felt his shoulders relax and he let out a hiss of relief. What would my father say? Zan cast his mind back to the day his father left to start a new medical research facility in Switzerland, taking his big brother Colin with him. He remembered looking up from his bed, into the darkness of the hall, seeing his Dad’s unmistakable tall slim shape. He couldn't figure out if it was a dream; then Colin also moved into view, looked at Zan blankly, and walked down the stairs without a word. The effective end of a largely empty sibling relationship. Then his father said his last words to him for several years …
“No matter what you do, son, be courageous. Goodbye, Zan.”
Not knowing what he'd done wrong, but terrified of the words, a single tear had immediately fallen. He was frozen in his bed, not understanding, still hoping it was a nightmare. A minute later he plucked up the courage to give chase downstairs and out into the street, but all he could see in the road were red lights in the distance. Zan was fourteen years old.
He tried to live up to those words like they were branded on his soul but never felt he succeeded. The same old questions surfaced in times of stress, and on cue they popped into his mind. Why did his Dad really have to go in the middle of the night? Why take his twenty-one year old brother Colin with him? Why did his Mum let them both go without a fight or even a raised word? Years later, confronting his Mum, she couldn’t (or wouldn’t) shed any light on why. Zan sighed at the agonising memories and then looked up at Ed. He was whispering into his sleeve. He stopped whispering and addressed Zan.
“The firm’s now seventy-six billion pounds underwater. We will continue to monitor the situation and unwind the positions gradually and carefully from here. If we end up in profit by the New York close you may get five per cent of the net profit. Consider that your farewell gift and never talk of this to anyone ever again. You’ll be back in this room if you do. Gather your shit, you’ll be escorted out.” His voice was the calmest it had been since this ordeal began. He almost looked disappointed it had ended the way it had, the sick old fuck. Ed’s faithful and predictably buxom Hispanic secretary appeared at the table beside him, carrying a couple of sheets of paper and put them down beside Zan.
“Sign those, Mr. McMaster. It will be your best course of action today.” she said flatly. He looked up at her doll-like face and scowled. What, a fucking secretary is giving me career guidance today?! Fuck you. Now I’m definitely happy to be out. Scanning the pages it had the stark resignation spelt out, citing reasons of 'stress' and 'executive burn-out' and thanking the bank for its stewardship as he embarked on a 'well-earned career break'. The guarantee of five per cent on any remaining profits wasn’t there.
“What about the five per cent you just promised?”
“Zan, you almost brought down the bank with your illegally leveraged positions. The only reason you’re not in cuffs or much, much worse is because your positions are now …” he looked down “ … only forty-nine billion off-side. Also, it's clear from your miserable, fear-stricken face that you acted alone. A lot of the theatrics back then were just to make sure. I’m actually beginning to believe that it might end up the trade of the year. What a turn-around, you lucky little shit. But let’s face it; it was too much risk for the profit it might generate. And we're not in the business of making bank-busting bets to only make a few billion quid. So, Zan, you’re still out for good. The five percent is just a possibility; let’s see by tomorrow what mood I’m in. Right now it’s a foul one and will only get better once you sign your FUCKING RESIGNATION LETTER!”
What is with this guy and shouting, Zan thought as he reached forward on the desk. He slowly bowed his head, reread the short contract, closed his eyes and signed. He shakily got to his feet, stood facing Ed as if to initiate a handshake, but saw the barely disguised disgust on his thin lips and thought better of it. He turned and walked in slow motion to the door, and onto a new life beyond.
Chapter 3: Back to School
Several months passed. Zan travelled, drank, played video games, went to archery club and tried to establish, once and for all, a new fitness regime. That failed when he realised, quite simply, he had nothing specific to get fit for. His plan to form his own trading firm crumbled for a similar reason; once he sat down and did the sums he lost the appetite for more risk and stress in his life. He'd worked for over a decade with little more than a week off and, despite squandering most of it, particularly in his time with Angela; the diligence of overpaying his mortgages had saved him. The champagne years were over but after he sold his two investment properties and paid down his debts it gave him the option to concentrate on quality of life. The five percent of his last day’s trading profit - which would have been sixty million pounds - never came. Let's face it, he thought, the money would have been good for my financial freedom but not so good for my state of mind. I didn’t expect to get it anyway. Maybe I should be thankful.
Predictably, Angela didn't take to the new low-powered, slothful Zan and high-tailed it for her next banking Alpha-male. He mourned her loss for nearly a month, then slowly but surely distracted himself with the search for a new girlfriend. As time marched on he thought less and less about her; once an hour became once a day, then once a week. He ended up missing her much less than he thought. Maybe the drama of my exit from the bank has killed my spirit for good, he thought, in one of his many days of reflection afterwards. Then as time passed, slowly and insidiously, reflection became isolation and then depression.
On one of his rare positive days, Zan got the urge to walk the streets of South-East London, hoping his next adventure would come to him. He didn’t have to wait that long. On an exceptionally hot summer’s day in July 2030 Zan nursed a coffee in the local Starbucks. The window read his unemployed status and science background, and flashed an advert only he could see …
“YOUR LOCAL SCHOOL NEEDS YOU.
As you are no doubt aware, tragedy has struck the local school maths department and we have lost three of our talented maths teaching team. We cannot let their passing prevent us from carrying on the educational needs of the school. We urgently need someone with a maths/science/engineering degree to help our local children pass their ULs (University Level exams). Salary starts at …”
The salary is shocking, Zan thought; about the same as my annual spend on booze and party powder in my trading days. But it would mean being productive and doing something good for a change. The idea of being intellectually challenged but not working from dawn to dusk had a novel appeal too. He typed the contact details on his sleeve and carried on his day.
Just a week later, after the excessive form-filling of the application, the first interview proved to be tougher than imagined. There were question marks on his commitment. And, according to the deputy head, the other candidates were fully qualified teachers with long track-records. They’d been flooded with candidates due to the emotional job advert and the media attention on the tragedy. But ultimately, the school committee couldn’t spurn the marketing opportunity of hiring the ex-head of derivative trading at the world’s most famous investment bank.
So, barely a month after seeing the advert, he found himself on a Sunday night in late August 2030 anxiously preparing his only formal clothing (which had doubled as his interview suit) for his first day of teaching. He looked at himself in the mirror and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time; at peace. He looked forward to passing on what he knew to eager young minds. He felt relieved at not having to do battle with the markets while colleagues screamed at each other. Most of all, he no longer felt haunted by the past, both immediate and distant.
Despite all the high-pressure moments he’d been through, Zan was somewhat daunted by the first morning of high-school. Not dissimilar to how pupils probably felt moving up from primary school, he reflected. They gave him a gentle start; three maths classes a day in the first term. Teaching proved to be unusually
