The Dead Dog Day

by Jackie Kabler

  ‘Cow. Nice of her to say hello!’ she said, shutting her eyes again as Sherry started to apply her eye shadow. ‘Ben and Danny aren’t doing anyone at the moment – why can’t she just have one of them do her?’

  ‘Och, she’s alright really. You just have to know how to handle her,’ Sherry replied soothingly. ‘She’s just used to me, that’s all, I do her nearly every day. It’s all insecurity, you know – you’re a way more experienced journalist and she feels threatened when you come in to read the news – probably scared Jeanette’s gonna put you on the sofa instead of her.’

  ‘Seriously? Do you think so? Gosh, there’s no chance of that. I mean, I’d love it – being on the road is so utterly exhausting, and being in the studio is SO much easier – shorter hours, no driving, more money, it’s a no-brainer really. But Jeanette would never replace a babe like that with me! I mean, look at me, Sherry. I look like a right old dog first thing in the morning. No wonder Justin dumped me.’

  Sherry squeezed her shoulder. ‘I heard earlier – sorry about that, Cora. But you’ll find someone else, gorgeous girl like you. Now shut up so I can do your lips.’

  Cora adjusted her earpiece as the PA in the gallery began the countdown to the opening titles. She felt the usual little surge of adrenaline as she straightened the scripts on the news desk in front of her. Grant, the weatherman, poised by his map, winked at her, fiddling with the orange tie that matched his slightly overdone fake tan. On the big yellow sofa to his right, Alice, looking stunning in a taupe Donna Karan trouser suit, simpered at her co-presenter Jeremy and then turned smartly to Camera One as the music died and the red light came on.

  ‘Good morning, it’s six o’clock on Monday the eighteenth of December, and you’re watching Morning Live. A great show lined up for you this morning …’

  ‘Coming to you in fifteen, Cora.’ The director’s voice rumbled in her ear.

  ‘… all that coming up shortly, but first let’s go over to the news desk for the rest of the day’s stories, and we’ve got Cora on the desk this morning, how lovely! In from the cold, Cora?’ Alice smiled amiably across the studio.

  Two-faced cow! Cora thought. She smiled sweetly back. ‘Yes, good morning, Alice, it’s very nice to be here!’

  She turned to the camera in front of her, and the autocue rolled. ‘And good morning to you too! Our top story this morning …’

  The show whizzed by. Floor managers, flustered beings whispering urgently into headsets, whipped the usual mixed bunch of guests in and out of the studio, among them Christopher Biggins promoting his Christmas panto, and the Defence Secretary talking about festive gifts for troops on missions overseas.

  Cora had a bulletin to read every quarter of an hour, and by the time she’d finished the 7.30 news she was feeling decidedly shiny. Making sure she wasn’t in shot, she slipped quietly from behind the news desk, pushed open the heavy studio door and headed for make-up.

  ‘Hey, Cora.’

  ‘Scott! Hi, babes – forgot you were here today. The old disciplinary, eh? How did it go?’

  The burly six-footer grimaced, and Cora reached up and pecked him on a slightly sweaty cheek. Scott Edson was her usual satellite engineer, number four in the on-the-road quartet she spent most of her time with. He’d been called to London today too, for an early morning telling-off from Jeanette for falling asleep on the job.

  ‘Not too good. On a written warning,’ Scott muttered in his broad Bolton accent.

  ‘Oh hun, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, you know what Jeanette –’

  Cora stopped abruptly as Scott brushed roughly past her and headed off up the corridor.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. See you on the road,’ he said over his shoulder, and disappeared round the corner.

  Puzzled and a little hurt, Cora stared after him for a moment, then wandered into the make-up room. Scott wasn’t normally so off-hand, although he hadn’t been himself recently. No wonder he was grumpy though – who ever heard of a 7 a.m. disciplinary hearing for goodness’ sake? But that was Jeanette’s style – she was at her desk from three, so everyone else simply had to fit around her schedule. The editor was on exceptionally fine form this morning though. How many other people was she going to upset?

  As if on cue, Christina hurried into the room. If anything, she looked worse than she had earlier. Still red-eyed, she now had a slightly manic expression on her face and beads of sweat on her forehead.

  ‘Tissues!’ she said frantically. ‘Tissues! I need tissues for dressing room three!’

  Sherry opened a drawer, pulled out a packet and thrust it into Christina’s shaking hands.

  ‘There you go sweetie. Anything else you need?’

  ‘No … no … that’s fine. Thanks,’ Christina stuttered. She stumbled back out into the corridor and vanished.

  Sherry shook her head and caught Cora’s eye in the mirror.

  ‘Now, that looks to me like a girl on the edge.’

  ‘I know.’ Cora plonked herself into the chair for her touch up. ‘Poor Christina. I’m not sure she’s going to last the course, to be honest. Not tough enough, bless her.’

  She closed her eyes as Sherry got busy with the powder puff, suddenly feeling exhausted.

  ‘Not even eight o’clock and we’ve already had tears, tantrums, and a dead dog,’ she thought. ‘Good old Morning Live!’

  And, freshly powdered and glossed, she headed back to the studio.

  Usually, as the clock ticked towards the Morning Live closing titles, Jeanette Kendrick would be fiercely scribbling on her pad, ready to savage a few producers at the post-programme debrief.

  There was still an hour to go, but in the newsroom several were already nervously gulping coffee and swapping anxious glances, steeling themselves for the completely unjustified mauling they would all shortly receive over the dead dog debacle.

  They would have been greatly relieved to know that right now, a deceased canine was the last thing on the editor’s mind. Jeanette was rarely fazed by anyone or anything, but as she listened to the quiet words being directed at her, fear twisted her stomach.

  ‘I didn’t know … I had no idea … I’m so sorry. So terribly, terribly sorry. Please, if …’ she stuttered.

  For once, though, the boss’s words were being completely ignored. And minutes later, it wasn’t just the unfortunate dog that had passed away on that chilly December morning.

  Jeanette Kendrick was quite, quite dead.

  3

  Three days earlier

  Friday 15th December

  @srharrison65 @CoraBaxterMLive I like to draw picshurs of allien animals. I am drawing u an allien hors and will post it 2day. Luv Kevin. PS. I luv u.

  Cora laughed out loud. Alien animals indeed. She thoroughly enjoyed getting Twitter messages from Morning Live viewers, but there were some real crazies out there, bless them. She shoved her BlackBerry back into her coat pocket then jumped as a large, yellow shape loomed out of the darkness to her right.

  ‘These feet are ridiculous,’ said the man in the chicken suit. ‘I’m surprised hens don’t fall over more often, really I am.’

  Cora tried to look sympathetic. It was just before 6 a.m. on a freezing Friday, and she was standing in almost total darkness on a roundabout in the middle of a Devon A-road, surrounded by chickens – and people dressed as chickens.

  ‘And then there was light,’ muttered Nathan, and Cora winced as two hefty spotlights popped into life, illuminating the scene. The hens that had been pecking quietly around her feet jumped in fright and scattered, and the man in the yellow costume tugged his over-sized beak further down over his eyes and groaned, his breath hanging in the air like ghostly candy floss.

  ‘Bloody bright, those lights, aren’t they? How long till we’re on, Cora? There’s a few not here yet – need to go bang on some doors.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got about twenty minutes yet, but I want to do a run-through as soon as I can, so the faster you can get everyone out here, the better!’<
br />
  The man nodded his big furry head, dropped the homemade protest placard he was holding, and stomped off awkwardly into the darkness, his chicken feet crunching across the frozen grass of the roundabout.

  In her pocket, Cora’s BlackBerry beeped again and, not for the first time, she marvelled at the ridiculousness of her job. After nearly three years on the show she had certainly covered her share of quirky stories, but some days were definitely more surreal than others. In today’s bizarre, pre-dawn scene on the icy edge of Exmoor, Cora and her team would be broadcasting live with a group of protesters, who were trying to save the feral chickens that had roosted on a local roundabout for over a century but had now been deemed a traffic hazard by the local council.

  ‘Everything OK, Cora?’ Nathan pushed his dark, floppy hair out of his eyes, zipped his Arctic-weight, navy fleece even further up under his chin, and started his daily fumble with the camera tripod.

  ‘Yep.’ Cora stamped her feet. She was freezing, despite the thermal socks, long johns and long-sleeved vest she’d struggled into as usual in her hotel room earlier. There was no place for sexy undies in the wardrobe of morning TV reporters at this time of year, sadly. The male viewers who regularly wrote to Cora and her female colleagues extolling their virtues and asking for photos of them in their underwear would be sorely disappointed; Cora had often been tempted to send out photos of herself in her old faithful Marks & Spencer grey thermals, just for a giggle.

  ‘First hit 6.20, and then another one later, time TBC – you know what “Fun Fridays” are like!’

  ‘Fun Friday? More like Freeze the Crew’s Balls Off Friday,’ said a gloomy voice, as Rodney appeared, his mixer slung around his neck and his hands full of sound equipment.

  ‘Got your earpiece, Cora? Oh yeah, I see it.’ Rodney adjusted his headphones. ‘Give us a voice level, eh?’

  ‘OK – I’ve been in a different town every single night since Sunday, I’m exhausted, and here I am, freezing cold at stupid o’clock on a roundabout in the middle of nowhere,’ said Cora. ‘That OK, Rodders?’

  ‘Fine,’ replied the soundman, pushing his little round glasses higher on his nose and adjusting a couple of knobs on his mixer.

  Cora smiled at him, trying to ignore his trousers. Much as she loved Rodney, he did have spectacularly bad dress sense. Today he was wearing the most lurid yellow and green camouflage-patterned combats she had ever seen, their hideousness ‘enhanced’ by bright red loops and tabs, making him look from a distance as though a mad knifeman had slashed him several times across the legs.

  ‘Well, if you’re happy, Rodney, I’m happy.’ Nathan appeared at Rodney’s elbow and slapped him on the back. ‘We just seem to be missing a cable …’

  ‘I’m here, I’m here, don’t panic.’

  Scott appeared out of the darkness unrolling the long satellite cable behind him.

  Nathan stopped blowing on his cold hands and winked at Cora and Rodney.

  ‘So, Scott – what are your plans for the weekend then? Doing any gardening?’ he said, trying hard to conceal a smirk.

  ‘No, I sodding am not. It’s bloody December. Bugger off!’ But Scott was grinning as he dumped the end of the cable on the ground next to Nathan’s tripod and marched off back to the warmth of the satellite truck.

  Cora, Nathan, and Rodney looked at each other and sniggered, Cora feeling a little relieved. Scott had been grumpier than usual lately, so it was nice that he’d taken the joke so well today. They’d been riling him about gardening for months, ever since the summer when he’d been redoing the garden of his new family semi and decided he wanted to trail some pink clematis across the back wall. Unfortunately, he’d instead managed to ask an elderly garden centre assistant if she could provide him with some chlamydia.

  Cora snorted again, and then suddenly pulled herself together as another disembodied voice boomed in her earpiece.

  ‘Morning, Cora – you’re obviously having fun – everything OK there? We’re going to be with you in just over twenty minutes.’

  Cora recognised the slightly stressed Scottish tones of her friend. ‘Oh, it’s you, Sam. Morning! Yes, we’ve been Scott-baiting again – you know, the clematis story? But everything’s under control – all chickens present and correct. Talk to you in a bit!’

  ‘Thanks, Cora. And if you could stand by for possible extra hits through the morning that would be great – items dropping like flies today, Jeanette’s going bonkers,’ Sam replied, and disappeared.

  Cora looked at her watch and gestured to Nathan and Rodney, who had also been listening to the exchange on their headsets.

  ‘Er – chickens, can you all gather round please? Nearly time to go on, so let’s just make sure we all know what we’re doing!’

  ‘Scott, you are a star,’ said Cora gratefully as the engineer handed her a steaming mug of Earl Grey.

  The first broadcast of the morning successfully out of the way, and the giant chickens temporarily back in their houses, the crew were thawing out in the satellite van.

  Nathan stuffed a Jaffa Cake into his mouth and then sighed heavily, delicately spraying Rodney’s glasses with crumbs.

  He swallowed. ‘Ugh. A weekend of Christmas shopping to look forward to – can you believe it’s only ten days away! I’ve done nothing!’

  ‘Mmmm, shopping for me too,’ said Scott, ‘Elaine’s spotted this clock she fancies. Edwardian. Inlaid mahogany, white enamel dial. Nice actually.’

  Rodney surreptitiously picked up the sleeve of Nathan’s discarded fleece and began to wipe his glasses.

  ‘I don’t get your antique fetish, Scott, really I don’t. Although I’d rather go antiquing with you than do what I’ve got to do later – bloody got to help bloody Jodie with the sound at her bloody nativity. BOR-ING!’ he said, gloomily.

  ‘Oh, Rodders, it will be fun!’ Cora tried to sound enthusiastic. Rodney’s girlfriend ran a nursery, and the soundman was often roped in to help give the kids’ shows a professional edge.

  ‘Yeah, right. You come then,’ retorted Rodney.

  Scott and Nathan tittered, and Cora smiled and shrugged. It wasn’t that she actually disliked children – she adored several of her friends’ offspring. It was just that when biological clocks were being handed out she, it seemed, was given a double dose of ambition instead. Child-free and happy, that was Cora, and she had always chosen boyfriends who felt the same way.

  ‘Well, Justin and I don’t have plans really – we’re staying at home, just the two of us. I want to snuggle up and not see anybody all weekend. It’s been mad recently. What wouldn’t I give for a nice easy studio job?’

  ‘One of these days I’ll go to London and shoot that snobby Alice Lomas cow and then you can have her job at the news desk.’

  Scott raised two fingers, pretending he was aiming a gun.

  ‘It’s a doggy dog world, this TV game, after all …’

  Nathan and Cora looked at each other and grinned.

  ‘Er – it’s a dog eat dog world, not doggy dog,’ Cora said.

  ‘Is it?’ Scott sounded surprised. ‘Oh, well. You know what I mean.’

  ‘I do, and thank you. But I don’t think murder is the answer, sadly. Especially as you’re being hauled in front of Jeanette on Monday morning as it is.’

  Scott’s face darkened. ‘Thanks, Cora. I’ve been trying to forget about that. Old bitch. It’s my second disciplinary too, shitting myself actually.’

  Cora reached over and stroked his arm. ‘Sorry, sweetie, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’ll be fine, you’ll see, she’s not that bad, honestly …’

  Her voice tailed off, as the three men looked at her sceptically.

  ‘She’s exactly that bad,’ Nathan said flatly. ‘None of us can stand the woman, Cora, no point in pretending otherwise. But chin up, Scott mate, it won’t help to get in a state about it.’

  ‘MCR IN LONDON CALLING THE CREW IN DEVON! CAN YOU HEAR ME, DEVON?’

  A voice suddenly boomed through the s
peakers next to Scott’s chair, causing Rodney and Cora to jump so violently they both spilled their tea.

  ‘Bloody hell, now what?’ Scott flicked the switch that allowed him to speak directly to the master control room in London.

  ‘Yes, MCR, we can hear you – problem?’ he said into the microphone.

  ‘WE NEED YOU BACK UP AT 0710 – THE PRIME MINISTER WAS MEANT TO BE ON THE SOFA BUT HE’S GOT HELD UP SO WE’RE DOING THE CHICKENS AGAIN INSTEAD.’ The technical director’s voice echoed round the truck.

  ‘Oh, darn it!’ Cora was frantically wiping tea off her jeans. ‘That gives me ten minutes to round up those blooming chicken people – they’re all in their houses! Tell them it’ll be tight, Scott, but we’ll do it.’

  She leapt out of the truck, pulling on her coat as she ran. Nathan and Rodney followed at a more leisurely pace. Ten whole minutes to get ready – no problem!

  The watery sun was starting to melt the frost on the roundabout as Cora finally heard the show’s closing credits and gratefully removed her earpiece. The boys whooped and began to pack their equipment neatly away in their cars, looking forward to their usual big cooked breakfast at the nearest café.

  ‘I’m going to be a party pooper today,’ Cora said. ‘I want to get home.’

  She slid into her car. ‘And I probably won’t see you next week – I’m covering in London, remember? Don’t miss me too much!’