The Hardest Word by Paul Samael
The hardest word
by Paul Samael
Copyright 2011 Paul Samael
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The hardest word
At 7.18 am, a couple of minutes later than usual, a tracksuited man emerged from number 18. The imposing front door swung shut behind him with a muffled thud. The noise was just loud enough to convey an impression of reassuring solidity, whilst at the same time hinting at the presence of elaborate, hidden cushioning mechanisms, so that no matter how hard you pulled the door shut, it would never slam and - God forbid - disturb the peace of this leafy corner of West London.
The man was in his early forties, his hair neatly cut and just starting to go grey. He descended the steps leading down to the street and started jogging, past all the other four-storey houses with imposing front doors, past the signs which said “Residents’ Parking Only”, past all the top-of-the-range 4x4s, high performance sports cars and luxury saloons and, as he neared the intersection with another street of equally desirable real estate, past a white transit van. There was nothing particularly unusual about the presence of the van. Someone somewhere was always having some work done - the installation of a new kitchen, home cinema, sauna, wet room or swimming pool. So he paid no attention to the two men inside, watching him intently as he passed.
The older of the two was the first to speak.
“There goes our man, eh?”
“Yep, that’s him. Kevin Samworth. Global Head of Investment Banking at the People’s Bank. A total wanker.”
The older man sighed, took off his glasses and began cleaning them.
“That ‘People’s Bank’ line is getting a bit tired, don’t you think, Dave?”
“Hey, I’m just telling it like it is. We own that bank. You and me, Harry, and the rest of us taxpayers. When they nationalised it, they should have bloody well renamed it the People’s Bank, because that’s what it is now. I should be able to go into one of their branches and say, ‘Excuse me, I’m a bit tired, bring me a chair and a nice cup of tea,’ and they should go ‘Yes, Sir, right away Sir,’ and there should be plenty of bowing and scraping and forelock-tugging because at the end of the day, I own that bloody bank. Well, me and about thirty million other taxpayers.”
Harry sighed again. Dave’s heart was in the right place, but his constant need to reaffirm his view of the world could be a little wearing at times.
“I know, I know,” he said, putting his glasses back on and looking Dave squarely in the eye. “Now, you’re absolutely sure there’s no wife or girlfriend on the scene? No kids?”
Dave nodded. “He doesn’t seem to do much except work. Never seen him come home with anyone. But frankly, who cares? He’s a banker. He deserves it. They all do.”
“Look, we’ve been over this. We need to make sure he won’t attract public sympathy.”
“Well, if you ask me, we could choose any one of them at random and the great British public would be cheering us on.”
“I’m not asking you, am I?” muttered Harry, and then wished he hadn’t said it.
Dave lapsed into an aggrieved silence.
“Look, I’m sorry,” said Harry, after a moment or two. “But you know as well as I do what’s at stake here. We need to keep people on our side. If we don’t, the banks will just carry on getting away with it. I’m as angry about it all as you are. But we’ve only got one shot at this. All I’m trying to do is eliminate any unnecessary risks.”
Dave smiled and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” asked Harry.
“Oh, it’s just you and your risks this and risks that. I was talking to Gazzer about it yesterday. He said that if the bloody banks had been even halfway as obsessed with risk as you are, we probably wouldn’t be in this mess. He reckoned it was all very ironic,” said Dave, making great play of rolling the ‘r’ of ‘ironic.’
“I’m surprised Gazzer even knows the meaning of the term,” said Harry.
“Gazzer’s a lot sharper than you give him credit for. Speak of the devil, here he is now.”
A heavily-built man in a leather jacket and check shirt had come into view at the end of the street and was walking slowly towards them, finishing a cigarette. He flicked the butt into the road and climbed into the back of the van.
“Well?” asked Harry, turning towards him.
“Same route as always. So I reckon we do it where you said.”
“And you’ve checked for CCTV cameras?”
“There’s one at the end of the road but it’s always been pointing the other way. We just need to check it again tomorrow before we go ahead.”
“OK,” said Harry. “Well, in that case, I think we stick with Plan A.”
Gazzer grunted. “If it were up to me, I’d just shoot him in the head.”
“And what good would that do?”
“It’d make me feel a whole lot better. I was thinking about it on the way back here. I’d get him to kneel down in front of me and I’d hold the gun to the back of his neck. I’d press it right in so I could feel him shaking, really feel the tremors in his body travelling up the barrel of the gun. And I’d hold it there for maybe a minute or so. Long enough to give him time to think about why this is happening to him and what a total shit he’s been. And then – bang! End of banker.”
Harry glanced at Dave and rolled his eyes. This was not the first time Gazzer had waxed lyrical about the joys of dispatching bankers, vigilante-style. But it was all just talk. At least, he hoped it was. After all, Gazzer always seemed to agree with him when they discussed what they were actually going to do.
“Thanks for that, Gazzer,” said Dave. “You are the Charles Bronson of the financial crisis, single-handedly wiping the executive scum off the mean streets of Kensington and Chelsea.”
Gazzer smiled.
“Come on, let’s go. Big day tomorrow,” he said and slapped them both on the shoulder with his meaty hands.
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