him on.
Distaste features on Rodney’s face as he surveys the bar. An estate agent specialising in gentrified country properties, he is not used to such venues. Although Mark’s offer of an acquiescent scrubber, and the prospect of fucking her on top of Buckingham Palace, was initially tempting, that is now out of the question. When Rodney sees Mark approaching him, he signals to somebody unseen out in the main hall.
‘Tried to escape, dear boy, but I’m afraid the little woman has the genes of a limpet.’
Mark groans when he observes Susan Cole, Rodney’s wife, struggling to reach them through the crowd cramming the dance floor. Bobbing up and down in her red jacket, she could just as well be riding to hounds. Indeed, Susan is well known in equestrian circles. Word has it that over half the county’s gentry had ridden her by the time Rodney got his hands on her reins. Her father then happily gave her away, along with a healthy slice of his property portfolio. After pecking her on both cheeks, Mark leads them, like the host on a television talk show, to a table elsewhere in the bar.
* * *
Rodney stretches his long, sharply creased trouser legs under the table and drones on relentlessly, much as he was doing on the phone earlier that evening.
‘The London venue proved to be unsuitable. That’s when I thought of you. The PII are very grateful for the deal you did for them at the Grand Atlantic.’ He sips his wine. ‘Why the sudden interest in the London course?’
As he speaks, he glances nervously at his wife. Mark misses nothing: his eyes are as alert as a eagle’s.
‘I’m thinking that maybe I should enrol on that course. Dr Herman Temple comes highly recommended.’
Susan Cole chimes in: ‘The course will change your life forever, Mark.’ She speaks with the fervour of an evangelist: ‘It’s like shampooing your soul. Herman forcesyou to face your destiny and give up being a has-been or never-was. He will turn you into a leader. Frankly, if you’d done the course earlier, the trouble you’re in now with that Reg what’s-his-name, the supposed escapologist, would never have happened.’
Mark can’t hide his astonishment. ‘ You’ve done the course, Susan? Where?’
‘In London. Same time as Rodney. They run a parallel course for women.’
Mark turns to Rodney. ‘What happens on it?’
Rodney’s expression, unsettled by his wife’s intervention, now re-settles like cement. ‘Usual stuff: modules, lectures, logos, games, graphs and lots of bullets.’ He laughs nervously. ‘Bullets, as I’m sure you’re aware, are thoughts fired into your head. All very boring.’
‘That’s not true, Rodney.’ Susan is adamant: ‘Herman thinks the world is suffering from a famine of leaders, meaning people who can inspire… guide… rule. The PII is dedicated to finding those special persons, Mark.’
Rodney can’t bear this. ‘Susan, it’s simply not Mark’s style.’ His raised voice causes her to turn red. It’s very unusual for him to be this dominant.
Mark waits before applying the scalpel. ‘Did anything go wrong on your own course in London, Rodney?’
Rodney’s whole body goes rigid. ‘What do you mean, wrong?’
‘Did anyone freak out? Break down? Collapse? Die? Disappear? After all, it’s not every day one becomes a leader of men.’
‘Of course not.’
Rodney’s fist, the one holding his red wine, tightens into a white knot. ‘Why do you ask?’
Susan bites her lip.
‘Loosen up, Rodney,’ Mark continues. ‘Becoming a leader seems to have made you a bit tense. The reason I ask is that a source of mine tells me one of the students….’
The question is never completed.
A huge roar of disgust erupts in the auditorium, followed by a loud crash, shouting, the unmistakable noise of a brawl igniting. And, as if to cap that explosive sound mix, fire alarms start going off like the bells of hell.
Mark jumps up. ‘What the fuck’s happened?’ The blood has
Distaste features on Rodney’s face as he surveys the bar. An estate agent specialising in gentrified country properties, he is not used to such venues. Although Mark’s offer of an acquiescent scrubber, and the prospect of fucking her on top of Buckingham Palace, was initially tempting, that is now out of the question. When Rodney sees Mark approaching him, he signals to somebody unseen out in the main hall.
‘Tried to escape, dear boy, but I’m afraid the little woman has the genes of a limpet.’
Mark groans when he observes Susan Cole, Rodney’s wife, struggling to reach them through the crowd cramming the dance floor. Bobbing up and down in her red jacket, she could just as well be riding to hounds. Indeed, Susan is well known in equestrian circles. Word has it that over half the county’s gentry had ridden her by the time Rodney got his hands on her reins. Her father then happily gave her away, along with a healthy slice of his property portfolio. After pecking her on both cheeks, Mark leads them, like the host on a television talk show, to a table elsewhere in the bar.
* * *
Rodney stretches his long, sharply creased trouser legs under the table and drones on relentlessly, much as he was doing on the phone earlier that evening.
‘The London venue proved to be unsuitable. That’s when I thought of you. The PII are very grateful for the deal you did for them at the Grand Atlantic.’ He sips his wine. ‘Why the sudden interest in the London course?’
As he speaks, he glances nervously at his wife. Mark misses nothing: his eyes are as alert as a eagle’s.
‘I’m thinking that maybe I should enrol on that course. Dr Herman Temple comes highly recommended.’
Susan Cole chimes in: ‘The course will change your life forever, Mark.’ She speaks with the fervour of an evangelist: ‘It’s like shampooing your soul. Herman forcesyou to face your destiny and give up being a has-been or never-was. He will turn you into a leader. Frankly, if you’d done the course earlier, the trouble you’re in now with that Reg what’s-his-name, the supposed escapologist, would never have happened.’
Mark can’t hide his astonishment. ‘ You’ve done the course, Susan? Where?’
‘In London. Same time as Rodney. They run a parallel course for women.’
Mark turns to Rodney. ‘What happens on it?’
Rodney’s expression, unsettled by his wife’s intervention, now re-settles like cement. ‘Usual stuff: modules, lectures, logos, games, graphs and lots of bullets.’ He laughs nervously. ‘Bullets, as I’m sure you’re aware, are thoughts fired into your head. All very boring.’
‘That’s not true, Rodney.’ Susan is adamant: ‘Herman thinks the world is suffering from a famine of leaders, meaning people who can inspire… guide… rule. The PII is dedicated to finding those special persons, Mark.’
Rodney can’t bear this. ‘Susan, it’s simply not Mark’s style.’ His raised voice causes her to turn red. It’s very unusual for him to be this dominant.
Mark waits before applying the scalpel. ‘Did anything go wrong on your own course in London, Rodney?’
Rodney’s whole body goes rigid. ‘What do you mean, wrong?’
‘Did anyone freak out? Break down? Collapse? Die? Disappear? After all, it’s not every day one becomes a leader of men.’
‘Of course not.’
Rodney’s fist, the one holding his red wine, tightens into a white knot. ‘Why do you ask?’
Susan bites her lip.
‘Loosen up, Rodney,’ Mark continues. ‘Becoming a leader seems to have made you a bit tense. The reason I ask is that a source of mine tells me one of the students….’
The question is never completed.
A huge roar of disgust erupts in the auditorium, followed by a loud crash, shouting, the unmistakable noise of a brawl igniting. And, as if to cap that explosive sound mix, fire alarms start going off like the bells of hell.
Mark jumps up. ‘What the fuck’s happened?’ The blood has
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