Stratford sat dejectedly in a banker’s office. How long for, though, was a
piece of string question. Unimaginatively designed, a boring, white paint
covered the walls of the office, which were otherwise empty. Lit through
commercial standard halogen bars mounted to the ceiling, Stratford himself sat
in a low-cost, low-productivity, MDF desk right in the center of the room. He
had thought being a banker in the financial district of London was stylish.
Glamorous. He had thought wrong. He looked out across the sprawling city below –
the people, the traffic … Yet here he was in a blank, empty office, waiting for
his last client of the day. Not a busy day, although he’d say it had been, just
for show.
The client knocked at the door and let himself in. His visitor tag
said ‘Jones’. So that was his name, or at least the name he had given to the
girl on reception.
After all the boring ‘hi’ stuff, the interview could begin properly.
“I’m afraid, due to the current economic climate, we’ve done away with interest, and instead offer various rates of ‘intrigue’”.
“That’s … interesting,” Jones began, thoughtful. Jones was poised to leave, pointing towards the door. He continued, “What can you tell me about the accounts?” Then he turned around. His mind had changed.
“Well, the low-intrigue account comes with a cheque book, online banking and whatever’s in the Mystery Box,” Stratford said while reaching under the desk. Carefully, he placed an ornate box on the table, which then became the most interesting thing in the room (or intriguing, if you prefer).
“And the …” Jones paused, searching for the words, “higher intrigue account?”
“Why, what have you heard?”
“Uh, nothing? You just mentioned it?” Jones’ look of confusion told Stratford he had perhaps gone too far. Now he’d started, he had to carry on going. This was only build-up, the context to the one-liner.
“No, I haven’t. I haven’t said a word since you arrived”. Stratford was beginning to have fun now. The big reveal would be worth it (for him).
“I – I’ll take the low intrigue account, thanks”. Stratford had been handed a blubbering wreck who didn’t even know what was coming. Just a little disappointing, but he’d do. This is how Stratford worked – bring someone in, give them something to do, and get something to do in return. Stratford was dangerous when boredm and he was bored now.
Well then, I’ll get you set up and you can look in the mystery box and see what you’ve won”. Stratford passed over the box, which was quickly opened.
“A bloody knife! What’s a bank got a bloody knife for?”
“Correction: a knife covered in blood and your fingerprints.”
“But why?” Jones was confused and paranoid now.
“Don’t ask me; I don’t know what’s happened to the Bolivian ambassador.” Stratford was pleased, the entertainment value was already high with Jones. He was reacting exactly how you shouldn’t.
“What has happened to the Bolivian ambassador?”
“Don’t look at me; he hasn’t been stuffed in the boot of my car.” Stratford could only just keep himself from laughing.
“What do I do?” Desperate now, Jones’ eyes were wild, and his voice pleading. Stratford didn’t take the bait, he wasn’t finished playing the game.
“You have thirty minutes to get to Hong Kong with a full beard, fake passport and working knowledge of Mandarin. Go!”
Stratford couldn’t get up fast enough. By the time he had, Jones had gone from the room, leaving a faint trail of smoke out the door.
“I love having a bank, me,” Stratford mused to himself. A well concealed lie; at the moment, he was satisfied.
Stratford switched his computer on and opened his email inbox, receiving a picture of Jones running out the front entrance to the tower. Printing off this image, he placed it in an empty picture frame on the wall. He stood back and admired it. Framed, in every sense of the word.
Now all Stratford had to do was dispose of the body of the Bolivian ambassador. All Jones had to do was run.
The phone rang, asking for Jones. Someone had missed his hurried exit.
“No-one called Jones here”, said Stratford, “not anymore”.
For Jones, the running had started, and his life had finished.