“…Pissed off?”
He smiled. “Yeah, pissed off about this manuscript.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“Apparently, they’re worried it may contain text that libels them.”
Ashley snorted. “Oh please, Martin. We both know this book is not libellous. She hasn’t written anything that hasn’t been printed in the press already, a hundred times over.”
Martin cleared his throat. “Well, Ash, can I call you that?”
She nodded her acceptance, but was irked, because she was already feeling handled. She knew Martin, if not personally then by reputation, this isn’t how he would typically clarify a few things.
He was a shark. An ambusher.
Of course, this could be part of his strategy.
“I don’t know exactly what this manuscript’s about. I haven’t had a chance to read it. Apparently, they haven’t either. I was told you refused access to it. Is that right?”
“It is.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because, I’m not obliged to. I’m not an agent, Martin. I don’t undertake the dissemination of work, especially not without the author’s permission. Besides, the manuscript isn’t even finished yet. I’ve only seen a few excerpts.”
“Right,” Martin said, calmly, while maintaining eye contact and gently tapping the folder.
A few seconds drifted by, then, “Ashley, I can’t stress how important it is that we resolve this. Ya’ see, they’ve threatened to sue if that manuscript so much as circulates between offices, forget it seeing the light of day.”
“Jackie Harris is no longer employed by the Metropolitan Police.”
“No, she isn’t. But it doesn’t mean that they won’t fight tooth and nail to protect their reputation.”
Ashley laughed. “Reputation? You are joking, right? You do know what they put that woman through, don’t you?”
“What they did is irrelev…”
“…Some of her so-called colleagues raped her and then left her for dead.”
“Not according to the jury...”
“…The jury failed to reach a conclusion because some of those cowards were afraid to testify against their own. The same cowards who held that woman down and then took it in turns with her.”
The two paralegals visibly shifted in their seats.
Ashley’s eyes were blazing with revulsion, as she pictured every sickening detail described to her by Jackie. That kind of detail, that kind of pain can only be described by someone who experienced it first-hand. Somebody so broken by such an ordeal that she was now unable to face the world, get another job, or any semblance of a life back.
“Ashley,” Martin cleared his throat and leant forward. “Ash, it’s not for this company to get involved in the personal vendettas of the general public. Jackie Harris had her shot in court and it was too bad that she…”
“…Too bad?”
“Yes, Ash, too bad,” Martin asserted with jaw muscles flexing.
He was obviously suppressing an outburst, which Ashley had learned, he was prone to. He had once suffered a nervous breakdown because of the way he mishandled his stress.
Allegedly.
There was a very awkward silence.
Martin sighed and shifted in his chair. “Look, we’re both on the same side here…”
“Yes Martin, we are. And please don’t bother with the ‘what is best for the company’ speech as I am liable to puke all over your shiny table. I believe I am doing what’s best for the company. My job is to select manuscripts that are commercially viable, and I think Jackie Harris has written such a manuscript.”
“I thought you said that she hadn’t written it yet and that you’d only seen excerpts.”
Ashley’s eyes flashed with rage, “Martin, I’m not one of your fucking witnesses,” she seethed.
The paralegals glanced at each other.
If Martin was surprised by the woman’s attack, he didn’t show it but said, calmly, “I didn’t say you were. I’m just trying to establish the facts.”
“The facts are as I have explained them to you.”
“And I appreciate your candour. So I’ll afford you the same courtesy: I haven’t got the foggiest what’s in this manuscript and, quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. But I think there’s a good chance that, if published, it’s going to libel the London Metropolitan Police and, if it does, the proverbial will well and truly hit the fan, and if that happens, there’s going to be casualties.”
Ashley let out a short laugh. “You’re threatening me now, Martin, is that it?”
“No, I’m just giving you counsel, that’s my job here.”
“Well save it. We both know you have so-called jurisdiction over editorial, but let me give you some advice; I’m no rolling over on this one. I’ll fight it until I am physically incapable or fired.”
“It may just come to that,” Martin retorted, dismissively.
Ashley’s eyes narrowed; “Fuck you,” she spat. Then, glancing at the paralegals, who were shrinking back in their seats, and then back at Martin, she said, “We’re done here.”
She stood and left the room.
Martin took a few seconds to contemplate what had just happened and then, in one swift action, he sent the manila folder skittering down the table.
This isn’t over. He thought. Not by a long shot.
13 Voices
It was late afternoon by the time Rachel finished unpacking and sorting through her belongings.
She hung her clean clothes in the gargantuan walk-in wardrobe, next to Jason’s, then sorted her laundry into a neat pile on the floor. But she was baffled to discover that there wasn’t a washing machine in the kitchen, nor anywhere else in the apartment.
It was only as she stood, hands-on hips, in the doorway that she spotted the fire plan. It listed, in meticulous detail, the whole building’s floor plan; apartments, stairwells, lifts and emergency exits. It also showed there was both a gym and a laundrette in the basement of the building.
Very American.
It was as she moved to scoop up her clothes from the kitchen floor, that she heard a deep thud above her head. She looked up and listened carefully.
Nothing.
Then, just as she was about the resume her task, she heard it again.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
She looked up and listened, as the sound travelled from one side of the ceiling to the other; heavy footsteps.
It sounded like two people chasing each other across the apartment; from the kitchen to the dining room.
She followed the sound to where it stopped, somewhere near the balcony, and that’s when she heard them; voices, drifting to her from a slit in the balcony doors.
Curious about her new neighbours, Rachel approached the doors and put her face to the tiny opening, where a powerful jet of cold wind blew in her face, fanning her hair behind her.
She listened hard to the muffled, indiscernible voices that came to her like a bad long distance telephone call. Two people, one voice slightly louder than the other. They were apparently standing out on the balcony, but the gale was making it hard to pick up exactly what was being said.
She widened the slit in the door so she could fit through it, allowing the bustling sound of London city to rush in as she stepped out.
She looked up to the overhead balcony, turning her head like a satellite dish in her attempt to tune into the words, but they remained indiscernible although, from their tone, it was clear that the neighbours were having a serious argument about something. Whatever it was, Rachel could not tell.
She remained that way for several minutes until, eventually, frustrated and cold, she returned to the apartment, sliding the doors firmly shut behind her.
Not bad. My first day here and I’ve already witnessed a domestic.
She returned to the kitchen to retrieve her laundry pile, but as she did so, she noticed the Night & Day business card on the side.
She picked
it up, considered her next move for a few seconds, and then made her way to the bathroom, where she styled her hair and applied makeup.
The laundry could wait.
Yes, there was a slim chance that showing up at this place, unannounced, asking for a job, was unlikely to come to anything, but it was worth a try.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Besides, it’s not as if she hadn’t been in this situation before.
She knew when she left the family home, that if she never wanted to return, she’d have to find work and work hard. And whilst she may have started out as a proud girl, she soon learned that if you don’t ask you don’t get.
When she discussed moving to London, and in with Jason, they had agreed he would line up some suitable interviews for her but Jason had changed his mind recently. He told her that, since the business was doing so well, she no longer needed to work.
But that conversation didn’t really come to any conclusion. Rachel knew that, as enticing as the offer was, the idea of being imprisoned in the apartment all day, playing housewife, and having to rely on Jason for handouts, every time she needed to buy something, was not in her nature.
Anyway, the point was moot until she actually found a job, so she resolved not to mention anything further about the subject until she did.
With that, she made her way to the front door making sure to grab the key card from its cradle on her way out.
14 Home
6:30 pm.
Ashley had spent the afternoon in meetings and teleconferences, but every time there was a lull in her schedule, her mind went back to her argument with Martin. She was still smarting from it.
Although she knew why, as much as she didn’t want to admit it to herself. This wasn’t just about the Jackie Harris book. This was because she had allowed her emotions to get the better of her, and the meeting to get out of hand.
This was unlike her.
In fact, now that she stopped to think about it, she’d been off her game all day, and she couldn’t work out why.
It all started when she woke up in Rupert’s apartment and was forced to get ready without her stuff. Then there was that creepy business with the mirror, getting into work late, her confrontation with Elisabeth and then this.
She knew that if this had been any other day, she would have handled things differently, instead of letting that dick rattle her.
And this was just the beginning.
There was no doubt in her mind that this whole situation would get much worse before there was any chance of it getting better. Ultimately, if the commercial decision was made not to publish, there would be nothing she could do about it.
I’m just a cog in this machine.
Perhaps, but she meant every word of what she said in that meeting room; she wouldn’t give up on this book, at least not without a fight. She had promised Jackie. She had promised not to fail her where everybody else already had, and she intended not to.
The very same people who had sworn to uphold the law had victimised and hurt one of their own, and then attempted to cover it up. This was something they should have paid for yet never did, and the public had the right to know that.
The hands on her shoulders startled her.
“Wow, bad day?” Rupert asked.
“You could say that,” she said with a weary smile.
It had been an exhausting day.
He put a reassuring hand on her arm. “Can I offer you a lift?”
“I have my car.”
“Oh good. You can give me a lift then,” he said with a grin.
They stepped onto the elevator, and neither said anything until the doors had closed behind them.
“So, do you want to tell me about it?” Rupert asked, without taking his eyes off the floor indicator.
“Not really,” Ashley said, glumly, knowing where this was going.
“Was it your meeting with Martin?”
And there it is.
Ashley looked at him and shook her head. “I might have known he’d come crying to you.”
“Well, I do happen to be the boss around here.”
“So, he thought he would get you to have a word, is that it?”
“He just filled me in.”
“And?”
He cocked his head, weighing up his response. “What do you expect me to say?”
Ashley rolled her eyes.
“… No, hang on a minute. This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last, but we’re talking about a story that dominated the front pages for weeks. There have been something like half a dozen documentaries dissecting every angle of the event, and subsequent trial.”
“So? You should be thanking me. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
Rupert looked at her. “Things are just starting to get back to normal for The Met. They’re not going to take kindly to us publishing a book about what happened there.”
The bell sounded and the door slid open.
Rupert swiped them out of the building, and they made their way towards the multi-storey car park.
The air was autumnal crisp and smelt of burning coal.
Laughter drew Rupert’s attention across the road. A group of people were wrestling with a giant inflatable Casper the ghost that was threatening to snap its tether to the office building, and take off to the skies.
“I love Halloween,” he said. “The sights, the sounds, the atmosphere. We used to trick or treat every year when we were children.”
“So, that’s your master plan?” Ashley asked, “Small talk me into submission.”
“Is it working?”
She threw him a look, pressed the elevator button for the car park and said, “You know, I really don’t understand what the problem is, exactly. Is it the fact that it’s the police? Is it a testosterone thing? What’s everybody so afraid of? This is, after all, the perfect book, commercially. It, in your own words, has had something like six documentaries made about it, extensive media coverage. It has public interest stamped all over it and it exposes that whole institutional thing that’s become so popular of late. What exactly is the problem?”
“Ash, come on.”
“What?”
“You know what. You’re doing that whole passive aggressive thing.”
“Am I?”
“You know you are. I can tell from your nose.”
“My nose?” She instinctively put her hand to it. “What’s wrong with my nose? I thought you said you liked my pixie nose.”
“I do. Especially the way it wrinkles every time something annoys you.”
“It does?”
Now it was his turn to throw her a knowing look.
The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. Again, as if somebody was listening to their conversation, they waited for the chime and the doors to close before they spoke. It was Rupert again.
“You’re asking why we feel so strongly about this. Why we’re not chomping at the bit to publish this book. Have you asked yourself why you are?”
“I told you. Because I think…”
“…Come on, Ash, it’s me you’re talking to. What is it about this book? Is it genuinely good or is there something else?”
“So now you’ve taken to analysing my motives?”
“I’m just trying to understand why you’re courting trouble.”
“Courting trouble?” She echoed, angrily. “I thought I was doing my job.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, flatly.
She watched him for a long time then said, “That’s your prerogative.”
The bell chimed, the door opened and a cold gale puffed at them.
Ashley walked into it, her hair swishing angrily from side to side as she went.
Rupert hurried after her, “I just want to know, Ash.”
“I’ve already told you,” she threw back, her voice, bouncing off concrete columns and echoing loudly around the car park.
Rupert caught her arm and spun her around. �
�Hang on a minute.”
She was facing him now, their eyes met and he saw something in hers, something that he couldn’t quite decipher; sadness, empathy?
“Talk to me,” he prompted.
Seconds ticked by as the warmth from his eyes began to chip at her stoical stance.
“I hate it when you do that,” she said, eventually.
“Do what?”
“Do that. Act like you know me. Like you can read my mind.”
“That’s because I can,” he said, teasingly.
She didn’t respond to the grin on his face, and instead suddenly said, “I knew moving in with you was a bad idea.”
Then, she turned, and walked toward her car.
The words had an edge to them, a sharp edge that began to sting.
Rupert hurried after her.
“Hey!”
She ignored him.
“Hey!” He yelled, forcibly.
But she didn’t stop.
“Hey!” He yelled. He caught up with her, just as she reached her car and spun her around to face him once more.
A car horn blared angrily from the street below as if to protest against the action.
“Don’t do that,” he said, now irritated.
“Do what?” She asked, petulantly.
“Walk away from me when I’m trying to have a conversation with you, and bring our relationship into this argument. It’s not cool and it’s beneath you. If you want to have a professional disagreement with me, then do so, but don’t drag us into it.”
His eyes were burning, and she could see that she had irked him.
Perversely, that pleased her. It was like a small victory, although why she was treating him like an enemy combatant she did not know.
“Is that what this is about?”
She looked at him.
“Are you freaking out because you’ve finally agreed to move in with me?” He asked, incredulously.
She sneered. “So now it’s amateur psychology?”
“Or you could just tell me that I’m wrong.”
She thought about this for a few seconds as a wave of rage swept over her.
“The…there you go again!” She stuttered, “Acting like you bloody well know me.”
Unspeakable Page 9