The Mortal Maze

by Ian Richardson

  Mack comes out of his office to join Jackson, Pete, Samira and Farouk who are watching the film. “This is strong stuff, Pete. We’d better remove some of the blood and guts before we re-run it.” He pats Pete on the shoulder and belatedly notices the gash on his forehead: “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a routine part of a crazy Aussie cameraman’s day in a warzone,” he grins.

  Farouk shouts to Jackson: “Thirty seconds to go.” Jackson resumes his place in front of the camera. Mack turns to him and asks about the piece-to-camera. “Sorry,” Jackson replies, “we had a problem with it. Sorry.” “Fuck”, exclaims Mack. He does a hand movement as though firing a revolver at Jackson. “We’ll talk about this later Mr Rising Bloody TV Star Who Never Misses a Story!”

  Mack goes back into his office, slamming the door behind him with such force that the glass is in danger of shattering. He flops down at his desk, lights up another cigarette and checks the TV monitors. His phone rings and he pushes the speaker button. “Mack Galbraith,” he answers distractedly.

  “Hi Mack. It’s Mary Dunstan on the foreign desk.”

  “Yes, Mary.”

  “Powerful stuff from Jacko! A shame, though, that CNN and Al Jazeera beat us to air with it. Anyway, we’re setting aside 10 minutes for a package in tonight’s Ten O’Clock. We’ll need it early so that we can sort out the graphics and other stuff.”

  “Righto. Will see to that.”

  “Good, Mack. We’re getting advice from Foreign Office insiders that Central Arabia is going to be the next big story in the Middle East. Do you agree?”

  “Could well be. People here are getting worried that they’ll be going the way of Egypt, Iraq and Libya.”

  “Right, Mack. We’ll look forward to getting lots more good stuff from Jacko.”

  Mary hangs up. Mack gives a sigh and gets up to give Jackson his instructions. Jackson is slumped at his desk, shaken by the dramatic events of the past hour and upset that he has been scooped by his rivals. He cheers up a little on being told that he will be starring in the Ten.

  Mack decides that now is not the time or the place to give Jackson a serious bollocking. “Just do your best with Pete’s great stuff while I think up some excuses for London.”

  Jackson is repentant: “I’m really sorry, Mack. Really, really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “I hope not. I need to rely 100% on everyone in this bureau,” Mack says, as he returns to his office, lighting up another cigarette and gulping down the remains of his whisky.

  CHAPTER 2

  It is late at night by the time Jackson finishes his commitments to London and gets back to his apartment in Armibar’s central residential district. It has a functional open plan living area with a kitchenette. Arabic and English newspapers and magazines are scattered about. A few unwashed dishes lie in water in the kitchen sink. There is a medium-sized TV set, plus a computer, a stereo music unit, a sofa, two armchairs and some kitchen stools. A landline telephone, notebooks and assorted gadgets are scattered on the kitchen bench. An electronic keyboard is on a stand in the corner of the room close to a shelf full of assorted books. Pop group and modern art posters decorate the walls. It is untidy, but thanks to a maid coming in every few days, it is clean.

  Jackson turns on BBC World News and watches some of Pete’s film being repeated. He takes a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and pours himself a large drink, pauses, then pours himself an even larger one. The stresses of the past 12 hours or so are taking their toll.

  Jackson switches on his laptop and goes to an American gambling site called Towering Treasures Inc. It says: Funds Required. His mobile phone rings and his mind is still on the gambling site as he takes the call.

  The call is from his mother in London. “Oh, hello, Mother. Did you see my piece on the Ten?” He is annoyed by his mother’s response: “Yes, yes, yes! I know Dad always wore a tie, but I’ve told you before, Mother, it’s different now.” There is more chat from his mother and he begins to shout: “For Christ’s sake! Is that the best you can say, that I looked untidy? And stop calling me Roger!” Jackson angrily snaps shut the phone, ending the call without so much as a ‘good bye’. He gulps down his whisky and goes to the bathroom to turn on the shower.

  ******

  Next morning: Jackson is running late and Samira, Jackson, Pete and Farouk are already in Mack’s office as the morning editorial conference with Foreign News in London begins. They are all worn out.

  Mary Dunstan is again making the call from London and can be heard on Mack’s phone speaker: “Right. Let’s talk about today. We need a good strong follow-up with an assessment of whether Central Arabia is beginning to come apart at the seams and whether anyone should give a damn. We’ll be getting onto bankers and big business reps over here to see if they’re worried about the huge investments they’ve made in the country. In addition, Jackson will need to provide fresh packages for the lunchtime, Six and Ten bulletins. We’re assuming that you, Mack, will be doing all the radio and online stuff.”

  “Not a problem, Mary,” Mack replies, exuding confidence that he hopes isn’t misplaced.

  “Great,” says Mary, “now let’s consider your staffing situation. If this story continues to grow, as some people expect, you might need back-up. Someone from the World Affairs Team could be flown in.”

  Mack and the team exchange alarmed looks. “Oh no, Mary, we’ll be fine. The last thing we need at the moment is some know-nothing from London trampling all over our story.”

  “Well, it’s not my decision, but we don’t want a repeat of what happened yesterday. There is some disenchantment on the top floor about how we were beaten by the opposition. More importantly, we were the only one not to have an action piece-to-camera.”

  Pete, wearing a Bondi Beach surfer T-shirt, hastily chips in: “Jacko did do a strong piece, Mary, but it must have been corrupted when I banged my camera taking cover from the shooting. You tell those pricks on the top floor to get stuffed if they raise it again. They bloody weren’t here dodging the bullets. Some of those useless bastards in designer suits and clubland ties haven’t covered anything more dangerous than a church fete in their entire bloody careers.”

  Mack and Jackson are taken aback by the ferocity of Pete’s intervention. “No, I understand that, Pete,” says Mary. “I’ll vigorously defend you guys when I go upstairs for the morning briefing. Shit happens. It just wasn’t your lucky day – losing the piece-to-camera and having that puncture.”

  Everyone but Mack is baffled by this last remark. What puncture? Mack hastily responds: “Yes, Mary, as I said last night, you can be unlucky sometimes.”

  “Understood, Mack. Just one other thing before I go: Reuter is reporting that a little known group called Soldiers for Allah is claiming responsibility for the riot. Ever heard of them?”

  “Nope,” replies Mack. “Sounds like a made-up name. These days any wanker can put stuff up on the internet claiming to be this, that or the other.”

  “Okay, Mack. All the best for today. We’ll talk again later.”

  Mary hangs up and there is a sigh of relief around the room. Mack brings the meeting to an end. “Well, we got away with it this time, thanks to our ‘puncture’ and Pete’s intervention. Perhaps one day, Pete, you and Jacko will tell me what really happened with that piece-to-camera.” Pete smirks. Jackson looks away, still embarrassed.

  “By the way,” adds Mack, “I got this email overnight from some ponce in Health and Safety wanting assurances that you were both wearing flak jackets yesterday. I wrote back that if I ever caught you without your flak jackets I would personally tie you both to a tree in a public square and give you 100 lashes with a stick of wet rhubarb.”

  They all laugh and their mood lifts. Mack dismisses Jackson and Pete with a gentle wave of his hand. Yesterday is best forgotten. Today is another day.

  ******

  Two days have passed and all is well. Jackson has made his peace with Mack and his professional
reputation has been restored as he delivers well-crafted and perceptive packages for all television outlets, including the Ten and Newsnight. While he knows that appearing on BBC World News means his reports are seen by tens of millions around the globe, he gets a special kick from being on the Ten and the other major outlets back home. There is nothing like knowing that his friends and his mother are seeing him on screen doing a big story.

  Jackson has a lunch appointment at the Hotel Armibar in one of the better parts of the city. He waits in the guest bar and feeds American dollar coins into a poker machine. He strikes it lucky and his body tingles with excitement as a payout of $100 crashes into the winnings tray.

  “So, your lucky day!” declares an English public schoolboy voice from behind him.

  Jackson turns to see Thomas Fulham standing there. Thomas is roughly the same age as him – about 35 – and is wearing an expensive suit and tie in contrast to Jackson’s usual on-screen wear of open-necked smart casual.

  “Looks as though the drinks are on you,” observes Thomas.

  “Looks like it,” says Jackson with a grin as he scoops up the coins and drops them into a large empty ash tray on a nearby table.

  He and Thomas shake hands. “Nice to catch up with you again, Tommy.”

  Jackson motions Thomas to a seat at the table and calls over a waiter. “What’s your poison?” he asks Thomas.

  “A G&T would be welcome, dear chap.”

  Jackson turns to the waiter: “A double gin-and-tonic for my friend here and a Coke with ice and lemon for me.”

  Thomas raises an eyebrow at the Coke order. “How things have changed!”

  “Booze and broadcasting don’t mix, you know,” Jackson responds.

  Jackson and Thomas study each other awkwardly for several seconds before Jackson breaks the silence: “Well then, how come you are in this God-forsaken place, Tommy? It doesn’t seem your scene.”

  “Um, I’d prefer to be called Thomas, dear chap. You know, now that I’m in the diplomatic service.”

  “Ah yes. Well, you always were a bit of a pompous bastard, Thomas,” Jackson said, deliberately stressing “Thomas”. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll stop calling you Tommy if you’ll stop addressing me as ‘dear chap’.”

  Thomas accepts this with a faint smile and a shrug: “Fair enough, Jacko, or should that be Jackson?”

  “I’m quite comfortable with Jacko among friends and colleagues.”

  “Right then, ‘Jacko’ it is,” says Thomas.

  The waiter returns with the drinks and Jackson pays him from his winnings.

  “So, back to my question, Thomas, how and why are you here?”

  Thomas hands Jackson a business card. Jackson studies it and breaks into a smile: “Thomas J. Fulham, Commercial Attaché, Embassy of the United Kingdom, Armibar! That’s a turn-up. I don’t recall you ever knowing much about commerce. You were more of a rugger bugger with an interest in military matters.”

  “You’re overlooking the fact that my family was very successful in business, which is where the family money comes from.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Jackson admits, “but I still don’t see why someone with your posh connections hasn’t been sent to one of the better postings in Europe or North America, or even Australia.”

  “It’s because of my Arabic. And no matter how shitty the country, there are always commercial opportunities to be exploited and protected. I’m here to make sure Britain gets its fair share.”

  “Well, Thomas, in that respect you haven’t changed one bit.”

  They laugh and sip their drinks. Thomas picks up the local Arabic-language newspaper, The Voice, lying on an adjacent table and points to the main front page story: “You know this is total horse manure, of course.”

  “Probably,” agrees Jackson, “but at least it gives us some sort of view of the regime’s thinking.”

  They are interrupted by the approach of an elegant woman in her mid-thirties, blonde and wearing a stylish trouser suit. She has a loose-fitting headscarf over her hair. She carries a Harrods shopping bag and is greeted by Thomas: “Flip, darling! This is a pleasant surprise.”

  Flip, more formally known by her proper name, Felicity, smiles awkwardly at both Thomas and Jackson and takes a seat at the table. She puts her bag down beside her. “Well,” says Thomas with a sweep of his hand towards Felicity and Jackson, “I believe you know each other.”

  “Yes. Hello, Roger,” she says softly.

  “Oh, it’s Jackson these days, darling,” interrupts Thomas with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

  “Oh yes. So I’ve noticed from the television,” she agrees.

  “Hello, Felicity,” says Jackson, “nice to see you again. It’s been many years.”

  “Yes 15 years, at least.”

  Jackson smiles, but cannot entirely obscure a certain tension in his voice: “Yes, 15 at least,” he confirms.

  Thomas points to Felicity’s shopping bag: “So what have you been spending our money on?

  She is about to reply, but Thomas’s phone rings. He looks at the screen and announces: “I must take this.”

  He gets up and walks over to a balcony at the bar, out of hearing. Jackson notes, without paying too much attention, that Thomas has a limp.

  Jackson and Felicity lean towards each other, their voices lowered.

  “Christ, I didn’t expect to see you here!” Jackson declares.

  “Nor did I expect to see you,” she admitted, “but I go to whatever country Thomas is posted to. As for being here today, Thomas often meets his contacts in this bar, so I just popped in on the off-chance. I was passing anyway.”

  Jackson breaks into a warm smile: “Well, it’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, too,” says Felicity, a little edgily.

  There is a pause in the conversation with Felicity keeping a watchful eye on Thomas on the balcony. Jackson leans forward again: “What does Thomas know?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” she reassures him, “he knows we were university friends and attended some of the same lectures, but that’s about it. He was too tied up with his Arabic studies and his boozy dining club chums to hear anything more than that.”

  “Good. We’d best leave it at that,” says Jackson. There is a pause, then he adds: “I was surprised when I heard on the grapevine that you had ended up with Thomas.”

  “Ended up? That’s so, so insulting, Roger!”

  Jackson is instantly apologetic: “Oh God! I didn’t intend it to come out like that. But you know what I mean. Thomas never struck me as your sort.”

  “Thomas is okay. Don’t be fooled by the ‘Hooray Henry’ exterior. He’s very intelligent and we have a comfortable life.”

  “So it wasn’t entirely for love?”

  “Leave it, will you, Jackson!” she says crossly.

  Felicity watches Thomas end his phone call and changes the subject. “So, what’s this ‘Jackson’ business? What’s wrong with Roger?”

  “Oh, Roger was too confusing, you know,” says Jackson, “and it wasn’t much fun having Dad and me with the same name and both being reasonably well-known journalists. Anyway, Jackson Dunbar has a certain ring of authority to it, don’t you think?”

  Felicity raises an eyebrow: “It’s more memorable, perhaps.”

  “Well, I can’t change it back now,” Jackson says with a shrug.

  Thomas rejoins them and gulps down the rest of his G&T. “Something urgent has come up, dear chap, er Jacko, so we’ll have to do lunch another time. Better still, come around for dinner one evening soon. We can take the opportunity to swap some thoughts on the future of this crappy little country. I’ll leave it to Flip to organise.”

  Thomas gives his wife a cursory kiss and hurries away, leaving her and Jackson sitting there, not knowing quite what to say or do.

  “Well, um, would you like to come around for dinner?” asks Felicity tentatively.

  “Mmm. That would be good,” he replies as he consults his phone
diary. “Next Tuesday is a day off, if that suits you.”

  “Good. Next Tuesday it is. Give me your business card and I’ll email you a confirmation with our address.”

  Jackson gets a card from his wallet and hands it over. “Are you quite sure it’ll be okay?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she replies, a little snitchily, “the past is the past. Anyway, we’ll be moving in the same small social circle here, so we can hardly avoid seeing each other. And it would be nice for you to meet our kids.”

  “Oh, you’ve got kids? How many?”

  “Two. One of each, both primary school age.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll get to meet them next Tuesday.”

  Felicity looks at her watch. “Well, Roger – sorry Jacko – I must go. Pity that your lunch appointment with Thomas didn’t happen. I’m afraid that you’ll find him not very reliable on that front.”

  She stands up to leave and Jacko points to the shopping bag that she had brought. “Don’t forget that!”

  “Oh yes, I was going to show you this when we were interrupted by Thomas’s call.”

  Felicity gently removes a vase from the bag and carefully hands it to Jackson. It is about 30cms high, elegantly shaped, obviously quite old and decorated with Arabic images and text. Jackson flicks it with a finger and it resonates with a satisfying sound. It is a quality item. “My word, that must have cost you a few dollars!”

  “Oh no. It’s a gift from a grateful parent.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m a volunteer at the Fouad Rehabilitation Centre.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that. It’s not far from our bureau. We might do a feature on it one day.” He studies the vase more closely. “It’s lovely. I’m sure you’re worth it.”

  Felicity and Jackson exchange air kisses as she leaves. He notes that she is wearing the same distinctive perfume that he remembered from their university days. He did once know what it was called.

  Jackson calls the waiter and orders a sandwich. The waiter enquires if he wants another Coke. He agrees, then changes his mind and orders a beer.

  Jackson goes to the poker machine and begins feeding his winnings into it. At the same time, he makes a call on his mobile: “Hi, William. It’s Jackson Dunbar. Any chance you could fix me up with an off-the-record chat with Sir Gordon?”