Tomas Read Free Page B

towards a yacht, mobile still clamped to his ear, photographers calling his name, a small crowd gathered to watch and admire. Tomas is prepared to provide another morality lesson but holds back for a moment out of curiosity. At the raised gangplank of his boat, Boss Olgarv reaches into his pocket. This is it, the climax of the show. He withdraws his hand with a flourish and brandishes a clicker, which he points at the boat. The crowd and press pack fall silent. ‘Click. Click.’ Nothing happens. He shakes it and aims in a different direction. ‘Click. Click.’ And again, ‘Click. Click.’ The gangplank, whose purpose in life is to descend, permitting its owner a magnificent exit, remains stubbornly erect.
    A bead of sweat forms on Boss Olgarv’s brow. Someone in the crowd sniggers. The commander of men and worlds can’t command a plank. The finale isn’t going to plan.
    As he waits on the dockside, face reddening, an aide calls from the balustrade of the yacht. ‘Boss. We need you on board as soon as possible. The video conference is about to start. The American bankers are waiting.’
    â€˜Idiot,’ he replies, the walls of his cool beginning to crumble. ‘This fucking thing won’t work. Get me on board.’
    The aide blanches and disappears, reappearing with an engineer in blue overalls, who attempts to entice the gangplank to obey by way of a manual lever. Disembodied grunts, huffs and puffs and a ‘Fuck!’ float over the yacht rail. The gangplank maintains its phallic posture, as if it has sighted a female gangplank across the harbour and is sending a friendly message.
    â€˜Boss. We must get you on board for the call. We could lose the deal. We’ll use the hoist.’
    Boss Olgarv assesses his options. Humiliation, slung on board like a pack animal, or losing a deal? A nanosecond later he beckons for the hoist to be lowered. A mechanical arm emerges from the yacht bow, a harness dangling from it.
    â€˜Put your arms through the straps,’ calls the aide. ‘Secure the belt around your waist, click the safety buckle and we’ll do the rest.’
    Boss Olgarv complies. A thousand trumpets sound the collapse of his citadel of self-esteem.
    Tomas is mesmerised by the spectacle of this harnessed animal aloft. Even a cow would have more dignity; surrender to its fate, perhaps emitting a moo of complaint. Tomas wants the fat Russian to moo. But God is in his heaven – something better happens.
    Halfway to the deck, still dangling in mid-air, the hoist stutters and stops. It’s an industrial machine tested to destruction by Teutonic robots. Perhaps today it senses an ego heavier than any physical burden and gives up. The fat Russian panics.
    Twisting, turning. ‘No, Boss. No.’ Flailing, failing.‘Boss. Stop. No.’ The safety buckle surrenders its captive and the azure waters welcome an unfamiliar creature into their enveloping depths.
    Brilliant bankers at their best
…
    The crowd rushes to the water’s edge.
    Cameras train on a bobbing head and there is a tropical rainstorm of clicks. But what’s this spherical object floating nearby?
    â€˜It’s his stomach,’ a cry goes up. ‘He’s got a detachable stomach. Look, it’s so fat it’s floating.’
    Even though he’s half submerged, Tomas sees the look of horror on Boss Olgarv’s face. If only the depths would swallow him up. But this is all too much fun, so the depths decide not to.
    Boss Olgarv makes another rapid calculation. Under maritime law, a salvaging party can lay claim to a stricken vessel, jettisoned cargo containers and any random object floating on the surface of the water.
    â€˜Save my stomach!’ he shrieks. ‘Leave me. Hoist it up. Do it.’
    What presence of mind to save his stomach, thinks Tomas.
    Since the stomach is now unencumbered by its owner’s ego, the hoist decides to cooperate and the