Small Change

By Bill Dennison

Was Diane really doing anything wrong? Surely no-one begrudged her odd pence? But how to make her every single action appear normal when each of her accounts, all 37 of them, were churning thousands of pounds her way week after week. The Bank had to know, but not how to act without advertising that every customer was vulnerable?

Of course, it was all son Lukes fault, this special talent: embedding the trapdoor, the invisible interest payments? And what harm for a year, a few million pounds un-noticed? So why a breakdown, why wreck her retirement plans? And another threat: had Luke any friends in cyber-space - like Jas, the card, the master PIN? It might be transforming his relationship with Tanya but not with the expiry date looming, and Luke in an expensive nursing home? He needed the mother.

But she had other problems. What did Tanyas friend, Ros, know: manager at one of Dianes 37 branches? But her accounts could never be closed, never be moved? And how had ex-husband, Frank, contrived to re-appear? What might he be saying to her two older children? Hadnt she made them wealthy enough? And as for her dream home: couldnt the builder have mentioned his tax affairs?

Most unlucky of all, why the police: did they believe she was linked to Harry, smashing and grabbing ATMs? Could they not appreciate that was real robbery? But perhaps it explained why a Bank publicity man wanted to interview recently retired staff; might he have also have tracked down old Aunt Diana to the nursing home?

Uncertainties might lie ahead but Diane remained absolutely convinced: this life-style had to be preserved. It just came down to overcoming the obstacles one by one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467000949

Bill Dennison

Bill Dennison has never worked in a Bank nor has he ever been a computer buff. He is fascinated, though, by what one individual can achieve when funds worth billions are moving around the globe every second of the day. He has no direct evidence that the events he describes in Small Change? are going on. Nevertheless, he would be surprised if something broadly similar was either not happening or in the process of being planned. The potential rewards are too great, the systems too complex, individual talents too huge, the Banks need to shun publicity too immense, to draw any other conclusion. Bill earned his living as an academic specialising in educational leadership. He is happily married, with two daughters and five grandchildren, living in North England.

Book preview

1

Double Delusion

Even after all those years, Diane could still hear that voice.

Listen… if the lily doubles every day, takes ten days to cover the whole pond when, do you think, it will cover only half of it?

Miss Grimshaw needed to intimidate. Yet often, as that day, her voice sounded soft, puzzling why no-one was ready to answer. And then the look: enquiring, peering out over those rimless glasses. Yet even the yellow knitted twin-set, the tartan pleated skirt, signalled reassurance; but not to all. It was a long time afterwards before Diane realised what a life-time with eleven year olds must have entailed: the need for discipline, hard-work, if any of them was ever to scrape a scholarship.

But why this memory at this moment—the neat row of cramped desks, the high windows, the art work pealing from the walls; Miss Grimshaw by the front desk, articulating each word, struggling to hide her exasperation? And her own certainty: a whole class to pick from but no, those eyes, that stance, were so obviously focused on her. So why blurt out fifth day? Of course it was unfamiliarity; not many lily ponds adjacent to Morris Street Infant and Junior Mixed. But wasn’t that so paltry? She could still recall the sniggers; even now she would do anything to avoid belittling herself.

So why be here forty years later vulnerable, exposed, looking down obsessively to her watch? Maybe it only cost £7-99, possibly it might be an investment, but even at that price it was barely affordable. Yet, as in so many other ways, there seemed no alternative? How could she survive the week without knowing the exact time? For a few moments, her attention was held by the relentless replacement of one digit by another—57, 58, 59—relieved that now only ten minutes remained. But even that assumed she could surmount the first hurdle? Yet with even these few moments to reflect, why was it doing nothing other than provoke even more worries? Ought that not to be her real concern: mind unable to take any more, negative images engulfing her; this dream, however far-stretched, shattered forever? Plus the physical demands she was making of herself: the dry throat, the unwilling limbs, the churning stomach, the night after night without sleep. Surely, their combination must eventually prove debilitating; perhaps even within the next few minutes—incapable of starting her first walk; unable to leave the car, police summoned by some chance bystander.

Yet what had she achieved so far? To be honest: very little. And comparison with what she was about to ask of herself was horrific: acting normally in the most abnormal of circumstances, sustaining a facade however false, portraying an unshakeable confidence whatever her weaknesses? But if she couldn’t manage those: at best, her fantasy crushed—some crazed delusions of a frustrated middle-aged woman? Yes, she probably could live with that, indeed had done so for years. At worst: the certainty of a long prison sentence? Of course that must be grossly unfair. For, in all honesty, what was so wrong in what she intended? No-one need feel any different; no-one would get hurt.

Was that not too easy though? She had rehearsed the risks: an innocent query, some unintended threat, a single detail overlooked. All were feasible, indeed all were likely. What she required were specifics: how, when, how—but, above all, who? And two other disadvantages simmered. She’d never been here before, or anywhere like it—though, to her knowledge, neither had anyone else. Yet how was she to know? The essence of success had to be total secrecy: escape by never being under suspicion, vanish without ever being seen. Those mantras were her only weapons. In fact, they provided her sole protection. Incriminating circumstances, vulnerable moments, chance conversations had not to be avoided, they had to be eliminated. But about one thing she remained convinced: if she did win, it would be worth it. There was a price of course: no-one else must know for now. And there lay her other disadvantage: with whom could she review her plans, share her secrets, offer the chance to persuade that the whole idea was a lunacy, some whim of a hoodwinked mind?

Miss Grimshaw possibly—were she still about. But she had also implanted resilience, the importance of the second chance, no matter how long in coming. Perhaps that really explained it. She looked around at the desolation. Yes it was Monday morning, the car-park was almost empty, but the smell, the litter, the occasional banging door, the semi-darkness, made her seat, her little car, feel increasingly secure. She had no desire to leave, except that an exit sign was directly opposite. And soon, following a professional performance, she could be driving out, ready for the next step.

Yet all the time that voice persisted.

Tell me Class 6, what’s the last date in June?

Miss Grimshaw didn’t have to rely on her for that one.

Alright… I want you to solve this little problem for me. Suppose someone gave you a thousand pounds on every one of those days. Does anyone know how much that would come to?

Miss Grimshaw didn’t really listen for an answer; the spectacles already in her right hand, the keenness to move on, made that only too obvious.

Now… suppose instead of a thousand pounds a day I gave you 1p on June 1st, then 2p on June 2nd, 4p on June 3rd, 8p on June 4th… doubling right through the month… sure you understand. Now… which would you prefer. No guessing… and let me see your working out.

Even as Diane scribbled, she sensed many around her half trying, perplexed by detail. But not her; within seconds the main message was only too clear. Her right arm was vertical, straining for attention; without doubt Miss Grimshaw was looking directly towards her.

Yes, which would you prefer… the thousand pounds every day, that’s thirty thousand pounds, don’t forget.

No miss.

No… so tell me why.

Because the doubling pence would be worth a lot more.

Good… have you worked out how soon?

Diane had learned to be ready.

By June 23rd, Miss.

So by then your doubling 1p would be worth more than £30,000… very good… and by June 30th, one more week, how much by then, have you done that sum?

Not quite yet, Miss.

Well go on then.

She was conscious of the attention, thirty pairs of eyes boring into the back of her neck. Thankfully then, as now, mental arithmetic was a strength.

It’s over five million pounds, Miss.

Exactly?

No. Five million, seventy two thousand, nine hundred and sixty two pounds and twenty eight pence.

And if it was March rather than June?

Eleven million, seventy two thousand, nine hundred and sixty two pounds and fifty six pence.

Well done, Miss Young… I’ll give you your birthday name because that’s such excellent work… I’m really proud of you. Look Class 6, pointing to the two sums on the board, how a 1p… nothing is it, can grow into something so huge… and so very quickly.

Miss Grimshaw might have provided enough incentive, but at the expense of omitting the key fact: those little acorns, how to make them double? Perhaps that explained why it had taken her forty years to be here in Repston at 8.51.

2

Making amends

It was late spring, a dry bright evening; even with the occasional cloud Harry judged a couple of hours of good daylight remained. He had stopped near the top of the hill, driven inside the fence; not perfect but it would have to do. A decent house not long back, a developer had demolished it intending to build half a dozen more but was struggling with the planners. But what must once have been a concrete driveway would serve his needs. And with no other houses close it felt quiet: patchy woodland encroaching on the road that sloped ahead of him towards the river. Walking down, he could soon see the new estate on the opposite bank. It might be away from his old patch but he knew it well enough.

The dog was glad to be out, would have bounded away had he allowed. But Harry knew dogs; each an individual, each a personality. Incongruous really, here he was with something small black, mostly poodle, when most of his working life had been with strong dogs. He knew German shepherds best of all: when they were pleased with themselves, when they were frightened—and that had happened a few times. But he had to give it all up. They even took his dog away. That was worse than losing the office keys; and all in one afternoon. He had been offered no choice.

You’ll have to go son… it’s either that or you know what else.

He didn’t even pause, let Harry muse the alternative, protest the flimsiness of the evidence. You’ve had a good run… I’ll see what I can do about the pension.

And looking after me… my safety.

Oh that’s not a problem, we’ve got fool-proof procedures. You’ll be alright once you’re away from here.

He still remembered every word, and the place: Assistant Chief Constable’s office. First, he was patronised, by someone who looked half his age, then he was forced out—all to protect the career of a boss. A decent man ironically, one of the few Harry had grown to respect. But that last job had been bungled. Intelligence was the key; don’t believe half-baked untruths from locals you’ve barely met the lesson. Harry had always known it, indeed had been the hallmark of his own career—cultivating the odd reliable contact, gaining respect, establishing trust.

Still, it had given him plenty of time to think, to plan, to work out vulnerabilities.

Coupar, come back here… good boy.

The dog, eyes alert, ears upright, started to trot alongside him at once, the attractions of whatever was in the long grass forgotten. This was the way that Harry approved: the understanding that he was in charge. He stopped at the bottom of the hill, looked around, grateful that the nearest bridge was half a mile downstream. Anyone else might have thought he was soaking up the peace: the slow moving brown water, the untidy bank running up to the small copse on the other side. But it wasn’t the view that held his attention; he could never be too careful. Yes, he knew the ones he’d fallen out with, they were not the problem. It was the ones he didn’t know that mattered. But he felt sufficiently secure to set off along the road, the river on his left. There were only two buildings about a hundred yards ahead.

The road led nowhere, seemed empty enough; a couple of youngsters going to fish, a few parked cars, still more next to the first building: an old pub now an Italian restaurant—early hour, he thought. But they proved little distraction with his quarry now just ahead. It had to have seen better days: solid maybe, built to last, but when did it have a coat of paint, how did they get away with such an ugly extension at the back? Without hesitation, though, he climbed the half dozen steps to the entrance. Technically, he might be invalided out, but he remained spritely if short, his spare frame belying the lack of real exercise, his ease of movement suggesting someone a good deal younger. Only the grey in the neatly trimmed moustache was starting to give him away, plus the bald patch hidden by his peaked cap.

He pushed open the door, edged anxiously into a badly lit hall-way, glanced at the scuffed notices hanging from the board, the hole punched through the door to the Gents, the one-arm bandit standing idle in the corner. The sooner he completed the business the better. The only person in sight strode over. He needed to take the initiative.

Any idea where Andy’ll be?

Aye, but let’s see your pass first.

He’d forgotten how threatening club doormen were supposed to be. But he was ready.

Just visiting?

Yeh… come to see Andy, a friend from long time back.

Oh… he’ll be at the far end of the function room, near the bar, nudging his head in the direction of what appeared to be an even darker corridor, double doors at the end.

He paused before pushing one of them open. The vastness came as a surprise, and the emptiness. But not without people; all sitting at the far side of what must serve as a dance floor, a low rail separating them from the rest of the room. No point turning back now, that would only create more attention. He tried to give the impression of striding over. Maybe there were a dozen of them, regulars he supposed, in twos and threes around a scattering of small tables; all drinking pints, most glasses at least half empty. Possibly, there was the occasional glance towards him, but nothing suggesting surprise, a stranger to be noticed. Yet he remained nervous, avoiding looking down at the stains on the carpet, searching out a head he should recognise, not sure how much it might have changed. It was there though, a bit different from last time but as distinctive as ever, at a table next to the rail. Harry walked over.

Hu… you found it alright then… long time, no see?

Harry was delighted that Andy made so little of it; could be as simple as an uncle delivering a message. He sat almost still, right hand firmly clasped around a nearly empty glass, signalling Harry towards the bar.

By the time Harry returned, the other person had moved away.

So… you’ve not been down here before?

It sounded friendly enough. And no reason really why it should be anything other. He had saved Andy. It might not have been appreciated at the time but if Harry had intervened, told what he’d really seen, where would Andy be now? Harry knew—and so did Andy. Not that Harry expected any thanks. It was Andy who started.

Nearly two years ago, now…?

It was at the front of his mind. That was good.

As long as that is it… so, what have you been doing with yourself, then?

Not much, helping out, some mates… you know… this and that.

Difficult to imagine a more opaque response, but useful nevertheless.

Still keeping yourself fit… plenty of work-outs?

Yeh, get down to the gym most days.

Even sitting, sipping lager, he carried menace: across the face, along the tattooed arms, up through the bulging neck muscles, the huge shaven head. And bound to be as tall as ever, when he stood up. For now, Andy leaned back on his stool, confident that this showed his bulk to advantage.

What about you then… you just… like, disappeared?

No point in denial, Andy was correct and, all too clearly, remained angry. The eyes might be bloodshot but they were still cold, focused on him; the fresh glass already half empty being rocked rhythmically back and forth on the table top.

But Harry was gaining in confidence. Part one of his mission was complete. Some combination of indifference and indolence had prevented Andy from doing much by way of chasing when he slipped from his life. It confirmed something else that Harry knew already: Andy would need pushing.

Look, that’s why I’m here…

If Andy was expecting anything, he was doing a good job in hiding it. Harry felt himself struggling to sound in charge.

 . . . look… to do you a good turn… both of us… you know what I mean.

Aye, you owe me… and a big one.

Harry needed Andy for now. But he also needed to remind him about joint obligations.

Andy, what happened… what I did, was in your best interest.

No… well, maybe, perhaps he was beginning to accept, but you lost me my job, got me the sack… and not just there, everywhere else as well.

No point telling Andy it had done the same for him. The huge bulk glowering across the table did not exude empathy.

But what else… you know the alternative… that would have been far worse. I kept you from all of that… don’t forget, me on my own. There was a load of evidence out there… still is, just no-one knows where to look… well, except for me.

That was too heavy; Harry knew. Even as the words came out, he sensed the constant checking they would induce; watching every passing car, every corner, every stranger by the front window. It was all about balance of interests. Andy’s curiosity, though, was rising.

Alright then, what are you here for?

To give you a new chance… not much risk, suit you down to the ground.

Yeh, but what have I got to do?

Work in my team… it’s a good prospect, I’m telling you.

Yeh… but what’s it about?

I can’t say just yet… I’m still on with the details but I’m telling you it’ll be well worth it… when it works.

Around here?

Not too far away.

You’ll be wanting something up front?

No, nothing yet. I just need to know if you’re up for it?

 . . . Let’s say I could be interested?

Harry knew little was to be gained by feeling smug, still less from staying a second over long. He was already starting to move away.

What if I need to contact you, what’s your mobile?

"No need… oh Andy, one last thing, that mate of yours… you know the JCB lad, he’s still around?

3

Just checking

Only 8.53; surely more than two minutes had passed since Diane last checked? And the place itself so discouraging: the gloom, the sense of threatening shadows; noise from a slammed door echoing past the concrete pillar; the air oppressive with stale exhaust fumes; empty cans, pizza cartons, a few leaves, nestling in random piles. For a moment, though, she was distracted, a car had slowly edged into a bay opposite; grandparents, by the look of them, huddling around a rear door, struggling to strap a toddler into his pushchair. Momentarily, an image clouded her consciousness: could that have been her and Frank? But where did that come from? By now, any thought of him was rare, any question of whether she missed him an irrelevance. And had it worked out differently, had they still been together, on one thing she was convinced: she would still be sitting here; worrying, willing herself through the next few minutes, certain that what she intended was right.

His potential usefulness was harder to guess. Presumably, sustaining a decent conversation would have remained a problem; his concentration span maybe, or their lack of mutual interests. That would have hindered planning. Maybe she might have found him the odd chore—an assistant, a runner. Enough needed doing. But that all depended on one huge assumption: would she have felt able to trust him? Not so much by way of a back-stabbing. No, another certainty prevailed: at some stage, he would have wanted to concede; tried to convince her that the effort was too great, the risk did not justify the reward. She might have coped, but not without a bigger fear: that need of his, that obsession to be liked, that passion to divulge. One moment of weakness would be sufficient: some snippet to a drinking pal, his in-grained obligation to involve others satisfied.

No, most likely Frank would have stayed at home, blissfully unaware; forced to assume that her even greater lack of interest, her even stranger behaviour, were some part of a passing phase, probably to do with her age. But he had gone, in most respects surprisingly amicably. A final misunderstanding, a culmination of many, but this one mattered. His firm had been taken over; the only decent job was at the other end of the country. Somehow, he sort of assumed she would be glad to follow. But she wasn’t. He stopped coming home for weekends—more or less. When he did, she found it increasingly difficult to offer a decent welcome. Not that the kids made much effort either, though both were preparing to leave: Tom to college, Kate hankering after a flat. And then, of course, there was Luke.

Two new lives emerged, and she knew little, cared less, about the other. It had not been easy. The grandparents with the toddler were doing nothing other than remind her: about isolation, temporary loneliness, her lack of real companionship. No, what she had to do must be her and her alone. But perhaps it was the still greater contrast that had triggered this wave of reflection. To the grandparents, it must be another Monday morning. To her, it constituted a rift. She sat on an edge, a last opportunity to pull back fading. Yet was it worth gambling everything? For even if she survived the next twenty minutes her plans must be flawed; soon, incalculable threats must become an integral part of her life; and with few means of knowing the detail, no way of identifying the greatest risk. It might have been done already; it could even be going on now? So, was there room for others? That was the sort of information she really lacked, where her research ought to have concentrated. Had someone come close, caught by a change in procedures, spotted in two places, enticed into complacency?

Yet the whole concept was so simple. And it was Mr Browell who triggered it; not that he would know. Unless, of course, he was part of a plot, some inspector sent to test, to tempt; the Bank trawling to see which staff might deviate.

I believe there’s been a mistake on our last statement.

In his sixties, Diane would have guessed, the sparse frame emphasising his height despite the thickening waist-line. He was hovering at the other side of her desk, uncertain when she might look up. Normally, she would have seen him coming, asked him to sit down. But she had yet to come to terms with working in this new environment. Really, it was little more than a space to the right of the branch entrance. Comfortable enough though: the thick carpet, the bright wallpaper, the bank logo, the expensive blinds, all implying security, trust without threat—except for the all pervasive notices about interest rates, incentives, penalty clauses.

Oh, that’s unusual.

Years of experience had inured her. Blandness without embarrassment was not a new behaviour.

Well, according to me, and already he was leaning towards her, starting to empty an envelope, the end of his tie brushing the desk surface, I paid fifty seven pound seventeen on the last gas bill but it’s come through here at only fifty seven pounds fifteen.

By now he was pushing an unfolded statement across the desk, words gushing. Clearly this was no spur of the moment decision. Already, he seemed relieved, the line of the neatly clipped white moustache more relaxed, the eyes less fixed. An error had been made, he had detected, reported; his public duty had been discharged. Hand over a 2p coin to someone in authority and the process would be complete.

But the episode was beginning to intrigue her.

Now, Mr. Browell, let’s see what might have happened… you must be very thorough.

He started off again, quickly—no time, or for that matter, inclination yet to suggest he sat down.

Well, you see, I retired recently, not voluntarily, she assumed, and with a bit more time on my hands I’ve started to go through things like the bank statements. Mind, this is the first time I’ve come across anything like this.

The air of formality persisted: the incongruity of a jacket, collar, tie, on a warm afternoon; the white hair cut short, the schoolboy pink ears, the veins prominent above both cheek-bones. Not that he was much different to dozens of others. Customers came to worry, to complain, to be appeased—but not on this occasion. This was not the electricity bill paid twice; some confusion over names, account numbers; doubts about a direct debit. She knew how to deal with them. Somehow, this felt different.

Are you sure it’s the Bank’s mistake?

Brusque maybe but it provoked no more than a small diary, a monthly accounts page, the date, £57—17, all neatly inscribed. By now, he had come around to her side of the desk to demonstrate.

Still, nothing was to be gained through a change of tack. His self-righteousness was beginning to grate.

You don’t think you could have written what thought was a seven but really was a five?

Patronising maybe, but possible. A moment’s reflection and she could have guessed the response. Slowly, determinedly, he put his left hand in an inside top pocket, pulled out his wallet.

Look, here’s the receipt, you see, £57-17. I asked the company to send it

Of course the Bank made mistakes. She’d dealt with enough of them, and they all included one common feature: a customer arrived to report a loss. Not Mr. Browell, though. Possibly it was that which made him appear so resolute, so keen to hear more. She felt no alternative.

Let’s see, Mr. Browell… we know the amount’s been recorded in three places.

She marked down the words: Receipt, Diary, Statement.

Now… the last one is different, isn’t it?

His gaze shifted from her to the paper, eyes focusing behind the small pair of oval lenses wedged half way down his nose.

So it looks as if you’ve paid £57—15 for £57—17s’ worth gas?

She paused, hoping for some doubt; some lack of sureness on his part. But there was none. And why should there? Diane was edging towards a certainty: the Bank was at fault. Hardly surprising really, given the complexities of the arrangements.

She glanced down again. It was 8.55.

4

Forever geek

Jas had never settled. It was a good course, international reputation, suited him well, excellent career guaranteed. But only if you had the right background, if your face fitted, whatever your A-levels. Yet, even further back, the school had been really helpful, especially one or two teachers, especially when it would have been so easy to go along with the others: mucking on at the back of the class, shouting out, throwing things, bunking off lessons, hanging around the shopping centre most afternoons.

No, he had stuck in, done what was needed, got the top grades, never let on that it felt so easy. Of course it made him an outcast, but by choice. The low profile saved him—at school, at home. No light from his room when he was studying, outside only when necessary, walking determinedly, avoiding eye contact, never responding to intimidation, shouts. It had worked. He’d rarely felt threatened. And what about the others now: stacking shelves, army squaddies, odd bits of work; and that was the best of them? As for the rest, he just didn’t want to know, nor did anyone else for that matter. No, he knew he was a lot better off than all of them. He had taken control. Best of all he had escaped the Sherbourne estate. Few of his age had managed that.

So why had he not settled at University? Was it the course, the staff? Most of them were helpful enough; what he saw of them. No, it was the students who let him down. Occasionally, they talked together about lectures, the odd seminar. Once in a while he had to join a few others on a group project, make a presentation. Socially, though, they were so different. Would they have preferred had he not existed? Probably not—but often they made it feel that way. Certainly, they wouldn’t have missed him. Maybe it was finance. Parents, sponsors, often both, made such a difference; flats, cars, money in pockets. The contrast was stark. Three nights a week plus Saturdays on a supermarket till for him, yet he still struggled, no chance of ever catching up. That was the real difference from school: there he felt ahead, no matter the chance mocking, the occasional abuse. That he could take. Now he was right at the back; overlooked, struggling to stop falling even further behind.

Not that he had much opportunity to find out away from lectures. They drank in their own bars, organised parties he knew nothing about, infested each others’ flats, slept only with one another. And what did he have: the cheapest room going? Away from the supermarket that’s where he spent his time, looking at bare walls, the antiquated sink in the corner, the low bed, the table that doubled up as a desk, the general air of poverty—plus the library. At least it was warm there, had some decent computers.

Or was it something about Law that made him an outcast? Yet since age ten, he had always known. Without hesitation, it had been his answer when he’d been asked that same question. Perhaps it had everything to do with the need to escape, be different. His parents, the rest of the family, barely knew what a law degree was never mind wanting one for themselves. Maybe they knew better than he that getting one was no guarantee of acceptance.

Nevertheless, once in a while, he did see a chance. This time it was the Society dinner for those about to graduate. Yet still so transparent: all that business about free and open competition, psychometric tests, was no more than a front. It was so obvious to him why members were here: to confirm those to be invited to join after graduation, tipped off by the lecturers; the few that met all their criteria, members of the correct social cliques. In all honesty, what chance had he? But he needed to be there, even if the dinner suit hire in no way compensated for the subsidised ticket. Yet, to a bystander, he looked right; he could easily have appeared to belong. Tall, thin, his thick black hair swept back, the short spikes exaggerating the large pink forehead. As always, his head was high, the strong lines across his face accentuating the look of intelligence; watchful grey eyes probing, searching the small groups starting to form as the tables were cleared after the meal. But within seconds the reality was only too obvious: he was part of none of them; those sitting on his left, his right, straight opposite during the meal were stealthily disappearing. Was it something he had said; not that he had spoken much? Was there something about him, something that no-one would tell him, something so repulsive? Or perhaps they were ganging up, determined to isolate him. He looked around anxiously. Yes, he was the only person sitting alone. What to do: walk to the bar, go to the loo, edge towards one of the groups, slip un-noticed back to that awful room—waste the investment he couldn’t afford on this absurd outfit?

Quickly, however, there was no choice. A small white haired man eased himself into the next chair, pulled it closer. Jas recognised him: a senior partner in one of the big practices, given a couple of lectures when they were in the second year.

Hello young fella… taking in the scene are you, anything attract your fancy… eh?

No chance here of anything attracting his fancy with the likelihood of reciprocation so low. But at least he was down to earth, not some pompous twit like so many of his kind.

Still enjoying the course… still hoping for fame and fortune at the Old Bailey?

The momentum of the words, the calmness of the eyes, the hands edging out to touch him, was beginning to envelop Jas. He would be a fool not to show some interest. Here was someone who, a while back, he might have wanted to be forty years from now—might still want to be, in the right circumstances—someone who had come half way across a crowded room to start a conversation. He needn’t have done that; and it wouldn’t be from a sense of pity, some need to search out the only person sitting alone. Quite the reverse: people like him focused their time, concentrated their energies on those likely to generate a return.

Yes, I’m enjoying it. Hard work… you know, but worth it, I hope… if I get the right degree.

Any plans for next year… not travelling the world, that sort of thing?

Jas remained unsure. Was it real attention, or him just being measured up against the others, providing some bench-mark?

No, I’m looking for a position… can’t afford to do anything else… really.

Oh, I thought young folk like you wanted to get around, see a few things, do something different before you settle down.

If only he knew. Some young folk, yes. But not with a load of debt, not without a willing family, not without a cheque for air tickets, not without any prospect of a job when he got back; no, he was different alright. The senior partner couldn’t appreciate that no matter how friendly he became.

No, I’m definitely looking for a job.

In the law?

Yes, that’s my degree.

Any success?

Not really… a couple of possibilities.

More difficult now, you know… so many first-rate graduates… so few really good opportunities.

There was no need to rub it in. Jas knew the position, and where he stood: no-one to open doors, no-one to whisper his name.

I hear you’re very good with computers.

Now who had told him that? Yes, it was true but he hadn’t talked about it, hadn’t offered his services that much. Perhaps he should have done more, might have resulted in fewer letters from the Banks. But he’d helped once or twice; installing new programmes, finding quicker ways through the software. It came to him naturally. No need to struggle his way through manuals.

Yet he remained unclear. Was this some sort of general query, borne out of politeness?

Yes, I know my way around.

So you enjoy all this IT stuff then?

Yes… it’s very interesting.

Think you could make a career of it?

I suppose so… but it wasn’t what I was planning.

Was it so obvious? Did he look that much like a nerd? He wanted a career in the law. Could this guy not appreciate that’s why he was going through the misery of being here. If he’d wanted to be a computer programmer, he’d have gone elsewhere. But, maybe, he did resemble a geek; maybe it was in his genes. His parents hadn’t helped. Who would call an ambitious baby Jason? That marked him as a loser not a lawyer. And now he was being edged towards something he would rather reject.

Look, I’ll cut to the chase, it was his least favourite introduction, its brusqueness, its need to shove relevancies out of the way, we at Simon and Simons need to strengthen our IT, not so much on client work, you know, advocacy, more on the… technical support side, the back-up… providing partners with advice… that sort of thing but from someone with a good legal brain… first rate background in the law.

And I would be that someone?

Well, you could be, he seemed surprised by the query, his intentions so obviously transparent, it’s an excellent career chance… major practice, not quite the position we might be offering one or two other entrants but I can assure you the prospects remain good… you know, with the world changing so rapidly.

Whatever the words, whatever the gestures, once again Jas felt excluded, barred from the opportunities he deserved.

5

The accumulator

8.56—only two more minutes to go; the need to act, to take that first public step, was moving inescapably closer. Soon there could be no release; however reckless, wherever it might lead, the adventure would be underway—and no reverse gear. Though, to be honest, Diane had never once contemplated turning back. So what drove her; why now? Was it greed? Yes possibly, but hadn’t its materialization been long delayed? Was it opportunity? Maybe, but why here, twenty miles from home; and not much relief if she ever did make it back there. Awake at one, two, morning after morning; the chance of more sleep slipping away, struggling in vain to find a comfortable position; stomach plunging every time she failed to block her thoughts, stop her mind wandering towards what might go wrong.

Perhaps Mr Browell, that wrong cheque, really was part of some elegant sting, designed to propel her into action. But then Mrs Carrington didn’t fit that pattern; that was too long ago. Yet a part-time job with Social Services suited Diane well; proved that she was not doing too badly. Not luxury; not even a lot to be proud about really: two young kids, Tom and Kate, both bright, lively; a modest house, warm, clean, comfortable; pleasant enough surroundings. Even the town was agreeable: cosy, central. Yet if she