‘Not forgetting that he’s a fucking looper.’
‘That may be. But he’s still picked us. And remember, the story also says he used to be a printer, so he’s going to know how easy it is to run off a fake cover.’
‘So what the bloody hell are we supposed to do?’
Pete nodded slowly at the screen. Then looked up at Rob: ‘It’s not we, Gerry, it’s you. The buck stops with you. I don’t mean it unkindly, but you’re the boss. You can go out there and ask the cops what to do. Or you can run Rob’s story, no dummy cover, fully printed and distributed as per instructions. Even if it doesn’t ultimately save his life it will definitely buy him some time so that someone who does know what they’re doing can try and save him.’
‘Tell me again what the downside of printing it is, then?’
‘It betrays every journalistic principle we stand for.’
‘And should I really give a flying fuck about that when a man’s life is at stake? This isn’t fucking Lou Grant.’ Pete nodded. No further explanation necessary. Look it up. ‘Do you think a single one of our readers gives a frig about our journalistic principles? They want news and courts and football. They want badgers and drunks and new jobs. They won’t give a shit if we print a bullshit story for one week to save a man’s life.’
‘No, they won’t.’
‘Then, what’s the fucking problem!’
‘It’s the wrong thing to do. It’s giving in to his demands. It’s caving in to terrorism.’
Gerry began to nod slowly, but then stopped and his brow furrowed. ‘No, Pete...’ he said, ‘you’re wrong...’
‘How? It is terrorism. If he was some Islamist nutter about to cut Rob’s...’
‘No, I mean you’re wrong about it being my decision.’
‘How do you—?’
‘You’ve been gagging to be editor all these months, and now here you are, the man in charge. I always told Rob I wouldn’t interfere in editorial decisions, and I’m not going to start now. Rob isn’t here. He’s on his holidays. He’s indisposed. You’re his deputy, you’re in charge, Pete. It’s your call. Make the wrong call, and yes, he might die. But you’ll still get to be editor. Make the right call and he walks free, and you’ll be a hero, or more likely no one will thank you for it and you won’t even get a pay rise out of it. But it’s still your call. So make it.’ Gerry thumbed behind him. ‘Now I’m going to do what I do best. Water those fucking rubber plants.’
He turned away.
He really did.
He thought he had argued his position expertly.
Though a large part of him knew he was running away from making a decision. It was the story of his life.
*
Two hours later, a single light just visible burning inside the post office, but no other required because of the arc lights, the police in ever greater numbers, a trained negotiating team finally arrived but having nothing to do because Patrick Casey wasn’t taking any calls. The crowds had thinned – the combination of a heavy downpour and early-onset boredom. Nothing was happening, they were tired and hungry and had work the next day and they could watch it on TV. In HD, which was better than real life.
Alix was miserable. They all were. When you’re on a story that requires a lot of hanging about, the adrenaline gradually dissipates, or at least morphs into a kind of bone-wearying fatigue. There are only so many notes you can make, people you can call or photographs you can take. Essentially you’re waiting around for someone to die or get released. Even if you know them, you just want it over, one way or another.
There was a coffee shop on the corner that agreed to stay open late. Agreed because they were concerned. Possibly for Rob, possibly for their profits, probably a bit of both. Alix joined the queue. There was a deal for a hot chocolate and a muffin. She wasn’t much into muffins so asked if she could swap it for one of the cookies stacked right beside them by the till, in the same small display rack. The barista said no. That wasn’t the deal. The deal was for the muffin. Alix gave him her sweetest smile and said she didn’t like muffins. The barista was unmoved. Alix told him to forget about the muffin and she’d just take the hot chocolate. He went to make it. Alix fumed. She stared out of the window. She could see Rebecca. Standing by herself. Rebecca of the thunder thighs. When the barista came back she ordered a second hot chocolate. When he brought that back she said she’d reconsidered and would take the original deal. She paid. She lifted her two carry-out hot chocolates and one of the muffins and turned for the door. The barista called after her that she’d forgotten one of her muffins.
‘No, that one’s for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes, I want you to stick it up your hole.’
And then she was outside on the damp pavement, hoping that those behind her in the queue would have found it funny, but realistic enough to realize that they’d probably just think she was a snotty cow. No matter. She girded her loins and headed across to Rebecca. She gave her a breezy-yet- sympathetic hi and held out one of the hot chocolates. When Rebecca took it she also handed over the muffin. It was an unspoken peace offering, and also an attempt to further enhance those thighs.
Alix said, ‘You looked so alone standing there. We should have come over earlier.’
‘You have your jobs to do. I’m sorry, but you’re... Angie...?’
‘Alix...’
‘Alix, of course.’ Rebecca took a bite of her muffin, and Alix was partly thinking I hope you choke on it, you fat bitch while knowing full well that there was no reason at all why Rebecca should remember her name, particularly at this time, when the man she was still married to was locked up with a crazed gunman. But she couldn’t help herself. It was human nature. Or dog eat dog. Or the circle of life.
Alix was staring at the post office, but became aware of Rebecca looking at her – appraising her, probably.
Rebecca said, ‘Are you humming “The Circle of Life”?’
‘Was I? Sorry. Wasn’t even aware of it. Nervous. Tense. I do that. Hum. Or whistle.’
Stop fucking babbling...
Rob’s in there. With a gun to his head.
Rob... the man I...
...work for...
Fuck!
She found herself putting her hand on Rebecca’s arm. She said, ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ Rebecca nodded. ‘The guy with the gun – he’s married, but his wife won’t even come down. She’s that pissed off at him.’
‘Well, at least I’m here.’
Yep. His wife. Mother of his kids.
Eat up.
The distraction came in the form of Michael’s ridiculous smart car pulling up and him hauling out a tied bundle of the Express, fresh off the press. Alix was confused – the paper wasn’t due out until the morning, and by then she was certain the siege would be over, one way or the other. It had to be a special edition – but why rush it out long after the shops had shut? She wasn’t thinking about the fact that her story would be the lead. Or very little of her was. It was only natural.
*
Patrick came away from the tiny hole in the shutters and said, ‘Papers are here.’
Lisa said, ‘Do you want me to go out and get them?’
‘You’ll do a runner. Rob, you go.’
‘How do you know I won’t?’
‘Because I’ll shoot her if you do.’
‘I didn’t think you shot people.’
Stupid thing to say, but out before he could help himself.
‘Seems like as good a time as any to start.’ Patrick was smiling, but without even the essence of humour. ‘Maybe we should both go, mate. Just charge out. They won’t expect that. Be like the end of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.’
‘I don’t much care for the end of Butch Cassidy.’
‘I don’t much care. Listen to you, all airs and graces. Just go and get them, mate.’ He walked Rob to the front door, taking care to stay off to one side, out of sight of the sharpshooters he was sure were lining the rooftops. The Mexicans with t
heir Gatling guns. As Rob reached up to open it Patrick said, ‘And, mate...?’ Rob looked back at Patrick’s gaunt face, his hooded, desperate eyes. ‘I know we go back – but really, don’t try anything, okay?’
Rob wasn’t going to rush anything. He was going to give them as long as possible to realize something was happening. He blinked against the glare of the arc lights. Then he stepped out with his hands raised. A whirr of cameras. A buzz of gladiatorial anticipation from the crowd. The bundle of papers was sitting tied up about six metres away. One step at a time. He tried to pick out faces in the crowd – but the lights were too bright. He was an actor on stage, a rock star.
A voice said, ‘How’s it going in there, Rob?’
The chief inspector.
‘Fine,’ said Rob. ‘And dandy.’
From behind, Patrick hissed, ‘Shut the fuck up and get them back in here.’
Sean had the perfect picture. In that instant it didn’t matter that Rob was his boss, his mentor, the man who’d gotten him into this bloody business, it was all about catching the hostage crouching down by the papers but glancing up, his eyes wide with terror and shock. It would look brilliant in black and white.
Then another movement caught his attention – higher up, above the shop, figures moving in the shadows.
Rob looked down at the front page of the top paper.
At the huge headline: Siege.
A sub heading: Gunman shoots one, takes hostage in post-office drama.
And beneath that, a familiar by-line: Exclusive by Alix Cross.
Rob stared at the cover and tried to think big important thoughts, in case they were his last. About the meaning of life. But the only things that came to mind were his kids, the phrase this is where the shit hits the fan, and Alix. He wanted to strangle her. Or kiss her. But beyond everything he wanted to live. He could make a dash for it now. If Patrick wanted to shoot him he’d have to step out from behind the door and expose himself. There would surely be marksmen waiting for just such an opportunity.
But he knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t do it.
Yes, he might survive. But he’d be like that fella on the Titanic, the one who’d slipped or tricked his way onto the lifeboat. The one who couldn’t live with the guilt and blew his brains out later.
‘Rob!’ Patrick hissed.
Now or never – see my kids, people won’t blame me.
Patrick’s not really that bad. He’ll never harm Lisa. She’s only a wee girl. American girl. Tom Petty. He wouldn’t shoot her. If he shoots her, America will probably invade. It has form.
Fuck!
Rob lifted the papers and turned back to the post office. He stepped inside and the door slammed behind him. He carried the papers across to the counter, Patrick behind him, ‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, lemme see...’
It was Dog Day Afternoon.
Patrick could have demanded helicopters or millions in unmarked notes, instead he wanted Wyoming, or at least the Bangor Express.
He stared at the cover – still partially obscured by plastic tape, but the anger was building. He reached across the counter and grabbed a pair of scissors and snapped the binding free, and there it was in all its glory.
‘Fuck.’
‘Patrick.’
‘You fucking fucker.’
‘I told you they—’
‘This isn’t what we sent! This isn’t what we agreed!’
‘And I did what I could. But I warned you...’
‘You fucking stitched me up!’ and he snapped the gun right up into Rob’s face. ‘You lying, cheating, fucking bastard.’
‘Please don’t,’ said Lisa.
‘And you shut the fuck up, too!’
‘It’s okay,’ Rob said to her, ‘it’s going to be—’
‘No, it fucking isn’t!’
Patrick kept his gun on Rob, but used his free hand to flick open the front page. Rob’s article covered the second and third pages. There were photos of Patrick, younger, older – and of his wife and children.
‘You fucking—’
‘They’re just doing their job, Patrick, you know how it works...’
‘This one thing I asked! This one thing!’ Back to the front page. ‘I gave you everything and you turn out this fucking shit!’
And it was an odd thing.
Rob no longer felt scared.
Or, he must have done, but it was masked by something, a sudden dawning of wisdom, something he’d dragged out of his... soul, or heart, or liver... God knows, but enough for him to shake his head and just calmly say: ‘You know something, Patrick?’
‘What?!’
‘From what I can see, it looks like a pretty good paper. You’d have been proud of putting that together once. I’m proud of it now. What my team has done. We’re only a wee paper, but look at it, it looks class.’
‘Are you taking the fucking piss?’
‘No, Patrick, I’m not.’
Rob took a step back. He beckoned Lisa closer. She hesitated before moving beside him. Maybe whatever he had discovered was catching.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Patrick. I did what you asked. I warned you how it might turn out, but I did it. Whatever way you look at it, your story is out there. People will love the front page, and as a journalist that’s what you want. You want to capture your reader. Big news, big headlines go on the front. Then they’ll look inside for the detail. So they will know your story. And that was my side of the bargain. So now you have to let us go.’
‘We didn’t have any fucking bargain!’
‘Yes, we did.’
Standoff, gun raised, hand shaking.
‘Patrick – were you telling me the whole truth? About shooting Mr O’Connor? Was it really the police?’
‘Yes!’
‘Because you’re not the sort to shoot anyone?’
‘No!’
‘Then you’re not going to shoot us, are you?’ Rob put his hand out, and Lisa clasped it. ‘So we’re going to walk out of here now. It’s up to you what you do. I’d quite like you to drop the gun and walk out with us. I’ll tell them you didn’t harm us, it was just a misunderstanding which got out of hand. And if what you say is true, then the forensics will soon prove it, won’t they?’
‘They can fix forensics so it looks like...!’
‘Just come with us, Patrick. End this now.’
‘No! No fucking way! And you’re not going anywhere!’
The gun roving between the two of them now. Rob felt Lisa shaking against him. She could probably feel him, too.
‘Yes, we are,’ said Rob.
And he turned them for the door.
*
A single gunshot rang out.
Unmistakable.
An instant, but also an eternity.
There were police on the roof, behind their cars, frozen.
Rebecca holding hands with Alix, involuntarily.
Sean’s camera raised, but how do you take a photo of a sound, maybe of an invisible death, except to swing round and capture the faces of those watching, mesmerized, terrified and gloating?
Pete there, Michael, even Gerry and Janine.
And a door opening and Rob coming out with his arm around a stumbling Lisa, and the police, not sure yet what was happening, yelling for them to stop.
And Rob and Lisa on their knees with their hands raised.
And a car pulling up, and Patrick’s wife Stephanie guiding her two children out of the back, and then unstrapping the third from the car seat and them all looking towards the lights, and the man and woman on their knees surrounded by armed police and other armed police cautiously approaching the front door of the post office, which was now flapping open and shut in the breeze because there was no one left alive inside to stop it.
~
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About Papercuts
Through World Wars and civil strife, the Bangor Express has never missed an issue, but now it is losing money hand-over-fist, dying on its feet and Rob Cullen, fresh off the plane from his London news desk, has absolutely no idea that he’s the man to save it.
Rob’s back in Northern Ireland for the first time in 20 years for the funeral of his one-time mentor, the late editor of the aforementioned Express. Tomorrow morning the Guardian reporter intends to be on the first plane back to London, but that’s before an exceptionally good night out and the promise of £1,500 for just one day’s work lures him into the Express offices.
It’s been a long time since Rob had a real story to get his teeth into... and with the Bangor Express, that’s just what he’s going to get. From armed robberies to arson attacks, immigration raids to human trafficking, there is no shortage of front-page news in the seemingly sleepy seaside town. Just as well Rob can rely on the Express crew to back him up. They’re like a family. A dysfunctional family. A dysfunctional, highly-unpopular and poverty-stricken family.
Reviews
‘Genuinely hilarious… A whirlwind of invention.’
Benedict Cumberbatch on Mystery Man
‘He just seems to get better and better.’
Ian Rankin
About Colin Bateman
COLIN BATEMAN is an author, screenwriter and playwright. He is the creator of the BBC series Murphy’s Law and was listed by the Daily Telegraph as one of the Top 50 crime writers of all time. Find out more at http://colinbateman.com
Also by Colin Bateman
Cycle of Violence
Empire State
Maid of the Mist
Mohammed Maguire
Wild About Harry
Chapter And Verse
I Predict A Riot
Orpheus Rising
Dan Starkey
Divorcing Jack
Of Wee Sweetie Mice and Men
Turbulent Priests
Shooting Sean
The Horse with My Name
Driving Big Davie
Papercuts Page 34