I've typed the account number, the deposit. 'There,' I say in a parody of triumph. 'Happy now?'
'I'm afraid you're overdrawn, Mr – I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name.'
'I know that. I mean I know I'm, no, I'm not overdrawn. You've pinched my money. Let's go and see why, shall we? And the name's Lester. Lester. Lester. Lester.'
I manage to stop repeating it as I usher her into the bank, under a wreath of holly that makes me feel they're celebrating my predicament. At least my performance at the machine has convinced the adviser, unless she's simply anxious to be rid of me or has taken pity on me for Christmas. She brings up my details on her monitor and turns the screen to some extent towards me. 'You've made a large payment,' she says in case I'm unable to read. 'Reference LUP. Will you know what that is?'
'Yes, it's your mistake,' I say less distinctly than I'd like as stronger words struggle to emerge. The debit is exactly the amount of the advance for my book, but I won't believe that's more than a coincidence. 'You've already done this to me once and you said you'd fix it,' I complain. 'Does that look fixed to you? Don't you have any control over your computers?'
The adviser makes it clear she's waiting to be sure I've finished before she says 'I don't suppose you'd remember who you spoke to.'
'Her name's Tess. I don't forget names.' Perhaps that's an unnecessary gibe, but I think it's reasonable to add 'I don't know why you have that emergency number if you can't sort out mistakes by phoning.'
'I'll do that for you now.' Indeed, she's already dialling. 'Hello, it's Millie at Preston central branch. Is Tess available? I've a customer with a query,' she says and hands me the receiver.
'It's a hell of a lot more than that. Let's try and stay together this time, Tess, and maybe – '
'Tom speaking. May I take your name?'
'You're not Tess.' I feel even stupider for saying so. 'Never mind. My name, let's make this the last time, it's Simon Lester.'
'I'll just take some details for security.'
'Your colleague can identify me. She's looking straight at me.' Rather than say this, I gabble my account number and sort code and mother's maiden name and am able to read from the screen the amount paid on a standing order for my share of the phone and Internet bill at the house in Egham. 'I'll need to cancel that,' I realise aloud.
'That's why you're calling.'
'You think I'd go through all that rigmarole for a few quid? Go ahead, cut it off, but that's not why I'm here. See the fortune that's vanished from my account? That's what my publishers paid me. You don't pay it to them. You've done it before and it wasn't funny then.' I'm driven by a nervous fancy that all these words are outdistancing nonsense I would otherwise utter. 'And don't tell me I've got to write in,' I carry on. 'I did that last time when you asked me and it hasn't worked, has it? This needs to be sorted out while I'm on the phone. You owe me that much.'
There's silence before Tom of the bank says 'Who was it you spoke to again?'
'She's already told you. Millie here did, I mean. Tess.'
'I'm afraid nobody of that name works here.'
I stare at the adviser, who seems to be avoiding my gaze. 'Then I must have been put through to a different section.'
'You only could have come through here,' says Tom.
'All right, so who sounds like Tess? She was breaking up when I talked to her.'
'I'm sorry, I don't understand.'
'Coming apart, and don't say I sound as if I am.' That's also meant for the adviser with her eloquently averted gaze. 'Her voice was. I mustn't have got her whole name.'
'We have nobody called anything like Tess.'
'Then who are you saying she was?' I retort, more savagely as I hear laughter at my back. I'm about to confront whoever finds my confusion amusing when I realise that an object has been planted on my head. Something akin to a fat pallid spider dangles close to my eyes, and as I slap it away I see my faint reflection overlaid on the display of my poverty. I've acquired a jester's cap complete with a silent bell. I snatch it off and fling it across the bank as I whirl around, almost toppling the chair. Too late I see it was a Christmas hat, the kind Natalie and Mark are wearing. Nevertheless I demand 'What are you trying to do to me, Mark?'
Though his broad grin wavers, it doesn't shrink. 'We got them in the market. I thought you'd like one too.'
'I did say you should wait, Mark.'
His mother sounds as if she's trying to console him. If he's upset by my reaction, why is he still grinning? Perhaps her tone is aimed at me, because she's gazing at the computer screen. 'Oh, Simon,' she says.
'Don't worry, it's going to be dealt with. I won't move until it is.'
Mark retrieves the hat from the counter in front of a teller's window, beyond which a silhouette on a blind is typing at a computer. 'Don't you want it?' he asks me.
'Go on, put it on me. I can't look more of a fool than anyone else.'
As Mark jams the hat on my head so enthusiastically it feels urgent, the phone enquires 'I'm sorry?'
'Somebody's just stuck a silly hat on me. Well, more than somebody. My, not exactly my son. My partner's son.'
Natalie must think I'm distracted by her presence or Mark's, because she murmurs 'Shall we be outside?'
'Hang around. I wouldn't mind a witness,' I say and wield the receiver. 'Anyway, let's not get too festive. The line was so bad I must have got her name wrong. The important question is how you're going to close your hole in my account after you've put my money back in.'
My words feel close to unstable again, even when I remind myself that Tom can't see the hat lolling over my head. My imprecise reflection could make me imagine that I'm being watched by a buffoon on the far side of the screen – one who grins as he says 'I'm afraid it isn't that simple.'
'Me neither, matey.' As far as I can tell my teeth keep this quiet, which only makes it harder for me to retort 'What isn't?'
'The authority for payment must have come from you.'
Isn't he supposed to call me Mr Lester now and then? Sir would be acceptable as well. 'Mustn't. Didn't,' I assure us both.
'I can promise you our computers don't make payments on their own.'
I'm tempted to wonder aloud if faith in technology is the new religion until he says 'I'm very much afraid you will have to write to us with all the details of the situation before – '
'Same as lasty. Re that.'
My invitation to read my previous complaint must surely have emerged more whole, because he says 'How did you communicate with us?'
'He may,' I inform him, and my teeth click as I try to bite the words into shape. 'Email.'
'I've checked while we've been speaking. I'm afraid we have no record of receiving anything from you about this.'
'Well, I wrote it. Sent it too. Don't ask me who got it.' I fancy my response may not sound quite like this – I seem to hear myself say tit and ass, for instance – but then my last sentence catches up with me. As I struggle to restrain my language, the worst that escapes is 'Bastard.'
'I'm sorry?'
'I know who's doing this. He stole my work to make me look bad and he's been screwing with my finances. He's all over the Internet.'
'I can't make sense of what you're saying.'
'I don't know his name but I know the one he's using. Don't tell me you can't track him down. There has to be some trace for you to follow where he hacked into my account.'
'I do apologise, but I can't understand what you're saying. If you could put – '
'Never mind writing. I can talk. It's the oldest form of communication, you know.' Every word leaves my mouth feeling less controllable, because I'm uttering little if any of this. 'Smilemime,' I cry. 'That's his pseudonym.'
