‘How did you do that?’ Lady Dobson asked.
‘I’ll show you,’ Jed said, ‘but I need absolute silence.’
Out of his left pocket he produced a handful of candy-wrappers and, during the hush that followed, he created a forest fire for the Dobsons and their guests in the Dobson’s very own dining-room.
It was a great success.
‘And these are only Liquorice Whirls,’ he said. ‘In those days I was eating Almond Toffee Creams and they came in much cracklier paper.’
Either Sir Charles had forgotten what Jed did, or else nobody had bothered to tell him, because he now leaned forwards and, impressed, it seemed, by Jed’s ingenuity and verve, said, ‘Perhaps, young man, you should come and work for me.’
All eyes locked on Jed.
He waited three seconds. You have to time things.
‘But Sir Charles,’ he said, ‘I already do.’
He looked round. People were weeping with laughter. He caught Carol’s eye, and winked. His skin had picked up a glow from the lilies on the table. The candlelight had taken his cheap suit and made it over in some priceless fabric. The vintage wine had anointed his tongue with new and seductive language. He could do no wrong. When the meal was over, Sir Charles escorted him into the library.
He watched Sir Charles cut the tip off his cigar. Being old had done something to Sir Charles’s face, something that being poor sometimes did. It had sucked the colour out. Eyes, hair, skin: all different shades of grey and white. Distinguished, yes. But colourless. And cheeks with folds in them, like old wallets. He wondered how much Sir Charles was worth.
But now the cigar was lit and, turning to Jed, Sir Charles spoke through billowing smoke. ‘So who exactly do you work for?’
‘I work for Mr Creed. I’m his driver.’
Maybe it was only a coincidence but, as soon as Jed pronounced the name of his employer, the cigar fell from Sir Charles’s fingers. It bounced on the carpet, shedding chunks of red-hot ash.
‘God-DAMN.’ Sir Charles spread his legs and stooped. He flicked the ash towards the fireplace with the back of his hand. Then he stuck the cigar between his teeth and slowly sucked the life back into it.
‘Let me ask you something, Jed,’ he said, when the smoke was billowing once more. ‘Have you ever been to head office?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘What did you think of it?’
The head office of the Paradise Corporation, as Sir Charles knew perfectly well, was just about the most famous building in the city. Built entirely of black glass, it marked the beginning of what was known as Death Row, a stretch of downtown First Avenue where most of the big funeral parlours had their offices. All night long lights burned in the central elevator shaft and in the windows of the twenty-fifth floor. The result was a white cross that stood out among the familiar neon logos of airlines and oil companies. The cross was a landmark. You could even buy postcards of it. Jed had only been inside the building once, and all he could remember was the angel. She was part sculpture, part fountain. Her head and body were metal and her wings were water, water that was forced through holes in her back and lit from beneath so it looked solid, like glass. He remembered the hiss of those wings, the lick and swish of revolving doors, the warble of phones. All tricks a hypnotist might use. Forget your loss. Forget your grief. He remembered drifting, drifting close to sleep.
‘You walk into that building,’ Sir Charles said, ‘and you know you’re in capable hands.’ Clouds of smoke trailed over his shoulder as he paced. ‘You’ve got to win people’s trust. Trust is very important. Without trust,’ and he came to a standstill and tipped his chin into the air, the thought still forming.
‘Without trust,’ Jed said, ‘we wouldn’t be standing here now.’
Sir Charles swung round. ‘Precisely.’ For a moment he was rendered motionless by surprise, a kind of respect. But only for a moment. ‘What I’m trying to say to you is, this is a hard business. A cutthroat business at times. But you should always remember one thing. It’s people that you’re dealing with. People.’ He thrust both hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. ‘I’m sixty-nine and I’m still working. Nobody really retires from this business. It’s a way of life.’
He showed Jed to the door of the library. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, my boy?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
Then his face moved close to Jed’s, and he said, ‘Are you interested in my daughter?’
‘I’ll let you into a secret, Sir Charles,’ Jed said. ‘I’m not interested in your daughter at all. I’m just pretending to be. It’s your money I’m really after.’
Sir Charles stared at Jed, and Jed stared back; he wasn’t going to help Dobson out with this one. At last a smile began to pull at the folds in Sir Charles’s face, as if his cheeks really were wallets and his smile was going through them, looking for cash, then the smile turned to laughter, it pushed between his teeth, it was dry and rhythmic, it sounded uncannily like someone counting a stack of dollar bills. Jed saw Carol at the end of the corridor and began to walk towards her.
‘You remember what I said,’ Sir Charles called after him.
The next day Creed asked Jed to drive him out to the Crumbles. The Crumbles lay to the east of the city. All the land out there had been under water once. It was flat for miles. There were a few wooden beach huts down by the shoreline. Some old mine buildings in the distance, some gravel pits. Otherwise just shingle, grey and orange, and a soft wind tugging at the heads of weeds.
He followed Creed’s directions, leaving the road for an unpaved track that seemed to lead towards the ocean. The track widened and then vanished. Then they were driving over rough ground, loose stones popping under the tyres. He parked close to where the land sloped downwards to a narrow pebble beach, and switched the engine off.
Creed stared out of the window, his chin cushioned on one hand, his eyes doubly concealed, first by the tinted windows of the car, then by his sunglasses. Jed thought he understood. It was like Vasco and the mudbanks of the river. It was where Creed came to do his thinking. Where was Vasco? Jed wondered. He’d scarcely set eyes on him since the night they’d had dinner together at the house in Westwood. Nobody had mentioned him either, and Jed didn’t feel he should ask. He poured himself a cup of coffee from his private flask and watched the white gulls lift and scatter against the dull grey sky.
The glass panel slid open behind him.
‘I heard you were out at Dobson’s place last night.’
‘That’s right, sir. I was.’
He’d known Creed would find out. He’d even wanted him to. He wanted Creed to be amused, impressed even. A chauffeur at the chairman’s dinner table!
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Carol asked me.’
‘Carol?’
‘His daughter. The receptionist.’
Creed said nothing.
‘The one with the limp,’ Jed said.
‘I know the one.’
Another silence. Wind pushed at the car.
Then Creed said, ‘Dobson’s on his way out.’ The chairman? On his way out?
But Creed didn’t give Jed time to think. ‘When a ship sinks,’ he said, ‘that’s when you see who the rats are. What interests me is, which rats leave which ship.’
The glass panel slid shut.
One week later Sir Charles Dobson resigned as chairman of the Paradise Corporation. The decision had been taken, the statement said, ‘for personal reasons’. The new chairman, elected unanimously by the members of the board, was Mr Neville Creed. Jed read the statement three times while he was eating breakfast that morning. It sounded calm and measured, utterly reasonable. But he couldn’t make any sense of it. He saw Dobson standing in the library. Nobody really retires from this business. It’s a way of life. He couldn’t make any sense of it at all. And then he saw Creed sitting in the back of a black car parked on the Crumbles. Dobson’s on his way out.