She had texted Miller the evening before, simply writing ‘I’m in’, to which Miller had replied 30 minutes later giving the meeting place, the need for her to find a couple of photos of them together, and a request to keep all recent revelations to herself except for the one concerning her love for him. It was only on her way to the meeting point that the full enormity of what she was doing became clear. Her legs felt weak as she imagined all the things that could go wrong.
Without Lucy realising, a woman had taken a seat next to her on the bench. She was dressed in a skirt and a crisp blue office jacket. She stroked her red hair behind her ears. ‘When a person who’s waiting for you doesn’t notice you slide in next to them, you can feel pride at realising the anonymous look,’ said Barrett, smiling warmly at Lucy. She offered her hand. ‘I was tempted to wear leather gloves, a trench coat, and Grisham it up, but I’m unsure if this is conspiracy or farce.’ She looked enquiringly into Lucy’s eyes, searching for signs she might know more than she was giving away.
‘I decided to go for the “drinking a coffee” look,’ Lucy said. There was a promise of summer in the mild breeze; her scarf and woolly hat showed a more conscious effort at disguise.
Barrett had received instructions on her private email the night before. Only a handful of people, including Liam, had the address. She was to publish an article on Lucy and Miller, and was given details of the meeting point.
Lucy handed the pictures to Barrett on a pen drive. She provided a few autobiographical details, and some background to their relationship.
Barrett gently touched Lucy’s arm, ready to take her leave.
‘Do you think it’s right we’re not telling the police?’ Barrett said. ‘I’m presuming you’ve been contacted with the same vague threat for compliance?’
Lucy smiled warmly and nodded. ‘Why are you doing it?’ she said as Barrett got to her feet.
Barrett pursed her lips. ‘I guess to try to find a way to forgive Liam for what he’d become before he left.’ She paused for a moment, distracted by the traffic that edged around the park. ‘And, I guess . . . to find a way to forgive myself for forcing him to go in the first place.’
Lucy gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Do you think you’ll succeed?’
‘Redemption is a tricky one to predict,’ she said as she turned to walk away.
*
To the esteemed editor, please forward this to the editors of all registered print, online and television news, with the urgency you think it deserves.
Dear Ladies and Gentlemen of the News Media of Great Britain,
On behalf of the four men sitting on the floor next door, we would like to thank you all for so warmly embracing our recent campaign to give poetry a more central role in government. You have regained the trust of the nation.
We have decided to capitalise on this by making you the centre of ransom number two. We trust that you will once more rise to the occasion.
Sitting on our floor is a man who has worked in your industry for a long time. He is not a model for happiness. Years of probing and hoping for the worst in everybody and everything has left him numb to the beauty of life. So in his honour, we have chosen you to inaugurate National Benefit of the Doubt Day this coming Monday.
To commemorate the event, we ask all media outlets to guarantee that at least 75 per cent of their content is positive. Do not try to be clever, lives are at stake. It will be amazing, once you are allowed to focus on positives, how quickly negative stories can be transformed.
But does this go far enough? The public will still be inclined to mistrust you after years of falling standards and the absence of rigorous reporting. Journalists are as loved as politicians. It’s a mystery you remain in business at all. So this is our gift to you.
On Monday, you will score every news feature you release out of ten.
This score will reflect how much genuine value the piece represents to the public’s understanding of the issue. You might wish to consider how much you actually know about the subject, or if the article has axes to grind.
We will judge the scores you award yourselves against those that our esteemed hostage-journalist gives the same pieces. He will be shown them without seeing your scores. Let’s hope there are not large discrepancies between the two.
On Sunday we will send an editorial that is to be placed on the front of your newspaper under the headline ‘Life Is Beautiful’, and as an opening segment on your news channels.
Many thanks,
The Foundation
‘Michael, you’ve got to see this,’ said Charlie as he stormed into his office, and handed Michael a print-out of the email that had just been disseminated to all the editors of news media in the United Kingdom. He sat tapping his feet impatiently as Michael read. He could tell Michael had finished by the grin that passed across his face.
‘Did you write this?’
‘I only wish I had.’
Michael sat back in his seat and rubbed his head. ‘Have we had any feedback from the editors yet?’
‘We’ve arranged a meeting this afternoon. I get the impression they’re looking for you to help them out of their hole.’
‘Ha. I’m sure they are. But they were happy ushering in my demise yesterday. What do you think?’
‘I think we should maybe tone down our smiles. It is, after all, the whole of the country’s news media being held to ransom.’
‘To be better.’
‘Quite, but maybe concerned helplessness is the tone we’re after.’
Michael weighed it up. ‘I can definitely do helplessness.’
Barrett walked to Downing Street. She felt strangely excited. Meeting Lucy, a co-conspirator, made the situation feel less abstract, even if she was in the dark over what they were conspiring against. But she instinctively felt she had been drafted in for a cause more worthy than mere terrorism.
This was the first time she would be meeting any of the other major media players since the kidnap, and she was practising looking guilt-ridden. She had a firm alibi: she was merely fulfilling tasks delivered by kidnappers who threatened her staff.
She was escorted to the meeting room where she joined the other editors of the national news media, before the Prime Minister, his press secretary, a few aides, and a scattering of ministers made a grand entry. The press secretary gave a short introduction, before opening the session to the floor.
‘Obviously the press can’t be held to ransom,’ said Wilcox, the editor of a daily tabloid. Many of his fellow editors nodded in agreement. ‘This threatens the life-blood of democracy. If we agree to this, where will it end?’
Barrett couldn’t help but smile.
‘I don’t really think smiling is particularly helpful right now, do you?’ said Horner, a broadsheet editor. ‘It’s our moral responsibility to pull together as an industry and show that we’re not for sale.’
There were murmurs of approval as people looked towards Barrett.
‘Such rallying words,’ said Barrett. ‘You almost made me a convert. But on Monday I’ll be upholding the kidnappers’ demands. I’m meeting with my staff later this afternoon to make sure we deliver our best ever paper. I have responsibilities to my team, and, for that matter, my conscience.’
The room shuffled uncomfortably. Many had come relying on a unanimous refusal of the demand, that a vacuous rally behind ‘the freedom of the press’ would be sufficient. Now they needed a champion, an enforcer. They looked at Michael, who was sitting back in his seat, flicking his pen around his thumb.
‘Oh sorry, you’re wanting my opinion?’ he said as he leaned forward. ‘Well . . . of course I’m very concerned,’ he said, looking at Charlie, ‘but at the same time, I am very, very helpless.’ He looked around the room. ‘Concerned, yet helpless,’ he said as a timely synopsis for those who missed it. ‘You see, after already bending to the will of the kidnappers, I have no moral authority to stand against them now. If only you had been against the first demand you might have s
ome’ – he clenched both fists trying to find the word – ‘arghh . . . you know. But here we are,’ he finished, unclenching his fists to open palms.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Prime Minister,’ said Fitzpatrick, the editor of a 24-hour news channel, ‘if you could put yourself in our shoes for a minute and—’ Michael cut her off with his hand.
‘I have already put myself in your shoes. First, and imagine this with me,’ he said, gesticulating to the room. ‘I got what I thought was your right shoe and put it on my right foot, but it felt all cramped and I realised I had put it on the wrong foot. So imagine what I did?’ He looked around the room. ‘I took it off and I put the shoe on my left foot, and I asked myself a question – one that I would like to ask you all now – and that question is: “How does the shoe feel on the other foot?”’
And with that he pointed to his watch and looked at a bemused Charlie. ‘Now, I have some very important government business. After all, I’ve only three days to deliver some really positive news for you all,’ he said, and walked out of the room.
In Friday’s Daily Voice, hidden on page seven, was the headline miller’s girlfriend: ‘please don’t presume they’re safe yet’. Below was a picture of them at a Christmas party: Miller’s arms around Lucy, kissing the top of her head in a drunken embrace. Classy it was not, but Barrett was strangely transfixed by the tenderness in both their faces. The article spoke of Lucy as if she were already cemented as a character in the hostage drama. Lucy was quoted as saying: ‘Miller would be so grateful to the media. It gives me so much hope that they’re doing everything they can to bring him back safe.’
It came as a surprise to the rest of the media, who had failed to detect the girlfriend. The poignancy of the story increased as the secretive nature of their love was revealed; colleagues spoke of how the two of them had tried to hide their relationship in the workplace. The think tank’s head John Fairweather spoke of how he had suspected it for months, and could tell by how devastated she had been during the last week that they were more than just friends. ‘It’s amazing that through it all, she remained dedicated to helping the poor communities she was working with and came to work. She’s a truly remarkable woman.’ He had now forced her into compassionate leave.
‘Heartbroken vixen enter stage left,’ said Michael as he read the Friday papers. ‘How has it taken a week for her to appear?’
‘The value of privacy?’ ventured Charlie.
‘Hmm. I suppose in due course she needs to be invited over, eh? You know, so I can express my concern in person.’
‘You seem to be doing a lot of that recently,’ said Charlie.
‘I’ve got a lot of concern to go round.’
Friday was to be a particularly busy day for Michael. He had no desire to stop Monday’s challenge, but felt he should at least be perceived as part of the solution: it was his responsibility to deliver some good news, and this took him out of his comfort zone.
He sat down with his ministers and made a list of all the new hospitals, schools and initiatives they could open or announce between then and Monday. Funding was wrestled from an impending bank bailout and used to save hospices and sports centres.
For one ethereal day, the entire civil service became focused on clearing blockages to projects in the name of Good News Monday. The threat of being held responsible for murder was a much more efficient incentive than public service. Paperwork miraculously appeared. Committees were bypassed. There was little time to add jargon to briefing papers.
‘We should threaten to kill someone every week,’ said Michael. ‘Maybe we could do it inter-departmentally. Pick a different aide to place the guillotine over each Monday, and hand the department their targets.’
‘After witnessing the lack of chemistry in these departments, I’m not convinced that’ll provide the right incentives,’ said Charlie.
‘Win-win. Government becomes more efficient, or smaller,’ said Michael. ‘You know, a great man once asked what a country could achieve if it could replicate the spirit of wartime during times of peace. You know – the togetherness, the drive, building solar panels instead of warheads.’
‘That’s the magic imminent death brings to the table,’ said Charlie. ‘The best you could do is to have a fake threat, and try to control it.’
Michael nodded and sank deeply into thought, as if Charlie’s comment had profound repercussions.
The offices of Britain’s news media were in an existential frenzy. If the whole industry had stood together it would have been a principle, but Barrett’s stance had injected a moral scale into proceedings: what price were they willing to pay for a human life? Each organisation reluctantly agreed with its owners that it was best, if only this once, to try to be on the right side of the moral compass.
Each faced a different problem. The worst of the rags were content to admit their all-round pointlessness, as their readership prized breast above integrity. But for the more respected organisations, the demands forced them to address the divide between the perception of them being the torchbearers for truth and what they had become: cosy groups that had confused integrity with neutrality, the internet stripping them of their ability and dedication to investigate. They were understaffed and under-skilled. Content had been commercialised and sexed-up. Monday demanded a frantic search for the best of themselves.
A couple of publications concluded that the public’s ability to combine strong loyalty to a paper and extreme disinterest in integrity would see them survive the low scores they would be forced to award themselves – possibly wearing the judgements as an ironic badge of honour. Their readers didn’t consume the news to be informed, but to be entertained and told that they were better than everyone else.
Others were not willing to take the risk. They cajoled the best journalists from their Sunday sister papers to contribute to Monday’s edition. Freelancers auctioned their skills. Offices became hives of nervous tension. World-weary hacks became enthused with purpose, sending their self-evaluated prose to the typesetter, who, like everyone else, eagerly awaited the words that would fill the blank space on the front page.
National Benefit of the Doubt Day deserved an editorial with flair. The Foundation originally envisaged a piece that detailed the amazing strides humanity had taken over the last century: in increased life expectancy, cuts in preventable disease, and improvements in education and gender equality. It gave perspective to today’s troubles by outlining how problems from the past had been solved. But they soon disagreed.
‘The reason some humans live in such luxury is because people like him,’ Liam said, pointing at Richard, ‘have pushed a system that has used up millennia’s worth of resources in one generation.’ Liam had woken up on Thursday with a thumping hangover and sense of remorse, yet two days later remained stewing in his bitter casserole.
‘Yeah. It’s all my fault. I made you consume it against your will.’
‘No, but you sure as hell killed the alternatives.’
‘And you’re a man so full of solutions.’
Pessimism surrounding overpopulation, inequality and the financial system soon followed. Miller pointed out that the world’s resources could not provide for the billions of the future. Jordie added that if that did not wipe out humanity then a third world war would. National Benefit of the Doubt Day was struggling to empower four professional naysayers.
‘Stop being so childish. Like any of you know the slightest thing about the end of the world. Honestly . . .’ Aiya sighed with disappointment at the newly abashed adults. ‘You’re here because you had a solution.’
They all sat in silence, not sure how to progress. Jalila had not spoken for the entire session, and it was only now that she gave a little cough to announce she had something to say. Aiya explored her mum’s features.
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘I like that one.’
Aiya turned back to the men. ‘A while ago I was told a story by a wise man . . . It is a story that is, and is not, so.�
�
On Sunday, an email appeared in the inbox of every news media editor in the country.
As promised, the editorial for Monday. Regards. The Foundation.
Once upon a time, there was a village. It was poor, as were the majority of settlements in the age of once upon a time. Families battled with the land in a desperate fight for survival, their miserable existence nourished by parsnip, radish and a gnawing sense of injustice.
As we know, poverty is not defined solely by a lack of food, shelter and currency, but also by the lack of hope in your soul, the inability to chase and fulfil your dreams. The depressed village in question no longer even had dreams. During the day they dwelt on their muddy fates, by night their energies focused on fighting the chill that came knocking at their bones.
That was until one autumn day. Radishes were drying in the weak October sun; the icy winds were freezing their square-mile pigsty into wintery roads of discontent. Down such a road came a stranger from faraway lands. You could tell by his unsuitable footwear.
‘Who are you? And what do you want?’ snapped the locals.
His deformed face disgusted the villagers: his lips had the ability to turn upwards, and there were strange lines around his eyes. ‘I come bearing dreams,’ said the stranger, ‘and the ability to make them come true.’
‘What are dreams?’ said the villagers.
‘Dreams,’ said the stranger, ‘are what give us hope.’
‘What is hope?’ said the villagers.
The stranger knew he had his work cut out.
But the stranger persevered. He began leading courses in dreams and their fulfilment with the children. The younger villagers – having been marinated in bitterness for fewer years – were more susceptible to his dark arts and soon a rumour spread that strange transformations were taking place among the young.
The stranger soon opened up his sessions. No one could resist his illicit visions. Before long couples talked about the future. The truism that carrots could not grow in soil with such high melancholy levels was questioned. The words ‘why’ and ‘not’ started being put together with devastating repercussions.
Serendipity Foundation_292 Page 15