Recoil

3

I was squeaking my way back along the hallway as Stefan came out of the large sitting room that led off it. I sometimes wondered if he had the whole place bugged.

‘So, how did you enjoy lunch?’ His accent was German, with a hint of Middle Eastern rug trader – quite a feat for a little Italian guy to pull off. His expression, as ever, was bored, with more than a hint of ‘You still here, you gold-digging, freeloading lump of English shit?’

I followed him back into the large, impersonal sitting room with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake and two enormous red sofas that faced each other across a wooden coffee-table big enough to sleep two. ‘We didn’t manage to meet up.’

Stefan spent most of his time in this room. Giuseppe spent most of his in the one adjacent, with his ear to the large dividing doors. I wondered if he was there right now.

‘No, I can imagine.’ He turned his back to study the drinks table. ‘I saw her when she left this morning.’

How could I respond to that without admitting we’d had a row? I couldn’t, and he knew it. Everything he ever said to me was designed to put me on the back foot. When we first met he even got my name wrong deliberately. Maybe that was how he’d made it to the top of his shitheap.

He looked back. ‘Where is she now?’

‘Still at work.’ I peered at my watch. Fucking hell, ten to seven. Where had she got to? It wasn’t as if Lugano got gridlocked in the rush-hour. And, anyway, she was on a moped.

He tutted. ‘This volunteering thing, it’s such a . . .’ He let it hang while he took the top off the whisky decanter, as if inviting me to say something he could later use in evidence.

‘Credit to her? Worthwhile thing to do?’

He poured the thirty-year-old single malt into a glass. ‘Waste of time. Finance and business, that’s how you effect change.’

The top went back on the decanter and the decanter went back on its tray. Lucky I didn’t like the shit; I wasn’t going to be offered any.

He picked up the glass and took an appreciative sniff. ‘I will show you what changes the world.’ He shook his head disdainfully. It was hard to tell which he was sneering at more, the thought of people doing something for others for free, or my Branston doorstep.

He removed a slim leather wallet from his jacket, and produced an all-black credit card. He flicked it up and down between his forefinger and thumb as if I was supposed to salivate or burst into applause. This card wasn’t the kind that plebs like me used. I had seen one or two before: they were for the über-rich. Thicker than the run-of-the-mill, they incorporated a swipe fingerprint identifier and a small LCD display. ‘This is what matters, Nick.’

Once he had swiped his finger over the identifier, the LCD displayed six numbers that tumbled like lines of matrix. They settled to show a six-figure code. A password generator at the bank would sync with Stefan’s card. It would change every day, maybe with every transaction.

‘I can cash five million dollars with this one piece of plastic. That is what the world is all about. The bottom line.’

He gave it an admiring glance before it went back into his pocket. No wonder he felt superior – if I tried to take out more than a couple of hundred dollars a day I got referred to my branch.

‘Still.’ He studied me over the top of his glass as it headed for his lips. ‘At least she’s using the seven years of expensive medical education I paid for.’ He watched my face carefully. He knew full well that this was the first I’d heard of it.

I couldn’t pick him up on it. How could I admit I didn’t know such fundamental stuff? My mobile vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and stared at the text.

wont make it home tonight – work – really sorry – ill email.

I waved the phone at Stefan. ‘She sends her love.’

His lip curled. ‘I see.’ He took a sip. ‘So, you think she will be back, do you? You really think you know her that well?’

‘She’s just working late.’

He scoffed. ‘Welcome to the wonderful world of Silke. You two clearly had a – what shall we call it? – an exchange of views this morning, and now she doesn’t come home. Well, fancy that. I’ve had this for thirty years. She’s gone again to God knows where.’ He turned to look out of the window. ‘I wanted her to do law here, then work with me in my companies, so she went and did medicine at Cambridge instead. She finished at Cambridge, and did she start practising? No, she went travelling.’ He faced me. ‘Something doesn’t go the way Silke wants, she runs away. That’s how she’s always been. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. So, excuse my scepticism, but if I were you I wouldn’t expect to see her any time soon.’

I waved the phone again. ‘She’s working.’

‘If you say so.’ He took a long sip. ‘Do say if she’s not coming back. Giuseppe will have you driven down the hill to a bus stop tonight. Or maybe the autostrada. You seem quite proficient in securing free rides.’ He looked me up and down. ‘I don’t imagine it will take you long to pack.’

Fuck him. He was the least of my problems right now.

I walked out and headed for her room, taking the stairs two at a time as I tapped her number into my mobile.