First Horseman, The by Clem Chambers Page A

interest, even at the current derisory rate, piled up faster than he could sensibly give it away. There was no end to the prosperous middle-class people who begged him to donate to their slick and shiny causes, but aid at one level was too often a curse at another. How could he help without worsening the situation he was trying to relieve? You could send clothes to Africa, like the Americans, and end up destroying a country’s industry so that in the end it couldn’t even make its own. You could send shiploads of food and by accident bankrupt a nation’s farmers. Giving money away was like putting fertiliser on land: it so easily became poison in the rivers.
    Trading was much easier than philanthropy. The market was either going up or down. You made that call and you were either right or wrong. You made money or lost it. There was no one to tell you that you had lost when you had won, or that you had bought when you had sold. You took your positions and you came off richer or poorer. It was a black or white world where the rules of engagement were simple. If you were right enough, you made a fortune; if you were wrong you went broke. Unlike the real world, the markets were simple and fair.
    Yet here again things got complicated.
    As he could read the markets like no other, he was rich beyond his wildest dreams but he had been caught in a position where he could no longer participate in the activity that had made him. Not only had he more money than he wanted or needed, his reputation and the scale of the trading he needed to do to make it worthwhile were so huge that any dealing he did pushed the market out of equilibrium. Like a teenager trying to ride his old toddler tricycle, he risked breaking his cherished toy. Yet he kept up with the charts and read the financial news, as an inveterate gambler avidly scans the racing pages.
    There was a tap at the window and Jim looked up. ‘Get in,’ he said, waving to Kate and putting the phone on the floor by the base of his seat.
    Kate opened the door and slipped into the little capsule. ‘This is very cosy,’ she said.
    ‘Where to?’
    She gazed at the sleek chrome and leather of the cockpit. It was bling, but kind of exciting too. The philanthropist with the black eye must be some kind of Flash Harry venture capitalist. He’d be full of himself and pretty obnoxious, she was sure. She smiled at Jim. ‘McDonald’s.’
    Jim almost let out a sigh of relief. ‘Great idea,’ he said. ‘Show me the way.’
    She put a book she was carrying on her lap and buckled herself in. ‘It’s just at the bottom of the hill.’
    ‘The hill?’
    ‘Go left.’
    He caught sight of his face in the rear-view mirror as he pulled out of the parking space. His eye was no longer black and swollen, the bruised area was red and ringed in yellow and green. He wondered what the hell was going on inside his face.

17
    There was only so long Jim could make a Big Mac last. Time flew, and soon enough he was pulling up outside her digs to drop her off. She lived in a tall Edwardian house, which, Jim noted, had been broken up into several student flats.
    ‘I really enjoyed lunch,’ he said, smiling.
    ‘Me too,’ she said.
    He reached across her – she didn’t recoil – to open the glove compartment and take out a plastic box of calling cards. He prised it open. ‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said, handing her two cards. ‘Can I get your phone number?’
    ‘Of course,’ she said. She reached into her bag, rummaged around in it and finally took out a bright green plastic pen. She wrote on the back of one of the cards and gave it to him.
    He jammed it awkwardly into his trouser pocket. Their eyes caught. There was a frozen moment as if God had pressed the pause button. Kate looked amazing, he thought, with her long shiny reddish hair, her large, kind, friendly eyes and curved pink lips, which glistened invitingly. He held himself in check. If only there wasn’t someone else. Kate’s