He never told anyone.
‘It wasn’t somewhere I would have wanted to live,’ he said.
Pinion smirked. ‘No shit,’ she agreed.
The Falkland – a squat brick building at the intersection of two streets still boasting a picturesque scattering of car wrecks. The vehicles looked old enough to have burnt leaded fuel when they were alive. Mike Bryant’s little convoy swept to a disdainful halt and disgorged suits.
‘No cars,’ said the young executive, wonderingly. ‘I only just noticed.’
‘Of course, no cars,’ said Pinion, rolling her eyes in Chris’s direction. ‘Who, outside of criminals, do you suppose can afford a tank of fuel around here? Or a licence, come to that?’
‘Price of the green agenda,’ said Mike as he alarmed the car. ‘You guys coming or what?’
The door of the Falkland was beaten steel. Two black men in coveralls stood outside, one dangling a sawn-off shotgun negligently from his left hand, the other, older, watching the street, arms folded impassively across his chest. When he spotted Mike Bryant, he unwrapped and his face split into a huge grin. Mike lifted a hand in greeting as he crossed the street.
‘Hey, Troy. What’re you doing on the fucking door, man?’
‘Protectin’ my investment.’ The rich treacle of a Jamaican accent. ‘Bein’ seen. It’s more than I can say for you, Mike. ’Ave not seen you in a fuckin’ long time. What’s the matter? Suki not let you out to play any more?’
‘That’s right.’ Mike winked. ‘Chopped it off and locked it in the bedroom dresser. That way she can take it out and play with it while I’m at work. Which, by the way, is all the fucking time.’
‘That is the motherfuckin’ truth.’ He looked at the entourage Bryant had brought to the bar. ‘These are friends of yours?’
‘Yep. Julie, Chris. Meet Troy Morris. He owns this shithole. Among others. Troy, Julie Pinion, Chris Faulkner. The rest I don’t remember.’ Bryant waved back at the entourage he was trailing. ‘Just sycophants, you know how it is when you’re an important man.’
The Jamaican reeled off a deep chuckle. ‘Faulkner,’ he rumbled. ‘No relation of William, right?’
Chris blinked, confused. Before he could ask, Mike Bryant broke in again.
‘They’re all carrying, Troy. Left mine in the car, but these guys are new and they don’t know the rules. Bear with us. You got a bag for the hardware?’
With the dozen-odd pistols dumped into a greasy holdall clearly reserved for this specific purpose, they pushed inside. Quiet slammed down through the smoke-hung bar. Even the girl on the stage stopped in mid writhe, one doped boa constrictor gripped in each fist. Music thumped on behind her, suddenly unchallenged by voices. Mike nodded to himself, took a chair to the centre of the bar and climbed onto it.
‘As you may have noticed,’ he said, pitching his voice above the music. ‘We are zek-tivs. I know that may pass for a crime around here, but we don’t want any trouble. All we want is to buy a drink for everyone in the house, and have a few ourselves. Anyone who has a problem with that can come and have a word with me, or my friend Troy Morris, and we’ll sort your problem out. Otherwise, it’s open bar for the next ten minutes and the drinks are on me.’ He turned to the girl on the stage. ‘Please. The show must go on. It looks like we got here just in time.’
He climbed down and went to talk to the barman. Conversations resumed slowly. The dancer went back, a little stiffly, to what she was doing with the two boas. People drifted to the bar, a few at first, then the bulk of those present. Bryant appeared to know a couple of them. Chris was introduced, promptly forgot names and cornered Mike.
‘What did Troy mean about being related to William?’
Bryant shrugged. ‘Search me. Troy knows a lot of people. What are you drinking?’
And so it went on, the night swelling with noise and hilarity for a while, and then paring down again as people left. Chris’s high began to flatten into something more reflective. Julie Pinion went home in a cab, the young executive she’d been arguing with in smug tow. The driver of one of the other cars announced his imminent departure around three a.m. and most of the remaining Shorn crew went with him. By four the party was down to one table – Chris and Mike, an off-duty Troy Morris and a couple of the floorshow dancers, now dressed and divested of most of their garish make-up. One introduced herself as Emma and, lurching into the toilets, Chris had to wonder if she was the object of the fellatio-inspired graffiti gouged there amidst the political commentary.
When he got back to the table, Emma had gone and Troy was leaving with her colleague. The gun bag from his doorman duties was dumped on the table, the sawn-off and Chris’s Nemex nestling together in the canvas folds. Chris joined in the round of farewells and there was much drunken promising to keep in contact. ‘Yeah,’ said Troy, pointing at Chris. ‘You should write, Faulkner.’
He left, chortling inexplicably, with the shotgun slung over one shoulder and his other arm around the dancer’s waist. At that moment Chris found himself possessed of a powerful desire to be Troy Morris, walking out of the Falkland into an entirely simpler and, to judge by the black man’s laughter, more joyous existence.
He slumped into the chair opposite Bryant.
‘I,’ he pronounced carefully, ‘have drunk far too much.’
‘Well, it’s Friday.’ Bryant’s attention was focused on heating a stained glass pipe. ‘Switch horses, try some of this.’
Chris’s eyes tightened on what the other man was doing.
‘Is that—’
Bryant’s eyes shuttled sideways above the pipe and lighter. Narrowed irritably. ‘Ah, come on, man. Lighten up. Just a little drive-right.’
The contents of the pipe smouldered and Mike inhaled convulsively. A shudder ran through his suited form. He made a deep grunting sound and his voice came out squeaky as he offered the pipe.
‘So. How does it feel?’
Chris frowned, confused. ‘What?’
‘Conflict Investment, a week in. Go on, take it. How’s it feel?’
Chris waved the pipe away. ‘No thanks.’
‘Pussy.’ Bryant grinned to defuse the insult, and drummed impatiently on the table. ‘So tell me. How’s it feel?’
‘What?’
‘Conflict fucking Investment!’
‘Oh.’ Chris marshalled his sludgy thoughts. ‘Interesting.’
‘Yeah?’ Bryant seemed disappointed. ‘That all?’
‘It’s not so different to Emerging Markets, Mike.’ Trying to think was hard work. Chris began to wonder if he should have accepted the pipe. ‘Longer-term outlook, but basically the same stuff. Yeah, I like it. Apart from that bitch Hewitt.’
‘Ah. I wondered how that was going. Had a run-in, have we?’
‘You could say that.’
Bryant shrugged. ‘Hey, don’t let it get you down. Hewitt’s been that way as long as I can remember. It’s always been harder to cut it as a woman in this field, so they come out twice as tough. They have to. See, these days Hewitt practically is Conflict Investment. Big reorganisation about five years back, austerity measures. Division got cut to the bone. There’s a lot of pressure to make good, and most of that pressure falls on Hewitt’s shoulders.’
‘Notley’s senior partner.’
‘Notley?’ Bryant piped more smoulder. ‘Nah, it was his baby in the beginning, but once he went senior he downloaded everything onto Hewitt and Hamilton. There was another guy, Page, but Hewitt called him out just before profit share last year. Rammed him right off the Gullet. Believe that?