Читать книгу Straight Jacket - Adrian Deans - Страница 10

In the beginning was the word, and the word was ‘injustice’.

In a universe ruled by a random god actions are rarely followed by reward or punishment in proper measure. We like to think it is the essence of our humanity and civilisation that allows us to weigh the deeds of individuals and make judgments accordingly.

Animals don’t do that. If you accidentally step on a cat’s tail, the cat doesn’t pause to consider your intent and culpability — it perceives pain and strikes back.

Most people are no better than animals when it comes to justice. They don’t trouble themselves with inconvenient facts or extenuating circumstances — they judge. Take my own case for example. I tend to speak in extremes, after all, so it’s not hard for the simple-minded to misjudge or misinterpret — usually through the prism of their envy — the emotion most felt by those who resent my genius and success.

Well, fuck the simple-minded. And fuck anyone else who gets in the way of my mission — to reward the virtuous, punish the ignorant and avenge those who won’t avenge themselves.

If God is too indifferent, or too non-existent to take care of His creation, then clearly it’s up to Me.

•

My masterpiece began when I overheard this fat prick on the train laughing about having his back yard paved.

Of itself, paving a yard is no terrible crime, but this fuckwit kept carrying on about the cicadas. ‘Every summer those two big gums are totally covered with cicada shells,’ he giggled. ‘Can you imagine how pissed off those little faggots are gonna be when they scratch their way to the surface over the next seven years and all they find is pavers?’

He even acted out the frantic terror of the struggling chrysalises and his face turned purple with laughter.

What astounded me was the cheerful nature of his malice. How on earth could anyone be amused by innocent cicadas being thwarted in their dash for the light after seven years underground? And why refer to them as faggots, for fuck’s sake? These questions inspired my sense of justice in a way that nineteen years practise of law had never done.

Instead of going straight to the office that morning (quite some time ago now), I studied my subject through a forest of faces on the train, then from close behind him on the city platform where he alighted, his shiny black hair like a Brylcreem beacon.

I observed him alone in a coffee shop, grinning and sniggering at what he thought was his private joke.

I followed him into his building, boldly marching through his offices — just one more anonymous suit.

I learned his name (Gavin Millet) and established his address via the White Pages and my prior knowledge as to (approximately) where he had joined the train.

From that moment, his life became hell. I started by telephoning his home from a public phone.

‘Hello?’ (A female voice.)

‘Hello … is that Gavin’s house?’ (I made my voice sound anxious, and a little effeminate for good measure.)

‘Yes. Who is speaking?’ (A strong voice, suddenly very correct and proper, but also apprehensive.)

‘Tell Gav that Cherry knows … and he wants to come out.’

‘Come out? What are you talking about? Who are you?’

‘Cherry wants to come out,’ I repeated, breaking into faux tears, then hung up. I composed myself, rang Gavin Millet’s office and was put through immediately.

‘Gavin Millet speaking.’ (One of those fat/pompous voices you associate with half-smart politicians.)

‘Is that the Gavin Millet?’

(Confused silence.)

‘It’s Gavin Millet,’ he said, at last, ‘but I’m not sure I deserve the definite article. Who’s speaking?’

I let him wonder for a few seconds, then I said: ‘A friend.’

‘A friend!’ he exclaimed, half-smart sarcastic. ‘How intriguing!’

‘A friend of the Black Prince.’

‘What?’

Now he was worried, as well he might be.

‘I said, I’m a friend of the Black Prince … and if you fuck with my friends, you’re a dead man.’

•

Now I move forward in time to the main action. As senior in-house counsel for Gulliman Cross (an international investment bank), I was not expected to keep regular hours as long as I got the job done. This I mainly achieved through careful delegation, and by being in the right place at the right time.

But when I walked in that day, a little after ten, I could tell immediately that something was in the air — that I had just missed something. Mandy Gore, the office manager, was shout/whispering into the phone and glanced up at me as I entered, her blue mascaraed eyes wide with occasion. She clamped a plumpish paw over the mouthpiece and said, ‘Good morning Morgen … Mr Lukic wants to see you.’

She gave me one of those meaningful looks, with tight lips and raised eyebrows, that are designed to convey a sense of drama, although in Mandy’s case, just about everything did. She went about like a fat Lady Macbeth lamenting the lack of letterhead or soliloquising upon the social occasions she never tired of organising, despite the fact that no one ever showed.

Notwithstanding Mandy’s advice, I continued down the corridor to my own office to collect my thoughts. Why would Lukic want to see me? There were numerous possibilities, I supposed — the Newman file for a start, not to mention that fuck-up with the Xerxes insurance, but I doubted whether Lukic could know about any of those. I normally managed to cover my tracks before I made them.

Anyway, if I was in trouble it was hardly likely that Mandy would know about it before I did. It had to be something else.

‘Morgen! Spoken to Feargol yet?’

An apparition like a red rhombus appeared before me. In other words, Don Affridge had stuck his head in the door.

‘Morning, Don. No, he hasn’t … what’s up?’

After Feargol, Don and I were the two most senior lawyers in the Compliance Division, although in most things I was considered senior to Don because I’d been there longer. This was despite the fact that Don was definitely twice the lawyer I am, and his dedication to Gulliman Cross was at least a hundred times greater. But for all his dedication and his technical expertise (especially with venture financing), it was impossible for me to respect a man whose head in profile resembled the map of Scotland — angular back of the skull north of Aberdeen, upward sweep of his carroty forelock to the Hebrides, buck teeth and weak chin recalling the Mull of Kintyre, and the stooped, thin neck of northern England. He was fourth generation Australian, but I had secretly nicknamed him Jock and had anonymously encouraged the use of the name among the junior lawyers and support staff.

‘Oh well … if you haven’t heard, I’d better let Feargol tell you himself.’

Prick.

He was delighting in power knowledge now and flaunting it. Well fuck you Don, I’ve read Foucault too.

He grinned from the doorway then vanished as the phone rang.

‘Morgen Tanjenz …’

‘Morgen … it’s Feargol. I need to talk to you. Now, if you don’t mind.’

‘No worries, Feargol, I’ll be right round.’

I left the sanctuary of my office and crossed the open plan area to the large suite at the corner of the building. Feargol Lukic (or Faecal Leakage as I called him) was in his late fifties and the last of the blokesy lawyers who grew up in the piss-swilling rugby days of the 60s and 70s, got rich in the 80s, and respectable in the 90s. The son of Irish/Polish immigrants, he’d sucked up Aussie culture like a displaced sponge and the combination of his large athletic frame, his penchant for piss and his good-blokes-round-the-barbie sense of humour made him more ‘Australian’ than Paul Hogan walking his pet goanna.

Anyway, I couldn’t help but notice the expectant silence as I made my way over to Feargol’s rooms. They were watching me. Whatever it was that was happening they all knew about it — something which affected me, but Affridge was obviously pleased. A ghastly premonition began to form. It was nothing to do with my various scams and fuck-ups — it was ten times worse.

Feargol’s secretary, Lynn, with whom I usually enjoyed a mild flirt, was not in the mood. She gave me a somewhat grimmer version of the lips-and-eyebrows look that Mandy had given me and I paused at Feargol’s doorway, testing the breeze.

‘Morgen! Siddown.’

As I said, Feargol was a strapping athletic bugger, and that morning he was positively glowing with rude health. He’s one of those blokes who get to thirty and stay there forever — face unlined, hair turning discreetly from blond to sandy silver, pink and fit and utterly immortal.

‘What’s up, Feargol? The place is like a morgue.’

Feargol laughed — a deep booming that always made me picture his testicles, like a couple of rockmelons in a hessian sack — and I relaxed just slightly. He didn’t have the shits at least.

‘A morgue! Well … not just yet, I hope.’

‘What do you mean?’

And for half an instant there was the smallest crack in his larger-than-life façade.

‘I’ve been getting these pains … in my back. I was just putting it down to old age, but I finally mentioned it to my doctor the other day and she made me go off for these tests. Anyhow … it seems I’ve got two choices to make.’

Feargol leaned back into his padded grey leather and addressed the ceiling.

‘The first choice is whether to fight this bloody cancer … which is a pain in the arse … or whether just to live life to the full for as long as I’ve got left.’

Aah, cancer. Thank Christ for that. The ghastly premonition vanished.

‘You don’t look too upset, Morgen!’

‘Oh … sorry, Feargol. I’m just a bit stunned.’

‘Yeah … so was I. Anyhow, I’ve gone for Option B … live life to the full. I’m resigning pretty much immediately an’ takin’ Julie off round the world for as long as it takes. Which leads me to the second choice …’

Oh fuck, no. The premonition was back.

‘I have to appoint my successor. Obviously the only two candidates are you and Affridge. I’ve chosen Affridge.’

‘Jock? You’re kidding!’

Feargol sighed and slumped in his seat, suddenly looking sick.

‘It was a bloody tough decision, Morgen … tougher than the first. Affridge is a bit of an arsehole, I know, but he really gives a shit. The department is his life! We all know that technically he’s the best lawyer in the building. He puts in the hours … and quite frankly, he’s billed a lot more business than you in the last couple of years. It wouldn’t be right to ignore his claim.’

‘Well, he claims to be carrying this department … in spite of your leadership. Probably a good idea to give him enough rope … to show he really is up to the job.’

In fact, I was annoyed with myself for revealing my feelings so quickly. Feargol rubbed his chin and considered.

‘You don’t think he is?’

I hesitated, as though unwilling to speak a painful truth, but then I told him what I really thought. ‘Feargol, he’s a prick! He might be a reasonable lawyer but the department needs a leader … like you. Jock couldn’t lead a Labrador to a bucket of rancid bull’s balls!’

Feargol grinned, back to the overgrown schoolboy.

‘Why do you call him Jock?’

‘Don’t know … I thought everyone called him Jock.’

Feargol just chuckled and started going through his morning correspondence, which meant the interview was over.

Fuck it! So that’s what Mandy was trying to tell me with her raised purple eyebrows — bloody Jock was the new head of Compliance!