Trading Reality (34 page)

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, you and Richard, you’re very different. I mean I can tell you were brothers, but you are more, I don’t know, sympathetic. You care more about people.’

‘Richard cared about the people who worked for him, didn’t he?’ I said. ‘And he cared about me, I think.’

‘Yes, he did.’ Rachel smiled. ‘He talked a lot about you. But he was so coldly single-minded in everything he did. Sometimes he was more like an automaton.’

‘Hold on,’ I protested. ‘I’m a trader. I’m supposed to be cold and dispassionate about things.’

Rachel just laughed.

I smiled. ‘Oh well, I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I like it.’

I took her back to her flat in Glenrothes. She offered to cook some supper, and I accepted. As we walked up the stairs I was suddenly curious to see where this strange woman lived. She went straight to work in the small kitchen, and invited me to look around. I did just that.

The flat was small and simple: a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen. The living room was filled with books, which surprised me. I wondered when Rachel found time to read. I quickly scanned the shelves. The black backs of the Penguin Classics were much in evidence. There were also textbooks and journals on computing. And there was a whole bookcase full of poetry. Much of it I recognised – Yeats, Auden, Tennyson – but there were three shelves containing poets of whom I had never heard.

Next to the bookcase was the inevitable computer, perched on a tidy desk. The walls were dotted with prints of abstract paintings, a huge Jackson Pollock sending the wall above the small gas fire into confusion.

I went back into the kitchen. A bottle of Valpolicella was open on the table. Rachel gestured to it. ‘Try some,’ she said. I poured a glass, took a drink and felt the strong dark liquid warm the back of my throat. I wondered how Rachel managed to drink so much of the stuff without getting a headache.

We ate at the small table perched at one end of the living room. The pasta was good, the sauce surprisingly tasty. We talked long after supper as the summer twilight crept into the room. Then I asked her about the poetry I had seen on her bookshelves, all the names I didn’t recognise.

‘Oh them! They’re all Americans. I quite like them, actually.’ Rachel seemed embarrassed.

‘I would never have imagined you reading poetry,’ I said.

‘Oh, I don’t really. Not very much.’

I smiled at her. ‘Of course you do, or you wouldn’t have all those books. Don’t be shy about it.’

Rachel looked at me, interested. ‘Do you read poetry?’ she asked.

I wanted to say yes, but that would have been a lie. ‘I’d like to. It just doesn’t mean anything to me. When I read it, I just see the words. For some reason, my brain doesn’t separate the sounds.’

‘Then you should read it aloud,’ said Rachel. ‘Poetry should be listened to, not read.’

‘So read some,’ I said.

‘Oh no.’

‘Go on. I’ll listen. I’d like to listen.’

‘OK,’ she smiled nervously. She went over to the bookcase and pulled out a couple of volumes. She curled up on the floor and began to read. I sat in an armchair and listened and watched.

The poems were by someone called James Wright. They were about simple things: a man lying in a hammock, two Indian ponies. Rachel read them beautifully. Her low, husky voice with its gentle Scottish accent brought out the atmosphere of each poem. She had clearly read them all many times for her careful delivery picked up nuances that a casual reader would have missed.

When she had finished with Wright she picked out Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I ceased following the words, but was lulled by Rachel’s voice. Her face glowed a soft golden brown colour in the yellow light from the standard lamp beside the bookcase. Her dark eyes glistened as they darted back and forth across the page. Her slim hands occasionally brushed aside the strands of dark brown hair as they drifted in front of her face.

I watched her, bewitched.

The wind bit into my face as I looked across at the fishing village slowly waking up. It was grey and cold. A stiff breeze whipped up the waves against the harbour wall. I shivered and stuffed my hands deep into my jacket pockets. My brain was tired and confused.

I had returned to Kirkhaven after midnight, and had slept fitfully. Waves of conflicting feelings washed over me as I lay in bed until, at half past five, I could stand it no longer. I got up, pulled on some clothes, and walked down past the burned-out boathouse to the small patch of sand by the sea.

I had spent a long day with Rachel the day before, and felt I had got to know her much better. She fascinated me. To spend time with her was to communicate with another human being in a way that was completely new to me. And I was beginning to realise that, physically, she was beautiful. It was a beauty that was carefully hidden behind an array of defences: the baggy jerseys, the blank stare at meetings, the hours spent behind computer screens. But watching her the night before, I had seen a beautiful woman with a graceful body, a torrent of dark hair, clear golden skin, a wide smile, and those deep brown eyes that could express emotion, understanding and intelligence all at the same time.

I could feel myself slipping towards something. I didn’t know what, but it both excited and scared me.

I trudged along the shore, keeping just out of reach of the impatient waves spreading over the new yellow sand of early morning. What was I doing? What was I thinking of? Rachel might fascinate and intrigue me, but she was a strange woman. Part of the unreal world I had entered over the past month, a world bathed in this grey northern light, a world of virtual reality machines, of murder, of a company that could either be worth hundreds of millions or nothing. I had been under a lot of pressure recently. I was in danger of losing my sense of perspective.

I struggled to get a grip, to remember who I was. A successful young trader at Harrison Brothers with excellent prospects. I had a beautiful girlfriend. I had worked hard over the last year to achieve a stable, happy relationship for both of us. Sure, the last few weeks had been difficult, but that was mostly my fault for opening up the whole can of worms that was FairSystems. I trusted Karen completely, and I knew she trusted me. I couldn’t betray that trust and still keep my self-respect. It would be a stupid, foolish thing to do.

I would have to make sure Rachel realised there was nothing between us, nor was there likely to be.

I waited till ten to call Karen. When she answered the phone her voice, full of sleep, sounded very sexy.

‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ I said. ‘I thought you’d be up by now.’ I could quite happily stay in bed till eleven on a Sunday morning, but Karen was usually up at eight.

‘Oh, Mark, morning. No, I just thought I’d have a lie-in this morning.’ Her voice sounded tense.

‘What did you do last night?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said, a hint of anger creeping into her voice. ‘I stayed here and watched TV. Why do you ask? Are you checking up on me?’

Whew, she was tetchy this morning. I backed off. I had just wanted to ring for a chat, but things had not started out well. ‘No, I was just curious. Just making conversation.’

‘Well, I watched TV. What did you do?’

Oh God. I had asked for that. I meant to tell her the truth. After all, I had nothing to hide, and that was the whole point of ringing her. But somehow I didn’t.

‘I just read some poetry.’

‘Huh? You read poetry? Are you OK, Mark?’

‘I read poetry sometimes,’ I said defiantly.

‘Oh yeah? Like when.’

It was true that in the year since I had been with Karen I hadn’t read any.

‘There’s something in the air here that made me want to do it.’

‘Very romantic,’ said Karen flatly.

She was silent. I had called. I should say something.

‘Did you find anything out about Hartman?’ I asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

‘Is that what you called me about? You ring me at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning to ask about that crook Hartman? Well, Mark, I didn’t find out anything about him because I didn’t ask anyone. Nor am I going to. You and Richard got yourselves all worked up over nothing. And I’m not going to threaten my reputation in the market over imagined conspiracies.’

This conversation was going nowhere fast. I had called Karen to tell her, and myself, how important she was to me, and I had ended up in the middle of a row.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s just leave it.’

‘Fine.’

‘I’ll call you later.’

‘Good. Bye.’

The phone clicked in my ear.

Although it was Sunday, I went into work. There was a lot to do, as there always was. I should think half of the workforce was there.

There was a knock on my door. It was Rachel.

‘Hi,’ she said, as she entered. She wore a broad smile, and it may have been my imagination, but her face seemed to glow. She looked delectable.

‘Oh, hello Rachel.’ I smiled weakly, and tried to stop my heart pounding.

She sensed there was something wrong. Her smile faded. ‘I, um, wanted to see if you had any ideas about what we should do with Jenson.’

I picked up my pen. ‘There’s not very much we can do right now, is there? Perhaps we can discuss it later.’

Her smile was completely gone now. ‘OK,’ she said as she turned to leave.

‘Rachel?’

‘Yes?’

‘About last night.’

‘What about last night?’ she asked, avoiding my eyes as she lit a cigarette.

I wasn’t sure how to go about this. I had to make certain that she realised I didn’t want to become involved with her. I felt I needed to make a definitive statement, a restraint on myself as much as on her.

I cast around for some words. ‘I, er, spoke to Karen this morning.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Rachel, blowing smoke up to the ceiling in that dismissive way I recognised.

‘Yes.’ Now what? Rachel’s eyes finally met mine. Cold and aloof, she stood there, impassive, waiting. ‘Yes. I hope she’ll come up to Kirkhaven soon. I’d like to introduce you.’

‘That would be nice.’

‘Yes. Dinner, or something?’

‘I like dinner.’

‘Good. OK,’ 1 said, and picked up a sheet of paper in front of me, and pretended to read it. It was instructions for the photocopier.

Rachel looked down and saw the title. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ she said without a hint of irony, and walked out.

Ten minutes later I walked past her office. She had the blinds drawn.

I had a few pints that night. A few more than I had intended. But it was warm in the Inch Tavern, the company was friendly, and became friendlier as the evening progressed. I enjoyed losing myself in the affairs of Kirkhaven, and what was on the telly.

It was late when I left. The night air was crisp against my face. I stood still and craned my neck upwards. I could see stars. Lots of them. They were lovely.

Kirkhaven was a lovely village. A friendly place. I could feel at home here, I thought, as I slowly made my way downhill from the pub. It was nice to go out for a proper drink. I was taking life too seriously these days.

I paused at the little stone bridge over the tumbling Inch. And looked down. You could see flecks of water reflecting white in the moonlight. The eddies danced and changed according to some irregular pattern. My father would have had fun with that. The chaotic motion of the Inch Burn. I chuckled at the thought.

I stood up and crossed the bridge. I had only walked five yards, when I heard a low moan. I stopped and looked around. I couldn’t see anyone on the road behind me.

There it was again.

It was coming from the bushes down by the stream. It was dark down there. Perhaps someone had fallen off the bridge.

I scrambled down the side of the little gully until I was standing on a stone, peering into the gloom. I waited hoping that my eyes would adjust to the darkness.

I heard a rustle behind me, and felt a crashing pain on the back of my skull. Then everything went black.

I awoke to feel the cold stone under my cheek. My head hurt like hell. I tried to get up, but it was difficult. I lay back for a couple of minutes to regain my strength. When I did stand up, I swayed uncontrollably. The beer swilled in my stomach and I was sick. I stood still, breathing deeply, and then pulled myself up the bank of the stream. I staggered home, and collapsed on to my bed.

I ignored the alarm and slept through till eleven. When eventually I did wake up, my head hurt like hell. I rang Sergeant Cochrane, who came round straight away. I told him all that I could remember, which was precious little.

‘We’ll make some inquiries to see if anyone saw any strangers around the time you were attacked,’ he said. ‘Especially anyone who looked like Doogie Fisher. And I’ll inform Inspector Kerr.’

I nodded.

‘But, laddie, if I were you, I’d be very careful. I don’t know if whoever it was meant to do permanent damage, but they could easily have done. And they may try again.’

He looked round at the windows in the kitchen. ‘You should get some locks fitted. This place would be a doddle to break into. In the meantime, I’ll give you a lift to the surgery.’

The doctor chastised me for not calling out an ambulance immediately after the attack, and told me to stay in a darkened room for the rest of the day. He would check up on me later that evening.

I did as I was told. The combination of the knock on the head and the hangover was extremely painful. I slept as much as I could.

I felt much better the next day, although my brain was fuzzy round the edges. I went into the factory first thing in the morning. An appreciable pile had built up on my desk during that one day away.

I switched on the computer and scanned the e-mails. One instantly caught my eye. The title was ‘Warning’. It was dated Monday, the day before.