The Mark and the Void Read Online Free PDF Page A

hundred of the cunts going at twelve and a quarter.’
    ‘My source says their income’s down nearly 30 per cent on this same period last year. A write-down of Greek debt can cost them a hundred million. Your customers will thank you for sparing them.’
    ‘That’s not going to get us commission, is it?’ He scowls. ‘Fucking Greek pricks,’ he mutters. ‘Why couldn’t they stick to … what is it Greeks are good at again?’
    ‘Um, inventing democracy?’ Ish suggests.
    ‘They’ve been dining out on that one for a
long
time,’ Howie retorts.
    Howie Hogan does not look like a genius. Twenty-five, and hitting the gym hard every day, he still has a childish doughiness to his features, giving him the appearance of one of those overfed, unimaginative rich boys who see the world as a kind of third-rate in-flight movie, to which they will pay attention only until they reach their real destination. This is, in fact, exactly what he is. But he is also BOT’s star trader. Beside mathematical acuity, sharp reflexes, and an ability to get people to buy things they don’t want, Howie is gifted with almost total emotional
dissociation. Other traders freak out, crack up, crash and burn; Howie’s only reaction, win or lose, is to smirk. I am fairly sure he smirks in his sleep. What is he doing here? He should be in London, at one of the bulge brackets, making ten times what he does at BOT; but some indiscretion in his past – details of which none of us has ever been able to establish – means he must get to the top the hard way.
    Having chastised me for undermining sell-side, he would normally have lumbered off by now; instead he’s still hovering. ‘What’s this fucking bullshit I’m hearing?’ he says at last.
    ‘Close & Coulthard’s merger has been held up by the CMA,’ I say. ‘I IM’d you.’
    ‘No, about someone writing your autobiography.’
    ‘Oh, that.’
    The smirk flickers. ‘Who the fuck would want to write a book about you?’ Howie says.
    ‘An author,’ I say expressionlessly.
    ‘For your information, he thinks Claude would make the perfect Everyman,’ Ish pitches in.
    Howie laughs. ‘Everyman!’ he repeats. ‘Who’s that, the world’s most boring superhero?’
    ‘Isn’t there a harassment hearing you need to be at?’ Ish says.
    ‘Look out, supervillains! Everyman’s super-spreadsheet has the power to bore you to death!’ Howie struts away, still cackling. ‘Claude in a book! Who said the French have no sense of humour?’
    ‘Don’t mind him, Claude, he’s just jealous,’ Ish says.
    ‘Do people say the French have no sense of humour?’ I ask her.
    ‘Of course not,’ she says, patting my hand.
    I return to my work, but this brief conversation has been enough to reawaken my fears. Howie is right. I don’t have a story; I don’t have time to have a story; I have organized my life here precisely in order not to have a story. Why would I want someone following me around, weighing me up, finding me lacking? I take
out my wallet, unfurl the scrap of paper on which Paul scrawled his number, but before I can call him and pass on my regrets, Jurgen approaches from the direction of the meeting rooms.
    ‘Claude! Good news!’ He grins at me with excitement. ‘Rachael has given the okay for your book project.’
    ‘Oh,’ I say, surprised.
    ‘You must call your author right away!’ he exhorts me.
    ‘I will,’ I say.
    ‘Right away,’ he repeats.
    ‘Yes,’ I say.
    He stands there, waiting. Without even wanting to, I see him as an outsider might: take in his pocket protector, his hideous tie, his strange plasticated hair that never seems to grow any longer. Is he happy? Lonely? Bored? Do any of these terms even apply?
    ‘First I have a small errand to do,’ I say. I go to the lift and hit the button for the ground floor. As I descend, I turn the decision over in my mind. He’s not writing a book about me, I remind myself. He’s shadowing me for research purposes. I am a