The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy by Robert Power

take something away. Like this man now sitting in front of him. A tall slim man with strong features and greyish, unkempt hair. He has intelligent eyes and a soft mouth. There is a small scar at his temple and his skin is of that Celtic hue that fares badly in the sun. His voice has a hint of an accent, but the bank manager cannot quite locate it.
    â€˜So, Dr Malloy,’ he says, as an opening gambit, ‘it seems you are not managing your finances as well as we might hope of a man of your standing, of your education.’
    I look at this smug little man and wonder what makes him tick. I feel like a naughty schoolboy hauled before the headmaster.
    â€˜I want to find a way to resolve this,’ I say, refusing to rise to the bait.
    â€˜Excellent,’ says the bank manager, twirling his cufflink, sending the plane into a spin and nosedive. ‘I am a simple man,’ he continues, shuffling the papers in front of him. ‘I had to leave school at an early age to support my ailing mother. But my mathematics is good.’
    He studies the rows of figures in front of him.
    â€˜You have accumulated loans and an overdraft amounting to more than fifty-thousand pounds. Once this was drawn to my attention I felt it expedient to meet with you, and as you say, find a solution. As I am sure you understand, I cannot let the bank suffer such potential losses.’
    The picture of the World War II bomber looms over his pompous head. I wish it would roar its engines and shed its load where he sits. I am not going to tell him about the twelvethousand pounds I had to find for the Friary Centre, and I am certainly not going to mention the way my cocaine bill escalated over the months prior to that.
    â€˜I’ve had many expenses recently, largely to do with my estranged wife and daughter. As well as managing a property in Melbourne.’
    He looks at me unsympathetically, his wedding finger sporting a well-worn gold band.
    â€˜I have also been using some of my own money to further my scientific work,’ I say, meaning the daily gram of cocaine habit I had decided I needed to keep up with the pace.
    â€˜The bank’s money, Dr Malloy,’ he chastises, checking with his eyebrows that I get the point. ‘You have been using the bank’s money. We are not the Medicine Research Council,’ he adds smugly, getting it wrong, but trying to show his knowledge of the academic world.
    â€˜So what solution do you suggest?’ I ask.
    â€˜Now we have had our little chat, I suggest you once again meet with Mr Opal, my deputy, sometime next week and see what he can come up with.’
    â€˜Can’t next week,’ I say, playing for time. ‘I’m travelling with work.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜Oh, the Far East,’ I reply unconvincingly, gesturing to some place many miles distant from the bank.
    He frowns. Work once sent him to Headquarters in Swindon for human resources training. He picks up his phone.
    â€˜Hilda, Dr Malloy needs to make an appointment with Mr Opal. He’ll be with you in a second. Find him a slot.’
    He puts his hand over the phone and continues speaking directly to me.
    â€˜That’s all for now. Deal with my secretary outside. I have another appointment waiting.’
    The bank manager swivels in his perfectly oiled chair and thinks to himself if he had his way all academics would work for a year as a bank clerk, be treated like dirt, and if they dared to speak their mind the only trip they would receive would be to the dole queue.
    I hang my swimming things and wet towel over the radiator in the hallway. In the kitchen I am greeted by the flashing light of the answering machine. Three messages. I take an apple from the fruit bowl and bite into it as the tape rewinds. After a short pause, and some breathing and sighing, comes Lottie’s voice.
    â€˜Hi, Dad. I want to talk to you about my recital. The first competition is next week. Speak to you