Trading Reality (26 page)

Sorenson saw me coming and approached me. I introduced him to Karen.

‘We’ve met,’ he said. ‘Last time was at a Harrison Brothers’ conference at Boca Raton. Do you remember?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Karen. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘And you,’ he said smiling at her. ‘Well, I’ll drop in to FairSystms this afternoon, Mark, if you’ll be around?’

‘I will be,’ I said. ‘See you then.’ He walked off.

‘Perhaps I’ll join him,’ Karen said, tactfully. ‘Leave you to it.’

I nodded, and turned to my father.

‘Hello, Dad.’ I waited for a word, a reproach, some stiff small talk.

Instead, his chin shook, and he put his head in his hands, sobbing deeply. The woman next to him looked at me quickly with a mixture of confusion and embarrassment, detached herself from my father’s arm, and drifted off towards Sorenson and Karen. We stood there for several minutes while the other mourners departed.

I put my arm round him. Finally, he straightened up and said, ‘I loved him. I loved both of you.’

I felt a turmoil of emotions, sorrow for Richard’s death, sympathy for my father’s grief, guilt that I had ignored him, memories of that other funeral eight years before, but still, underlying it all, anger.

‘Come back to Richard’s house for some tea,’ I said.

Dad looked round and caught the eye of his wife ten yards away, watching him. She nodded and smiled weakly. She pointed to the gate of the churchyard. ‘OK,’ he said, and walked back to the house.

The kitchen was warm and cosy. I put the kettle on. Dad looked frail and worn, sitting on the chair at the kitchen table. The air of authority about him that I remembered had mostly disappeared. We had so much to say to each other, and so little desire to say it.

‘I came up to see Richard a couple of times last year,’ my father said. I raised an eyebrow. I hadn’t known that. ‘There’s some interesting birdlife in these parts. It’s an important landfall for migrants, and occasionally you can get some very rare sightings. We even saw a bee-eater once by the cliffs to the east of here.’ He sighed. ‘He loved this place. He told me it gave him a chance to think. He was a great thinker,’ my father chuckled. No mean intellect himself, he had always said that Richard had the better brain.

My father continued. ‘When he first left Edinburgh to set up FairSystems, I was disappointed. Richard could have been a great scientist. But when I talked to him about the company last year, I began to appreciate why he’d done it, and even to admire him for it.’

I listened in silence.

‘In science, big breakthroughs are made and problems are solved through a lengthy process of publication in scientific journals and peer review.’ Dad’s words had become precise again, professorial. ‘The problem Richard was addressing couldn’t be solved in that manner. He wanted to be the man responsible for introducing virtual reality into the very fabric of society. That’s not just a problem of electronics and software design. It’s a problem of management, of marketing, of product development, of strategy, and of finance. And that makes it harder. Richard thought he was nearly there. One more year . . .’

I knew Richard had done great things technically. But I had a financial training, and the thing about finance is that everything can be quantified. The famous bottom line. Measured financially, I was not at all sure how successful Richard’s company would prove to be.

My father turned to me. ‘We have to see it through, Mark, for his sake.’

I stood up and went over to the window. A fishing boat was manœuvring its way into the harbour. ‘It would make more sense to sell,’ I said.

‘More financial sense perhaps. But Richard didn’t want to sell out.’

‘I know. But believe me, FairSystems is only just hanging on. We might not have a choice.’

‘Well, do what you can.’

‘I will, Dad.’

‘Thank you.’ My father sipped his tea. Neither of us said anything.

He cleared his throat. ‘About your mother . . .’

I held up my hand. ‘No Dad. Not now. Maybe not even some other time.’

He gave me a quick nervous smile. He pushed his tea to one side, and stood up to leave.

‘Are you going straight back down to Oxford?’ I asked.

‘We’re having lunch with Walter. Then we’re catching the plane back to Heathrow this afternoon.’

I could have invited him to stay, but I really didn’t want to. And his wife was waiting outside. I was relieved that I had avoided her.

He stood by the door. ‘I’m glad we talked today.’

‘So am I.’

Did I mean it? I didn’t know.

He left. A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door. It was Karen. She looked sombre, but her eyes were dry.

‘How are you doing?’ she asked, putting her arms round me.

‘I feel like shit.’

‘How was your father?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s obviously upset about Richard. He’s also worried about selling FairSystems.’ I stared at the floor for a minute or so. Karen kept quiet, her arms still round my neck.

‘It was strange seeing him. It felt good at first. But then I think about what he did to my mother . . .’ I just managed to control the emotion that was churning in my chest. I put my hand on her waist. ‘I feel so alone, Karen. With Richard gone, my mother dead, and my father . . . impossible to talk to.’

‘You could try to talk to him.’

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I can’t do that. That would be letting my mother down.’

Karen didn’t say anything, but just put her head on my shoulder.

‘Do you really have to go back this afternoon?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry. But it was hard enough to get today off. I’ve definitely got to be at work first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘OK,’ I said, disappointed.

Sorenson arrived at my office at about half past three. Karen had eaten some soup with me for lunch, and I had dropped her off at the airport before driving back to Glenrothes. The emotional strain of the morning was still with me.

Sorenson was strong, and full of breezy good humour. Richard’s funeral was behind him. ‘How are things going here?’

‘We’re struggling on,’ I said. ‘I think I’m getting to grips with what’s going on pretty well. But I had a bit of a run-in with David yesterday.’

‘Tell me.’

I told him about the disastrous meeting with Onada.

‘That sounds strange,’ said Sorenson. ‘You were right to stop the deal going ahead, but it’s a shame it had to be done in front of the Japanese. I can’t think why Baker would want to give away the code.’

‘He thinks it’s a good trade. He says we could make two million from the deal. But I checked the files. Richard specifically threw out that clause in March.’

‘Did he?’ said Sorenson, thoughtfully. ‘How has Baker been performing otherwise?’

‘I’d have to say he’s done very well,’ I said. ‘There’s been very little fallout from Richard’s death. He’s put together a great customer list very professionally. He works hard and gets results.’

‘Well, do your best to patch things up. We can’t afford to lose him right now.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Have the police got anywhere with Richard’s murder?’

‘No. Though they’ve asked plenty of questions.’

‘I know,’ said Sorenson. ‘They even got the FBI in Chicago to check that I really was speaking there that day. And they’ve asked my stockbroker for my trading records. Of course they didn’t find anything.’ He got up to leave. ‘You’re doing well. Keep it up. And call me or send me an e-mail if you need any help.’

I pulled out a grey suit the next morning, one with a thin blue stripe. I hesitated, and held it up to the light. After a moment, I stuffed it back in the wardrobe, and put on some cotton trousers and a thick casual shirt instead. I just didn’t want to look like David Baker.

I didn’t leave home until eight thirty, and didn’t get to Glenrothes until just after nine. I enjoyed the drive through the rolling East Fife countryside. How many times had Richard driven along this road in the morning? What radio station did he listen to on the way? Did he wonder, as I did, about the people who lived in the large gloomy house a couple of miles outside St Monans? Or did he just concentrate on FairSystems and its problems?

The funeral had made me feel a little better about him. It had acted as a focal point for my grief, and the grief of all those there. If I wanted to think about him, I now had somewhere to go. Just that knowledge blunted the pain.

But, as I drove under the Victorian railway viaduct at Markinch, which acted as a sort of ancient industrial gate for the town of Glenrothes, the anger was still there.

There was a crowd of people in the factory car park. They were pacing round in a tight circle, carrying placards that I couldn’t quite read. A dog darted in and out between their legs. A television crew was watching them, as was a group of four or five journalists clutching notebooks.

I didn’t venture into the car park, but drove the BMW up on to the kerb fifty yards or so from the factory. I considered trying to sneak round the back, but I was pretty sure they would see me, so I chose the bold approach. As I neared the protesters, I could read their placards. ‘V
IRTUAL REALITY – VIRTUAL HELL
’, ‘VIRTUAL REALITY – THE HEROIN OF THE PEOPLE’, ‘JUST SAY NO’, ‘SAVE OUR KIDS’ MINDS’. As I walked nearer, I heard them chatting away to each other. It looked more like a nice day out than a protest.

I was within twenty yards of the doors when they spotted me. I heard cries of, ‘That’s Mark Fairfax!’, ‘There he is!’, ‘Stop him!’

I quickened my step to just short of a run. Two men sprinted over to me, and placed themselves squarely between me and the entrance. One was quite slight but the other was a big bastard. I hesitated. I could push past, and maybe start a fight. I could call the police. Or I could stay and talk. I was very aware of the TV crew’s film rolling, and I could hear the snap of camera shutters.

‘Fairfax! Just a moment Fairfax!’ I recognised Doogie’s voice, clear above the cries of his fellow protesters. I decided to push past the two men. They jostled a moment but let me through.

Then, suddenly, Doogie’s face was inches from mine. It was a hard face, an angry face. A dangerous face. He was tense, the veins in his neck bulged. The front of his skull beneath his hairline was sprinkled with little droplets of sweat. I could smell him, his sweat, his anger.

‘Listen to what I have to say, Fairfax,’ he said in a calm, threatening voice, low, but clear enough for the journalists to hear.

My first instinct was to hit him. He was so close, invading the square yard in front of me that was my space. Then I thought of the TV cameras, shoved my hands deep in my trouser pockets, and concentrated on controlling my anger.

Suddenly, the protesters were silent. Doogie paused to let the press get closer. ‘Listen to me, Mark Fairfax,’ he said again, but this time in a loud stage hiss. ‘I have here a letter that you and your brother have both seen. Neither of you did anything about it.’

He pulled out some papers. My heart sank. I recognised the heading on the notepaper.

He held the letter up in the air. ‘This letter is from the lawyer of the family of a young man. A young man who was so disoriented after using a FairSystems virtual reality machine that he crashed into a tree on his motorcycle and died.’

I could hear the scratch of pencil on notebook from the pressmen behind me. ‘There is more,’ Doogie said. ‘Richard Fairfax went to great lengths to persuade the boy’s family to keep quiet about the accident. They are scared. So scared that they don’t want their identity to be made public. But virtual reality kills people! You can’t cover it up for ever!’ He waved the letter triumphantly. There was a rustle of papers as the protesters handed out press releases to the journalists. ‘What have you to say about that?’

I took a deep breath, and counted to three. ‘Nothing,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘Now, if you’ve finished, can I get to work, please?’

A voice piped up from behind me. ‘Are you aware of this accident?’ I looked to see who it was. He was a tall thin man in his twenties, pencil poised over the classic reporter’s notebook. Doogie stayed quiet to let him speak. It must have been prearranged, I thought. All the more reason to be careful.

‘No comment.’

‘But you must have a comment, this is a question of public safety.’

‘I said, no comment.’

‘Can we see this letter?’ It was a different reporter this time, a woman with an English accent.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t release it,’ said Doogie. ‘I promised the family I would protect their identity.’

‘Do you deny that this boy was killed after using a FairSystems virtual reality machine?’ The thin journalist again.

I could see this was going to get difficult. He wasn’t going to give up. His high-pitched accusing questions were getting on my nerves. The press of people round me, and especially the television cameras a few feet from my face, made me claustrophobic. I decided to cut and run.

I pushed through the crowd. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, I must get to work now.’

‘Mr Fairfax! Mr Fairfax!’ the journalist shouted after me.

I was out in the clear, when a hand pulled at my arm. I spun round. It was Doogie. He was smiling. ‘Take my advice. Go home,’ he whispered.

I turned and walked into the factory.

‘When I say it can’t be done in two weeks, it can’t be done in two weeks!’ Keith was pacing round the table waving his arms. David, Rachel, Andy and he were all crammed into my office. The meeting was heating up.

‘We promised the market we would release FairRender on the first of June,’ said David icily. ‘It’s the seventeenth of May today. That means you’ve got less than two weeks.’

‘But I’m telling you, man, this is non-trivial. I mean we’re talking about two months, not two weeks.’