Action under the table
By Amrita Dhingra

YOUR memory had served you correctly and you were relieved to see that the rosetinted glasses of nostalgia had not really been exaggerating reality. Your club was still very much the same and it welcomed you back like a long lost brother, or at least the fellows did. So far an hour you had a great time. After the round of backslapping and "where have you been old man", they urged you towards the watering hole, not that you needed much urging in the first place. As you looked around at the familiar faces — the stupid, the sloshed, the sober, the slightly sagacious, you felt a sense of well-being you had not known for many a day.

"So tell me old chap what’s been going around here these days?" you asked of Rollo, eager to find out all that had taken place while you’d been gone.

"Lots actually, you missed out on the selection of new members, had a lot of fun at their dining-in, some jolly decent chaps on the whole. The odd odd-ball present as usual." "Anyone in particular," you asked for it was the policy of your group to keep a sharp lookout for these wet blankets.

"No," said Rollo loftily, "there’ve all towed the line so far. I made sure of that!"

"Good."

The annual bathing in the fountain outside the club after getting sloshed went without a hiccup." At this point however his self-congratulatory tone became slightly thoughtful, "but hang on a moment there’s this chap called Stokes. I don’t like the look of him."

"Stokes as in. A. Stokes," you asked draining a bitter cup at the mention of your old foe.

"Yup, that’s the chap. Greasy looking bloke."

"Who allowed him in here? you asked simply.

"God knows — probably came with excellent recommendations, dropped a few names."

"The creep."

"The slug."

"The hairy eight-eyed caterpillar."

The two of you seemed to agree nicely on this point as on any other and you called for another round of drinks, after which you wandered in towards the dining room with Rollo intent on that grilled sandwich.

Flavers, the waiter who usually served you, arrived beaming carrying with him his usually respectful brand of bonhomie.

"Good afternoon gentlemen. It’s been a long time since you lunched here sir," he said to you.

"Yes Flavers life has been rather hectic. I shall have a grilled sandwich."

"You shall have the best sir," he disappeared to do your bidding.

You were enjoying your grilled sandwich and it was hitting the old spot nicely. It was just as you remembered it. Crisp on the outside soft on the inside and completely wonderful. But two bites into it you suddenly lost interest in it. For you saw the face of your enemy.

"Yikes," the exclamation tore from your throat as you looked in that direction.

"What?" said Rollo who had imbibed a little more than was good for him, What? What? What?

"Look over there — there’s that slob Alan Stokes."

It was quite another a matter to know that the worm had wriggled his way into your club, but quite another to see him there, infesting the premises. How dare he walk on those hallowed carpets? How dare he set foot in this sacred dining room? Infuriated you bit on the sandwich, not really tasting it any more.

"I’ll bet you my two-seater he’s up to some dirty, rotten cheating trick the two-toed sloth," you said eyes trained on Stokes taking in every move he made.

Rollo had fallen asleep or was very possibly day dreaming, it wasn’t easy to tell which but his mouth was open and his expression was that of one who has wandered of to pleasant lands. Leaving him, you took your attention back to Stokes.

He was apparently lunching with two other chaps, both of whom were unknown to you, and both of whom immediately dropped in your estimation because of their obsequious reception and evidently close association with Stokes. Neither of them seemed to notice you as you glared across the room as they talked animatedly. At first you thought it would be the usual matey sort of banter but when Alan Stokes took out a sheaf of official-looking papers your curiosity began to get the better of you.

What the hell was this insult to humanity upto now? What new way had he found to defraud whoever he was planning to defraud? And just who was he planning to defraud? The other two were lapping up his story eagerly, you could have given a lot to hear exactly what their conversation was.

You sat there for about quarter of an hour gnashing your teeth while your enemy laid plans you were sure were meant to harm somebody. And then just when you thought you could take it no longer, the thought came to you in a flash. Why couldn’t you hear what was being said? What or who was there to stop you? For a moment the idea blinded you with its brilliance. Of course why couldn’t you! Like the high jumper who overcomes a mental block from I can’t to I can, you became a liberated man. A keen observer would have noticed that your eyes were shining with a new light.You decided to do something about this idea and looked about the room for possibilities.

Maybe it was because of the idea and your new mental set, maybe it was because Lady Luck had decided to side with you for once, but suddenly the possibilities were endless. The dining room was a round room with all windows all around — tall windows with all curtains. You left your table silently, stealthily. Concealing yourself behind the curtains and making your way towards their table was for you the work of a moment. The softly lit room insured that you weren’t conspicuous to any but the most observant onlookers and happily your club did not have any observant onlookers.

As you neared their table you peeked through a chink in the curtains and saw that a waiter was delivering a message of sorts to Stokes, after which Stokes left the table. A trifle disappointed you nevertheless decided to carry on.

As you sank to your knees and began to edge from behind the curtain to under the table-cloth you were conscious of a certain dry feeling in the mouth which you stoutly ignored. Soon the deed was done. You had managed to procure a position for yourself under their table. Sitting there you thanked the powers that be for the fact that these tables were built on generous lines and there was enough space for you to fit under here quite comfortably. Also you felt a good deal of pride in your achievement. Pride which you had found lacking even in the toughest project you undertook. Maybe this was the secret to enternal peace and happiness. Maybe this was your enlightenment.

You also felt that 007 could take a few pointers from you in the matter of insinuating yourself as part of the woodwork. If you ever lost your job at the old firm you were hopeful of a place in one or the other intelligence agency. The thought bucked you up considerably, till you realised you’d been letting your mind wander and were probably missing out on a very important conversation. Chastened, you endeavoured to make amends for your lapse.

"......Brilliant fellow is Alan," said the chap sitting on your left and whose left sock had a tear in it, "always knew he had it in him to pull off something big but this big!"

"You bet and so incredibly generous — taking us into confidence and letting us in on this goldmine. My dad’ll never be able to say I am good for nothing again. Let him watch we’ll go laughing all the way to the bank. Ha! Just you watch pop!" The voice was very young and you winced as you realised that this was another one of those unfortunate beings Alan Stokes caught young.

Sitting there under the table you heard the two of them hero worship the biggest scoundrel that ever sullied the earth, wishing all the while that you could take these two puppies and send them scampering on their way home.

‘What a brilliant idea I mean all I have to do is use my Dad’s office while he’s out. Fantastic never could have thought of it in a million years myself!"

That’s because you’re probably just a spoilt little rich kid and not a snake in the grass, you tought to yourself.

"And then we operate the accounts under the names of our two firms! Fabulous! What a front!" said the chap with the torn left sock who seemed to be the elder and seedier of the two.

"Having a good time chaps!" came a voice that tried to be hearty but stopped much short of it because of the undeniable fact that it had a nasal twang to it and would always be whinny never hearty. A third pair of feet slid under the table as Alan Stokes, that serpent, returned to his seat.

"Have another round it’s on me!"

It was, you remembered, an old trick of his — to get you so high that you no longer cared what you said, or did or dared. Back at the business school he had taken your prize winning paper off you in much the same way and then presented it as his own the very next morning. The young fool sitting on his right had plans of showing his father just how brilliant he was, he had plans of laughing all the way to the bank. You knew better. The only place he’d be going to would be the cooler and his dad would probably have to dish out a pretty penny to bail him out. For whatever the business Alan Stokes would ensure that these two took the fall for him.

"Now this is the plan. You get the new share listings from me and put them into your companies system and slowly start selling your dad’s stock in Spence’s firm......"

The Spence firm. You sat up with a jerk. You saw red. Why on earth was he talking about the Spence firm? No, sorry wrong question. What was he saying about the Spence firm.

"......As the share prices plummet I’ll pretend to be sorting the mess out while actually I’ll disinvesting some of Spence’s own stock. There’ll be panic. We’ll leak the news to the media. When such a huge conglomerate goes under there’ll be waves and believe you me we’ll be up there riding them!"

Not if I can help it you won’t Stokes, you thought gnashing your teeth.

"What about old man Spence and Amanda?" asked the younger of the two chaps, "I’ve heard she has the best financial brains ever seen — will she let us walk off with all this and not put up a fight."

"Not to worry. She’s so busy fighting that overclever fool we’ve got in our company she isn’t even in the office these days."

You bridled afresh that this description of yourself and chalked it up as another one of those things Alan Stokes would have to pay for when the time came.

"Still it doesn’t seem right doing the Spences out like this. Isn’t it playing dirty?" asked the younger corruptee.

"Do you or do you not want to prove your worth to your old man? Are you a man or a chicken? It takes guts and speed and acumen to play this game! And if you don’t have it you should have stayed out of it! I won’t have you slowing me down!"

"No Alan, I mean, old man, of course you’re right. I am sorry just don’t have your guts I guess!" said the browbeaten, crestfallen youngster.

"Good then it’s all settled. I’ll give you more instructions but till then goodbye!"

With that Stokes left. You waited a minute before you slid out from under the table. There had been absolute silence from its occupants in Stokes’ wake. Now as you emerged, they were flabbergasted.

"Who....What? What?" they demanded, mouths agape, eyes round with wonder and half-fright.

"No need to be alarmed gentlemen," you reassured them. "I have been sent to save you from yourself."

As they stood there dumbstruck you paused for effect then took up two cups of coffee from a passing waiter’s tray and deliberately poured a cup each down their pristine shirt fronts. Dismay clouded their startled faces, the emotions chasing each other across their faces.

‘Terribly sorry but that had to be done. It’ll take you home at any rate won’t it?"

They nodded.

"Good. Go straight home and stay there. And if you have any sense you’ll keep your mouth shut. I’ll send for you soon. Ciao."

Straightening out the collar your coat and buttoning it up walked out of the room, not forgetting to stop and thank Flavers for his excellent service on your way out.

This feature was published on April 4, 1999