Luck Be A Lady

“This is a Jubilee Line train to Stanmore. Stand clear. This train is ready to leave.’

Jay raced to the carriage, squeezed through the gap between the bleeping doors and swung into a seat. Slid the briefcase into the safety position. Onto the lap, hands pulling it close. No-one looked up. The few people in the carriage either wore a uniform, or something which passed for one. A group of cleaners in the corner, all different ages and nationalities, united in an unflattering dark-green trousers-and-tunic combo. Jay hated dark green. A reminder of school. The two blokes sitting opposite were not properly awake. Gummy mouths and puffy eyes. Both wore white overalls, and paint-spattered T-shirts. A man in a bobble hat and lumberjack fleece reached for a discarded paper.

Yesterday’s papers telling yesterday’s news.

Who sang that? Simon & Garfunkel? Bound to be, all that harmonising.

There was nobody else in a suit. No one carried a briefcase and a copy of the FT. These people were going to work. Jay was just finishing.

If only it was yesterday’s news. Yesterday had been a good day. It could still, at a push, have been OK yesterday. But now the brown stuff had hit the air con. Jay’s head dropped back against the seat. It was over. Finished. Kaputt. Dead in the water. Jaw relaxed, mouth slightly open. Dead fish. It would be a matter of hours before the full scale of what had happened became apparent. Heads would roll, and one of the first, if not the first, would be Jay’s.

How could this have happened? Two months ago, I literally didn’t have enough CDOs to sell. People were screaming for them. Such clever little things, broken up into bite-sized parcels and repackaged with bows on top. A financial instrument which could have been dangerously sharp, should have been poisonous, blunted and diluted by its passage through many sets of hands. Safe. Safe as houses, mate. Ha. Everyone wanted them. I had a copper-bottomed, gold-plated guarantee that these little buggers couldn’t lose. So how the hell could this be happening?

 

The air in the carriage was cold, reminding Jay that the brand new Burberry mac was still hanging on the back of the office door. Mike Eckhart had lost an Armani wool sweater he’d left on his chair a couple of months ago. He blamed the cleaners, and the result was a messy HR fracas. Jay secretly agreed with Mike, and now stole a guilty glance at the women slumped in their seats. One of them stared back.

 

I gazed at that screen in horror for hours, checking, recalibrating, making new risk-assessments, and generally fiddling while Rome burned. It was collapsing. It had collapsed. My job, my department, maybe the whole investment banking arm was spiralling out of the sky in flames. All of it gone. Jesus Christ, my bonus was due the end of this month. That cheque would have contained some zeroes. Possibly five of them. Now, realistically, I will be out of a job in days. Possibly five of them.

Realistically.

Jay barked a laugh, and a few tired eyes checked the lunatic danger level before closing again or returning to the headlines. In order to regain respectability, Jay picked up the newspaper that lay underfoot. No words registered, nothing made sense, which was entirely normal, as the sports page was uppermost. A flier slid out towards to the floor, and Jay caught it with a deft scoop. An advertisement for a course.

‘Under pressure? We can help. Learn the secrets of stress-management.’

Stress-management. Jay’s hands began folding.

Top right-hand corner to bottom left, making triangle. Press sharply along edge. Open. Top left to bottom right.

If realism had been in the game, none of us would be in this state. But no-one was realistic. The house of cards was holding up so well, we were all profiting; the bankers, the investors, the insurance companies, the home-owners, the debtors. All it needed to keep the dream alive was faith. Everyone, but everyone, believed that profit could be carved out of debt, and it worked. Collective force of will. We made it happen. The risks were minimal, alligators lurking in the sewers, out of sight, out of mind.

            Boom.

            But there are two kinds of boom. And one of them happens faster. Especially when the foundations are made of nothing more durable than cardboard. But when everyone tells you it’s OK, from the biggest eagle to the smallest wren, you have to believe it. I personally promise, I genuinely guarantee, we vehemently vouchsafe, I have in my hand a piece of paper …

Having folded diagonals, begin halving. In half horizontally. Open. In half vertically. Open. Hold as a bowl, bring diagonal points together.

Mouth dry as hell. Stomach totally empty. Pret-a-Manger’s free-range egg and tomato sandwich came straight back up in the executive toilets this morning. There’s some water in the briefcase. Lift the bottle and take a sip, steadying it against my chest. Whoops. Nearly chucked that up again. How long since I drank anything? No wonder my stomach has gone into shock. Lucky to keep the water down. Maybe this near-catatonic state might subside if I had something to eat. Food? No, spasm in the gut thinks otherwise. Intestine says no.

 

Smaller square. Fold in three corners to make kite shape. Briefcase on lap proves useful as flat surface to press creases. Unfold. Repeat on other side. Open outer flaps to make diamond.

All is not lost. It cannot be. I have overlooked something. We cannot lose this amount of money, I cannot lose this amount of money. I CANNOT! Hands clenching and stomach doing the chem lab gurgle. Close eyes and think. There must be a way out. A cash injection, a short-term bridge, something to tide me over, just till things recover. Paper money. All I need is something on paper to keep everyone happy. No-one has looked twice at my figures up to now. I could even fake the results in the short-term, a spurious account, only on a temporary basis. Paper over the cracks. I just need more time, and I can create more money. I am a wealth-creator, but I need someone’s wealth to do it.

 

Fold separate triangles up, on the diagonal to make a W. Repeat on opposite side. Unfold to diamond once more.

 

For Sale. Auction due to repossession. For Sale. Contact Vendor. For Sale. Crisis. Crunch. For Sale. Sub prime. We’re calling in the debts. Now it’s time to reel them in. Real them in. But Collateral Debt Obligations oblige debtors to pay with collateral. You know, you could have worked that out from the name. But you didn’t, did you? Thought you were onto a winner, and our artistic wrapping and overwhelming confidence blew you into the twister along with everyone else. But collateral loses its value when everyone’s got it. The joke in the office today was that instead of a bonus, we’d all get four-bedrooms with a porch in the Bible belt.

Jay laughed again, a short, dry sound. Once could be disguised as a cough, but twice? Tension slipped along the carriage, entirely invisible but as tangible as a fart. People stiffened, angled themselves away, keeping the weirdo in their peripheral vision. Could be dangerous. Violent, embarrassing or both. Jay wanted to stand up and make a calm announcement.

I am neither weird nor violent, and as to embarrassing, you’ll have to make up your own minds. But market forces have lit a flame under my paper castle, and I am going to get very badly burnt. No, please do not look away, because this affects you too. Mortgage, madam? Well done for getting on the property ladder. Have to say though, bad timing, ‘cos house prices are about to go into freefall. Tenant, are you, sir? Well, that’s a shame, because your rent, electricity, water, transport and Sainsbury’s bills are all about to take a large hike. Oh, savings. Thank goodness you squirreled a bit away. Sadly, interest rates are likely to be your Nordic ice floes for a good few years, so don’t plan on retiring anytime soon. And I hope no-one here today has any debts.

 

Open side flaps, and fold up body and tail through wings.

What do you mean, who wins? No one. The fallout from this implosion makes everyone a loser. Listen mate, the winners have long since taken their almighty rewards and flown the roost. Now all we can do is sweep up the torn betting slips and pay the bookie.

A shiver rushed through Jay’s whole frame, and almost caused the paper creation to fall to the ground.

Mum.

Only six months ago, Jay’s mother had retired. After a lifetime of menial jobs from cooking at the school to cleaning at the bookies, May Lin could finally put her feet up. Pursue her hobbies, of which there were plenty. Cooking, Tai Chi, line-dancing and learning the Queen’s English. She could do a bit of travelling, go back East to see the long-lost and largely forgotten.

After years of scraping and saving, she could reap the rewards of educating her only child. Who was now finally able to repay the old girl. May Lin lived in comparative luxury these days, in a pebble-dashed terraced house, with a Nissan Cherry parked out front and most excitingly, she could afford to go to Marks and Spencer’s rather than Morrison’s. All due to Jay. But what would happen if the cash dried up? If there were no more cheques? Thank you for the paper money, May would say. Every time. Don’t mention it, Mum.

Choose one end as head. Fold tip backwards and forwards. Bend inwards and fold. Curl wings between fingers. Pinch neck and tail and pull. Bird will flap wings.

For the first time since the first rumblings of collapsing investment began, Jay sensed tears threatening. David Harker-Sams, who was now something massive at ABN Amro, once told Jay that investment bankers do not cry. Not unless they can sell tears on at a profit. Jay’s paper crane sat on top of the briefcase; arches, curves and grace, all created from nothing.

For myself, I don’t mind. I can sell the flat, get rid of the car, it’s only a liability now what with the congestion charge and tax whacks on SUVs, and I can grub around till I get another job. I can cope. If this was only about me, it would be a mild setback. But I can’t let Mum down. She shouldn’t have any more disappointments in her family. I’m all she’s got. I have to find a way to save her from all this. Please, please, don’t let this toxic confetti touch my Mum. Who am I praying to? Never had any faith in God. No return on investment there.

 

‘This is Baker Street. Change here for Bakerloo and Metropolitan lines.’

Jay placed the crane on the next seat and righted the briefcase.

“Excuse me?”

One of the painters leant forward. Jay said nothing but looked at the goateed youth.

“That bird you just made. I think that’s nice. If you don’t want it, can I have it?”

Jay handed him the crane, too tired to smile. The boy-man worked the wings of the refashioned leaflet. He smiled broadly and winked.

‘Next stop, St John’s Wood.’

Jay stood up, taking hold of the Jack Georges briefcase. The youth lifted the origami creation.

“Thanks for this. Hey, how about leaving me your number? As you can see, I’m a big fan of oriental birds.”

His older friend sniggered loyally.

Jay turned back to Painter Boy. “9413. Or in Cantonese, no chance.”

She strode off the train, cursing the absent trench-coat once more, as she headed for the exit.

 

Head

Blackheath station.

Thunder.

The 11.57 to Dartford rumbles out, and I need a slash. Can’t be arsed to walk back over to the bogs, so sidle up the end of the platform, out of CCTV reach. Pull the old lad out and … relief, release. I’m swaying. The last pint was an error as yet unregretted. But tomorrow is another day. This fog is well helpful. Means I can also light a fag.

Someone singing? Some Smirnoff Slappers doing that Double Trouble one hit wonder. Considering they must be off their faces, the harmonies aren’t bad. Tucking myself back in, I decide to stay in the shadows till I finish smoking.

Yes, I should have gone home hours ago, but a triumph like today’s deserves a few tributes to Lady Stella Artois. To the victor, the spoils. Banksy couldn’t quite disguise that green tinge, but played it like a sportsman. Where is that stupid git, anyway? The cash point is only down the Vale. If he’s not back by the time the Forest Hill train comes, tough shit. Got to look after Numero Uno. Especially now. Still, shouldn’t let it go to my head.

Check the electronic board. Can’t see in this mist. And my focus is blurred, as if I’m looking through the bottom of a pint glass. I wander back to the light. Train’s delayed, twelve minutes. Hell fire. Those lairy mares have disappeared, thank Christ. I need to sit down, my legs are about to give way. Waiting room is empty. And dark.

I shove the door open and decide to set my alarm for ten minutes’ time; I daren’t fall asleep. The phone’s pale blue glow uplights three faces. I drop my phone.

“Shit!”

Scrabbling on the stinking floor for my state-of-the-art communication technology, I keep my eyes on these weird bints. They’re up to something. No wonder I didn’t see them, backs turned, all wearing black. The uniform of the flaky; fringed skirts, spiked hair and pasty skin.

I take control. “What the hell are you doing?”

“If we towd ya, we’d hafta kiw ya.”

Estuary English, a master class. So Essex does Goth as well as Chav?

I stress my Received Pronunciation. Set an example. “Look here, girls, I’m not messing about. What’s going on?”

The least grim steps forward. If you squint, as I seem to be doing, she’s got a touch of Bonham-Carter. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating Pringles.

“We’re telling fowtunes. We’w do ya, if ya like.”

I laugh, loud and confident. “Thanks ladies, but I hear enough bullshit on an average day without horoscopes.” My shadow looms across two of the three. They quail at my forthright, no-nonsense tone and hold hands.

All three shiver and sway, in some sub-Beyoncé routine. I’m not impressed and wonder if the kebab shop will be open when I get back.

“Today’s success was only the start. Andrews will move on soon, leaving your path wide open.”

I stare. They speak in freaky unison about something they could not possibly understand.

“Right, you bloody sows, who put you up to this? Don’t tell me, I’ve got a pretty good idea …”

They separate, doing some bizarre modern-dance moves and each turns to face out a window. One of them speaks, I can’t tell which.

“No man can harm you. You are safe as houses.”

“Only when bricks become paper will your castle burn.”

God, how these mentalists ever expect to get a bloke is beyond me. Hanging round in Eighties’ gear, playing sodding mind games and generally getting up people’s noses. But how do they know? They’re singing again.

“Oi! Can it, will you?” I feel sweat on my lip. Again.

I hate myself. Insecure, desperate, needy. But I have to hear it. My voice is weak. “Banksy. A real threat to my partner recommendation, or not?”

Their heads wobble. Snakes. Indians. Walk Like an Egyptian.

“Beware of Banks. You can rise to the top. Over Andrews, and over McCrail. You can go all the way. You have it in you.”

“McCrail?” I laugh. “You seriously think I could depose the CEO? You’re mad as a box of frogs. Whoever briefed you …”

My phone rings. I shake my head at these esoteric eccentrics and retreat back outside to answer.

“Lennox, you git. What do you want?”

“Still standing, you big girl’s blouse? I thought you’d be on the great white telephone by now. Listen, Ross is on the graveyard shift tonight and he’s just heard some interesting news. Andrews has done a runner. Gone over to England Investments, the sly tosser. Obviously Birnam would have stepped into his shoes, but she’s up the duff. So to the good news – you and the Bankster are first choices for Acting Head of Asset Management. Briefing at nine. And if you land this job, you are officially a jammy bastard. Changing up two gears in two days? Beers on you at The Eight Kings.”

Banks appears at the base of the stairs, ghostly in the misty light. He sees me and lifts his middle finger in greeting. I need to end this call.

“Lennox, my man, if I get this, it’ll be Cristal and coke all night long. Have you told Banks yet?”

“Nah. Thought I’d give you the edge. But Ross might. You know what a brown-nose he is.”

“Yeah. Cheers, Lennox. Appreciate the heads up. I owe you one. Laters.”

Banks looks every inch the successor. He’s matched me pint for pint, but looks louche and predatory, whereas I know I look florid and desperate. Is that what his Tae-Kwon-Crap provides? Passing clouds seemed less fun than passing wind, but it gives him an edge, no doubt about it.

He walks straight past me. “Fag,” he says. It’s a demand, not a perjorative.

The train’s due in two minutes. The waiting room’s empty; the Hags of Hexham have vanished. I follow him into the shadows, head clearer, vision sharper.

“Where’ve you been? How long does it take to get sodding cash?” I hand him a Marlboro.

He flicks the lighter and I see his grin. “Got chatting to three birds outside Barclays.”

“I can see for myself you didn’t pull.”

“Not strictly true. Got a phone number and a promise. They were right space cadets but one of them had a certain bohemian something.”

Not possible. Must have been a different hippy trio. Because they were talking to me at exactly the same time. He’s pissed, that’s all.

We smoke in silence. I have information. I have power. I’m ahead.

“Train’s coming,” he says.

Stepping to the edge of the platform, we flick our stubs onto the tracks. I notice Banks is unsteady on his feet. As Lady Luck would have it, the train comes from this direction, out of the blackness. I glance down the platform; no one can see. We’re in the dark.

I turn but he’s faster. He lunges, shoulder down, and spins on his left leg, bringing his right round to kick me between the shoulderblades. I fly, graceful for just a moment, before the impact separates body from head.

Thunder.