Robert Young - Gatecrasher

Michael Horner was a veteran of a thousand board meetings, of hostile take-overs, of making million pound trades on foreign equity markets before most people had eaten breakfast. He had skied alpine black runs in blizzards and scuba dived with sharks. As he sat thinking everything through he began to feel the strange and unfamiliar pangs of fear in his stomach.

Wednesday. 6.45am.

He had gone home thinking about it, all the long drive back across city. He had fallen asleep thinking about it and woken up thinking about it as well. Slater was going to enjoy this. He was going to savour each second.

The space that he had been parked in the night before was still vacant but he decided not to leave the car there this time where the neighbours might begin to wonder. All the others in this leafy SW postcode seemed to be sporty hatchbacks and soft-tops. He found a spot around the corner and trotted back along the pavement to Campbell’s front door.

‘Here we go again,’ he said and pressed the bell.

He would answer in a minute. Give him a moment or two — maybe he wasn’t even up yet. And then, all bleary-eyes and bed-hair — Slater was picturing it now — in his dressing gown, he would look blank for second as Slater asked if he was Mr Campbell? And then, before he’d got to the S of yes Slater would be on him, barrelling into the flat, a heel kicking the door shut behind him, maybe stick a couple on him. Crack a rib, or loosen a tooth perhaps.

‘Wake up sleepyhead,’ he said and pressed the doorbell several times.

Then he’d explain carefully that all Campbell needed to do was hand over the memory stick — which he would dutifully do — and then Slater would make it clear that Campbell had not seen nor heard a thing. They knew after all, he would point out with maybe a physical emphasis to the midriff, exactly where he lived.

The morning was mostly silent but somewhere in the distance a bus revved its engine and he could hear the manic enthusiasm of a breakfast radio DJ blathering.

There was no sign of activity from inside yet, no giveaway sounds of movement. Slater pushed the button repeatedly and then his frustration got the better of him and he knocked sharply on the door.

‘Wakey fucking wakey sunshine,’ he hissed and then looked at his watch. It was not even 7am. No-one left for work this early. He’d watched him leave the day before at 7.45. Slater began to consider the possibility that he had messed up once again. That Campbell had got jittery and not returned to the flat last night after leaving in the taxi, was gone for good. Or maybe he had left for work even earlier today. Perhaps yesterday he had in fact been late and he was normally up with the lark.

‘Don’t make me come in there,’ he said and jabbed the bell again and then, with a quick look around to check that the street was still empty he turned and headed for the rear of the flat. He began to run through a new scenario in his head now, imagining the rude awakening that Campbell was about to get.

Daniel was having a dream which featured two of his work-mates, a TV personality and someone who he was certain was an old school friend but who he did not actually recognise at all. They Suddenly he noticed that Sarah Knowles was part of the group. How he had not noticed before he couldn’t think but it didn’t seem strange to him all the same. She had made eye contact with him and was smiling and seemed eager to talk to him.

Feeling a little self-conscious and awkward he found himself trying to find a good reason to talk to her. At the same time he became aware that the scene made no sense and that in fact this must be a dream and with the realisation he began to come round.

Then there was a sharp shuddering jolt and Campbell was instantly, jarringly awake.

‘BASTARD!’ Slater roared, all caution thrown aside, all thoughts of staying quiet and unnoticed now forgotten. His temper lost, Slater pounded his fists down on the duvet, raining heavy blows into the crumpled cotton before throwing it across the room in his fury.

His teeth were clenched and his breath hissed between them, spittle flecks flying from his snarled lips. His nostrils flared and his eyes shone with rage.

‘FUCKING BASTARD!’ he shouted and slammed both fists down again.

Campbell shot a hand up over his eyes, which were still sensitive to the light. He felt a sudden pain in his arm and turned his head to look up, squinting through the glare.

Above him stood a man who had gripped his arm to steady himself as the tube train jolted to an unexpected stop. Opposite, a flustered young woman picked herself from someone’s lap, all red cheeked and embarrassed, and someone in front of him gathered his newspaper from the floor of the carriage.

‘Sorry mate,’ the man said as he righted himself and released his grip on Campbell’s arm. Looking around he noted that the train was stopped on the platform and people were standing waiting to get off. He had slept one stop past his own so when the doors opened he jumped up and dashed across to the opposite platform and rode back the other way.

Stopping for coffee and some hot breakfast to take to his desk, Campbell began planning what more he needed to find out. The office would be quiet for an hour at least and he could get some more research done here and with better tools. He could maybe look up what involvement Asquith and Horner still had in Griffin if any, exactly where their lives had taken them, what their other business interests involved. Begin to build a picture.

But something else nagged at him. For all the background he was building, all the detail he was filling in, there was really only one thing that was going to tell him anything of substance and the thought filled him with trepidation.

It was time to look at the memory stick.

Wednesday. 6pm.

He had found a quiet side street to make sure that he would be able to hear clearly and not to be drowned out. He had also spent some ten minutes pacing and trying to compose himself, trying to come up with what to say, a line of argument that would convince her but not scare her off or send her running to her boss. Or worse.

After it had rung twice he had a sudden jolt when he realised that she may well have left already for the day. He had been so worked up about what he would say to her that he had barely even stopped to notice the time. His nerves were already shredded and he didn’t want to have to wait another night.

‘Come on…’ he pleaded with the unanswered phone.

It rang again.

‘Griffin Holdings, good evening.’

‘Ah, you’re still there. Thank god.’ The relief in his voice was obvious.

‘Hello? Who’s this?’

‘Sorry, is that Sarah Knowles?’

‘Yes.’ She sounded apprehensive. Bad start.

‘Sarah its Owen Michaels… we met last night. You were kind enough to give me some information on the company.’

‘Oh yes. I hope it was of some use.’ A little friendlier.

‘Very helpful, yes. Look, I wonder if I could speak with you…’

‘Mr Michaels, as I’ve already told you, I’m not the person that deals with the press.’

‘I know that. Look, hear me out, please. It’s really very important. I need to talk to you. I didn’t say I wanted to ask you questions about this.’ Campbell felt a sudden urge to tell her everything all at once, to tell her his real name, that he had lied to her, that he knew far more than she could begin to imagine. He held his tongue and drew in a deep breath.

‘What is this about Mr Michaels? I’m not sure I should even be talking to you.’

‘Wait!’ Campbell felt the panic rising. If he messed this up, he had no idea what to do. His thoughts raced. There was silence on the line and he wondered if she’d gone for an awful moment.