Adapt to survive

The dimly lit empty warehouse was silent. Douglas had drawn out his reply, leaving the man stood ten feet away sweating on his verdict. After everything Douglas had heard could he really offer this lunatic a reprieve? Douglas squinted his already narrow, sleepy eyes. “You have five words to save yourself.”

The eccentric inventor’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling, prompting Douglas to tap his foot on the wooden floorboard. “Okay, I’ve got it,” the guy said, smiling.

“You have one word left.”

“What?”

“I’m out,” said Douglas in his mild yorkshire accent.

“Thank you for your time.” He bowed his head and walked away towards the lift.

“Why did you do that? How could you deprive us?” said the Dragon at the other end, Chris Patterson.

“He had a chance, and he blew it,” said Douglas.

“You’re a hard man, Hatch,” said Curtis, sat next to Chris.

“Hey,” West shouted after the man. The mancunian next to Douglas was wearing a white suit from his own designer range that contrasted sharply with his black shirt, black face and black hands. “What were your five words?”

The man stopped and smiled back. “You really want to know?”

“I have to know!” said West enthusiastically.

“I think this could be the product tagline. Are you ready?”

“Give it to me!” said West.

Douglas stared down at his feet and tried not to listen.

“Seriously, who wants to dust?”

The other four Dragons fell apart again.

“Make him stop, make him stop!” said Sheri Shaffer, an award-winning American chef and author, sat in the middle of the five.

“Just go,” said Douglas, ushering the man away with his hand. Douglas sipped his water as he watched the lift doors close on the misguided man.

“Doug, you are permitted to show a sense of humour on television,” said Chris.

“My name is Douglas,” he said without looking at his rivals, maintaining his sullen expression.

“You have one heck of a poker face,” said Curtis. “That guy has dedicated his life to eradicating dust!”

Douglas scowled at the four Dragons incapacitated with laughter for the umpteenth time. They were here for business, not a good time. It was his first taste of the Den and he was regretting letting West talk him into it. Douglas cocked his head to the left and stroked his neck with the nails on his right hand.

After a second, he remembered his surroundings and diverted his hand to rub his face. He hoped the make-up department had been able to revitalize his drained appearance; the sagging purple bags under his eyes and pronounced crease marks between his taut cheeks and naturally droopy mouth made him look nearer 50 than 35. He reassured himself that he looked sharp whatever, courtesy of his slicked back dark hair, clean-shaven face and ears pinned tight to his head.

Douglas patted down his grey pinstripe suit trousers, straightening out the tiny creases as he waited for the runners to come and clear away the green plastic Dust Muncher. Only one man stepped out of the lift though, the Producer. He marched over, removing his headset on the way. “What’s wrong?” asked Douglas, sensing unease in the young man.

The Producer stopped in the spot where those pitching usually stood. “We’re wrapping for today.”

“Why?” asked Douglas.

“The budget-”

“Absolutely, the budget!” said West. “I’m shocked you scheduled filming for today in the first place.” What was West talking about? He barely knew what the budget was and certainly never paid any attention to it. Not that he was stupid, his interests just lay elsewhere.

The Producer rubbed his crew cut. “There’s been an event.”

Douglas stood involuntarily, as did the other Dragons.

“A terrorist attack?” asked Chris.

“No. The Chancellor…” The Producer looked at the floor and sweat beads accumulated on his forehead. The pressure of speaking to the Dragons had seemingly now affected the cocky guy in charge.

“Tell us!” barked Sheri.

“The budget set on fire.”

“What? How?” asked Curtis.

“I’m not sure.”

“Is that it?”

“No, the Chancellor said they’re passing an Act of Parliament, to abolish all others.”

“That’s preposterous!”

“Get out of here!”

“Who in their right mind?”

“You joking?”

Douglas remained silent as the others reacted without pause for thought, allowing his mind to digest the information.

“I’m only saying what I heard. Your belongings have been taken to your cars and your drivers are waiting. I just need to remove your mics.”

West sidled over to Douglas while the three other Dragons quickly approached the Producer. “Maybe it's a joke,” said West, running his hand through his short twisted black hair.

“It's real,” replied Douglas.

“How do you know? Your source?”

Douglas nodded, staring at the floor.

“Why didn't you warn me? You were expecting this?”

“Not exactly.”

West sighed and threw his arms around in his usual melodramatic manner, before heading off to have his microphone detached. Douglas finally had a moment to think. He’d been alerted to potential fallout from the Malhotra precedent, but wiping clean the constitution was absurd. He retrieved his phone from his pocket and impatiently waited for it to boot up.

Two hands then grabbed his neck.

Douglas violently pushed away the offender threatening him.

The Producer stumbled back, shock all over his face. Douglas realised he’d simply been trying to remove the mic. The kid was already unsettled and this small clash brought tears to his eyes. But that didn’t interest Douglas, who couldn’t contain his natural instinct. He ripped off the mic and threw it at the Producer. “Don’t ever touch me again.” The Producer nodded and Douglas ambled to the lift, where the other Dragons waited.

“Hurry up, Douglas,” urged Chris.

“I’ll dictate the speed I walk at.”

“I don’t have time for this,” said Sheri, leaning across to push the button.

Douglas continued his methodical pace, which saw him enter the lift just in-time. He rotated around and watched the doors close on the empty seats. If this news was correct, they may never be filled again.

On the ground level the doors re-opened and the other four Dragons strode out in unison. What did they think they were doing, filming a show promo? Douglas strolled out casually, looking at his mobile phone. He had no emails, text messages or voice-mail messages. Only four people knew his number, and he'd been with West, Hector would be busy contemplating the meaning of life, and she would never call again. But Vincent... Vincent should have called. He walked past the loitering production team and security guards and headed out of the studio building. By the time he hit daylight the other Dragons were already speeding off. His driver held open the back door of his blue Maserati Quattroporte and he climbed into the luxurious beige interior. Within a moment, the driver was in and breaking the site speed limit. With Donato driving it would take less than an hour to drive from Salford Quays to Hatch HQ in Leeds.

Finally alone, Douglas surrendered to the urge to rub his neck. He closed his eyes and drifted, until his finger nails felt the ridge of his scar. He dropped his hand and opened his eyes as wide as they would go. No one was going to take away what was rightfully his, not again. “Call Vincent.”

“Right away, sir,” said the butch Spanish driver, who doubled as a minder.

Ringing echoed around the car, but there was no answer and no option to leave a message. “Hang up,” ordered Douglas. The ringing stopped. “TV News.” The headrest television flashed on to show ‘Breaking News - The Burning Budget’ plastered across the bottom of the screen. Slow motion footage rolled of the Chancellor smiling as she held the budget box.

“Contrary to earlier reports, the budget box did not spontaneously combust,” said the posh female voice-over. “The contents of the box was already on fire when the Chancellor walked out of 10 Downing Street. You can clearly see the fire escaping through the tiny gaps in the closed lid.” The box enlarged and a red circle highlighted the escaping flame. “Christine Spencer-Parker’s comment that the budget was ‘on fire,’ suggests that she at least knew of the fire, but how it started is unknown at this time.”

She started it, could it be any more obvious? The media were protecting their backs of course, frightened of litigation if they made a false accusation, or a true one. However, if the Producer was right, they needn’t worry about that anymore.

Douglas leaned forward as the fire overwhelmed the box and Christine’s smile was replaced with a grimace. Whereas the reporter focused on the physical pain Christine was undoubtedly in, Douglas recognised the underlying torment tearing her soul apart. He leaned back as Police Officers rushed to her side, patting her arm with their heavy jackets. They tried to wrestle the box out of her grasp, but she stubbornly fought to retain hold, giving the impression the fire had welded her hand to it. When she fell to the floor, her burnt fingers finally parted and the box was kicked out of her reach. The frenetic scene was chilling.

The clip ended and a pregnant woman in her mid-twenties filled the screen with the Houses of Parliament in the background. She spoke in a refined English accent, but her name, titled on the graphic as ‘Ariana Di Mercurio,’ and her long dark hair and olive skin tone implied continental descent. “We have so far been unable to substantiate Christine’s claim that all Acts of Parliament are to be revoked. What we can tell you is that the Government and Opposition are in Parliament, just behind me, right now. As soon as we have any further news, we’ll be breaking it right here, before anyone else.”

“Off.” Douglas imagined the thousands of idle staff in his company crowded around computers and mobiles. A timely email from him would ensure productivity remained high. He picked up the tablet on the seat next to him, navigated to the email application, tapped ‘Compose’ and selected ‘[email protected]’ from the contacts list. He typed, ‘I understand the news today has been shocking. Whatever happens, I will stand by you, if you stand by me. Remain focused and we will get through this. As individuals. As a company. It’s business as usual. DH.’ Without a cursory proof-read, he tapped ‘Send’ with his forefinger. “Call the strategy team together.” After flinging aside the tablet, his fingers returned to his neck and he muttered, “We must adapt to survive.”