Ten Journeys Page 3

  For a while, you can fool yourself you’ve got the whole thing under control. Jack had it all, or so he thought. He had Aisling; he had the stratospheric career, the swank Manhattan penthouse, the gracious New England country home, the simple beach-house on the Cape; the staff, the cars, the use of the personal jet. So what if in that crazy, sleepless run-up to their wedding day, he’d had to make the odd deal that didn’t quite live up to the standards he’d set himself, right? It had all been for love. And if over time, he was gradually letting things slip a little, cutting corners, squeezing percentages, investing in companies who weren’t as squeaky clean as he’d like... well, he was still doing a thousand times better than that black-hearted reprobate lurking at the end of the corridor, clawing dollars and cents into his personal hoard. Told himself Aisling had it all too. The homes, the lifestyle, what he had begun to think of as a nice little career of her own.

  She wasn’t as willing to sell out as he was, you see. Still shooting for the coffee-machine vision. She gave investment advice to charities, ethical portfolio, reduced fees, great returns too. They loved her, swore she was a saint who’d change the world one day. Jack’s take on it? The first time he made a deal he knew Aisling wouldn’t – the first time he screwed over some poor sucker with a good idea and no capitalisation – he smiled tolerantly and thought, Ah, but it’s only because of me that she can be so ethical. Yeah, he actually let that traitor thought slip past his defences, that he was the one making the sacrifices.

  Truth was, he fucking loved it. The power. The terror. The money.

  And, naturally, some of that money went on Charlie.

  It began as an occasional thing, just the odd stolen night in the bar. He told himself it was nothing to do with Aisling, nothing that would ever touch her. The lies men tell themselves. The next day he’d wake up alone in his cherrywood sleigh bed in the clouds of Manhattan, sweating and cold with the shame of it, and craving her company again.

  Just the odd stolen night at first. Maybe once a month, maybe less, usually when he and Jerry were really tying one on. A clever girl, Charlie; always knew how to find him. She was an expensive habit, but he could afford her. Hell, he could afford anything.

  Just once a month started creeping up to two or three times a month, but he could handle that, right? He always picked nights when Aisling wasn’t around, didn’t want her to see him when he crawled home barely able to speak. Nonetheless, she knew, the way women always know when their man’s playing away. She took on a junior – bright young thing she poached from her Daddy – made fewer road-trips and came home early. Jack tried to act pleased. Truth was he wanted Charlie so bad he could hardly think straight.

  Where to meet her? What was the smallest risk? He could meet her in a bar somewhere, but then going home to Aisling afterwards... could smuggle her up to his office, but the risk of Red catching them... or go to a hotel... yeah, that could work...

  He engineered a fake trip away, meticulous planning, conscious all the time that ole Red was watching, waiting, with murder on his mind. Would you believe Jackie boy hadn’t never booked a hotel room his whole life? First he was too poor, then he was too rich. But he found a nice place in mid-town where the concierge understood. Cash payment, and no questions about visitors who didn’t check in at the front desk.

  Spent the night in Charlie’s arms, didn’t sleep a wink. Dragged himself into the office the next morning looking like a walking corpse.

  “You all right, boss?” his secretary asked him.

  “Fine,” he muttered. Staggered into the bathroom and threw up.

  The lies men tell themselves.

  After that, there was no chance he could keep it under control. Charlie was on his mind the whole time, every minute, every second. He met her in airports, in hotels and bars, every business trip he took Charlie was along for the ride. He craved her constantly. Couldn’t never get enough. Aisling had been talking about a baby, but naturally there was no fuckin’ chance of that happening. Charlie took all his energy. Blamed it on pressure of work. “Tell me about it, maybe I can help?”

  “Get off my back, damn it, what the hell would you know about it with your fucking charity work and your…” – then hated himself for the look on her face. A hurt little girl, no defences to hide behind.

  Thing was, he really was feeling the pressure. Work was harder now, the money not so easy to find, holes starting to appear in the numbers. His particular trip on the Money Train was reaching its end. It was nearly time for the porter to open the door and toss him out. The deals were tougher to make, or maybe they just seemed tougher, maybe he was just losing his touch. By now he was doing the one thing he’d sworn he’d never do – smuggling Charlie up to his plushy office, getting it on with her right down the corridor from Red. Looking at his hands shaking afterwards as he tried to pour the coffee and thinking, Shit, this really has to stop, she’s going to kill me. Of course she wasn’t a cheap mistress to keep either; she was the best of the best his Charlie girl, the cream of the fucking crop. Had to take short cuts to keep it all going, dancing around the edges of the law. Then he had to stop dancing and start walking, all the way over that line and down, down, down into the murky world of corporate malfeasance. Screwing over the people he was investing in. Juggling money. Hiding losses on one deal with profits from another, moving the hole around, hoping he’d find a way to fill it before someone caught on. Sometimes he came home sweating with fear at the thought of the secrets he was hiding.

  The things he’d done, the stuff he’d stolen, the damage he was doing, the lives he was destroying.

  But he was on the Money Train, and he didn’t know how to get off. Just knew he was heading for an almighty crash. Jack was smart enough to see it coming, but there wasn’t nothing he could do. If you’ll forgive me an abrupt change in my metaphorical direction – even the world’s lousiest farmer knows that eventually, your chickens come home to roost.

  You got any more in that bottle?

  Hmmm. Ain’t nothing like the burn of a quality Scotch whisky.

  No, I am not avoiding the fucking subject. Stop tryin’ to analyse me, you friggin’ know-it-all sanctimonious prick, or you’re gonna see my ugly side. You know nothing about me College Boy, and you never will. That’s the one fearful beauty of this godforsaken shit-hole. Nobody knows who you really are.

  The last day of Jack’s life started no better and no worse than many others. He and Aisling were barely speaking by now, barely even meeting, just lying in that big wide cherrywood sleigh-bed, back to back. Both lying awake, Jack counting losses and wondering how much longer he could hide it from Ole Red, and Aisling... ah, ain’t a man anywhere knows what a woman thinks about at a time like that, and I’m no fuckin’ different. Sometimes Jack heard her crying. He just couldn’t see how to make it stop.

  So it was a shock to hear Aisling’s voice out there in his assistant’s office.

  “I don’t care what he’s doing in there, Beatrice, I’m his wife. I need to see him. Right now.” And Beatrice doing her best to stall her, “Mrs English, ma’am, I do know who you are, of course I do, I just really don’t think that – ”

  Trapped in his office with Charlie, his wife at the door. Like a moment in a nightmare. No way out. The door opened.

  Close your mouth, boy. Lotta flies down here.

  Jack had Charlie all spread out on the desk, just the way he liked her. He was crouched over her, eyes half-closed, face flushed, futile attempt to hide her.

  His wife, his beautiful angel wife, staring straight at him. In her hand, a bundle of papers spelled D-O-O-M in the reddest of inks. She’d come in there to save him from Ole Red’s wrath, convinced her Daddy had it wrong. But for all his faults, Red was never wrong about the money, and Aisling was finally staring at the truth. End of the Money Train. End of the line.

  “God help me,” whispered Jack.

  Aisling looked at him. At his face. At his hands. At the six rows of white powder Jack had chopped out in
front of him. Finally understood.

  “Cocaine,” she said softly. “All this time I thought – I thought you were with – and it was – ” Her face was white. “Oh, Jack, Jack – ” Trying to hold it together. “And these papers – these deals... ” Tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” said Jack, ridiculous, because how the hell else could the situation be construed? He’d ruined himself, destroyed his marriage, damned near bankrupted Red Giant. He was a junkie, a thief, an embezzler and an all-round bastard. Everything he’d sworn he’d never be.

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “It’s exactly what it looks like, Jack.” She held out the papers, her hands were shaking. “And this is what it looks like too. These things you’ve done. This missing money.”

  “No,” he whispered softly.

  “Yes,” she said. “Nobody can think straight when they’ve got an addiction to feed. Oh, Jack -”

  She wiped tears off her chin with the back of her hand, and pushed her glasses up her nose. “I thought it was a mistake,” she said. “I thought, My Jack, there’s no way he’d do something like this – he might fall in love with someone else, but not lying – not stealing – this is a mistake – but there is no mistake, is there, Jack? Jerry was right. It’s all true.”

  “Jerry?” The name was like a slap in the face. Even when your insides are black and numb with the bad things you’ve done, you can still feel the pain of betrayal. “That little bastard, I’ll – ”

  “My dad made him check, he was getting suspicious. Jerry was trying to save you, Jack. He called me before he sent it, so I could warn you.”

  “You came here to warn me?” Her goodness in his heart like a bright knife. “You thought I was cheating on you, and you still came here to warn me?”

  “I thought there was still a chance to save us,” she whispered. “But there’s no point, is there? There’s nothing to save. You’re not the man I thought you were. We were going to change the world, remember? And now you’re worse than any of them.”

  Jack stared at her, groping for the words. Couldn’t find them.

  Then he heard this almighty roar. Heard Beatrice scream. Then McLain Carroll, the Red Giant himself, exploded into the room.

  “You…You fucking little thief. Thought you could put it all right, did you? Thought you could put the money back before anyone noticed?” Jack saw his hands twitch. “I’ve been waiting for this moment since your wedding day, you asshole. I told you then I’d kill you if you ever stepped outta line – I’ve been fucking praying for the chance to do this – ”

  “No!” screamed Aisling.

  Red was quick, but Jack was quicker, and coked out of his head into the bargain. He reached into his desk drawer. Pulled out the gun Jerry told him to buy.

  For a moment, the universe stopped. Jack remembered his wedding day; the way Aisling looked when he lifted up the veil, the first time he ever kissed her, that night by the coffee machine; the way his shirt stuck to his back when he first walked in off the street into the air-conditioned office, the way the sun looked coming up over the hill at the back of his daddy’s farm in Idaho spilling over the horizon like corn syrup.

  Then he pulled the trigger, and shot McLain Carroll right through his old black heart.

  Jack and Aisling looked at each other over the body of her father.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her. “You’re right. I’m not the man we both thought I was. Every word you’ve said to me is true.”

  She stared at him wordlessly, her father’s blood pooling around her feet. Too much happening in too little time. A crash always seems to happen in slow motion.

  “I’m not as strong as you,” he whispered. “I never was. It was all too much for me. I’m so sorry, Aisling. For what it’s worth, there never was another woman, I always loved you.” He held the gun to his head.

  “Don’t – ” she said, on reflex.

  “I think you should go now,” he said. “I need to pay the bill. This is the end of the line for me.”

  She would have stayed, to be with her daddy if nothing else, but Beatrice grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away. Dragged her to the elevator, fast as they could go. But not far enough to get away from the sound of that second gunshot.

  Bottom of the bottle, pal, end of the line. The Money Train stopped, threw all the Red Giant employees out at the station. Jack had done what he’d always said he’d do, after a fashion; he’d brought down one of the giants of Wall Street from the inside. Company went to the wall. Aisling buried her father. Jerry died in a car-crash.

  What the heck you talking about, What happened to Jack? You got all the jigsaw pieces, pal; you can’t put together a suicidal coke-head who just shot his father-in-law and a gunshot in a deserted office?

  Sheesh, once you get an idea in your head... look, even if there was a way for him to get outta that office, d’you think I’d tell you if I was Jack? Think I’d admit to being that sorry excuse for a man? Think I’d confess on tape to embezzlement and murder? I told you, College Boy, I ain’t in this story anywhere. The Money Train crashed, and took Jack and everyone else down with it; I just crawled out from the wreckage. I’m just a travelling pilgrim hiding out in this City of Angels, doing penance for all my sins, ’til I can finally hitch a ride outta here in an empty railroad car.

  2

  I’m afraid

  to fly...

  Dave foxall

  Author

  Dave Foxall was born in the Black Country. He started commuting at the age of 11 and so came to appreciate the escapist value of a good read. Eager to see the world he swapped his small town roots for the bright lights of Coventry (45 minutes down the road) and the seductive glamour of studying law. 19 years later – the law career having been abandoned along the way – he finally managed to live the dream of being a wealthy writer. The ‘wealthy’ bit still requires a little work. Contrary to what his story, I’m afraid to fly... may lead you to believe, Dave is actually very happily married.

  1 tsp cumin seeds

  tsp ground cinnamon

  3 tsp ground coriander

  1 onion

  6oz diced turkey

  1 small butternut squash

  1 small sweet potato

  2 fresh bird eye chillies

  1 tin plum tomatoes

  1 tin red kidney beans

  1 small glass red wine

  2 tsp dried mixed herbs

  brown sugar

  6 squares dark cooking chocolate

  juice of half a lime

  salt and pepper

  … and the old woman in the window seat next to me, she's a stranger but I already know that she's going to keep on annoying me for this entire long-haul trip. Now she wants her boiled sweets that she's left in her carry-on; which is, of course, in the locker. Would you mind? I do really need them; my ears, you know. Yes, but that's descent; we won't be landing for 10 hours. Oh God! 10 hours. Never mind the old baggage, I've got to spend the next 10 hours on a plane. Still, desperate times require desperate travel arrangements.

  My fear of flying cows me into retrieving her barley sugars for her. Now quickly, before she can ask me where I'm going or tell me where she's from or show me pictures of grandchildren I put the earphones in. Send her a solitude signal. I'm listening to music; don't bother me and don't, under any circumstances, ask me what I'm listening to. I really wouldn't know what to tell her. I consider closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep just to make sure that my terror is undisturbed.

  Take-off. I hate take-off. It's a beginning that feels like an ending. All that fussing about. Bags in the overhead lockers. Flight attendants fluttering here and there. Pay attention while we tell you the procedure in the event of imminent disaster. Basically, you're to put your affairs in order so that should we fall from the skies then at least our corpses and belongings will be neatly identifiable. We blithely overcome the law of gravity with no thought for consequences. The casual miracle of flight and th
e ignorance of casual death. All brushed aside and made deceptively commonplace by a moron in a nylon neckerchief asking me to make sure my seat is in the upright position.

  Sorry, I'll get a grip; it's just that I don't like flying. Don't worry, I'm not an idiot. I know (better than most, in fact) the crash statistics and how 'safe' flying is these days. But a plane is the one place in which I can't access my rationality. I check in my logic with my hold luggage. I look outwardly normal, of course I do. And I know – statistically – that I'm not alone. On a plane this big, there'll be dozens like me, wearing an outward coat of calm over their churning inner panic.

  We're moving. This is it. The proverbial point of no return. The earphone ruse seems to be working. I'm not really listening to music, of course. The earphone lead is just tucked into my inside jacket pocket, allowing the assumption that there is an ipod or suchlike in there. In fact, I can't listen to music in flight. The paranoia that I might fail to hear a wing start to shear off or an engine stutter and die is too great. So my right ear contains a silent earpiece; my left, which my fellow passenger can't see, is empty and alert to the out-of-the-ordinary sounds of possible disaster.

  But no-one can survive 10 hours of this sort of brain-simmering fear, so we phobic flyers each have our own distraction. Some can do the music thing. Some read. Some crossword or sudoku. The young guy across the aisle has a soft porn magazine; filling his airtime with tits'n'bums (although how he's going make a single top-shelf periodical last for a 10 hour flight is something I don't want to think about.) Bet the woman next to him is pleased. As for me, I cook. I don't fly often – as little as possible, as should be obvious by now – but I've found that when I can't avoid it, when flight is absolutely essential, like today, then cooking works for me.