Neil Behrmann [Behrmann - Trader Jack - The Story of Jack Miner

The story of Jack Miner

NEIL BEHRMANN

Neil Behrmann has pulled off a literary coup with Trader Jack. He has crossed the frontier of financial commentary - where his penetrating analysis has earned a global reputation for exceptional quality - into the world of fiction and created a gem. This is not just a financial thriller which keeps the reader spellbound through a roller-coaster ride in market speculation. It deeply stirs the emotions - in particular anguish for the lead character, Jack. Some may see in him the alienated outsider, but he is also a descendant of Voltaire's naive, gullible ingenue. Jack journeys through the global financial markets, populated by villains, but he also encounters goodness.

This gripping story which I couldn't put down, is in its deepest sense a scathing indictment of shallowness, greed and hubris, interspersed with humour of the absurd. Trader Jack will bemuse and entrance all those lucky enough to find their way to it.

Brendan Brown, author of Euro Crash, is Executive Director and Chief Economist of Mitsubishi UFJ Securities International.

The right of Neil Behrmann to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

First published in Great Britain by

HandE Media Production and Publishing 2011

Second Paperback Edition published by New End Books 2011

A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from The British Library

ISBN 978-0-9533843-2-7

New End Books Ltd, London, UK

www.newendbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Names of real world media such as The Wall Street Journal, Bloomberg, Daily Telegraph, Daily Mail, Financial Times and other companies such as Nestle, Maxwell, Lavazza, Sarah Lee, Kraft and Illy have on occasion been used solely for the purpose of creating the illusion that the story occurs in the real world, but their inclusion

does not imply any endorsement by those companies. The names of the companies mentioned are registered trademarks and the rights of the proprietors are acknowledged.

Cover Design by Ruth Mahoney

Typeset by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford on Avon, UK

E-pub by Primedia eLaunch

In Memory of my parents, George and Anne and my brother Tony

About fifty people were sheltering in the open parking space under Queen Elizabeth Hall. A few were in sleeping bags, but most were under blankets and cardboard boxes. The moon and streetlights helped us see what we were doing and we settled down next to a pillar. Before long we were asleep.

The girls slept well, but I kept waking up. The hard, cold concrete floor penetrated my sleeping bag. My bones were aching and I was feeling stiff. I lay there with my eyes open, observing the others. Some slept soundly, others shuffled about. Further into the darkness, I could see the red tip of a cigarette.

Jazz stood up and pawed me, demanding a walk. I put on my jacket and left my stuff with the sleeping girls. It had stopped raining and the moon was full. We passed the Royal Festival Hall and a pier and walked alongside the river. The reflection of the moon was on the water and Big Ben, on the other side. Its bells chimed and I glanced at my watch; 3am. Waterloo Bridge was on our right. On the left, a railway bridge with a pedestrian crossing. The London Eye, the huge Millennium Wheel, was about two hundred yards away.

We began our walk on the south bank towards the Eye when I heard a thud and a choking cry. It came from the pedestrian bridge. A man must have jumped, but instead of falling into the river, he had come to a halt in midair. He hung from the end of a rope, kicking and struggling.

I rushed to the bridge, my dog alongside me and sped up the stairs towards the rope. It was tied to a railing about halfway across the bridge. The man was kicking and shaking; the rope swaying. I reached for the rope and managed to catch it. The knot fixed to the balustrade was thick and I struggled to untie it. It was too tight. I dug into the knot with my pocketknife to loosen it, so that he could fall into the river. It was his best chance. No use. The man was now twitching. Time was running out.

Jazz started growling and I looked up. There were two of them. They were at the other end of the bridge and were beginning to turn back and come towards me. The first was about six foot four with a burly body and thick beard. The other was wiry and small. I called them to help me relax the stranglehold. Jazz bared his teeth and barked; made me feel uneasy.

The yellow light of the moon, shone on them. Both were in black and they had covered their faces with balaclavas. The big one had a rope in his hand. They were coming to stop me, not to help. I felt the rope with its heavy burden. The twitching was beginning to stop and the poor man was no longer lurching furiously. It was too late. I could be next. There was only one thing to do. Run!

They tensed up like runners on a starter block and sprinted after us. Followed us from the bridge to the walkway, past the Royal Festival Hall. We turned towards Queen Elizabeth Hall where the girls were. Maybe we could hide there, but there could be a gang of them and they would find me. Better keep going. They were getting closer; their panting, louder. We ran up the stairs to Waterloo Bridge. The small wiry guy reached out to me and as I turned, I saw his small black eyes and a snake tattoo on his arm. Lucky. He tripped over a homeless guy lying in the corner of the stairs. The big man lunged at me, but missed.

I was now on the bridge and was too far ahead of them. I looked around, the men, hot from the chase, had taken off their balaclavas. Under the light of the streetlamp, the small guy was bald and had a scar across his cheek. The big guy, with the beard had a large flat nose. It looked as if it had been broken. They cursed in a language that sounded Eastern European.

I stepped up the pace and managed to get further away from them. A police car drove by on the other side of the road. I shouted for help. The police didn't stop, but it was enough to make my pursuers hesitate; allowed me to widen the distance between us. At the end of the bridge, a car was waiting for the traffic lights to turn green.

'Can you take me to a police station?' I called.

The guy closed his window, but pointed to the left. We ran across the road ignoring the red lights. I quickly turned around. The two men had suddenly stopped chasing. They were gone, but where? Maybe they knew a short cut. They could still get me. I turned left and jogged up The Strand, the road that leads to Trafalgar Square. We raced past pubs, restaurants and theatres; past other homeless people, who were lying in shop doorways. At last a sign: Charing Cross Police Station. I rested a bit, caught my breath, tied Jazz to a pole, climbed up the stairs between two big columns and went inside.

An officer was working behind a small window to the left of the reception. In front of me was a notice board with a poster of a missing girl. Another poster sought information about a man with a thick beard. Under his picture was the warning, 'Dangerous'. I went to a desk under the notice board and took a pen out of my jacket. On the back of a pamphlet about crime prevention, I wrote: 'Man hanging from railway bridge. Opposite Royal Festival Hall. Happened at 3am.'