A Week in December (36 page)

Lisa was shown huddled in a heavy fur coat outside the bungalow holding a microphone close to her face. 'Blimey, boys, let me tell you it is fr-r-r-r-r-eezing here! My hands are literally blocks of ice!'

'We can see you're cold from the bumps in your sweater, Leese,' said Terry O'Malley. 'Now then, before we get down to business, let's have a recap on how everyone's done with the therapeutic challenge. Yup, it's time for TC Update. OK, boys! Roll it!'

Finn dragged deeply on the skunk. This looked like developing into a classic episode. The five finalists were, in his judgement, evenly balanced; the result might come down to how much they really wanted to win. First for the update was Preston, the old man suffering from dementia. When he could bring himself to focus on the prize, Preston was a strong contender, but, as Agneta put it when they showed clips of his behaviour, 'He's not that sexy, is he?' The jury was out on Channel 7's experiment of going with an old person.

Next was the chronically depressed Sandra. She didn't appear to understand the nature of her therapeutic challenge, which was to try to go for two days without medication. However, she insisted that she was 'dead excited' about winning. Valerie, the bipolar patient, seemed euphoric about the bungalow experience. She could hardly stop talking or fidgeting, and frequently interrupted her own train of thought. The other contestants tended to make their excuses when they saw her heading their way.

The person who seemed to be struggling most was the schizophrenic, Alan. Despite constant urging from the judges, he didn't evince as much desire to win as they would have liked. Most of the time, he seemed to be conversing with people no one else could see. He talked loudly and reasonably to them and seemed to resent the real-life intrusions of Lisa and the other judges. Despite this perversity, there was an integrity to Alan that commanded respect.

'Yeah, you gotta hand it to him,' said Barry Levine, 'he's got something, has Alan.'

Agneta King agreed. 'You can't take that away from him, Barry.'

At that moment the front doorbell rang, and Finn went down to collect his pizza. His father's study door was open, but there was no one inside. Through the glass-panelled door of the ground-floor sitting room, he could see his mother lying on the sofa with her shoes off. There was an empty wine bottle at her side and her eyes were closed. Finn gave the delivery man a PS5 tip (he didn't have to pay for the pizza itself as they had an account) and ran back upstairs.

He fast-forwarded through the advertisements as he bit into the unfailing Margherita. Although he personally was devoted to it, the popularity of
It's Madness
had always surprised him. A few people of small intelligence, with no conversation and serious personality problems, were banged up together in a house where their witless exchanges were monitored. They shared living and sleeping quarters, though there was nothing entertaining in the rooms themselves: the flat lighting and the textured video recordings stripped out any visual interest. There was an element of competition, it was true, and that could give anything a little drama, though Finn had never worked out what the competition was for - what you were supposed to be better than the others
at
. Sometimes it seemed that what decided whether you won was not something you said or did, but just how much you cared, or said you did; convincing the judges of how very much you wanted to win could itself make you a winner.

Now a group of people, not much favoured by nature, would be asked to share a private sexual fantasy with the public. They were to go into the bathroom and speak directly to the camera. Originally, the idea had been to have a sequence called 'Solitary Pleasures' in which they were asked to masturbate in a shower cubicle. This idea came from an incident in an earlier show when a beefy young man had 'accidentally' been shown touching himself through a half-steamed glass door. However, the resistance to this development had been strong. 'A one-off spontaneous gesture made a historic moment in "reality" TV history,' wrote one journalist, 'but surely to embed it in the routine of the series is to rob that gesture of its iconic status.'

Digitime's board met and discussed the issue. They decided they were not yet ready to 'push the envelope', but would reconsider for a future series. 'Our medical experts have advised us, however, that the sharing of an intimate fantasy is a standard procedure in most forms of therapy. Taste guidelines will be strictly adhered to.'

First into the bathroom was Valerie, or 'Scotty'. She was wearing a tracksuit and pink trainers. She perched on the edge of the bath and settled herself.

At the top of the screen there was a small inset of the studio where Barry, Terry and Agneta were shown looking at their monitors.

In the early days, they hadn't commented much on the appearance of the contestants, but Terry had broken the ice and Agneta King was always ready to jump in.

'Blimey, with a bum like hers I should think fantasy's all she's likely to get!' said Agneta.

'Seems chirpy enough, though,' said Terry.

'Lisa,' said Barry, 'we're not getting the sound from the bathroom. Has she started yet?'

'OK, Tel,' said Lisa. 'I'll go and see what the matter is. Wish me luck!'

The hand-held camera that followed Lisa everywhere now showed her hopping over one of the long cream leather sofas and going towards the bathroom.

At this moment the audio track picked up what sounded like a scream. The picture skewed from side to side as though the cameraman had lost his footing.

When it steadied up, it showed depressed and red-faced Sandra screaming and sobbing, her face close to Lisa's.

'Nice to see Sandra showing a bit of animation,' said Terry, in the top left corner of the screen. 'I thought she didn't really want it enough any more.'

Sandra was holding on to Lisa's arm and trying to drag her somewhere.

'I'm going with Sandra. Follow me,' said Lisa to the cameraman.

They swayed down a corridor, with Sandra screeching and babbling incomprehensibly, and then they were in a prop or storage room. It was not intended as a scene and was not professionally lit; but by using the ordinary ceiling lights, Lisa was able to share with millions of viewers what she was seeing, and what had brought Sandra screaming to her side.

Finn leaned forward, pizza in hand, heart thudding, and peered at the cloudy screen. There seemed to be a huge doll in the middle of the picture, dangling.

The hand-held camera pushed in and it became clear that it was not a doll but a man, and that he was hanging from a beam in the storeroom.

The television soundtrack went quiet. The camera moved closer and then up into the man's face. It was Alan, the schizophrenic, and he had hanged himself.

Lisa began to scream. The pictures swayed and went black. Then it cut to the studio where Terry and Barry were shown peering in disbelief at their monitor. Then Agneta also began screaming.

Then the screen went completely blank.

Six

Friday, December 21

I

Eight o'clock saw another freezing start to the day in Ferrers End, where R. Tranter watched a murky sun appear in the distance over Loughton and Chigwell. He had been up since six, unable to sleep for thinking about the Pizza Palace prize dinner that evening at the Park Lane Metropolitan.

He had rehearsed his speech a hundred times, but still wasn't happy with it. He'd begin, he thought, with feigned surprise - even though
Flyleaf
, the trade magazine, agreed with the bookies that neither Cazenove's travelogue nor the children's thing had a chance against Tranter's authoritative work on A. H. Edgerton. Then he'd move on to thank his agent, lazy cow, and his editor, who had told him the book was too long and that the budget could run to only eight pages of illustrations. The thanks were routine, he gathered, from the dinners he'd been to and newspaper reports he'd read. Winners, however, were then supposed to say something important about literature, or their work. Tranter's problem was that he had nothing positive to say. His opinions had been fully discharged in his years as a reviewer and the single thing he felt most passionately about books and writing was that it was wrong that Alexander Sedley, among others, had enjoyed more success than he had.

As he lay in bed, with Septimus Harding curled up beside him, Tranter found various phrases popping into his mind. 'Edgerton, a writer of lasting value ... Striking contrast ... Today's media darlings ... Hands out of your pockets at the back, we're talking about you ...' All these trusty little turns that would have hit the mark in one of his
Toad
pieces sounded, in the context of a prize-giving dinner with champagne, just ... Snippy. Defensive. People would laugh at him. He was meant to celebrate his book, his subject or himself. And how was he supposed to do that without sounding conceited?

As he stood in the kitchen making tea, Tranter heard the flap of the letter box in the hall below. One of the good things about Mafeking Road, perhaps the best thing, was that it was at the start of the postman's delivery round, and while other parts of London waited till midday or later, Tranter could have read, binned or answered his mail by eight o'clock daily. He put down a saucer of milk for Septimus and went downstairs in his dressing gown. Among the usual bank statements and circulars there was a clean white envelope on which his name and address had clearly not been spat out of a ten-gigabyte mailing list, but had been boldly and individually typed.

Up in his kitchen, he opened it. It was from the head of Humanities at the University of South Middlesex, a Professor Nancy Ritollo. 'Dear Mr Tranter, I am writing with the authority of the board here to invite you to interview for the post of Visiting Professor of Critical and Creative Writing, tenable for one year, renewable annually by agreement for a maximum of five years. The post pays PS22,500 per annum and the teaching requirement is two hours each week on our Walworth campus, comments on student work and a termly "open forum" lecture. I must tell you that, should you be interested in the position, the interview is somewhat of a formality. We are not considering other applicants at this time. Please reply to my assistant Ms Melinda Asif at [email protected] to fix a time convenient to yourself to come and see us.

'The University of South Middlesex is a relatively new but thriving university which welcomes students of all backgrounds and is building a strong postgraduate programme of which if you accept our offer you would be a part. Yours sincerely.'

Tranter laid the letter down on the melamine work surface. Was this some kind of joke? Was someone trying to trick him? He read it again. No, it seemed genuine enough. He would answer carefully, non-committally, offering no hostage to fortune; but so far as he could see, this letter had, with a single offer, made him financially secure. And surely good things did sometimes happen?

Although it had only just grown light, John Veals had been at his desk for an hour by the time security rang up at eight to say, 'There's a Miss Wilby here to see you.'

'Tell her I'll meet her at the lift.'

Veals watched the indicator lights as the regulator rose to meet him. G, 1, 2, 3 ... He was waiting for her; he was quite calm now, ready to draw on all his experience - futures, banking, trading, managing: everything and anything to protect what was dearest in the world to him.

The doors parted, and out stepped a young woman in a grey suit and black tights, carrying a briefcase. She had fair hair tied back in a businesslike way, wore metal-rimmed glasses and was slightly flushed.

'Caroline Wilby.' Her hand was moist, and Veals could feel a tremor in it.

'Come this way.'

He took her into his own office and pointed to the chair opposite his own, the one in which Simon Wetherby had sat while Veals divested him of his innocence on the sub-prime loans issue.

'Coffee?'

'Thank you. I'd better give you this.' She pushed a business card across the desk.

'Coffee,' said Veals into the phone. His four screens were blank. 'What was it you wanted to ask?'

A secretary knocked and entered with coffee and a plate of rectangular chocolate biscuits with a soft chocolate filling.

'Thanks. FSA favourites!' said Caroline Wilby, biting into one.

Veals watched her. She composed herself a little, settled into the chair, then said, 'Do you mind if I record this meeting?' She took out a small digital device from her bag.

'Not at all.'

There followed a minute or so of battery checking, of buttons being pushed and released. 'Difficult to know if it's actually working ... Let me see ... Just going to do a test. "Testing one two three. High Level Capital ... December 21st." Now let's see. Oh, God, sorry. Try again. I think if I hold this down ...'

Veals gazed out of the window until she was ready.

'First of all, I'm so grateful to you for seeing me at such short notice. I really do appreciate your help. I'm going round a few senior people seeing if they can give me any guidance. As you know, we're trying to improve all our systems, especially at such an awkward time.'

Veals nodded.

'We're interested at this time in rumours and how they start. And I know this is going to sound rather naive and I hope you'll forgive me asking, but do you ever trade on rumours?'

Veals stroked his chin and looked across at her. She had crossed her legs and he noticed the chubby calves and the scuffed edges of the black court shoes. It was utterly quiet in the office.

'Of course,' said Veals.

Caroline Wilby looked a little surprised.

'When rumours are widespread they can affect the way a market moves. If people believe, for instance, that a company is to become the subject of a takeover, even though the board has denied it - if that's the rumour, it'll obviously push the price up. And if it's a company we're interested in, we may need to take appropriate action to protect our position.'

'Well, naturally, I ... I do see that.'

'We're obliged to look after our investors' interests.'

'Yes, I can see that you--'

'Equally, we would never want to be at the beginning of any such word on the street. If I heard some gossip and felt I was one of the first to hear it, I would disregard it. My view is that one should trade on the basis of analysis and information, not rumour. However, if the persistence of a rumour over a period of time begins to alter prices, then the price change becomes a fact - and on that fact we may sometimes be obliged to act.'

'So what you're saying is, that it depends at what stage you hear the rumour.'

'Often we have no way of knowing whether we're second, third or twenty-fifth to hear something. But it's the one area in which it's best to be behind the game. Unlike analysis, where we try to be ahead.'

'So it's a question of being reactive to rumour, not proactive.'

'Exactly,' said Veals, in such a way as to suggest that Caroline Wilby had been unusually acute.

She smiled. 'So I think I've probably answered my next question already, and that is, have you ever deliberately started a rumour?'

Veals tried to smile. 'Indeed. See my previous answer.'

Caroline Wilby frowned. 'Can I be completely frank, Mr Veals? I really need your help.'

'Of course.'

'It seems that a particular rumour started about Allied Royal bank a couple of days ago. That it was going to be taken over by First New York. Did you know about that?'

'I saw something on one of the cable channels.'

'Yes, it was denied in New York last night by the chief executive of First New York.'

'So I heard. These things happen. Perhaps they might have made a good fit, but I suppose people are scared of over-expanding at the moment.'

'Have you any idea where such a rumour might have started?'

'It sounds to me like routine speculation. Bankers talk about this kind of thing all the time. You can't stop people theorising out loud. But is there a problem? No one can have made anything out of it in such a short time, can they?'

'No, we've no reason to think so. It's just that we're trying to tighten up on all these areas.'

'Good idea.'

'Have you traded on ARB stock recently?'

'We have a small short position which we put on some months ago. I've been bearish ARB for a while. So actually I was surprised to see the price go up. The first I heard of the takeover rumour was when it was denied. The price'll go back down again now, I imagine.'

Caroline Wilby nodded. 'Yes, I quite understand. There are two other things I'd like to ask if I may. Do you have a continuing education programme to ensure that your staff are up to speed with the latest rules on insider trading? And are they fully conversant with the rules about rumours?'

'Yes, we have a very good new compliance officer. He makes sure everyone's up to date, and I double-check it. We send them on courses. It's not very onerous, but it's worth keeping up.'

'That's marvellous. Thank you. One last thing.' Caroline Wilby ran her hand back over her hair. 'I ... I don't quite know how to put this ... Um ... We're under huge pressure to get to the bottom of this ARB thing, but, to be honest, I just don't know where to look or what to ask. And then how to verify whether what I'm being told is true. Now, you're a very experienced and senior person, if you don't mind me saying so. If you were in my position, what would you ask? And who would you ask?'

Veals looked at her for a long time. 'Before I answer that, Caroline, can I ask you a couple of questions?'

'Yes, of course.'

'How old are you?'

'Twenty-six.'

'What did you do before this job?'

'I worked as a trainee at an investment bank, I'd better not say which. Not one of the American ones. A big European one.'

'And?'

'Then I had a trial.'

'And?'

Caroline Wilby looked down. 'I ... I didn't get taken on.'

Veals stood up abruptly. 'I've got an idea. I know one of your top guys from way back. Why don't I give him a call today, tell him you've been, tell him you're a very sharp girl and that I really want to help. I won't mention your last question.'

The flush intensified on Caroline Wilby's face. 'Would you? Would you really do that?'

'Yes, I would. I wouldn't say so otherwise. Then I'll ask if I can go and see him on Monday, maybe take him out to lunch and really see if I can help him get to the bottom of this.'

'God, that's so kind of you. I really do appreciate it.'

'I guess it's not easy, your job.'

'It's not easy at all. I'm not sure I'm really cut out for it, to tell the truth.' Caroline Wilby put the voice recorder back in her bag. 'You know, asking all these questions. I'll do it for a bit, I suppose. But what I'd really like is to work for a hedge fund. Obviously, I'd be well placed to work in the compliance department. I don't suppose you ever ...'

'Not at the moment,' said Veals, showing her to the door. 'But I'll bear it in mind.'

At 8.30 the chutney-coloured limousine pulled out of the gates at the al-Rashids' house and started the trip west to Buckingham Palace. At Knocker's insistence they had put aside an hour and a half for the journey. He was sitting in the front, alongside Joe, the driver, checking for the third time that he still had the parking permit for the forecourt of the palace. Joe's tabloid paper, stuffed under his seat, bore the huge headline 'Bungalow Suicide Shocker'. In the back sat Nasim, who had finally settled for an intense blue sari with ivory and saffron embroidery, jettisoning the knee-length beige dress at the last minute.

'I feel a bit of a fraud,' she told Knocker. 'I'm just a Yorkshire lass and I've dressed up like a maharani.'

Knocker grinned. 'You look beautiful. It's good to honour the land of our ancestors. After all, today is about lime pickle.'

'Which you once told me was a British invention.'

'Ssh. Don't tell Her Majesty, she might change her mind.'

Knocker's excitement was making him unusually frivolous. Hassan had shaved for the occasion and wore a dark suit with narrow trousers and a navy blue tie. He stared out of the window as the streets of East Ham went by, thinking as he saw the drapers and the greengrocers, the stallholders and the small-business frontages, of how far the people had come to be there. What a struggle was still theirs. The
kafirs
wore trainers and thick anoraks, but there were numerous people in the clothes of the North-West Frontier or those of Arabia, padded against the cold. He had hated it when Shahla was so defeatist about what she called the Muslim 'polity', saying an Islamic state could never exist, condemning as she did so his people to a life as visitors, second-class people - squatters, really, in the countries and systems of others.

At the gates of the palace, Knocker withdrew his several pieces of printed instruction and handed the parking permit, a single white letter 'M' on a red background, to the driver. After leaving the car, they were shown up some wide stone steps covered in crimson carpet. At this point, Knocker was separated from Nasim and Hassan, who were escorted by a flunkey to their seats in the ballroom, where they would witness the investitures being made.