The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  Several members of the audience rose and peered up at the royal box, where Princess Anne was chatting to her husband. Suddenly the door at the back of the box opened, and a man whose face Arnold could never forget walked in, dressed in a scruffy dinner jacket, one hand in his pocket.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Arnold, ‘it’s him!’

  ‘It’s who?’ said Janet, her eyes not straying from the royal box.

  ‘The man I was telling you about,’ said Arnold. ‘He’s a terrorist, and somehow he’s managed to escape and get into the royal box.’ Arnold didn’t wait to hear his sister’s next question. He knew his duty, and quickly squeezed past the people in his row, not caring whose toes he trod on while ignoring a barrage of angry protests. When he reached the aisle he began to run towards the exit, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. Once he was in the foyer he quickly looked around then charged up the sweeping staircase that led to the dress circle, while the majority of theatregoers were making their way slowly down to the crush bar on the ground floor. Several people stopped and stared at the ill-mannered man going so rudely against the tide. Arnold ignored them, as well as several caustic comments addressed directly at him. At the top of the stairs he set off in the direction of the royal box, but when he came to a red rope barrier, two burly police officers stepped forward and blocked his path.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ one of them asked politely.

  ‘There’s a dangerous terrorist in the royal box,’ shouted Arnold. ‘The princess’s life is in danger.’

  ‘Please calm down, sir,’ said the officer. ‘The only guest in the royal box this evening is Professor Naresh Khan, the distinguished American orthopaedic surgeon who is over here to give a series of lectures on the problems he encountered following 9/11.’

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Arnold. ‘He may be posing as a famous surgeon, but I assure you, he’s an escaped terrorist.’

  ‘Why don’t you show this gentleman back to his seat,’ said the officer, turning to his colleague.

  ‘And why don’t you call Commander Harrison at Scotland Yard,’ said Arnold. ‘He’ll confirm my story. My name is Arnold Pennyworthy.’

  The two officers looked at each other for a moment, and then more closely at Arnold. The senior officer dialled a number on his mobile phone.

  ‘Put me through to the Yard.’ A few moments passed, too long for Arnold, who was becoming more frantic by the second.

  ‘I need to speak to Commander Harrison, urgently,’ the officer said.

  After what seemed an eternity to Arnold, the commander came on the line.

  ‘Good evening, sir, my name is Bolton, Royal Protection team, currently on duty at the London Palladium. A member of the public – a Mr Pennyworthy – is convinced there’s a terrorist in the royal box, and he says you’ll confirm his story.’ Arnold hoped they would still be in time to save her life. ‘I’ll put him on, sir.’ The officer handed the phone to Arnold, who tried to remain calm.

  ‘That man we discussed this afternoon, Commander, he must have escaped, because I’ve just seen him in the royal box.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Pennyworthy,’ said the commander calmly, ‘that’s not possible. The man we spoke about this afternoon is locked up in a high-security prison from which he’s unlikely to be released in your lifetime.’

  ‘But I’ve just seen him in the royal box!’ shouted Arnold desperately. ‘You must tell your men to arrest him before it’s too late.’

  ‘I don’t know whom you’ve just seen in the royal box, sir,’ said the commander, ‘but I can assure you that it isn’t Mr Zebari.’

  BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

  13

  THE CHAIRMAN CLIMBED OUT of the back of his car and strode into the bank.

  ‘Good morning, Chairman,’ said Rod, the young man standing behind the reception desk.

  The chairman walked straight past without acknowledging him and headed towards a lift that had just opened. A group of people who’d been expecting to take it stood aside. None of them would have considered sharing a lift with the chairman, not if they wanted to keep their jobs.

  The lift whisked him up to the top floor and he marched into his office. Four separate piles of market reports, telephone messages, press clippings and emails had been placed neatly on his desk by his secretary, but today they could wait. He checked his diary, although he knew he didn’t have any appointments before his check-up with the company’s doctor at twelve o’clock.

  He walked across to the window and looked out over the City. The Bank of England, the Guildhall, the Tower, Lloyd’s of London and St Paul’s dominated the skyline. But his bank, the bank he’d built up to such prominence over the past thirty years, looked down on all of them, and now they wanted to take it away from him.

  There had been rumours circulating in the City for some time. Not everyone approved of his methods, or some of the tactics he resorted to just before closing a deal. ‘Brings the very reputation of the City into question,’ one of his directors had dared to suggest at a recent board meeting. The chairman had made sure the man was replaced a few weeks later, but his departure had caused even more unease not only amongst the rest of the board but also as far as the inner reaches of Threadneedle Street.

  Perhaps he’d bent the rules a little over the years, possibly a few people had suffered on the way, but the bank had thrived and those who’d remained loyal to him had benefited, while he had built one of the largest personal fortunes in the City.

  The chairman was well aware that some of his colleagues hoped he would retire on his sixtieth birthday, but they didn’t have the guts to put the knife in and hasten his departure. At least, not until a story appeared in one of the gossip columns hinting that he’d been seen paying regular visits to a clinic in Harley Street. They still didn’t make a move until the same story appeared on the front page of the Financial Times.

  When the chairman was asked at the next board meeting to confirm or deny the reports, he procrastinated, but one of his colleagues, someone he should have got rid of years ago, called his bluff and insisted on an independent medical report so that the rumours could be scotched. The chairman called for a vote and didn’t get the result he’d anticipated. The board decided by eleven votes to nine that the company’s doctor, not the chairman’s personal physician, should carry out a full medical examination and make his findings known to the board. The chairman knew it would be pointless to protest. It was exactly the same procedure he insisted on for all his staff when they had their annual check-ups. In fact, over the years, he’d found it a convenient way to rid himself of any incompetent or overzealous executives who’d dared to question his judgement. Now they intended to use the same tactic to get rid of him.

  The company’s doctor was not a man who could be bought, so the board would find out the truth. He had cancer, and although his personal physician said he could live for another two years, possibly three, he knew that once the medical report was made public, the bank’s shares would collapse, with no hope of recovering until he’d resigned and a new chairman had been appointed in his place.

  He’d known for some time that he was dying, but he’d always beaten the odds in the past, often at the last moment, and he believed he could do it once again. He’d have given anything, anything for a second chance . . .

  ‘Anything?’ said a voice from behind him.

  The chairman continued to stare out of the window, as no one was allowed to enter his office without an appointment, even the deputy chairman. Then he heard the voice again. ‘Anything?’ it repeated.

  He swung round to see a man dressed in a smartly tailored dark suit, white silk shirt and thin black tie.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘My name is Mr De Ath,’ the man said, ‘and I represent a lower authority.’

  ‘How did you get into my office?’

  ‘Your secretary can’t see or hear me.’

  ‘Get out, before I call security,’ said the chairman, press