He’d found people in the system who could do the job. That hadn’t been the problem. What he hadn’t found was another gem he could mine from the rough and transform into a glittering diamond. He wanted to show people he had something special that spotted talent and transformed lives. Something that journalists would write about, that people would respect. That would make people sit up straight in front of their granola, mouths open, wondering, could that really be Mark Conway talking on the breakfast show couch? Mark Conway who sat behind me in Year Eight Maths? Mark Conway who only ever scored one goal in ten years of football, and that only because the ball hit his arse when he was standing next to the goal? Mark Conway, whose blazer sleeves were always too short, his shoes coming apart along the welts? That Mark Conway?
To be that Mark Conway, he had to be more than just another businessman. He had to be the one who plucked young men from the jaws of despair and disaster and turned their lives around. Their saviour. It wasn’t an easy job but he knew it could be done. He’d done it for himself; he could pass on what he’d learned and make it work for someone else. It was just a case of finding the right one. And then the next one.
It had to be men. He had no time for women in business. They were too flaky. Hormones and babies. No focus, no single-mindedness. Of course, you couldn’t say anything like that these days. Not even among friends. There was nobody to whom he could explain why it was men he was looking for. Every time.
So he made his way through Temple Fields, baseball cap low over his eyes, glasses with clear lenses perched on his nose. Tonight he wore black jeans, black trainers. They looked nondescript, but to a young man on the streets, on the make, they said, designer. They said, money. They said, pay attention.
Conway didn’t slow his pace when he saw he’d snagged someone’s interest. Not on the first pass. He simply registered the moment and walked on. Then he’d circle back and find a vantage point where he could watch. Was this really someone close to hitting bottom or a tourist who had a back door out of street life? Was he hustling with an edge of creativity or repeating a monotonous mantra? Was he fucked up completely by the incomprehensible street drugs that looped through endless changes of formulae till nobody knew any more whether the next hit was going to fry their brains or just smooth out the darkness of the day? Or was he salvageable?
He’d watch for as long as he could, standing among the smokers outside a bar, then sitting in the window of a coffee shop making a flat white last for an hour. He’d watch transactions on the street, coins tossed in coffee cups, little huddles of exchange and mart. Then he’d take a second pass, to see if his target had enough about him for a second moment of recognition. Did he brighten up, dismiss him, or just look blank? Conway flared his nostrils as he passed, to catch a whiff of his smell. Too thick and dark and he’d keep moving, never go back. But if it was tolerable, he’d walk to the end of the street then turn. If the young man was still flicking glances his way, he’d saunter back and stop. Offer a cigarette. Or a beer. Or a coffee.
First time, that would be all that was on offer. He’d take it easy. Let the mark come to him. Show what he wanted out of the arrangement. Too often, what they thought he wanted was sex. They were even affronted sometimes when he knocked them back. He didn’t want sex, not from them. He wanted to transform them. He wanted to give them something much more meaningful than sex.
If they passed his exacting standards, he’d take them back to his place. Leave temptation in their path. Easy pickings. Wallet on the kitchen worktop. Drink and drugs there for the asking. Gareth had ignored all that, made it clear that what he wanted from Mark was exactly what he had to give.
Of course, disappointment was the price he had to pay for his ambition. Sometimes, like tonight, it was clear none of them had a spark he could fan to a flame, so he’d go home empty-handed. Not everyone could make the grade. And once he’d let them glimpse the possibilities, then face the crushing realisation that his world was never going to be theirs, there was no letting them down gently. Really, what he was doing was a kindness.
8
Although narcissists can appear charismatic, that charm is always and only exercised in the service of their own greater glory. They disregard the feelings and the interests of others and are often skilled at manipulating them into providing what the narcissist wants right here, right now.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Renovating the traditional stone barn where she lived had awakened something unexpected in Carol Jordan. To her surprise, she’d discovered she not only enjoyed working with her hands, but she was also good at it. The previous couple of years had taught her, in part thanks to Tony’s guidance, that the way for her to stay on anything approaching an even keel was to be busy. So once there was no detail left to complete on the barn, she had taken up carpentry. Now she was on the final stages of her first project:
