In Pieces

by Nick Hopton

  ‘Yeah?’ challenged Jimmy.

  ‘When I was seventeen I wanted to be a rock star.’

  ‘Really?’ Jimmy sounded interested. He thought he knew most things about Si but he’d never known about this teenage ambition. Despite himself, Jimmy felt irritated. He tried not to show it. ‘Like Kurt Cobain?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that did him.’

  ‘Well, or a writer. But not an accountant.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound a right old codger, you are. Moaning about the younger generation. All you need is your pipe and slippers. You’re not one to talk anyway, are you? Look at you, twenty-eight and a respectable journalist. That’s pretty serious.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Journalism’s a totally different kettle of fish. Far more adventurous and individual. And in a way I’m a writer like I always wanted to be. It’s creative too. Not like accountancy. And I’m far from respectable. You should have heard what someone said about me the other day.’

  ‘Right.’ Jimmy scoffed and Si could understand why. He hadn’t even convinced himself. Perhaps today’s kids had just realised earlier than his generation that life no longer offered anybody an easy ride. Nothing could be taken for granted anymore. Perhaps they were just more on the ball than he had ever been and his grumbling was a pathetic attempt to express envy? Si pushed this thought to one side.

  ‘When I was seventeen I wanted to be a professional soccer player. And there I am. Well, I reckon being a soccer player is pretty creative.’

  ‘Could be,’ agreed Si.

  ‘I mean, when I went round that Bury defender the other day and lobbed the keeper the write-up in The Sun described it as poetry in motion.’

  ‘Yeah, it was pretty good,’ said Si supportively, although he’d not seen the goal and The Sun had devoted less than fifty words to the match. He wanted to build up Jimmy’s confidence. Somehow, although his friend was a talented striker, he’d been overlooked by all the top rank teams. Now, at twenty-seven, Jimmy’s time was running out.

  It had not escaped Si that as Jimmy’s career seemed to have plateaued and, barring miracles, was unlikely to progress much further, his own star was rising quickly. Si felt sorry for his friend and slightly embarrassed by the good luck he had experienced recently. If only Jimmy could get the break he deserved. After all, this season he’d averaged a goal a match and was top scorer in the Second Division, but as far as anybody at Millwall football club knew, no First Division or Premiership clubs had expressed any interest in signing him. Although The Sun described him as a poet of the feet today, in five years time Jimmy would be nowhere. If he was lucky, he’d be looking to open a pub somewhere, cashing in on past glories and resigning himself to maudlin stories of what could have been. The thought was sobering.

  ‘If I score a few more like that, maybe I should publish a video of my greatest goals and call it Jimmy Sweeny’s Poetry Collection.’

  ‘Anthology. Sounds better. More intellectual. Doctor Jimmy’s Poetry Anthology. Or better still, how about The Collected Poems of James Sweeny?’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ grinned Jimmy. ‘That’s great. But it’d have to be Jimmy. Not James. Nobody, not even my mum, calls me James.’

  They smiled foolishly at each other, united by a bond of friendship that spanned more than two decades. But in their hearts both knew that nobody but the keenest Millwall fan would buy the video and, rather like Jimmy himself, it would end up on the Woolworth’s remaindered shelf, undesired, unsold. Even if Jimmy was the top scorer in the Second Division. These days only the Premiership clubs and their players mattered to the public. And, for the moment, Si seemed to have as much chance of signing for one of them as Jimmy.

  ~

  Si shuffled the morning papers. Mad cow this and mad cow that. Had the world gone crazy? A few spongy brain cells and the bottom had dropped out of the beef market.

  ‘Government Beefing About Mad Cow Ban’ trumpeted one tabloid. The picture beneath it showed the Agriculture Minister wearing a pair of bull’s horns. Even the broadsheets had been infected by the hysteria. Si chucked the pile of newspapers under his desk in disgust.

  ‘Write about anything but bloody cows,’ Dougy had instructed him last week when panic first swept through the newsprint. It had been like a wave of sewage pushing all before it. Even serious editors had been covered in the effluence.

  Thank God he worked on the Diary. Otherwise he too would have been out pestering politicians about whether they would feed their families beef from now on. The level to which journalism could sink was distressing. Pandering to public fears rather than doing the real job.

  When Bill came in, half an hour later than usual because of another suicide on the Northern Line, Si tried this argument out on him.

  Bill just grunted. ‘Serves them all right for eating meat in the first place. Personally I don’t give a toss. I’m a vegetarian.’

  ‘Oh.’ That took the wind out of Si’s outraged sails. He noticed for the first time a definite resemblance between Bill and his cousin Paul. Clearly a generational thing. Luckily, I’m more broadminded, he comforted himself. And, for the time being, his generation ruled over the upwardly thrusting accountant-brains fresh out of college. ‘How about a coffee, Bill?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ And taking his cue, Bill drifted off towards the coffee machine.

  Si wondered what he could write about. Something unconnected to bovine diseases. Each day was the same. A pile of faxes from self-publicists, most of which were unusable, a few half-baked stories left over from yesterday and a large empty space to fill—approximately fifteen hundred words worth of white space—in tomorrow’s paper.

  ‘Shit, I don’t know why I do this,’ he groaned. This was always the hardest part of the day. It was when he felt the full weight of responsibility upon his shoulders and sometimes, if he was honest with himself, it failed to excite him.

  He shuffled through yesterday’s scraps. Bill had started a story about Madonna in Argentina. Improbably she was cast as Evita in Lloyd Webber’s film of his musical. But although this sounded promising material, Bill hadn’t found an angle to bring the story to life. Si put it to one side. Perhaps he’d have another look at it himself later on. Then there was a half-hearted attempt to lampoon the Russian Ambassador, who had been blatantly pursuing an opera singer performing at Covent Garden. This had looked a dead cert until Si had phoned the Russian Embassy for a comment.

  ‘His Excellency is not well today and we have nothing to say,’ stonewalled a nameless attaché.

  Si scented blood. ‘Could you say what is wrong with the Ambassador? Is he perhaps love sick?’

  ‘I think your question is impertinent. His Excellency is in hospital since three days. He will be operated.’

  ‘What type of operation?’ pushed Si, hoping that it was something ambiguous. A vasectomy was too much to hope for, but perhaps something to do with the heart?

  ‘I can say no more. His Excellency is very unwell. Now if you please I have work to do… Thank you, good-bye.’

  Si wondered what to do. If the Ambassador was really ill, perhaps with cancer or even mad cow disease, it would be in bad taste to print the story. Even so, the idea of a great-chested diva mopping the convalescing diplomat’s brow would be a winner.

  He decided to wait until he could find out what was wrong with the Russian. Better safe than sorry. So far he’d avoided a bollocking from Dougy, but the editor’s tantrums were legendary. Si didn’t want to be on the receiving end because of some poxy Russian envoy infatuated with an obese, singing tart. The easiest way would be to phone the hospital and pretend to be a relative. Yesterday in the rush to finish the Diary there hadn’t been time, but there would be later. Not that the idea of deception filled him with great joy; it was one of the necessary, seedier sides of his job. Si put the story to one side for later. At least that was one piece that would probably make it into tomorrow’s paper. Two hundred words down… Only thirteen hundred to go.


  Si had one other story which he was determined to use. His first religious piece since Dougy had given him those instructions.

  A passing comment of Roberta’s had inspired him to take an interest in the Moslem convert Cat Stevens. Roberta claimed that the singer was just one of thousands of people who had switched to Islam in the UK each year. Si found this hard to believe, but Roberta cited the authority of her father; Si realised he should not laugh this off too lightly for fear of offending his lover. She was too good to lose so easily. He accepted her assertion, but then went off to dig around.

  Si found that there were a number of Islamic preachers based in London spreading propaganda via certain Arabic newspapers. They described London and Western society generally as fragmented, soulless and godforsaken. Inhabited by sodomites, whores and devils of all kinds. But among these lost peoples the light of Truth was shining, and each day the number of conversions was miraculous. Allah’s mercy was manifest regularly.

  Si rang up the Grand Mufti and asked him what he thought about these preachers and their claims. The Mufti told him that all the people of The Book were really members of the same faith and that Muslims, Christians and Jews could live harmoniously together. ‘All will be revealed in the fullness of time to the true believers,’ he intoned softly and declined to expand further.

  In a flash of inspiration Si recognised that he should write this story straight. He would begin with a reference to the Shadow Education Spokesman’s Commons speech, then use a description of contemporary London lifted from one of the evangelical Muslim journalists, counterbalance that with a quote from the ‘Mega Mufti’, and finally report that, following the pop singer’s example, thousands were converting every day. ‘The Diary reports this phenomenon just in case you hadn’t yet noticed,’ would be the ironic last line.

  Dry, very dry. Si knew Dougy would like it because it could be read in several different ways and was all things to all men. It also meant he would gain extra time to divine the exact nature of Dougy’s instructions.

  The rest of the leftover material was either too useless for words or too obviously placed at the instigation of some public relations company. They were always ringing up, these PR executives. Jolly, bouncing voices on the phone—‘Hi Si… Have I got a story for you…’ before delivering some crap idea designed only to market their client’s product / film / book / event / whatever… Didn’t they realise that he needed a hook to make the story work? Something newsworthy or humorous. PR people were his least favourite breed. Of course there were exceptions: those who catered for his needs as well as their own. But they were very much the exception proving the rule.

  Bill came back with the coffee. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ mumbled Bill, clearly not meaning it.

  ‘So what have you lined up today?’

  ‘Gi’ us a chance. I’ve only just got in.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ comforted Si gently. God, Bill could be testy sometimes. But Si tried to remember his management-training course: never work against the grain of your staff, move with them. He sipped his coffee. It was boiling hot and almost burnt his tongue.

  After a pause Si forgot his management training. ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So what have you got that might make a story?’

  ‘Not a lot. Well, there may be something in a comment I overheard at a party last night.’ Bill told him about the story he’d eavesdropped. It combined a whiff of financial scandal and infidelity and starred a leading City figure, a property developer and an actress from Eastenders; classic Diary material.

  ‘Good man,’ congratulated Si when he’d finished. ‘That sounds a runner. Maybe even a lead.’

  ‘D’you think so?’ Bill perked up. Despite being relatively new to journalism, and the increasing sexual confusion which tormented him, he was convinced of his destiny: to get on and up. In a year or two he aimed to edit a rival diary or maybe do news… After all, diaries were no place to get stuck for very long. Real journalism was happening elsewhere. Bill was quietly ambitious, but Si was beginning to notice and to use this knowledge to good effect.

  ‘Yeah, you never know. Depends how it develops, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, suppose so. I’d better get on the phone, then.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Bill shuffled off and Si pulled out a blank piece of paper. His plan for the day. He took a pencil, sharpened it and began to map out what would go on the page. Getting going was always the hardest bit. In half an hour’s time he’d be fine. He got a kick out of watching the empty space fill up. Beautiful black typescript trickling into all those vacant white gaps. Yeah, he enjoyed his job—well, most of the time. Wouldn’t swap it for anything else.

  After he’d covered his blank piece of A4 with a complex diagram showing all the options available, he laid down his pencil. With a sigh he realised there was no time like the present. He flicked through the phone book and then dialled a number.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’

  Si affected his best Russian accent by imitating a James Bond villain. Time to expose the naughty diplomat’s weakness for Rubenesque sopranos. He thought idly that he might write this up as a sort of spoof Traviata, depicting the dying Ambassador sprawled on a chaise longue with his fickle lover dancing attendance—not a dry eye in the house. ‘Good morning. Is hospital?’ Si vaguely remembered chatting up a Russian girl at last year’s Londoner’s Diary Christmas party in the Irish Club: she had explained that in Russian there is no definite article.

  ‘Yes, how can I help you?’

  ‘Good, good. I believe my brother, he is not well and is in your hospital…’

  ‘Could you tell me your brother’s name, Sir, then I can try and put you through to the ward.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. My brother… He is Russian Ambassador.’

  ~

  It had been a strangely frustrating day. In one respect things could not have gone better.

  Dougy had called him just before lunch to say how much he’d appreciated the Islamic converts story. ‘You’re on the right track, kid…’ Unfortunately, he’d left it at that and Si was still none the wiser whether he’d been on the right track by implying that the Opposition party were in tune with the times and appealed to all religious groups or, if Dougy had read the story another way, that the Opposition were as ridiculous as the claims that London was infested by evil and that thousands were converting to the teachings of Mohammed.

  Dougy had also let out a belly laugh that almost deafened Si, who was holding the earpiece too close in his anxiety to please his boss. ‘I loved the Russian Ambassador piece. Brilliant. Brilliant. Where do you find them, kid?’ But without waiting for an answer he’d rung off.

  The rest of the day had been dreary and the stories they used were uninspired. Si knew for a fact that he wouldn’t be getting a congratulatory call from Dougy the next day.

  He left work late and went straight to The Feathers to meet Jimmy. As he came out of the tube he passed a man who made him feel slightly uneasy. Well, not the man so much as a sign the man was carrying.

  CHRIST HAS DIED.

  CHRIST IS RISEN.

  CHRIST WILL COME AGAIN.

  It was printed on a sandwich board and enclosed the emaciated body of a forty-something man in a woolly hat and donkey jacket. The man walked ahead of him down the street and seemed impervious to the icy wind which penetrated Si’s woollen overcoat.

  What had possessed the guy to humiliate himself in public by such an absurd display? Si increased his speed and stepped into the road to overtake, although there was probably space enough to pass on the pavement. You never know, reflected Si, he might be dangerous. But the soft expression which met Si’s passing glance was disconcerting.

  Si looked away quickly. The man said nothing, but Si could feel his eyes burning into him as he hurried on down the street and turned into the warm yellow embrace of the pub.

  With relief, Si sank back into the deep upholstery
of the snug bar and waited for Jimmy to bring over the pints.

  Roberta arrived as they were merging with the fug over their second drink.

  ‘Jimmy, this is Roberta.’

  ‘Hi,’ nodded Jimmy without getting up.

  Roberta didn’t seem fazed by the cool reception. She’d heard a lot about Jimmy and suspected that their first meeting wouldn’t be easy. In her experience close male friendships rarely included women without some initial friction. Many such attachments excluded women completely, such as the ones in her own country.

  ‘Jimmy, it’s good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.’

  Jimmy immediately reacted. ‘Yeah? Like what? I suppose he’s told you I’m a failed soccer player.’

  ‘No, quite the opposite. He said you had great prospects.’ Roberta smiled.

  Jimmy, disarmed, just grunted. ‘Some prospects,’ he muttered.

  Si felt it time to intervene. ‘We were just getting another round in. What would you like?’

  ‘An orange, please.’

  Jimmy raised an eyebrow. As Si moved off to the bar he made a conscious effort to pull himself together. ‘He really said that, did he?’

  ‘Said what?’

  ‘That I had great prospects.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jimmy furrowed his brow. ‘Where’s the Sudan, anyway?’ he asked.

  Later, as they left the pub and Jimmy prepared to peel off home, he leaned over to Si and whispered ‘She’s all right… Not bad at all.’

  Si smiled. ‘I know. I know.’

  ~

  Jimmy was exhausted. Ninety minutes of running about in the slush playing for a second-rate football team was not his idea of fun. The stadium was on the point of collapse and there was no money to rebuild the crumbling stands with their warping cantilevers and cracking, concrete floors. Vast swathes of orange plastic shone out from the gloom beneath the holed, wooden roofs—empty seats witnessing to the club’s dwindling support and dire financial situation. And as for the pitch… The Chairman had clearly resorted to grazing cattle between matches to raise money, such was the state of the churned up turf: more mud than grass.