Джеффри Арчер - To Cut a Long Story Short

Clocks all over the city were beginning to chime six. He tied up the laces of his Reebok trainers — another yuppie reject: the yuppies all wore Nikes now. One last glance as Kevin stepped out onto the pavement. By the time Bill returned at seven that evening — more reliable than any security guard — Kevin would be back home in Peckham with his pregnant wife Lucy. Lucky man.

Kevin watched as Bill shuffled away, disappearing among the early-morning workers. He was good like that, Bill. He would never embarrass Kevin, or want to be the cause of him losing his job. Then he spotted the penny underneath the arch. He picked it up and smiled. He would replace it with a pound coin that evening. After all, wasn’t that what banks were meant to do with your money?

Kevin returned to the front door just as the cleaners were leaving. They arrived at three in the morning, and had to be off the premises by six. After four years he knew all of their names, and they always gave him a smile.

Kevin had to be out on the pavement by six o’clock on the dot, shoes polished, clean white shirt, the bank’s crested tie and the regulation brass-buttoned long blue coat — heavy in winter, light in summer. Banks are sticklers for rules and regulations. He was expected to salute all board members as they entered the building, but he had added one or two others he’d heard might soon be joining the board.

Between six and seven the yuppies would arrive with, ‘Hi, Kev. Bet I make a million today.’ From seven to eight, at a slightly slower pace, came the middle management, already having lost their edge after dealing with the problems of young children, school fees, new car or new wife: ‘Good morning,’ not bothering to make eye contact. From eight to nine, the dignified pace of senior management, having parked their cars in reserved spaces in the carpark. Although they went to football matches on a Saturday like the rest of us, thought Kevin, they had seats in the directors’ box. Most of them realised by now that they weren’t going to make the board, and had settled for an easier life. Among the last to arrive would be the bank’s Chief Executive, Phillip Alexander, sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven Jaguar, reading the Financial Times . Kevin was expected to run out onto the pavement and open the car door for Mr Alexander, who would then march straight past him without so much as a glance, let alone a thank-you.

Finally, Sir William Selwyn, the bank’s Chairman, would be dropped off in his Rolls-Royce, having been driven up from somewhere in Surrey. Sir William always found time to have a word with him. ‘Good morning, Kevin. How’s the wife?’

‘Well, thank you, sir.’

‘Let me know when the baby’s due.’

Kevin grinned as the yuppies began to appear, the automatic door sliding open as they dashed through. No more having to pull open heavy doors since they’d installed that contraption. He was surprised they bothered to keep him on the payroll — at least, that was the opinion of Mike Haskins, his immediate superior.

Kevin glanced around at Haskins, who was standing behind the reception desk. Lucky Mike. Inside in the warmth, regular cups of tea, the odd perk, not to mention a rise in salary. That was the job Kevin was after, the next step up the bank’s ladder. He’d earned it. And he already had ideas for making reception run more efficiently. He turned back the moment Haskins looked up, reminding himself that his boss only had five months, two weeks and four days to go before he was due to retire. Then Kevin would take over his job — as long as they didn’t bypass him and offer the position to Haskins’s son.

Ronnie Haskins had been appearing at the bank pretty regularly since he’d lost his job at the brewery. He made himself useful, carrying parcels, delivering letters, hailing taxis and even getting sandwiches from the local Pret A Manger for those who wouldn’t or couldn’t risk leaving their desks.

Kevin wasn’t stupid — he knew exactly what Haskins’s game was. He intended to make sure Ronnie got the job that was Kevin’s by right, while Kevin remained out on the pavement. It wasn’t fair. He had served the bank conscientiously, never once missing a day’s work, standing out there in all weathers.

‘Good morning, Kevin,’ said Chris Parnell, almost running past him. He had an anxious look on his face. He should have my problems, thought Kevin, glancing round to see Haskins stirring his first cup of tea of the morning.

‘That’s Chris Parnell,’ Haskins told Ronnie, before sipping his tea. ‘Late again — he’ll blame it on British Rail, always does. I should have been given his job years ago, and I would have been, if like him I’d been a Sergeant in the Pay Corps, and not a Corporal in the Greenjackets. But management didn’t seem to appreciate what I had to offer.’

Ronnie made no comment, but then, he had heard his father express this opinion every workday morning for the past six weeks.

‘I once invited him to my regimental reunion, but he said he was too busy. Bloody snob. Watch him, though, because he’ll have a say in who gets my job.’

‘Good morning, Mr Parker,’ said Haskins, handing the next arrival a copy of the Guardian .

‘Tells you a lot about a man, what paper he reads,’ Haskins said to Ronnie as Roger Parker disappeared into the lift. ‘Now, you take young Kevin out there. He reads the Sun , and that’s all you need to know about him. Which is another reason I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get the promotion he’s after.’ He winked at his son. ‘I, on the other hand, read the Express — always have done, always will do.

‘Good morning, Mr Tudor-Jones,’ said Haskins, as he passed a copy of the Telegraph to the bank’s Chief Administrator. He didn’t speak again until the lift doors had closed.

‘Important time for Mr Tudor-Jones,’ Haskins informed his son. ‘If he doesn’t get promoted to the board this year, my bet is he’ll be marking time until he retires. I sometimes look at these jokers and think I could do their jobs. After all, it wasn’t my fault my old man was a brickie, and I didn’t get the chance to go to the local grammar school. Otherwise I might have ended up on the sixth or seventh floor, with a desk of my own and a secretary.

‘Good morning, Mr Alexander,’ said Haskins as the bank’s Chief Executive walked past him without acknowledging his salutation.

‘Don’t have to hand him a paper. Miss Franklyn, his secretary, picks the lot up for him long before he arrives. Now he wants to be Chairman. If he gets the job, there’ll be a lot of changes round here, that’s for sure.’ He looked across at his son. ‘You been booking in all those names, the way I taught you?’

‘Sure have, Dad. Mr Parnell, 7.47; Mr Parker, 8.09; Mr Tudor-Jones, 8.11; Mr Alexander, 8.23.’

‘Well done, son. You’re learning fast.’ He poured himself another cup of tea, and took a sip. Too hot, so he went on talking. ‘Our next job is to deal with the mail — which, like Mr Parnell, is late. So, I suggest...’ Haskins quickly hid his cup of tea below the counter and ran across the foyer. He jabbed the ‘up’ button, and prayed that one of the lifts would return to the ground floor before the Chairman entered the building. The doors slid open with seconds to spare.

‘Good morning, Sir William. I hope you had a pleasant weekend.’

‘Yes, thank you, Haskins,’ said the Chairman, as the doors closed. Haskins blocked the way so that no one could join Sir William in the lift, and he would have an uninterrupted journey to the fourteenth floor.

Haskins ambled back to the reception desk to find his son sorting out the morning mail. ‘The Chairman once told me that the lift takes thirty-eight seconds to reach the top floor, and he’d worked out that he’d spend a week of his life in there, so he always read the Times leader on the way up and the notes for his next meeting on the way down. If he spends a week trapped in there, I reckon I must spend half my life,’ he added, as he picked up his tea and took a sip. It was cold. ‘Once you’ve sorted out the post, you can take it up to Mr Parnell. It’s his job to distribute it, not mine. He’s got a cushy enough number as it is, so there’s no reason why I should do his work for him.’