SO THE DOVES

by Heidi James

I turned into my street and found a space a hundred feet or so from my building. It was quiet, no sign of David and, mercifully, no journalists from our competitors. As I reached for my door key I saw the Audi, parked a few cars down and in sight of the entryway to my flat. I started running towards the car, but as I got within a few feet it pulled away, casually: not screeching away like in a TV show, but as if the driver didn’t care whether I saw them or not. This time the driver was a woman, her blonde hair cut in a bob like a gold helmet. I watched as she turned towards Clapham at the end of the street. It was a different car.

  I let myself into the entryway and took a breath; I needed to calm down, to stop reacting as if I was in a TV show, my body and imagination carried away by the habits and stories of others. I needed to stop and uncouple myself from the postures and assumptions I used without thinking. I leaned against the wall waiting for the lift as it juddered down from the upper floors, the pine scent of disinfectant prickling my nose. David tapped against the glass siding of the front door, looking nervous and checking back over his shoulder at the street as I let him in.

  ‘You found it OK?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem. How’re you holding up?’

  ‘You didn’t see a dark Audi out there did you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter. My mind is playing tricks on me.’

  ‘Oh yeah, you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine.’

  ‘So you had the loons and crackpots hassling you?’

  ‘Yeah, usual internet nutters, I’ve just stayed away from the internet. Turned it off at the source.’

  ‘Sensible. It’ll blow over.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s our lot turning on me that’s worse. Edward of all people. I thought he knew me better than this.’

  David shrugged. ‘I think he’s just trying to protect the paper.’

  ‘Himself more likely.’

  David said nothing.

  The lift arrived and he followed me in, standing awkwardly by my side. He was around my age, but shorter with broad shoulders, his dark hair starting to grey around the temples. He wore expensive jeans, a precisely faded Sex Pistols t-shirt and pristine Converse, tightly laced. He’d invited me to a BBQ at his place last year and I’d actually gone along. He’d played guitar and sung Oasis covers while his wife swayed her Pilates-taut body at his side and their kids – dressed like mini versions of their parents ­– bounced like demented acrobats on a trampoline. Despite that, I thought he was a good bloke, honest and dependable.

  He broke the silence as we walked down the hall towards my flat.

  ‘It’s quiet here, not like at my house.’

  ‘Yeah, well it’s mostly professional couples and a few older tenants who’ve lived here for years and years. No kids.’ I stood aside to let him pass and pushed the door shut. Behind us, the lift began its descent to the ground floor, the gears and pulleys churning and humming.

  ‘Nice flat. I’ve always liked these old mansion blocks.’ David stood in the middle of the sitting room. ‘I sometimes miss my bachelor days, without all the cushions and cashmere blankets my wife throws around the place to hide the mountains of Lego.’ He laughed to himself, then twisted his wedding ring in penance.

  Everything was exactly as I’d left it. The weekend papers and magazines were still on the coffee table. My mug, ringed with dried coffee, on the counter. The remote control on the arm of the chair. A film of dust dulling the TV screen.

  ‘Thanks. Drink?’

  ‘Sure, what you having?’

  ‘I’m going to have a beer.’

  ‘That sounds good. You’re a vinyl man I see.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He pointed to the stack of old records leaning against the amp and turntable.

  ‘Oh yeah, I was. Mostly use the docking station now, though.’

  ‘Me too. Sad eh?’

  I skirted past the breakfast counter to the fridge. A head of lettuce wilted above the rack of beers. I levered the tops off and, as I moved to throw them in the bin, something in the sink caught my eye. Hanging from the tap on a tarnished chain was a faded image in a half-locket. I lifted it up, hand shaking, to look closer: it was a photo of Kurt Cobain, its scant weight heavy with recognition. I put it on the counter by my beer and handed a bottle to David.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, sitting on the sofa.

  ‘Yeah, cheers. Give me a minute will you? I just need to check something.’

  ‘Sure. You OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve just remembered something. I won’t be a minute.’

  My bed was untidy, the sheet pulled half way towards the pillows just as I’d left it. I opened the drawer in my nightstand. Condoms, porn, a watch my mother had given me, a pen, my National Insurance card, a stack of letters and greeting cards bound by an elastic band. I opened the wardrobe and the drawers in the chest under the window, then the small filing cabinet where I kept bills and bank statements, receipts. Nothing was missing, nothing had been moved. Except the locket, which had been in my nightstand, had been for years, undisturbed, half-forgotten. A gift from Melanie.

  ‘Everything OK?’ David was still on the sofa, his beer in his fist.

  ‘I think someone’s been here.’

  He blinked but didn’t look shocked. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Something’s been moved.’

  ‘Are you sure? Has anything been taken?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘You probably just moved it and forgot.’

  ‘I don’t think so, it’s not the kind of thing you would move and leave. It’s sentimental, not a thing you get out and leave lying around.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘This.’ I moved to the counter to pick up the locket: it wasn’t there. ‘It’s gone. Have you taken it?’

  ‘Taken what?’

  ‘The locket, a necklace with a photo on it.’

  ‘No mate, I haven’t moved from here.’

  ‘I swear I left it on the counter.’

  ‘Perhaps you took it with you to the bedroom.’

  ‘No, I definitely left it here.’

  ‘Well I didn’t move it and I promise you no one else has been in the room. Why don’t you check and see?’

  It was in the drawer of the nightstand next to my old watch. I put it in my pocket and went back into the living room.

  ‘Find it?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m losing my marbles.’ Outside the storm broke with a volley of rain and thunder, the room suddenly dark.

  ‘Well, you’ve got a lot going on, it makes sense that you’re distracted.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, doesn’t explain why it was moved in the first place though.’

  ‘Why would someone move a necklace? Wouldn’t they have stolen it?’

  ‘What if they came here to intimidate me, send me a message?’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘About the article? There’s nothing here for them to take that will help them. It was all on my laptop and the paper has that. What if they wanted to scare me off? Show me they could come in here? Perhaps I should call the police.’

  ‘And say what? You’ve misplaced something? Nothing’s been taken, the door wasn’t forced. I think it’s more likely that you’re upset, stressed. Understandably so, you’re under a lot of pressure. You probably moved it and forgot.’ He sipped his beer. ‘Have a drink, and let’s think this through.’

  I picked up my bottle and sat, taking a swig. The beer tasted like swill from a trough. A swell of thunder rolled through the room.

  ‘You’re right, I’ve not slept since all this started. I’m a mess.’

  ‘Look, I get it, but it will blow over. You know it will.’

  ‘What’s been said at work?
They don’t believe all this shit do they?’

  ‘Of course not, we all know you. If you say the story is solid then it’s solid. But I can’t lie to you, it’s not looking good.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Let me help. I can speak to your source, get her to come forward, go on the record.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Or him, just a figure of speech. I can help you.’

  ‘You think I haven’t tried?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you haven’t, just maybe if I speak to them, reassure them that we will protect them, it might make a difference. Give me their contact details, it won’t hurt to try.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that. It won’t help anyway. They’ve disappeared and can you blame them? You could try and speak to John Cullan, see if he can step in?’

  ‘OK, but I don’t know if the likes of me will have any luck getting through to the Chairman.’ He sat forward and looked me in the eye. ‘I really think the best way to clear your name is to prove you had reliable documentation and that St Clair are manipulating the evidence. You need your source to come forward and corroborate your story.’

  ‘So you agree there’s a conspiracy here?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, I mean let’s not get paranoid, but something is off.’

  Before I could respond the entry phone buzzed like a trapped hornet. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Marcus? It’s Neil Mason from the Telegraph. How you doing? Can you comment on the allegations that you fabricated evidence against the St Clair group?’

  ‘No, Neil, I can’t.’ As I replaced the receiver it started up again. ‘Look fuck off Neil, I’ve got nothing to say.’ The buzzing continued as soon as I put it down, filling the space and my head.

  ‘Marc, you better come see this.’ David was at the window, peering out into the street. I pressed the do not disturb button and turned my back on the blocked questions to follow his gaze.

  ‘Oh shit.’ Twenty or so journalists with photographers and cameramen were huddled in the rain outside the building. A BBC van was parked across the street.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘You’ve got to get out of here, Marcus. Let this thing settle.’

  ‘I can’t, I have to sort this.’

  ‘How? You can’t find your source and you say you’ve got no other proof. Look, I’m not being funny but I’m worried about you, mate. Why don’t you get out of here for a bit? I’ll come down with you now and deal with that lot. You’ve just got to sit tight and wait. Maybe we’ll find something or someone to back you up.’

  I nodded and followed him out, double locking the door. We went down the stairs and out through the service exit at the side of the building. We couldn’t completely avoid the crowd, but it gave us a head start. They caught sight of us as we jogged towards the car, calling my name and shouting, their voices overlapping and merging like the cries of gulls, but I could make out some of their questions: ‘Did you forge the St Clair documents?’ ‘Were you paid?’ ‘Who’s behind all this?’ ‘Have you fabricated other stories?’ And one that I half-heard and made me falter: ‘Where’s Melanie, Marcus?’ But David pushed me into the car and the shouts merged again and I still can’t be sure if the voice and question I heard was my own.

  ‘I’ll call you, now go,’ he said, slamming the door. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. Before sliding the car into gear I pulled the locket from my jeans and tucked it into the glove compartment, safe. David was already walking away, his back to me; as I drove past I saw him talking to the crowd, laughing, like he was telling the joke of the year.

  The story was all over the news. It was reaching peak transmission, it would blow over and soon, I knew that and of course I wanted it to, I was totally humiliated, but when it was forgotten, old news, a tangle in the hyperlinked web, then I would be too, with no chance to prove myself, because who’d want to hear it then? It would be worthless, along with me. I switched off the radio and tried calling Edward, though it didn’t get me anywhere: I either got his voicemail or his secretary fobbed me off, her usual warmth gone. Caught in the metal press of rush hour I was creeping forward towards the A2, checking my mirrors every few minutes for the Audi even though the cyclists, swerving the puddles, were the only ones moving. My hands shook.

  I was fiddling with my iPod and the Bluetooth when my solicitor called.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Her voice echoed like a cartoon voice bubble bouncing around in a tin can.

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘No. Where are you?’

  ‘In the car, on my way back to Kent.’

  ‘Kent?’

  ‘My mother’s. My flat is surrounded by hacks.’

  ‘Already? Listen, I hear you’ve been harassing Edward.’

  ‘Harassing? What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Apparently you’ve called his phone repeatedly this afternoon and abused his secretary.’

  ‘Is this a joke? This is my life, my career. I want answers and they aren’t even talking to me. What am I supposed to do? Roll up in a little ball?’

  ‘I know that, but do yourself a favour and don’t call Edward again. Stay away, at least for a while.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Just stop calling.’

  ‘I’m being set up, you know.’

  ‘We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, right? Like I said before, stay calm, I’ll do my best to protect you.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Of course, nothing has changed. Get to your mother’s and stay there, and speak to no one about the article, the bank or the Sentinel. Relax, let me handle them and then we’ll meet and talk.’

  ‘It’s bigger than that now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone’s been inside my flat.’ Even as I said it I could hear how deluded I sounded.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone has broken into my flat.’

  ‘What have they taken?’

  ‘Nothing… They moved something.’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘What good would that do?’ The cars in front rolled forward about ten feet, while the driver behind me, objecting to my three-second delay in moving, pressed the horn of his car until I shifted into first and closed the gap.

  ‘Well if you think someone has broken in, then they—’

  ‘Forget it. I’m talking nonsense, I haven’t slept and I’m not myself.’ I checked my mirrors again, catching the guy behind shouting expletives, his lower lip between his teeth as he mouthed ‘Fu—’ I looked away.

  ‘Are you alright, Marcus?’

  ‘No, I am totally fucked.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that bad yet, not if you cooperate. There are rumbles from the St Clair team that they will pursue legal action over the article, but so far there’s been no formal complaint to the police. I suspect it’s just sabre rattling; talk is that the Sentinel has agreed to print a retraction and an apology and that a rather large compensation package will soothe the delicate souls at the bank. Not to mention that certain ministers would rather this all went away quickly.’

  ‘But what about the story?’

  ‘That’s over. You have to forget about that: in return for not prosecuting you, they’ll want you to sign a gagging order. You might have to admit to a number of fabrications or errors too.’

  ‘I don’t want to do that.’ I began to sweat, my hands slipping on the steering wheel.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. But be sensible, you’ll bounce back, find another job; a better one, everyone loves a media bad boy. Look at Piers!‘ She guffawed. ‘You know how this goes. All hot air. You’ll have your own TV show before you know it, or a star column in a tabloid.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ My jaw began to ache, a solid throb that travelled up and around my skull before me
eting over my eyes.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Her voice tightened, its pitch narrowing over the phone. She sighed.

  ‘Can’t we fight this? What if I can find my source and get them to go on record?’

  ‘Haven’t you already tried? We can fight if you’ve got the stomach for it, but I wouldn’t if I were you. I don’t think it would end well. Chalk this one up to them. Play ball.’

  ‘Are you working for me or not?’

  ‘Yes, believe me, I am and it’s in our best interests to let this go. Do you understand?’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘I am right. Consider yourself lucky and let it go.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Yes, lucky. I’ll call you when I’ve spoken to their legal team again. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  She hesitated and I was about to disconnect the call when she said, ‘Marcus, is there anything else I should know?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No there isn’t.’ I was a liar now. Untrustworthy.

  ‘OK then,’ she said. I hung up.

  When I got off the phone I had three messages on voice mail. One from Mother, ‘Where are you? I’m worried sick, they’re talking about you on the radio’; one from Callum, ‘I’ve just heard the news. Are you OK? Call me when you can.’ And Annabelle, as if we were firm friends, though obviously sniffing out a scoop: ‘Are you alright? What the fuck? Listen I’ve just finished at the press conference, if you want a drink or a coffee? And by the way, they’ve released the name of the dead guy if you’re interested, a Detective Steve Burrell, he was an undercover officer apparently. Anyway I’m so sorry this is happening to you. Give me a ring. Perhaps I can help, tell your side?’

  Steve Burrell. I knew that name. I knew that name and I began to understand, finally.

  1989

  There’s no way she’d have come along if he’d told her where he was going, but it didn’t matter because she hadn’t been in school anyway. It didn’t stop him imagining her calling him an idiot and telling him to turn around and go home, but he carried on regardless.

  He trudged up the hill towards the edge of town, the strap of his school bag cutting into his shoulder; half-tempted to dump it, he shifted it to the other shoulder instead. He’d taken a change of clothes with him and switched out of his uniform in the bogs at home time, but he regretted it now, loaded down and trying too hard. As he got closer to Coombe Hall’s rugby pitches the houses got further and further apart, the hedges and gates higher, the drives longer. All newly built, they looked like American mansions he’d seen on the telly, with double garages and disconnected fountains standing dry. Only half of them were occupied; the rest had signs warning about guard dogs and electric fences posted on the gates.