And Thereby Hangs a Tale

13. Better the Devil You Know

The chairman climbed out of the back of his car and strode into the bank.

‘Good morning, Chairman,’ said Rod, the young man standing behind the reception desk.

The chairman walked straight past without acknowledging him and headed towards a lift that had just opened. A group of people who’d been expecting to take it stood aside. None of them would have considered sharing a lift with the chairman, not if they wanted to keep their jobs.

The lift whisked him up to the top floor and he marched into his office. Four separate piles of market reports, telephone messages, press clippings and emails had been placed neatly on his desk by his secretary, but today they could wait. He checked his diary, although he knew he didn’t have any appointments before his check-up with the company’s doctor at twelve o’clock.

He walked across to the window and looked out over the City. The Bank of England, the Guildhall, the Tower, Lloyd’s of London and St Paul’s dominated the skyline. But his bank, the bank he’d built up to such prominence over the past thirty years, looked down on all of them, and now they wanted to take it away from him.

There had been rumours circulating in the City for some time. Not everyone approved of his methods, or some of the tactics he resorted to just before closing a deal. ‘Brings the very reputation of the City into question,’ one of his directors had dared to suggest at a recent board meeting. The chairman had made sure the man was replaced a few weeks later, but his departure had caused even more unease not only amongst the rest of the board but also as far as the inner reaches of Threadneedle Street.

Perhaps he’d bent the rules a little over the years, possibly a few people had suffered on the way, but the bank had thrived and those who’d remained loyal to him had benefited, while he had built one of the largest personal fortunes in the City.

The chairman was well aware that some of his colleagues hoped he would retire on his sixtieth birthday, but they didn’t have the guts to put the knife in and hasten his departure. At least, not until a story appeared in one of the gossip columns hinting that he’d been seen paying regular visits to a clinic in Harley Street. They still didn’t make a move until the same story appeared on the front page of the Financial Times.

When the chairman was asked at the next board meeting to confirm or deny the reports, he procrastinated, but one of his colleagues, someone he should have got rid of years ago, called his bluff and insisted on an independent medical report so that the rumours could be scotched. The chairman called for a vote and didn’t get the result he’d anticipated. The board decided by eleven votes to nine that the company’s doctor, not the chairman’s personal physician, should carry out a full medical examination and make his findings known to the board. The chairman knew it would be pointless to protest. It was exactly the same procedure he insisted on for all his staff when they had their annual check-ups. In fact, over the years, he’d found it a convenient way to rid himself of any incompetent or overzealous executives who’d dared to question his judgement. Now they intended to use the same tactic to get rid of him.

The company’s doctor was not a man who could be bought, so the board would find out the truth. He had cancer, and although his personal physician said he could live for another two years, possibly three, he knew that once the medical report was made public, the bank’s shares would collapse, with no hope of recovering until he’d resigned and a new chairman had been appointed in his place.

He’d known for some time that he was dying, but he’d always beaten the odds in the past, often at the last moment, and he believed he could do it once again. He’d have given anything, anything for a second chance...

‘Anything?’ said a voice from behind him.

The chairman continued to stare out of the window, as no one was allowed to enter his office without an appointment, even the deputy chairman. Then he heard the voice again. ‘Anything?’ it repeated.

He swung round to see a man dressed in a smartly tailored dark suit, white silk shirt and thin black tie.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘My name is Mr De Ath,’ the man said, ‘and I represent a lower authority.’

‘How did you get into my office?’

‘Your secretary can’t see or hear me.’

‘Get out, before I call security,’ said the chairman, pressing a button under his desk several times.

A moment later the door opened and his secretary came rushing in. ‘You called, Chairman?’ she said, a notepad open in her hand, a pen poised.

‘I want to know how this man got into my office without an appointment,’ he said, pointing at the intruder.

‘You don’t have any appointments this morning, Chairman,’ said his secretary, looking uncertainly around the room, ‘other than with the company doctor at twelve o’clock.’

‘As I told you,’ said Mr De Ath, ‘she can’t see or hear me. I can only be seen by those approaching death.’

The chairman looked at his secretary and said sharply, ‘I don’t want to be disturbed again unless I call.’

‘Of course, Chairman,’ she said and quickly left the room.

‘Now that we’ve established my credentials,’ said Mr De Ath, ‘allow me to ask you again. When you said you’d do anything to be given a second chance, did you mean anything?’

‘Even if I did say it, we both know that’s impossible.’

‘For me, anything is possible. After all, that’s how I knew what you were thinking at the time, and at this very moment I know you’re asking yourself, “Is he for real? And if he is, have I found a way out?”’

‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s my job. I visit those who’ll do anything to be given a second chance. In Hell, we take the long view.’

‘So what’s the deal?’ asked the chairman, folding his arms and looking at Mr De Ath defiantly.

‘I have the authority to allow you to change places with anyone you choose. For example, the young man working on the front desk in reception. Even though you’re scarcely aware of his existence and probably don’t even know his name.’

‘And what does he get, if I agree to change places with him?’ asked the chairman.

‘He becomes you.’

‘That’s not a very good deal for him.’

‘You’ve closed many deals like that in the past and it’s never concerned you before. But if it will ease what passes for your conscience, when he dies, he will go up,’ said De Ath, pointing towards the ceiling. ‘Whereas if you agree to my terms, you will eventually be coming down, to join me.’

‘But he’s just a clerk on the front desk.’

‘Just as you were forty years ago, although you rarely admit as much to anyone nowadays.’

‘But he doesn’t have my brain—’

‘Or your character.’

‘And I know nothing about his life, or his background,’ said the chairman.

‘Once the change has taken place, he’ll be supplied with your memory, and you with his.’

‘But will I keep my brain, or be saddled with his?’

‘You’ll still have your own brain, and he’ll keep his.’

‘And when he dies, he goes to Heaven.’

‘And when you die, you’ll join me in Hell. That is, if you sign the contract.’

Mr De Ath took the chairman by the elbow and led him across to the window, where they looked down on the City of London. ‘If you sign up with me, all this could be yours.’

‘Where do I sign?’ asked the chairman, taking the top off his pen.

‘Before you even consider signing,’ said Mr De Ath, ‘my inferiors have insisted that because of your past record when it comes to honouring the words “legal and binding”, I’m obliged to point out all the finer points should you decide to accept our terms. It’s part of the lower authority’s new regulations to make sure you can’t escape the final judgement.’ The chairman put his pen down. ‘Under the terms of this agreement, you will exchange your life for the clerk at the reception desk. When he dies, he’ll go to Heaven. When you die, you’ll join me in Hell.’

‘You’ve already explained all that,’ said the chairman.

‘Yes, but I have to warn you that there are no break clauses. You don’t even get a period in Purgatory with a chance to redeem yourself. There are no buy-back options, no due diligence to enable you to get off the hook at the last moment, as you’ve done so often in the past. You must understand that if you sign the contract, it’s for eternity.’

‘But if I sign, I get the boy’s life, and he gets mine?’

‘Yes, but my inferiors have also decreed that before you put pen to paper, I must honestly answer any questions you might wish to put to me.’

‘What’s the boy’s name?’ asked the chairman.

‘Rod.’

‘And how old is he?’

‘Twenty-five next March.’

‘Then I only have one more question. What’s his life expectancy?’

‘He’s just been put through one of those rigorous medical examinations all your staff are required to undertake, and he came out with a triple A rating. He plays football for his local club, goes to the gym twice a week and plans to run the London Marathon for charity next April. He doesn’t smoke, and drinks only in moderation. He’s what life assurance companies call an actuary’s dream.’

‘It’s a no-brainer,’ said the chairman. ‘Where do I sign?’

Mr De Ath produced several sheets of thick parchment. He turned them over until he had reached the last page of the contract, where his name was written in what looked a lot like blood. The chairman didn’t bother to read the small print — he usually left that to his team of lawyers and in-house advisors, none of whom was available on this occasion.

He signed the document with a flourish and handed the pen to Mr De Ath, who topped and tailed it on behalf of a lower authority.

‘What happens now?’ asked the chairman.

‘You can get dressed,’ said the doctor.

The chairman put on his shirt as the doctor examined the X-rays. ‘For the moment the cancer seems to be in remission,’ he said. ‘So, with a bit of luck, you could live for another five, even ten years.’

‘That’s the best news I’ve heard in months,’ said the chairman. ‘When do you think you’ll need to see me again?’

‘I think it would be wise for you to continue with your usual six-monthly check-ups, if for no other reason than to keep your colleagues happy. I’ll write up my report and have it biked over to your office later today, and I shall make it clear that I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t continue as chairman for a couple more years.’

‘Thank you, Doctor, that’s a great relief.’

‘Mind you, I do think a holiday might be in order,’ said the doctor as he accompanied his patient to the door.

‘I certainly can’t remember when I last had one,’ said the chairman, ‘so I may well take your advice.’ He shook the doctor warmly by the hand. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

Later that afternoon a large brown box was delivered to the surgery.

‘What’s this?’ the doctor asked his assistant.

‘A gift from the chairman.’

‘Two surprises in one day,’ said the doctor, examining the label on the box. ‘A dozen bottles of a 1994 Côtes du Rhône. How very generous of him.’ He didn’t add until his assistant had closed the door, ‘And how out of character.’

The chairman sat in the front seat of his car and chatted to his chauffeur as he was driven back to the bank. He hadn’t realized that, like him, Fred was an Arsenal supporter.

When the car drew up outside the bank, he leapt out. The doorman saluted and held the door open for him.

‘Good morning, Sam,’ said the chairman, then walked across reception to the lift which a young man was holding open for him.

‘Good morning, Chairman,’ said the young man. ‘Would it be possible to have a word with you?’

‘Yes, of course. By the way, what’s your name?’

‘Rod, sir,’ said the young man.

‘Well, Rod, what can I do for you?’

‘There’s a vacancy coming up on the Commodities floor, and I wondered if I might be considered for it.’

‘Of course, Rod. Why not?’

‘Well, sir, I don’t have any formal qualifications.’

‘Neither did I when I was your age,’ said the chairman. ‘So why don’t you go for it?’

‘I hope you know what you’re up to,’ said the senior clerk when Rod returned to his place behind the reception desk.

‘I sure do. I can tell you I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life on the ground floor like you.’

The chairman held open the lift doors to allow two women to join him. ‘Which floor?’ he asked as the doors closed.

‘The fifth please, sir,’ one of them said nervously.

He pressed the button, then asked, ‘Which department do you work in?’

‘We’re cleaners,’ said one of the girls.

‘Well, I’ve wanted to have a word with you for some time,’ said the chairman.

The girls looked anxiously at each other.

‘Yours must be a thankless task at times, but I can tell you, these are the cleanest offices in the City. You should be very proud of yourselves.’

The lift came to a halt at the fifth floor.

‘Thank you, Chairman,’ the girls both said as they stepped out. They could only wonder if their colleagues would believe them when they told them what had just happened.

When the lift reached the top floor, the chairman strolled into his secretary’s office. ‘Good morning, Sally,’ he said, and sat down in the seat next to her desk. She leapt up. He waved her back down with a smile.

‘How did the medical go?’ she asked nervously.

‘Far better than I’d expected,’ said the chairman. ‘It seems the cancer is in remission, and I could be around for another ten years.’

‘That is good news,’ said Sally. ‘So there’s no longer any reason for you to resign?’

‘That’s what the doctor said, but perhaps the time has come for me to accept the fact that I’m not immortal. So there are going to be a few changes around here.’

‘What exactly did you have in mind?’ the secretary asked anxiously.

‘To start with, I’m going to accept the board’s generous retirement package and stay on as non-executive director, but not before I’ve taken a proper holiday.’

‘But will that be enough for you, Chairman?’ asked his secretary, not certain she was hearing him correctly.

‘More than enough, Sally. Perhaps the time has come for me to do some voluntary work. I could start by helping my local football club. They need some new changing rooms. You know, when I was a youngster, that club was the only thing that kept me off the streets, and who knows, maybe they even need a new chairman?’

His secretary couldn’t think what to say.

‘And there’s something else I must do before I go, Sally.’

She picked up her notepad as the chairman removed a chequebook from an inside pocket.

‘How many years have you been working for me?’

‘It will be twenty-seven at the end of this month, Chairman.’

He wrote out a cheque for twenty-seven thousand pounds and passed it across to her. ‘Perhaps you should take a holiday as well. Heaven knows, I can’t have been the easiest of bosses.’

Sally fainted.

‘Well, I’m off for lunch,’ said Rod, checking his watch.

‘Where have you got in mind?’ asked Sam. ‘The Savoy Grill?’

‘All in good time,’ said Rod. ‘But for now I’ll have to be satisfied with the Garter Arms because the time has come for me to get to know my future colleagues in Commodities.’

‘Aren’t you getting a bit above yourself, lad?’

‘No, Sam, just keep your eyes open. It won’t be long before I’m their boss, because this is just the first step on my way to becoming chairman.’

‘Not in my lifetime,’ said Sam as he unwrapped his sandwiches.

‘Don’t be so sure about that, Sam,’ said Rod, taking off his long blue porter’s coat and replacing it with a smart sports jacket. He strolled across the foyer, pushed his way through the swing doors and out on to the pavement. He glanced across the road at the Garter Arms, looking forward to taking his first step on the corporate ladder.

Rod checked to his right as a double-decker bus came to a halt and disgorged several passengers. He spotted a gap in the traffic and stepped out into the road just as a motorcycle courier overtook the bus. The biker threw on his brakes the moment he saw Rod, swerved and tried to avoid him, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The bike hit Rod side-on, dragging him along the road until it finally came to a halt on top of him.

Rod opened his eyes and stared at a package marked URGENT, which had landed in the road by his side: The Chairman’s Medical Report. He looked up to see a man dressed in a smartly tailored dark suit, white silk shirt and thin black tie looking down at him.

‘If only you’d asked me how long the young man had to live, and not what his life expectancy was,’ were the last words Rod heard before departing from this world.