‘Have they changed their minds? Are they charging you?’
‘Funny,’ said Rob.
*
It doesn’t happen very often, a small local paper finding a major national news story on its doorstep, but when it does it can have a queer effect – some journalists rise magnificently to the occasion, others disappear into their shells and wait for the fallout. It can have a lot to do with timing. The Express is a weekly paper, coming out on a Thursday morning. If this story had broken on a Friday or Saturday it would have been of very little benefit – all the news value sucked out of it by the time the next issue came round. But if it happened on a Wednesday, and concluded fortuitously, say at about midnight, then that’s perfect timing – next morning’s paper would be bang up to date and sales could be huge. Sales, reputation, pride.
Today is Wednesday.
The function of a local paper when a national story breaks is also to act as the titular fount of all local knowledge for the descending media – the news channels, the daily-paper newshounds, the radio stars, none of whom can be expected to know very much about the little town they’re suddenly sent to. A local paper usually provides this assistance free of charge. Usually. It’s dressed up as a quid quo pro thing, but generally it never works out like that. By the time the visiting press have filed their stories and fired up their satellite trucks for their next destination they’ve largely forgotten who gave them a hand and who provided that essential local insight. Promises made, promises forgotten, from High Noon to tumbleweeds.
Rob, of course, had seen this from both sides, first as a young reporter in a small town, and latterly as a journalist on the Guardian. As he drove down, it absolutely crossed his mind that this might be a good way to go out – showing off what he and his team could do, what kind of a paper they could produce, that they could compete with the biggest and the best. But his main concern was how he was going to stop himself from becoming part of the story.
The hostage-taker wouldn’t talk directly to the police but somehow he had hold of Rob’s name and wanted to negotiate through him. The idea, the chief inspector said, was to listen and not say much – he was basically a Samaritan, and Samaritans got sacked if they started offering advice. Rob asked if they didn’t have a trained hostage negotiator for situations like this, and the chief inspector said of course they did, but they were all away on a course. Rob started to laugh. It wasn’t reciprocated. The chief inspector said they were flying back from London but it was his responsibility to keep the situation under control until they got there, and Rob was part of that. Pulling on water wings and dipping his feet in the pool till the swimming instructor arrived.
It was a blessing really that the robber had chosen to go into the smaller of the town centre’s two post offices. This one was at the top of High Street – O’Connor’s was one of the few remaining mom-and-pop operations. If the robbery had happened in Main Street, then many more people would have been at risk.
Rob found a parking spot some distance away – word was out amongst the locals. As he approached he could see at least a dozen police cars, two ambulances, the fire brigade and a chip van. There were camera trucks and photographers and journalists, with more arriving every minute. There was tape at both ends of the street, keeping everyone back. As Rob pressed through the watching crowds he nodded hello- hello-hello to numerous familiar local faces but shrugged away demands for the latest news on the siege. He liked that they presumed he would know. Rob, with his finger on the pulse. Rob, who could barely find the pulse. He spotted Alix and moved up beside her. If anyone had the pulse.
She glanced across. ‘Come to check up on us?’
‘Yes.’
They were about a hundred yards from the shop. The metal grilles over the display window had been pulled down, but the front door was still accessible. There were police cars immediately opposite, parked in a V shape with several uniformed officers crouching behind. They were armed, but that wasn’t unusual for Northern Ireland.
‘Where’s Sean?’ Rob asked.
‘Went round the back, see if he could see anything.’
As Rob scanned the crowd, he saw Pete pushing through. And behind him – Michael. He couldn’t blame them, really, it wasn’t often a story of this magnitude came along. Journalists could be as big rubberneckers as the general public, plus they got paid for it. For today at least, everything else was going to take a back seat.
Alix frowned. ‘It’s still my story, right?’
‘It’s our story. The paper’s.’
‘But I’m, like, the chief reporter on it. Pete’s going to try and muscle in, but sure he’s not written a story since before the war, and Michael can hardly tie his shoes, so... that would leave you. Maybe this is exactly what you want, Rob Cullen, maybe you’ve set this all up so you can go out in a blaze of glory.’
‘Nice try, but whether I’m going anywhere has nothing to do with this.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘I’m leading from the front.’
And with that he ducked under the police cordon. Alix’s mouth dropped open. He glanced back, giving her a wink. Her mouth remained open. Michael came up beside her and said, ‘What the hell’s he doing?’
‘I don’t...’
He’d been stopped by a constable, but instead of chucking him out he was being led forward to where Chief Inspector Clifford was standing talking urgently into his radio. Alix knew Clifford. She knew him to be an uncooperative, bumptious and humourless shit. This wasn’t just her opinion, it was the general consensus. She was sure he thought highly of her as well, although realistically he probably didn’t think of her at all. He was too self-centred. He had no time for journalists.
Clifford said, ‘He’s been identified locally as Patrick Casey. Mean anything to you?’
‘Not off the top of my head. But he could have been mentioned in a story or something.’
‘Well, he seems quite determined to talk to you.’ Clifford raised a mobile phone. ‘So, for the next few minutes you’re not a journalist. You’re not interviewing him. Be friendly, be calm, ask after Mr O’Connor, ask if he wants food or water, but don’t agree to anything. Don’t let him bargain. My people will negotiate when they get here.’
Clifford pressed a button. Rob’s throat suddenly felt dry.
‘Mr Casey... Patrick... I have Rob Cullen for you.’
Clifford handed the phone over. Rob turned it in his sweaty hand and raised it. There was something about the name nagging at him. ‘Hi, hello, how’re you doing?’ he said, and immediately regretted it. Too breezy. Cleared his throat, lowered his voice. Man of authority, respected in the community. ‘This is Rob Cullen, I’m the editor of—’
‘Rob Cullen – I know who the fuck you are. How’s it going, Rob?’
‘Ahm – yes. Fine. Better for me than for...’ He stopped himself. Clifford was glowering at him. ‘What can I do for you Mr Casey?’
‘Mr Casey! Would you listen to you! Rob – it’s Patrick. From the paper.’
‘The...’
‘The fucking News Letter man! The good old days!’
And with that, the penny dropped. An ancient penny, a penny covered in the dirt and rust of time. Patrick Casey. Rob had just started on the morning paper in Belfast. Billy Maxwell had been his first boss there, but Patrick Casey was his first friend – not a journalist, a typesetter just a year older than him but already a veteran. Boy apprentice when you could still just about be one – been there since he was barely sixteen. So Patrick knew the ropes and went out of his way to show Rob what was what when most of the other editors, subs and reporters had been too busy, or too up their own arses to bother. Sink or swim was the prevailing attitude back then. Patrick was also one of the few Catholics employed on a paper that totally represented the Protestant heartland, and this at a time when the Troubles were still roaring along, so working there wasn’t without its risks. They’d somehow become mates, drinking buddies and gotten themse
lves in and out of a few scrapes. But, as is the way of things, once Rob had properly found his feet the need for Patrick Casey had diminished and they’d hung around less and less. Rob had always felt a little bit bad about that – while doing absolutely nothing about it. Then he’d moved to a new job in England and hadn’t given Patrick a second thought, or even a first, in many years. He’d had no idea he was now in Bangor. And now the best he could come up with was: ‘Patrick... fuck sake!’
‘Good to hear you, man. Remember back in the day – you were the only one on that whole fucking paper ever called me Patrick. It was always Paddy with everyone else. And you know why.’
‘Aye, well, different times.’ Paddy was a way of emphasizing that he was different – Patrick could be Protestant or Catholic, but Paddy made him sound properly Irish, properly Catholic. Like a stage-Irish leprechaun. Their way of putting him in his place, or letting him know they knew what he was and that they weren’t happy about it. ‘So – what the hell’s this all about?’
‘Don’t really know, mate! Whatever it is, it’s fucked up. But sure – c’mon in and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I...’
‘Ah, come on, it’ll be a bit of crack.’
And then Patrick Casey cut the line, leaving Rob staring wide-eyed at Clifford.
‘Well?’
‘He wants me to go in.’
‘Well, that’s not happening.’
Rob nodded. Relief. And then immediately, guilt. Even if he hadn’t seen him in years, Patrick was still an old friend. Someone who’d stood up for him and protected him. Something terrible and traumatic must have happened in his life that he could end up like this. And if he was turning to Rob in his time of need, then how could he really say no – particularly as there was a hostage whose life was clearly in danger? Could he really have that on his conscience?
A little bit of him was also thinking about the paper.
And about possibly being a hero.
He couldn’t help it. It just flitted through.
And then he was thinking: are you fucking mental? Patrick has a GUN. Shots have been fired.
You have children.
Rob said, ‘We’re old friends.’
‘Does he have a history of...? Have there been mental health issues or...? Did he ask for anything?’
‘Don’t know, don’t know, and all he asked for was me.’
‘No demands? Did he say how the hostage was?’
‘No, and no.’ Rob looked back at the watching crowd. He picked out Alix. He wondered what she would do in this situation. And what she would expect him to do. Would she think him a hero or a fool for going in? And why was he even thinking that – she was just... Alix. Nothing more. He had family in London, he was getting the hell out of Dodge – wasn’t he? It came to him then that, although he’d got on great with Patrick Casey in those first months at the paper, there was always something about him that was a bit... chippy? That while Patrick had been fairly placid most of the time, when the drink was in, he was easily offended and quick to anger, and this was what had usually gotten them into those scrapes. And that, in fact, now that he thought about it, the News Letter, even though it was a Protestant paper for a Protestant people, hadn’t actually been a hotbed of bigotry and that what Paddy had perceived to have been persecution was just sharp-edged banter. Rob himself had calmed and defused situations where Patrick had gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. But Patrick had never been violent – angry, yes, but he wouldn’t harm a fly. He was sure of it. So maybe the risk wasn’t that great. He could talk him down again.
Bloody hell.
Alix couldn’t work out what was going on. Even though Rob was involved in an animated conversation with Chief Inspector Clifford, he kept glancing in her direction. She was distracted for a moment by Pete and Michael finally arriving beside her. She looked Pete up and down and said, ‘You’re out from behind your desk. I didn’t think you actually had legs.’
Pete’s upper lip curdled up. ‘Of course I have. In fact, you can watch them walk into Rob’s job when he goes.’
‘Right,’ said Alix. Then couldn’t help but add: ‘Is he going? You’ve heard?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Pete, ‘but it’s inevitable. We’re just waiting for the white smoke to go up.’
‘Which means you know nothing and you’re just slabbering for the sake of it.’
‘Just wait and see. He’s just putting his time in.’
Michael nodded forward. ‘He doesn’t look like someone who’s just putting his time in.’
Alix turned. Rob was walking towards the post office.
No police by his side. Just a Tesco bag-for-life in one hand, his phone in the other.
As the crowd began to notice, a hush descended, until the only sound was the distant cry of a seagull high up, and the whirr of cameras as they captured Rob’s progress. Alix could feel an almost palpable longing coming from the crowd for something dramatic to happen, a crowd weaned on dramatic twenty-four-hour news channels and Avengers movies. They were desperate for an immediate and possibly explosive conclusion.
She whispered, ‘What... the fuck... are you doing?’
And as if in response her phone pinged and force of habit just about managed to drag her eyes away from Rob, just for a millisecond to glance at the screen; but then she saw his name. She clicked and the text said: ‘Close your mouth and go do some work. Gunman is Patrick Casey.’
She looked back up in time to see the front door of the shop open and Rob step inside. Not even a glimpse of the gunman, of Patrick Casey. The door closed and the crowd drew breath again, breath tinged with disappointment and anti-climax.
Alix showed the text message to Pete. He nodded and said, ‘It’s a start. Go and find out who he is.’
‘I’d prefer to stay here.’
‘I’m sure you would, but he’s just told you what to do, so...?’
Pete was right, of course. She would achieve nothing by standing staring at the post office. Rob had given her a name that the other media didn’t have – so she’d a head start and an opportunity to show them what she was made of. But she couldn’t resist saying: ‘You know, Pete – you may think you’re second in command, but isn’t it funny how he chooses to text me rather than you?’
She was already stalking away when he responded with, ‘That’s coz it’s not me he’s trying to get into bed with.’
She stopped, gave him a look and said, ‘Trying?’
And a patronizing wink.
She thought this was pretty clever, at least for about twenty seconds, then she decided that actually it made her sound cheap and slutty, but it was too late to take it back, or do anything about the twin red blotches on Pete’s face.
*
Patrick Casey of course looked older. It had been twenty years. But he appeared more like thirty, maybe even forty, years older. Rob didn’t know if he’d been sick or it was just bad genes, but he had not aged well. The stress of what was going on now probably didn’t help much either. Patrick’s eyes were out on sleepless stalks, his skin blotchy, hair clinging to his skull like wisps of wool on a farmer’s barbed-wire fence. Rob was through the door, but not yet into the proper body of the shop when Patrick put the gun to the back of his head and snapped out: ‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Patrick – take it easy. Nothing – water, and crisps.’
‘Crisps?’
‘Just what they had to hand, but they’ll send whatever you want, need, within reason.’
Patrick pushed the door closed. ‘And you can put your fucking hands down. Unless you’re going to jump me.’
‘No, I’m not going to...’
‘What’re they saying about me – all sorts of shit I’ll bet?’
‘No, not at all, they’re just concerned about—’
‘Don’t give me that crap. We both know what they’re like.’
Patrick waved Rob forward with the gun. He immediately saw Gavin O’Conn
or slumped down on the public side of the post-office counter, clutching his side; blood was soaking through his white shirt; his skin was grey. Rob crouched beside him and asked the stupid but necessary question. ‘How’re you doing there?’
O’Connor grunted. His eyes stayed on Patrick.
‘He should be in a hospital,’ said Rob.
‘Tell me something I don’t know. But if they hadn’t shot him in the first place there’d be no need for it.’
‘They...?’
‘I never did nothing.’
‘You were robbing me...’ O’Connor rasped.
‘And? Did I shoot you? No I did not. My luck there was a passing patrol. My luck they’re the only cops in the whole fucking United Kingdom who still carry guns. And your bad luck that they start firing and ask questions later. But I’ll bet that’s not what they’re saying out there, is it, Rob?’
‘Well, they—’
‘Of course it fucking isn’t. They’ll say I shot him. That’s how they operate. And they’ll fix it so that, by the time they drag me into court all the evidence will show it, too. Well, I’ve news for you, and news for them, I’m not going anywhere till they admit what they’ve done.’ He clicked his fingers suddenly, and it took a moment for Rob to understand that he wanted the bag-for-life. He handed it over and then watched as Patrick greedily snatched out the water, twisted off the cap... and then hesitated. He handed the bottle across to Rob and said, ‘You drink first. At least half of it till I see if they’ve put something in it...’
‘Patrick, it was sealed, and anyway they didn’t have time to...’
‘Drink it.’
He drank it. ‘See, there’s—’
‘Now him...’
Rob held it to O’Connor’s lips. As he did, Patrick moved to the door. He stayed to one side of it and moved his head forward just a fraction to peer out. ‘Fucking vultures!’ he hissed. ‘They were waiting for me. Or you...’ He poked a finger back at O’Connor. ‘...you pushed an alarm or something...’
‘I didn’t do anything...’
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