The Clarion. My God.
Georgia took a swig from the glass of water on the bedside table. Except it wasn’t water.
The vodka hit the back of her throat like napalm.
Georgia threw on a dressing gown and managed to descend the stairs on two feet, steadying herself on the party wall with her right hand.
No need for the human toboggan run today. She can’t have been that bad last night, after all.
She retrieved the bundle of newspapers lying on her front door mat and spread them out on her desk.
There it was. Page one. Page fucking one. Page one lead. Splash headline. Exclusive. By Georgia Claye.
She went to the fridge for a can of extra-strength cider to drink in her triumph.
Exclusive. By Georgia Claye. The truth behind the Heffer’s Bottom shooting.
The ex-policeman charged with the cold-blooded murder of a young asylum-seeker is exposed today as a drunken racist with a violent hatred of gypsies.
Michael French had previously threatened to round up members of the travelling community and shoot them ‘like rats in a barrel’.
Sid Allen, landlord of the Keep & Bear Arms, in Heffer’s Bottom, said that French was a notorious alcoholic.
Confidential information obtained by the Clarion indicates that on the night he gunned down 16-year-old Gica Dinantu, a refugee from Romania, French’s blood-alcohol level was nine times the legal drink-drive limit – enough to kill a normal person.
Police sources confirm that French had made threats to kill gypsies on earlier occasions.
The Clarion can also reveal today that Dinantu, who fled Romania after his father himself was murdered by the secret police, hoped to become a doctor and was soon to be a father.
He was in Heffer’s Bottom knocking on doors pleading for work to earn money to finance his studies.
His devastated fiancée, Maria (pictured left), who is expecting his baby, choked back tears as she remembered her beloved Gica.
She described him as ‘beautiful’ and ‘good’.
Deputy Assistant Commissioner Roberta Peel, who is leading the investigation, said that the Metropolitan Police was determined to tackle racism and press for maximum sentences for offenders.
There was more in this vein, carried over onto pages two and three. Technically, it was all sub judice. But as far as the editor of the Clarion, Harold Potter, was concerned, French had forfeited his right to protection from prejudicial publicity the moment he went live on Rocktalk 99FM to protest his innocence.
On the editorial pages, Clarion Call, the newspaper’s leader column, warned of the rising tide of racial violence which was turning Britain into the new Nazi Germany.
Alongside, the paper carried a signed article by the celebrated lawyer Justin Fromby, chair of the Oppressed Peoples’ Refugee Association and Hotline (OPRAH) demanding further restrictions on handguns, with the exception of those held by paramilitary groups involved in the Northern Ireland peace process, and calling for an end to all immigration controls.
Georgia wallowed in her triumph. Soon, she told herself, there would be other awards to stand alongside the Golden Spike on her desk.
She poured herself another slug of vodka to chase down the cider and opened a tub of Pot Noodles before showering and leaving for her scheduled appearance on the Ricky Sparke radio show.
Sixty
‘That was Tom Robinson and this is the Ricky Sparke show on Rocktalk 99FM, your official Free Mickey French radio station. My producer has just informed me that the number of calls in support of Mickey on our special phone line has just passed 300,000. Well done everyone. Keep them coming in. My guest on the programme this morning is the, er, distinguished journalist Georgia Claye, here to review the newspapers for us. Morning, Georgia. You’re looking a bit rough this morning. Another night on the batter, was it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Just joking, Georgia. Have another glass of wine. Why don’t we start with the Clarion; you’re all over the front page today.’
‘Yes. I’ve written an exclusive report on the Mickey French case.’
‘And may I just say, on behalf of Mickey and all of us here at Rocktalk 99FM, what a complete parcel of nonsense it all is.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your scurrilous little exclusive. Total bollocks, Georgia.’
‘You can’t say that on the radio.’
‘I just did, my love. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘I didn’t come here to be insulted.’
‘If you can’t take a bit of constructive criticism you’re in the wrong job, petal.’
‘My report in the Clarion today is one hundred per cent accurate, the result of exhaustive investigative journalism. Mickey French is a drunken racist who deserves to be behind bars.’
‘He also happens to be a friend of mine. And 300,000 loyal Rocktalk 99FM listeners disagree with you.’
Outside the studio, Ricky’s producer had handed Georgia a tumbler of red wine to calm her nerves and steady her hands.
After the news she was shown in and sat opposite the presenter. Ricky gave her the thumbs-up.
Ricky had taken the top off a bottle of Beck’s and was working his way down it.
There was a full bottle of red and a full bottle of white in front of Georgia. She drained the tumbler and replenished it instantly.
Georgia topped up her tumbler, tipping white wine upon red in her irritation.
‘I don’t care what your listeners think.’
‘Well, that’s typical of you and your bunch of treacherous subversives at the Clarion, isn’t it? The people, the paying public, can get stuffed. You’re always right.’
‘In this case, I am right. The Clarion is right. We have the full support of the learned Mr Justin Fromby and Deputy Assistant Commissioner Peel from Scotland Yard.’
‘This whole case stinks of fit-up. Mickey French is a brave, former police officer, defending his own property against a thieving scumbag, another bogus asylum-seeker, here to leech off the British taxpayer.’
‘That’s not true. Gica Dinantu was here fleeing from the secret police in Romania, who had murdered his father. He was about to become a father himself. Training to be a doctor.’
‘Oh, yeah. Then what was he doing miles away from his hostel, in Mickey French’s house?’
‘Looking for work to pay for his studies at medical college.’
‘In the middle of the night? Get real, Georgia. Let’s hit the phones. Stuart, line one.’
A mobile telephone crackled into life. Ricky spoke.
‘Fire away, Stuart. We’re all ears. What do you want to say?’
‘Well, Ricky, I’m boiling mad listening to that old bag you‘ve got in the studio sticking up for this robbing git. He got what he deserved.’
Georgia was apoplectic, spitting red wine everywhere. She retaliated.
‘How can you say that? He was a young man, a boy, cruelly slaughtered in the prime of his life by a murdering, drunken racist.’
The caller, Stuart, fought back.
‘He shouldn’t have been burgling, should he Ricky?’
‘Absolutely not, Stuart. As far as I’m concerned once someone puts themselves outside the law, they forfeit the protection of the law.’
Georgia butted in.
‘So what you’re saying is that you should be free to shoot anyone who comes into your house?’
‘Got it in one, pet.’
‘I don’t believe this. He was a boy, a bay-bee, a BAY-BEE!’
‘Get a grip, Georgia.’
Georgia rose to her feet and started wailing like a banshee, flailing her arms around, knocking over what remained of the wine, screeching at the top of her voice.
‘AAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH! I don‘t BELIEVE this! You’re as bad as he is. You think it’s right to kill BAY-BEES. To gun them down like RATS IN A BARREL! BAY-BEE KILLER. BAY-BEE KILLER!!!!’
Stuart on line one was speechless. Ricky
took a swig of his Beck’s and sat there with a bemused expression on his face.
Downstairs, Charlie Lawrence beamed and decided to jack up the advertising rates.
The staff in the control room were stunned. Georgia had completely taken leave of her senses, howling like a stuck pig.
The producer was about to fade to music when Charlie Lawrence walked in.
‘Leave it,’ Charlie ordered. ‘This is great radio. A great, great, great listen.’
On the other side of the glass panel, Georgia was jumping up and down, banging her fists on the control console, like something out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
‘BAY-BEE KILLER!!!!! BAY-BEE KILLER! AAAAAARR-RRRRGGHH!!!!!’
Georgia lost control of her mind, her emotions, her coordination, her voice and, tragically, her bowels.
Ricky placed the bottle of Beck’s by the microphone, leant forward and spoke, gently.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this might be an appropriate time for some more music. I’m afraid my guest has just followed through.’
Sixty-one
‘The posaphone you are calling may be switched off. It may respond if you try later.’
Funny, Mickey normally kept the phone switched on, Andi told herself. Maybe he was hanging around the studio, waiting for Ricky. Five-hour time difference; it would be lunchtime in London.
He could be in the underground car park at Rocktalk 99FM. Cellphones didn’t work down there.
More likely, he was in the pub over the road. Or in Spider’s with Ricky. Dillon barred all mobile phones from the premises. The punters had to surrender them at the door.
She hadn’t spoken to Mickey since, how long, three, four days? Of course, she’d been down to Palm Beach, taken the kids on day trips to Sea World and Disney, got back late, middle of the night London time.
Strange how the answering machine at home wasn’t working. Mickey had probably forgotten to turn it on.
She’d try again later.
What with the roadtrips to Palm Beach and Orlando, Andi had lost touch with events at home.
The kids were lying by the pool at the condo block off State Road A1A.
Andi decided to take a walk. Zero Beach had been named the friendliest small town in Florida three years running. The old downtown was straight out of The Last Picture Show. Even though the old movie theatre, the Zero Beach National Bank and the Hiawatha apartment building now housed upscale restaurants and yuppie lofts, if you squinted hard enough you could imagine Cybill Shepherd tiptoeing her way dustily along the railroad track.
It also had a sizeable British expat community – retired agricultural machinery salesman, writers, men who made their money shipping citrus back to England.
Which is why the Zero Beach News Stand sold fifteen copies a day of the Daily Mail, transmitted by satellite from London, printed on the Orlando Sentinel presses, aimed at the expats and the Disney hordes, and on sale, same day, at 8 am throughout Florida.
Andi strolled along the boardwalk connecting the Dunes Café with Atlantic Drive, past the pastel buildings, packed with realtors, designer dress shops. At the local candy store, Andi stopped and bought herself a double pecan and amaretto waffle cone, which she needed two hands to tackle.
She sat on a bench, staring out at the ocean, finished her ice-cream, walked onto the beach and rinsed her hands in the sea.
She missed Mickey. He always said Zero Beach was the one place in the world he could really relax. Andi remembered them making love under the boardwalk on their first visit, twenty years earlier, before the kids were born. It was hardly From Here to Eternity. Mickey managed to get sand under his foreskin and it was one of the most uncomfortable fucks they’d ever had. But, hey, that’s romance. And the thought of that night still made her tingle. Which sure beat the hell out of the saddle sores she’d suffered for days afterwards.
Where was Mickey right now? He said he’d join them. Soon, he’d promised. He always kept his promises.
Maybe when he arrived they’d leave the kids with his aunt and take a couple of days alone somewhere.
Andi strolled to the Zero Beach News Stand to buy a copy of that morning’s Daily Mail.
Cass, the hippy retread working behind the counter, handed Andi the paper.
Andi turned to the front page.
RIOT AS GUN COP REMANDED
There on page one was a picture of Mickey, her Mickey, alongside a story which began:
A petrol bomb was thrown and a child trampled underfoot as violent scenes erupted outside the magistrates’ court where a former police marksman was remanded in custody charged with the murder of a burglar.
Police with riot shields and on horseback restored order after fighting broke out between rival factions when Michael Edward French was brought to the court in the back of a Black Maria.
He entered a formal plea of not guilty. An application for bail was rejected and French was remanded to Paxton prison.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ asked Cass.
Andi was riveted to the spot, she went weak at the knees, the newspaper shaking in her hands.
‘Sit down a moment. I’ll make you some herb tea.’
Andi slumped back into a wicker chair. Through glazed eyes, she read on.
Oh, Mickey, what have you done? She knew he’d made threats, but they were words, just words. She didn’t think he’d ever really go through with it.
Cass handed her a camomile and ginger infusion.
‘I could do with a strong, sweet Typhoo,’ Andi said. ‘Thank you, anyway. You’re very kind.’
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Cass.
Andi sipped her tea and said nothing, reading and rereading the report in the Daily Mail.
‘I’ll be fine, really, thanks,’ she eventually replied.
‘Someone you know?’ Cass inquired, leaning over.
‘Someone I thought I knew.’
Andi composed herself and hurried back to the condo.
‘All right, Mum?’ asked young Terry, lying by the pool, spotting his mother’s red, raw eyes.
‘Oh, yeah, fine. I think I got a mosquito in my eyes. I’ve been rubbing them. I’ll be OK.’
She shut herself in the bedroom, dialled Mickey’s mobile again.
Silly cow, if he’s in prison he’s not going to answer.
Think, woman. She tried her mum. No answer.
Ricky. Ricky would know.
She delved into her handbag, flicked through the pages of her address book.
By Ricky Sparke’s name there were several numbers, most of them scrawled out. Numbers of flats he’d been evicted from, cellphones repossessed.
She tried the number marked (s) for studio. A young woman answered.
‘Ricky Sparke show, hello.’
‘Is Ricky there?’
‘Are you a listener?’
‘No, I mean yes, sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘I’m a friend.’
‘They all say that.’
‘Look, I’m Mickey French’s wife. Andi French.’
‘Oh, why didn’t you say so, Mrs French?’
‘I just did. Look, is Ricky there?’
‘The show’s just finished, he’s already left. You wouldn’t believe what happened on-air …’
‘Right now, I’m not interested. I have to talk to him.’
‘He’s on his way to the inquest.’
‘Inquest?’
‘On the burglar Mickey shot. I thought you’d know?’
‘No, look, I’m away. I’ve just heard.’
‘Everyone’s on Mickey’s side. We’ve had thousands of calls, people pledging money. The ratings have gone through the roof.’
‘I don’t care about your blasted ratings. I want to talk to Ricky.’
‘You could try him on the mobile.’
The girl gave Andi the number. She scribbled it down on a magazine cover using an eyeliner pencil and replaced the handset without bothering to say thank you.
She punched in Ricky’s number.
‘The cellphone you are calling may be engaged. Please try later.’
She tried again. And again. And again.
Fourth time lucky.
‘Vigilantes’R’Us, how can I help you?’ said the voice at the other end. Ricky was feeling chipper. Georgia Claye had shat herself on-air, the Free Mickey French bandwagon was rolling at warp speed, the Ricky Sparke show was the hottest property in town and his wages had just gone up fifty grand.
‘Ricky?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Andi.’
‘Shit, sorry, Andi. I wasn’t expecting. I mean, I was going to ring, but Mickey said, and well, um, how are you?’
‘I’m going out of my mind here, Ricky. I’ve just read the Daily Mail. What the hell has been going on?’
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Andi, honestly. It’s all going according to plan.’
‘According to plan? According to fucking plan, Ricky Sparke? My husband is in prison on a murder charge, I’m halfway round the world and no one thought fit to tell me, and you say everything is going according to plan?’
‘Calm down, Andi,’ said Ricky, trying to comfort her. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. We’re on the case. Mickey has massive public support, it’s not his fault, it was self-defence, you know, reasonable force.’
‘He’s still in prison.’
‘We’re working on it. Trust me.’
‘Why do I want to check the contents of my jewellery box and make sure I’m still wearing my knickers when I hear you say “Trust me”? You forget I’ve known you too long, Ricky. You’re a fully paid-up member of the I’ll-only-put-it-in-a-little-way school. You’re not the one banged up in Paxton. What’s in this for you?’
‘Andi, please, Mickey’s my best mate. I’ve been to see him inside; we’re doing everything we can.’
‘And the ratings are going through the roof.’
‘Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. This is about truth and justice.’
Andi laughed, sarcastically. ‘Trust me, I’m a journalist, eh?’
To Hell in a Handcart Page 30