She answers on the third ring. Her voice is sullen. Like the cat that’s got the cream only to find someone’s pissed in it.
“Hello?” Claire says again, getting irritated. It doesn’t take much.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
There’s a pause, an intake of breath. “Josh, is that you?”
“I just want to say that I’m not sorry, that’s all,” I say, then slowly lower the receiver into the cradle. I can hear her shouting my name all the way down, telling me it’s all right and she’ll take me back. Not a fucking chance.
I don’t pause, don’t reconsider. There’s sudden silence as her voice is cut off with the connection. I’m safe in the knowledge Claire can’t ring me back as call return doesn’t work in Goa.
“Thanks,” I say to Batiste, the owner of the bar we’re currently profusely sweating in, despite the overhead fans. I hand him the phone, an old 1960s Bakelite model in cream.
He shrugs, as if it’s no bother. “Another beer?” he asks. I shake my head. “Spliff?” I shake my head again. Batiste happens to sell the biggest joints you’ve ever seen but I don’t need escapism right now.
I feel warm, inside and outside. I was going to apologise to Claire at first but as I put the receiver to my ear I changed my mind. After all, it wasn’t me that had fucked other people, fucked me over or simply stood by when the shit hit the fan. However, perhaps it had been me that had put her in that place anyway. I’ll never know, but I’ll never feel bad again either.
I throw the approximately week-old newspaper in the bin (I don’t wear a watch anymore so fuck knows what the date or time is). The front page continues to be dominated by a contagion called the credit crunch which has just claimed Northern Rock. Buried deep inside the broadsheet was a single column story of a similar ilk. Culpepper’s Bank was down millions and evidence was emerging of dubious financial deals and holes in the accounts. A mole, one Edward Shoe, had blown the whistle. The Chairman’s professional and personal life was unravelling fast. He’d been detained about to board a private jet allegedly bound for a small country that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK. According to the report he was currently out on bail.
The column revealed another culprit, one Claire Pigeon, was suspected of having received at least £1m. Her character was neatly assassinated by a Ms. Hodges, her ex-boss at P&R PR, who stated ‘nothing is beneath Miss Pigeon when it comes to ambition and greed.’ Claire was also out on bail whilst further evidence was being gathered.
The rest of the missing cash, the theory went, had been siphoned off somewhere into a deeply hidden bank account by the now deceased Hershey. The stench of corruption was enough to drive the Bank’s traditional customers away in droves. Of Liam, a.k.a. Mr Lamb, there was no mention. The article concluded that the remaining £19 million was likely gone for good.
Which is complete crap, of course. I know exactly where the money is.
Claire deserves all she’ll get and £1m is a cheap price to pay to see that she does. We’ve also invested £1m in a company which makes and distributes lesbian porno films, of which Serena is the Managing Director. Konstantin, however, wouldn’t take a penny, saying he’d had enough from me already, but the promise is there should he ever need it. I still have his number on that grubby piece of paper.
“Come on, let’s go,” I say to Jack, tapping him on the shoulder. He grins up at me, tanned and happy. We’ve a perfectly reasonable £18m to spend between us and in somewhere like Goa it’ll last forever.
I wave to Batiste as we leave the bar. The heat hits me immediately we step outside. I soak it up, bathe in its warmth. I know I’ll never be cold again. Now there’s just one more thing to do.
Go and find Alison...