Market Forces

‘All over the world, men and women still find causes worth killing and dying for. And who are we to argue with them? Have we lived in their circumstances? Have we felt what they feel? No. It is not our place to say if they are right or wrong. It is not for us to pass judgment or to interfere. At Shorn Conflict Investment, we are concerned with only two things. Will they win? And will it pay? As in all other spheres, Shorn will invest the capital it is entrusted with only where we are sure of a good return. We do not judge. We do not moralise. We do not waste. Instead, we assess, we invest. And we prosper. That is what it means to be a part of Shorn Conflict Investment.’

The lecture theatre erupted once more.

‘Nice speech,’ said Notley, pouring champagne into the ring of glasses with an adept arm. ‘And press coverage too, thanks to Philip here. Should profile us nicely for license review on the eighteenth.’

‘Glad you liked it.’ Hewitt lifted her filled glass away from the ring and looked round at the gathered partners. Excluding Philip Hamilton at her side, the five men and three women watching her accounted for fifty-seven per cent of Shorn Associates’ capital wealth. Each one of them could afford to acquire a private jet with less thought than she gave to shopping for shoes. Between the eight of them, there was no manufactured object on the planet that they could not own. It was wealth she could taste, just out of reach, like bacon frying in someone else’s kitchen. Wealth she wanted like sex. Wanted with a desire that ached in her gums and the pit of her stomach.

Notley finished pouring and raised his own glass. ‘Well, here’s to small wars everywhere. Long may they smoulder. And congratulations on a great quarterly result, Louise. Small wars.’

‘Small wars!’

‘Small wars.’ Hewitt echoed the toast and sipped at her drink. She surfed the polite conversation on autopilot and gradually the other partners began to drift back to the main body of the hotel bar, seeking out their own divisional acolytes. Hamilton caught her eye and she nodded almost imperceptibly. He slipped away with a murmured excuse, leaving her with Notley.

‘You know,’ she said quietly, ‘I could have done without Faulkner falling asleep in the front row. He’s too impressed with himself, Jack.’

‘Of course, you never were at his age.’

‘He’s only five years younger than me. And anyway, I’ve always had these.’ Hewitt set her glass aside on the mantelpiece and cupped her breasts as if offering them. ‘Nothing like a cleavage for reducing professional respect.’

Notley looked embarrassed and then away.

‘Oh, come on Louise. Don’t give me that tired old feminist rap agai—‘

‘Being a woman around here makes you tough, Jack.’ Hewitt let her hands fall again. ‘You know that’s true. I had to claw my way up every centimetre of the way to partnership. Compared to that, Faulkner got it handed to him on a plate. One big kill, catch the imagination of App and Prom and he’s made. Just look at him. He didn’t even shave this morning.’

She gestured across the bar to where Chris appeared to be deep in conversation with a group of men and women his own age. Even at this distance, the dusting of stubble on his face was visible. As they watched, he masked another yawn with his glass.

‘Give him a break, Louise.’ Notley took her shoulder and turned her away again. ‘If he can do for us what he did for Hammett McColl, I’ll forgive him not shaving occasionally.’

‘And if he can’t?’

Notley shrugged and tipped back his champagne. ‘Then he won’t last long, will he.’

He put down the glass, patted her on the shoulder again and walked off into the press of suited bodies. Hewitt stayed where she was until Hamilton appeared noiselessly at her side.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Don’t ask.’

On the other side of the room, Chris was in fact deep in nothing other than the classic party nightmare. He was becalmed at the edges of a group he had only passing acquaintance with, listening politely to conversations he had no interest in about people and places he did not know. His jaws ached from trying not to yawn and he wanted nothing more than to bow out quietly and go home.

Five days into the new job? I don’t think so, pal.

Out of boredom he went to the bar for a refill he didn’t want. As he was waiting, someone nudged him. He glanced round. Mike Bryant, grin on full beam, with a Liz Linshaw clone in tow and a tray full of drinks in his hands.

‘Hey, Chris.’ Bryant had to raise his voice above the crowd. ‘How did you like Hewitt? Talks up a storm, doesn’t she?’

Chris nodded noncommittally. ‘Yeah, very inspiring.’

‘You’re not kidding. Really gets you in the guts. First time I heard her speak, I thought I’d been personally selected to lead a holy fucking crusade for global investment. Simeon Sands for the finance sector.’ Mike did a passable burlesque of the satellite-syndicated demagogue. ‘Hallelujah, I believe! I have faith! Seriously, you look at the productivity graphs following each quarterly address she gives. Spikes through the roof, man.’

‘Right.’

‘Hey, you want to join us? We’re sitting back on the window flange there, see. Got some of the meanest analysts in creation gathered round those tables. Isn’t that right, Liz?’

The woman at Bryant’s side chuckled. Shooting a glance at her, Chris suddenly realised this was no clone.

‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Liz Linshaw, Chris Faulkner. Chris, you know Liz, I guess. Either that or you don’t have a TV.’

‘Ms Linshaw.’ Chris stuck out his hand.

Liz Linshaw laughed and leaned forward to kiss him on both cheeks. ‘Call me Liz,’ she said. ‘I recognise you now. From the App and Prom sheets this week. You’re the one that took down Edward Quain in ‘41 aren’t you.’

‘Uh, yeah.’

‘Before my time. I was just a stringer on a pirate satellite ‘cast in those days. Quite a kill. I don’t think there’s been one like it in the last eight years.’

‘Stop it, you’re making me feel old.’

‘Will you two stop flirting and grab some of these drinks,’ demanded Bryant. ‘I’ve got a dozen thirsty animals back there to water. What do you want in that, Chris?’

‘Uh, Laphroaig. No ice.’

They carried the glasses over to the tables between the three of them and unloaded. Bryant pushed and shoved at people, joking and cajoling and bullying until he had space for Chris and Liz to sit at his table. He raised his glass.

‘Small wars,’ he said. ‘Long may they smoulder.’

Approval, choral in volume.

Chris found himself squeezed in next to a tall, slim executive with steel-rimmed glasses and the air of a scientist peering down a microscope lens at everything. Chris felt a ripple of irritation. Affected eyeware had always been one of Carla’s pet hates. Fucking poverty chic, she invariably snarled when she saw the ads. Fake fucking human imperfection. It’ll be cool to ride around in a fucking wheelchair next. It’s fucking offensive. Chris tended to agree. Sure, you could run a datadown uplink projected onto the inside of the lenses, but that wasn’t it. Carla was right, it was zone chic. And why the fuck pretend you couldn’t afford corrective surgery when everything else you were wearing screamed the opposite.

‘Nick Makin,’ said the narrow face behind the lenses, extending a long arm sideways across his body. The grip belied his slender frame. ‘You ah Faulkner, ahn’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

Mike Bryant leaned across the table towards them. ‘Nick was our top commission analyst last year. Predicted that turnaround in Guatemala over the summer. Went against all the models for guerrilla conflict that we had. It was a real coup for Shorn.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Chris.

‘Ah.’ Makin waved it off. ‘That was last season. Can’t live off things like that indefinitely. It’s a whole new quarter. Time for fesh meat. Another new appoach. Speaking of which, Chris, ahn’t you the guy that let a pomotion challenger off the hook at Hammett McColl last year?’