I had it all ... then I met Caroline Dom.  Some would call it destiny.  Some would call it lunacy and we both should be gaoled. That one, intense meeting ultimately cost me my job, my wife, my family.  I was 42 years old, the youngest director that Maughans’ had ever had.  I had a career pathway mapped out for me. I was the man in the shadows waiting for the summons to the bright lights.  I was the future.

It wasn’t even an important client who asked us to his soiree.  It was just a Friday night interlude before we were to go to the lodge for a weekend’s skiing.  This wasn’t a 'thunderclap' or 'white lightning' meeting.  There wasn’t an 'our eyes met across a crowded room and locked' moment. We didn’t fornicate, neither mentally or physically.  Our lips never touched, our arms never entwined, our minds never met.  If we ever meet again, I don’t know if I will fall on her neck in gratitude or spit in her face.  Has she destroyed my life or brought me into the human race?

She was tall, rubenesque and stylishly sloppy.  She may have been thirty or older even.  Possibly the child of a hippy couple … colourful but in a haphazard, casual way, she looked foreign, a little impish with a lived-in face, lots of laughter lines from her large hazel eyes and big hair … untidy big hair.  She engaged my attention by asking me to pass her drink over from the top of the fridge, where she had left it while she visited the loo.  She spoke with a husky voice … confident and controlled. There was an open friendliness to her that was a little unnerving.

“You don’t look like a wage slave” she opened with.  “I bet you’re the oppressor.”  I wasn’t going to be drawn into a philosophical debate so mumbled

“As you like”. We swapped names.  She seemed to like hearing herself talk.  I quite liked listening.  It was the end of the week and I was tired, not minding having her dominate the interplay.

“Do you do drugs?” she shot at me with a hint of a smile creasing her tanned face.  

“No, of course not” I responded in surprise.

“Not even coke?  All you business people do cocaine for your kicks.”

“Nope.”

“Marijuana?”

“No.”

“Ever done it?”

“No.”

“Magic mushrooms?”

“No.”

She then launched into a whole raft of personal questions ... she was profiling me she said. “Ever had an affair?  Ever shoplifted?  Ever been arrested?  Ever spent a night in the cells?”

I “No’d” to them all … there were more.  “Done a runner from a cafe?  Been to a strip club?  Ever had the bailiff visit?  Did you streak in the 80’s?  Vomited in someone’s bed other than your own?  What about your own?  Been done for DIC?  Have you stolen flowers from the council gardens?”

I shook my head to them all … I could sense her bewilderment.  

“Have you owned a motorbike?  Can you drive a truck?  Have you been into the house of a Maori? ... a Samoan’s … any of the tinted folk’s? Have you skinny-dipped?  Have you ever been turned down by the bank?  Have you ever had to beg or busk for money?  Have you ever been longer than a day without food?   Have you had sex outdoors? ... what, not even in the dark?  What about in the back of a car … what about standing up against a wall?”

I was getting flustered.  I hadn’t had a “yes” answer I could give yet.  I felt I wasn’t in control, I couldn’t sense the direction we were going.  I wasn’t sure if she was just being mischievous.

“What’s the fastest you’ve driven a car?”  

“110.”  

She hooted at this which of course led to the “No speeding tickets then?  Ever done a road trip without a map?  Ever worn secondhand clothes?  Ever been to Goa?  Katmandu … Sammakand, Casablanca, Tegucigulpa?  Have you run with the bulls in Pamplona?”  My “No’s” were becoming more strident.

She wouldn’t stop. “Do you subscribe to Consumer magazine?” … finally a “Yes”

”Ever bought an appliance without checking Consumer first?”  I’m back to the familiar “No!”  I was getting agitated.  “Ever been to a rock festival?  Ridden the trains without paying? ... you have ridden the train?  What about a public bus?”  

More “No’s”.  

“Ever drunk in a public bar?  Have you drunk at the Blackball Hilton … the Vulcan in St Bathans … The Pier in Kaikoura … the Wimbledon Tavern … Herbertville ... the Green Pub in Naseby ... Berlins … Jacksons … the Gretna in Taihape?”  I couldn’t do a yes to anything she asked.  I felt she was doing this deliberately in some sort of juxtaposition ploy to devalue me.  She kept smiling. “Have you ever lit a fart?”

“Do you play pool? Bet at the TAB?  Ever had a homosexual experience?”  

She seemed to like keeping me on the back foot … as though not having experienced any of these things somehow made me a little inadequate.  

“Ever had long hair?  Got any punk records?  Any solo-mum friends?  Do you play a musical instrument?  Have you ever hitch-hiked?  Have you ever WOOFed?  Have you ever voted for Labour?  Do you read books by women authors?  Have you ever put down a hangi?  Have you ever been to full moon drumming?  Would you drive a Chinese car?  Have you ever owned a VW Combi?  Ever had a panic attack?  Ever had your face painted for the rugby?  Ever had a car fail its WOF?  Do you do yoga? … Did I ask you if you’d ever bounced a cheque?”

My repetitious negatives seemed to leave me breathless.  Her skatter-gun questions seemed relentless and annoying … I longed for her to stop. Finally she paused, put her hand on my arm, shook her head slowly making her big-hair swing in a ludicrous fashion, which she didn’t notice or care about.  

“Danny the Dullard … you are the most boring person I have ever met. There is no excitement in your life.  You have no past, possibly the same future. You are so far from the edge; you need to join the flat earth society.  Have you never, ever done anything risky … or unpredictable? What is your passion?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“Is it making money … that turns a lot of men on?”  I shook my head although I must admit to a little hesitation … maybe that was my thing.

She pushed the metaphorical knife in my wounded ego and twisted it.  

“I now know so much more about you” she whispered with an engaging smirk.  “I bet you own a Volvo station wagon to responsibly provide a safe cocoon for your family.  Before you could afford it, you would have had a Toyota Corolla”.  

She swiveled around and nodded unerringly towards my wife Louise.  “You’ll be married to that stunningly beautiful, shiny-haired woman over there, the one with good skin, white-gold ear rings, the grey suit and sensible shoes.  You would have met her at an inter-school dance for boarders.  She is probably the daughter of Hawke’s Bay farmers and she will have insisted on an 18 month engagement, a white wedding with 200 guests and a honeymoon in the Cook Islands. You’ll have two kids with names like Reuben and Rebecca … they’ll possibly be at boarding school. Wifey-poo won’t work because you think it strengthens the family unit to have her at home … even though the kids are away.  Her answers would mirror yours although she has probably had a couple of parking tickets and maybe a lesbian experience at boarding school.  You’ll belong to Rotary… or the Masons.  Shall I go on?  Daniel my man … ” she sang in an Elton John voice before almost whispering “excitement is an aphrodisiac and I think you should treat yourself … I can help.”

Before she could offer me the solution to the problem I never knew I had, Louise rescued me, baring her pearly whites at Caroline Dom and purring, “Sorry to butt in but we’ve got to get moving Darling.”  I slithered away trying not to look like the stereotypical dullard I had been portrayed as.

I never saw her again but her legacy was sleeplessness, self-doubt and periods of looking out of the windows and just thinking … thinking of others’ lives … and wondering.  Had I been dealt the best cards of the deck … or was it just an illusion … was there something I’d never seen?  Work intensified as corporate raiders sniffed around Maughans.  My focus was no longer sharp.  I wasn’t sure if I was the sharpest knife in the box anymore.  I even got headaches occasionally.  What started as the tiniest burr under the saddle started to slowly fester and grow.  Maybe I did want another life?  Slowly, the possibility of running away took hold.  I would amaze them all.  I would do something so outrageous that I would pass into folk-lore.  I fantasised and planned the minutiae.  It slowly became clearer and clearer. Getting access to large sums of money was not the problem in my position.  Killing off the scent and giving the trail a dead-end would always be the hardest thing to achieve.  

As the months went by I set up two other aliases.  This was easy … I’d seen it done in the movies.  On a trip to Auckland I scoured the municipal cemetery until I found an infant’s tomb with a birth date similar to my own.  I applied for and got a passport in the deceased’s name.  I was now the holder of a passport in the name of Brett McIlroy.  I made him an accountant.  I went to great lengths to learn about stage make-up, purchasing quite an inventory of kit. I was very proud of the changes when I got my passport photos done ... my short-cropped hair had been replaced by a thick curly wig and an excellent beard.  I wore glasses from the $2 shop and laughed to myself about how true to type I now looked.

I didn’t rush things. I planned and dreamed, schemed and secretly laughed a lot.  I wasn’t a natural at laughing … it wasn’t something I did.  But now I couldn’t help myself.  “If only they knew” I kept giggling.  There will be those that say I had a breakdown.  There will be others who will pontificate boringly that it was the medication I had been put on as the pressures became intense at work and my headaches became more regular.  They’re all wrong … this is my own work, the pinnacle of my career.  

I had the opportunity to set up a similar alter-ego in Australia on one of my regular visits. Now I had another life as a minerals importer named Bruce Townsend.  I had used a very impressive bald wig with a Friar Tuck result.  I packed my cheeks with dental wadding and the difference was amazing.  I doubt if my own wife would recognise me.  All the time I was setting up bank accounts in similar names to Maughans.  I ended up with 7 accounts with 3 of them requiring double signatures for major transactions.  I juggled my appearance and that of Brett McIlroy beautifully. When setting up one account, I had feigned irritation when Brett was late as I had to get to another meeting. Finally I excused myself and left apologising for Brett.  A great bit of high-speed changing in the public toilets nearby saw Brett rush into the bank devastated that he had missed Daniel as he had some documents for him to sign … ”But while here I’ll sign those authorisation papers”.  It had been so easy … when you are as good as I am.

I do think that my planning was detailed and precise.  The future’s market, stocks, shares, venture capital funding are all areas that the public know little about but for me they were the alley-ways to infamy. I am not going to explain how I managed to transfer three and a half million dollars into one of my own Maughans’ accounts.  I will spare them the embarrassment. You know I did it because the media have had a feeding frenzy.  You will also have read of how my Auckland accountant persona Brett ordered an Aston Martin DB9 in Sydney … and was caught on film.  And what a stroke of genius to actually pay them by electronic transfer … then never pick up the car.  $367,500 I used as a smokescreen, laughing as I knew everybody would be watching and waiting for me to take delivery of that beautiful piece of English craftsmanship. The dark electric blue was so sexy, with the bone-coloured Connolly leather hide seats, the subtle chrome flashes … I almost went back.

But there was no going back … yet.  While my new fortune was electronically zigzagging through the ether from bank to bank, I slipped away.  Plain, bald Aussie Bruce, the mineralist, drove to Newcastle, flew to Darwin and quietly hopped over to Indonesia.  I knew that while I now might be soaring like an eagle, there would be several agencies desperately trying to unravel the trail I had left.  To the public it looked like I had just disappeared. Perhaps Brett had been killed or suffered an even bigger breakdown?  I know that the Aston bought me a huge amount of time.  I used it well.  There had to be a cut in the electronic transferring of the funds.  It is blisteringly fast but ultimately it is traceable … so is money.  Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend but if you don’t have contacts in the criminal world you aren’t going to be able to buy sack loads without someone knowing quite quickly.  When the dust has settled I’ll tell you how I did it, but not yet.  For many the wounds are too raw.

I flew onto China and joined a tour group that travelled across Mongolia.  My destination was the Siberia-Altai region of Russia.  I hadn’t just gone to Rotary to pat myself on the back and salve my white, pleased-and-proud conscience.  I did actually listen to the guest speakers and applaud appropriately.  I had recalled the talk given by an ornithologist who had spent an autumn in a small village in this region.  His photographs were vivid and appealing.  Reality hasn’t quite been as stunning but the Gorno Altash has served me well as a nice base, with its unquestioning, simple folk. There is an internet connection in my village which has helped me follow the events subsequent to my disappearance. I’ve made friends … I had to.  All that trading done in North Korea on my behalf was done by Alexander.  I would send him off with a clear set of instructions. I rewarded him well and he served me well.  Many a bottle of vodka has been shared, toasting our success.

It has been two years since I met Caroline Dom and 11 months since my disappearance.  Many are saying I have been flukey with my trading … but I was good before so why not now?  I am sure it is jealousy that drives the invective that I sometimes see spat my way.  I would possibly confess to insider trading if I was put on the spot but no one is accusing me of any crimes now.

I had my multiple-orgasm moment on Sunday.  It was 31 March and I know how much end of year work is done by the team back in accounts and how depressed and under pressure they find themselves.  I deposited in their current account, by electronic transfer, $3,854,625.00 … being all the money I “borrowed” and a good interest rate ... plus a bit for their inconvenience.  Imagining the confusion, the glee, the expletives, the absolute awe … had me chuckling all day.   I have done OK myself and still have enough cash to play with.  Russia is cheap, life is good but I miss the family a little ... maybe too much.  I haven’t been unfaithful to Louise yet … but there is still time.  I’ve ticked off a few things on Caroline’s list of questions. Shit, at times I’ve been so scared, so nervous that my limbs twitch.  I feel that I have run like the wind, I’ve had my day in the sun, my reason for being.  And I have laughed until I nearly wet myself reading some of what has been written about me. I might even come back one day because now that no one is out of pocket, no harm has been done.  Maughans can’t go me for “theft as a servant” because they haven’t suffered any financial harm or loss … in fact I made sure there was a little 'betterment' just in case the directors got huffy.

I’ve thought a lot about Miss Dom since that turning-point party.  The interesting thing is that when I did a Google search for her the other night … not one reference came up.  Not one!  It is almost like she doesn’t exist.  On the other hand I had 212 references and another point … I have been to the edge, and whilst the view is great, it is bloody scary out there and I don't know how much adrenalin a body can stand.

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