A modern morality tale
Imogen de la Bere
| 11 Jun 2009
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I have a good friend, a great character, rather larger than life, whom I met on a train. We shall call him Seb, as he sometimes writes under the name of Sebastian Moran, “the second most dangerous man in London”. This is the only fictional element in this story; the truth is possibly more extreme than my account, but you might not believe me if I told it. This is a story of our time, of right here and now, in England, this month.
Seb is a big man in every way. He wears hand-tailored suits with slightly too wide a stripe. He flashes a watch worth more than my car. He has a gold signet ring engraved with somebody else’s crest, and a large diamond ring. He drives a sleek BMW sports car with personalised number plate.
Ten years ago, when I first met him, he had a big farm, with swimming pool and riding stables attached, a thriving business and a pad in Spain big enough to house and water an Afghan tribe.
Today he is penniless. His divorce took the farm, his over-reaching took the business, and the pad in Spain is mortgaged and occupied by someone he owes.
With the money he had left, swollen by mortgaging the Spanish palace (and he only persuaded the Spanish banks to this by calling in a favour), he invested in two separate ventures with two entrepreneurial friends. I met one of these characters while staying at the pad in Spain (and very much enjoying the pool, I might add), and my instinct was to run for the garlic.
Just lately, Seb told me, this friend declared himself broke, owing not just Seb his stake (monetary, not anti-vampirical) but several months of fees. Seb is the only director of this precarious venture left standing, and guess who the creditors are coming for? Then a second friend, who had the rest of his money, went belly up.
Then the bank, who had been so oily in offering Seb credit, suddenly withdrew his £20,000 personal overdraft, thus sluicing up what little remained of his regular income. To compound his troubles, a monstrous bill from Inland Revenue plopped on his mat. That, at least, was fairly predictable.
In the meantime, the euro has risen sharply against the pound. His mortgage is in euros. And one of his daughters, having maxed out one of Daddy’s credit cards at the local garage, has disappeared, leaving many debts behind her. Worst, for the first time in 25 years of business, he hasn’t received any work for three months now. He has no money, and even worse for a modern man, he has no credit.
He lives in the grand house of a lady friend, effectively on charity, trapped in the middle of the countryside. He cannot call out on his mobile phone. He cannot put petrol in his car. He cannot get out.
We, his friends, once we have worked through our Schadenfreude, feel sad, but impotent. The three lawyers among us are engaged on three brave, but probably futile, actions to recover some large sums he believes are owed. The rest of us shake our heads and talk fruitlessly of ways to help.
A modern morality tale, with which traditional morality has not equipped us to deal.
Imogen de la Bere is a Kiwi writer living in London.
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