Old Traders Never Die

Chapter 13

'Don't forget the scum's arriving tomorrow lads,' Andy reminded everyone as the trading floor emptied that evening.

The 'scum' being the G20 protesters who were to descend mob-like on the City in droves for the next several days. They like a good old protest do these so-called 'anti-capitalist' sorts. In fact, many of them make a career out of it, swanning around the world having a pop at bankers and other groups of people who actually work for a living. They claim, of course, that they are against a society which mugs ordinary people and exploits the under privileged, but many get by on state handouts - mugging the very people that they claim to represent. That was our view, in any case.

Anyway, most of the traders were really looking forward to locking horns with the protesters. And, as most of the group were relatively young, this would be the first chance they would have to experience the fun and games that could be had at the scum's expense. The protesters were, of course, a welcome distraction. Any excuse to down tools for a few days and take the mickey out of a bunch of ne'er-do-wells was a gift - especially at a time when life was difficult if you were a trader in the City.

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'Look at him', Tim said. A few of the traders had gathered by the window to get a look at the early action. 'He's fucking bonkers!'.

I peered out of the window, and was amazed to see Peter running the gauntlet of protesters. Although we'd been told by HR to wear casual gear (so that us City types couldn't be identified and wouldn't be picked on), Peter clearly wasn't prepared to compromise. In fact, he seemed to be taking great pleasure in baiting the crowd, as he calmly passed through, wearing his best pin-striped suit, his most outrageous tie, and swinging his umbrella. All he was missing was a bowler hat!

'You capitalist pig!', someone in the crowd shouted somewhat unimaginatively.

'Fucking toff!', cried another, as the mob moved in scenting a kill.

If Peter was worried, he surely didn't show it. And, within seconds, the police (there were hundreds of them) quickly moved in to form a barrier between him and the mob, escorting him skillfully to the front of our building. The crowd was jeering now, and a few empty scrunched up paper coffee cups came Peter's way. Before entering the building, he turned, smiled, and then gave the crowd the finger. They were provoked now, and quickly came to the conclusion that our building was the centre of all things evil, and that it was their duty to give it, and its occupants, their particular attention before the day was out. Peter had successfully marked our card.

In our office, however, Peter was even more the hero.

'Good on yer', one of the other traders said as Peter came onto the floor to much applause.

'Fuck 'em', he said. 'It's times like this when you wish you had a gun'.

'We've got a gun!', Andy replied, 'I'd almost forgotten all about it'.

And indeed we did. Well, it wasn't a proper gun, it was an air rifle. It'd been kept in a cupboard for years, together with a box of pellets. Many years back, there was a terrible mice problem in the office, and one of the traders (now long since departed) decided that it would be a good idea to bring the air rifle to work to take pot-shots at the mice, who had become so brazen that they even took to coming out during daylight hours. Rumor has it that he was an expert marksman, and killed several vermin, until a stray shot bounced off a computer screen and lodged into one of the office walls. The gun was then placed in a cupboard, where it has mostly been ever since.

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'There's fucking thousands of them', Tim cried out, 'And they're all heading this way'. It had taken several hours for the crowd to obtain critical mass, but they were now a seething mob, having worked each other up into a frenzy. Luckily for us, the police were one step ahead of them, and had cordoned off the building.

'Let's really wind 'em up', Andy said as he and a few other young traders broke into the cleaner's cupboard and took half-a-dozen mop buckets and filled them with water. Taking the buckets up to the roof, the traders proceeded to throw the contents over the first line of protesters, drenching them (and a few police) in the process.

By this time, a number of staff in the surrounding offices had clocked on to what was going on, and they had come to their office windows to watch events unfold. A huge cheer went up when several of the mob got soaked, and this just made the protesters even more annoyed. Surging forward, it was clear that, despite their numbers, the police would soon be overcome. And I genuinely started to feel for our safety.

'Women, children and big revenue-generators first', Andy joked as he returned to the trading floor.

'I'm not sure that was so smart', I said as he approached me, still grinning from ear to ear.

It was then that I heard the gasp of the crowd, and the screaming began.

'There's a rifle up there by the window', one of the protesters cried, 'There gonna shoot us!'.

Panic ensued, as those at the front tried to clamour to safety. But no-one could move, as the crowd was packed so tightly together. People were being pushed to one side, and I saw that several had been forced to the ground, being trampled underfoot.

My heart was in my mouth as I saw what was happening, and realised that someone had got hold of our old air rifle and was pointing it out of an upstairs window at the crowd. I looked around. Most of the traders were back the floor, but Tim was conspicuous by his absence. The stupid fucker!

It was only a couple of minutes later that Tim resurfaced. 'Where's the fucking rifle ?' I shouted.

'Relax, Dave, will you', he replied. 'And keep your fucking voice down. It worked didn't it ?', he laughed. 'Scared the fucking shit out of them, didn't it ? Serves 'em fucking right. And it was all over before the police noticed what was going on. So no-one's gonna know. The police will think they just made it up'.

'Oh my God', I then heard Michael groan. 'I don't fucking believe it'.

And with that, we all looked over at the large Bloomberg screen on the front wall. Michael was glued to it. And Bloomberg was repeatedly showing a brief clip of what looked like a gun protruding from one of our office windows. We were done for - or at least Tim was.

Chapter 14

It wasn't long before the police were all over the building. And this time they came in numbers, and they were armed. They were also very pissed, as some of the mob had been injured in the panic that followed the sighting of the 'rifle'. By this time, it was all over the news, and the BBC, CNN and Sky TV were running reports of what had happened. We were hitting the headlines around the world. The guys in Corporate Communications would be having kittens!

After a thorough search of the top floors, the police descended onto the trading area (a member of staff had apparently pointed out that it was more than likely a trader that had pulled the stunt - on the basis that traders were the only ones stupid enough to do something like that). The police also knew about the air-gun's history (and that it had been kept in a cupboard on the trading floor for years), and were determined to find it, fingerprint it, and identify the culprit. But, despite a full-blown search of the building, they had been unable to uncover it (I later learned that Tim, in one of his quicker-thinking moments, had thrown a wad of cash at one of the messengers, and persuaded him to smuggle the air-gun out of the building in his gym bag, before the police arrived).

The trading floor was packed, as the police descended and moved quickly to seal off the exits. A number of other staff from operations, IT and compliance, anxious to see the drama unfold, came onto the floor just ahead of the police.

I looked over at Tim, who was sweating, only now appreciating how reckless he had been. He wasn't laughing now, knowing that, if he was caught, he would be in serious trouble - he might even end up doing jail time. Tim was an idiot. He had become a big liability and, whatever the outcome of this little affair, he was unlikely to have a job with us for much longer. He was just too irresponsible. But, right now, he was one of us. And the few people who knew that he was the culprit still wanted to do all that they could to protect him.

The crowd gathered on the trading floor went silent, as the Detective in charge addressed us, standing on a desk at the front of the floor, near the huge Bloomberg screen. Looking stern, and clearly angry, he told us that he was determined to find out the identity of the person who caused the mayhem, and that, if necessary, he would pull every one of us into the station, and take statements; in short, he would make life very difficult for us to operate.

'So', he continued, 'You get just one chance. The person responsible for this foolhardy act needs to come forward now and take the consequences. Otherwise, you'll all suffer. I promise you that'.

A total quiet enveloped the floor, as everyone waited to see what would happen next. Michael was standing next to me, and he had his head in his hands, wondering where all this was going, and fearing the worst (and what would his dad think ?!). I wanted to look over at Tim, to see if there was any indication that he would fess up, but I couldn't do so without drawing attention to him, so I kept my eyes out front.

The Detective Inspector looked around at the faces on the trading floor, as if, by sheer will power, he would be able to flush out the guilty party. But he clearly couldn't. And just as if it looked as if the Detective was going to call time, and have us all rounded up, Peter stepped forward and shouted: 'It was me. I am Spartacus!'. I was stunned, and so were a lot of other traders on the floor. They might not have known exactly who was responsible for the incident, but they knew it couldn't have been Peter, as he hadn't left his desk since he made his dramatic entry that morning.

The police moved quickly, and surrounded him. And they were just about to cuff him, when Neil, the head of derivatives settlements, also stepped forward, saying: 'It was me. I am Spartacus!'. The police checked, and looked at each other in bemusement. They hadn't expected this. Two employees had owned up - and one must have been over 60 years old. This didn't add up.

Tim sidled over to me, just as Trudie stepped forward, shouting: 'It was me. I am Spartacus!'. The police officers and the Detective exchanged confused glances.

'What the fuck ?', Tim asked.

'It's an old Kirk Douglas film', I replied. 'Rebel slaves were caught by the Romans, who were anxious to round up Spartacus, the leader, and make an example of him. Rather than give him up, they all claimed that they were Spartacus'.

'Well, what happened to them all then ?' Tim wanted to know.

'They got fucking crucified!', I pointed out.

Getting it at last, and flushed with pride that his colleagues were doing their best to protect him, Tim stepped forward too, crying the now-familiar: 'It was me. I am Spartacus!', and before long most everyone on the floor had followed suit. The police were now totally flummoxed. They didn't know what to do, as there was no way that they could arrest everybody. And the firm staff had made it clear in dramatic style that, even if they were taken down the station, they wouldn't tell anyone anything - no matter the consequences.

Realising that he was defeated, the Detective just shook his head, and ordered the police officers out of the building. 'Come on', he shouted, 'We've wasted enough time in here already. We'll never get to the truth. Fucking bankers!'. And with that, they all left. Tim had once again lucked out. But, although he didn't know it, his luck was about to run out.

And strangely enough, although the incidents with the G20 protesters didn't do us any favours with the general public, who thought that we were just typical greedy, irresponsible bankers, they did wonders for the firm's efforts to bring in new talent. All of a sudden, we were seen as a cool firm to work for, and we were contacted by all manner of people who wanted to get on the payroll. It's a strange world, the City. Even in these politically correct days, it's still full of people trying to be rebellious.

Source: Here Is The City (hitc.com)