A Question of Responsibility

Andrea Knight -- currently the only female merchant bank MD in the City - wrinkles her nose in contempt, sighs and stamps an expensively shod foot in exasperation. Meanwhile, the object of her ire, a certain Mr Hain, makes his way across the marbled atrium of Fields Bank. Given the chance she'd ban the annoying man from the premises, but the chairman, Sir Jonah, is adamant; the auditors must be afforded all assistance. Andrea doesn't see why; what can they understand of the Byzantine complexities of high finance?

Yet for all her outward confidence, Andrea feels a twinge of anxiety; Fields has been sailing close to the wind lately. Thank goodness for 'light touch' government regulation. Which, she and everyone else in London's Square Mile knows full well, means next to none so long as politicians can look forward to lucrative boardroom seats when they retire from Parliament. Compounding her irritation is Sir Jonah taking himself off to the Caribbean for a couple of weeks, where it's rumoured he's 'auditioning' a young actress for the post of trophy wife.

Fortunately for Andrea, Mr Hain and his assistant, Ms Fleet, keep a low profile, assiduously avoiding personal contact and preferring to communicate by email, which suits her just fine. They're employed by the Financial Evaluation Authority; previously unheard of - but then a panicky Chancellor, nervous of another financial crisis, is setting up regulatory committees on an almost daily basis. Halfway through the second week of their investigations, they summon Andrea to a meeting.

"Most inconvenient, she complains to Sir Jonah, "I already have an appointment."

"Cancel it," he instructs abruptly, "this is important."

Oh well, Andrea consoles herself as bang on 3pm on the fateful Friday afternoon there comes a discreet knock on her office door, at least this will be the last I see of them. Only when a second, harder knock follows does Andrea recall granting her PA a last-minute request to take the day off.

Moodily opening the door herself she steps back in confusion as Mr Hain, confidently clad in Saville Row's finest, sets up his laptop on a large shiny meeting table. Ms Fleet poised and calm, slender figure emphasised by a figure-hugging pencil skirt and impossibly high heels, joins him.

"No point in wasting time with preambles, Ms Knight," she announces briskly. "We know how much you resent our presence, so let's skip any pretence of polite chat and get straight down to business."

"I think you may find this short presentation rather interesting," adds Mr Hain with typical British understatement as he scrolls down the computer screen.

Over the next 10 minutes, Andrea watches with mounting horror. It's all there - the massaged figures, tax avoidance, mis-selling, offshore laundering, and rewards for failure. Far from being blundering bureaucrats, Hain and Fleet have exposed Fields' financial improprieties with forensic precision.

"But I've only been in post a year; you can't blame me for all of this..." protests Andrea weakly when the damming revelations conclude.

"The fraud and cheating, perhaps," replies Mr Hain, "but what have you done about it since?"

"Well, I, er."

"Nothing," interrupts Ms Fleet, succinctly espousing the truth. "Which in fairness is what you're paid outrageously not to do, but nevertheless an abrogation of responsibilities as CEO. Never mind, wherever the buck started, it stops with you."

"So, what," asks Ms Knight faintly, "happens now? You can't possibly go public on this; the markets will panic."

"Sod the markets," replies Ms Fleet, echoing the thoughts of most normal people, allowing a suitably dramatic pause before continuing. "Anyway, we don't need to. You will." "Me? Are you mad?"

"You've been summoned to give evidence under oath before the public accounts select committee next week, haven't you?" asks Fleet.

"Well yes, but I don't..."

"But nothing," continues Mr Hain. "Instead of the usual muddying of the waters and vague rhetoric, you are going to tell the truth." '

"I don't understand. Sir Jonah told me to cooperate, but if the truth comes out the bank's finished," says Ms Knight.

"Perhaps not finished, transformed certainly, nationalised possibly," grins Mr Hain. "Sir Jonah has already done a deal with the powers that be, jumped ship and accepted an eye-wateringly large pension and immunity from prosecution in return for putting his hand up to some token minor regulatory misdemeanours. He's thrown you to the wolves."

Andrea blinks, speechless with astonishment. "And before the politicians and, no doubt lawyers, step in, we're going to impose a peoples' punishment for failing to protect the public," explains Ms Fleet, ominously.

"A what?"

"People's punishment," repeats Ms Fleet. She reaches into her large handbag, produces a supple leather tawse and slaps it firmly across her palm. "On behalf of all the small investors, pensioners and family businesses your bank has run roughshod over." '

"I'll call security," blusters Andrea.

"Security has already been contacted," responds Mr Hain with worrying equanimity. "Turns out old Fred, your minimum wage, outsourced guard, has a poorly performing retirement investment in Fields. Consequently, the boardroom will remain locked until I say otherwise. The surveillance cameras are running, however, and Fred is just itching to put a live feed up onto the net."

"You're surely not intending to..." once more words fail the usually assertive Ms Knight, "...beat me?" she continues in a small voice.

"Oh yes. Only a token chastisement, but something we feel sure will strike a chord with investors, should you fail to promise the great and the good on the committee you'll implement the series of reforms we've prepared."

"Who exactly are you?" enquires Ms Knight suspiciously.

"Bit late for due diligence, isn't it?" laughs Ms Fleet. "Mind you, our false credentials were impressive, even though I say so as the person who forged them. I'm afraid we're not from the government, let's just say we're on a mission to expose corporate greed."

"The important thing," continues Mr Hain, "is that chapter and verse on your bank's activities can be with every broadsheet newspaper and financial blog in the world within seconds. So, if I were you, Ms Knight, I'd cooperate and take your medicine."

"Stand up," Ms Fleet instructs abruptly, in commanding tones that, despite her slender build, brook no argument, "walk over to the table and bend over it."

In a daze Andrea obeys. "This is blackmail," she whimpers. "Isn't it though?" agrees Hain. "But if it's any consolation you're doing rather better than the CEO of a major competitor who right now is chained naked to a pillar outside the Bank of England with a placard saying 'fraudster' around his podgy neck. At least your humiliation will be in private; his is already on the net." With shaking knees, Fields' CEO stands at the end of the sturdy piece of mahogany furniture.

"Grip the edges of the table," instructs Ms Fleet, "feet together and stay in position until we say you may rise. For you to feel the full benefit, this hiding will be on the bare bottom." So saying she unhitches Ms Knight's very expensive designer skirt and lets it fall in a puddle around her sober high-heeled black courts, then yanks her silk knickers down to her knees eliciting an inchoate sob of embarrassment as Andrea's bare bottom is exposed.

"You'll get a dozen strokes from each of us," says Mr Hain with evident satisfaction, eliciting another wail of despair from the woebegone woman.

"Since it seems you're something of a novice, I'm going to hold your hands while Mr Hain lays on the first twelve," says Ms Fleet. A prudent course of action it transpires, Ms Knight struggles, kicks and shouts as each of a dozen successive strokes falls. Slowly and methodically Mr Hain applies burning parallel bands of pain to the unfortunate executive's buttocks. Ms Fleet grips Andrea's wrists firmly, holding her in position as she wails and squirms in reaction to the awful agony being visited on her posterior. As the tawsing concludes, Ms Fleet affords her a fleeting sympathetic glance, she appears to know exactly what she's suffering.

"Excellent," concludes Mr Hain, after what to Andrea seems an eternity, surveying her glowing hindquarters with satisfaction. Ms Knight has been rapidly and painfully transformed from a poised, some might say snooty, senior manager, to a sniffling, dishevelled mess. Makeup smeared and tearful, she looks imploringly at the impassive Ms Fleet.

"Oh please, I can't take any more."

"Can and will," comes the short, unsympathetic reply.

"How can you do this to another woman?" Andrea demands angrily, showing a trace of her old spark.

"Because I find female managers aping the very worst behaviour of men, particularly disappointing," says Ms Fleet coolly. "You deserve some sisterly censure." Mr Hain and Ms Fleet swap places, any faint hope of clemency from her own gender isn't forthcoming. In fact, if anything the ensuing strokes are harder, and by the conclusion of an intensely severe disciplinary session, Ms Knight is convinced her bottom has swollen to twice its size.

"Take it from one who knows," whispers Ms Fleet to the damp-eyed executive clutching her lividly striped behind, "don't even try to put your knickers back on. You'll probably be preparing for that meeting at the House of Commons tomorrow standing up. Goodbye."

A loud click announces the automatic unlocking of the office door. Messrs Hain and Fleet calmly gather their possessions and leave the building. Up in the central security office, Fred watches the monitor and smiles while prudently making several backup copies of the recording.

The next day a visibly chastened Ms Knight makes her appearance in front of the politicians, walking rather stiffly to the committee table and sitting with a visible wince - a recent riding accident, an aide explains to the press.

"Yeah right," mutters one seasoned female journalist to a colleague, with a knowing wink. During the following hour, Andrea honestly owns up to the examples of financial malfeasance and undertakes to remedy them. Professionally, and against the odds, it's her finest hour. The press takes her side, a regulatory career beckons, the livid marks on her bottom take a week to fade, and a sexually submissive spark has been kindled...

Back at home 'Mr Hain' and 'Ms Fleet' watch the parliamentary proceedings on TV.

"First in a series of successes," he says with evident satisfaction."

She smiles conspiratorially. "Well, you practised enough with the tawse, on me."

He slides an exploratory hand up her skirt "Wet already?"

"I think you know what I'd like to do to celebrate," she replies and teasingly slides silky panties down her slender legs, delicately flicking them across the room. Ms Fleet leans forward over their bed. "No need to be overly gentle."

"Someone," he observes a little later, "really should sort out those greedy utility companies. Do any of them have a female boss?"