Stephen Fry - The Stars’ Tennis Balls

Gordon was his father. Ethical Trading was his life. Simon was his god. Fathers are weak. Life is a betrayal. Gods are cruel. Albert had read enough and seen enough to know these as objective facts, but he had not expected to experience them quite so soon and all at once. All three had been taken away from him in a single blow of fate. One minute he had been cheerfully sitting on the tube, listening to music and skimming through the evening paper – he only bought that bloody paper because it was Simon’s – and the next minute the triple pillars of his world had crumbled.

He rose from the table at the sound of the front door.

‘Where is he? Where’s my grandson?’

Albert folded up the newspaper and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘I’m in the kitchen, Grandpa. Grabbing some food before you get it all.’

‘Cheeky! The boy is so cheeky. Don’t you love him?’ Albert adored his grandfather. He was a constant reminder to him of his Jewishness and his heritage. It was hard to believe what his parents told him, that many years ago Grandpa had been a history lecturer and local politician. Rabidly left wing, Portia said, which was hard to imagine. Something had happened, Albert never quite got to the bottom of it, something to do with a wrongful arrest, but Peter had left academia and thrown himself into religion and the local synagogue. Theirs was a tight knit family, by definition. As the son of cousins, Albert had long endured the amusement of his friends at the circumstance of his grandfather also being his great-uncle and all the teasing suggestions of genetic weakness that went with it, but he loved his family and enjoyed the special closeness that came from not having two warring factions within it. No in-law jokes for the Fendemans.

He embraced his grandfather and saw, over his shoulder, that Portia and Gordon knew nothing.

‘So, my darlings. What’s to eat?’

‘You’ll see, Daddy, you’ll see.’ Portia laughed as she kissed her father and her son. ‘You look worried, darling, what is it?’

‘Nothing, Mum, nothing. Tough day at the office.’

Albert knew that it was not going to be a hard decision after all. Blood was thicker than worship. This was his family. They counted more than any hero. After all, there was Oxford. It wasn’t too late. It was never too late.

‘Hey, the phone’s off the hook.’

‘Leave it, Dad. No, leave it, really. It’s Friday night. The sun has set. No work. No calls.’

Peter put a hand to his grandson’s cheek. ‘Love him! Couldn’t you just eat him up? Am I right?’

Albert lit the candles and drew the curtains. He knew that soon enough the house would be under siege.

‘Welcome aboard, Oliver. I know we’ve both made the right decision. If you like I’ll walk you round the place, introduce you to a few people. How are you on heights?’

‘Heights?’

‘There’s a fabulous office at the top of the building, one of the best views in London, but if you prefer, you can make your habitation a little closer to ground.’

‘No, no. Heights are good.’

‘Of course you’re used to a view aren’t you? As a matter of fact, you can see your old office from my window here. Would you like to wave to your successor?’

‘Frankly no,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s only when you’ve shaken the dust of public service from your shoes that you realise how much you always hated it. By the way, my children will kill me if I forget to pass on an invitation to dinner next week. Thursday, can you make it?’

‘It would be a pleasure, please convey my grateful thanks. Now, let’s amble, shall we? Ah, good morning, Albert. Let me introduce you to Sir Oliver Delft. Anti-virus, anti-worm, anti-hacker.’

‘How do you do? Simon, I have to talk to you right now. It’s extremely urgent.’

‘Ah. Oliver, I’m so sorry, would you mind if I…?’

‘No, no. If it’s all right with you, I’ll wander on my own. I’d prefer it that way. I take it this pass allows me anywhere?’

‘Absolutely anywhere. Introduce yourself as you go along, I broke the glad tidings to everyone by email this morning.’

‘I will see you later then.’

‘Albert, I have a very strong idea why you are here. Let me say – ‘How could you do it? How?’

‘I’m the publisher, Albert, not the editor. I can’t be seen to interfere in.

‘Oh buhshit, that’s absolute bullshit. I’m not an idiot. And this, here, in today’s Times, have you seen? They are claiming that my father bought LEP shares the day before you announced that you were buying it and that he was acting on inside information. That was me! The first day I came here you told me you were buying the paper and I … I happened to mention it to him. I didn’t know it meant anything. And now they are painting him as some sort of crook. He’s not. He’s my father. He’s a decent man. What are you doing to him?’

‘Albert, calm down. I’m sure this will all come out right in the end.’

‘Anyway, I–I came here to tell you that I’m leaving.’

‘But Albert, that’s absurd.’

‘It’s a matter of… of… honour. I can’t possibly work for you. You’re my enemy. It’s family honour. We’re going to clear his name if it takes every penny we have. I’m going to expose you for what you are. A wrecker of lives. An animal. I’ll make your life hell. Goodbye.’

‘Albert, this is nothing more than absurd posturing. Dry your eyes. Come back.’

Albert had been in his room for nine days. The pages were uploading. The world would soon know the kind of man Simon Cotter truly was. He had collected together every morsel of gossip, every hint, rumour and theory that had ever been whispered on the subject of his mortal enemy. More would come, that was the nature of the internet. It wouldn’t matter if his subject was Mother Teresa, there would be people out there with scandal, conspiracy theories and reasons to hate. Albert had the advantage of knowing things. Nothing too terrible, but enough to make Cotter a figure of fun.

Albert watched the final page upload. He had chosen a free webserver in Australia. It made no difference really, but the site might as well be lodged as far away as possible. It gave the impression that Cotter’s enemies were spread around the globe. When he got to Oxford next month he would continue his campaign. They might have taken Wafiq Said’s money, but they’d never accept Cotter’s, not once Albert had done his work. Simon Cotter. The arrogance of him. The vain casual arrogance.

‘Albert! Let me in. Please.

Why not? His mother should see that he hadn’t just been sulking like Achilles in his tent. He had been arming and preparing for battle.

‘Okay, Mum. It’s a bit of a mess I’m afraid.’

Albert got up from his chair and unlocked the door. Portia was standing with a tray in her hand.

‘For goodness’ sake! What have you been doing in there?’

‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been busy. Hiya, Java.’

Portia trod gingerly in and stood in the middle of the room and swayed slightly as if she were about to lose her balance. ‘Where on earth am I going to put this tray?

‘Um… down there.’ Albert kicked away a pile of CDs, photographs and underwear. ‘Get away Java!’

Java had leapt onto the desk and was batting at the mouse, as cats will.

‘Lunch,’ said Portia firmly. ‘In fact it’s last night’s supper and this morning’s breakfast too. You absolutely must eat. I’m going to watch you. I don’t care if I sound like the worst Jewish mother in the world. You simply must eat.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Look, Mum…’

‘Don’t you “whatever” me! I’m going to watch every sandwich going down your throat. And then sleep. You didn’t go to bed at all last night, did you?’