The Pact

by Amy Heydenrych

  What is going on here?

  When she got the summons for the hearing, the text on the note vaguely said, breach of confidentiality. She may not respect her boss, but she respects her sources. If a source tells her something off the record, she honors this.

  Kenneth strides into the room, chest puffed out. Behind him trails Sandy, the worn-out HR manager, someone in a police uniform, and a stern woman in plain clothes, who Isla assumes is their legal representative. She could have brought in a witness of her own, but Isla is a proud person. She would rather endure the humiliation alone. She hasn’t even told Lizzie about this, and she definitely hasn’t told her mother.

  The room titters with false politeness, whispered greetings and comments on the weather. It is spectacularly rainy outside, the sheer volume of water rattles the windowpanes.

  Kenneth clears his throat. ‘Thank you for your uncharacteristic timekeeping this morning, Isla. It really pains me to have to sit across the table from you under these circumstances.’ His mouth twitches in an almost-smile. ‘It has come to our attention that you are in possession of classified information, and have used this information to tamper with persons of interest during a police investigation.’

  Isla has played it close to the edge before, but she has never broken the law for a story. That goes against all her training. Bernard would never have stood for it. It would break her heart to disappoint him.

  Still, fair is fair. If there is a valid case against her, she will take responsibility for her actions. If only she could figure out what they are referring to. She hasn’t been allowed to report on any cases since the drama with Nicole’s story, and Freya still hasn’t responded to her calls, or her email.

  But then there is the email, the classified police report that details the information on Nicole’s computer, information that was specifically not shared with the press. Shit.

  The police officer cuts in. ‘The information you possess is of direct interest to the state. It involves one individual we questioned recently, and another person we may have reason to bring in for further questioning.’

  Isla’s blood runs cold.

  ‘Your possession of such information and your dissemination of it poses a threat to an active investigation,’ he continues.

  Blood rises in her cheeks. Isla is mortified. What a stupid rookie error! A handwritten letter would have been simpler, and more efficient. Now they probably have an email trail that tells them everything.

  Kenneth slaps a stack of paper on the table in front of them. The sheet on top is Isla’s email to Freya, with each incriminating sentence highlighted. The pages that follow are printouts of the information she shared. Her sins exposed, in black and white.

  The officer present adds, ‘We also have evidence that you have recently given a gift to a member of the police force.’

  The Ottolenghi cookbook. Shit.

  Kenneth says, ‘Giving a gift to a police officer in exchange for information is akin to bribery, Isla.’

  ‘It’s not what it—’ Her eyes scan the room. She doesn’t continue. She can see there is no point.

  How did they know to go through her emails? Or what to look for? The answer hits her like a cannonball. No, no, it can’t be! But there is no other explanation. Simon. Something inside her shatters. She should have known he wasn’t the good guy he made himself out to be. They never are. Joke’s on her – she shouldn’t have trusted him.

  The assault on her integrity is not finished. Sandy purses her lips. ‘We did a general check on your email communication and were shocked to discover that you write long emails to friends and family every day on company time.’

  Isla’s heart sinks. With Lizzie in London, and her mother in a different state, she ends up emailing them a lot. A phone conversation never quite expresses what’s in her heart – words are the truest form of communication she has. It’s lonely in the city, when the people that care about those everyday things – like what you had for dinner or what series you’re watching – are so far away. She may have given herself too much leeway and got carried away, making these small comforts a daily habit.

  Kenneth says, ‘We ran a word count on your daily emails and compared it to your daily output and well . . . the results don’t look good.’

  Isla reaches for the glass of water in front of her and takes a long sip. Her mother always told her this is an effective trick to stop the tears from coming. Today, she thinks she may need a little bit more.

  ‘We have summed up the complaints being held against you: the dissemination of classified information, bribery of a police officer, interference in an active police investigation and the abuse of company resources and time. Now, you have the opportunity to counter the charges . . .’ says the legal representative, with dead eyes. She must have sat through hundreds of these conversations in her career. Isla starts imagining the stories she could tell, and weaving it together in a feature article. She can’t help herself, the journalist in her will not be extinguished.

  The room is silent, save for Kenneth clicking his pen. Waiting.

  Isla knows what she has to do. This disciplinary hearing is unpleasant, especially Kenneth’s joy in the entire proceedings, but, for the most part, it happens to be fair.

  ‘I accept all charges, except the one for bribery. The gift was simply meant to be a kind gesture, and the officer in question gave me the information willingly.’

  Willingly is a strong word, but Simon definitely didn’t put his job on the line for a cookbook. Which makes her wonder, why exactly did he say yes in the first place?

  Sandy looks up. ‘You understand the impact this could have on your career, Isla? You may never be able to write again.’

  That part is rubbish. Her words cannot be contained, and will always find a place to belong, even if she doesn’t. Still, she is heartbroken. What will her mother say? She has always been so proud of Isla and supported her path as a journalist, along with the risk and insecurity that came with it.

  ‘Well,’ says Kenneth, ‘that was simple enough. Isla has admitted to her indiscretions and we are left with no choice but to take disciplinary action.’

  The jury of three convenes and a decision is made. Isla is suspended until further notice, and will have to go into the police station to deliver a formal statement. Following this, the matter may be taken to court if the police deem her interference serious enough.

  As she bundles a few of her most cherished items from her desk into her rucksack, a few stray tears drop onto her pile of notebooks. This shitty place wasn’t the best paper in the world, but it was all she had. Somewhere, among the countless coffees, last-minute deadlines and editorial meetings she became a real journalist. She developed an instinct for a good story, she honed her powers of deduction and the research skills to prove them. For nearly a decade, she has been defined by what happened within these walls.

  She rushes outside, without a word to her colleagues, as if she is only stepping out for a second, as if she has somewhere important to be. A formal goodbye is too embarrassing.

  Isla blinks as the late-afternoon sun reflects against the buildings around her. It is not the paper it used to be. She doesn’t belong in there anymore. It is only when the shame subsides and her sadness settles that she realizes something important. Kenneth has actually done her a favor. He has set her free.

  Chapter 87

  Freya

  Six weeks after the murder

  Freya tries to retain her focus. She puts the final touches on the plan for the East African technology rollout. Thankfully, Julian has only given her a warning and not removed her from the project completely. There are enough finicky details on the screen before her to keep her happily occupied for hours. This is the kind of challenging and involved work she signed up for.

  ‘Pretty impressive black eye you have there,’ says Chris, one of the developers.

  ‘You should see the other guy,’ she quips. He chuckles, and walks away. This seems to satis
fy everyone in the office who has asked. It makes Freya’s skin crawl, because it happens to be true. The other guy is walking among them, giving them orders, and nobody knows. Nobody except Julian, and Jay himself.

  Yet the almost-attack she survived that night may as well not have happened at all. Jay is innocent until proven guilty. All she has is the outrage grinding in her chest, yet his outrage at her accusation holds center stage in Julian’s mind.

  His shoulders seem broader, his manner even more cocky than usual. He is a man who has won. Every now and then, he throws a smiling glance in her direction that makes her blood boil.

  She can’t believe she thought she was special, that they both really valued her. It was a phase, and now that she has started to bring up some inconvenient truths, she is distasteful, unwanted. Both she and Nicole are fading into the distance, yesterday’s news.

  A new girl has just joined, and Freya knows what is about to happen, even if she can’t bring herself to confront it just yet. She can feel the possibility bubbling in the room. Her name is Bobbie, and she is breathtaking.

  Bright blue braids contrast her dark skin. She has an unstudied edginess to her. An oversize denim jacket with a full moon hand-painted on the back shrouds her lean body. Freya tries not to look at her the way Jay surely is, eyes following the path of each curve and resting on her lips.

  She tries not to notice the path that’s set in motion, as Jay shows her around the office, laughing and joking. Bobbie leans towards him and shows him a video on her cell. There is something haunting about how close they seem, so quickly, and how Jay is wearing an oversized denim jacket as well, with a Run DMC logo spray-painted on the back. They are both wearing Adidas Stan Smiths, like twins. Should she pull Bobbie aside and warn her, or keep out of trouble? Jay was so awful to her, so why does it still hurt so badly?

  Ruth catches her staring at the man she so recently loved.

  ‘Freya! Your face . . .’

  ‘You should see the—’

  ‘You don’t have to joke about it with me. That looks really awful. Let’s catch up over a quick coffee and a walk?’

  She still has a lot of work to do, but the invite makes Freya feels a little bit lighter. Ruth is a powerful woman, an ally she feels lucky to have on her side. Ruth has spent the past two weeks traveling and meeting with investors, so they haven’t had a chance to speak. Freya has a feeling that Ruth may have the answers, and help her decide on what to do next.

  ‘Yes, please!’

  She follows her out the office and onto the busy sidewalk. Freya is a little taken aback when Ruth lights a cigarette. ‘I didn’t know you smoked?’

  ‘Retro, isn’t it? Doesn’t everybody have a vice?’ She flings Freya a knowing look.

  The rain has finally cleared, and a sliver of sunlight warms them as they walk. ‘It’s great to see you again, Ruth. I’ve been meaning to take you up on your offer for guidance.’

  ‘This doesn’t surprise me.’ The comment is more abrupt than Freya is used to. ‘You don’t seem yourself at the moment, Freya, and I know Julian has expressed this to you as well.’

  Freya tenses as she thinks of Julian’s cold, snake-like eyes cruising her body – his come-ons a shocking contrast to the quotes on serenity and prayer flags posted around him. ‘He did, yes.’

  ‘He means well. As you know, Nicole suffered from a mental illness. I’m not saying that led to her death, but we are concerned about the wellbeing of our staff and want to help where we can. That way things are less likely to . . . spiral out of control.’

  Freya thinks of how much it hurt to see Jay with the new girl this morning. The surging pregnancy hormones don’t help matters. Imagine experiencing those feelings through the lens of bipolar disorder? No matter how vicious Nicole was towards her, Freya wishes she could go back in time and say, I’m sorry, I understand now.

  ‘I’m having some trouble with Jay,’ she says, searching Ruth’s eyes for an inkling of recognition. ‘With Julian as well. I am feeling harassed in the office.’

  Ruth thinks for a moment, ‘Do you have any proof of this?’

  She points to the bruise, silent.

  ‘All right. Freya, I am going to be frank with you because you deserve someone who will tell it to you straight. This is not beginning to look too good. You accuse Nicole of harassing you, and then Julian and an alleged group of men sending you messages. And now Jay’s next? Don’t you think that’s a lot of attacks directed at one person?’

  Freya is silent. Ruth has a point. It didn’t look so good when listed one after the other. Still, she was certain what she had experienced was true.

  ‘When I encounter times of trial, I use it as an opportunity to look inward. We are the masters of our reactions.’

  The platitudes stoke her anger, but Freya nods cooperatively. ‘You’re right, Ruth.’

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything personal going on that is prompting this? Anything physical?’

  As if in response, Freya feels a painful twinge on her left side. Numerous online searches have assured her that this pain is simply her abdominal muscles stretching, preparing to make room for the baby, but it still unsettles her. The pains have been coming on stronger lately, especially when she is stressed.

  She believed that out of everyone at the office, Ruth would be the one to understand. Remember how she headhunted you, Freya thinks to herself. Remember how pleased she was to welcome you to the team! Yet something makes her throat close up. She just can’t get the words out.

  Ruth continues, determined to lead the conversation in a certain direction. ‘As a woman, I consider myself both intelligent and intuitive. I’ve been noticing some signs that have been giving me cause to wonder that something’ – she gestures vaguely in the direction of Freya’s midriff – ‘may be afoot.’

  Freya can’t slow the beating of her heart. She wonders if the answer to Ruth’s question is written all over her face. This is her personal business, and in her opinion, has had no impact on her productivity in the workplace.

  ‘Are you trying to say I’ve gained weight, Ruth?’ Best to use humor to ease the question away.

  ‘Not at all, you are as lovely as ever. But accidents happen, especially at your young age.’

  Freya is affronted at the generalization. ‘I’m very careful, Ruth, and have been caring for myself for a long time.’

  ‘I have no doubt about that. You’re an incredible woman, which is why I wanted to remind you that if you ever fell pregnant, it would be your right to choose to have an abortion if you needed to.’

  The hairs on Freya’s arm stand on end. This conversation is beginning to feel pointed, ominous.

  ‘I know. I’ve always felt passionate about a woman’s right to choose.’ She doesn’t add, including the right to choose to keep the baby if she wants to.

  They have already looped around the block without her realizing. Ruth seems distracted, her thoughts already back at her desk. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘this was a good talk, Freya. I look forward to seeing your stellar performance as we launch in the next two weeks.’

  She laughs a biting, hollow laugh. ‘I, for one, am relieved you’re not pregnant. That would have made things quite difficult for you here. You have too much potential, and your work means too much to us.’

  Ruth smiles, her perfectly applied wine-colored lipstick arching in a snarl. The words sound friendly, but everything in Freya screams that this is not a compliment, but a threat.

  As she walks away, a message comes through on her phone.

  ‘Ms Matthews. Detective Cohen here. I have an update on your harassment complaint. We found a young man trying to break in to your home this morning, and have taken him into custody. His prints match those found on the gift you turned in as evidence. Would you be available to identify him in a lineup?’

  Finally, some good news.

  Chapter 88

  Isla

  Six and a half weeks after the murder

  The old
green door creaks open and Isla breathes in the intoxicating smell of books. The place is quite something. A flood of books spills over every surface. They tower in tall, unsorted piles along the rickety staircase. They jostle for space along the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Crime, history, romance, religion, sex, cookery, music, Antarctic exploration, occultism, and philosophy. It is all here, every important and inane thought recorded. A fluffy ginger cat tiptoes over the literature, its tail fanning against the spines.

  It’s not the neat, ordered kind of place where you’d expect to find the hottest new releases. It’s a store for long-time appreciators of books, people who may be looking for something rare and particular, or may just want to stay here a while, among the history and potential of all the pages.

  He walks down the stairs, looking a little older than when Isla saw him last. His sunken eyes, framed by a mane of wild white curls, light up.

  ‘Isla! Look at you, all grown up!’

  ‘Bernard’ – she smiles – ‘I love what you’ve done with the place.’ Many journalists foster an idealistic dream of owning a bookstore, but Bernard actually did it. The world of newspapers may have moved on without him but here, time has stood still.

  They retreat into his office, which smells of sweet cigars and fresh coffee. Isla settles into a suede armchair and scans the photographs on the wall of all the authors that have visited.

  ‘So, Isla, has some fantastic paper snapped you up as an editor yet? I can remember your gifted turn of phrase like it was yesterday. You always had this way of describing the world so that others could really see it.’

  The compliment chokes Isla up. It’s been a while since someone told her what a great writer she is. The story pours out of her, starting from the morning after Nicole’s murder and ending with her disciplinary hearing.

  ‘I have been floating around the city all morning, unsure of what to do next or where to go. I hated working there, but now I’m starting to feel like an idiot. Did I throw my career away, just to break a story? Did I let my personal motives interfere with my integrity as a reporter?’