. I see Candice’s body tense up, and know instantly that I have shown weakness. The euphoria I felt begins to wane. ‘Here you need to loosen up a little Nathan, take this’, and she pops something into my drink. I am too far gone to object and momentarily I forget the lapse and look forward to something special with Candice.
Something seems to catch Candice’s eye for several seconds she is looking somewhere else. Her mood has switched, but she is smiling at me still, perhaps I am being over sensitive I try to reassure myself. She takes my hand again and leads me back to the dance floor. Whatever she popped in my drink is beginning to take hold, my head feels light, the music and the lights intensify my feelings, I'm floating away now. I hold on to Candice, my arm tight around her waist and my face against her cheek, she holds on to me just as tight, I can feel her hand on the back of my neck, and her body is pushing against mine.
We sway here on the spot for what seems like hours, but it couldn not have been more than a few minutes, I can not move or untangle myself from her. I can see through a haze the dance floor is clearing. It is just me and Candice standing here in the middle of the floor and I still can not move when a cloaked figure appears circling the edges. I feel Candice gradually peel herself from me, her arms slip away and I catch the end of her fingers in a feeble attempt to hold on to her. I have this uncontrollable urge to cry, but it does not come, I am swaying by myself now, slowly and pathetically revolving round and round on the spot, my arms dangling at my sides like an ape. The music has faded and the lights no longer flash. This must be some crazy effing joke, a crazy initiation maybe, I’ve read about secret societies and this kind of stuff, but this shit is not what I signed up for.
Two cloaked figures move towards me, and I am lifted and laid upon a table which has been rolled onto the dance floor. A third figure moves forward in a cloak of red decorated with a gold ram’s head. The red cloaked figure is carrying a large bronze dagger pressed against its chest. The sweat is pouring from every pore of my body and chills run up and down me as I lay here paralysed. The figure bends over my head, ‘Hello Nathan, great to meet you in person at last’, says a familiar honey toned voice. ‘Lucis?’ the name inaudible from my paralysed lips.
‘You showed so much promise Nathan but you couldn not quite shake off your moral concerns and we do not have room on board for sops Nathan.’ I try to call out to Candice as my shirt is ripped from my body but end up calling ‘mum’. Candice reappears looking me straight in the face with her haunting eyes, and a gentle smile on her red lips. She bends over and kisses me, then runs a sharp blade across my cheek, her silver charm bracelet brushes cold against my lips, and I remember how excited I felt the first time I saw it slip from beneath her sleeve. I feel the warm blood trickle down my cold cheek. I am sure tears fall from my eyes, but I can not feel them as Candice continues with the knife now on my wrists and my blood trickles to the floor. She is putting her mouth to the cuts in my veins and sucking hard, and I can not cry out. She raises her head and I can see my blood seeping from between her lips. She moves away, and Uberto moves in and for a nano second I forget what us happening to me, though I find myself quickly reminded as Uberto places a small glass beneath the dripping vein in my left arm, then draws the vessel to his lips and sipping the whole glass, seemingly savouring my taste like a sommelier tasting a rare and expensive wine. His lips move to speak, 'You have a delightful bouquet' he comments then raises his right hand and bows low chanting words of an unknown language as the grand master moves in.
I can not see Lucis’ face, only his piercing grey eyes from beneath the red hood, he is raising the dagger and mutters something indecipherable while bringing the blade down pushing it into my abdomen and running it down towards my groin. I can feel the hot piercing pain and the warmth of the blood and my guts against my flesh. His bloody hands lift my intestines into the air, and the crowd moves forward and gaze at the scene. I’m screaming in my head: ‘This must be some messed up the dream, it can not be real, I am a multi-millionaire.’ Lucis dumps the intestines on my legs and now brings the dagger directly above my chest. With both hands on the hilt Lucis brings the dagger crashing through my sternum, stabbing through the thin skin, shattering the bone, not once but two or three times until my rib cage is completely opened up and I can feel my heart thumping so hard, the pain racks my whole body.
My eyes no longer see everything is black, I feel fingers grasping in my chest cavity and hear the squelching of hands in offal and blood, I know my heart has gone. ‘God it can’t be real, wake up, wake up, Oh God, mum, mum, please help me, please help me, I’m sorry, please help me’, I’m spitting out words with blood and guts and for the first time I feel sincere. I'm gone to the fading sound of dancing feet and the DJ playing my favourite track:
Sometimes I believe, at times where I should know
I can fly high, I can go low
Today I got a million, tomorrow, I don't know
Stop crying like you're home and think about the show
We're all playing the same game, laying down alone
(Lost Frequencies, Reality)
2016©Kate North