Ethics

  Published in 2011

  Copyright © Text R.D. Le Coeur.

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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  Published by RD Le Coeur

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  Ethics.

  David abhorred travelling on public transport. In fact the last time he had been on a train was when there was steam coming out of the funnel. Ah, happy days of travelling to boarding school, he thought. In those days they had a proper first class and one would not be subjected to the ruminations of morons. Especially the likes of the two women he was now sharing a table with.

  The Daily Telegraph crossword was a bugger today, he had decided, so he put his fountain pen down carefully and stared out of the window.

  “Do gay boys have to wear a veil in Afghanistan?” asked one of the women.

  “Nah, they got to wear a pink cowboy hat with kiss me quick on it.”

  “You sure it ain’t a red flowerpot hat with tassels?”

  “Whatever.”

  There ought to be a law, thought David.

  These two were the divine progeny of education, education, education or in their particular case, the lack thereof.

  It had been a funny day really. Funny peculiar. A man of strict regimen, this sojourn on a Wednesday afternoon felt strange. He should have been back in his office by now. He should have been sat at his walnut desk, the one he had commanded for thirty loyal years.

  Rain now splattered the window and as the train increased speed, it ran in parallel rivulets which vibrated into interesting different shapes. He wanted a cigar. No chance these days, thanks to the nanny stating bastards. What was wrong with cigars? They were a civilised way of spending one’s leisure time thinking. He had solved many a complex puzzle puffing on cigars. Never mind, he thought, only another half hour and he would be able to light up in freedom. You could not get more left wing totalitarian than Castro. Why had the UK left wing strayed so far from their smoking roots? It was a conundrum.

  The women passengers had now started talking about shopping.

  “I hope they’ve got some decent shops.”

  “My Garry says I can buy what I like as long as it’s got a famous designer label on it.”

  “Is he playing Saturday?”

  “Nah. On the bench. Groin strain.”

  “You dirty cow!”

  They both cackled like machine guns in a mortuary.

  The whole world was obsessed with wearing clothes with some one else’s name on them. What was wrong with them? wondered David.

  He glanced at his Rolex Oyster, carefully screwed the top back onto his Mont Blanc pen and smoothed his Saville row suit trousers. Time for a wee-wee, he decided and to scout for alternative seating.

  He stood, put his jacket on and clipped the pen back into the inside pocket. He left the Daily Telegraph as a marker of his alleged intent to return shortly.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said, as he made his way past one of his unwelcome table companions. Negotiating the aisle on a fast moving train was not always easy. He was grateful that he was not carrying two cups of coffee.

  Both the toilet compartments had the engaged sign lit.

  The light went off on the left hand cubicle and he waited patiently. Two persons emerged. One male, one female, both flushed in the face. The girl wore a tee shirt, which appeared to be inside out and her breasts looked like two sink plungers desperately trying to escape confinement.

  “I’d give it ten if I were you buddy,” said the man who had more body piercing than a freshly road-killed hedgehog. David nodded acceptance of the circumstances and waited for cubicle two. He did not have to wait long. The door opened and wave of Chanel number five assailed his nostrils. It was a passing pleasantry. Once inside it was more ‘eau de elephant’s enclosure’ at a travelling circus.

  He was relieved to get back out into the corridor, but English enough to worry that the next occupant of the cubicle would think him responsible for the stench.

  He made his way quickly to the next carriage. It was fairly full, but there was a space next to two young businessmen. He asked politely if the seats were taken before noticing a copy of today’s Sun on the table, lurking behind a laptop.

  “Nah, park yourself by there pal. No problemo.”

  David sat.

  Suddenly, not relishing the thought of conversing, he picked up the paper and asked, “Do you mind?”

  “Help yourself mate. I only get it for the tits.”

  He glanced at the headlines ‘Princess Diana.’ Oh my god, he thought, they are still banging on about it.

  ‘There were three of us in this marriage’ said the sub-headline. In David’s view, it was more like twenty three if you counted all the alleged lovers. She had evidently skipped ‘maffs’ at school and got A stars at media manipulation and self obsession.

  “Is the Queen English?” asked one of his new table companions to the other.

  “Dunno. You’d be better off asking Rich, he’s good at politics.”

  Jesus H. Christ, thought David. He thought he’d glance at the crossword and fill in the simple clues in his head. There was an immediate problem. He read the first two clues again, before glancing at the others. He decided that if you had any modicum of intelligence that there were probably two possible answers for each question. He gave up and decided to risk reading another article. He tutted as he noted a poor child had been abducted abroad again. What was wrong with the world? Knowing the country in question, he decided that their police had probably issued an identikit picture of a tiger with a monkey riding on its back as being the only possible suspects.

  He checked his watch again. Thirteen minutes ‘til light up time. He looked out of the window, the rain had eased and the landscape changed.

  His mind recounted the events of today, Wednesday, thus far. He had kissed Marjorie, his good lady wife, farewell and departed by car to the office. Traffic, as usual, had been a nightmare, but better than public transport. Miss Briggs, his secretary, had welcomed him with his usual coffee. He had to stop calling her that he reminded himself. She was now Mrs Jenny Jankowski and she was his personal assistant. The mountain of paperwork that he had left untidily on his desk last evening had been carefully filed away so that he could start the day afresh.

  He had his own regimen here. One problem at a time and one day to sort it or file it and hope no one chased it up. If they did, he blamed his personal assistant for being so manically thorough as to have accidentally filed it prior to c
ompletion.

  The management meeting at 10am had confirmed the shock horror whispers around the markets.

  It was announced that a hostile bid was being launched by a go getting American Company of asset strippers, backed by Middle Eastern money. The heady mixture of a medieval mindset mixed with the ruthless pursuit of mediocrity, as long as you worked 16 hours a day, was frightening. Rumours were circulating wildly along the corridors that anyone over the age of thirty that didn’t eat steak with tomato ketchup and drink gallons of bottled mineral water would be jettisoned into outer space.

  There would be blood on the balance sheet. Mature blood.

  This information had rattled his cage. He did not like change, especially change for change sake and some young guns riding roughshod over tried and trusted business methods. He had seen it before in rival companies. The new sheriff arrived in town with a mob of Santa’s helpers.