84k by Claire North
Not turning, she straightened up, stuck her arms out to the side, elbows bent at ninety degrees, stood on one leg and waggled her tongue. For a moment she wobbled there, eyes popping, then relaxed, beamed, and walked away.
In the office, Seph Atkins did not speak. Mala Choudhary talked and talked and Theo pretended to listen.
And at the end Mala said, “Well that was all very interesting. If you persist with this first-degree nonsense we will of course take you to court where I have no doubt you’ll lose, meanwhile there is the discretion clause …”
Theo’s face flickered, the first movement it had manifested for nearly an hour. Seph Atkins examined the rim of her fingernails, cut short and lacquered an unnatural shade of natural pink. “The discretion clause. Yes. Talk me through that.”
“My client is interested in ensuring that no records of this matter are kept and that all files are removed from the system, I believe if we look at previous judgements that a standard cost is £45,000 for a case of this kind …”
“£45,000 for manslaughter,” he retorted. “£80,000 for murder.”
“As the charges are going to be manslaughter,” Mala breezed on brightly, “I don’t think we need to consider the worst-case here.”
“The judge will decide if—”
“Mr. Miller,” she cut through, harder than he’d heard her speak before. “It will be manslaughter. Now £45,000 and that’s the expunging of all records including police, and Dani Cumali’s death will be registered as drug overdose …”
“It’s an extra £700 to alter the death certificate.”
“There’ll be drugs in her system.” Mala shrugged. “She was that kind of woman.”
Seph Atkins watched Theo, who did not look her in the eye.
He walked back to the office, very, very slowly.
Chapter 26
Edward Witt came to Theo’s desk, which was unusual and did not bode well.
“… fucking Cumali case why isn’t it cleared why haven’t we got …”
As the words rolled over him, it seemed to Theo that he was hearing, not language, but shaped sound on the air, and it was strangely beautiful, even calming. His serenity only appeared to enrage his employer, who had decided a long time ago that his own presence was terrifying. Years of protein shakes, teeth-whitening treatments and secret acting classes with an unemployed actor called Reg had given Edward the physicality and voice to dominate a room.
“She sells sea shells on the sea shore!” he snarled at the mirror every night, trimming nasal hair with a pair of fine steel scissors. “The shells she sells are surely sea shells!”
Dozens of management guides had taught him that the secret to success wasn’t about being right, merely about appearing to be more right than everybody else. He knew he had the intellectual and physical prowess to cow anyone before him. Grown men had been reduced to tears by Edward’s cutting wit. He seduced women to prove a point, and could bully the gates of hell into opening, if it suited him.
But where others flinched before Edward’s wrath, Theo sat implacable. He was implacable when delivering good news, implacable when receiving bad. He endured rage and condemnation, insults that should have had him walking from the office in disgust with a tilt of the head as if trying to discern a hidden secret, not in the words, but in the soul of the man who threw them. He smiled politely without humour, spoke when spoken to, worked without complaint, achieved nothing spectacular and never failed beyond average. He was … harmless. There was almost nothing more to be said about him, and that caused Edward a great feeling of unease.
Over the years this unease had built, reinforced by Theo’s repeated failure to show any reaction to Edward’s management style whatsoever. If Theo was aware that Edward’s anxiety on this point had grown into animosity, he showed no sign of that either, and this passivity made Edward’s fury all the greater, so that he barely found himself speaking to the other man except in roars, barks and sarcastic snaps, an undignified yapping dog rather than the prowling wolf he believed himself to be.
And now he was doing it again: howling in Theo’s face, spittle flying, waving papers in front of the other man’s nose, and fucking Miller just didn’t fucking seem to care the total …
“There’s actual cases with actual profit on the desk! There’s actual indemnities that will bring something for the fucking department so you get your head out of your arse and fucking get the Cumali job cleared—I’ve got Mala Choudhary on the phone, do you have any idea what Faircloud Associates does, they’re the Company, do you understand, they’re the Company, the people who keep the lights on the water running the petrol in the pumps and you want to give them shit over some drugged-out little patty-line whore and—”
Did Theo flinch?
Edward stopped dead.
He had never seen a reaction on Theo’s face before and … was that a flinch?
Probably not. Stone again. Impassive, patient, stone. He didn’t even smile that nervous smile of stupid boys hoping that if they show willing the abuse will stop. Nor did he scowl, or glare, or retreat inwards. He simply waited, like pebbles before the sea, for the storm to pass.
“Close the Cumali job, and get on to a case with some real fucking money in it,” Edward hissed. “Or I’ll get someone else to do it.”
He threw the papers down across Theo’s desk and stalked away.
It was a great gesture, really dramatic, other people would have at the very least run outside for a shaky cigarette. But Theo stacked the papers in a pile and returned to his computer screen. Later Edward had to send his secretary to get them back, as there were documents in there he needed.
Chapter 27
Once
this was before he learned how to grow a beard
the boy who would be Theo was taken to a party in London by the boy who was actually, in fact and from birth, Theo Miller.
“It’ll be great, just the ticket. You need to be thinking about corporate sponsorship—you’ll never make it, never achieve what you need to achieve and
well yes you could wear that but tell you what and I say this with the greatest possible love why don’t you try wearing something else—you know you’re roughly my size let me see if I haven’t
splendid! Splendid! We’ll drive. No, as in my father’s driver is going to collect us and he’ll take us to …
… a train? I’ve never taken the train before isn’t it terribly crowded isn’t it full of people who are a bit …
isn’t this exciting!”
The party was at a club in Kensington. Theo’s father had some sort of connection with the place—more than a member, less than a founder, a giver of money perhaps, without the possession of the kind of excessive wealth that would make him a distraction. Theo’s father was not there. Theo’s father was very rarely in England at all these days, but Theo didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t sure when he’d last seen his parents. He wasn’t sure it mattered.
They arrived just after eight, two boys in shiny shoes, the boy who would be Theo hiding behind his dining partner, who swept up the stairs and exclaimed, “Come come come!” and like a dog at heel, the boy came.
A sickly smell of dried-out petals from a fish bowl on the entrance desk. You could leave your business card or take a chocolate liqueur from within the crispy blossom—but all the best treats were gone.
A man all in white bowing and smiling and nodding to the young gentlemen as they entered, of course, follow me.
Stairs that rose straight up towards a portrait of the queen, then split in two beneath her knowing stare, amused at a secret only she could know. Then the curving stair bent back on itself in two parts and reunited at a long landing where a ten-piece jazz band played, silver glittering off their coats, a crown woven into the hair of the lead singer, sweat on their faces, something hot and mad in their eyes.
A room that the boy who would be Theo assumed was a ballroom and was in fact a mezzanine. The great, the glorious, his tux is new, hem hem, her
“I tell him why does he wear his Rolex on business it’s just asking for trouble but he never listens the great lump he never listens to my good advice when I say that …”
“Yes, of course. Now where is that in relation to Chiswick?”
“Trickle-down works—if I wasn’t in this country there’d be at least twenty people who wouldn’t have jobs—at least!—and that’s not even counting the …”
“Theo?”
“… said to the sultan but of course, I mean of course you would and it’s only natural that …”
“I’m very strict there’s just not enough time for me to be involved in the charities and well you do don’t you, you do find that you’re putting other people ahead of yourself!”
“Theo?”
“In Nepal actually and it was incredible the people the people are just well it’s just so you have to be there really you have to be there and afterwards we went sailing round the Med …”
“Theo?”
“Yes?”
“Are you … is this …?”
“Normal? Fairly much. Easier to do business eye to eye sometimes, lubricated by a little champagne. There are people here you need to meet absolutely, come with me your future depends on it now hello, this is my friend he’s doing maths yes lives on the same corridor as me he’s brilliant simply brilliant yes.”
The boy who will be Theo stands on one side of the room and wonders what his friends would think if they could see him now, and for a moment remembers that he hasn’t spoken to Dani for nearly nine months and wonders if she’s okay, and then is given more champagne and some sort of nibbly thing on a penny-size lump of not-really bread, and forgets.
After a little while of watching, he realises that there are nearly as many staff as there are guests at this swirling ball. Not merely waiters, but personal servants—men and women dressed in white frills and black cotton who stand silently behind their masters and hold their champagne glasses, receive and give business cards, answer the mobile phone. It would be a terrible breach of etiquette for a guest to answer their phone during these matters, and when an argument breaks out over some detail of stocks or celebrity scandal, it is a woman with head down and eyes fixed to a point two feet in front of her big toe who checks for an answer on the internet and whispers it into her master’s ear, who may or may not lie about the outcome, depending on where his opinions lie.
The young sweep around the old, and laugh, and hold their own glasses, and are absolutely fascinated by everything that these wonderful people believe and actually yes it’s funny you should say that, I was thinking of going into corporate financing when I graduate did you say you ran a …
The boy does not resent luxury.
At college his meals are cooked for him six days a week. Room cleaned. Shoes polished. He goes to the library and someone else puts the books away if he forgets. At the weekend he has money for drink, or can walk by the river without a care in the world, or take a bicycle out into the countryside and let the sunlight wash away the work, and when he returns to his soft bed
he is better
can work better, do what he needs to do, better, and one day
if he works hard enough, earning through his labours
one day maybe someone else will turn down the duvet in the corner of his bed and someone else will press the smell of cleanliness into his fresh-washed clothes and he need not scrub at dishes and argue with the water company and stand in line for the bus that never comes because these things are fundamentally
not the things he is best at
he can give
so much more to this world
so much more
if he’s just given the opportunity to do it.
This is not an unfair position.
You must live your life first before you can help others, you must have the security so that you are not a burden, must have the space to be free to be able to make a difference to have that freedom—freedom is a thing which must be bought you buy the freedom you buy …
pension house home time learning skills friends
dancing dancing we spin the world spins all things in harmony the harmony of the heavens we are starlight stardust spinning fizz on the tongue kiss on the lips beauty bought at the gym silk and pearl and diamond and
He desires, and possibly—just maybe—he deserves
yes, deserves …
Something clatters in a room next door, a smash loud enough to briefly drown out jazz. Some heads turn; most do not. The boy looks and thinks he sees Theo through an open door. He approaches, weaving through the crowd unnoticed, and yes, there is Theo Miller, laughing in his drunken state, cracked glass and spilt lobster at his feet, a girl crying, a teenager, and three boys staring with no laughter whatsoever in their eyes, and Theo may not be sober
but the boy instantly is.
He knows these faces, though he’s never met the strangers who wear them now. He used to see them sometimes in the snarling boys who liked it when their dogs growled at passing strangers, because the dogs made people scared, and if people were scared of you then you were powerful, and if you were powerful, you mattered. Even if you didn’t know what mattering was good for.
The girl cries, the boys glare, spilt champagne crystallises on the floor as silent, non-reproachful staff rush to clean it up. Theo laughs and doesn’t seem to recognise the danger that he’s in as one of the glaring party snarls:
you stupid fucking bastard why the fuck did you fucking
and another joins in
fuck him fuck him let’s just fucking go can’t fucking believe they let in
and the third stands silent, arms folded, and watches.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” chuckles Theo, wiping shattered shards of exploded ice off his sleeves, lifting his feet one at a time to check that he hasn’t stood in anything organic. “It was a perfectly valid thing, I’m sure there’s no harm done, the lady clearly wasn’t interested in your …”
“She’s mine!” snarled the first boy.
“She’s his,” agreed the second boy.
I’m watching, the third offered silently, his eyes skimming the room, meeting the gaze of the boy who would be Theo, recognising for the briefest of moments a sobriety equal only to his own.
“Now I mean clearly this is just …”
“My father sponsored her.”
“His father sponsored her!”
“He paid for her tuition for her dress for her face—for her face—he paid and that means that I …”
“For her face!”
“Sponsored and the deal was very clear …”
“A bargain!”
“A very clear deal and if she …”
“A contract.”
“Fuck you.” The girl, on her feet, the tears still running but her voice holding strong. “Fuck your dad.” She peeled off one elbow-length glove, threw it on the floor, dragged at the other, one finger at a time, hissed in frustration at the slippery silk, got it free, threw it in the first boy’s face. “Fuck you all.”
Tried to run in her high-heeled shoes, wobbled, nearly fell, stumbled against the teetering glass-covered table, gritted her teeth. Raised her left leg so the back of her heel was behind her bum, peeled the shoe away, wobbled again, caught her balance. Raised her right, snatched the shoe off with enough force to break the strap across the top, flung it into the boy’s chest. Raised her head, pulled her shoulders back, walked away through a pool of melting ice and alcohol.
The boys watched her go.
Theo Miller giggled, tried to stifle the sound, couldn’t, burst out laughing. “Well!” he guffawed, and then, struggling to find inspiration through the champagne, “Well!”
The boy caught his arm, whispered, “Theo, we should …”
“… have her fucking head,” growled the first boy.
“Her head!” agreed
Still watching, mused the third. There is something we can all learn from this.
“Her father was joint signatory on the contract he’ll have to pay now he’ll have to …”
“Fucking pay!”
“If she can’t keep her contracts she’ll never work never work never even finish but also never work I’ll see that she …”
“Her! Working for the Company?”
“She can clean the fucking floors no not even the floors she can—she can …”
“A contract is the most sacred thing which can …”
“Philip, I think you’ve got some lobster in your hair. Or is it crab?” Theo leaned in close to the first boy, a blast of alcoholic breath swimming across his face, then reached up and flicked a slip of shiny whiteness, glistening flesh, out of the hair above the boy’s right temple. “There you go! All better now.”
For a moment the boy called Philip looked into Theo’s eyes, and the world waited on the tightrope, wondering which way the wind would blow.
He punched Theo. If he’d had the imagination for a witty put-down, he probably would have chosen that, having not punched anyone since he was twelve and remembering it being quite an awkward experience even then.
As it was, wit failed, and so he hit him, and Theo Miller dropped to the floor and lay on his back in a pool of mingling liquids and torn fishy flesh, stared for a moment up at the ceiling, incredulous, then laughed. He laughed and laughed and let his head roll back and laughed a little bit more, as his friend squatted down next to him and wondered if he was meant to intervene, and how.
Then the boy called Philip said, “I fucking challenge you.”
He offered a few more words too, and they seemed to give him an increased passion for his theme. Most were terms of sexual abuse, but at the end they returned to the point. “I challenge you—get up you little shit—I challenge you!”
“Darling,” chuckled Theo, “you can’t. Duelling hasn’t been legal since—”
“My lawyer will draw up the indemnity. We’ll pay no more than £75,000 apiece. You can afford £75,000, can’t you? Get up! Get up!”