Fatal Error (31 page)

It took Guy to pinpoint what had happened. The fault was in the API Owen had written. There were lots of told-you-sos from Dcomsult. Owen blamed them for not
anticipating what he was going to do. Guy tried to put a lid on the recriminations and make everyone concentrate on getting the site on-line again. It was a difficult task. Owen was not prepared to admit he was wrong.

Eventually Dcomsult insisted on a meeting. We were sitting round a table: two of them, Guy, me, Amy, Ingrid and Owen. The leader of the Dcomsult team was a Yorkshireman called Trevor. He was squat, compact, with a permanently intense expression. You could tell he was a techie, because he spoke rapidly, but he was articulate and what he said was clear and understandable.

‘We have identified the problem with the system,’ he began. ‘It’s with the API that modifies our product catalogue.’

‘The problem’s with your e-commerce package, not the API,’ interrupted Owen.

Trevor writhed in frustration.

Guy held up his hand. ‘Just a moment, Owen. I want to hear what Trevor has to say, then we’ll hear from you.’

Owen growled, his small eyes gleaming.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Trevor. ‘The API is ingenious. And if we could integrate it with the rest of the solution it could be very powerful. But that’s going to take time. And that’s basically our choice.’

‘Go on,’ said Guy.

‘We have two options,’ Trevor continued. ‘One: we can work on the API until we have it reliably integrated into the system.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘There’s no way of knowing,’ said Trevor. ‘Could be a week. Could be a month. Could be longer.’

‘It’s trivial,’ muttered Owen.

‘And the second option?’

‘Drop the API. Use the bog-standard catalogue architecture that comes with the package. True, it’s not as pretty and
it’s not as functional. But we will be up and running at the end of the week.’

‘And if we follow option two, are you a hundred per cent sure the system will work this time?’

‘Nothing’s a hundred per cent in this business. But we’ll be using a system that has worked dozens of times before.’

‘I see.’ Guy turned to his brother. ‘Owen?’

‘It’s a second-best solution, man,’ he mumbled.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you talk about having the best soccer site on the Internet. With my API, we’ll have it. And we’d get it done in, like, a week if these monkeys would just pull their fingers out.’

Trevor pursed his lips. I was impressed with his self-control.

Guy turned to him. ‘Owen says we can do it in a week.’

‘And I say we can’t.’

It was time for me to intervene. Owen was Guy’s weak spot and he could twist himself into knots over this one if I let him.

‘I think the answer’s clear,’ I said.

‘Oh, yes?’ said Guy.

‘Yes. Unless we get the site up in the next week we’ll have a total failure over the Christmas season. It’ll be hard for us to recover our reputation from that. And financially we’ll be strapped. We have to move forward and if that involves making some compromises, we’ve made them in the past.’

‘Amy?’ Guy asked.

‘I like Owen’s application. But I can live without it. And David’s right, we have to shift product. We have no choice.’

‘Ingrid?’

‘We have no choice.’

Guy nodded at the three of us. We were silent. He was dithering. For one usually so decisive, it was obvious he was
dithering. Owen’s large bulk was slumped in a chair opposite his brother, staring at him.

‘Trevor, we’ll go with option two,’ I said. ‘Owen, give the Dcomsult people all the help they need.’

Owen looked at his brother. Guy nodded minutely.

‘Let’s get to it,’ I said.

We returned to our desks, Guy subdued. Ingrid brushed past mine. ‘Coffee?’ she whispered, so Guy couldn’t hear.

I followed her out to a coffee shop round the corner. We collected our cappuccinos and sat down.

‘He’s got to go,’ said Ingrid.

I didn’t answer her. I would have loved to get rid of Owen. But it wasn’t that easy.

‘He’s got to go,’ she repeated.

‘I know, but how?’

‘We’ll have to tell Guy.’

‘But he’s Guy’s brother!’

‘Yeah. And Guy should realize that he’s going to cripple the company.’

‘He should, but he won’t.’

‘I don’t understand those two,’ Ingrid said. ‘I mean, I know they’re brothers, but I can’t imagine two people more different. Their relationship seems much closer than most brothers’. It’s weird. It’s almost unnatural.’

‘It is unnatural,’ I said. ‘They’re both screwed up in their own ways, and the only people they can rely on are each other. It’s always been like that. I remember at school when someone started teasing Owen. He was an obvious target. I think they called him “The Incredible Hulk” or something. It was a nasty kid called Wheeler: you know, one of those bullies who maintains power over a group by ganging up on individual members.’

‘So Guy beat him up?’

‘Worse than that. Wheeler was away one weekend. Guy
went up to the dormitory that night and explained to Wheeler’s cronies how Wheeler was manipulating them all, dividing them by bullying each one of them in turn. Guy was cool. People listened to Guy. When Wheeler came back to school, all his stuff was trashed and no one would talk to him. He left Broadhill the following term.’

‘So you’re saying Guy protects little brother?’

‘Always.’

Ingrid drank her coffee thoughtfully. ‘That’s as may be, but Owen has to go. We can’t let him ruin Ninetyminutes. If Guy can’t look at the problem objectively, we’ll go to Derek Silverman. We have no choice.’

‘You’re right.’ This wasn’t to do with my personal problems with Owen. He was threatening the very existence of the company. ‘Do we do it together?’

Ingrid nodded. ‘Together.’

We wanted to deal with Guy on the Ninetyminutes premises. This wasn’t personal, this was business, and we wanted to emphasize that. So as soon as we got back to the office I asked him if we could meet behind the closed doors of the boardroom.

Owen saw us go in.

I told him. As we had expected, Guy protested. ‘We can’t get rid of Owen! He’s one of the founders. He was the one who provided all the cash at the beginning. He came up with the technology for the site. He’s worked as hard as any of us. Without him, there wouldn’t be any Ninetyminutes now.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But with him there won’t be any Ninetyminutes in the future.’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘David’s right,’ said Ingrid. ‘This cock-up was entirely Owen’s fault. We may never recover from it. And it’s not an
isolated incident. There will be more. One of them will finish us off.’

‘But he’s the most brilliant techie I know! He can run rings round those Dcomsult people.’

‘That’s exactly right,’ said Ingrid. ‘He does run rings round them. But the truth is, as we get bigger we’re going to have to rely on a team of people for the technology in this company, not just one. Owen doesn’t fit.’

‘I can tell him to get along better with the others,’ Guy said.

‘That won’t make any difference,’ I said. ‘You know Owen.’

‘What if I say no?’

‘We go to Derek Silverman,’ said Ingrid.

‘Behind my back?’

‘No. We’re speaking to you first,’ I said. ‘This isn’t just your firm any more, Guy. If it was, then you could keep Owen and that would be your right. But now there are a lot people with stakes in this company. For those people’s sake he has to go.’

‘Are you ganging up on me?’ Guy said. ‘You and your old buddy Henry Bufton-Tufton.’

‘No,’ said Ingrid. ‘It’s precisely because it’s your brother that it’s so hard for you to take action. That’s why we need to go to the chairman.’

Guy inhaled. ‘I’m CEO of this company and I take the decisions. Owen stays. He was here at the beginning and he’ll be here at the end. Whenever that is. Now, let’s get back to work.’

I went to Ingrid’s desk and called Derek Silverman’s secretary. I made an appointment to see him in two days’ time.

I got back to my flat in Notting Hill late, as usual, carrying a takeaway. I didn’t always eat takeaways; sometimes I warmed
up something from M&S. Rarely anything more these days. I looked around the flat. It was clean in places; I paid a woman to come round once a week to make sure of that. But overall it was a mess. There was a pile of bills and junk mail to go through. The kitchen needed painting. The tap in the bathroom basin was dripping. The living-room window needed fixing. My taxes were late. I hadn’t called my parents for three weeks.

It hadn’t always been like this. Until Ninetyminutes I had lived quite an ordered existence. But no longer.

As I flopped down at my kitchen table and unwrapped my doner kebab I decided I’d worry about it all on Sunday. If I didn’t spend the whole day at the office.

The doorbell rang. I lived in a purpose-built block, so visitors usually had to announce themselves from the entryphone at the front of the building. Probably a neighbour then. Probably complaining about something I hadn’t done.

I opened the door.

It wasn’t a neighbour. It was Owen.

He barged past me into the living room, his bulk brushing me aside.

‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said. He was angry. The small dark eyes glimmered dangerously under his brows.

I was too tired to deal with him. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No.’ He advanced towards me. I stood my ground. I wasn’t going to be pushed around in my own flat.

He stopped inches in front of me. ‘You tried to get me fired today.’ He was so close, I could smell his breath. Mint covering something stale.

‘Yes.’ I was determined not to be intimidated.

‘Why?’

‘You’re a clever boy, Owen, but you don’t talk to people. That matters. It leads to screw-ups we can’t afford.’

Owen jabbed a finger into my chest. ‘It was that stupid piece-of-shit system that was the problem, not me.’

‘Your job was to make the piece-of-shit system work. It didn’t. You screwed up.’

‘I’m staying,’ Owen said.

‘We’ll see.’

‘You plan to go to Silverman about it?’

I didn’t flinch. ‘That’s right.’

‘You just changed your plans.’

‘I’ll do what I think is right.’

Owen backed off a foot or two. ‘Has this got anything to do with Dad’s death?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you keep on asking questions, don’t you? About Guy and about Dad.’

‘I don’t like being threatened.’

‘Oh, really?’ He grabbed hold of my collar and pinned me against the wall. He was strong enough that my feet barely touched the ground. His large fists clutching my collar squeezed into my neck, making it hard to breathe.

‘I’m telling you. No more dumb questions about how Dad died. If Guy really was your friend, you’d let it drop. And you should forget about Dominique too. That was all a long time ago. You understand me?’

I should have placated him, said yes, Owen, no, Owen, and let him go on his way. But I was tired, I’d had a bad day and I really didn’t like someone barging into my own flat and pushing me around, even if they were much bigger than me.

So I raised my knee sharply to Owen’s groin. His grip on my collar loosened and he bent down, his face contorting in pain. Having started, I had to finish it, so I hit him on the chin. He staggered back, stunned, and I punched him in the
stomach. As he reeled, I grabbed hold of his sleeve and dragged him to the door.

‘Get out, Owen,’ I said. ‘And don’t come back here again.’

At first he let himself be pulled along. Then as I reached the door and opened it, he straightened up. He was angry. I had a problem.

I tried to hit him again, but my blow bounced off his shoulder and didn’t make good contact with his jaw. And then he was on me. He was big and he was strong and he was surprisingly fast. I struggled, but within a few seconds he had me pinned against the wall. He hit me hard in the stomach three times. All the air was knocked out of my diaphragm and somehow I couldn’t replace it. I slumped doubled up to the ground, gasping. Then he started kicking. Ribs, head, back. One thump on the skull must have been too hard because everything went dark.

I woke up to find two paramedics leaning over me. Everything hurt. I hadn’t been out for long, they said. A neighbour had heard the commotion and called an ambulance. A couple of police uniforms were there as well. They asked me who had attacked me. I was too confused to decide how to answer that and so I just closed my eyes until they left me alone.

I spent a couple of days in the hospital for observation and X-rays. Amazingly, nothing was broken, but plenty was bruised. I had a nasty bout of concussion that didn’t just give me a headache, but also made me throw up twice in the most spectacular fashion – ‘projectile vomiting’ they called it.

A couple of visitors came. First, Guy.

‘Jesus, you look a mess,’ he said when he saw me.

‘Thanks.’

He sat on the chair by my bed. ‘I’m sorry about Owen.’

‘So am I.’

‘He should never have done that to you.’

‘It was partly my fault. He barged in and pushed me around, so I hit him. Then he hit me.’

‘Are you going to press charges?’

I shook my head. ‘The police wanted me to, but I said no. He is your brother. And I did hit him first, after all. But I tell you, Guy, one of us has to go. It’s either him or me.’

Guy’s eyes searched mine. He saw that I was serious, then he looked down. ‘We’ll see.’

‘We’d better see.’

‘Stupid bugger,’ he said. ‘Look, I really am sorry.’

‘I know. Don’t worry. I’ll mend. I’ll be back at work in a couple of days.’

The other visitor was Ingrid. I had been hoping she would come, but I was surprised by how pleased I was to see her. I felt better the moment she walked in. She was shocked by Owen’s behaviour. I told her about my ultimatum to Guy and she supported me. The hour she spent by my bedside passed very quickly.

The next day I went home under doctor’s orders to stay there. But it was boring and there was so much that needed doing at Ninetyminutes. So that afternoon, despite the continuing headache, I went in to the office.