Chapter 8…

Chapter Eight

The Formal Introduction of Derek Greyer, aka ‘Deygar’

 

Exodus 23:27 ‘I will send my terror ahead of you and throw into confusion every nation you encounter. I will make all your enemies turn their backs and run.’

Derek Greyer was sitting at his desk pondering the one thing that now occupied his evil mind – Seth.

His office was huge; the rear wall was literary a wall of TVs: eight 40 inch plasmas across and five deep; forty screens in total and they were showing the news in every major part of the world – CNN, BBC world news, Sky News and countless others. He had his finger on the pulse of the world, ready to strike on any disaster or tragedy that he could profit from, but not this morning. He could not escape the thought of Seth and the obvious skill he had learned from Milo in just a short space of time; or could it be that he had had him in the shadows, as it were, hiding him from Derek in an attempt to make a strike at the Dark Lord and wipe out the remaining cult members?

Derek quickly dismissed that thought, thinking that it was a form of attack. Their moral code, as it was noted, was that the prime duty of the Master Disciple was for defence only, not to strike out with a motivated planned attack.

This went on puzzling Derek for some time, but he had to concentrate on the day ahead, after all he was the CEO of a large company. His mind had to stay focused on here and now.

He glanced over to see his schedule; he had meetings for the whole morning. He had to think and bring his mind on to the matter at hand and get on with things. First on his list was a possible new client, Mr Gary Busher.

Mr Greyer’s personal assistant showed Mr Busher through to his office.

Derek Greyer’s office was situated on the fifty-seventh floor of Greyer International Tower. The office itself was the usual four walls (as you would expect from a typical office space) but Mr Busher noticed that the two main walls were made, from floor to ceiling of glass: super reinforced glass with no beams or strengthening rods. It gave a sense that anyone could fall out at anyone time. It really made Mr Busher feel uneasy and a little scared.

Mr Greyer was admiring the view from the immense window; his feet right against the glass, he glanced down. He focused on his feet then noticed the view straight down – fifty-seven stories – he gave a little smile to himself thinking that even if the glass wasn’t there and he was to fall, he would not die. Mr Greyer wasn’t in any hurry to test this theory but the knowledge excited him.

‘Will that be all, Sir?’ called out his PA.

‘Thank you, Miss Jones. Just a coffee for myself, and for you, Mr Busher?’ He asked, still with his back towards them both, but he could be rude to anyone; after all, he was the boss.

‘Oh, a coffee for me would be fine, thank you.’

The bank of TVs, still switched on, now were muted. He couldn’t bear to be out of touch not even for a second and this unnerved the possible new client, sitting at the mercy of Mr Greyer.

Gary Busher was a little nervous. He had every right to be; many had sought a meeting with the mighty Mr Greyer and had failed to do so, so he had to impress or he would face the music and never again have this glorious opportunity. This was his last chance and Mr Greyer knew everything; it was his business to know.

Mr Greyer finally turned to face his audience; it was silent for a moment while Mr Greyer checked out the possible new client. He looked him up and down like a farmer looked at cattle.

He had a study frame – an athletic physique, like a football or rugby player would have – but time had taken its toll on him. His eyes were heavy and he looked tired. Mr Greyer reached out a hand to shake. Mr Busher stood and did likewise; it was a firm aggressive shake on Mr Greyer side, but Mr Busher was feeling quietly confident on the inside and lightly tightened his grip. This was a good thing; Mr Greyer felt good about this one and told him to be seated again.

‘Mr Busher, may I call you Gary?’

‘Yes. Please do.’

The gesture wasn’t returned; no one addressed Mr Greyer by his first name. Nothing but Sir or Mr Greyer would do.

‘You asked for this meeting, Gary, and I kindly agreed to it. So what is it that I could do for you, or what is it that you can do for me?’

Gary Busher had fallen from the top of his game. He was a good businessman, family man and devout Christian. He had two sons and a daughter. His beautiful wife, Sarah, had developed cancer and it was only a matter of time. Gary sought God on this, but it just made him angry; the thought of working so hard in business and that the things he was involved in at the church were all a waste of time. And then when you’d think things couldn’t get any worse, Gary’s eldest son, James, got involved with drugs (a coping mechanism for his mother’s illness) and had accidentally overdosed.

His business suffered Gary’s constant hospital appointments and the ever increasing stress of his wife’s cancer, and now the death of his eldest son had driven him away from the security of God’s love and understanding to the huge leather seat in Derek Greyer’s office. Only Hell itself was a worse place to be in.

And Mr Greyer knew all this; it was his job to know everything. He knew the buttons of his heart, now all he needed to do was press them in the right order and he’d have him eating from the palm of his hand.

‘Ok, Gary, I know that your company made in the region of 25 Million this year; a good year you would say, but before you interrupt me I do know that a lot of that credit goes to your other partners, a Mr Greenwood and a Mr Leach, a very befitting name I’d say. Mr Leach: he has been taking a lot from your company, Mr Busher?’

Gary now had Mr Greyer’s full attention.

‘All I would say is dismiss him with a full year’s salary and that would be the end of it. He has cost you too much, Gary.’

Gary was so intrigued by this new information about one of his most trusted partners and, most importantly, trusted friends.

‘Please tell me; what he has done? Gareth Leach is a good friend and business partner. He has been a loyal friend during our most resent dark and troubled times, so please tell me. I need to know.’

Derek knew that Gary was ever closer to closing the deal with him; he just needed a little push, thought Derek.

Derek pressed the intercom button. ‘Ah, Miss Jones. Please would you show the Doctor in now. Gary, all of your worries, queries and questions will be answered soon enough.’

A very smartly dress man walked into the office pushing a large medical trolley. He pushed it in front of where Gary was sitting and then slipped on a white coat and some very thick industrial rubber gloves. Then he stepped aside.

‘’Intrigued now, Gary Busher of City Aggregates ‘Mr Greyer said standing up to make more impact’

‘Your company recycles road materials, refines them and takes out all of that precious expensive oil which, in turn, you sell on for profit. You then resell the remaining road aggregate to build more wonderful roads with which you get a massive handshake from the said companies responsible for building the new roads. So, it seems you make a lot of money for what is in essence a waste product.’

‘No, not at all, Mr Greyer. We also do a lot for the environment. We do get a by-product from the processing of the material which powers the non-nuclear power station right here in our very own city, Sir. Sorry.’ Gary could see that interrupting him in mid-speech wasn’t going down well. Derek Greyer’s face was like thunder and with that his fist came down hard onto the mahogany desk. Pens and papers lifted several inches before returning back down again.

‘As I was saying, you do make a lot from nothing, don’t you, but I see a flaw in your company. So you recycle old roads, sell the oil, do your bit for the’ – Derek raised his hands and did the quote gesture with his fingers – ‘environment. But your company has no life expectancy: no future. One day the roads will be all in good order and won’t need replacing so often. So, as a result, no recycle, no oil and now you say no by-product for the power station which gives us all the power we need in our precious city.’

Gary was afraid to speak and was still concerned about dear Gareth Leach and what he had done deserve the sack. In his twenty-five years of business he had never had to sack anyone.

‘Doctor please go ahead with the demonstration.’

The doctor pulled a white sheet from off the top the trolley to reveal a gross section of road surface. Paul could see the layers clearly; the heavy road stone layer, followed by several other strong tarmac layers. From Gary’s experience you could clearly see it was from a motorway or heavy construction type, the type that lasts for years and rarely breaks or fails.

The doctor walked towards Gary carrying, what could only be described as, a chemical type glass beaker; the type used in schools or labs. It was half filled with an orange looking liquid.

He held it under Gary’s nose.

‘Please smell.’

It smelt citrusy, like lemons, oranges and maybe a little lime.

‘Fruity, yes?’ the doctor said back to Gary.

‘Yes, fruity.’

The doctor took the beaker of fluid and poured it over the section of road and within seconds the thick layer of road had completely melted through. There wasn’t even half a pint of liquid in that beaker and it melted a good section of road right down to the core level.

‘My plan is to have this stuff manufactured in my new factory just up the road from your recycling plant; handy eh! Thank you, doctor. That will be all.’

As the doctor left, he quickly removed the gloves and threw them on top of the section of still melting road. Gary noticed that the gloves didn’t melt.

‘Oh, the liquid can be transported in anything made from rubber or silicon,’ was the doctor’s last remarks as he left.

‘Thank you, doctor. As I was saying, I am going into business making that stuff. I just need a partner. You see, I have no market for a road dissolving liquid but you do, Mr Gary Busher. You could make a lot of money here today.’ He knew that was the only thing on his mind right now. The hospital bills were mounting up and the level of care his wife was needing was round the clock and very expensive. All he wanted was to see his wife well again and he would do anything to see that.

‘My plan is to have a tanker full of this stuff – let’s say – spill on to the Northwood expressway into the east end of the city, dissolving not one of the major routes into the city, but three. As you rightfully know, Mr Busher, that’s a raised elevated section and would damage the westbound and northbound routes of the Northwood expressway, crippling the city for months. They would need a contractor of good reputation and if they didn’t accept, you would have me as a good advocate, being the most influential man in the city.’

Gary was speechless and had long forgotten about dear old Gareth Leach; his mind was all in disarray. The greed of it all was settling in.

‘Gary, you might have a multi-million pound business but you have a lot of overheads. Your costs are mounting up. You live in a modest home and drive a modest car for a millionaire. Just think – there would be no limits to your wealth. You could buy anything or anyone. You could buy out the companies that build the roads and then nothing could stop you. Nothing!’

‘Ok, what’s in it for you, Mr Greyer?’

‘Now your talking, Mr Busher. All I want is thirty percent to start with, for the first two years but as you grow I would like to grow. It’s our little vested interest, you see. I supply you with the market; you pay me what I’m due. So after two years I would have fifty-one percent of your company. I know, before you say it, that’s a controlling share but I will never wish to buy you out and in ten years you will be worth an estimated 6.8 billion. Not your business, I might add; you will be worth that. I have it all worked out your 25 million this year becomes 50 next. Do you see where I’m going with it? The growth of your business only depends on one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We need the doctor again, Gary. I’m sorry.’ Buzzzzz! ‘Send in the doctor please, Miss Jones.’

Mr Greyer pulled out a file from the desk and placed it in front of Gary; he could see it was a business contract but Gary was more concerned at why the doctor needed to be there. To maybe witness it? Surely it was a job for a lawyer, not a doctor.

‘Please, Gary. We need one last thing from you. Could you roll up your right shirt sleeve? You see, the doctor needs a blood sample for a blood screen. It’s a health check thing. I do it with all my new business partners and it is an annual requirement. It’s in the contract.’

Gary was a little taken aback by this but he could see why Mr Greyer wasn’t prepared to take on a partner who could possibly drop down dead at anytime.

‘I can assure you, Mr Greyer, I am in good health for man of my age. What’s with the blood?’

‘Let’s just say, I do like to know about the health of a partner as well as their wealth. Let’s just say I have a vested interest.’

Gary nodded reluctantly, took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve.

‘You know the drill, doctor.’ Derek stood up and started to take his jacket off and roll up his sleeve. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to go through it if I didn’t set the example, eh.’

‘That’s not necessary, Mr Greyer.’

‘No, I have to. You’ll see why in a moment.’

The doctor pulled the syringe out and placed a large needle into it which disturbed Gary.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be using such a large needle for you. Mr Greyer’s body is somewhat made from granite. He his very muscular and the normal needles just bend up and it makes it more difficult for me.’

Gary quickly thought, ‘And more painful for Mr Greyer.’

The doctor had drawn off 25ml of blood and placed a small piece of cotton wool over the incision. ‘Please, Sir. Hold your arm up for a little while, thank you.’

‘You’re next, Gary,’ Derek said smiling.

‘I will need a little more blood from you, Gary, but not much more.’ The Doctor pulled out a 50ml syringe then placing a smaller needle in it, he then tapped the chosen area to raise the vein in Gary’s arm. The needle went in and the blood started to fill the syringe. It stopped once it got to the 35ml level and again he placed a small piece of cotton wool to stop the flow of blood continuing. ‘Thank you.’

Gary’s blood-filled syringe was placed in front of him on the desk for the pair to clearly see. Mr Greyer’s was still held tightly in his hand. Mr Greyer then did something odd; he pulled an old fashioned type cartridge fountain pen from his desk. He took the syringe and squirted a little blood into a clear glass inkwell. He then drew some with the fountain pen, just enough to sign the contracts.

The look on Gary’s face said it all – ‘We’re signing the contract in blood’? Gary was fearful. The whole meeting was an eye-opener and he felt a conscience come over him. He had a quickening of God’s power. He was reminded of a sermon he had heard over three years ago about the whole subject of selling your soul for a price that can’t be paid for.

Derek could sense a nervousness rise within Gary. He had to move in quickly. ‘Please, Mr Busher. Would you do the honours and sign? This contract will ensure your success and I do have a surprise for you once you have signed.’ He knew that would intrigue Gary. ‘A surprise?’ What could it be? There was nothing that could surprise Gary other than any help for his beloved wife Sarah.

Gary grabbed the pen from Mr Greyer’s hand and a moment of trepidation came over him.

‘Gary, I know about your wife. I know about the illness. I’m sorry to pry, Gary, but I had to do my homework. I didn’t mean any harm but I can help. Believe me, Gary, I can help.’

‘Let’s sign up,’ Derek spun the contract round towards him, grabbed the blood filled pen and quickly signed the bottom line of the contract in his own blood. By this time Gary had forgotten all about the blood-filled pen and when the contract was turned to him he also signed and dated the contract with blood.

‘How? How can you help my wife?’ Gary was now hooked. The sermon was long forgotten. He was just thinking about Sarah and helping his family.

‘Now that we are official partners let’s shake on it.’

Gary’s mind was focused on one thing and one thing only. He shook but the only reason was to speed up proceedings. He just wanted to find out how. His heart was screaming – Just tell me! Just tell me!

‘Gary, you are now family and I consider you and your family my family. I will help you in a way that no doctor or medical institution could ever do.’ He turned to his doctor. ‘Please collect the vile labelled ‘Busher’ from the lab.’

Now it had just hit Gary like a train: he had that vile made up the whole time, maybe this Mr Greyer has a softer side, but he could not be more wrong – he was pure evil. Gary, however, couldn’t see it. Derek had only one motivation and that was the blood sitting in that syringe on his desk: the blood of a betrayer. Derek Greyer had won again and received the prize and now he was a real threat.

The doctor passed the small vile to Derek and then held it out towards Gary but quickly pulled it back before Gary grabbed it.

‘Now listen, Gary. This is for your wife, Sarah, and only for her. Once you have given this to her she will feel tired and want to sleep, but she must not. You must get this liquid into her whole immune system. This liquid will flush out the cancer in her and heal her. It is a miracle liquid and costs a fortune but I know you are good for it now we are partners.’

‘Why? How? What is that stuff? Why isn’t available to everyone who has cancer?’

‘Gary, this may not work and this ‘stuff’, as you call it, is a homemade remedy made by me, so there is no way of getting it until you are in the ‘family’, lets say, and I know you will not tell of this part of our little meeting today. If that is all, we must conclude our meeting. We have overrun a little.’ Derek reached out his hand again. The pair shook hands. ‘I hope all is well with your wife. Please do call if there are any changes with Sarah.’

With that said Gary nodded his appreciation and quickly left, clutching the glass vile in his hand, egger to give it to his beloved Sarah, hoping it would work, hoping it would indeed heal her. But what Gary Busher was carrying in his hand was just a diluted sample of Derek Greyer’s own blood, mixed with a small amount of steroid. He would never reveal the true ingredients to anyone. He had it memorised for total security. The blood mixture wouldn’t make her immortal, it would indeed heal her and in Derek’s mind that is all he wanted at that time. He had no feelings, no emotion. Derek’s motivation was just a selfish, self-gratifying notion to remove blood from one vessel to another vessel and he had it in the palm of his hand.

He had an hour to kill until his next meeting so as he continued to watch the wall of TVs. He would watch screen after screen, hoping something would catch his eye. Then he would quickly pick up the phone and there he would claim more wealth from misery. In that hour he made eleven phone calls and netted a few more million for the ever-growing empire.

His next meeting was with the head of a processing company (DigiLab Holdings, which Mr Wong was the CEO of) that he owned in a kind of ‘ghost chairman’ position so other companies wouldn’t know of his involvement. The company had lucrative contracts with many of the country’s hospitals and other privately funded medical centres. Their work primarily involved x-ray films and other scanned images.

The business was to take the used films and dispose of them in a more environmentally friendly and safe way. However, with the hospitals and medical centres unaware, the company produced silver from the disposed films. That made this business a very, very profitable business indeed.

But there was a spanner in the works and Mr Wong was there to answer for the drop in the current market and the impending financial losses.

Buzzzzz! ‘It’s Mr Wong, Sir.’

‘Show him in, please.’

Mr Wong quickly sat down. ‘Hello, Mr Greyer. Morning good, ya?’

‘Yes, morning good. So tell me what’s going on, eh.’

‘As you know, we are the largest company in the world that does this–’

‘Sorry to stop you, but I know we’re the largest company. I own it.’

Mr Wong was nervous and had gone into his rehearsed speech as usual.

‘Is the digital age crippling us? That’s all I want to know.’

‘No no, sir. People are still using tapes and cameras and so on, sir, but not in the same quantities.’

They also dealt with deposable cameras and a video tape recycling scheme – another branch of their business in order to profit from the silver locked within all those old VHS tapes that litter our homes. It too was profitable and had minimal cost involved.

‘How is the plant, Wong?’

‘Good Sir. Good sir.’

‘Just tell me the figures.’ Derek was getting a little impatient.

‘Last month, sir, we were down by 0.2 per cent, sir.’

‘Okay, Wong. I heard ‘down’ in that statement didn’t I?’

‘Yes, sir. Yes.’

‘So what are we doing about it?’

‘We are still making silver from the waste film from the processing plant and all sources are delivering on time.’

‘You haven’t told me anything remotely good yet. So what you should do is lose people so that we can break even this month.’

‘Sack people, sir?’

The look on Derek’s face said it all – smiling, knowing how he would affect hundreds of peoples lives with just a stroke of his pen. ‘Yes. Sack people. Is that all Wong?’

‘I was wondering if there was any chance I could get a little more of your amazing tonic, sir. I have been feeling a bit low lately. A little pick-me-up to get me well, so to work for you even harder, sir.’ He wasn’t stupid, Mr Wong; he knew what strings to pull to get what he wanted too.

‘Yes, Wong; a clever move. You are obviously learning something working for me. You give, then you get, that’s a good working relationship.’ But he sensed something else. Derek wasn’t stupid and Mr Wong had a severely sick wife as well. He thrived on misery. Greyer was pure evil and he used it to push his key players throughout his many businesses.

‘Yes, it’s my wife, sir. She is really sick, sir, as you know. We have being seeking many professionals and they have diagnosed a brain tumour. It’s inoperable it doesn’t look good, sir. I was wondering if you could make some for her too.’

‘Wong, I am sorry to hear that, but I don’t think the tonic would work on that kind of tumour. It may only give her a limited time, a year maybe, I don’t know.’ He knew damn well that it would work; he just wanted something again and was using the ill wife to get it, just like he did with Gary Busher. He was pure evil, pulling on the heart strings yet again. ‘But perhaps I could strengthen the tonic. It just might work, but would you do me a favour?’

‘Yes sir. Yes, anything, sir.’

‘I need you to arrange a meeting with Bill Barns, the Microchip Manufacturer. He knows me well. I tell you what I want – either forge our businesses or wipe him out. I want his share of the computer market; after all it’s the rise in the computer market that the processing plant is losing money. Everyone switching to digital cameras and not developing photos anymore. We do still have the contract with the hospital and all their x-rays and used film screens?’

‘Yes we do, yes. It is a very profitable contract, sir.’

‘So hurry, Wong. Make it happen. I would like to get ahead of the game. Barns Tech will be ours, Wong. It will be ours; your wife’s health depends on it. Deal with it Wong!’

Derek turned in his chair to open a drawer. It was filled with his so-called ‘tonic’; around 40-50 vials of his own blood sat in a refrigerated section of the office furniture and you would never know it was there. He quickly gave Wong a single vile.

‘Normally I would never let you out of my office with that, so be careful with it. That is a super strength version, so be extra careful. Don’t lose it; you won’t get another one and this one is for you now.’ And Derek quickly threw Wong a vile to drink, whilst he was still in Derek’s office, in front of him, to witness him drinking it. ‘Now I hope that is all, Wong. I am going to take the rest of day off.’

‘But that’s not bad for a mornings work 12.25 million without breaking sweat, so only 0.2% loss on one of my businesses but I’ll get that back tomorrow, eh.’ Derek smiled only proving, yet again, that he had no feelings; no emotion.

Buzzzzz! ‘Miss Jones, I am taking the rest of the day off. I’ll be back at the Manor so please no calls. I wish not to be disturbed. I have another matter to take care of so I’ll be giving that a lot of thought this afternoon.’

The issue still burned in is soul. ‘Seth’ was another problem that needed dealing with asap.

Derek took his personnel elevator down to the private garage in the lower basement and decided on the Bentley Continental. The whole basement was dedicated to a few of Derek’s cars. He had many highly marked-up cars, rare and very expensive. Amongst them were an AC Cobra, a Mercedes AMG SL and a Ferrari 250GT California; that alone was worth over 1.2 million. He had every kind of car; cars deemed too expensive to drive. He didn’t care; money and obtaining it and, most of all, spending it was like a drug to Derek Greyer. He thrived on it.

Once he was home, the Derek Greyer facade was gone. His study was like a mirror image of the huge office at Greyer international tower, but his home also contained an equally huge training room, which he hit as soon as he arrived. He felt he should sharpen up his skills after seeing Seth’s. He had to admit it; Seth had shaken him up. He defiantly needed to step up his training.

The equipment that littered the gymnasium in his vast mansion had started to gather dust. Derek had let his fitness drop knowing full well that he could easily kill Milo. His son, Paul, was no match; even if Derek didn’t kill him, the cancer would do the job for him.

He had an arrogance that emulated from every pore of his evil body and this made him smile – but only for a moment, then his thoughts dwelt on Seth and his much-needed reason to dust off the equipment and start up his training again. Seth worried him. But then he gently rubbed his chin and a smug smile danced across the face of Derek Greyer. He had a plan and he was keeping that plan a secret… for now.

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