Papercuts

by Colin Bateman

  During that two years she also discovered that the huge variety of local stories she’d been looking forward to covering – well, actually, there wasn’t that much variety. The same situations and characters kept coming round. Aggravating councillors like McCartney, the thugs, drunks and dealers in the local court, the same complaints from do-gooders and religious nutters. So she really had to work to find stories that were out of the ordinary, that made her blood boil or gave her that rush of adrenaline; or, sometimes, they just fell into her lap, like when Roy and Ailsa, two of her best friends, came rushing into the office all tearful and upset and she rushed up to the counter wanting to know what was wrong, because God knows they’d been through enough.

  Ailsa cried out, ‘We saw him, we saw him! Can you believe it?’

  Roy said, ‘In the middle of fucking B&Q!’

  ‘Mark Dillon!’

  And then she knew. Mark Dillon had killed their daughter. It was as simple and as complicated as that. He’d been a drink driver, been convicted before but it hadn’t made a damn bit of difference. His jeep had mounted a kerb, crushed the stroller with wee Peggy in it, broken Ailsa’s leg though she’d hardly even noticed at the time. To make matters worse Dillon had pleaded not guilty to manslaughter, insisting on it all being played out in excruciating detail in court. He ended up getting six years – they knew he’d be out in three because of the cock-eyed way the legal system worked. Alix was surprised it had been that long already – the case dated back to before she was a reporter, but she’d been in court every day to support her friends. She remembered reading the reports in the paper and thinking how badly they reflected what had actually gone on in court. Later, when she joined the paper and checked back, she discovered it was Peter who’d been on court duty that week. Of course you didn’t need to be a great prose stylist to be a journalist, but an accurate reflection of proceedings would have been a start. She’d raised it with Pete once she’d settled into her job, and he’d shaken his head, ‘It was accurate, Alix – it’s just that you remember it differently because you had a personal stake in it. Once you’re a bit more experienced, you’ll understand.’ He was, she decided at the time, a patronizing gobshite, and she hadn’t much changed her opinion since.

  It took her a while to get them settled down enough to tell her properly. They’d been out shopping in the DIY store when they had almost literally bumped into him: they were pushing a trolley laden with paint, Dillon was stacking the shelves with tins of it. And for a few moments nobody had said anything, they’d just stared at each other, neither side quite believing what they were seeing. Then Roy recovered from his shock enough to advance on Dillon, and Dillon turned and ran through into a stockroom. Roy would have followed if another worker hadn’t blocked his way; in fact he probably would have carried on after Dillon if Ailsa hadn’t dragged him away. They told Alix they were furious not only because Dillon was out, but because no one had warned them, particularly as he was back living in town – Bangor wasn’t that big, and sooner or later they were bound to bump into him. Unfortunately, in this case, it had been sooner. This had happened the day before and they’d immediately got on to the company about why they were employing someone like Dillon, a killer; the company tried to be sympathetic but Roy had ended up slamming the phone down on them. He’d gone round that morning to try and confront Dillon again but there was no sign of him. He asked one of the workers, pretending to be Dillon’s cousin, and was told he hadn’t shown up for work. Alix listened to it all pour out of them, the anger, the frustration and the memories of Peggy. She had herself babysat Peggy, and remembered her as a placid, smiley wee thing. She didn’t know how Ailsa, whom she’d known most of her life, had pulled through or if she would have been able to cope in a similar situation. Her friend had, she guessed, done what Ulsterwomen so often did: she’d put a brave face on it. And that face had now only crumbled because of a random and coincidental encounter in a DIY store.

  Alix was thinking about what the best angle would be – every variation she came up with felt a bit tabloidy, and even though that was the shape of their paper these days, content-wise it wasn’t really the kind of story that the Express had gone for in the past. Alix had briefly spoken to them at the counter, but then led them through to the small office kitchen and made them coffee and cheekily shared out the buns that had already been bought for their afternoon break. Then she left them for five minutes so she could get a steer from Rob. He’d come from the Guardian, and that was certainly a campaigning newspaper, so she hoped he would get behind the story; maybe they could appeal for public support to get the prison service or whoever it was that still held sway over Dillon – he was bound to be on licence, given his early release – to relocate him to a different town.

  Alix hesitated outside her editor’s office – she could see Rob and Gerry standing just inside the door, talking to Janine, their advertising manager. Then Janine turned and came out. When she passed she kept her eyes down, but Alix could see a tear on her cheek.

  Alix said, ‘Do you want me to come back...?’ to the two men, who were standing a little awkwardly, but Rob waved her in. Gerry gave him a nod and went after Janine. Alix stepped into the office and said, ‘Is everything all—?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ Rob sat back behind his desk. ‘What can I do for you, Alix?’

  Fine, Alix thought, usually means, not fine.

  Janine was highly strung at the best of times, but not usually prone to tears.

  Anyway, to the business at hand. She told him about Ailsa and Roy sitting in the kitchen, about the death of their toddler, how angry they were about Dillon being back in the neighbourhood, and what was the paper going to do about it.

  She said, ‘I mean, can you imagine what that’s like – you’re just out doing a bit of shopping, and next thing the man who murdered your daughter is standing there in front of you. Nightmare.’

  ‘How old was she?’ Rob asked.

  She noticed that he had photos of his own two kids on his desk. ‘Just turned three. Gorgeous.’

  ‘And this guy Dillon was drunk?’

  ‘Yeah, showing off with his mates, mounted the kerb, crushed her.’

  ‘It’s very sad, and meeting him like that... just, I’m not sure there’s a story here.’

  ‘Killer released back into the community, and the bereaved family have to face him every day? Three years for a life? Where’s the justice there?’

  ‘Alix – it wasn’t murder. It was manslaughter. And the justice was in the court. He was convicted and served his time. Look, it can’t be pleasant, but if you go down that road, you start a witch-hunt. I do want this to be a campaigning newspaper, but we have to choose our campaigns carefully.’

  ‘You’re saying we can’t do anything?’

  ‘If he’s just getting on with his life and he’s not going out of his way to confront them, then we just have to accept it.’

  Alix took a deep breath. ‘Right. What am I supposed to say to them?’

  ‘Just be nice. And blame it on me. I’ll explain it to them if you want.’

  Alix shook her head. ‘No. It’s okay.’

  She went back into the kitchen and started to explain. Their disappointment was obvious, and more – an instant coolness towards her. She tried to explain that it wasn’t her decision, and that this didn’t have anything to do with their friendship, but they clearly didn’t understand. It was black and white – either you were with them, or you were with Dillon. They left pretty quickly – vague promises of meeting up at some time in the future. Alix was torn – she was embarrassed and a little bit ashamed that she wasn’t there for them.

  As they were leaving they were joined by Janine, coat on, face wet. She didn’t say anything. Alix watched her go, then, when the door swung shut again, turned to Michael and asked what was going on. He said, ‘She’s been suspended.’

  Before she could ask what for Peter came out of Rob’s office and Michael immediately re-focused on his work.

>   Peter said, ‘What’s up with you guys? They looked upset.’

  ‘They are upset.’ She nodded towards the editor’s office. ‘He won’t touch them with a barge pole. He bleats on about us being a community paper, and he doesn’t think the community will care about this?’

  Peter lifted a newspaper from his desk and examined the front page. Without looking at her he said, ‘Well, maybe there’s more than one way to skin a cat,’ then turned and walked towards the kitchen.

  *

  Rob was pissed off. He was only a few days into the job and already involved in a crisis that wouldn’t have been any of his business on a paper like the Guardian. But on a Mickey Mouse operation like this? He was in it up to his neck. He didn’t like to refer everything back to his former employer all the time, and he certainly didn’t do it out loud, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d been used to a certain level of professionalism, there were disciplinary procedures and practices, and if Janine had been working there she would have been out on her ear. She’d been caught with her fingers in the till. Her siphoning-off of advertising money had contributed to the business nearly going down the plughole. And yet Gerry was still reluctant to fire her.

  ‘She’s worked here for years,’ he said, ‘and without her we would have gone under ages ago.’

  ‘Gerry she’s a thief, and she’s admitted it. She’s been ripping you off for years.’

  ‘No, Rob – she hasn’t. They have.’

  ‘They!’

  ‘Maybe you’ve been away for too long, Rob – but those protection guys, once they get their hooks into you...’

  ‘There’s no proof of any protection...’

  ‘Well they hardly give you a receipt do they?!’

  That was her argument – she’d been forced into it by paramilitaries; they took a cut of everything she got by way of advertising, and it had been going on for years. Rob didn’t believe her at all, and while her tears had been real enough, he didn’t buy them either – she wasn’t sorry, or being honest with them, she was just distraught because she’d been caught. There was also something about the way she spoke to Gerry that suggested that they were now or had once been more than just work colleagues, a familiarity, a touchy-feely vibe that fell just short of actually being touchy-feely. Rob didn’t trust her at all. He wasn’t really surprised, given the chaotic way the paper had been run, that she was able to get away with it for so long; a proper accountant would have sussed out what she was up to, years ago.

  ‘Gerry, if we’re going to rebuild this paper, we need to be able to trust everyone. Suspension isn’t enough.’

  Gerry took a deep breath. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I was just trying to soften the blow.’

  ‘Well it’s not – it’s just prolonging the agony.’

  Rob’s phone rang. Before he answered it he raised an eyebrow at Gerry.

  ‘Aye,’ said Gerry. ‘Well.’ He walked out.

  It was Michael on the phone, some woman calling about an article on badgers that was supposed to run last week but didn’t. Badgers! Could he speak to her?

  ‘Yes, Mrs McDermott,’ he said into the phone, ‘lovely to hear from you...’

  ‘Don’t you give me that, young man!’

  Rob sighed. This definitely wasn’t the Guardian.

  *

  Gerry knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. Janine had always bewitched him. And she’d always been there for him. She had admitted stealing from him, but he couldn’t go along with what Rob was saying, that she was making up all the business with the protection money. He knew she was a smart operator. He knew that she had single-handedly kept the paper afloat for years, years when Gerry had barely been involved because of his other now-busted business interests. And he also knew her as a best friend, as an occasional lover, and looking back with the knowledge that she’d been at the mercy of, basically, gangsters, explained so much – the sadness that always seemed to lurk behind her eyes, the moods, the multiple break-ups they had endured, even the drinking. Gerry enjoyed a drink, multiple drinks, in fact; but Janine never seemed to have a wine glass out of her hand. He had tried to talk to her about it before but she’d always brushed him aside; now at least he knew, or thought he knew, why she’d sought refuge in the grape; all that time, through all their intimacies, she’d been carrying a secret she couldn’t admit to. Trying to talk it out in front of the new editor hadn’t been the right thing to do. After all, it was his paper, he should lay down the law. So now he found himself grabbing his coat and going after her. But before he could even get to the swing door they opened and two big guys in black crew necks came in. One of them had a clipboard in his hand. He said, ‘I’m looking for Gerry Black.’

  Gerry said, ‘He’s not here right now, can I take a message?’

  The big guy looked at him doubtfully and said, ‘We’re here to reclaim...’ and he looked down at his clipboard, ‘...six computers. A photocopier, two cameras... various items of office furniture... for non-payment of hire purchase...’

  ‘I sent a cheque,’ Gerry said quickly, aware that the staff were looking at him, and that just on the edge of his field of vision Rob was emerging from his office.

  The big guy unclipped something and held it up. ‘This cheque? It bounced.’ He nodded at his equally big colleague and they began to move into the office.

  Alix turned to Michael and said, ‘Where’s your You shall not pass now?’

  Rob said, ‘Problem, Gerry?’

  Gerry said, ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ to Rob and then stood in the way of the bailiffs. ‘And no, no, no, no, no to you as well. You can’t be taking our gear – you’ll never get your money back like that. Man, we’re a small business, struggling to make our way, we need another chance.’

  ‘We have our orders,’ said the big man, ‘and a court order.’

  He showed it.

  Gerry wasn’t for moving. ‘Look, lads, fellas, I know what you’re doing, turning the screws a wee bit, and great, it has indeed worked. Leave the computers, I’ve some cash in the car, c’mon downstairs with me and we’ll sort this out. C’mon!’

  Gerry nodded at the door behind them.

  The big guy hesitated. He said, ‘I’ll need to check with the boss.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  The big man raised a phone, and as he started to talk, Gerry began to subtly shepherd the two of them towards the door, and then through it. As the conversation continued out into the corridor, Gerry popped his head back in and hissed, ‘Lock the door! If I’m not back in twenty minutes, alert the authorities.’

  *

  Alix looked back at Dillon’s old court reports and saw that he was listed then as having no fixed abode; she thought there was a good chance that nothing had changed while he was inside, which meant that if he was back in town he was probably staying at a half-way house. She knew that the only one in town was one on Dufferin Avenue. Her plan was to call in, see if he was indeed there, and if he was, to see if she could get him talking. Sean, meanwhile, would be taking some surreptitious photographs. Or at least she hoped Sean would – he was very new to the job and, from the way he was studying his camera, not exactly aware of how it worked. They were just looking for a parking spot when Alix spotted Dillon – even though it had been three years since the court case, she’d attended every day of the trial and knew she would never forget his face. And he hadn’t changed: still tall and lean, and with his trademark hair moussed up rockabilly style. He was just getting into a red Vauxhall. Alix turned the car at the end of the road and was back just in time to fall in directly behind Dillon as he turned left onto Main Street. She then followed him along the one-way system onto Seacliff Road. This coast road was one of her favourite drives, with Belfast Lough to her left, calm today, the sun shining and the footpath busy. About half a mile along Dillon parked outside the Jamaica Inn. Alix found a space which gave them a good view of the bar. There was a beer garden in front that was busy with customers enjoying a rare opportunity to
eat and drink outside. Dillon, a newspaper tucked under one arm, moved up the steps into the garden and then entered the bar. A couple of minutes later he emerged with a pint in hand, looking about him for a table, but they were all taken. Instead of going back inside he chose to sit on a low wall overlooking the road and the sea beyond. He unfolded his paper and lit a cigarette.