People in Season

by Simon Fay

  Francis waits quietly for Barry to reach a conclusion, hands poised to lift the tablet.

  ‘So, I jog to help her.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ he says, relieved. ‘Anybody would.’

  ‘Nah mate, I didn’t run. I jogged.’

  ‘It’s a shock, seeing something like that...’

  ‘No, I just didn’t want to be late for meeting a friend.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I jogged, like I said, steady pace, hoping a bloke across the way would get to her before I did and I wouldn’t be delayed. Lucky for me he did, and lucky for the woman on the ground, he knew first aid. I stroll up to them and he tells me to call an ambulance. Part of me wants to tell him to use his own bloody phone but I’m hating myself enough as it is. Really, new heights of self-loathing. I’m on the outside of it all, floating above the three of us, shocked to find I’ve got a bald patch now and thinking what a prat I am in general. I see myself down there, ringing nine-nine-nine, passing instructions on how to position the poor woman and reporting back to the emergency line on how she’s doing. I see myself doing this. I see me watching the man who’s helping her and I say, Alright, you’ve got this, I’m going to jog on – and the man – he looked at me, calmly, like you’re looking at me now, except with all the spite a person can have for the world and see it embodied in another human being. Nah, don’t worry about it, he says. Just fuck off.’

  The insect tapping of journalists typing dominates the room, muffled as it is through the door. Barry, apparently, has ended his story and as explanation for it only offers a broad shrug of his shoulders. Francis opens his mouth to comment. Instead his chair strains a squeak and he screws up the features of his face.

  ‘You regret this?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘That’s what bothers you. You think you should feel bad about not acting more responsibly.’

  ‘It should bother you too, Mullen. Think about it. If I get scanned, and I’m not UPD, what does that mean?’

  ‘I couldn’t say...’

  ‘You couldn’t say,’ Barry hoots. ‘And that bloke who helped her, you wouldn’t be surprised if he tested positive, would you? He could be off the scale, pure malevolent psychopath and it wouldn’t make you bat an eyelash.’

  ‘No,’ the reply is curt and the tablet is once again picked up to indicate that they are going to go back into interview mode. Barry roars with laughter at this, like Francis has just hit the punch line of the joke he had set up, so the social agent finds himself raising his voice to speak over the assault. ‘The processing exists for exactly these reasons. You can’t measure a person’s condition by their actions alone. For all you know he was helping so he could steal her purse. That’s an extreme example, but if he was untouched there are any number of reasons he might have gotten involved. It’s more likely he just wanted a bit of excitement, or if he was particularly narcissistic, a story to tell of what a gentleman and saviour he is.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that’s some way you have of seeing the world. I won’t be doing any good deeds around you.’

  Bewildered as he feels entrapped, Francis insists, ‘I just meant if we’re assuming he was UPD, those could be the motivations at work.’

  ‘And you’re happy to do this job, to mark people up in your rows of numbers on a scale of how healthy they are for a given group.’

  ‘You’re being glib and you know it,’ Francis tries full-stopping the exchange.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ Barry says, determined. ‘Some people are untouched, and the rest of us are just arseholes.’

  ‘There are those who would say more people are arseholes in an environment that rewards untouched behaviour, that you can hardly expect a crowd of people to engage the world with a moral sense if example isn’t shown from the top down.’

  ‘There’s a danger society gets warped when you let the wrong people get to the top?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Or that the wrong people get to the top because the world is already warped?’

  At this, Francis once again realises he’s been led down a path he doesn’t want to go, and huffs with a shake of his head to try and deny it, but Barry, plucking the bobblehead off the desk in front of him, twists it around to face Francis, it’s manic skull wobbling side to side with a mocking grin. The English journalist matches it’s expression.

  ‘That’s the game, isn’t it? Did bobblehead have the suit first or did I get the suit to match the bobblehead? Which of us wears it best, do either of us really like it and should I be suss if I don’t? Not even a counsellor, you said? Bloody hell. Aren’t you worried you’re working with very small pieces in a very large puzzle? UPD on a media site. So what? What could they do that the rest of us approved personalities don’t already? You think I’m a journalist. That I have a say in what goes online. You’ve got it wrong. Data processing, that’s what the news is here. Our criteria for a story is keep ‘em cheap and keep ‘em safe. Nothing that might provoke repercussions. I get the news from the community, or the wire, branches of government, PR departments of whoever can afford them. All I do is reword the things. Joanne can’t even give me the time to leave my desk and check if any of it’s true. And most importantly, you must remember, give the people what they want. They’re not watching the news for complicated stories, mate. They need sound bites to latch onto so they can join in the banter down the pub and their hunger for ‘em is relentless. The system is there so the system must be fed. You want to know something? I’m amazed my job even exists. Surely Joanne can just get some software that grabs the day’s press releases and rearranges them for any given publication. Set it to liberal or conservative, have it tailor stories for your customer’s taste. A computer offended on your behalf. Wouldn’t that be something? I’d still need to sit at my desk and watch it work though. Couldn’t have it spouting gibberish. We’d need to have it read comments on articles and speak to what the audience wants, exaggerate attitudes they show and have it spout it all back at them, or better yet, say something that gets their hairs up, rankle them and stir it up some more,’ Barry stops abruptly and lets a burst of surprise illuminate his face. ‘Sheppard and flock both. That’s what we are.’

  The social agent across the desk gulps audibly.

  ‘Well I’m going a bit off topic.’ Sounding genuine for the first time in the interview, Barry appears to have discovered a thought he hadn’t planned in advance. ‘All I mean to say is, we don’t have as much influence as you think we do.’

  ‘You’d have us frozen in inaction because the world is absurd?’

  ‘No, Mullen, I don’t suppose I would,’ Barry says weakly. ‘I guess I’m just resigned to being a spectator. You’re a player though. I’m watching you with no small amount of interest, make no mistake about that. I think you’re like me. You’ve got doubts, Mullen, and you’re in a job where the people you’re up against haven’t an ounce of them. I don’t envy you.’

  Though Francis absorbs the statement, he manages to raise his tablet to hold between them once more.

  ‘And what will you do if it turns out you are UPD?’

  The notion delighting him, a twinkle returns to Barry Danger

  ‘Then I’d move back to London, where I’d be appreciated.’

  Francis Mullen’s head is left spinning. Next up is Ava. He should probably make a quick visit to the bathroom to relieve himself of some confusion before she arrives, only, he is so very short on time.

  CHAPTER 8

  He’s wearing his good suit today, but thinking about the brash pinstripes now, it feels more appropriate for a first communion. As Francis is sifting through Ava’s article history, starting at her days within the community and moving up to the present, he’s learning just how badly dressed he is. Even if it were for a first communion, he’d feel like he’d rented a bin liner for the occasion. Not to mention his shoes aren’t polished. He assures himself that it doesn’t matter. He’s here to do
a job, not to impress the candidates. There is no room for doubt in the work of a social agent, the sound bite echoes in Barry Danger’s voice. Agent Mullen has doubt, formed in his mind like a stalagmite in a cave, drip by drip it grew over the years. Now it stands, an impassable pillar.

  ‘You look tired, Francis.’ Ava hands him a cup of coffee. It’s the solution to a problem he didn’t know he had. ‘Up all night I imagine, scouring the archives, putting together your little list. Barry’s at the top of it, I should hope.’

  ‘Miss O’Dwyer,’ he beams involuntarily.

  Jerking out of his chair to greet her, the tip of his tie lands in the coffee with a vulgar splat. Withdrawing the thing, it droops sadly in his hand and drips onto the desk as he looks about timidly for something to clean the mess, horrified that of all the people it could have happened in front of, it was her. What little nerve he had built to face the woman has been spilled onto the table.

  ‘Ava,’ she corrects him, conjuring a tissue and watching as he dabs at his tie. ‘You’re inside my mind, Francis, we might as well go by first names.’ She sees the articles on his tablet. ‘You can’t find that prattle very compelling’

  ‘I’ve learned my shirt doesn’t go with this jacket, anyway.’

  Sympathetic, Ava hums, ‘You look good.’

  Disconcerted, he tries to find something to say, but to his mounting concern realises he can’t. The complement hangs in the air until Ava decides to break the spell.

  ‘This is a very small desk. I thought you were going to have the conference room to work in.’

  ‘Ah, Joanne,’ he says in explanation. ‘She likes to have it available in case she needs to put her head down. Says she gets claustrophobic. It doesn’t matter, I don’t need much space.’ There’s a long pause again as they look at one another. Unable to bare it he gives her a thumbs up and says, ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ immediately feeling like an idiot for doing so. Taking a deep breath, he forces himself into the role of interviewer. ‘Ava, take a seat. I’d like to talk about your work. Barry had some, eh, interesting thoughts on modern journalism. It made me curious about what kind of writing you people get up to exactly.’

  ‘Oh dear, you shouldn’t listen to anything he says.’

  ‘You’ve got different ideas to him?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if you could pin down any idea of his. He has a habit of playing devil’s advocate. What were you talking about?’

  ‘I think he was trying to say that he’s more of a construction line worker than a journalist.’

  ‘Mm,’ she purrs knowingly, ‘he must be having a bad day.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We all feel like that sometimes don’t we? No matter what job you’re in, it’s about taking something in and putting something else out, right? I think ChatterFive does well, all things considered, especially compared to other media outlets.’

  ‘Go on,’ Francis says.

  ‘It’s thanks to the likes of Joanne, if I’m being completely honest. I know she can seem like a bit of a crank, but she really is committed to providing a valuable service. The way the business is going, media sites like ours are a rarity, an actual staff journalists on the payroll and working in a room together. Other places, they’re just glorified message boards, uncontrollable climates where the mob rules, everybody following their own interests and only coming together on inflammatory issues. Well, we kept our main page, right? When you log on with us there are preselected issues that are important to the world which the customer is exposed to. If they could customise the site to only see what interests them then you’d have to really go out of your way to find important information. That’s why you’re here, right? Because what our outlet does is so influential, because the person at the top of it all has to make the right decisions if we’re to do a good job. And she does. The place wouldn’t be what it is without Joanne. I can’t tell you how much I admiration I have.’

  It’s a moving speech that also manages to shift the blame for anything that happens in ChatterFive entirely onto its editor’s shoulders. Francis hasn’t noticed. Hypnotised as he is by the monologue, he’s only moved by her optimism and passion for the job. She had complimented the work he does too. Given him a saccharine view of the world, so much easier to swallow than the bemused pragmatism Barry had offered. If there wasn’t a system to follow, he’d be standing up now, hand outreached to thank her, ready for the next candidate to take to the chair. But the questions and her article history remain on screen. He’s obliged to follow through and, pinching himself, gets on with the task.

  ‘I went back as far as I could in your article archive. All the way to the stuff you did in the community.’

  ‘Oh please, don’t, they’re like old school photographs.’

  Glossing over the comment, his voice lowers to a confidential level. ‘I was reading your pieces from around the time of the first untouched scandal, when the ministers were on trial for, eh, neglect of basic humanity?’

  Certain references have a way of ushering a mood into being that demands respect. When tragedy strikes a family for example, names and places attached to the deceased gain an unmanageable weight. In the case of the first untouched scandal, and with the aid of the information campaign built around it, the leaflets and posters and educational lectures, it has gained more mass with each year gone by. Mentioning the specifics of the first incidents can’t fail to create a morbid sense of loss, and with it, the behavioural expectations on those present. Ava nods in understanding of this.

  ‘It was a crazy time.’

  ‘That demagogue, Minister Whelan,’ Francis breaths carefully, ‘she was a monster. What happened to all those children under her watch...’ he lets the unfinished sentence describe the horror, ready to gauge the woman’s reaction to it.

  Ava though, she sits, eyes like pennies as she waits for more input.

  ‘Neglect is a nice way of putting it...’ he continues.

  She blinks once, not trusting where she’s being led, ‘I don’t like to think about it.’

  And he waits for her to go on but she has nothing else to say. Bewildered, he gives her another while to realise that she should say something, a token line of grief that any UPD would surely know to repeat, but she continues to just sit, waiting for the next topic like it’s only one item in a clothing line she has to consider.

  ‘No. Nor do I. Not many people do,’ he stutters in agreement. ‘It’s important that we do though. Like you said, that’s why people like me have jobs like this.

  ‘Plus you’re so good at it. I could never do what you do.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, more to something he’s thinking than to Ava’s compliment. ‘You started out as a fashion writer. You covered Minister Whelan’s trial from that perspective. It’s an odd lens to look at the world through, but valid,’ his voice fades, and grows again to confirm it. ‘More than valid.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ava doesn’t hide her confusion. ‘It’s nice to know I’m valid...’

  ‘You said in the article. You said, if Minister Whelan had worn a little more eyeliner and a little less blush she might have gotten off.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ava lets out the long vowel sound, relieved at last to know what it is the social agent has been building up to. ‘Oh, that’s all you’re getting at. It’s a cold thing to say isn’t it?’

  ‘It’d freeze an Eskimo,’ Francis says, also relieved.

  ‘There’s a give and take when you’re writing for an audience. You have to be able to read the mood. Taking it out of context years later,’ Ava explains, ‘you can’t have a sense for that.’

  He hears Barry’s concern underscoring her words.

  ‘That article got me this job. I must have read the mood right. Like you said, she was a monster. A lot of distance is needed for you to sell the attitude that even monsters deserve mercy.’

  ‘I think I understand,’ Francis lets the conspirator tone dissipate. As his awareness expands to the other details around them, he notices th
at for the first time since he’d arrived in ChatterFive, the office on the other side of the door is peculiarly still. The journalists have muted their alerts, they’re typing softly, and there’s a smell in the air, like the damp hush before a storm. Those outside are trying to measure how Ava’s interview is going. The hairs on the back of his neck stand when it dawns on him that as he tries to peer inside her, all he can see is static. ‘I’m not used to working in the media. It seems to be everyone’s job to read the public mood and go with it, condemning one day and sympathising the next, working everything up into frenzy and reacting to it like you didn’t start the craze... It would make a good article.’

  ‘I’m afraid that might be a bit too introspective for ChatterFive’s readers,’ Ava smiles.

  Disappointed, he addresses his screen, seeking another prescription to assist him in his work. He wants to keep her talking about the nature of her job but she doesn’t seem to be taking the bait, and now, interrupting them, her phone chimes. She offers Francis an apology and checks the message on its display. Much to her satisfaction, it’s from the doctor:

  I’m outside. Meet me at the smoking area.

  Confusion crumples Ava’s paper white skin, but when she remembers that Francis is waiting for her, she smoothes out the creases and surprises him by returning to their discussion. ‘You’re thinking that the news should be an informative lecture that gives you the history of every speck of dust that moves and it’s nothing like that at all. It would be impossible. It’s more like, a beat by beat story that we help unfold, revealing whatever sections make the narrative work. That riot I was in? We didn’t know what it was about, not specifically, we just published that it happened. It created an interest that put pressure on the police to find out what the source of it was, but really, nobody cares. They just want to know what happens next in the story, that it gets taken care of. It’s a chaotic world and we put it in some kind of moral order. All they want is for ChatterFive to paint an ugly portrait of it and have the cops stop them, then they can sleep well at night.’