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Okay hands up, thought Dave as he closed the solid oak door behind him, entering one of the most stately and prestigious (amongst friends) offices in the United Kingdom. Well-hidden and lost somewhere in the thick of the Sussex countryside, this place was clearly way off the map and virtually fortified. Not to mention the pack of (illegal) dog breeds from hell which lives behind the awesomely decorative letterbox to the mini-château.
Dave dithered for a few moments, taken by the sheer size and splendour of this new environment. He was also surprised by the sudden drop in temperature on this side of the door, which was clearly down to the mysterious lack of central heating. Squinting at the seated figure in the middle distance he edged sheepishly towards the mahogany, Elizabethan-style desk on which stood a solitary, green-shaded and gold-plated 1930s bankers' lamp. He had no idea what to expect. Expect the unexpected, he mused and, dealing himself the upper hand strode purposefully and impulsively ahead, his steps becoming automatic and absorbed by the lucid trance into which he was falling. Something big was on the cards. He had that feeling. Having reached the desk, Dave contemplated the self-made tycoon's shifting auras. Their eyes locked. Had Dave known anything about the Tarot, he might have described the other man as a cross between the Emperor and the Hierophant, but with more than a hint of the Devil.
*
Six months hence, whatever actually came to pass in that office was still something of a mystery hanging over Dave: he could remember nothing whatsoever after the initial encounter; not even the sound of the man's voice. He had gathered that the second set of managing agents had slammed a couple of CCJs his way, but that was no great shakes: another bankruptcy meant nothing to David. The strange thing was that none of his clever little schemes had actually been pursued. In fact he was actively encouraged to carry on exactly as before, only this time using new, improved 'real' bailiffs appointed by the plaintiffs who, of course, were expecting to be cut into the deal.
And that is how, in short, Dave is now in charge of rent collection from and contract management for several hundred non-existent retail outlets.
*
Two unanswered questions haunt Dave every morning when he wakes up and intermittently throughout the week. These are: Why can I not remember what happened in Sussex ? and What's in it for them ? Almost six months have elapsed since Dave received direct instructions from the top of the chain not to lease out any more units. Astronomical rent increases combined with the recharge of equally astronomical running costs to even the most stalwart small businesses under Dave's control have by now precipitated the closure of every single one of them.
Day caretakers and night porters are now the sole inhabitants of each of the properties under receivership to the real owners, with whom Rushkins are now dealing directly and all subordinate outstanding leases - whether for twenty-five years or a hundred - have now been invalidated. As a result, the centre managers and most cleaning and security staff have been fired and, as no new shopping centres are being opened, many have been left jobless and resourceless, with few transferable skills in a market where the skills they do possess are ten-a-penny. But Dave has neither compassion for nor tolerance of that type of idiot. For God's sake half the House of Commons must be signing on; lack of resourcefulness can be attributed solely to a combination of mollycoddled presumptiveness and an idle imagination.
The general public, meanwhile, does not appear to have noticed anything unusual: the many Arndale Centres and more upmarket shopping arcades, just as the rich panoply of local open-air markets are more than adequate to keep the punters happy and blissfully uninquisitive.
But something strange is definitely being brewed up behind the faceless façade of northern medium-calibre high street shopping development and retail planning. In a nutshell, something else is being planned which is definitely not connected with the usual conversions to luxury apartments, nightspots, restaurants and mini-leisure complexes which dominate the business pages and often headlines of most local newspapers and nightlife magazines. If this were not the case, Dave would certainly know about it by now.
What's in it for them ? Why are they still paying me ? Are they really just cutting their losses by avoiding tax and operational overheads in a no-hope niche of the developers' market ? Ordering a second Jack Daniels in a rainwashed, half-covered winebar terrace on Manchester's ever-wintry Deansgate, Dave puts some effort into remembering more about that eerie meeting in Sussex. Two pounds, please. Handing the waitress a crisp, freshly-printed banknote without even looking at it: Keep the change.