fingerprints which I neglected to polish off, instead leaving them to set into the protective lacquer coating the metal, although it wasn’t the Romanian workman’s dirty fingerprints that were smeared all over that operation from the start.
The sound of another vehicle reached my ears. It was not the tinny rattle of Father’s old Polo, nor was it the return of the smart little van. A powerful engine was ascending the avenue. I turned to face the courtyard.
The vehicle seemed on the brink of appearing for a protracted period, but instead of rounding the corner it continued to grow louder. Louder and ever louder while I stood waiting to receive it. Finally, a motorbike appeared through the trees, the reflections of the leaves flickering upon its obsidian flank. The front fairing was bulky and clenched, the shoulders of a charging bull, but the tail was sleek and tapered, the sting of a wasp. The motorcycle made straight for me across the gravel as if this meeting were scheduled. I checked my watch. It was precisely three o’clock.
The biker dismounted, stiff and bowed in his creaking leathers, a warrior in armour, a medieval knight, one who had ridden for days to reach this place. He removed his gauntlet of a glove but not the helmet. The original Sir Tristram might have looked like this, I remember thinking. The original Sir Tristram, the real Sir Tristram, might have stood where this man stood now, regarding me as this man regarded me now, his black destrier panting behind him, ticking as its cylinders cooled. I wanted to see his face.
From the pannier, he produced a small device, the screen of which glowed elixir green. There was a stylus attached and I signed my name. The motorcyclist then offered an envelope and I looked at him, but his glossy black visor returned only my reflection in miniature, a crooked and contorted man. I did not like what I saw there. I accepted the envelope and thanked him.
He nodded by way of acknowledgement before mounting his motorcycle. I retreated inside and leaned against the door, anxious for him to be gone. The silence of the transaction had unnerved me. The silence of this transaction, and of subsequent transactions, because yes, it was the first of many. As you well know. That is why I have been summoned here. Isn’t it?
When the sound of the motorcycle had faded from the avenue, I brought the envelope to the dining table and sat down. A document of great consequence was contained inside – I see you have it in your possession. Exhibit A, or a portion of it. Yes, I can confirm that that is my signature.
That document possessed a distinct magnetic pull. It had its own field of gravity. The fact that it is presently being passed around the room in silence corroborates that it is no ordinary piece of paper. Exhibit A, you will find, is a remittance advice, a salary slip. The staggering figure of €100,000 is printed in the Payable box. And the staggering name in the Payee box is mine.
I stood up from the dining table.
I sat down again.
I stood up.
I sat down again.
I tried to concentrate.
It was very hard.
My eyes shuttled compulsively between those two electric points on the page: Tristram St Lawrence – €100,000.00 – Tristram St Lawrence – €100,000.00, until it felt like incipient epilepsy. At the bottom of the page, divided by a row of perforations, was a tear-off cheque drawn on a bank account in the Cayman Islands. The cheque portion, as you can see, was subsequently detached. By me.
The cheque was made out to Tristram St Lawrence and the amount was the same. Two new points of seismic activity for my eyes – they started their compulsive shuttling again. Then an irregularity leapt out. A key portion of the cheque was blank. The authorised signature was missing. The cheque was invalid.
Then I spotted my name again. Beneath the dotted line where the signature should be: Tristram St Lawrence, Director, Castle Holdings. I was the authorised signatory. I had
The sound of another vehicle reached my ears. It was not the tinny rattle of Father’s old Polo, nor was it the return of the smart little van. A powerful engine was ascending the avenue. I turned to face the courtyard.
The vehicle seemed on the brink of appearing for a protracted period, but instead of rounding the corner it continued to grow louder. Louder and ever louder while I stood waiting to receive it. Finally, a motorbike appeared through the trees, the reflections of the leaves flickering upon its obsidian flank. The front fairing was bulky and clenched, the shoulders of a charging bull, but the tail was sleek and tapered, the sting of a wasp. The motorcycle made straight for me across the gravel as if this meeting were scheduled. I checked my watch. It was precisely three o’clock.
The biker dismounted, stiff and bowed in his creaking leathers, a warrior in armour, a medieval knight, one who had ridden for days to reach this place. He removed his gauntlet of a glove but not the helmet. The original Sir Tristram might have looked like this, I remember thinking. The original Sir Tristram, the real Sir Tristram, might have stood where this man stood now, regarding me as this man regarded me now, his black destrier panting behind him, ticking as its cylinders cooled. I wanted to see his face.
From the pannier, he produced a small device, the screen of which glowed elixir green. There was a stylus attached and I signed my name. The motorcyclist then offered an envelope and I looked at him, but his glossy black visor returned only my reflection in miniature, a crooked and contorted man. I did not like what I saw there. I accepted the envelope and thanked him.
He nodded by way of acknowledgement before mounting his motorcycle. I retreated inside and leaned against the door, anxious for him to be gone. The silence of the transaction had unnerved me. The silence of this transaction, and of subsequent transactions, because yes, it was the first of many. As you well know. That is why I have been summoned here. Isn’t it?
When the sound of the motorcycle had faded from the avenue, I brought the envelope to the dining table and sat down. A document of great consequence was contained inside – I see you have it in your possession. Exhibit A, or a portion of it. Yes, I can confirm that that is my signature.
That document possessed a distinct magnetic pull. It had its own field of gravity. The fact that it is presently being passed around the room in silence corroborates that it is no ordinary piece of paper. Exhibit A, you will find, is a remittance advice, a salary slip. The staggering figure of €100,000 is printed in the Payable box. And the staggering name in the Payee box is mine.
I stood up from the dining table.
I sat down again.
I stood up.
I sat down again.
I tried to concentrate.
It was very hard.
My eyes shuttled compulsively between those two electric points on the page: Tristram St Lawrence – €100,000.00 – Tristram St Lawrence – €100,000.00, until it felt like incipient epilepsy. At the bottom of the page, divided by a row of perforations, was a tear-off cheque drawn on a bank account in the Cayman Islands. The cheque portion, as you can see, was subsequently detached. By me.
The cheque was made out to Tristram St Lawrence and the amount was the same. Two new points of seismic activity for my eyes – they started their compulsive shuttling again. Then an irregularity leapt out. A key portion of the cheque was blank. The authorised signature was missing. The cheque was invalid.
Then I spotted my name again. Beneath the dotted line where the signature should be: Tristram St Lawrence, Director, Castle Holdings. I was the authorised signatory. I had
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