The Number 8 - Joel Arcanjo

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       Chapter Forty-Seven

       Endpages

       About the Publisher

      The barrister stood on the steps of the Old Bailey, London’s most famous court, ready to address the nation. He was nervous. He hadn’t spoken in front of this many people outside of a courtroom. In there, it was his domain. He was used to murder trials. He was confident, charismatic and incredibly calm. Out here, in front of the nation’s media, it was a different story.

      His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth and water didn’t help. A bead of sweat threatened to fall down his already shiny forehead, but he wiped it away without anyone noticing. He had been stood in front of the microphones for two minutes already, but he hadn’t spoken. The man next to him, a PR specialist, was tasked with introducing him. He listened to the man’s words. The barrister had an impressive list of accomplishments.

      He was up. He took a step forward and took a deep breath.

      “Ladies and gentlemen of the press. I stand here proud. Proud to tell you that a judge and a jury of your peers have found my clients ‘not guilty’. ”

      He paused for applause and he was right to, the applause was deafening. People cheered and whistled. It went on for about a minute before he raised his arm for silence.

      “This verdict is not only important for my clients, but it’s important for our country. We will not stand for…” But that was all he got out because somewhere in the crowd somebody was ready to have their sixty seconds of fame.

      “Judas! You should be ashamed of yourself for defending murderers every day of your life. You know they did it!”

      The PR man intervened. “Security. Remove that individual!”

      For a split second the lawyer felt the familiar pang of guilt. But, as he had done for years, he quickly nipped it in the bud. Guilty or not, a win was a win and this time he had won big. This was the platform his career would be built on. He was already successful by most people’s standards but this case would propel him to the next level and he was ready for it.

      Pandemonium broke out. Cameras whirred. Security dragged the individual away kicking and screaming incomprehensible words. But there was one sentence he could make out and for the first time in all his years as a lawyer, he was scared.

      “Bastard. You’ve taken everything from me. I won’t stop until I’ve taken everything from you!”

      “Oh, will you just relax!” Asmir Nankin shouted at his friend as they sat at a bar in Auckland, New Zealand.

      Dante Darion was slumped in a corner frowning and feeling sorry for himself.

      “We’re here now, stop being a baby,” Asmir continued.

      Dante dragged himself into an upright position and feigned a smile.

      “Better?” he said sarcastically.

      “It happened. You know you messed up, you can do better next year,” Asmir said and threw his hand up in the air. This caught the waitresses’ eye and she strode over to him smiling.

      “We’ll have another bottle of Dom Pérignon. My friend here needs a bit of a pick-me-up,” he said gesturing towards Dante. “Here’s a little something for you too.”

      He made a point of taking out a large roll of crisp bills and counting out two hundred New Zealand dollars very slowly before handing it over to the wide-eyed waitress. He had been doing this kind of thing to each of the female waitresses all evening.

      “Thank you…so much,” she stuttered as she placed the obscenely large tip into her back pocket.

      Dante rolled his eyes, “Really?! That’s the third tip you’ve given out. One of the girls wasn’t even serving us!”

      “But she was beautiful though. Right?” Asmir grinned.

      “You do realize that you just gave her one hundred pounds?”

      Asmir flapped the air in front of his face. “So what? We’re on holiday. I can splash out a little bit.”

      “A little bit would be getting a couple of extra sides or an extra bottle of wine, not tipping every girl that smiles at you.”

      “You say potato and I say tomato.”

      “That’s so wrong, I can’t even…”

      Asmir interrupted him mid-sentence. “I’m making it my mission to get you out of this funk this holiday. So you bombed this year at Uni, there’s always next year. You broke up with your girlfriend. There’s plenty more fish in the sea. Plus, she was awful, D. You know I never liked her.”

      Dante sank into his chair. “I liked her though…”

      “She wasn’t good for you, man. As for the bad grades, I know that’s not what you’re used to, but it happened. You either get over it or let it drag you down.”

      “The second option,” Dante said, sinking even lower in his chair.

      “I get why you are so broken up about your Uncle, man. The guy was awesome, but the other two things? They’re minor.”

      Dante’s Uncle had died over the summer while everything else had been happening. It had been three months and he still felt a tightness in his throat whenever he thought about it. Asmir saw this and quickly intervened.

      “No, this is not happening. I’m not letting you sulk this whole holiday. Where’s that girl with my champagne?” Asmir swiveled from left to right trying to catch a glimpse of her in the crowd.

      “You know, you should probably wait for someone to bring you your order before you tip them. It gives them incentive to do a good job. That girl is probably telling her friends right now about this young, rich, Indian guy who tipped her two hundred dollars right now.”

      “You think I look Indian?”

      “You definitely don’t look Russian. You could pass for Iranian, but I would still say Indian.”

      “Yeah. Well I know I don’t look Russian. Now Dad looks Russian and Mum looks like she’s from the Middle East, but how can that create an Indian-looking guy?”

      Dante raised his hands as if to say “Don’t ask me.”

      He took another beat and then said, “Hey.” But Asmir was preoccupied with his search for the missing waitress.

      “Hey!” he said a little louder.

      This time Asmir heard him.

      “I just wanted to say thanks for this trip.”

      “Don’t thank me yet, mate.”

      “I know, I know, but I really appreciate this. I couldn’t afford this trip on my own…”

      “Stop, D. I’ve got it, I understand.”

      Dante nodded and left it at that. Asmir hated to talk about money, but he loved flashing it. His family was incredibly wealthy. His father was a partner at a well-renowned legal firm and his mother was from Iranian oil money. Asmir had paid for this trip out of his own pocket and despite his current mood, Dante was grateful.

      “I bet you a new girl comes out with the champagne,” Dante said glancing around the bar.

      “Why?”

      “If she’s smart she’s gone to tell her friends there’s a big tipper

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