by Heidi James
‘I’m not caving in to this, what do you take me for?’
‘I don’t know what to think now.’
‘You know me, you know my work and you know I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I thought I did. You’ve been slipping lately, Marcus, last month you got the date of a meeting between the Prime Minister and her Brexit advisors wrong. You were lucky Laura caught it.’
‘Oh come on! One mistake doesn’t make me incompetent.’
‘Doesn’t it? When was the last time you had a big story?’
‘What does that prove? I get a story when there’s a story. I can hardly make one up, can I?’
‘The situation is, if you don’t comply the entire paper will be investigated, the whole operation, and after the way we took down International Media and their scummy lot, we will look like the biggest fucking, shit-eating hypocrites out there. I can’t and won’t let you take us all down.’
‘I thought I had your support.’
‘You did, and you will continue to have it if you work with me, if you work with us. Look Marcus, this is really fucking serious. ’
‘Fucking hell, Edward. You cleared this piece, you and the lawyers said it checked out and now what? Now it doesn’t?’
‘Let me do my job and get to the bottom of this.’
‘You sent me down here to get me out of the way. I’m such a fucking idiot. David warned me, you know, and I ignored him. I trusted you.’
‘Trust is a fickle thing. I’ll send someone to your mother’s place to collect our property tonight, and if I were you I’d stay there for now.’
The line went dead. Was I, am I, a liar? More than anyone else? I sat there in the car trying to think. Had I cut corners on this story, had I bolstered the facts? I hadn’t. I had played everything by the book with the St Clair piece. I followed my gut and it had never been wrong before. What was I forgetting? What was I hiding? So much. Everything. But nothing to do with my work. I was good, the best, at my job. But that was the shaky ground I’d built my life on.
1989
The woman was all in white. White make-up pressed into the lines and pits of her skin, crusted around her nose and the high ridges of her cheekbones. She wore a long white dress; her hair was grey, fading to white where it was held back in a long ponytail that trailed over her shoulder. Her ponytail and narrow waist were those of a young girl. As she strode past where they sat huddled on the grass under the cathedral, she shouted – at them, at phantoms – her hands lifting and then dropping to her sides as if she were considering taking flight. They looked at her, Marcus afraid and laughing to cover his fear. Melanie saw her but didn’t watch – which is to say, she took nothing and imposed nothing by settling her gaze on the woman. She wasn’t afraid. Why would she be?
‘The story goes her fiancé was killed in the war. Her father was a deacon at the Cathedral and she was a genius who graduated from Cambridge with a double first in physics. When her fiancé was killed, she lost her mind. I bet he was handsome. She still lives in the house she was born in, all cobwebs and falling down now.’
‘Like Miss Haversham?’
‘Exactly. My mother said the vicar and her doctor try to help her but she refuses. Apparently she’s completely sane when she wants to be.’
‘Well, they sure have her all worked out.’ She picked at a loose thread on her skirt. ‘It’s weird: it’s like all romance and glitter and rags, as if it isn’t enough to just be a person who doesn’t fit, because that isn’t worthy of respect. But then at the same time, the story demystifies her. Makes her a bunch of facts, an explanation. That’s sad.’
‘No it isn’t, if people understand they can help her.’
‘What makes you think she needs help? Maybe she’s just fine, and wants to be left alone in her world.’ She shifted her weight back and crossed her feet.
‘Alright, but if they have sympathy then they’ll be kind.’
‘Why can’t they be kind anyway? No matter what the facts are?’
It began to rain, tentative blots on the back of their hands, their faces. He waited to see if it would pass. While he tried to think of something to say, she said, ‘You’re all telling yourself a story because you need the illusion of meaning – we all want our lives to have meaning. But it’s just patterns, sequences that we think we recognise and then name.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s our tragedy, as humans.’
He blinked and sighed and let the rain fall on him. Even though he wasn’t sure he knew exactly what she meant, he disagreed: there was nothing more important than finding a reason for his existence, even if that meant he was boring and shallow.
‘“We are condemned to meaning.”’
‘Who said that?’
‘Merleau-Ponty.’
‘I don’t know who that is. Anyway I think it’s sad, why not make her special, why not tell a story that works? I think we all do it and I think we all need stories; it helps us to understand and make sense of each other. I think your way is cruel. Life has to have meaning or why bother?’
She chewed her lip and then nodded, as if she’d made a decision. The rain came harder, heavier. Angry now, with her, at himself, he stood up. ‘I’m cold and I’m going to head off home. See you.’
She smiled and raised her hand in her salute. ‘Bye.’
When he looked back she was still sitting there, her face turned up to meet the rain. Then he understood, but only for a moment and then he forgot.
Truth Will Out
After that it all happened fast. I got home and checked through my notes, reread the transcripts of meetings and conversations with my source. Her emails. The spreadsheets, the lists of payments, lists of dates, contacts, lunch meetings. It was all there, plain. Hard evidence. Maybe. Yes. No comment. She was very clear and precise. Dates, facts, figures. Proof. Evidence? Or just a series of lies? Evidence. I copied everything onto a memory stick and hid it in my mother’s desk.
I called the last number I’d used for her but the line was dead, which didn’t necessarily mean anything; she might have changed her number which would be sensible, considering the controversy. I deleted her name and contact details, though I knew it was futile, and left the rest as it was. I called my solicitor and she told me to comply, to hand it all over and trust that I would be cleared. Sit tight, she said. We’ll fight this. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. The paper will protect you. I’ll protect you. Have I ever let you down before?
The phone bleated and buzzed: colleagues, rivals, strangers wanting a comment or to confirm the story. Was I a rogue journalist? Had I hacked into the servers? Was that how I broke my stories? Had I faked sources? Fabricated statements? Was I part of a leftist conspiracy? I didn’t respond, just watched the screen flash with Twitter and Facebook notifications. The take-home message was that I was a queer, traitor, scum, cunt, hero, cock-sucking liar. I turned it off, knowing the story would billow then sag like a plastic bag caught in the wind.
One of the paper’s drivers arrived at seven o’clock and stood at the door, strangely formal in his black suit and grim expression. I handed over my computer without protest, and he shook my hand. Though I can’t say exactly why, I was moved by the gesture. I got a brief mention on the News at Ten. My mother just took it all in, calm and righteous. ‘The truth will out,’ she said. ‘You have nothing to worry about. You can stay here until it all blows over.’
Edward called around five in the morning, using his own phone.
‘You’re awake.’
‘Of course.’
‘What happened, Marcus? Why risk your career, the paper?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The emails are fake, the spread sheets, the documents, all forged. How did you let this happen? Didn’t you check?’
‘Of course I did. What do you mean fake?’
‘I mean fake
, those emails were never sent from the St Clair server.’
‘That’s completely insane. Why would anyone forge emails and documents if it was so easy to prove the contrary?’
‘I don’t know, you tell me. Why would you?’
‘Listen, Edward. I don’t know what’s going on but those emails are real. Trust me.’
‘Marcus, stop it. You sound pathetic. I’ve got it all here, we’ve spent all night going over your notes and none of it, not a bit of it stacks up. I’ve seen their SMTP records, the lawyers and IT boys can’t find a thing to back you up. So I’ll ask you again, will you give me the name of your source?’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Then I can only assume the fault lies with you. I know how determined you are to bring the high and mighty to task. Perhaps there is no source. Maybe you lied. Is that how you want it? Because that is how it looks right now.’
‘I checked my facts, I followed through, I did my job; regardless of what they say, this is the truth. I’m not turning in someone who came to me in good faith. You backed me, you gave me the go-ahead.’
‘Christ, you’re naive.’
‘What’s really happening here, Ed? What are they threatening you with? One minute I’ve hacked into their server, and the next I’m a liar and a forger. Which is it? Did I blackmail my source or are they imaginary?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘It matters! Of course it fucking matters.’
‘Tell me your source, or the only publication you’ll be writing for will be a fake news site because right now that’s exactly what this story is: fake news.’
‘For fucks sake, no. You don’t intimidate me.’
‘You’ve giving us no choice. I’m sorry.’
‘What do you mean, no choice? I’m going to fight this, I’m not just going to roll over.’
‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.’
He was interviewed on Radio 4 later that morning. ‘It’s a blow, a serious blow. I feel very let down, devastated actually. Marcus Murray was the epitome of all that is great about our press. We all trusted him.’ His voice sounded hollow, somehow corroded and brittle, without substance.
‘How do you answer the charge that the atmosphere at the paper is corrupt? As the editor it seems far-fetched to imply this level of impropriety was isolated to one journalist?’
‘Look, investigations are ongoing, and we are cooperating fully with the authorities. All I can say is that I’m appalled that the actions of one member of staff have brought us all into disrepute and I’m positive the paper as a whole will be vindicated. I’d also like to apologise to the St Clair organisation and all their associates for the considerable distress caused.’
‘And will you be resigning?’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Even though a number of Murray’s other articles have been called into question? Including his expose of the NHS budget crisis?’
‘No.’
‘Hasn’t Miriam Conway come forward to say she was seriously misrepresented by Murray in a recent interview?’
‘I can’t comment on that. As I say, we’re investigating.’
I had been hung out to dry. Destroyed. All I had was my work – that was it. Nothing else. Sometimes, often, I would imagine Melanie still being alive and seeing what I did, reading my articles. I imagined impressing her. I imagined I could make amends for being a coward. But I was glad she wasn’t around to see me like that. I shouldn’t have been surprised: my mistake was imagining I was safe, innocent. Exempt. No one is safe, Melanie had said to me once.
Some things I remember so clearly, clearer than how I actually felt, like outside the bin men came and went, dragging the bins over the gravel and back again. Joyce arrived and pushed the vacuum around the house, grim-faced and heavy on her feet. A plane scored a white trail across the empty sky. But what I was feeling, I’m just taking an educated guess.
1989
They were on the bus, heading into town. It was a Saturday and Melanie was going to the library.
‘What book do you want?’ Marcus asked.
‘I don’t know, I just needed to get out of there.’
‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine. My mum is on the rampage today, that’s all. You know how it is: no one can do anything right, no matter what. Everyone is an arsehole, blah blah blah.’ She smiled.
‘Yeah.’ Marcus had no idea. His mother took pride in maintaining a calm home and made a habit of declaring ‘Equanimity IS wisdom’ whenever anyone threatened the peace.
‘She’s actually pretty scary when she gets going,’ she laughed. ‘Run for cover, Charlie used to say.’
‘I can’t imagine you being scared.’
‘You haven’t seen my mother on the warpath. She’s terrifying.’
The bus stopped and an old man heaved himself up the step to the driver, handing over change for his ticket. Melanie turned in her seat and, seeing that the rest of the bus was full, she stood and pulled Marcus up with her.
‘Here you go, mate, sit here.’ She nodded to the old man, who glowered at her as he lowered himself down.
‘Was that your good deed for the day?’ Marcus said as they shuffled further down the aisle, holding onto the rail above.
‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘Go on then, what are you afraid of?’
‘Your mum, now!’
‘You should be. But seriously, what scares you?’
‘I’m afraid of dying.’
‘Are you? Why? You won’t even know about it.’
‘Because I’ll be sent to hell.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know, because,’ he leaned in and whispered, ‘God hates gays.’
‘You don’t believe that, do you?’ She looked up at him, as if trying to decide if he was joking or not.
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to take the risk.’
She sighed and reached both hands up to grasp the rail, hanging for a moment, letting her body sway with the movement of the bus. ‘Don’t you think if there is a god, he or she will have bigger things to worry about than who we love? All that is a load of nasty stories people tell to control us. You won’t go to hell and if you do, you’ll be in great company.’
‘Shush.’
‘Nobody’s listening or knows what we’re talking about,’ she said, but quieter, moving her body to block the other passengers.
‘You don’t even believe in hell.’
‘Precisely.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’
‘Then God is a bastard and I want nothing to do with him or her.’ She shrugged, ‘See, shouldn’t I have been struck down for blasphemy? You’ll be alright. It’s other humans you have to watch out for, they’re the source of all the trouble.’
At the library she took out three books: Kathy Acker’s Blood and Guts in High School, a collection of short stories by Katherine Mansfield and Milton’s Paradise Lost. Marcus insisted on carrying them for her, feeling safe by her side.
A Companion of Fools
It was a question of credibility. That’s all I had. As a journalist nothing else matters, it’s your currency, your means of exchange, and they were taking it from me. I was letting them take it from me.
I left the house before ten o’clock, leaving a note on the breakfast table for my mother, and got in the car. It was cloudy and humid, the air storm-heavy. As I pulled out onto the street I dialled David’s mobile number, paranoid maybe but I didn’t want to call on the Sentinel’s line. There was a car parked opposite Dr Addison’s house, a black Audi. The driver was just visible and as I passed he caught my eye: the same bloke I saw earlier that week, loitering outside our drive.
David finally picked up. ‘Hi.’
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, how about you?’
‘Not great.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘What the hell is going on? One minute it’s the scoop of the year, the next I’m a rogue journalist.’
‘I know, it’s crazy, but I can’t talk here.’
‘Can you meet me at my place?’
‘At your flat?’
‘Yeah, you know the address, right?’
‘By Battersea Bridge?’
‘That’s it. I’ll be there in an hour or so.’
‘OK, I’ll meet you there.’
The drive was easy: rush hour had eased off and I was on the motorway in a few minutes. I turned the radio on and listened for the news headlines: if they mentioned me then I knew I was in real trouble. They didn’t. It was a good sign. I switched to my iPod and The Stooges clattered out of the speakers. I turned the volume up.
It was only as I came off the motorway and drove through Blackheath that I noticed a black Audi, one car behind me. I drove up through Lewisham and into Peckham, past empty new apartment blocks, the convenience shops that offered everything from khat and tins of beans to wiring cash to family overseas. Past a couple of pubs and takeaway restaurants selling fried chicken, kebabs, Chinese food and Indian. The Audi was behind me all the way, but then so was the blue Corsa and a silver Range Rover that had travelled with me since I’d come off the motorway. I lost sight of it as I crossed over the junction at Camberwell but then it was in my rear-view mirror again as I went left around Vauxhall and turned onto Nine Elms. It was still there as I passed the power station and its teetering chimneys, right behind me. I could see the light ricochet off the driver’s bald scalp.
He followed me to the roundabout by the park, but when I turned left onto Prince of Wales Drive he carried on over the bridge, towards the river and Chelsea. I softened into my seat, not realising until then how tense I’d been. The wind had picked up, swirling fallen petals and dropped litter around mothers pushing their children in expensive, high-tech buggies and men jogging with devices strapped to their biceps.