T
he city was hot and oppressive on this late August evening. Most of the workers had deserted it for homes and bars in the West End, and the streets were empty and eerily silent. High in one of the many darkened tower blocks, there was a light still showing. In a plush office at the top of the building, a man leaned on a mahogany desk, his head in his hands. An elaborate nameplate, lettered with gold leaf, announced him to be the Chief Executive Officer. Scattered around him were letters from the Financial Conduct Authority, demanding explanations for various ‘irregularities’ which had caused serious ‘inconvenience’ and ‘risk’ to the entire economic system.
The CEO stood up. His face was unshaven, collar awry and hair, normally well-groomed, was untidy and lank. He helped himself to a large glass of Glenmorangie, took a gulp, and went to open his window. This extended to the full height of the room, and the stifling night eased its way in around him, displacing the sterile, air-conditioned atmosphere. He took a deep breath and stepped out on to the false balcony. His way was blocked by a triple safety rail. He leaned on it and looked down, twenty floors to the empty pavement.
At least, it should have been empty at this time of night but below him, a dark figure stood unmoving, staring up at his window. He could not make out any features, but the street lights reflected off the whiteness of a man’s face. As the CEO watched, the figure pulled a large hood over his head, and disappeared under the canopy of the office entrance.
The Chief shrugged, drained his glass and put it on his desk. He took off his jacket and went back to the balcony. With a deep breath, he began to climb over the safety rail.
Twenty floors below, the hooded man glided towards the main entrance of the office building. The door was sealed at this time of night, but the apparition waited patiently. The security guard on duty behind the front reception desk ignored him.
A couple appeared from the lift. The man had his arm around the woman, and she was laughing. The guard allowed himself a secret smile. These people were ‘working late’, but he knew what had been happening. There was CCTV in places that people did not expect, and he watched the tryst on one of the monitors. His phone recorded everything from the screen; the quality was not perfect, but it would give him and his mates something to amuse themselves with later, down the pub.
The couple wished the guard good night, and pushed hesitantly at the side entrance, the main revolving door being locked in the night condition. The guard released the interlock to let them out. As they went through, the figure from outside slipped in. The man held the door open. Unfazed, he observed the long brown habit and hood pulled over the white face of a monk, something unusual, even in the city, and then promptly forgot as the woman tugged him towards a passing taxi.
“Did I just let someone into the building?” he asked his companion, uncertainly.
“Of course not,” said the woman. “That would be a breach of security. There was no one there.”
Inside the office block, the monk strode towards a lift. The sentry stared as if trying to focus, but did not attempt to stop him. The lift doors closed and the guard shook his head, as if he was trying to remember something.
At the top floor, the monk stepped out on to the plush carpet. He noticed the security camera and smiled. Downstairs, the guard stared, baffled, at his monitor, as the lift doors opened, and he saw nothing.
The figure stopped at a door. The nameplate proclaimed ‘Chief Executive’. He turned the handle, and went in without knocking.
On the balcony outside, the Chief Executive himself leaned over the drop. He heard the door open, and turned guiltily. He saw what appeared to be a monk, face in shadow, arms folded into large sleeves, standing by his desk.
“Who are you?” the CEO challenged, half-heartedly.
The monk remained silent.
“You can’t stop me,” added the Chief, after a short pause.
“Why?” The monk spoke. His voice was soft, and a feeling of calm seemed to spread through the room.
“I’ve made some bad decisions.”
“Such as?”
“Why do you want to know. Who are you?”
“You can call me Brother Francis. Come off that ledge, and talk to me.”
“I can jump.”
“What and get me the blame for pushing you?”
“Or the praise,” muttered the Chief.
“Let’s not go there.” The monk advanced slowly. “You are not really a bad person... are you?”
The miserable man appeared to reconsider, as the monk’s voice flowed around him. He swayed backwards into the room, and strong bony hands pulled him to safety.
“Take a seat,” said Francis, “and let’s talk.” He refolded his arms, and sharp blue eyes transfixed the Chief from inside the cowl.
The man sat trembling in his executive chair. “Will you remove that hood, so I can see who I’m talking to,” he said, eventually.
“Of course.” The monk set the hood on to his shoulders.
The Chief let out a gasp as the light fell on his visitor. The man in front of him looked old, very old. His skin was dried and shrunken, as though the body was only barely alive. The CEO shuddered as he noted the similarity to one of the Stone-Age sacrificial victims recovered from peat bogs. The eyes however were piercing, and studied the Chief’s face, as though staring into his mind.
“Why are you here?” The CEO began to recover his composure.
“I have come to help.” The monk was forthright, as though he assumed he would be accepted.
“Help? What can you do to make it right?”
“You mean all this rubbish?” Francis indicated the FCA letters. “It is only paper.”
“I have made some bad decisions, hurt a lot of people, and they want my blood.”
“That is why you were on the ledge?” said the monk. “All this though, does it really matter? You are young, healthy, have the model family...”
“But my work is my life.”
“And will people remember you for it?”
“They will, now. I am ruined. I will never be employed again, and probably spend years in prison. I didn’t think what I was doing, always trying to maximise profits, pander to the shareholders, and it all went wrong.”
“For you, and a lot of your staff. They relied on you.”
“I should have listened to what they were saying.”
“You should. They were telling you, all the time, but you would not heed. If you are guilty of anything, it is of arrogance, but you can recover your dignity by having the courage to stand up and take what is due to you.”
“How did you get in, and why are you here?” The CEO’s hand brushed a panic button under his desk.
The ancient face cracked a smile; it was not pleasant. “Your questions are easy. The guard did not see me, and I am here to prevent you killing yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because I can. You will talk to me, and we will make a decision. If, at the end of our conversation, you still want to jump, I will not stop you.”
“You think you can talk me out of this?”
“No, I will talk to you, and you will make your own decision.”
“You are a stranger; what do you care, and why should I share my thoughts with you?”
The monk sighed. “I am here. Do you need another reason?”
“Are you from the FCA?” The man behind the desk regarded Brother Francis suspiciously.
“If you think that, perhaps I am simply an illusion brought on by your guilt.”
“I expect you are.” The chief stood up again. “I have probably drunk too much whiskey. There is nothing you can do. I have made my decision.”
“Of course you have,” said the monk, “and God forbid that you should listen to the voice of reason.”
“I make the decisions; someone has to be in control.”
“Please go ahead, if you are absolutely sure.” Brother Francis sighed, and spread his hands.
The Chief did not reply. He went to the window and took hold of the rail. He looked at the monk, who stood watching him, with the hood pulled up again, and the eyes glowing blue in its shadow. The CEO climbed over the rail, stood with his back to the room and took a deep breath.
“Then you are sure, and as such, your life is mine.” The monk gripped the CEO’s arms, and the man seemed to deflate as he clung to the guardrail. The hold released. The body fell through the stifling air towards the ground. There was no scream, because the chief was already dead before he fell.
“Killed by the same arrogance that caused all your problems.” The monk stared sadly down at the wretched remains on the pavement. He sighed, pulled the hood away again, and went into the connecting executive washroom. The face that stared at him from the mirror was not the wizened face that the Chief had seen, but a man in middle age, distinguished, tanned and lean, with chiselled features and the brightest of blue eyes.
Brother Francis poured himself a glass of water and patted his lips dry with a paper towel. “Nearly too late, that time,” he muttered to himself. “Too sad.”
He returned through the office and headed for the lift.