The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife (21 page)

‘Well … it seems OK. No damage done, well not physically, anyway! Poor thing's probably going to need psychiatric intervention for some time though!' joked Briony.

Mel was watching the television in horror, as the police rammed into the protesting crowd with shields and batons. She wasn't at all sure she wanted them involved in her search for her poor confused, beloved husband.

‘My God! Look at them! They're beating that man with their batons!' squealed Briony, indignantly. ‘Do you remember Gran telling us about the miners' strike in the eighties? Remember how she ended up in front of the magistrates for biting that policeman's ear? She was only four foot ten with grey hair and false teeth!'

‘Oh yes!' remembered Mel. ‘And the policeman was six foot seven with a shaved head and built like a brick shit house! She was great, wasn't she? Always ready to fight another's corner! Remember when she carried the Communist Party card? There was a load of trouble about that. Something to do with Dad's job in the civil service. Don't know why … he was only an administrator for some little department.'

‘Was he?' said Briony. ‘I often wonder what he really did, you know. Weren't you ever suspicious? He was always away. And then, what about his recent trip to Algeria?'

‘He was birdwatching,' answered Mel.

‘Mmmm. I've got friends who say there isn't any good birdwatching in Algeria. And when can you remember Dad being at all interested in birds? He hasn't got one bird book. Doesn't that strike you as a little odd?' asked Briony.

‘Well, what do you think he does then? Do you think he's a spy?' laughed Mel.

Briony looked darkly at Mel and Mel looked disconcertedly back.

‘Stranger things have happened! And hasn't he always said “If I told you what I do, I'd have to shoot you”?'

‘Surely that's a joke?'

‘Maybe, but many a true word is spoken in jest. And how did he know so much about banking stuff?' wondered Briony.

‘Best not to talk about it any more.'

‘Probably safer,' concluded Briony, nodding wisely.

He didn't look like James Bond and judging by his taste in clothes and cars, was not exactly a womaniser. But, deep down, they both knew that their father was a bit of a real-life James Bond.

Briony's phone tinkled.

‘Oh! Hi Sophie! … You think you've seen Alan? Where?! What's he doing?'

‘Oh my God! Is he alive?' gulped Mel. She felt faint with relief and anxiety combined.

Briony handed Mel the phone. ‘I'm putting you onto my sister, hold on.'

‘Don't worry, Mel. He's alive. He doesn't look as good as his photo. His hair's stuck up on end and he's drooling a bit, but I can still recognise him. He was jumping up and down in front of a police horse begging them to arrest him! We got hold of him and dragged him away.'

‘Is he there?' asked Mel. ‘Can I speak to him?'

‘He's just sitting on the curb staring into space at the moment. At least he's stopped rocking and trying to crawl into a skip. But he's definitely not right. I would recommend you came down here to pick him up, but the whole of the City is cordoned off. You'll never get in. It's like a siege.'

‘What'll we do then? Could I just speak to him? He doesn't need to answer me.'

‘Well, you can certainly try. . ,' replied Sophie. Mel heard a rustling as Sophie moved the phone from her ear and heard her say to Alan, ‘It's Mel. She wants to talk to you. I'll hold the phone to your ear.'

‘Alan?' cried Mel. ‘Alan! Are you all right? I love you! Please look after yourself. Stay with Sophie and her friends. As soon as I can get to you, I will.'

She looked at Briony for support. Briony nodded her agreement. She would gladly drive her down in the hippy van as soon as it was possible.

There was no answer, not even a sniff, from Alan at the other end of the line. Not for a while anyway, and then Mel heard a huge gulp and a sob.

‘He's OK, Mel. At least he's stopped staring into space now. He seemed catatonic earlier!' said Sophie. ‘I'll let you know when it'll be safe to come down here. And don't worry … we'll look after him until then!' and Sophie switched off her mobile.

The day wore on. Kelly came with her children and offered her services as babysitter to Mel's and Briony's children and animals when Sophie gave the all-clear for them to drive to London.

57

‘Did you hear that, a country … an entire country … has gone bankrupt?!' gasped Kelly.

‘A country cannot possibly go bankrupt overnight! That's not possible!' said Mel.

‘Look! Daddy's on the telly!' Amy was indeed pointing at her father. He looked just as he had in his early university photos,- hair scruffy and a little long, face covered in ginger stubble and eyes full of … well, actually full of spirit. He was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other protesters, holding aloft one huge banner carrying the slogan,

‘No to global capitalism! Yes to life!'

And there on the screen with him were Sophie, Tracey and Felicity from that memorable day at Brighton.

Amy and Michael watched, boggle-eyed, as their father marched with his newfound comrades towards the line of police with shields. It was like a scene from outside the palace of Nikolai and Alexandra of Russia except that the backdrop was of buildings so tall and packed together and glinting with glass that the humans looked like tiny little bugs. Mel watched too, fervently hoping that this particular protest wouldn't end in the same bloody way as the one in pre-revolutionary Russia had. As she, Briony, Kelly and the children stared transfixed at the screen, they saw the foot police closing in, backed up by a cordon of police on horseback. They waited with bated breath and thanked God the police didn't carry guns in Britain. It would have been so easy, in that tense atmosphere (claustrophobic with people and animals, huge buildings and bank employees goading from the windows
above) for someone to let off a shot. And then the boiling scene was replaced by the newsreader reporting about Members of Parliament and their ridiculous claims from public money for nights at ‘massage parlours' and personal castle-moat cleaning. Here they were staring into who knows what? People losing their livelihoods, their homes? People starving to death because money had been sucked into a black hole? And the people representing them were chucking these poor buggers' money about like a bunch of mad Marie Antoinettes.

‘When's Daddy coming home, Mummy?' whined Michael.

‘Soon, lovely … very soon,' although Mel was worried that the scene could turn violent in the City, she felt more hopeful about Alan and her family's survival than she had in ages. Her husband looked much younger, which was strange, because he must have been on the street for a day or so. He looked grimy, but his eyes were full of life.

The siege of the City of London went on for another day and another night until, at last, the long-awaited phone call came from Sophie. Mel even got to speak to Alan, who sounded tired but full of conviction. They were, however, all incarcerated in a police cell at Her Majesty's Pleasure, which took the triumphant edge off somewhat. This was the phone call they were allowed to make by law when arrested.

‘What are you charged with?' asked Mel, incredulous.

‘Not sure yet. I think they're trying to come up with something. Disturbing the peace maybe? Who knows. Anyway … will you come down and visit me? We need to get a lawyer,' said Alan. Rob then phoned to speak to Kelly.

‘Was that Alan on the TV with a bunch of hippies? What does he think he's doing? He was right outside his bank!'

‘He was, wasn't he?' said Kelly simply.

‘Won't he lose his job? He can't go around protesting outside with a load of lefties and transvestites!'

‘Why not? Sounds like a bloody good idea at the moment! It makes as much sense as anything else today!' said Kelly.

‘You're impossible!' declared Rob as he put the phone down.

Kelly thought about it for a moment. How very strange that Rob of all people should be prejudiced against men dressing up as women. Last time she saw him, he was forcing his feet into a pair of stilettos and moaning to her about the impossibility of finding size twelve patent red stiletto slingbacks in the high street these days.

Oh well. ‘Nowt so queer as folk', she thought to herself.

‘Hi darling!' said Mel as she met her husband at the police station. ‘How are you? I was so worried! I thought you had thrown yourself off a bridge or something!'

‘I spent a while looking at the river the other night, I must admit. I've never felt so lost and alone in my life. If I hadn't met up with those friends of Kelly's I don't know where I'd be now.'

Alan buried his head in Mel's hair and they hugged as if they would never stop.

‘I didn't think you'd want me back. I'm damaged goods, Mel. I'm finished in the City and I don't think all the cats are out of the bag yet. This little lot is going to be like a Pandora's box. I was all right when I used my brain but I couldn't be successful that way. Now I'm in it up to my neck. But I'm not the only one. The whole financial world is crawling with the infestation of fraud and dirty deals.'

‘Why did you go along with it then?' asked Mel, perplexed.

‘Because I told myself that investing and making money were good for Britain and ultimately for the people. I could see that the only thing which supported the social security and health care systems was the money we made in banking. Big Swinging Dick played on this theme, for me anyway and in the end, as long as it was to make money for our people it didn't seem to matter how I made it. Do you see what I mean? And the more I listened and the more I snorted, the more reasonable gambling sounded. But now we've all woken up. Honestly Mel, it's like we were all in some sort of trance. Even when the hackles on
the back of my neck were bristling, I completely ignored my instincts and ploughed straight ahead. And I didn't get into trouble at all. All this gambling bought me bonuses, trips to Monaco, trips to Rome … as you well know. I've only got into trouble now because I suddenly woke up and pounced on that policeman and swore when he carried on beating up that protester. I only swore at him a little bit you know, Mel. It seems rather upside down that I should get arrested now, when I've finally seen the light and am working with my conscience and not when I was aiding drug dealers, terrorists and gamblers. You know there's no money left in the system, don't you Mel? We've gambled it all away. And that's why I was begging to be arrested. Not for this!' finished Alan.

‘Who are the drug dealers you're talking about? I've always wondered about Poppy, you know. I know it sounds ridiculous but I was thinking about it the other day … The only thing they grow in Afghanistan is terrorists and poppies. And I'm sure those poppies aren't grown in support of the British Legion. They're a completely different species from the red ones we have. Aren't they the ones they grow to make opium … and heroin?'

‘And your point is?' enquired Alan.

‘Poppy said she needed to move their investments out of the horticultural industry of Afghanistan. I thought at first, you know … tulips or roses. Then even cannabis, but I've checked on the Internet and in books and the only thing they seem to grow there is, well, frankly, opium poppies. And she and Tarkers know an awful lot of people in high places, don't they? Did you think about this when you started handling their investments?'

‘I was burying my head in the sand rather, to be honest. That was a trick made easier by using all those drugs. Honestly, if I was female, I'd be like Judy Garland … all my bodily functions have been controlled by drugs. And I know I'm not the only one. It's going to be a really big wake-up call
when the governments of the world realise the extent of this.'

‘So you think this goes further than Bonkerman of America then? Were they really so big and influential?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘So why didn't someone rescue the bloody bank then?'

‘Who knows? I don't think the governments had much idea of what has been going on. As long as it was bringing in the
geld
, they weren't bothered.'

‘So, what are we looking at?' asked Mel, not wanting to know the answer.

‘It looks like a Depression … bigger than the one we had in the thirties,' whispered Alan.

And with that, Mel had visions of herself approaching charities for offal and sheeps' brains to feed her family and her children being farmed out to exploitative child employers who made them dance, go down mines or climb up chimneys … and that was if they were lucky.

‘We have to get you out of here and we have to leave the country,' decided Mel.

Then her mobile rang.

‘I need to speak to Alan!' cried Poppy. ‘He needs to speak to the police for me.'

‘What on earth do you mean? What police? Why?' demanded Mel.

‘Is he there?'

‘Well, he is and he isn't.' Mel was certainly not going to inform Poppy of Alan's incarceration in the nick.

‘Let me speak to her,' said Alan. He took the phone.

‘Yes, Poppy. Well, I'm sure it is … yes … I daresay … Sorry, Poppy, no can do. I know nothing about it. Goodbye.'

‘What is going on?' asked Mel. Alan had switched the phone off completely before returning it to his wife.

‘Nothing we need to worry about. I've arranged mortgages for her. That's all. Anything else is really none of my business.'

‘But … the police? What can they be doing there?'

‘I really don't want to know, do you?' Alan smiled wryly. ‘All I can say is that our suspicions about her may well be true. Don't know how the police can have found out about it though. Swiss banks are so secretive that the top echelon of criminals can put dirty money into them and it comes out the other end squeaky clean. No questions asked. I'm not saying that everyone who invests in them is a criminal. Most of them just want to avoid paying tax, but you can guarantee that top professional criminals will smell so strongly of roses after their money has been laundered through those accounts that they can mix with royalty and send their boys to Eton and girls to Roedean. No one would ever guess that their prim, proper, luxurious and respectable lifestyle was funded by getting kids hooked on heroin and then into prostitution, criminality and death. If only these druggies would realise what a total mug's game they're playing. People, possibly including Poppy and Tarkers, could get Amy and Michael hooked on heroin but they're so far from the black coalface that they're never caught. There are wars fought over the stuff, but by the time we get the story of the reason behind the war it's all cleaned up and respectable. These people are like Amy's aphids, sucking lovely flowers of promising youth dry.'