Even tom me, some of this feels a bit sacreligious, so erm, apologies in advance!
Chapter 2
A comprehensive account of how I gained control of half my father’s companies has already been published by William Shakespeare, and though he changed certain names and circumstances, presumably to avoid legal entanglement, the facts remain pretty much as that poet described. If you are familiar with the tale of King Lear, all well and good, but if you are not, do not trouble to look it out. It’s a long and tiresome story, and only the first scene is really any good.
To cut 200 pages of Elizabethan drivel into one palatable paragraph, my father went mad, split his kingdom between his children, and wandered off to England to open a sporting franchise. We heard little of him from that time, although the persistent rumour amongst the family circle was that the sporting franchise, the first company to be held privately and outside of the Liebherr corporate umbrella, was making a loss. No-one said as much directly, but it was alluded to in hushed and whispering voices, that were usually reserved for the family paedophile, or the time Uncle Herbert got ball cancer.
I had been battling with my brother ever since. He was apportioned the second half of my father’s estate, and in the manner of big brothers everywhere, seemed instinctively opposed to sharing a bounty which he could easily obtain in its entirety, simply by sitting on his sister’s face and pinging her bra-strap. And such he had done, metaphorically at least, which is to say by the adoption of competitive business practices, rather than actual face-sitting and bra-pinging, which were hobbies he now reserved for his leisure time, and in any case, did not require my participation.
My publishers advise that the average reader of female memoirs, is a 52 year old divorced mother of three named Gladice Pinkworth, who lives in a 3 bedroom terraced house on a council estate in Lincolnshire, and wouldn’t know a CFO from a STD, so it is probably not worthwhile to explain in detail the exact nature of these competitive business practices. To put it in terms that Gladice would understand, imagine that I was an overweight mother of three, sitting in a Lincolnshire council house, drinking red wine straight from the box, scoffing chocolate mint Matchmakers, and playing my brother at Monopoly. I would buy Angel of Islington, and then he would buy Euston Road. I would build a house, and he would build a hotel. I would win second prize in a beauty contest, and he would suggest that the other participant, must have been Uncle Herbert’s cancerous testicle. You see my point. It was annoying.
I was not, even at that time, a novice in business. I had many times times been at odds with rival businessmen, and had always found a way to beat them off. If a man ever got in my way, I would get him in a firm grip, extract his poison, and leave him limp and helpless. I was ruthless. But somehow, some defect of character, or some lingering familial pride, prevented me from beating off my own brother. I needed to find another way to defeat him. Something that he wouldn’t see coming.
***
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hello,’ said The Man.
I looked at him doubtingly. He wasn’t what I had expected. He was greasy and unkempt, with yellowed teeth and a lung-cancer voice. Nothing like the movies. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘You are The Man, aren’t you?’
He winked at me. ‘I am that, love. No question.’
I shrugged. Probably the tramp look, was his disguise. Quite clever, when you think about it. I leaned in, conspiratorily. ‘So, how we do this?’
The Man grinned, and looked down my blouse. Probably checking for a wire. ‘You don’t hang about, do you love? Why don’t we just chat a bit first.’
I leaned back, puffed out my cheeks. ‘Where do I begin? It’s my brother you see. I’ve never had much trouble beating men off – I quite enjoy it – but when it’s my brother, I just… can’t. I don’t want to get my hands dirty.’
He choked slightly on his beer, and had something of a coughing fit. Perhaps he really did have lung cancer. When he recovered his breath, he was red faced, and there was a watery gleam in his eyes. ‘Let’s go somewhere more private,’ he said. ‘Sit tight a second, they know me here, I’ll see if the upstairs room is free.’
He went to the bar and spoke with the landlord, who, after casting a couple of offensively leery glances in my direction, handed a key to The Man.
The upstairs room was again, not as glamorous as they tend to be portrayed in movies. It was all peeling wallpaper, mis-matched carpet, and musty smell of grandpa’s slippers. The only furniture to speak of, was an old tv that was silently showing some news channel, an antiquated basin, and a steel framed bed. I’ve seen more inviting mattresses abandoned on motorway lay-bys.
‘Take off your clothes,’ said The Man, as he closed the door.
This confused me, briefly. ‘I’m not wearing a wire!’
‘Take off your clothes,’ he repeated.
I sighed. Better to get it over with. I turned away from him, and slowly unbuttoned my blouse. ‘So, erm,’ I said, groping for conversation. ‘Do I pay you now, or after?’
I didn’t quite catch his reply; it sounded something about ‘like fucking Christmas’, which made no sense at all, but when I slid down my skirt and panties, he made a gasping noise, like he had seen something that surprised him. ‘There’s nothing there!’ I said guiltily.
‘Bend over,’ he said. ‘Put your hands on the bed.’
This couldn’t be right. How thorough a search was he intending to carry out? Was it likely, that the police would shove a transmitter up my arse? But I supposed he knew best, he was the professional, so I did as I was asked. ‘How are you going to do it?’ I couldn’t help but inquire. I wasn’t getting cold feet, I knew my brother deserved whatever he had coming, but I still didn’t want him to suffer unnecessarily. ‘I don’t want it to be painful.’
‘It’ll be as painful as it needs to be,’ said The Man. I heard him stride across the room, and before I knew it, he shoved a full 3 fingers up my vagina.
I gasped out in shock, and span my head round, eyes spinning. For some reason, I thought immediately of my father. When my eyes came back into focus, I could see why. He was on the television, on the news. A big picture of him, with a gurning smile, and wearing a ridiculous red and white scarf. Across the bottom of the screen was written, Markus Liebherr 1948-2015.
‘Get out my way!’ I shoved the man aside, and ran to the television. I fumbled with the volume control, and all too soon, I found out the truth. My father was dead. I slumped to my knees.
‘What’s going on?’ said The Man.
‘That,’ I said weakly, pointing at the screen. ‘That’s my father. He’s dead. There’s no point, anymore. There’s no need for you to kill my brother. A hitman can’t help me now. Whatever is going to happen, will be settled in my father’s will.’
‘Kill your- Kill? What the fuck are you talking about! You’re mad!’ exclaimed The Man, zipping his trousers, and staggering backwards. He gave me one, last, crazed look, as I sat naked and weeping on the floor, and he ran from the room. He was not quite the professional that I had been led to believe. I probably still had his fingerprints in my vagina.
