Gissings Modern Furniture Company (Limited) would ever know.
8
Not dead, thank God, but very, very ill.
An ambulance had come quickly. A kind paramedic had been swift to reassure a distraught Josephine that her mother’s pulse was steady, her breathing weak but constant. The journey to hospital was an unremembered rush of sirens and flashing lights. Once there, Helen Gradley was thrust fast and unemotionally on to the processing line of the modern NHS. Her case was serious and, queue-jumping the groaning hordes in casualty, she was placed immediately into intensive care. Through that night and the days that followed, diagnosis and prognosis became clearer.
Helen Gradley had had a stroke, a stoppage of blood to the brain. The consequences were hard to predict, even for a specialist. Some people lost speech, lost coordination, lost memory, then recovered the lot within weeks and months. Others might lose less, but lose it for good. With Helen, whose stroke had been severe, only time would tell.
And Josephine? That first night at the hospital she had sat up all night with her mother. Doctors had come and gone, giving conflicting advice, rushing off at the command of a pager, too busy to do their job. Josie, in her party dress still, held her mother’s hand, whispering encouragement. She remembered the mood she’d been in, climbing the hill towards home: her anger, her passionate demands for her old life back. That was all gone now. Helen Gradley, for so long the shield between her children and their father, the victim of an unfair divorce and a cruel will, lay in bed, helpless as a baby, looking to her daughter for help.
Josephine was just seventeen. She had never expected to earn a living, let alone care for a disabled parent, but she knew her duty. ‘It’s OK, Mum. I’m here,’ she said.
9
It’s a common problem amongst bankers. You work hard all day. You come home tired as a dog in a heatwave. Then when at last you collapse into bed, you can’t even sleep. Worse still, you do sleep and your dreams are full of the rubbish you’ve spent your day with. Numbers walk past in an endless stupid procession. You’re no longer you. You’re just a cursor flashing in a crowded spreadsheet, roving up and down, sorting out numbers, the last traffic cop left alive in Gridlock City.
It was three o’clock in the morning and Zack threw off the covers. He groaned. Outside there was a distant whistle of traffic from Camden High Street and the sound of a milk float clinking. Zack tried to let the sounds drift in and over the clickety-click of marching numbers.
He put the light on, splashed water on his face, then decided to have a shower. Maybe that would wash the rubbish away. He stood under the jet of water and scrubbed himself with the Boots aromatherapy shower gel which Josephine had given him for his birthday. It was a rather pointed present, bought for less than a tenner – Josie’s way of reminding him that she was struggling to cope. Damn her. She’d quit complaining when Zack saved their father’s fortune single-handedly. When she had a few million quid in her pocket – money which Zack would have put there – she could buy him a decent present. The purple gel (‘Refreshing and Relaxing’) dripped off Zack’s bony figure under the spray. Numbers still chattered, but not as much.
He threw on a dressing gown stolen from the New York Plaza in happier days, and padded into the kitchen. Nothing in the fridge except a yoghurt past its sell-by date. He opened it and sniffed it. It smelled OK. What’s the difference between a yoghurt pot and Australia? The yoghurt’s got a living culture. Ha, ha. Zack ate the yoghurt and stared at the lid. The sell-by date. More numbers. He’d be dreaming about the bar code next. If he scrabbled around in the dustbin he could probably find a till receipt to read.
He went back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Sarah Havercoombe seemed completely indifferent to him and, besides, she was engaged to be married. Coburg’s was beginning to bore him and he wasn’t close to his million pounds. He didn’t even know how he was going to make it. Meanwhile, Matthew was on Wall Street learning to trade, and George was god-knows-where doing god-knows-what. Maybe Josie was right, maybe they were all a pack of fools. Still, there didn’t seem to be much else to do except try. Go on trying until they’d reached their sell-by date.
Why was that phrase in his head so much? Sell-by date. The numbers had gone, but the phrase stayed. Probably something to do with that blasted Aberdeen Drilling data room. All those piles of contracts and accounts. Random phrases stuck around just like the numbers. Zack got into bed again and turned off the light. The yoghurt sat in his stomach feeling funny. It probably had been off. He tried to sleep. Sell-by date. Sell-by date.
Five minutes later, he threw off the covers and turned the light back on. Frowning with concentration, he began to bring a page from the data room into his mind’s eye. The page came, blurry at first, then in sharp focus: ‘Standard Warranties for Consultancy-type Agreements’. Zack read the words below the title. It was drafted in legal language so dense you could saw it into blocks and build with it, but to Zack the meaning was clear. He brought another page to mind. It appeared, then cleared, like the one before: ‘Insurance Arrangements: Provisions and Exclusions’. Zack gazed at the remembered page. Things were becoming clear. No wonder he couldn’t sleep. Just one more check to make: ‘Schedule of Principal Consultancy Projects, 1988–98’. The page began to clear, but Zack hardly needed to look at it to know what it said.
He turned off the light and slept like a baby.
10
Through the slatted blinds behind the students, the Hudson River emptied into the Atlantic Ocean. The waters were crowded with traffic and in the late summer sun, the Statue of Liberty waved her torch, calling order to the congested skies. The gateway to the free world isn’t too keen on the weary and dispossessed these days, but it sure has time for anything which can be packaged, shipped and sold. Away to the south west, too far to be seen in the haze, the port authority’s cranes kept the flood of goods moving swiftly on.
None of the students had their eyes on the scene. You could stack up all the cargo passing through the air and sea ports of New Jersey and New York in a year and you’d have a mountain big enough to boast a skiing industry. But the whole enormous pile wouldn’t be worth a thousandth part of the invisible cargo which passes noiselessly down the electronic thoroughfares of Wall Street.
The market for US government bonds is worth over six trillion dollars. The foreign exchange market turns over a trillion dollars each and every working day. The US stockmarkets are capitalised at fourteen trillion bucks. The market for corporate bonds and bills, and certificates of deposit, and a hundred other varieties of security add trillions more to the total. And each of these bits of paper belongs to investors, skilled and unskilled, wise and foolish, twisting and turning to dodge losses and snuffle out profit.
Wall Street does various things, some good for the world, others not so good. But its main function is simple: it’s a bureau de change where investors can sell one bit of paper and buy another. And every time a bit of paper changes hands, leaving an investor happy and excited about the future, there is another person even happier. That person is the Wall Street trader who did the trade. For every dollar that changes hands, a tiny amount of change stays in the hands of the trader. In some markets, the amount of change is almost microscopic. In the foreign exchange markets, the Wall Streeter might keep just a few hundredths of a cent. In the stockmarket it might be half a cent, sometimes as much as two or three.
But traders don’t care that their take is small. If you multiply by a million dollars, one tenth of a cent is worth a thousand bucks. Multiply by a billion, and that tenth of a cent is worth a million dollars. And if you’re sharp enough and smart enough to squeeze
