Korruption Kills

Chapter ONE: Looking to land-2

He said: "Shouldn't the victims who went to hospital actually get more than those who didn't?"

He didn't raise his voice. It was a genuine question. But it made the Executives squirm.

The Deputy Financial Controller said smoothly: "We have to compensate everyone for the unsettling conditions that the threat of violence brought to every one of us. We've all suffered, Sir. I think you can appreciate that."

Mickey looked around the gathered faces.

Peas in a pod, he was thinking. They all looked the same. They seem to think the same too.

"Can I get some advice on this?" Mickey asked quietly.

The door opened again.

"That would be my job," a voice said.

Two women entered the room.

The first one was someone Mickey recognised. She was called Aisling. She had been part of his life for a while, and not in a good way. They first met when she came down from Scotland and claimed to be related to that man Boyson, maybe his sister. Later, it turned out she was his sister's solicitor. It was a sham. A con. She was a crook.

She might have gone to prison, but the Judge felt sorry for her, since she was in a wheelchair.

That wasn't how she started, but something happened - falling down the stairs, maybe. Did she fall? Was she pushed? Mickey's recollection was hazy, but now that she was as badly off as him, they had become sort of allies in the Corporation. And, most coincidentally, they were only there for the same reason. They had both inherited shares.

When they both turned up at the Board Meeting, the Directors of Corsh had been shocked, worried, intrigued, and had to go away and think about it. When they came back, the offered the job of CEO to Mickey. Also, a job for Aisling.

"I am Chief Legal Officer," Aisling announced tartly to the men, as she wheeled herself into the room.

She came up the side of Mickey's broad desk and strove to see the paper on it.

The man called Ben Gamma handed her another copy from his binder.

"Compensation," he snapped.

"A proposal," she corrected him. She was a solicitor.

Mickey shook his head in wonder. He and Aisling had been enemies, once. Well, antagonists, at least. Now, she was possibly the only friend he had in the whole building. They understood each other. They were outsiders.

Aisling said, her tone sharp: "You gentlemen can withdraw now. I will discuss your suggestions with the CEO."

The smartly dressed bunch looked to Mickey. He simply nodded. They put down their coffee cups and stood up.

"Wait," Aisling added.

She turned to the second woman in the room, the one who had come in behind her.

"This is my sister Sonya," Aisling announced. "She is our new Intern in the Finance Department. Please make her feel at home. You can take her with you now and make a start on sharing your work with her."

It wasn't only Gamma who looked horrified. 'Share'? They looked like people who had secrets, and didn't like the idea of sharing their information with anyone, especially the sister of a legal person.

Perhaps they were thinking that Sonya could be a spy. They were right, Aisling knew. That was true.

Grumbling, frustrated that their ideas for spending money on themselves hadn't simply been nodded through, the men shuffled their chairs and started to depart. Then, looking at Aisling, maybe trying to impress her and win her over, they neatly stacked the chairs against the wall, making space for the two wheelchair users.

Aisling grinned at that. The obvious toadying. She wasn't impressed, but appreciated the effort.

The Intern still in the room, the man with the trolley, started to move across to clear Mickey's desk.

Aisling waved him away. She clearly intended to have a coffee of her own. She inspected the cups. They had all been used. There wasn't a clean one for her. Clicking her tongue irritably, she selected the least dirty one, poured out the dregs and refilled it from the pot. She sucked the more or less hot drink down greedily.

"You’ve seen the Patricroft Plan?" she said to Mickey, a little more calmly now that they were alone.

Mickey admired her styled. She had despatched the posse and wanted to talk business. She was sharp.

"I've been offered a drawing by a youngster called Alpha," he told her, choosing his words carefully.

"A gun factory," Aisling said, slurping coffee. "You think that's a good idea?"

She was flashing her eyes at him.

Mickey never understood her mixed messages. She was a similar age to him, and when they first met Mickey found her an attractive woman. An attractive foe. When it became clear they were on opposite sides of the previous dispute, his feelings changed completely. But now, well, he was still a man. Even in a wheelchair, she was a pretty woman, who could twist men around her little finger. A little flirting went a long way, even in the supposed 'non-sexist' office.

Mickey fought such feelings. They were two people who had both met adversity. Now they were both off their feet, there was little point in pretending. Nothing was going to happen between them.

Aisling was simply continuing her usual method of communication and manipulation. She didn't know anything else.

"I don't know what else we could do with the land," Mickey said honestly.

"How about an extension to the airport?"

Mickey looked blank. He knew that Corsh owned Barton Airport, a small, local site, but that was on the other side of the motorway, a mile or so from Patricroft. How could the new development be an extension?

Aisling explained: "Barton is doing good business. The microlight aircraft and the helicopter training are bringing in real cash. Such machines only need a bit of grass. We can't build on Patricroft, but we sure could turf it over."

It sounded possible. Mickey nodded. Where was this coming from?

"I'm not an Ideas person," Aisling said, chuckling, "but my guys on the Fourth Floor are always coming up with good suggestions. I just want you to know that guns and rifles aren't the only option. No, Sir. No way."

"Okay," Mickey said. "Can we put somebody onto it? Draw up alternate plans?"

Aisling seemed irritated by such thinking, as if she wanted an immediate decision.

She said: "Do we want to get into bed with Angel Tyson? Look, Mickey, they're not from round here. 'Angel' isn't even an English name. Like, you don't pronounce it 'Ayn-jel'. It's Angel like the German. In English, 'Angle', like 'an angle of ninety degrees'. They've still got their German roots, the firm of Korrups, going back a hundred and fifty years."

Mickey made a face. Let's not get racist here, he was thinking.

"And Tyson?" Aisling looked disdainful. "Like the boxer? You'd be right. That man made a lot of money being Heavyweight Champion of the World, and he invested it all in a U.S. Hedge Fund called Overly Hampson. When he retired from the ring they changed the name and made him Chairman of the Board. Not 'Chairperson' or 'Chair'. ChairMAN. They wanted the macho element. Mickey, he's the guy who bit off the other guy's ear. He's an animal. Worse than an animal!"

So, Aisling was offering a choice. The US/German investors, with their weapons of war, or more flying machines.

"I like what you're saying," he started, but she interrupted him again.

"I don't trust Ben Gamma or any of his cronies," she told him, backing her chair up. "I'm going down to make sure they've given Sonya a desk, at least. You chew on what I've said and we'll talk later."

'Trust'? Mickey raised his eyebrows. Could he trust Aisling? His memory wasn't good now, but he was pretty sure he had never trusted the woman, before the Boyson débâcle and after. Should he trust her now?

The Intern rushed to the door and opened it for the chair-bound lady. Then, when she was through, he turned back to his own wheels and pushed the trolley across the carpet to Mickey's desk.

"I can clear away now?" he asked. He had a low and thoughtful voice.

Mickey nodded, his mind on other things. He had a lot to think about.

The Intern came around the side of the desk, aiming for the cup that Aisling had used, (or re-used).

"You don't recognise me, do you?" the young man said calmly. "I'm Wayne Smyth. I was a good friend of Gerard's."

Mickey moved. His legs were useless but the upper half of his body was still strong, still agile.

When his eyes saw the fist coming, Mickey's brain moved automatically to get out of the way.

Wayne was punching empty air. He looked baffled, then tried with the other hand. That failed to connect too.

'Gerard'? Mickey was thinking. Gerard was a religious nut, with delusions of super powers. Mickey had fought him, way back, before he got shot. Mickey had won. Gerard was - well, dead or in prison. The battle hadn't gone his way.

This kid? He was a follower of Gerard, maybe? Another religious fanatic, then. Completely twisted.

Worse, he seemed to be blaming Mickey for something, maybe for how Gerard ended up. So, he was here to get even? To settle a score? Taking a job as an Intern? That couldn't have been too easy. Most of Gerard's followers were from the lowest echelons of society, with little education. The kid must have faked some qualification.

And waited. Waited all morning, while the men in suits talked and later, when Aisling plotted. That was impressive, Mickey was thinking. That showed real patience. He bided his time until they were alone.

The young man, Wayne, grabbed hold of Mickey's shirt and pulled the seated man towards him. Since Mickey was sitting in the light chair, not the battery powered one, the chair lifted, but Mickey had the brake on and it didn't move.

Let's get to it, Mickey was thinking. He reached down and pulled the brake lever to the off position.

The chair rolled forward, since Mickey was strapped in, around the desk and onto the carpet.

Mickey put both hands up, between Wayne's hands, and broke his hold. He pushed the kid back abruptly.

Wayne Smyth crashed back onto his trolley, and tumbled to the floor.

Ouch, Mickey was thinking, that must have hurt.

It probably did, because the youngster was annoyed now. He rushed at Mickey, both hands out.

Mickey let him come, even though he knew that young Wayne was aiming for his throat. The kid got a grip and Mickey leaned back, getting him closer. They were nose to nose, each breathing heavily, sweating.

The kid's feet were under Mickey's, but Mickey was in the chair and his feet were on metal supports. When Mickey broke the young man's grip for the second time and pushed him hard in the chest, Wayne fell over backwards - but his feet were trapped. His two ankles snapped with a noise like pistol shots.

It wasn't just the pain. His ankles were broken. He couldn't stand up, couldn't continue the attack.

Mickey had won, again.

Not bad for a chair-bound guy, he was thinking. Perhaps I'll apply to those Olympic Games for people with disabilities, he thought. If it lasts. If it lasts. I was hoping, Mickey thought, to get out of this chair sometime.

The Doctor had said physiotherapy might help. He might learn to walk again. One day.

Wayne Smyth was rolling on the floor in agony, screaming. The noise brought Mickey's assistant into the room.

When she opened the door, she saw Mickey sitting calmly while his assailant was hurt, disabled.

Mickey had a sudden flash of remembering.

"Betty!" he said to the woman. "You're called Betty!"