by Phil Walden
“You threw away your career. Don’t ruin mine.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“You’re drunk,” Trisha said wearily.
“That how you landed the job?”
“I refuse to have this conversation anymore.”
“You’re still my wife for God’s sake.”
“Just drop it, Joe!” The line went dead.
He stared at the mobile intently. “I can’t…. I won’t.”
The phone fell to the floor, followed immediately by Start. The gentle swell of the river nudged the empty bottle repeatedly against his cheek.
*
Start had heard the persistent tapping on the thick glass window. But it took a closed fist banging repeatedly on the roof of the houseboat to rouse him from his drunken stupor. His head was thumping, the pain seemingly intent on exploding through his entire skull. Groaning, he dragged himself up onto his knees. He pulled back the stained, faded curtain and wiped away the condensation, shading his eyes against the morning sunlight.
Olivia was about to deliver another hammer blow to the roof when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him, blinking and peering through the small porthole.
“At last! I’ve been here ages!” she raged. He groaned again and let the curtain drop.
A full half an hour later she saw him fall out of the nautical hovel he called home, stagger straight past her and disappear, all without so much as a glance or word in her direction. This wasn’t how she had imagined it. She was a woman in a hurry, anxious to make up for lost time. This placement was supposed to complete her journalistic education, pave the way to a permanent, paid post preferably in London. A few short weeks in, the whole thing showed signs of being a huge mistake. She was going to have serious words with Deacon. In fact, why wait? The quicker she was transferred the better. This was heading nowhere.
Just as she began to march away, Start’s car shot out from behind the nearby Boat Inn and sped towards her. She jumped back in alarm. It skidded to a halt, spraying gravel onto her feet.
Start bellowed through the open driver’s window, “What are you waiting for? Get in!”
Within minutes they had left the confines of the small town and with the car camouflaged against the tarmac road and dark peat fields, headed out into open country. Before long, Start was forced to slow down and join a long queue of traffic held up behind a plodding tractor. With the canopy light flashing, its young driver bounced up and down as the vehicle’s thickly treaded tyres rolled over the rough undulating road raised high above the neighbouring dyke. Red lights blazed as cars continually braked and bunched.
Olivia and Start were silent. His idiotic choice of vehicle and its front luggage compartment relegated her to a place in the rear and made breaking the impasse even more difficult. This was crazy. They were going to have to work together whether he liked it or not. She would have to try harder. She leant forward on the back seat, her chin propped on the lip of the open partition window.
“Why don’t you overtake?”
“Out here you learn to be patient,” Start replied.
“Well at this rate we’ll never get there. We should have taken my car.”
Start pointed as they passed a road sign. It showed a car tipping up into water. “Six killed on this stretch alone. That’s in the last two years.”
“How?”
“Listening to people like you.”
“They went off the road?”
He nodded. “These dykes are deep.”
The tractor signalled. It slithered into a right turn. The traffic quickly regained speed. Olivia splayed her feet across the rear seat of the cab and stared out across the monotony of the passing, featureless landscape. “This place is so boring.”
Start raised an irritated eyebrow. “Depends what you’re looking for.”
“Well, a lot more than this. A few hills and valleys would help.”
“That’s the trouble with your generation,” he said tetchily.
“My generation? You’re not much older than me.”
“You see everything and feel nothing.”
Well, she’d tried. Fat lot of good it had done her. She wasn’t about to apologise for being blunt in her questions and opinions. She told it like it was. Always had and always would. He of all people should respect that. She glared at the back of his head. She had imagined someone small, hunched and bitter, someone who took out his frustration and inadequacies upon society’s successes, an unholy vindictive David wielding his salacious pen to slay a string of celebrity Goliaths. Surprisingly, he had turned out to be tallish, around six feet, and straight backed. He was better looking too, handsome at a push, with just a few flecks of grey hair punctuating his temples. And in their albeit brief meetings to date she’d seemed to detect fleeting glimpses of someone more refined lurking deep beneath the lazy, uncouth drunk he seemed determined to show the rest of the world.
But his face was revealing. The sunken eyes, lined forehead and sallow complexion were all testament to heavy drinking, the reasons for which she could only speculate. Was it sheer habit born from years of exposure to the indulgence endemic in the fourth estate? Were there other more deep seated issues: sorrow and anger emanating from the scandal and his subsequent dismissal, the split with his wife and his subsequent flight out of London or despair at scraping some sort of living in this God forsaken wilderness? She’d done her research. There was no denying that he had scuttled along the dirtiest gutters of the tabloid press throughout the noughties, and in the process earned the opprobrium of the rich, famous and powerful, wherever and whenever he deployed his shameless snout. When Start the Shark bit, he bit hard and inevitably there were casualties.
But he’d been an undoubted success, asked questions, forced change. In short he had mattered. No, it was too soon to give up on him. OK, so even if the type of journalist she aspired to be, meant that he could teach her little, nonetheless, the experience of observing things she would despise and reject was in itself useful and had the potential to make her a better writer. Opt for a showdown with Deacon? Perhaps not. She would put that on hold. At least for now.
In the distance a dust storm rolled across the bare fields. At the side of the road a bedraggled row of telegraph poles bent in submission to the remorseless wind, threatening at any moment to topple into the drainage channel which ran alongside.
Olivia’s fingers began to flit expertly across a computer tablet. In the rear view mirror she spotted Start’s disapproving face. “I’m tweeting. Is that a problem?”
Start ignored her, instead flipping a cigarette into his mouth. He lit it and drew deep into his lungs.
She persisted. “You should try it. We’ll all be freelance soon. Reporting won’t be enough. Self-blogging, corporate blogging, Twitter, they’re the future.”
“You reckon?”
“Face it. There are better ways of getting the news. Who needs papers, television or radio anymore? No, these days you need to find a gap in the market and exploit it.”
“Sounds like you already have.”
“I think so.” Sensing he might just be interested, she began to warm to the topic. “Too much news is delivered in bite size chunks. There are just too many stories to cover. The key is to specialise. Go for the really important items. The ones people want to know more about. Then report them in depth and breadth.”
He turned and blew smoke back through the open partition.
She screwed her face up in disgust. “Do you have to?”
Kicking the partition window shut, she wound down a side window. Dinosaur she thought. Just how old was he? Somewhere in his late thirties, she’d read. Whatever, he was too ancient to grasp the latest technology and embrace the challenges and opportunities now presenting themselves in this modern media world. So why was she bothering?
Through the mirror Start watched her. Air rushing through the open window blew back her long shock of red hair. She had the kind of face which drew attention
, be it the piercing blue eyes, full lips or high cheekbones, across which wisps of hair occasionally curled. But any attraction was lost on him. Too much about the woman riled him. Older than the usual internee she was harder to control, more difficult to ignore. Her mouth pouted and while those very same eyes flashed pure venom, the nose seemed to turn up at the mere scent of him. Even the way she stood seemed to ooze superiority and privilege. A sultry, feisty, troublesome little madam, who obviously hadn’t suffered a day’s hardship in her entire life.
On the other hand, he had to admit she was good. If pushed, he’d go so far as to say she was very good. The giant marrow story was delivered within the day and much to his surprise and undoubted disappointment she had made a lot out of very little. She had gone on to impress on a number of other more weighty assignments, burrowing hard for the guts of each story and delivering them in a crisp, lively and readable style. If he was being fair, the fact that she was endlessly at his back, front and side could be balanced against his much reduced workload, such was her competence and appetite for work. But he had no intention of being fair. This was typical Jack Deacon. You crossed him at your peril. He always found ways of hitting back and this posh brat was proving to be one five star pain in the arse.
His reverie was smashed by the detonation of two loud gunshots. Almost simultaneously a bird clattered against the windscreen. Start braked sharply. A screaming Olivia crashed into the foot well. The engine stalled. A dead pheasant slid down the glass, leaving a trail of blood as it fell away. Water squirted upwards and wiper blades began to swish furiously.
Olivia edged upwards. She anxiously peeped out. On the far bank, by a nearby bridge, a lone figure, wearing army fatigues and a head scarf, stood bolt upright, brandishing a rifle and aiming straight at them. “Oh my God, he’s got a gun.”
Start’s voice was strangely calm. “Stay still.”
She plunged back to the floor. “Just get me out of here!”
“Don’t move.”
The storm of dust swirled across the bridge, enveloping and screening the figure from view.
“Let’s go, Start. Please.”
“It’s okay. Don’t be frightened.”
The windscreen began to clear. The dust storm rolled by. The man had disappeared. Start turned around. “You can come up now. He’s gone.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Look.”
She edged upwards. She scanned the surrounding fen anxiously. “Who the hell was that?”
Start turned the ignition. The engine spluttered before firing into life. The car pulled away. “People round here call him the Sheikh.”
“You know him?” She dragged back the partition window. “We could have been killed.”
“Trust me. He meant no harm.”
“He’s mental. He should be locked up.” Olivia fell back onto her seat. The huge rotating blades on a line of adjacent wind turbines threatened to scythe through the narrow undulating road ahead. “I don’t like this place.”
*
Start’s cab drew to a halt under a banner proclaiming ‘West Fenland Agricultural Show’, placed above the entrance to a field, populated by a range of farm machinery and pens holding all varieties of noisy livestock. Cows were being hosed, sheep combed and pigs pampered. Men and women in white coats flitted up and down preparing stalls and exhibits ahead of the grand opening planned for later that day.
Olivia’s head poked through the partition. “Why’s he called the Sheikh?”
“The kufiya.”
“What’s a kufiya?” she asked.
“The scarf around his head. They say he fought behind the lines in Basra.”
“Iraq?”
“Yes. He’s ex-military.”
“So what’s he doing out here?
“He wanders the rivers and drains. Hunts, fishes….and hides.”
“Hides? Hides from what?”
“Only he knows that.”
She perked up. “Now that would make a great story.”
“Leave him. He’s damaged enough.”
She looked up at the banner blowing taut in the breeze. “Well it’d be a lot more interesting than this.”
Start’s mobile rang. “Go on. Get out. Do your job.”
Her hands rose in surrender. She hauled herself out of the car. “Just for once, why not give me a proper assignment? Something I can get my teeth into.”
She slammed the door shut, jolting Start’s mobile against his ear as he answered.
“Thorne?” he queried, surprised to hear his voice.
The psychiatrist oozed excitement. “Listen, there’s been a development.”
Start watched as Olivia plodded away under the banner, her wellington boots slipping and sliding on the well churned mud. She turned and scowled back at him. He replied with a smirk of utter disinterest. It turned into a thin smile as Thorne continued.
“Something’s happened with that woman you saw. Angel. I know you made it plain you weren’t interested.”
Start chuckled to himself. The idea was irresistible.
“Start? What is it? What’s so funny?”
*
Angel knelt. She was absolutely still, straight and rigid, her unblinking stare riveted on the French window and the blackness beyond. Moonlight crept between the half open curtains. Tears streamed down her pale, gaunt face.
*
Start lit a cigarette and leant against the wall of the hospital. He shivered in the autumn chill, cursing the way smokers had become social outcasts, banished to the furthest outposts of any building, out of sight, out of mind and devoid of any humane consideration. Nonetheless he was feeling pretty pleased with himself. The trick was always to outmanoeuvre Deacon, whatever he threw at you. Start had done it throughout their time together in London, pushing the boundaries, bending and breaking the rules, upsetting the powers that be en route. It drove his boss crazy but all was forgiven if he delivered, if he got the story. And, as Deacon was fond of saying, Start always got the story.
But that was then and this was now. This backwater suited him just fine. Here he didn’t have to chase the news. It had a habit of coming to him: charities looking for any publicity, local worthies in need of column inches to justify their jobs and expenses, and tear jerking personal sagas giving the hoi polloi their obligatory fifteen minutes of fame. No pressure, no hassle, no comeback but most of all, no stab in the back or stab in the front for that matter. To others the drinking might have suggested otherwise, but to him, he was in control, more than he had ever been in his life. And whatever Jack thought, that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. He certainly wasn’t remotely keen to carry on babysitting some wet behind the ears cub reporter with an attitude. He’d done his bit. So now he’d found her a pointless project, something to occupy her annoyingly boundless energy and irritating enthusiasm, something to take her out of his daily existence for good.
Inside, Thorne and Olivia were avidly inspecting a crude etching scored onto the French window in Angel’s room. The top half appeared to be two straight lines, one dug vertically into the glass and around five inches in length, the other gouged across the first and roughly four inches long.
Thorne pointed to it. “It looks like a cross.”
Olivia nodded. She leant in close and ran her finger around the bottom half, which was round and about three inches in diameter. “But why have this circle attached to it. It’s like the Venus symbol but upside down.”
“Yes, the circle should be at the top,” observed Thorne.
“How did she do it? What did she use?” Olivia asked.
“Obviously nothing sharp is left in the room,” replied Thorne. “But she does wear a diamond ring. It was amongst her few possessions when she arrived here. The nurses put it on her. She could have used that.”
Olivia’s finger pushed into one of the grooves. “The marks are deep. She must have been really angry about something.”
Thorne moved back as Olivia manoeuvred her smar
t phone in front of the window.
“Well I suppose we should see it as progress,” he said.
“Yes. At least she’s trying to communicate.”
“But what’s she trying to say?” Thorne asked. He shrugged and left her to take photographs. He eased towards the French window and stepped out to join Start on the terrace. “Your assistant, she’s very keen.”
“And occupied.”
“I’d hoped you might share the same enthusiasm.”
“She has enough for both of us,” Start grumbled.
“It’s good to see Angel up on her feet and walking.”
They both watched the hunched, shambling figure shuffle along the garden path, supported by two nurses. “After all these years, she’s finally coming out of her trauma. She’s going to need all the help and support we can give her.”
“You seem to think something terrible happened to her?”
Thorne nodded. “That’s the most likely explanation. But exactly what remains a mystery. The police gave up a long time ago. But you know, technology’s come on a lot since then. It has to be worth another try.”
Start shrugged. “Well let’s see what the Girl Wonder unearths.”
*
Sadly for Start, Olivia, for all her confident front and despite all his attempts to be as disagreeable and unhelpful as possible, seemed to possess limpet like qualities. Sure, she had gone off in earnest pursuit of any information which might reveal anything about Angel’s identity, her past and the circumstances which had led to her present predicament. And religiously she had sought him out to report back on a litany of failure.
At first, Olivia had scrutinised all the information relating to Angel’s treatment stored at Woodlands. She was believed to be suffering from an acute stress disorder, which had resulted in severe catatonic depression, leaving her speechless and motionless. She had been unable to eat or drink. Regular physiotherapy restored some strength to her body. Her mind proved more difficult. A range of established treatments were tried and over the ensuing years more radical therapies were trialled but all to no avail. Thorne concluded that, short of the development of a revolutionary new approach, the only chance of recovery lay in the discovery and addressing of the cause of her trauma. None emerged and so there Angel had stayed, a sad and dispiriting case, destined to live out her life in the institution.