Darion, smartly dressed in a dark suit, came over, and was already wearing an expression of shocked disbelief by the time he was standing beside Richard’s desk.
“What about that, my friend?” he said.
“I know.”
“I was really shocked. Really!”
“What was it? Heart attack? Car accident?” Richard was still struggling to imagine what could have caused the sudden death of a perfectly fit and healthy man. Mitchell was only just in his forties.
Darion, a giant of a man with the strong lower jaw of a T-Rex, had a soft Greek accent that was ideal for expressing amazement.
“Suicide!” In his amazement, Darion elongated the third syllable of the word. His dramatic exclamation caught the attention of everyone in earshot and spread what seemed to be a ripple of unwanted emotion through them. Several co-workers nearby glanced up in apparent annoyance that their concentration had been disturbed.
“What! You’re kidding.”
“No,” Darion said in a more neutral tone. “It was suicide.”
It took a moment for Richard to think of anything to say. “Do you know what made him do it?”
“Nobody knows. Apparently the police said it was a ‘brutal suicide’.”
“God! I wonder what that means?”
“I don’t know. Someone said he jumped in front of a train.” Steve Wong had been unloading his laptop onto a nearby desk. Now he came over.
“Yes, that’s what I heard too. I heard he was in debt.”
“But come on! Nobody kills themselves just because of a little bit of money.” Darion’s accent had grown a little thicker. He seemed indignant that Mitchell couldn’t face up to mere financial problems. After all, they were all City workers. Money was easy to come by. Admittedly, it was easy to lose too, and never quite meant what you imagined it would. “He could’ve run away somewhere. What’s wrong with Venezuela?”
The guys laughed a little. They knew that Darion had recently been to Venezuela and had had a whale of a time with the local girls. The economy there was smashed to bits and any foreigner was seen as a billionaire.
“Venezuela is a favourite place for dodgy geezers to run to,” said Steve winking at Darion.
“You know, it’s not such a bad idea, my friend. You can go there any time you like; they will welcome you as a hero of socialism and give you your own place to live.”
“Wow! Really?”
“In a favela, or whatever they call the slums there, but it would be cosy, no worse than the others there have, and you should not have the bourgeois expectation of more.” He winked at Steve to indicate he was being ironic and understood both he and Steve fully expected more. A lot more. After all, Darion was a securities expert for a specialist financial software company and Steve was a qualified accountant for that company. The tailored suits, fine cotton shirts and silk ties they both wore made it clear they were a cut above the likes of Richard, who nevertheless was also reasonably well dressed in a dark suit and silk tie. His were not quite so ‘designer’, though.
“Better than topping yourself, anyway,” said Steve.
“Anything’s better than that. Imagine his family!” said Darion.
“Last time I saw him, he seemed quite happy,” said Richard. “He came over to Helsinki.”
“There you go!” Darion asserted, case proven. “He was swanning around all over the place pretending to be a manager and getting paid for it. What the hell did he have to go and top himself for!?”
