The Voice Within

by Roger Penfound

  Sitting in the bar of The Wherry, one of the few ancient pubs to have survived the regeneration of Docklands, he felt a profound sense of misery. He'd known that he was living on borrowed time. Unlike James Welland, he'd not bothered to cultivate the acolytes who surrounded Lord Halshaw and oozed him with admiration. He still thought of himself as one of the old guard, independent but principled. Even though he gave off an aura of casual indifference, he actually cared very much about his job. In the past, he had exposed some terrible crimes that had been hidden by a cloak of official malaise. There had been the child prostitution scandal in '97, the missing body parts scare in 2002 and, more recently, the ill-treatment of dementia patients in a national chain of old people's homes. He cared about these issues and he cared about the people who were being exploited, so it hurt him to the core to be accused of something as unethical as phone hacking. He didn't need to hack into phones, he had one of the most sophisticated network of informants of any journalist on a national daily. Hacking was what you did if you couldn't do the job, or if the pressure for screaming headlines made you buckle – which amounted to the same thing.

  He downed a scotch, waiting for the sublime relief it would soon deliver to his aching head, then another, and a third before Raff hung a heavy arm over his shoulder and pulled him across to a quiet table in the corner of the bar.

  "Listen, mate, we all knew this was coming," he began as he pulled Doug down into a seat in a darkened alcove. "I mean, when Halshaw bought the paper it sent shivers throughout the whole industry. You know what his reputation is – he wants control. He wants to dominate and he doesn't care who he hurts on the way."

  "I won’t let him get away with it. I've spent my life fighting bullies and he's just another power crazy thug. I can dig up dirt – there's bound to be plenty of it – a man like him. Prostitutes, I bet. His relationship with the PM. There's bound to be more to it than meets the eye. As soon as they know I'm onto something, they'll pull back – you'll see."

  "I love your spirit, Doug. You've always been passionate. But I think they've got you this time. You can fight the phone hacking and you might win. You didn't personally authorise any hacking. I believe you. But if they don't get you on the hacking they'll probably get you on the expenses issue."

  "But come on, Raff, you know …"

  Raff held his hands up to silence Doug's protestations.

  "I know we've all done it, mate. It's gone on for years. But it's the timing – coming just after the politicians' expenses debacle, the public won't stand it. It's not the nineties any more. They were great times but they're gone – dead and buried. This is the age of purgatory where we atone for our sins, publicly flagellate and then beg for redemption."

  His tone lowered. His voice became more earnest.

  "Do something else, Doug, mate. You've been hammering yourself ever since you split with Rachel. I've been meaning to say something, but you know how it is. Don't want to interfere."

  "I'm fine."

  "I mean, all those young women you keep taking up with. You're kidding yourself, mate. They're using you to get a foot on the ladder. Then you wonder why they never last."

  "I'm fine."

  "No, you're not. You're bloody wrecked."

  The ring tone of Doug's phone brought the conversation to a halt as he struggled to extricate the device from the torn lining of his trouser pocket. He felt a twinge of panic as he saw the caller's picture on his screen. It was Rachel. They hadn't spoken for three weeks. It still hurt to see her face smiling out from his iPhone and to hear her voice.

  "Rachel, I've been meaning to phone," he began in the nearest to 'jolly' that he could muster.

  "Douglas, I think we need to meet." Her voice was terse and anxious – not the giggly, sexy laugh he had been so fond of when they had first met all those years ago. "It's Nick. I think there's something wrong. I spoke to him at the weekend and he sounded down – something about a relationship problem. I haven't been able to get hold of him since. Have you spoken to him?"

  "No."

  "I'm not surprised. When was the last time you called him?"

  "Oh, about a couple of weeks ago, I think. I've been a bit busy."

  "You've always been too busy for your son. Meet me tomorrow at lunchtime."

  "OK – where?"

  "That small cafe in Russell Square, opposite the entrance to the university. I'll see you at one."

  The line went dead. He stuffed the phone back into his torn lining.

  "That was Rachel, was it?" enquired Raff. "Good that you two are still talking. Maybe you should think about repairing some of the damage. Use the time you've got now to sort your life out, mate. We all need a bit of time out."

  Chapter 2: London, April 11th 2011

  Steam rose like an ethereal mist from the drying pavements as Doug made his way along Southampton Row towards the University of London.

  Rachel and he had split three years ago after a particularly bad patch. Their marriage had been through plenty of ups and downs but Doug's persistent infidelity had been the last straw for Rachel. As he dodged puddles and weaved his way through dawdling groups of tourists, it surprised him how much pain returned when he allowed his mind to dwell on the break up.

  He reached Russell Square, a pleasant oasis of grass and ornamental flower beds situated in the heart of Bloomsbury. On one side, it was overlooked by the towering edifice of Senate House, the art deco administrative centre of the University of London. A small cafe was situated in one corner of the park. Tables were being set up on the surrounding grass as customers bared their porcelain flesh for the first time this year to the sun's timid rays. Doug settled at one of them. Around him, people chatted beneath a canopy of fresh spring leaves. He began to wonder about his own situation – no job, possible court case pending, broken marriage, failed relationship with his son. His job had given him status, self-respect and some measure of protection. Without it, he felt vulnerable and alone.

  Then he saw Rachel walking towards him from the direction of Senate House where she now worked as an administrative assistant. Not the slim young girl he had married, but still good looking. Her dark hair was cut just above the shoulders. She wore a smart beige suit with the jacket open to reveal a low cut top – low enough to warrant a second look. He remembered the early days of their marriage, eagerly awaiting her arrival in some bar or coffee shop. They would have kissed, hugged, asked after each other, then gone home to the house they both shared and made love. But now she was no longer his. She was engaged to Martin, an economics lecturer at the university. He felt anxious. He knew their conversation would be stilted and difficult.

  "You're early," she said, with an edge to her voice which he knew meant she was nervous too.

  "It's good to see you, Rachel. How are you?"

  "We need to talk about Nick," she replied, studiously ignoring any question from him which might invite more intimate conversation. "You said you spoke to him a fortnight ago."

  "About a fortnight ago. I can't be certain."

  "It was over four weeks ago. On the 27th," she replied tersely.

  "Then why ask if you already knew?" he snapped, immediately regretting it. Her face tensed.

  He and Rachel had met at Nottingham University in 1981. They had both been university activists and had thrown themselves into lives of campaigning and protest. Doug's high octane presence and charisma got him interviews on regional TV and it wasn't long before he was offered a junior reporter job on the local paper, following his graduation.

  "Come on, Rachel. You know what it's like with Nick and me. It just doesn't work. God knows we've both tried."

  "You – try!" she exploded. "Let me remind you of the times you've promised me that you would …" He noticed people at nearby tables turn in their direction, drawn by her raised voice and flailing hands.

  "Rachel, Rachel, please. Don't let's do this again," he whispered, trying to calm the outburst. "You told me there was a problem with Nick. Tell me what i
t is. Let's discuss it."

  She paused, unsure whether his plea was genuine. Then shrugged and continued in a measured voice.

  "I first noticed it a few weeks back. Nick seemed more distant than usual. He's never exactly been effusive on the phone but something seemed different about him."

  "In what way?"

  "Evasive. So, eventually, I asked him directly. After some prodding he told me there was a girl involved. He's been seeing her for about six months."

  "Well, that's great isn't it? His first girlfriend. You've always worried that he hadn't had a proper relationship."

  "She's Indian – Muslim."

  "Well, I can see that makes it complicated – but these days ..."

  "It's her father. He's very traditional. According to Nick, he would never consent to her marrying outside their faith. It would bring shame on his family."

  "Isn't it a bit early to be talking about marriage?"

  "You know what Nick's like. Takes ages to make up his mind but when he does – he's committed."

  "So, how can we help him?"

  "Nick feels out of his depth. They've already arranged a marriage for her. A boy from her father's village, back in India. They're taking her out there after she's graduated."

  "They can't force her."

  "If they try, she says she'll commit suicide."

  Doug sucked in air loudly and rearranged himself on the chair.

  "Perhaps if I spoke to the father – maybe if I could establish some relationship with him – explain that Nick's a decent lad."

  "Nick thinks he won't listen. He believes the girl's in danger from her family. I suppose you've heard of honour killings."

  "Christ, Rachel, this is bloody England in 2011! They can't kill her. I'll talk to people I know."

  "Talk to your son. He needs you now. He's always needed you but you've never been there for him."

  After university, Rachel had found work in the relative anonymity of charity administration. When Nick was born, she stayed at home to care for him. Mandy, their daughter, followed soon after. It was Mandy's death at eighteen months from meningitis that fundamentally changed their relationship. Douglas couldn't give Rachel the comfort and support she needed and spent longer on work assignments, sometimes being away from home for days. After months of anguish, Rachel emerged from her bereavement a much harder and more remote person. As Doug focused more and more on his work and managed the change from local to national papers, even his relationship with Nick began to wither.

  "I've got to go now, Doug. I have to go back to work."

  "But you haven't told me how you are," he stammered, suddenly aware that she was about to walk out of his life again. "And how's Martin? Is he well?"

  "Martin's fine. You know we're engaged?"

  "Yes. I'm pleased for you." He knew he sounded disingenuous. She got up from the table. "I've lost my job, Rachel," he said in desperation. Her jaw dropped.

  "What do you mean you've lost your job? Have you been sacked?"

  "Something like that."

  She clutched the edge of the table with her free hand and slowly sat down again. He explained about the phone hacking allegations but didn't mention the expenses. He wanted her to believe that he had become a victim – sacrificed in the bloody confrontation between journalistic integrity and corporate greed.

  "So, what will you do now, Doug?" Her voice had lost its sharp edge and was noticeably softer. "Writing's your life. How about another paper?"

  "Wouldn't have me. Once you've been fingered by scandal, you're finished – 'specially at my age."

  "Then you must do something else – other writing. You used to be good."

  Her right hand stretched out across the table so their finger-tips met. It was the first time they had touched in three years. A sharp pain stabbed at the pit of his stomach as he saw the new engagement ring sparkling on her finger.

  "That book you wrote before we had Nick – the historical novel. It got great reviews."

  "That was ages ago."

  "It was good, Doug. You could do it again. It's what you do. It's who you are – a writer, a story teller." She squeezed his fingers and got up. He didn't try to stop her. She smiled and walked away without looking back.

  He remained sitting, feeling suddenly very alone. A passing waiter took his order for a large Pinot Grigio and he downed it greedily. His eyes settled on a young couple seated at a nearby park bench – probably students. They kissed urgently, their tongues on a voyage of carnal discovery. His hand gripped her thigh and her arm clasped his shoulder. He recalled his own early days with Rachel. Their love had been unconditional and all consuming. They hadn't sought anyone's approval and they hadn't cared what anyone thought. How different it was for Nick. He would have to see him – talk to him. He would call and arrange to meet – drive down there – possibly tomorrow.

  "Nick, hello, it's me – your father. I want to come and visit you tomorrow."

  "Why?"

  "There's something I want to talk to you about."

  "You've never bothered before."

  "Don't be like that. Your mother told me there's a problem – with a girl."

  "She shouldn't have told you. I said it was private. I should never have let her get it out of me."

  "She's worried – we both are. You need some help, mate. I gather she's Indian."

  "She's British – born in Derby."

  "But she's Muslim, right? Nothing wrong in that."

  There was a pause at the other end. Doug could sense Nick struggling for words.

  "It's not her, it's me. Going out with me brings shame on her family."

  Nick's voice trembled. One wrong word and Doug would lose him.

  "Are you in love with her?"

  "What do you know about love? You only know about screwing the office secretaries."

  "That's out of order, Nick. Your mother and I were very much in love – till it went wrong."

  "And we know why that was."

  "I'm going to come and see you, Nick – tomorrow. Shall I come to your digs? I think I've got the address."

  "No, not there. In a pub. There's one in the centre called The Barge."

  "Can we make it late afternoon? Going to take me a while to get down there?"

  "Four o'clock."

  The line clicked dead. He gulped another mouthful of Pinot Grigio and spluttered as he overfilled his mouth with its sharp fruity tang. He knew he was out of his depth. In his world, only scoops and deadlines mattered. Now he was being asked to engage on an emotional level with his son. He had singularly failed in the past and doubted he had the skills to do this now.

  As he brooded, he recalled Rachel's words, "You shouldn't stop writing, Doug. It's what you do. It's who you are."

  He remembered the time he'd been writing his first novel. He and Rachel had been living in a small basement flat in Islington while he wrote at night and freelanced by day. It had been an exciting time, writing and making love, with occasional dashes to the pub over the road for more cigarettes. Rachel had driven him on, believing in him and keeping him focused. He felt tears welling in his eyes and a deep emptiness within.

  The novel had limited success – a mixture of fiction and fact based on Henry VIII's persecution of the Catholics. It hadn't sold widely but it had been highly acclaimed within a small literary circle and he had enjoyed the attention it brought him. Could he do the same again? Maybe base it on the English Civil War, rich in bloody conflict, with neighbour pitched against neighbour.

  There was a place not far from Exeter that he had always wanted to visit – Penhallam Manor. It was an ancient building on the rugged north coast of Cornwall and the ancestral home of the Penhallam family – his own tribe. He knew that they had been caught up in the ravages of the Civil War and their story could make a good starting point for his novel as well as providing a uniquely personal perspective.

  Taking another mouthful of wine he made up his mind. He would travel down to Exeter the next d
ay and then travel on to Cornwall.

  Chapter 3: Exeter, April 12th 2011

  The weather had changed overnight. Gone was the clear blue sky of yesterday to be replaced by a blanket of grey cloud which deposited rain in a fine mist over the capital. As he motored out of London in his ageing Mercedes estate Doug felt his spirits sink. What could he actually say to Nick that would be any help? Interracial marriages weren't his area of expertise. He could lecture him on the principles of human rights but that wasn't going to solve Nick's problems.

  Drowsiness began to envelop him as the monotonous sound of the wipers lured him into a trance. Catching sight of a service area, he managed to turn off the main carriageway at the last minute, prompting aggressive blasts from the lorry behind. Sitting with a strong black coffee in the food hall, he felt impotent and isolated. Perhaps he should be in London fighting for his professional survival, not running away to Cornwall.

  His thoughts were interrupted by an alarm from his mobile. A text message.

  'more arrests this morning. george on the foreign desk and hazel from celeb features. everyone's paranoid. got my bag packed by the bed in case they come. better off out of it mate. how r u? raff'

  Finishing his drink he grimaced as bitter coffee dregs assaulted his taste buds. He would continue with his plan – visit Nick in the afternoon, then drive on to Bude where he'd stay the night before setting out for Penhallam Manor the next morning.

  Arriving in Exeter in driving rain, he struggled to find anywhere to park. Eventually, he opted for a multi-storey and winced at the six pounds it was going to cost him. A couple of enquiries led him quickly to the The Barge which lay, unsurprisingly, by a stretch of water known as The Quay. He ordered a scotch with soda and sat by a window overlooking the windswept pavement where a few tourists braved the elements, clutching their coats tightly to their bodies. By four fifteen, he had finished his scotch and, with no sight of Nick, was forced to order a mineral water in view of his pending drive to Bude. By four thirty he felt anger rising and his limbs tensing. Was he doing this on purpose? Was this Nick's way of showing his disdain for his father? Then he'd call his bluff and go.