‘I expect you think that they’re just the ramblings of a sad old woman.’
‘No... no! Not at all. It’s just that with our re-design—’
‘He tries it at least once a year.’
‘Who... What?’
‘My nephew Gerry. Every time somebody new joins the paper, he sends them out here to fire me, because he hasn’t the balls to do it himself.’ Rob stared at her. She smiled back. She did not have the kind of face that you expected to hear the word balls issue from. She put down her spoon. ‘And I’m sure that he didn’t mention to you that I am one of the owners of the paper which he has so cleverly been running into the ground?’ Rob shook his head. Mary shook her own. ‘That boy was a bloody chancer from the day he was born. Now, would you like to meet my badger?’
*
Rob met the badger. It was fast asleep. He stroked it. Then it was back to work. Later in the afternoon he opened his office door and asked Alix if he could have a word. She nodded. As she got up she looked at Sean. Sean shrugged and said, ‘I never said nothing.’ She raised an eyebrow. Sean looked a bit flustered and then quickly handed her the best of the photographs he’d taken of Mark Dillon.
Rob moved to one side to allow Alix to pass. Gerry emerged from his office, and then hesitated as he saw Rob looking at him.
‘The badger woman,’ said Rob. ‘Your auntie.’
‘Did – did I not mention that?’
‘Yeah, right. Well for your information, I didn’t fire her. In fact, I’m giving her more space.’
‘In God’s name why?!’
‘Because green is good, the environment is good, and kids love badgers. And also...’
‘Yes...?’
‘For badness.’
Rob smiled at him and retreated into his office. He was still smiling when he sat at his desk, so Alix smiled too.
‘You’ve nothing to smile about,’ Rob snapped. ‘I had a call from a Tommy Brady. He runs a half-way house on Dufferin Avenue. But then you know that.’
‘Ahm, yes, I do.’
‘He’s fuming.’
‘I was only—’
‘I told you to leave that story alone.’
‘No, you told me there was no story.’
‘And you know better?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact...’ She didn’t mean it to be particularly cheeky, it just came out like that. She quickly handed one of the photos across – it showed Dillon drinking outside the Jamaica Inn. ‘He had three pints, and then he was driving – well over the limit. It’s like it all never happened, he can just do what he wants...’
‘Three pints of what?’ Rob asked.
‘Well, beer, clearly...’
‘Can you prove that? Or could it have been shandy? Or low-alcohol beer? Did you speak to the barman? Did you see his receipt? What do you really have? You have nothing, Alix, apart from a pissed-off manager of a half-way house who thinks you’re hassling his charges.’’ Rob took a deep breath and when he spoke again it was more quietly, but it still sounded like he was admonishing a child. ‘Look, these houses have a hard enough time, nobody wants them in their back yard, so they have to keep a low profile, they don’t need someone coming round threatening—’
‘I wasn’t threatening. And so what are we supposed to do, turn a blind eye to—?’
‘Alix, we report the news, we don’t make the news, okay? So just... just drop it.’
She was glaring at him; couldn’t help it.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘now I’m sure you’ve plenty of other stories to be getting on with.’
She nodded. He nodded. He returned his attention to his computer.
She got up and went to the door. She stopped. ‘I was only trying to—’
‘Leave it!’
*
But of course, she couldn’t. She returned to her desk and brooded through the rest of the afternoon. She worked on other stories, but her heart wasn’t in them. When she left the office, instead of going home, she drove straight to an off licence for a bottle of wine, and then on to Ailsa and Roy’s house. When Ailsa opened the door she held the bottle up and said, ‘I may not be much good to you as a journalist. But I can still be a good friend.’
Ailsa had looked quite hard-faced as she came down the hall, but now that the door was open and the wine was offered, she softened. She said, ‘Ach, babe, there was no need. Come on in.’
They sat in the kitchen. It grew dark outside as they chatted about everything but what had happened in the newspaper office; at least, until the wine was downed, and then a second bottle worked through. Alix brought it up herself. She said she was sorry, that she’d tried everything but the new boss wouldn’t budge. Her old boss, she said, he would definitely have done something, but not this new one.
‘It’s fine,’ said Ailsa, ‘and we know it’s not your fault.’
Another glass necked and Alix said, ‘Maybe you’ve seen the back of him anyway. I think seeing you two in B&Q scared the pants off him, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been back to work since, and as long as you avoid Dufferin Avenue, then maybe you won’t have to see him ever again...’
‘Dufferin? Why Dufferin?’
‘That’s where the half...’ Some part of her stopped her finishing, though probably too late. It wasn’t a state secret that there was a half-way house on Dufferin, but they didn’t exactly publicize it. ‘That’s where they live the half of them – it’s all bedsits and guest houses, isn’t it? I expect that’s where he is. Or Southwell Road, there’s a lot of bedsits round there too. The dole office – they put the homeless up in Kilcooley as well I think. The important thing is to just try and forget about him. He’s... nothing...’
‘He is nothing,’ said Roy.
But Ailsa was looking tearful. Roy put his hand over his wife’s and gave it a little squeeze.
*
Gerry got the call just after midnight. Janine’s name lit up. Janine upset was one thing, but Janine upset and pissed in the middle of the night was something he couldn’t cope with. So he let it go to voicemail, and wasn’t even going to listen to it until the morning, but about an hour later, unable to sleep because it was nagging at him, he finally played it. She wasn’t drunk. Her voice was shaky, but remarkably calm, considering she was calling from the hospital; she’d been beaten up. Gerry drove straight over. She was still in the casualty department, in a curtained-off bed. She looked a mess. One eye was closed, she had a busted tooth and her lip was split. He hugged her and she cried against him. When she settled a bit she told him she’d been set upon by some thug when she went for a bottle of wine at the off licence on the corner. She’d noticed him when she left her apartment, had passed him on the corner; they’d made eye contact; she’d looked away. She was quite relieved when she was walking back that he was no longer at the corner, but then he’d stepped out from behind a car and dragged her into an alley and thumped her half a dozen times. He hadn’t stolen anything. He wasn’t one of the alcoholics who normally hung around the offie, she knew them all by sight, and in fact they’d come running to help her when they heard her screams. The thug had run off. All through it he hadn’t said a word. But she knew it was a warning, or a punishment; both, probably. Gerry said he was sorry, so sorry, that he hadn’t believed her and she said, ‘You didn’t believe me?’ and he quickly covered with, ‘Of course I believed you. What I meant was Rob, Rob didn’t believe you and he was very convincing. But I see now it’s because he’s spent so long in England and he doesn’t really know how it is here. I hold my hand up, Janine, and admit I allowed myself to be swayed, but man, God, the evidence is here before my very eyes now, and as soon as Rob Cullen sees the face on you he’ll be in no doubt either.’ She said, ‘Is my face that horrible?’ and he said, no, it wasn’t really, it was the swelling making it look so bad, not that it looked so bad, more sore than anything, is it very sore and she said yes. He asked if they’d given her painkillers and she said not yet; he said good and took out a wee flask of whiskey
he’d brought and they sipped on that until she was given the all-clear to go about an hour later. He took her home and insisted on staying. He would sleep on the couch. She said, ‘You’re not normally so shy,’ and he said, ‘Your face isn’t normally swollen up like a balloon.’ She said, ‘Sleep on the effing couch, then,’ and stormed off to bed.
Rob Cullen got his the call at just after 3 a.m. A man was saying, ‘Billy – Billy, is that you?’
Rob was still half asleep. ‘Wha...?’
‘Billy – big fire on Dufferin Avenue, thought you’d be interested.’
Rob had recovered enough to say, ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s me, Fletch – remember, I do the darts notes? You told me if I ever saw anything exciting happening to be sure to call it in. It’s just across the road. I called the fire brigade, then I called you.’
‘Well, thanks, Fletch, much appreciated. Though I should tell you, I’m not Billy.’
‘Oh – do you mean I’ve, like, a wrong number?’
‘Right number, wrong person, but it’s absolutely fine.’
When the office was closed, Rob had calls to editorial re-routed to his home phone.
‘Can I speak to Billy?’
‘Well, no, that would be difficult. But consider him informed.’
‘Tell him he should get down here quick, there’s about five fire engines.’
As soon as he hung up, Rob looked at the ceiling and said, ‘Did you get that Billy?’
There was no response. Rob got up, pulled on a pair of jeans and a hoody and hurried downstairs. As he drove towards the centre of town he phoned Sean, but it went straight to voicemail.
Alix got her call five minutes later. She’d fallen asleep slightly tipsy while trying to get through All the President’s Men for about the hundredth time. It was supposed to be the Bible for crusading journalists, but all the names just confused her. Her actual Bible was The Odessa File – it was a fast and exciting novel featuring a determined journalist tracking down Nazis. That was more like it. Although, it had to be said, she was unlikely to encounter many Nazis through the Express. She was still thinking about this as the phone continued to ring.
Focus.
She reached out and answered, groggy still and a little slurred – but snapped out of it as soon as Rob told her about the fire and where it was. She immediately felt sick to her stomach. She said, ‘I can’t drive, I’ve had too much to drink.’
Rob growled at her to get down anyway. Ten minutes later she climbed out of a taxi at Dufferin Avenue. The roof of the half-way house was on fire and there was smoke billowing out of the windows on the top floor. There were firemen everywhere, and crowds of onlookers; three ambulances were parked off to the right. She found Rob and asked if anyone was hurt or even still inside. He said he didn’t know. He still sounded gruff. He moved forward and began to take photos with his phone. The police were there, but not enough of them to cordon off the scene properly, so Alix was able to get close enough to the ambulances to see Mark Dillon lying in the back of one, being attended to by paramedics. When they moved a little, she saw that he’d an oxygen mask on his face. Her back was poked suddenly and she turned to find Thomas Brady glowering at her. The half-way house manager’s face was smudged black and he was wearing a shirt that was unevenly buttoned. He said, ‘This is your fucking fault.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘You think it’s a coincidence, you poke your nose in and that very night someone firebombs us?’
‘Firebomb?!’
‘Yes, what the fuck did you think it was, spontaneous combustion? Someone poured petrol through our front door and set it alight.’
Technically, that wasn’t a firebomb, but it wasn’t the time or place.
She said, ‘You can’t say for sure that had anything to do with—’
‘Is that right?! Is it?’
‘Yes! I’m sorry that—’
‘Well, here’s what I can say for sure. You see that fella over there?’ He pointed towards Mark Dillon. ‘Not only did he raise the alarm, he went back in three or four times to get people out. He got me out. My room’s on the top floor. Smoke rises. It was coming under my door. He had to kick my door in, and then he had to drag me down the hall and carry me down the stairs. He saved my fucking life. You want to write about Mark Dillon? How about instead of trying to stitch him up for having a drink you write about how he’s a fucking hero?’
He waved a warning finger in her face, and then stormed away.
It was only then that she realized that Rob was standing beside her and must have heard the entire exchange, because he said, ‘Now it’s a story.’
*
Rob was barely into the office, bleary-eyed still, when Gerry came in and broke the news about Janine. Rob agreed it was terrible, and was on the verge of saying that nevertheless it hardly changed the fact that she’d been ripping the paper off for years, but he held back. It was, after all, still just a temporary job, he wasn’t going to be spending the rest of his life on a tiny wee newspaper like the Express; as soon as the nonsense at the Guardian was cleared up he would be back there, or he’d pick up something else on another of the dailies; he had loads of experience, and, he hoped, a good reputation. He was picking up some cash here at home in Northern Ireland, he was giving something back to the community – he was like the Red Adair of local newspapers, an expert parachuted in to save and salvage, but then straight out again. The best he could do was give his advice and it was up to Gerry whether he took it or not. He was truly sorry that Janine had been beaten up, but – if you slept with sharks, sometimes you were going to get bitten. He didn’t say this out loud either. Instead he made more sympathetic noises and then said he needed to be getting on with his work, but Gerry wasn’t for shifting until Rob agreed that they should both go and visit her. Gerry said, ‘We owe her that much.’ Rob finally couldn’t resist a comeback. ‘Not as much as she owes us.’ Gerry gave him a look, and Rob held his hands up and said sorry. He added, ‘It’ll have to be at lunchtime, it’s all gone a bit mental with this fire.’
As it turned out, Sean had actually been at the fire, it was just that no one had spotted him. His pictures were fabulous. He had one black-and-white one of Mark Dillon being helped to the ambulance that looked like something out of the Second World War, his face black, his eyes wide, smoke and flames in the background. It was the kind of photo that won awards; it was the kind of photo that deserved to go national, international maybe. Rob was quite torn about it – his instincts were to send it out, let Sean and by association the paper, get the acclaim. But that would mean that, by the time they themselves were able to print it, it would essentially be old news, it would be familiar, and its impact would be lessened. His first duty should be to the paper he worked on, and after that it could do the rounds. He thought briefly about discussing it with Gerry, but he suspected the cash-strapped owner would immediately want to sell it, so he held his water. It was only for twenty-four hours. He was actually more concerned with getting a story that was worthy of the photo – Alix was struggling to get anything out of the hospital where Dillon was being treated, and the private company that ran the half-way house on behalf of the Prison Service said it was too busy trying to re-house its residents to be able to comment. Thomas Brady, previously vociferous, had clearly been warned to say nothing. Alix had included his quote, suitably censored for bad language, about Dillon being a hero, in her story, but it just wasn’t enough. They needed more.
Lunchtime came and Gerry appeared in Rob’s office, pulling his coat on.
Rob said, ‘Do we have to?’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘I’ve—’
‘Twenty minutes, that’s all.’
Rob sighed and got up. As they walked down the stairs he said, ‘Any sign of my car yet?’
‘Mmmmmm,’ said Gerry.
‘Gerry... I can’t keep driving that bloody smart car around.’
‘You’re such a snob, R
ob. People in the developing world would kill for such a car.’
‘No,’ said Rob, ‘they wouldn’t.’
They took Gerry’s Jag. Rob asked why he hadn’t volunteered the Jag as security... surely it was worth a lot more than Rob’s?
Gerry said, ‘I didn’t volunteer it because I volunteered yours instead. Because it’s my company, they’re all my cars, and it’s all my debt.’
Rob said, ‘Fair enough.’ Half-way to Janine’s he said, ‘Though come to think of it you have something even more valuable you could have offered them.’
‘Like what?’
‘A performing badger.’
‘Does it perform?’
‘It rolls over and allows you to scratch its belly.’
Gerry nodded. He concentrated on the road for a bit. When they were drawing close to Janine’s he said, ‘I hate that fucking badger.’
Rob said, ‘He speaks highly of you, too.’
Janine’s apartment was in a swanky-looking complex off Maxwell Road. Rob raised an eyebrow and Gerry snapped, ‘What?’
‘I’m saying nothing,’ said Rob.
They parked, and then Gerry reached back for a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates.
‘Still saying nothing,’ said Rob.
He found Janine’s name on a panel with six others and pushed the intercom button.
‘Hello?’
Gerry stepped up to it and said, ‘It’s me.’
‘Oh good. I’ll leave the front door open, honey. Come on in.’
Rob said nothing as the buzzer sounded. They entered the building and took the elevator to the third floor. As the doors opened, Rob put out his hand and said, ‘After you, honey.’
Gerry scowled at him and said, ‘We go back, okay?’
‘None of my business,’ said Rob.
‘Exactly.’
The door was open. They went in: open-plan lounge and kitchen, big leather sofas and Janine standing in her dressing gown, sans make-up, her face swollen, her left eye totally closed, her skin blotchy. Gerry gave her a gentle hug and the flowers and she said, ‘Och, they’re lovely, so they are. ‘Gerry had given Rob the chocolates to hand over and he did so, somewhat awkwardly. He barely knew her and didn’t know whether to hug her or not, but she seemed to be in hugging mood. She came towards him with her arms out and he did what he had to do. She smelled of mandarin oranges and red wine. She sat them down and brought them tea. She opened the chocolates and cherry-picked the best of them.
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