Rob was shaking his head. But not necessarily in a negative fashion. It had more to do with disbelief, Gerry’s chutzpah.
‘Jesus, Gerry,’ he said eventually, ‘you don’t half like the sound of your own voice.’
‘Is that a yes?’ Gerry asked.
‘No it’s not a fucking yes,’ said Rob. ‘It’s a maybe.’
*
They returned to Gerry’s office, saying nothing as they crossed editorial, though all eyes were upon them. Rob took a seat and Gerry paced, and the journalists followed him back and forth through the glass as he occasionally pointed an angry finger or let out a raucous laugh. They more or less stopped work, but the ensuing silence wasn’t enough for them to pick up what was being talked about though they knew it was their fate; that didn’t stop them straining their ears or pretending they had urgent business right up close to the door, but there was nothing doing. Then they were distracted by the office door opening and a big man in a big suit coming in, designer cut and stubble, glint of a stud earring and the ring of confidence of a toothpaste Saint. He slapped his big hand on the counter and demanded to speak to the editor. Every jack one of them knew him, and hated dealing with him. It was, to the best of their knowledge, the first time he’d set foot in their office, he preferred to do his business out on the streets. Peter was the first to react; he was already on his feet trying to eavesdrop on Gerry and Rob, so he merely took a few steps to his right so that he was out of sight of the counter and able to slip into the kitchen. He left the door open wide enough that he could hear but kept one hand on the handle so that he could lock it if things turned scary. When Bobby McCartney got angry, intimidation and violence often followed, occasionally in the shape of the two heavies who had entered the office with him. Big, silent types who were only silent because they didn’t know too many words. They stood slightly behind and on either side of him, like stabilizers.
Alix turned from her computer to see why Peter Foster, as the self-proclaimed senior, hadn’t answered, and then shook her head when she saw that he had vamoosed. She knew instinctively, but without any evidence, that the sleeked dick had tipped McCartney off. It didn’t matter though, it was her story and her place to confront him, though as she approached the counter she wished that Billy was still alive; even if he didn’t leave his office she would have felt his presence, that he had her back. Gerry she hadn’t worked out yet.
She lied, ‘Councillor McCartney – you got my message then?’
‘Message? What message?’
‘I sent you an email – doing a piece on the recent spate of armed robberies in the area, wondering if you’d care to comment, as one of our local councillors and certainly our most prominent business—?’
He shook his head, and then looked around the office. ‘Who’s in charge since Billy snuffed it?’
‘No one yet, Councillor. We’re just muddling along until—’
‘I know what you have, and I want it.’
‘What’re... what’re you referring—?’
‘The photograph you claim is of my son. I want it, I want an undertaking that it won’t be used, and I want the negative destroyed.’
‘Negative,’ said Alix.
‘You what?’
‘Negative – you’re so twentieth-century. Don’t you know it’s all digital—?’
McCartney slapped down hard on the counter, a belly flop of the hand. ‘Stop shitting me. You know what I’m talking about and I want it sorted, now.’
Alix wasn’t exactly sure what girding her loins entailed, but she suspected she was doing it already, instinctively. ‘Councillor, we have a photograph of your son robbing a Spar. Would you like to comment?’
McCartney pointed at her. ‘I’ve heard all about your so-called photograph. It’s not my son. And if you even think about printing it, I’ll have an injunction on you faster than you can toast Veda. I will sue you, and every single one of you, and the paper. Do you understand me?’
‘Are you speaking on the record, Councillor?’ Alix asked.
His eyes settled on her. Blue and steely cold.
‘You’re one of the Crosses, aren’t you? Churchill Estate, no?’
She just looked at him.
He smirked. ‘Thought as much. Bunch of wasters.’ He looked beyond her. ‘Where’s Pete?’
‘Pete’s... not available right now. Out on a job.’
Michael said, ‘No, actually, I think he’s still here.’
Alix rolled her eyes as Michael got up and hurried into the kitchen.
McCartney said, ‘This place is such a shit hole.’
‘Agreed,’ said Alix.
His brow furrowed. ‘Are you trying to be smart?’
Before she could answer, Michael reappeared, and a few moments later a sheepish-looking Peter stepped out of the kitchen, clutching a cup of coffee and making an elaborate show of showing it to them by way of justifying his absence.
‘Hey – Councillor, how’s it going?’ he said, coming up to the counter.
‘I want that photo destroyed,’ said Bobby McCartney.
‘Well,’ said Peter.
‘Well the fuck what?’
‘It’s... not mine to destroy, but I can assure you, whatever does appear in the paper – it will be fair and balanced.’
‘Fair and balanced, me arse,’ said McCartney, and indicated for his heavies to enter the office proper, though without giving them any further guidance as to whom they should threaten or what they should destroy. They moved towards the swing door.
Michael, who was closest to them, raised a hand as they came through and – though he was stick thin and they could have snapped him in two by breathing hard on him with extra strong mints – said, ‘You shall not pass.’
The heavies looked at him with sympathy and pity, and passed. But before they got much further into the office they were confronted by two new arrivals, Gerry stepping out of his office with Rob just behind.
Gerry said ‘What’s all this?’ in his disarming, jovial way.
Alix said, ‘They want the photo. The councillor is embracing his electoral mandate to bully us.’
‘You know what I want, Gerry,’ said McCartney.
‘Ah, Bobby,’ said Gerry, ‘didn’t see you there. And you two – you’re not allowed back here.’
The heavies stopped and looked to their boss for direction.
‘I want the photo,’ said McCartney, ‘or I’ll close you down. In a fortnight you’ll be gone.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Gerry, ‘but I’m not having you take the credit for running us into the ground, that’s all mine.’
‘Always a smart arse,’ said Bobby, ‘like the rest of your family, drunks and bankrupts the lot of you.’
‘Always a sweet-talker,’ said Gerry.
‘If you want the photo,’ said Rob, stepping up beside Gerry, ‘call back at five and we’ll give you a free copy of the paper. It’ll be on the front page.’
‘And who the fuck are you?’ McCartney demanded.
‘He’s the new editor of the Express,’ said Gerry.
‘Since when?!’ It was Peter, his mouth hanging open.
‘Since about five minutes ago,’ said Gerry. ‘Now – Councillor, are you really going to have your over-fed friends cause damage in here? You are aware that we’re journalists, and photographers, and we’ll have it all over our website in minutes?’
‘We have a website?’ Michael asked.
‘You wouldn’t dare—’
‘Bobby – do you not think you’d be better spending your time sorting your son out than hassling us?’
McCartney snorted. ‘I’m not going to take parental advice from you, Gerry, with all your wee bastards running about!’
Gerry took a step forward, blood up, but Rob pushed him back before turning and pointing.
‘Do you want to give us a statement for our story, Councillor?’
‘No I do not.’
‘Good. Then fuck off out of our office.’
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McCartney looked a little bit stunned. Probably nobody had spoken to him like that since ever. He studied Rob for a long time, then a smirk slipped onto his face and he nodded slowly and said, ‘Right, boys, let’s go, let’s not waste any more of our time on these guttersnipes. You?’ He pointed at Rob. ‘We’re not finished. But this paper is.’
He turned and walked out of the office. His two heavies were left standing. They exchanged glances and then casually sauntered out through the swing door with a mildly embarrassed fixed-grin red-cheeked look about them, as if they’d innocently taken a wrong turn and were trying to cover it up by admiring the scenery.
As soon as they were gone, there was a bubble of disbelieving silence that was only pricked by Alix quoting, ‘You shall not pass?’ back at Michael. Everyone laughed, though mostly with relief. It also helped cover what they were all thinking, that they had a new boss, that the consultant had consulted himself into a job at least two of them had had their eye on. Gerry retreated to his office, taking Rob with him, without further explanation.
Peter looked at Alix and said, ‘Bloody hell.’
Alix looked at Peter and said, ‘Are they serious?’
Michael said, ‘Cat, pigeons, all that.’
*
Blown up, covering most of the front page, it was an eye-catching, perfectly framed and focused photo: the panicked look, the gun, the mask, the money, it didn’t need any words, though there were plenty delivered. Rob, though he wasn’t really taking over until the following week, introduced them to his editing style by cutting huge swathes out of Alix’s report, which shocked her a bit, but he explained and justified – though she sensed that that might be a one-off – that they would just have to adapt to a new style and not have their hands held. Alix had come up with the headline Caught in the act and Peter had reluctantly directed that it should be in huge bold type while still moaning about the risk of running it, not just to life and limb, but because it was exposing them to legals: the boy hadn’t been convicted, charged or even questioned. As Alix and Peter argued over it, and Michael stirred it a bit with smartish comments, Rob just came along, looked at the screen, reached past Peter and pushed a button, smiled at them all and returned to Gerry’s office. The headline now read, Caught in the act? The question mark made all the difference. They agreed it was perfect now, but Peter and Alix still shook their heads, raging that they hadn’t thought of something so bloody simple and obvious.
Michael said, ‘And that’s why he’s getting the big bucks.’
*
Rob asked for a hundred quid from Gerry and explained what it was for; Gerry moaned a bit before reaching for his chequebook. Rob gave him the eye and Gerry took out his wallet instead and counted it out in cash. He told Rob to get a receipt. Rob took the money, thanked him and then said he needed to borrow his car as well. Gerry looked at him like he was mental, but very reluctantly handed over the keys. ‘It’s a Jag,’ he said, ‘2005, it’s not worth much but it’s my pride and joy.’
‘I’ve driven a big car before,’ said Rob.
He had the address off Alix, and directions, though he took a few wrong turns. The estate sat on top of a hill overlooking the town; it was huge and mazy and samey. It was well tended, but that was the surface. This was Bobby McCartney territory, so it was little wonder that Sean McKee freaked when Rob knocked on the door. Rob was about to launch into a spiel about how great his photo was until he saw the state of Sean’s face: all beaten, swollen, one eye closed and split lip.
Sean pulled him inside and said, ‘Man, seriously uncool.’ He peered out of the front window and asked him where his car was and Rob told him it was round the corner, out of sight, because he’d gotten a bit lost and actually stumbled on his house in the end as much by accident as anything.
Rob said, ‘What happened?’
‘What the fuck do you think?’
‘Because—’
‘Aye. And this is only because they’re not completely sure it was me. Someone tipped them off, but I told them I didn’t even have a camera and so they didn’t fucking kneecap me. But, man, bad enough. So what do you want?’
Rob took out his wallet and counted out the hundred quid. ‘Just by way of thanks,’ said Rob. ‘But it seems terribly inadequate now.’
Sean nodded, but took the money. ‘No problem,’ he said.
‘You live here alone?’ Rob asked.
‘Nope, folks are out.’
Rob said, ‘I really like the photo.’
‘Gathered that.’
‘Do you know who beat you up?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Do you want us to do a story about it?’
‘Of course I fucking don’t. Are you mental?’
Rob sighed. ‘I really like the photo,’ he said again. Sean was about to snap something, but Rob held his hand up and said, ‘And I want you to take some more. No – hear me out. I’ve been around a lot of people who think they’re photographers, but they really don’t have the eye—’
‘I was in the right place at the right time, that’s all,’ said Sean.
‘No, it’s more than that. I’m sure of it. That’s why I want you to work for the paper. Freelance. We’re a community paper, we should have someone in the community taking photos.’
Sean laughed. ‘Exactly how many beatings do you think this face can take before I start to lose my looks?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s a risk, of course it is, but once they know you’re, like, gainfully employed by us, then they won’t be so keen to pick on you, because we can pick right back.’
Sean snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’
Rob said, ‘I’m serious, you’d be surprised by the power of the press, even a little diddly paper like ours. Give it a think, eh? Come down to the office, we’ll get you sorted out with a proper camera. Sean – it could be a career if you stick at it, and if you want it, it’s a way out of here.’
‘I like it here,’ said Sean.
‘Then it’s just a fabulous job.’
Sean said he would think about it. They shook hands. Rob said he hoped Sean’s nose would be feeling better soon.
Rob stood outside, turned one way, then the other, trying to remember which way he’d come. He walked about twenty metres to his left, then doubled back and rounded a corner but still wasn’t sure. He’d made a point of remembering the street he’d parked on, Westmoreland Drive, but knew he was lost already and so he decided to break the habit of a lifetime and stop the first person he saw coming towards him, for directions.
He was already smiling and about to say, ‘Sorry to trouble you...’ when he realized that the big fella coming towards him was one of Councillor McCartney’s heavies who’d stood threateningly in the newspaper office just a couple of hours before.
The heavy said, ‘Oh – hello.’
‘Hi,’ said Rob.
‘I was just... You don’t happen to know where Westmoreland Drive is, do you?’
The heavy said, ‘Aye – matter of fact, I’ve just come from there. Just go down that back entry there, along to the end and turn right, that’s Westmoreland.’
‘Excellent. Ah, thanks. Cheers.’ He nodded, and walked on.
The heavy called after him. ‘Ahm – mate?’
Rob stopped and turned, nervously.
‘Ahm, all that earlier and... well, y’know, it’s just business?’
‘I understand,’ said Rob.
‘Gotta make a living.’
‘Of course you do.’
They nodded at each other. Rob turned again.
The heavy said ‘Have a good one’ after him.
Rob raised a hand back at him, but kept walking. He had some reservations about entering the back alley – he glanced back to make sure the heavy wasn’t following him with plans to mete out the kind of punishment Sean had suffered, but the fella was still walking away. It didn’t mean there wasn’t an ambush waiting. Rob put his head down, ducked into the entry and walked at speed alon
g it, expecting at any moment to be set upon by thugs jumping over the back fences. It was only thirty or so metres long but it felt like ten times that. It was with considerable relief that he eventually emerged onto the relative safety of Westmoreland Drive and the close proximity of Gerry’s car and the promise of escape.
It would have helped if there had been any wheels on the Jag, but no, they were gone. The windows were still there, but they were all smashed. The passenger door was open and there was a space where the radio and CD player used to be. The boot was open and the spare missing.
Rob took a deep, deep breath, and raised his phone.
He hadn’t been home in twenty years, but really, nothing much had changed.
CHAPTER 2
THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE
When Alix Cross first applied for a job on the Express she thought it would help her cause by writing that although she was currently living in Belfast she was ‘Bangor born and bread’. It was only when she came down for an interview and editor Billy confused her by quizzing her on her knowledge of local bakeries and she was clearly floundering that he put her out of her misery with a big laugh and pointed out her mistake, ‘Born and bred, honey, b-r-e-d, not as in sliced pan.’ He’d her CV printed out before him and he was nodding and said, ‘You grew up in Kilcooley?’ She’d nodded and a little cheekily said, ‘You’re surprised someone from Kilcooley went to university?’ and he said, ‘No, I’m surprised someone from Kilcooley went to school.’ He had a point. It was a huge, sprawling estate, and it had a lot of problems, not the least of which were the successive generations of kids who managed to avoid getting any kind of education at all. The estate had been built in the seventies to house those forced to flee sectarian ghettos in Belfast, and it was a shock for the middle-class town to suddenly have to cope with an influx of tough- minded refugees who were no respecters of their nice, genteel ways. It was said that property prices went down overnight. Though she’d always wanted out of Kilcooley, Alix didn’t have a problem with it. She hated the way it was controlled by ex-paramilitaries like Bobby McCartney, but it was still her home, she had family there, and memories, happy ones. Billy had said, ‘Forget about your degree, what I want you to do is write three hundred words on why you want to be a journalist here in Bangor.’ He sat her at a desk and a laptop and told her she had ten minutes. She spent the first minute thinking about how many other applicants had been set just this task, and how much bullshit they’d written, and she knew that that was exactly what she should do as well. She should write that she loved towns like Bangor, loved being part of a community, loved the huge variety of stories she would get to do on a local paper, that she loved meeting people, was interested in local history and sport. And though a lot of that was actually true, she convinced herself that she should write something completely different; that she shouldn’t do exactly what every other candidate was sure to have done; she should be brave and bold. So she wrote: ‘I need the money. And I’ve a Jack Russell to feed.’ It was a lie, of course. There was no Jack Russell. She admitted as much when Billy called to offer her the job the next day. He laughed and said it was a good line. She said, ‘Is that why you’re offering me the job? Because I was 289 words short on my article.’ Billy said, ‘No, I’m offering it to you because the money is rubbish and nobody else applied.’ She was never quite sure if he was serious, and now she would never know. That was two years ago. In the old days, Peter said, there was a three-year apprenticeship before you were considered a fully fledged reporter, but like so many other traditions and practices this had been quietly dropped. Now you were expected to hit the ground running. Peter, older and wiser, allegedly, never tired of reminding her that she was still technically a cub reporter. She never tired of telling him to bugger off.
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