Room 119 Read online

  Room 119

  The Whitby Trader

  T F Lince

  Copyright © T F Lince 2017

  The right of T F Lince to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  In memory of

  Room 119 is in memory of Diane Lince who passed away during the writing of this book, when she smiled the room smiled with her. She will be sadly missed, always.

  Foreword

  OK, I’m new to this book writing malarkey. Did you know a foreword (which, incidentally, is foreword, not forward or foreward) is meant to be written by someone else, maybe someone famous to draw you guys into buying millions of copies?

  Well, I don’t know anyone famous. So I am going to break form and write my own foreword. Obviously my second book will be foreworded by Stephen Fry, or by whoever plays Dean in the film. I’m thinking Tom Hardy, but he’s unaware of this fact right now. So if you are Tom Hardy – or Martin Scorsese looking for your next script, for that matter – drop me an email.

  OK, back to the book. About three years ago now, I had a sequence of dreams. When I told someone at work about my dreams, she said I should write a book – which couldn’t be more absurd as English wasn’t your best subject.. However, I wrote bullet points of the dreams down in MS Word and left it there.

  That was that, I thought.

  In January 2017 and approaching fifty, probably hitting a mid-life crisis, I set a New Year’s resolution to write the book. Why not? Some 90,000 or so words later, here we are.

  I hope you enjoy the twists and turns the story will lead you on. If you like to buckle into a rollercoaster, I promise to take you on a memorable ride before delivering you safely so I can pick up the next thrill seekers. Please comment on the book, letting me know your thoughts on the Twitter or Facebook pages, and tell all your friends – especially if your friends are Martin Scorsese or Tom Hardy.

  I have lots of people to thank, but I will thank them at the end where the acknowledgments are meant to be. I will thank my wife Claire here, though. How she put up with me through this obsession I will never know.

  Hope you have as much fun reading Room 119 – The Whitby Trader as I had writing it.

  Trev Lince.

  Part One – Crash and Burn

  Chapter 1 – City Boy

  How did he end up in the City, a leading trader at Falconer International? From his humble background in Whitby, a fishing town on the North Yorkshire coast, to the dizzy heights of his office towering over the river, one of Canary Wharf’s finest. Mr Hawthorn from High Grange School would be so proud if he could have seen him right now, two GCSEs to his name and one of Falconer’s trading stars.

  Mr Hawthorn didn’t like Dean, thought he was a waster. Talented, but could not be bothered, always just doing enough throughout his schooldays. But Dean’s enough was not Mr Hawthorn’s enough; they were worlds apart. He was probably right, though; Dean was too busy pulling scams in the playground, conning kids out of their dinner money, to worry about getting grades. A northern kid from a poor family needed life skills rather than qualifications, and life skills had got him to where he was today, punching well above his weight and stepping up the ladder of success twice as fast as any university could have propelled him.

  He was sitting in his office overlooking the Thames, six plasma screens on the wall alive with dancing red and blue trading candles, his eyes bouncing from screen to screen, noticing any bearish or bullish moves across the trading boards. He called them ‘the boards’ – his boards. He knew where every stock, share and FOREX currency should be, and if it wasn’t there, why not, and what was going to happen next. The trick of trading is not just knowing what is happening now, but what is going to happen next. He was good at reading tomorrow’s news, and if you know what’s happening tomorrow, today is a nicer place to be – which was why he had his own office in Canary Wharf, a lavish apartment round the corner and a beautiful wife and daughter in a flash house in Hampshire. As well as his beloved Porsche 911.

  Life was good for Dean right now. He was at the top and in control of just about everything. He had two motivational paintings on the wall that he had commissioned from an up-and-coming London artist, Theo Wallgate, at a cost of £100,000 each. The one on the right depicted the sun setting over the Thames with Tower Bridge closing its gates, its strapline being ‘London is closing, the rest of the world is in control, BE AWARE’. The one on the opposite wall was Tower Bridge opening against the rising sun with the competing strapline of ‘London is opening, TAKE CONTROL’.

  Dean looked at his paintings, so proud of them. I wonder if Mr Hawthorn used to have a painting in the staff room in Whitby, he thought. Maybe Dean would send him a picture of one of his, or a photo of his fantastic view with the caption ‘Remember Me?’ Dean started to laugh, realising that if it hadn’t been for the efforts of Mr Hawthorn and the other teachers back then, he probably wouldn’t be sitting in this office right now.

  He took a bottle of whisky out of his bottom drawer and poured two measures into crystal tumblers. It was Johnnie Walker Blue Label, Ryder Cup limited edition – a present from his wife and daughter, along with three days in Gleneagles with the boys watching Europe defend the Ryder Cup, with his name engraved on the front: ‘Dean Harrison, love you always, Sarah and Jodie x x’. He was expecting Dexter, and they always shared a drink on a Friday, although Dean’s glass barely had enough whisky to discolour the water it was topped up with. It was more of a tradition than a drink, but Dean nevertheless raised his glass to the paintings.

  “Mr Terrance Hawthorn, sir, one of your boys did good.”

  Just then, Dexter Falconer walked in. Dexter was Dean’s boss, but Dean had him wrapped around his little finger, being far too streetwise for him. All of those cons and card games in the playground many years ago had sharpened Dean to a point, and the natural wit and sarcasm of a northerner had kept the point sharp throughout the years.

  Dexter was nearly sixty. He wore a suit like it had never wanted to fit him, like it was being rejected by his DNA. You couldn’t knock him for trying, though, as he had a different one for every day of the month. Dean, on the other hand, looked razor sharp with minimal effort. Some people can and some people can’t. Dean could; Dexter couldn’t.

  “What’s up, Dex? Have you seen today’s figures?” Dean knew Dexter had seen the figures; he’d always seen the figures. He also knew that a knock on the door at 4pm was a good sign. The 1pm knocks were the bad ones.

  “How do you do it, Deano? You’re dragging this company up on your own. You’re just about the only one anywhere near this month’s targets. I mean, how did you call CAD vs NOK would go bearish when it’s been bullish all week?”

  “I can’t give my away my secrets, Dex old boy.” Dean’s intention was to appear smug, but he was aiming for the not-too-smug variety.

  “I know, I know, it’s not about what’s going on today, it’s about what’s about to happen tomorrow.” Dexter’s tone was very much ‘we’ve been here before’, and he was right. Dean had a knack of performing well when others didn’t. Yes, he had the odd slump or two, but they were infrequent. Dexter’s praise was justified and they both knew it.

  “You got it, Dex.”

  “Mind you, you ha
d better watch your back, Deano. The new boy is well up there on the figures; he’s just behind you, actually. Got something about him, that kid. He reminds me of a young man I met in here fifteen years ago.” He picked up a framed picture from the desk of a nervous looking Dean standing shaking hands with a much younger and slimmer Dexter.

  “Fifteen years – has it been that long, Dex? What’s the new kid’s name again?” Dean already knew his name. He’d seen him around the office, flicking his annoyingly disobedient blond hair out of his eyes what seemed like every other second; he just wanted to sound like he wasn’t bothered.

  “Oliver Steadman-Fisher, a twenty-three-year-old whizz kid. Remember the name, Dean. He’ll be the next of Falconer’s shining stars.”

  Dexter placed the picture back down on the desk.

  “Let me guess, Dexter, Oxford graduate?” Dean was paying a little more attention now. Although Dexter was getting a bit long in the tooth, he could still spot talent. If Dexter had his eye on Oliver, Dean could do with an eye on him too.

  “Yep, you got it, Deano. He comes highly recommended from Oxford’s top financial academy. Oliver majored in financial statistics.” Dexter lifted his leg and swung it back and forth, half sitting on Dean’s desk with the other leg still on the floor.

  “Well let’s see what Oliver’s like when it’s real money. It’s easy to make tough calls on a real time simulator but I doubt he’d be so cocky with the company’s…sorry, your money, Dexter.”

  “We might find out soon. I’m thinking of letting him loose into the real world.”

  Dexter looked for a reaction from Dean, but didn’t get one. The ‘your money’ comment seemed to have done the trick. While Dexter was saying the word ‘might’, Dean knew he really meant ‘might not’.

  “Anyway, Dean, it’s a Friday and you know what that means. All the boys are going to celebrate at Gino’s. It looks like you are all going to hit the bonus at the end of the month. So I think you’ll be getting a couple of beers paid for. Only right as most of it was your doing, bonnie lad.” Dexter clearly didn’t realise ‘bonnie lad’ was a Geordie term, and Newcastle is nowhere near Whitby. Dean let him get away with it, though. At the end of the day, Dexter was the boss.

  “I can’t tonight, Dexter. It’s Jodie’s birthday tomorrow and I’ve not made it home in the last two weeks as I’ve been working.” Dean started to pack up what papers were left on his desk and put them into the drawer.

  “No, you haven’t, Dean, you’ve been on the razz with the boys. Barcelona last weekend, wasn’t it?” Dexter chuckled and got off Dean’s desk, taking Dean’s paper-rustling as a hint to leave.

  “Yes, but Sarah doesn’t know that, does she, Dexter? She thinks it was all business, and she’d better not find out, either. Tell the boys I’ll pop down for one or two, but then I’m off. It’s an important day for Jodie tomorrow. You’re only fifteen once, Dexter.”

  “I wish I was fifteen again, Dean. I would love to do it all again. Fifteen. Wow.”

  This was Dexter’s parting comment as he left the room, dreaming of being fifteen again.

  He must have a good bloody good memory, Dean thought as Dexter disappeared out of view.

  Chapter 2 – Gym Bunnies

  Friday was the day Sarah could be late picking Jodie up from school. Dean had taught Jodie how to play chess last year on holiday and she had not looked back since. She had still not beaten her dad, but she was getting closer, and the main reason for that was Jodie’s Friday after-school chess club.

  This meant for Sarah that Friday afternoon had turned into Body Pump Friday in the gym, followed by coffee in the health bar. After a tough workout today, Sarah was in the changing room with the girls, talking about the last hour of lifting weights, squatting and general body abuse. Sarah did not have much time for the girls, but she hardly saw Dean nowadays with his job being so chaotic. So from being a once or twice a month thing, the gym had turned into an everyday event for her. She was quietly proud of her body, not like some of the other girls who treated Friday like they had to do some annoying work before earning a coffee and cake reward. It showed.

  It was very much about status in this gym. You had to have matching gear and it all had to be this season’s latest trends and colours from Nike or Sweaty Betty. When the girls had all showered, they changed into clean designer gym gear so that when they eventually left the gym, everyone could see they had been. Otherwise what’s the point?

  Sarah was always first out of the changing room and into the health bar. She was naturally beautiful and did not need the war paint that some of the others required; she was quite happy to towel dry her blonde locks and throw them back into a ponytail.

  It made a lot of sense to turn up for Friday’s gym session. Whoever failed to show would generally be the topic of conversation. Sarah sometimes wasn’t sure if it was a gym club or a gossip club. It was probably a bit of both. When everybody turned up, like today, the conversation would go round and round in a circle until one of the girls showed a sign of weakness and let their deflector shields down.

  Today was Sarah’s turn to be caught off guard.

  “So, Sarah, where is Dean this week? Working away again?” Doreen said. A couple of the other girls lifted their coffee cups to their lips, more to mask their smiles than out of a need for caffeine. The question was not delivered with venom; it was as if Doreen was in a boat on a still summer’s afternoon, casting a fishing rod into a pool, the float bobbing along the surface, the bait underneath waiting for a dumb ass fish to swim by. Sarah knew she should have sniffed the bait and swum away, but Doreen had been casting away for what seemed like weeks now, and wherever Doreen headed, the rest of the girls normally followed.

  How dare that bossy bitch try and drag Dean down? Sarah not only took the bait on the hook, but devoured the line and sinker in the process.

  “Well, Doreen, Dean has been working really hard. Not like your Tom who sits at home on his backside living off his mother’s inheritance.”

  Doreen was thick-skinned. She knew that Tom was a lazy bastard.

  “This isn’t about Tom, Sarah. Look, I’m sorry. Forget I ever mentioned it. Obviously you don’t trust Dean. Maybe things aren’t as perfect for you as we all think they are.”

  The other four girls got comfy. Doreen had got a bite and it was a good one. Now she was playing with Sarah before reeling her in for supper. They all had seats at the back of Doreen’s boat to see the action unfolding without really supporting her. They had all experienced being on her hook before, but that didn’t mean they had Sarah’s back. Backing someone up against Doreen would mean rocking the boat, and that could have the consequence of deflecting the conversation onto them. So they maintained a watching brief, keeping as still as possible.

  Sarah knew she was on her own for now so went on the attack. “For your information, Doreen, I do trust Dean implicitly and we are extremely happy.”

  “Have you checked Dean’s credit card bill recently? That’s how I caught my first husband out.” A couple of the girls gave a nod in Doreen’s direction and murmured their agreement.

  “I check my Brian’s,” one of them said. This got Sarah’s back up even further.

  “I don’t have to. I trust and love Dean, he would never cheat on me.” As the words tripped out of her mouth, Sarah felt like she was at a dead end. There were much better ways of saying what she meant.

  Doreen spotted the weakness and slowed the conversation down as if she was lecturing a schoolkid.

  “No one said he was cheating, Sarah. That’s all your own supposition. We didn’t mention anything of the sort, did we, girls?”

  The girls all nodded and muttered like Members of Parliament in the House of Commons when the Prime Minister is in mid speech. Doreen smiled, knowing another fish was safely in the basket.

  “Whatever! I have to go to pick Jodie up.” Sarah was doing her best not to show how upset she was feeling inside, but she also knew it wasn’t worth arguing anymor
e. “See you tomorrow, girls, at Jodie’s party with your kids. Two o’clock start. Don’t be late.” She could not have been more cheery as she reminded the girls about the party. Giving Doreen a stare on the way out that would melt ice, Sarah knew she would get her own back one day, but today was about dignity and class. Sarah had them both in abundance, and had the best life of them all, and the girls knew it. Thinking she was not actually perfect gave them all a little bit of hope. Jealousy is a strange and not very beautiful creature.

  Sarah left the gym through the front door, giving a wave as she did. For the next hour, she and Dean would be the hot topic of conversation, the girls picking their whole lives apart, convincing themselves that it would be awful to be them and have their sad life. The truth could not have been more different.

  Chapter 3 – Gino’s

  Gino’s was an Italian bar among many bars in Canary Wharf. Although trading was a cutthroat environment, different companies had different loyalties to different bars. Gino’s was Falconer International’s chosen establishment; it was classy and had all the top wines and champagnes. When guys down this end of town got a bonus, it was up to the likes of Gino’s to encourage them to spend it as quickly as possible. A couple of smaller trading firms used it too, but there was definitely a pecking order, and in Gino’s Falconer’s ruled the roost. So there were a set amount of prime tables empty for Falconer International, not reserved by signs but by respect.

  Some of the smaller firms’ traders were already lurking in the shadows before the Falconer boys turned up. Jack Smith was first to the bar, as he always had been ever since Dean first met him. Dean liked Jack, a fellow northerner from Burnley in Lancashire. Lancashire and Yorkshire people are not meant to get on, but Jack befriended Dean when he first came down south to work.