‘No. I’m going.’
‘Where?’
‘America.’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t put up with what they were calling you.’
‘What?’
‘Them in there. Isn’t that right, Katie?’
I raised my head for her to say yes.
‘Giving you money but just to get rid of you. I wouldn’t put up with that. Someone calling me names. What right do they have to call you names?’
‘What names?’
‘Names I hate to use in front of a lady. You know, bad names.’
‘I wouldn’t put up with that either,’ said Katie.
Pockets was writing this down like lesson notes.
‘I tell you what I’d do, Alice. I’d go in there and start yelling and howling. All the worst names you can think of. That’s what I’d do. That’s what they deserve. Give them some of their own medicine.’
Katie agreed—‘How dare people look down their noses!’
Alice stared at her palm and you could see a dark temper possessing her. Her bloodshot eyes had wet hate in them. Her mouth’s corners blew white bubbles of violence. Next thing she was running across the street and throwing her money at the town-hall pillars.
I told Katie to follow, to watch and hear it all. I wanted photos from her phone. I wanted the very moment when someone touched Alice. Any touch would do as implied assault by the time we’d created the context.
The girl was screaming now. What a torrent of profanities! No religious people could tolerate that. Even Jesus would be tempted to have her physically dealt with.
Pockets wanted to go and look but I advised him not to. Let Katie work alone. The stoning was in progress—we mustn’t be voyeurs of our own troublemaking. We might be dragged inadvertently into the centre of it. Implicated as protagonists not innocent witnesses.
A few minutes went by where Pockets and I walked along the footpath, back and forth like lost pedestrians. He asked if he could watch when I edited the story, learn something of the artfulness of wordsmithing. There aren’t many ways to say no politely. Perhaps next time or I’d love to when we’re not so busy—these are the tactful mistruths you resort to. I suggested he think up headlines, just to distract him. I intended using my Happy Clapper Heavies but he stopped talking now that I’d given an assignment. He scribbled in his notebook, bit the end of his pen.
Katie was coming. A tiptoe style of running to avoid buckling on her heels.
‘Fucking hell,’ she said, out of breath, exhilarated. ‘She’s gone crazy in there. She’s caused complete fucking chaos.’
‘Details. Details.’
‘I heard someone say Piss off.’
‘They said Piss off?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a quote. We’ll highlight that in a breakout box.’
She showed me her phone photos: ‘Here’s some guy touching her.’
‘He’s got her arm. I love the way she’s grimacing.’
‘Look at these guys circling her.’
‘That’s threatening behaviour.’
‘Here they tried to put her on the stage.’
‘Why?’
‘To bless her, they said.’
‘To make an example of her, that’s the line we take: “They put her on stage like a freak to laugh at.” Give me more?’
‘Here she’s sitting on the floor and they try to lift her.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Still sitting, I suppose.’
‘This is good work. A bit of luck they’ll drag her out and dump her on the footpath.’
That didn’t happen. She walked out on her own. Had three men behind her holding their arms up, a fence of hands. Katie took a photo because of the bad impression: frozen in frame those hands looked like rejection.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘Quick, come on. Before the girl sees us.’
I checked with Katie that she’d paid Alice the hundred dollars. She said she’d given her an extra twenty. She thought it the proper thing to do.
Back at the office Katie wrote the yarn and I topped and tailed it using my ’99 vintage—Where do you go when you’re down and out?—for the intro. I saved Don’t go here, they’ll call in the muscle for the flourishing finish.
Katie had jotted down names of the pastor and ushers from their nametags and I made her ring one to get quotes for legal reasons. You should always give your target the right of reply. It’s about pretending to respect even-handedness.
Pastor Ezekiel Shaw was not happy with Katie’s line of questioning. How dare she imply his congregation was heartless. Street people are as royalty in the eyes of the Lord. The girl had been disruptive, yes, but was not being bullied.
That’s not what the photos showed or the evidence of Katie’s eyes.
‘I’d come to join your church and adopt your values,’ she said. ‘I was shocked at your ruthless lack of empathy.’
The pastor demanded to talk to the editor. I took the call in my whispery voice, the one that’s meek and menacing for its being emotionless.
‘So what’s your problem, sir? You’re saying the incident did not happen? Oh, you’re saying it did happen? Then what grounds do you have for opposing the story? Pastor…Shaw, was it? Pastor Shaw, we do not kill stories simply because people don’t like what we’ve found out about them. You can seek legal advice, sir, by all means do, that’s your right. But our right is to publish stories that we believe are in the public interest.’
Then, just in case he was not intimidated, just in case he had capable lawyers in his pews and they wanted to make a song and dance of the matter, I used an old trick I like to call promises, promises.
‘Would you permit me,’ I said, ‘to offer a word of advice? You’re defensive when you should be throwing your doors wide open. Instead of ringing us with a threatening tone I’d have thought you’d want us inside your tent, not outside. Reporting on your story with you doing the driving. That way you get to steer the direction of the piece. What you’re doing here is making us enemies.’
‘Would you like to come and be our guest?’
‘Of course.’
A lie. I had no intention of doing so.
I will contact you, I assured him. Best to let a little time go so you won’t be overexposed.
‘We’ve got outreach programs for the disabled and their families. We have addiction services. We have great stories to tell.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ I said. ‘We could do a big feature.’
He would never hear from me again.
I declined to join them at Intercourse. We’d done a good job but I preferred loneliness. Just me and my not-home above the coffee shop’s Closed sign. A large splash of vodka for any stubborn stains on the soul. Not too much vodka because I had to ring Ollie. My diary for next week said ‘parent–teacher evening’. Emma always accompanied him but I’d put my foot down and said, No, it’s my turn. The school must think I’m estranged and don’t care about the boy. I wanted Ollie proud to have his father involved.
‘We all set for this teacher night?’
He said yes. He said sort of. He expected I’d want to start grilling his masters. ‘I’m not, you know, top of the class, or anything.’
It made no difference to me what was said of him: ‘I know who you are and I know what you’re capable of.’
Just before we ended the call, I asked, ‘No other news? No reports on your mum?’
No reports, he said. She’d ducked out for a haircut. She hadn’t revealed where exactly. She just mentioned hair.
That’s fine, I said. Hair was probably true. ‘Get on with your homework, son. Do you read those books I gave you? Do you know what the gerund of read is?’
He was silent.
‘I’ll leave that with you. Some wordsmithing homework. It’s all in the Fowler and Fowler, or Strunk and White. You sleep well, Ollie. Sweet dreams.’
She probably meant hair but the vodka helped me doubt it. I emptied the bottl
e down the sink before hair became Gordon in my untrusting head and the next thing I knew I was off in the car to prove it. Trying to spot her in the fashion-strip salons. Driving drunk with the lights out in Toorak.
I rang Ollie back to say the gerund of read is reading. I loved that he was grateful for the call. That I’d solved the gerund problem for him and neither he nor I would have reason to get mad.
*
All night this paragraph circulated in my sleep:
To the Gordon Graces of this world only idiots pay taxes. The clever go to Switzerland and hide their millions.
Of course I would never write the story. It could never appear under the masthead pry. Emma would be the first to accuse me. How would I recover from such villainy in her eyes?
That’s why I rang Peeko Mellich and arranged a meeting at the Pub on Pier. I know, I know! After everything I’ve said of her. The truth is, Peeko is perfect for personal causes.
I wanted to apologise for my rudeness at pry, I told her. I hadn’t meant to disrespect her personally in any way. Or dismiss the part she plays in the news-gathering process. My hands were tied in budget terms, I said. But for that, I’d offer her a cash-for-leads role.
Peeko, of course, had heard disingenuous blather all her life. Rumours said she was lesbian but they really meant misfit. Misfit has no human ring to it. Lesbian at least included her in life’s intimacies. Made her like the rest of us, capable of passion to counter the dead-glitter gall.
She drank lemon squash from a seven-ounce glass and crunched the ice in her back teeth while talking. My duelling scar was still palely visible but she made no mention of it. A scratch here, a scratch there, that’s hardly unusual in my racket. I’ve heard that smokers use cigarettes for their own protection. They blow the sour smoke around them like a force field. Peeko sat behind hers that way, a grey-brown veil through which to assess the world’s ills.
‘Your stoning was amusing,’ she said. ‘I knew you were lying. I knew you were doing one. That’s all right, Words. You’re allowed to lie to me. I expect it. It’s normal. So how can I help you?’
‘I just wanted to apologise. It’s the respectful thing to do.’
I drank two vodkas quickly in an effort to appear tipsy. I could not let myself be honest with her. Indirectness is safety, your listener must read between lines. I put my faith in Peeko doing so. I drank and playacted being loose-tongued.
‘Doing a stoning was like a practice run, Peeko. It’s good for the young guns. Gives them experience, some confidence. Gets them ready for stories much bigger than stonings. For instance…’
I stared into her smoke veil, held my finger to my lips to signal a secret. ‘We’ve got too many stories, Peeko. We can’t keep up. I mean, we’ve got this one story—you’ve probably heard of it. This rich prick, big in nursing homes. I forget his name.’
I jabbed my forehead like a memory aid.
‘Grace. Gordon Grace. You’ve heard of him, surely?’
‘Yeah.’ Peeko nodded and puffed some smoke and shrugged. Not a blink or slightest hesitation in her answering. Everybody’s heard of him was the impression she gave. Even I would think she was truthful if I didn’t know better.
‘Well, we’re on to it.’
‘Same here,’ she said.
‘How much you got?’
‘Plenty.’
‘His tax affairs?’
‘You bet.’
‘So arrogant, these bastards. Tax havens and fraud. Anyway, Peeko. We’re folding on it. You’ve got a clear run.’
‘Why?’
‘Like I said, we’re up to our eyeballs in stories. And one of our staff members knows him—conflict of interest.’
I couldn’t judge if Peeko believed me. Not that such a detail would matter to her: she had a lead that may amount to nothing or may amount to gold.
‘Besides, all we’ve got is he’s been tipped off to the tax office.’
‘That’s all you need. Good as guilty to the public.’
‘You’ve probably already on-sold the thing.
‘If I had, Words, it would be indiscreet to say.’
And that was the end of it. The conversation was over and I gulped my dregs. What more could I do to slander my wife’s suitor? These sordid schemes should never be so personal, for if they fail you’re unable to laugh it off as usual by saying ‘Win some, lose some’, ‘Never mind’, ‘Who cares?’
15
‘You do know that I keep truth serum in my top drawer, Mr Katsipis?’
‘No.’ He blinked. Poor fool thought me serious.
‘The rule is, when somebody brings me a terrific story I make them drink it to prove it’s not fiction. Yours is a terrific story. I want you to sit down and take the potion now or else I shall have to sack you.’
Those big beseeching eyes of his! He stammered: ‘It’s true’ and ‘It really happened. It’s true.’
I opened the drawer and offered him chewing gum, not truth serum.
His head flopped forward, embarrassed and relieved. I pitied him his green sincerity. And I envied it. There was a time when I had mine. There’ll be a time when he will think the same of some pup and be hard on them and joke of truth serum.
I told him to sit down, please, and extemporise. He’d written a summary of his story for my news list but I wanted emotions, dramatic flair.
‘I’d alighted from the train,’ he said.
‘Don’t use alighted. It’s silly cop talk.’
‘I’m sorry. I mean, I’d just got off.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘At my station. I was heading home.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Last night at seven-thirty. I was heading to the exit and this mad guy followed.’
‘Details. Mad in what way?’
‘Tattooed neck and forehead. He started yelling he was going to kill me. I looked and I saw he had a gun pointed. Give me money or you’re dead meat. I threw him money and went to run.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
‘Then this couple yelled out.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Fellow passengers.’
‘Witnesses. Perfect.’
‘He spun around and then I pushed him. He fell over for a second. Then he took off, pow! He was out of there, he was gone.’
‘I’ll run a Gun Horror headline and I want a news splash and feature. I want full first-person crime—you the victim, told through your scared eyes. You stared down a gunman, for fuck’s sake. You came that close to dying. This is nice, very nice.’
I called in Katie Brooks, Mai Tran and Ryan the Innocent. They had a hero now in Katsipis. They called him Cat’s Piss (they assured me it was affectionate). They slapped his shoulder blades, messed his brilliantined hair. They wished it were them with a gunman experience. They were jealous. They wanted in.
‘You are in,’ I said. ‘I want the following from you. Mai—time-lines from the moment Cat’s Piss boarded the train. Seven o’clock to seven-thirty. Bullet-point the lead-up. Then: Pry’s brave journo foils gunman, that sort of angle. Lives saved. Commuters praise pry hero.
‘Katie, get quotes from the witnesses. Sweet talk the cops to give you their names. And vision from the CCTV. Ryan, you help her. Exclusive to us. It’s our story. No competitors allowed a sniff. And quotes from the anti-gun lobby: Community in fear. Is anyone safe?’
They hurried to their desks but Cat’s Piss stood there and bit his thumbnail, bit the end off too deep—he sucked on a blood bead.
‘Words, I keep thinking.’
I ignored him, picked up the phone and speed-dialled Pockets. Told him we had heaven-sent subject matter.
‘You want ownership of a story? We’ve got ownership to the point of being in it. I’d like you to write something, if you’re willing.’
Willing? He breathed yes as if I’d awarded him a prize. ‘Thank you, Words. Thanks.’
‘Come up, I’ll brief you.’
Cat’s Piss bit
a new nail. Something was troubling him. He wanted advice.
‘Words, I told the police it was a gun, but the more I think about it, it might have been, um, a finger.’
‘A finger?’
‘Like this.’
He rolled his shirtsleeve down. He yanked the cuff till it covered his hand.
‘You’re telling me you were threatened by a finger?’
‘I don’t know. In hindsight, when the gunman got up close to me, it might have been a finger more than a gun.’
‘Do not mention this. This does not go out of this office. It’s a gun as far as I’m concerned. Not a word of “finger” ever again. Memory is unreliable. It’s a gun. Not a finger.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so. And you say so too. You signed a confidentiality agreement to work here. It’s for moments like these. The finger-and-gun moments.’
He nodded his uneasy acquiescence. Then Pockets blustered in, short of breath from skipping upstairs. He had a pad and pen poised ready for scribbling. And reading glasses, skinny wire ones to perch on his nose. He pinched them into place, forcing his nostrils to narrow.
‘You look like a writer.’
I was being sarcastic.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
The lenses were probably not lenses, just plastic.
‘I want you to meet a hero. Our hero. Mr Theodore Katsipis.’
‘What’s he done?’
I told him the story, with no mention of fingers.
Pockets put his hand out for the hero to shake.
‘You’re game, Theodore,’ he said.
‘I want an opinion piece from you, the founder of pry. An open letter recommending Theo for a bravery medal.’
‘I’d be honoured.’
‘Be emotional in your language. You’re his employer: he’s like family.’
Cat’s Piss had given in to the acclaim. He blushed and babbled how he’d been so frightened during the incident. He never knew he had ‘instinctive courage’ in him.
The boy asked a favour of me—would I draft an opening line or two to set him on his way? A powerful par to establish voice clarity.
All my life I’ve been asked this. All my life the par came naturally. I’m no stickler for belief in inspiration. What I will own up to is my trust in wordsmith instinct. Language cued up in my senses for instant summoning. There was never hesitation—I simply blinked and rocked on my chair. A sentence rolled its vowels out through me and my mouth intoned it.
Off the Record Page 10
