The Deconstructors

Chapter 1: Telling Stories to Strangers

It wasn’t my idea.

It wasn’t my idea and that much is absolutely certain.

I can really only be accused of being part of its realisation. Does that make me responsible for the events that unfolded?

Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? Am I a complete and total coward?

A woman is dead—almost certainly dead. Why can’t I just accept that I share some of the blame?

Because, because—it was his idea, not mine. He is entirely responsible for this. Him alone. Not me.

Over time, yes, I was made to feel like I was part of its inception. But that was only because I was there from the start. Looking back, I think that may have been the entire problem. I was simply there. In the wrong place at the wrong time, lacking any sort of objectivity.

“That’s me—Mr Zero Fucking Objectivity.”

My mumbling alerts the middle-aged gentleman in the aisle seat beside me. He raises a weary eyebrow above his gold-rimmed reading glasses. I smile awkwardly and flush a little.

“Sorry, I…”

…may have had too much to drink. That’s a given—talking to yourself in public pretty much confirms it, the only other valid excuse being genuine insanity. One or two to steady the nerves turned into four or five. Never mind. I needed it. God knows that’s the truth. Besides, as my stepfather would say—flying sober is a fool’s game. He’s always had a rather unique set of life rules.

I close my eyes, try not to think about that poor, poor woman, and focus instead on regaining a degree of composure.

In the beginning I was sceptical. Highly sceptical. Part of me thought the whole idea was utter nonsense. Perhaps even a joke. Why, oh why, didn’t I listen to that little voice of reason and turn away from it altogether?

I guess because a larger part of me wanted to believe in his vision. Believe it was the product of a genius mind—a unique conceptualisation—a genuinely original idea in a world where everything has been done before. That was the appeal. That’s what blinded me.

Sometimes it’s hard to see the obvious flaws in something. Sometimes we never really know what we’ve undertaken until it’s upon us—and then it’s just too late. And then you realise what you’ve done will hurt the few people in the world who may have cared about you…

Jesus Christ, I need to relax.

I need to stop thinking.

I need to sleep.

I close my tired, bloodshot eyes and become aware of how much they’re stinging. I stretch my back with a view to settling into some quasi-meditation. At some point I knock my tray table, sending my complimentary gin and tonic over the aisle-seat man.

“Christ! I am so, so sorry!”

In a desperate and ineffective bid to mop up my faux pas, I begin dabbing at his gin-and-tonic-soaked crotch with my serviette. I stop abruptly as I realise I’m effectively touching him up.

“God! I’m sorry! I really… I didn’t…”

The man smiles. Thank God—there’s some warmth in that smile. He even looks vaguely amused by my inadvertent assault upon him. He’s well dressed. Well, he was well dressed. His smile is framed elegantly by a greying moustache that is clearly maintained with affection. He begins to speak with a thick French accent. Et voilà—the look is complete.

“Pas de problème, mon ami. Pas de problème.”

“I’m so sorry, I…”

He shakes his head and hand in unison. “Pas de problème. Now, tell me—are you really okay?”

“Me? No… Yes! I mean, I’m fine… Just, erm, jittery… You know, with, erm, flying and that.”

An expression of intrigue briefly drifts over the Frenchman’s face. I’m now making a very conscious effort not to slur my words.

“Do you need a little something, maybe? I have a—tablet.”

“No, no, I’m… I’m fine. I’ve… just had a bad week.”

“Bien! I thought you were really not so keen to fly, eh? Those people are a super pain in the ass on such a long flight as this.”

He chuckles to himself and folds down the corner of Paris Match or whatever magazine he’s reading. I attempt to mimic his chuckle and end up making a strangled choking sound. Very composed.

“No, well, flying is fine—it’s the landing I worry about.”

“Vraiment? The landing is difficult, but I feel you should know most aeroplanes crash during the taking off. And, mon ami, we have already climbed that mountain.”

“Right, erm, okay. It’s strange they don’t mention that in the safety briefing.”

He laughs. “Bon! I am Claude. Here, let me get you another.”

In one smooth motion Claude extends a hand over his head and heralds the flight attendant. This man has clearly flown long haul before.

“Gin and tonic, thank you,” I say.

“I know, mon ami, I can smell it very well.”

“God, I’m so sorry.”

“Relax! A little joke.”

“Right.”

“Now please—your name?”

“Oh, sorry—Will.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Will. A pleasure indeed. Now tell me—I have read this magazine and the movie is shit. There is something that troubles you, non? You have a little story to tell, maybe? Something to pass the time?”

Telling stories to strangers? This is definitely not in my limited repertoire of social skills. However, on reflection, it could be therapeutic. I’m normally a private person, but today has not been a normal day. It’s not been a normal week. It’s not been a normal year. I hesitate, then realise that I’m craving it—some sort of release, some sort of outlet for all of this.

And besides, I’ve definitely had too much to drink.

Chapter 2: Mr Hugo Boss

Lucy and I pulled up outside a row of well-kept townhouses in Holborn. I carefully manoeuvred my trusty wreck of a hatchback into a typically inconvenient Central London parking space a number of streets away from our actual destination. Despite being purchased for significantly less than the cost required annually to get it through its MOT, I had plenty of affection for the old thing.

Still, if asked—we’d taken a cab. It simply wouldn’t do to be seen pulling up in something that most terrorist organisations wouldn’t even consider for car bomb material.

“For Christ’s sake, Will, hun—people need to know you’re better than this!”

Lucy’s earlier heartening encouragement echoed in my mind as she giggled in the passenger seat next to me. The source of her amusement was my third attempt at paralleling parking; this time I’d come perilously close to a large, expensive-looking Mercedes. At least she was in a better mood now. She hadn’t exactly tried to mask her disappointment in me earlier as I’d once again failed to sort out any cocaine for her evening. It wasn’t my fault. I only knew a single guy, and he’d turned out to be unreliable. Unreliable drug dealers—whatever next?

I forced a smile, trying to remain good-humoured despite my rising agitation. I was tired and sober. This was in sharp contrast to Lucy, who had polished off a bottle of bubbles before announcing that she wanted me to drive to this wretched party. It was okay for her—she’d never had to deal with this sort of parallel parking bullshit. She moved through life with an effortless grace underpinned by the self-confidence of knowing that things would always be alright.

I should have been laughing too. The very notion of me trying to hide my automotive embarrassment in a side street should have had me pissing myself. However, after almost a year of working in the city, my sense of humour had begun to wither. Initially I attributed the culture shock of living in the capital to just being out of my comfort zone, but twelve months later, I still felt like a total stranger. Lucy was just about keeping me going. Her constant reassurance and persuasion had me still playing the game—keep up those appearances and you’ll eventually be rewarded with some of the abundant bounty the city offers.

Lucy Kitson. We’d met while I was studying for my Master’s degree at Durham University. She was an undergrad. I was trying everything possible to delay the inevitable working-for-the-rest-of-your-tragic-life stage. I’d stayed on at university to hold on to the good life, and Lucy, at the age of twenty, was the personification of this. She knew how to get by with as little effort as possible, reserving all remaining energy for recreational hedonism.

This was very attractive at the time. But now, in the cold light of the real world, I was beginning to see things differently. A continuation of the good life in the city could only be maintained by either coming from money or making significant amounts of it. It wasn’t great that I’d been blessed with neither, but at least I had a job. A job with prospects.

We found the party at a townhouse six identical streets down from the parked car. As soon as we entered, we were enveloped by the warmth of loud voices buoyed by the self-confidence of alcohol, narcotics and the festive season in general. Desperate to get a drink in hand and begin dissolving my baseline social anxiety, I made a beeline for the kitchen with Lucy trailing behind, exchanging nods and Hi, hun!s with people she recognised.

En route, Toby, the party’s host, stopped me in my tracks.

“Will! Will-i-am! My dear boy, how are you? You’ve met Nyles? Nyles Henry —the ultimate en-tre-pre-neur—just returned from the wilderness! Eh, Nylesy?”

An intoxicated Toby lazily thumbed towards an archetypal tall, dark and handsome stranger standing beside him. The stranger wore a loose, partially open white cotton shirt that signposted an impressive physique. He complemented this with elegantly chiselled features and perfect flowing jet-black hair. In comparison, my own look was very amateur—hair enthusiastically plastered with product and a salmon-pink Ralph Lauren polo. And yes, I had unfortunately succumbed to the collar-up mode.

“No, I don’t think I have…” I smiled, shook Toby’s hand, and extended the same gesture to Nyles, who stepped forward.

“Pleasure to meet you both!”

I had temporarily forgotten Lucy was by my side. Lucy, my most dependable social crutch, nodded politely. She smiled at Nyles for definitely a bit too long before seeing someone she recognised and disappearing. I was left stranded. Stranded and without a drink. Searching for something to say, I looked around desperately for inspiration. Thankfully, Nyles came to my rescue.

“I think we’ve met before, haven’t we, brother?”

“Erm, we have?”

Toby’s attention had now also been directed elsewhere. I weighed up the odds and decided it was probably okay to politely give Mr Hugo Boss the slip and find sufficient alcohol to tolerate this kind of interaction.

“Yes, brother, I’m certain—I never forget a face!”

Brother? Who says that? I gave up. Nyles was clearly intent on having a conversation, whether I liked it or not. I studied the smiling dark eyes before me. Nothing. Maybe a vague familiarity, but then again, he had the look of every male model in every advert for every Italian designer label.

“Curtis & Morgan!”

Shit! He’d got me there. That was my firm. My all-too-familiar sense of generic panic engaged. Adrenal glands gently flickering into action. Pulse quickening. Palms starting their trademark sweat. Should I know this guy? Is he somebody important?

“Yes, brother! I knew it! Outside JM’s office. I passed you in the corridor on my way out, didn’t I? Filthy old bastard that one!”

Nyles cracked a broad grin to reveal immaculate polished ivory. I struggled to return the smile, concentrating hard on not looking too panicked. JM’s office? Jeremy Morgan? One of the firm’s founding partners? Surely not. He had the reputation of an absolute gentleman—plus, I’d only ever seen the inside of his office once, a couple of weeks ago, to discuss rumours of a potential merger. I’d been a nervous wreck, waiting outside his office for what seemed like hours… Hardly surprising that I’d no recollection of this guy.

“Ha! Relax, brother! You look genuinely stressed out.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t worry, I’ve just got one of those memories for faces. Now remember, this is a party—at least try to enjoy yourself.”

“Well, yes, quite.” I looked around at the cavorting mass of social exuberance and once again felt very sober.

“Well, listen, brother, shan’t keep you. You look a little parched. Have yourself a very Merry Christmas!”

I was saved from any further awkwardness by the standard graces of social etiquette. Smiling, I avoided offering my sweaty handshake and squeezed past him, further into the bowels of the party, desperate to find an antidote to another godawful evening.

Chapter 3: Two Weeks Before Christmas

Life can be a real bastard sometimes.

Over the next three weeks, I would lose everything. On reflection, this didn’t amount to that much, but at the time, it was everything.

The credit crunch of 2008 bit me hard. As its teeth tore through the financial sector, my job was one of many to fall in tandem with stock markets around the globe. There were whispers in the corridors of job losses, but I foolishly decided to ignore them. Rumour is, after all, the backbone of any financial institution, especially one trading in futures.

Plus, I’d been given a major account. I’d also been involved, albeit peripherally, in discussions on the potential merger of our firm with a similar-sized Swiss outfit. I’d never complained, never grumbled, always arrived early, always stayed late. I thought I was the model junior employee. I thought I was indispensable—an integral part of the team.

Turns out I wasn’t.

On Thursday, December 11th, I walked out of the marble-floored lobby of Curtis & Morgan, one of London’s oldest financial firms, for the last time. I’d been there less than a year. I was told in no uncertain terms that those most newly recruited would be the first to fall. Nepotism, though, was alive and well, and a few held on to their jobs by virtue of their family names. It turned out that we, the non-connected, were only the beginning of the cull.

I blinked back tears as I nodded to Tony, the affable security-guard-slash-doorman loyally watching the threshold. He was a fellow Yorkshireman, and I’d liked to think there’d always been an unspoken mutual respect between us. That was the last time I ever saw him.

“Have a good ’un, Will lad!”

“Night, Tony, mate.”

Alright for that fucker—his job was probably safe.

I was immediately ashamed of my venom as my anger subsided. Embarrassed, I stumbled through the polished chrome and glass of the revolving door, trying not to let it aptly hit me in the arse on the way out.

Dazed, I stepped into a cold winter’s afternoon. The fading light created an ethereal high street. Disbelief turned off the early rush-hour soundtrack of the financial district. The roar of the city was silenced by a feeling of helplessness. Horns, engine noise and pedestrian chatter became a mumbled, distant whisper. I passed by the usual traders urgently tapping and barking into their Blackberrys while fiercely sucking snatched cigarettes. Their familiarity was now gone. I was no longer part of their world.

I looked up the street adorned with Christmas lights already switched on to light up the early smog of dusk. I felt like crying. I’d been made redundant. Sacked. Properly sacked. Two weeks before Christmas. What kind of bastard institution does that?

I’d played it safe and, with more than a little embarrassment, taken the two months of final salary rather than the stock options that were being offered. I had absolutely no savings to fall back on, so that was the only choice. Up until this point I’d not exactly been careful with cash. Once the money had started coming in, I’d seen no reason that it should ever stop. I’d ignored all warning signs and had been lording it over London with the best of them.

The final kick in the teeth was the cancellation of the lucrative Christmas bonus. To make matters worse, I’d already placed a significant portion of it as a down payment on a brand-new BMW. A payment I’d be desperately trying to claw back over the next few days through countless embarrassing conversations with smug and unsympathetic salespersons. One saving grace was that I hadn’t yet paid for a trip to Vienna—a city break intended as the basis of a surprise proposal to Lucy. This was to be a very small stroke of luck in an otherwise extremely grim festive period.

I looked at the hurrying masses and felt so alone that I began to panic. I needed to speak to someone. I needed to confide in another human being—share the pain of the moment. I only really had two socially acceptable options. Lucy was one of them, and I couldn’t face that. I had to tell her face to face, fess up, be a man.

I scrolled back over my phone’s meagre recent call history until I found Max. A pint or two with Max, my only real friend in the city, would hopefully help put things into perspective. His eternal optimism was what I needed to be around right now. I knew I verged on being a shameless hope parasite at times, but right now I didn’t care.

“’Sup, blud? How’s tricks?”

“Aw mate, not good… I’ve been fucking fired! Proper fi—”

“Ha! Gotcha!”

“What?”

“Seriously though, unless you’re a model or a smoking-hot air hostess, don’t even thinking about leaving a message! Awww yeah!”

Wanker. The dial tone confirmed that he had indeed got me. Despite my mood, I had to concede this was actually pretty good for Max. I mean, anyone who phoned him outside of a social capacity might be less than impressed—his mother or boss, for example—but things like these did not really seem to concern Max.

Defeated, I briefly thought about calling my own mother, but I hadn’t called her in weeks and I didn’t want to risk upsetting her. As an only child, I was a bit of a shit son. Unsurprisingly, this thought failed to lift my spirits.

Clad in my newish Paul Smith suit, which was quickly to become my most expensive possession, I swallowed hard and headed towards the Tube. For the first time in my life I was tasting real failure. Unemployed in my mid-twenties, with very little on the horizon.

Facing the unknown at that age should be exciting, but I was terrified.