Clapham Lights (26 page)

Mark goes to his room with his laptop and Craig grabs the remote controls. There is the sound of a printer in action. Mark emerges holding a printed sheet and sneaks into Craig’s bedroom without him noticing. He’s only in there a few seconds and then goes back and sits with him.

‘You know what we should do?’ Mark says.

‘No. What?’

‘Have a party. Here.’

‘Why?’

‘To get Hannah and other girls over here of course. It’d be perfect. We’d get loads of booze, music and get smashed.’

‘Umm, who’d pay for it?’

‘It’d cost hardly anything. People would bring drinks.’

‘What other girls could we invite?’

‘Girls we’ve pulled. There are loads of girls who’d come over.’

‘Name some.’

‘Amy. All the girls from my work. And your new best mate down the hall and her friends.’

Craig looks sceptical. ‘I’m not sure it’s the best idea.’

‘Why? You’ll never get a better chance to impress Hannah. If we can throw a great party, it’ll make you look cool.’

‘People might come in off the street and steal our stuff like you always say they will.’

‘I’ll hire doormen. We’d invite people from work, the old uni boys, and our other mates. Think about how good it’d be. We could get a DJ and put lights up everywhere. Make it like a club.’

‘I literally can’t afford to pay for anything though,’ Craig says.

‘It won’t be expensive.’

‘And I don’t think the neighbours would be pleased.’

‘We’ll invite them, they’d love it. I’ll put an event on Facebook,’ Mark insists. ‘When can we have it?’

‘I don’t know, Mark. It’s your party; you’re in charge of organisation.’

‘We should have it soon so we can use the terrace before it gets too cold. How about next weekend?’

‘Too soon. People need some notice. And I need to check Hannah can come.’

‘The weekend after? I’m not doing anything.’

‘That’s still pretty short notice though.’ Craig takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the calendar. ‘How about the weekend after that? The 4
^th
?’

‘Sorted. Mate, if people know that we’re having a party,
everyone
will come. Trust me.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Craig says, yawning. ‘Not that you’ll ever get around to arranging it. I think I might go to bed.’

‘OK, night. Start making a list of party guests.’

‘What, in my sleep? I’ll do it tomorrow.’

Craig makes a mug of cocoa and wanders to his room. Above his headboard, Mark has blu-taked an A4 colour print out of Hannah kissing the guy at the Full Moon party.

‘Cock,’ Craig mutters, tearing the picture off the wall.

T
here are only five people waiting on the eastbound Central line platform at Bank; four Australian backpackers and Mark, who is standing in front of a Maximuscle poster with his iPod headphones in his ears.

The tube rumbles into the station and the doors open. Mark sits down opposite a man with long greasy hair who has a guitar case between his legs. Next to Mark, an Indian man with a droopy moustache folds up a copy of the
Metro
and drops it over his shoulder into the narrow gap between his head and the window. The tube arrives at Liverpool Street and jolts to a stop.

Mark taps his Oyster card on the reader and proceeds up the steps onto the overland station’s bright, busy concourse. A suited man on crutches is limping his way towards Platform 17 through the fast-moving flow of commuters. Nobody is queuing in the thirty-bay ticket office. Above Mark’s head the giant electronic board displays the departure times of trains to Stansted Airport, Cambridge, Great Yarmouth and Norwich.

He queues at the cash machines at the foot of the stairs leading up to ground level and stares up at the parade of shops that overlook the concourse: Marks and Spencer, Tie Rack, Supercuts, Vodafone, and, directly ahead of him, McDonald’s and Pret A Manger. Mark withdraws £20, checks his watch and treats himself to a strawberry and granola breakfast pot in Pret.

A crowd of office workers have gathered outside The Broker, the pub on the corner of Liverpool Street and Old Broad Street. There’s a lot of shoulder shrugging and glum expressions. Mark watches as the doors are unbolted and they file in. He looks at his watch again. It is 11 a.m. ‘Someone’s celebrating,’ he says to himself as he licks his plastic spoon clean.

In a quiet corner of Starbucks, a woman in a long coat is crying into her mobile phone. Her mascara is running. Mark orders a venti white chocolate mocha to take away and wanders around the corner to his office.

There are four television crews outside filming ashen-faced MenDax employees leaving the building, carrying their possessions in filing boxes. A bald man with a fawn trench coat slung over his arm pushes a TV
cameraman
out of his path. The woman who follows him out of the revolving doors doesn’t say a word when a reporter asks her what the atmosphere is like inside. A bemused-looking graduate is telling ITN that this was meant to be his first day.

A microphone is thrust under Mark’s nose and he is asked for his reaction to the news. He knocks it out of the way and points to his
earphones
. He pushes his way inside against the tide of departing staff, swipes his ID card and waits by the lifts.

The doors on the far left roll back and its passengers spill out into the reception. Two tubby men are arguing. Mark gets into the empty lift and selects the twelfth floor.

The Scandinavian markets department is deserted. The computers are off and it’s silent. Mark pulls his headphones out. Amy’s handbag is on her desk next to an uneaten croissant. A scarf is draped over the back of her chair. He plugs his dead BlackBerry into the charger on his desk and turns on his PC, sipping his coffee as the computer boots up.

Amy walks in through the glass doors. Her eyes are streaming and she’s holding a packet of tissues.

‘I thought you might have been here earlier,’ she says to Mark,
dabbing
her nose.

‘I had a meeting.’

‘With Runoff?’

‘No. One of my clients.’

‘How much did they have invested?’ Amy asks, taking another tissue from the packet.

‘Not much at the moment,’ Mark says focussing on his computer screen. ‘I was trying to get them to put in another ten million.’ Suddenly he stops. ‘WOOHW WOOHW WOOHW WOOHW WOOHW! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!’ he shouts.

He turns his computer screen to Amy.
MenDax Wealth Management
collapses
is the top story on the BBC Business website. He rocks back in his seat with his mouth wide open.

‘Christ, Mark. Please tell me you’re joking. Where have you been? Haven’t you read the emails? It was even on the news.’

‘I’ve had meetings.’

‘Don’t talk crap, Mark. Why do you think there are television
cameras
outside? Why do you think everyone downstairs is clearing their desks and going home? Why do you think there’s nobody here and I’ve been crying? Are you really that fucking unobservant?’

‘Don’t swear at me, Amy. I thought you were upset about something.’

‘I am upset, Mark. I’m upset because I haven’t got a job. And if I haven’t got a job, I can’t pay my mortgage.’ Amy starts crying again.

‘I’m too busy to watch the news.’

‘Busy? Busy doing what? No wonder this company has gone bust with clowns like you working here.’

‘What do you mean gone bust? And I’m not a clown.’

‘What bit about going bust don’t you understand?’

‘It can’t be. We’ve got loads of money.’

‘Not any more. Anyway we never had money. It all belonged to other people.’

‘But surely we’ve got something.’

‘Loansbanki collapsed over the weekend.’

‘What?’

‘Loansbanki went into receivership. It’s now owned by the Icelandic government. How can you not have seen that anywhere?’

‘So? Surely we’ll get all the money back.’

‘No. We probably won’t get any of it back.’

‘But not all of our money was in Loansbanki was it?’

‘No, Mark. Not all of it, just ninety-six per cent.’

‘What, this can’t be right. There must be something we can do.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, don’t we need to have a meeting with Justin or something?’

‘Mark, MenDax has shut down. It no longer exists. We don’t have jobs. There’s no company to have a meeting about, you idiot.’

Mark closes the webpage. ‘Where are the others? Justin must be
gutted
. Hasn’t he just bought a new house?’

‘Forget Justin, Mark. He sensed this was coming.’

‘What? How?’

‘He’s already got a new job.’

‘What do you mean he’s got a new job? Where?’

‘He’s working for Runoff Investment Securities.’

‘Who?’

‘They’re American. A private wealth management company. They’re based in New York, but they’re opening a London office which Justin is going to be running. Have you heard of Reggie Runoff? Big American financier.’

‘Yes, of course. How do you know this?’

‘Ian told me. He came in earlier to pick up his stuff.’ Amy sniffs.

‘How did he know?’

‘Him and Julia are going to work there as well.’

‘What?’ Mark’s jaw drops even further and his eyes narrow until they are tiny slits.

‘Justin’s taking them with him. This must have been going on for months. I thought the three of them kept disappearing together for meetings. They were probably having interviews. I thought you’d be with them actually.’

‘Why, because I was Justin’s number two?’

‘No, because you were out of the office so much.’

Mark turns on his BlackBerry and reads the emails confirming what Amy has told him. ‘Have you phoned Justin?’

‘What would I want to talk to him for?’

‘I’m going to call him. This can’t be right. He wouldn’t do this. We must be going there as well. We were best mates.’

Mark calls his former boss and leaves a message asking him to call him when he has a moment.

‘He wasn’t your mate, Mark,’ Amy says.

‘Yes he was. Think of all the nights out we went on. We
are
mates.’

‘Those were just to keep you sweet.’

‘No they weren’t. He used to tell me I’d be his successor. He said I’d have fifty staff under me by Christmas.’

‘Is that why he gave you the smallest bonus in the department?’

‘What? That’s not true. I got more than you did. And anyway my bonus was only that size because my salary was going to treble when we bought those other companies.’

‘What other companies?’ Amy says, shaking her head.

‘I’m not sure, Justin didn’t say.’

‘Mark, go and look in Justin’s office.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s left the bonus structure on his desk, just in case we don’t get the message that he doesn’t want us.’

‘How do you know they’re right?’

‘My bonus is right. It’s the second smallest.’

‘But it wasn’t that much was it?’

‘Go and look for yourself.’

Mark rushes into Justin’s office. All of the personal items - the framed certificates, the family photographs, the portrait, the putter, even the coat stand - have gone. In the middle of the desk is a single sheet of A4 with the names of the five department members and their 2008 bonus payments. Mark falls forward onto the desk, propping himself up with his outstretched arms. His head hangs and his eyes are closed.

After several minutes he pushes himself up and walks back to Amy at a funereal pace. His face is colourless.

‘I feel sick,’ he says, falling onto his chair. ‘This is my 9/11.’

‘I’m sorry, Mark. I don’t want you to think I’m rubbing it in.’

Mark shakes his head. ‘Sixty-five grand for Ian.
Ian
. That sap.’

‘He was trying to get me to buy shares as well. He must have hated me.’ Amy wipes her eyes.

‘He gave you forty grand though. He told me I’d got one of the
biggest
. I think I’m going to be sick.’

Mark drags his fingers down his face, temporarily deforming his features, and then pulls his bin under his mouth and dry wretches. Amy watches in mild disgust.

‘I think your phone’s buzzing,’ she says.

Mark’s mobile is next to his keyboard. ‘It’s a text from Justin.’

‘What does it say?’

He reads the message and then holds it up for Amy. It says:
MenDax has closed. Your unemployed, you twat. Good luck in life.

‘Little shitbag,’ she says. ‘And he’s used the wrong you’re. It should be apostrophe R E. Just about sums him up.’

Mark and Amy sit in silence. Mark opens his email inbox and deletes everything apart from an email from Mankini, which he forwards to his private account.

Amy is going through her desk drawers, throwing old bits of stationery and MenDax promotional material in the bin. She takes down the family photograph she has pinned to the right of her computer and slips it inside a Louise Bagshawe novel she has never started. She places the small make-up bag and mirror she kept at work into her handbag and offers Mark her croissant. Her desk is completely clear. There is no sign of her ever having been there.

‘What are you going to do about your laptop?’ she asks.

‘I haven’t thought about it. I don’t want it. I’ve got a better one at home. I might just leave it on a train for somebody else to have.’

‘Like the first two you had? I think I might take mine home.’

‘You can’t, can you?’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s stealing.’

‘I couldn’t care less. What are they going to do? Sack me? If they want it back, they can come and get it.’

Mark shuts down his computer and throws the empty file on his desk in the bin. His desk drawers contain one copy of the
Metro
from
November
2007 and a brochure from Porsche, both of which he disposes of.

‘Why didn’t someone stop this happening?’ Mark asks, glumly
tapping
a pencil on the desk.

‘Like who?’

‘The directors.’

‘The directors are the ones who have got us into this mess.’

‘It’s not their fault really though is it?’

‘Mark, of course it’s their fault. We had virtually all our money invested in one bank. Our fortunes were inexorably linked to Loansbanki. If they failed we failed. They’re a bunch of selfish, brainless morons.’

‘Come on, they’re not morons are they? They’re rich and successful businessmen.’

‘Rich and successful? Mark, why are you defending these people? It’s because of them we’ve lost our jobs. All of our investors have lost their money. They’ve milked this company for every penny. Do you know how much the board paid themselves in bonuses last year?’

‘Um, no.’

‘Over five hundred million. Five hundred million! For running a company that was completely reliant on the success of one corrupt bank.
It’s madness.’

‘Yeah, but they deserved that money then.’

‘Why?’ Amy’s scowling.

‘Because they did. It’s how money works. You have to take risks.’

‘They didn’t take a risk. What they did was plain fucking stupidity.’

‘No it wasn’t. The investors knew the risks.’

‘Mark, people came to us thinking that their money would be safe. Not that we’d just stick the whole lot in one high interest bank account and hope for the best.’

‘They were taking a chance. Anyway, how about the hundreds of
people
working downstairs? I thought it was just us who used Loansbanki?’

‘It was initially. But the returns were so good the senior
management
eventually channelled all of the incoming money there. Money that wasn’t there originally, they had transferred.’

Mark stares out of the window. Every few seconds another person carrying a brown box crosses the road and disappears into Liverpool Street. There are a crowd of people drinking on the street outside The Broker. Mark’s mobile phone is buzzing. It’s Uncle John. He ignores it.

‘Shall we go for a drink?’ Amy suggests.

‘OK. I’ve got time for one,’ Mark says, with no hint of irony.

They push their chairs under their desks and take in the deserted office. Amy sighs despondently and puts her coat on.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Mark says. ‘We’ll get new jobs, no problem.’

He turns the lights off and they head out through the glass doors for the last time.

Outside, a smug BBC reporter asks the pair for the reaction to the collapse. Mark says he doesn’t work for MenDax and carries on past.

The pub is packed. Some people are already drunk. A loud, bearded man in his fifties is drinking champagne with a group of
indistinguishable
male financiers who go outside in ones and twos to smoke. In one corner sit members of the MenDax post room team. They’re all wearing company polo shirts and looking miserable.