Out of the Silence

by Owen Mullen

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  ‘Mmmm. Nervous.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be nervous?’

  ‘Maybe because it’s the greatest moment of your professional life. I’d be a little uptight. Most people would.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  I heard myself sounding like an ass, stiff and pompous. And nervous?

  ‘Ralph. You’re too self-sufficient, d’you know that?’

  ‘Sounds like a virtue to me. Have they changed it? Is virtue the new vice? Christ, I need to keep up.’

  She shook her head. ‘This is your night. It’s okay to be a bit razzed.’

  ‘I’m not fucking nervous, I’m fine.’

  She reconsidered. ‘No, not nervous. You’re too egocentric for that.’

  I borrowed from the doorman. ‘Enjoy your evening, Christine.’

  At the bar of the Pearl Continental I wondered what had become of Christine Douglas. I hadn’t kept in touch with any of my former colleagues since my banishment to this fucked-up, god-forsaken place. No one had contacted me.

  The parade of grateful scribes went on and on, accepting their awards, thanking their mothers for having them and their colleagues for putting up with them. I wasn’t entirely jaundiced. Some of these people worked year after year, doing a good job, never seeking a spotlight. They deserved their trophy.

  The award was a handsome thing: a sculpted hand holding a quill, finished in silver, mounted on a heavy polished mahogany round. It would look good on anybody’s cabinet.

  Donald Munroe, the balding, thick-set president of the awards committee came to one of the high-points of the night. ‘This evening we’ve been paying tribute to men and women in our business whose continuous commitment, talent and resolve ensures we remain loyal to our responsibility as custodians of the truth. The history of newspapers is punctuated with the names of those whose diligence and courage set them apart. People who unearth the real story, the story that doesn’t want to be told. Tonight a new name will be added to that list.

  ‘In the summer of 1991 a newspaperman began to suspect something was amiss with MEDICAL, Europe’s largest pharmaceutical company at that time, and ‘MM’, their best-selling dehydrated baby milk product. MM – it stands for Mother’s Milk – or rather, it did – was the market leader. Worldwide sales totalled hundreds of millions of euros, dollars and pounds.

  ‘A sharp increase in the percentage of baby fatalities alerted him. Eighteen months of hard work, inspired deduction and a refusal to take no for an answer finally paid off. What he learned led to the lawsuit we’ve been reading about almost every day since.

  ‘The water used in the process was run off a contaminated source. Using insider testimony as a lever, he prised the lid off the biggest scandal in the history of medicine and proved MEDICAL knew the water was bad but did nothing about it. That company gambled with the lives of our children. Now, it faces billions in damages. For the sake of the many families involved we hope litigation reaches a swift conclusion. The behaviour of that company and the justice it will meet serves as a warning to others, themselves charged with a sacred duty, not to betray the faith of the consumer. In healthcare trust is the first prerequisite.’

  I could still hear the hush.

  ‘If it were not for one man, that betrayal would still be going on. The awards committee considered long and hard on the recipients of tonight’s awards, as they always do. In every category, people were able to lay impressive claim to being the outstanding journalist in their field. In this case, the contribution almost defies categorisation. It gives me pleasure to present the British Newspaper Industry Award for Outstanding Investigative Journalism to Ralph Buchanan.’

  The President led the applause.

  I shook unfamiliar hands. Christine may have given me a kiss, I can’t be sure; the next few seconds were lost to me. The view from the stage made the hairs on my neck stand up. At every table, people stood, clapping and whistling. The ovation went on for minutes. I was stunned. Christine Douglas had it right on two counts: it was the greatest moment of my professional life, and I was nervous.

  That was when I decided to change the speech. When the tumult died, I faced my peers. ‘Mr President, members of the committee, my fellow journalists, ladies and gentlemen. Hearing Don Munroe speak just now was like listening to someone else’s story. I’d forgotten some of it. The many dead ends, the almost constant uncertainty, the feeling of being wrong about the whole thing and the price paid by loved ones living with another’s obsession. Some days it seemed that when one door closed behind us, another slammed shut in our faces. I say ‘our’ because investigative journalism is a team game. On day one there were four of us. By the end there was just me. But the work the guys did along the way kept the pump primed. This award is theirs as well as mine. Larry Franks, Alva Estiban, Tony Fascionni, wherever you are, take a bow.’

  The audience responded on cue. Everybody loves a good sport. I didn’t know if I thanked my mother, or God, or anyone else. It seemed so long ago, and until that point it had been wine and roses all the way. They’d loved that team game nonsense, hadn’t they? Changing the speech, getting the humble in there. Good decision.

  I flicked my fingertip off the empty glass. It made a ‘ping’ sound. How you could tell it was the real McCoy; it sounded right. I slid off the leather stool and made for the door.

  Of course there were some things that test didn’t work for.

  Chapter 17

  The taxi dropped me back at the flat. In Lahore there were people about even at this hour. I switched on the light and made straight for the bottles – Dewar’s, Chivas Regal, Bells – sitting together in a corner of the kitchen. Had I bought them yesterday or the day before? Who cared? Scotland produced rivers of it. And if that ran dry, there was always the Japanese stuff.

  I took an unwashed tumbler from the sink, let the tap water fill it and spill out. Clean enough. The measure was more generous than the ones from George. I stared into the glass – a burnt-amber eye stared back – and swirled the drink around the edges. The meeting with John…. whatever his name was… Eden, that was it… started me down a path I hadn’t travelled since leaving London. I closed my eyes and followed it the rest of the way.

  Back at the table in The Dorchester, my colleagues had given me a winner’s welcome. “Congratulations”, “well done” and “outstanding” followed me. Christine Douglas touched my arm. ‘Good speech.’

  ‘Oh, unaccustomed as I am, blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘Very generous.’

  ‘Christine,’ I put a hand on my heart in mock hurt, ‘I’m a generous guy. Thought you knew that.’

  She turned away. The champagne came in a never-ending conveyor, our table’s allocation supplemented by gifts to the man of the hour. The line of back-slapping well-wishers went on and on. I needed to go to the lavatory. I grabbed hold of the silver gong inscribed with my name, struggled out of my chair and squeezed past tables and chairs, shaking hands without seeing whose.

  The journey took a long time, too long my complaining bladder told me. At last, I made it to the back of the room. The male graphic on the door guided me. I was drunk. Not legless, but drunk, nevertheless.

  The toilets were empty apart from a man at the latrine. I stood a few feet from him and sat the silver hand and quill on top. It almost fell into the trough. I caught it. Emptying my bladder seemed to go on forever. When I finished, I picked the award off the porcelain and looked at the other guy. I recognised him: Tony Fascionni, beefier round the middle than when we’d last met. He was watching me but his eyes showed no sign of welcome. He looked at the silver gong.

  ‘Wonder Boy! Well, well.’ His voice was a mocking thing.

  ‘Tony, I didn’t know you were here tonight.’ Lame in the face of his contempt.

  ‘Oh, I’m here, Wonder Boy. Didn’t win anything. Didn’t light up the night like you, but I’m here. Caught the speech. Nice. Good of y
ou to give the rest of us a mention. Appreciated.’

  ‘You should’ve come up, Tony.’

  Fascionni grinned and nodded. ‘Thought about it, Ralph. Decided against it. Didn’t want to steal your thunder. Know how you like your thunder.’

  In the flat in Lahore the memory chilled me.

  ‘Besides, nobody likes a party pooper. If I’d got up there, might have had to say something. Might have opened Tony’s big mouth and told our friends and neighbours how it really was. That would’ve been – what’s the word? – inappropriate, that’s it. A room full of newspaper people in there. The truth would’ve been unwelcome. To make this circus work takes a whole lot of people telling the same lies. Anything I had to say on the subject of MEDICAL would be inconvenient. Like pissing in the bride’s mother’s new hat: no big thing but enough to spoil the occasion, know what I mean?’

  ‘Tony, you were a part of it in the beginning, you and the guys. You should’ve stood up.’

  ‘Fuck off, Buchanan. They like the story just the way it is. Like it the way you tell it. The truth isn’t the popular option.’

  Fascionni jabbed a finger at me. ‘Anyway, what would I say? How we worked for each other, protected each other, protected our sources?’

  He was breathing heavily, on fire with his anger.

  ‘Or would I tell them it was Alan – not you – who made the connection in the stats? That it was Frank and me who interviewed every fuckin’ soul while you got your shoes shined?’

  ‘Unfair, Tony. Alan spotted the change in the stats, I made the deduction. And of course, you and Frank worked, worked hard, but it was me who pulled it together. Me who wrote the progress reports. Make that, no progress reports. I took the flak for nothing to show, persuaded them to let us stay with it, so unfair, Tony.’

  ‘Unfair. You want to talk unfair, Ralph.’ He laughed without humour. ‘Tell Jo-Jo’s mother about unfair. Call her up and tell her this is his night, too.’

  The conversation played in my head.

  ‘Didn’t hear his name mentioned, wonder why? Jo-Jo Reynolds. Nice kid, remember? Came to us one afternoon and told it all on tape in front of witnesses. And what did Jo-Jo ask in return for delivering the whole mess?’

  Fascionni’s neck bulged, his voice a shrill accuser. ‘He asked not to be named. But you let it out. Told those MEDICAL murderers what we knew. Told them the source. You remember all this, don’t you Ralph?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘You named him, and they dropped it to the unemployed workforce. The boy was hounded. Only stopped three months later when they cut him down from the kitchen pulley.’

  Fascionni was almost in tears. ‘And they gave you an award for breaking a confidence. As soon as Jo-Jo opened his mouth we had them, and we should’ve protected him. That was it for Frank and me. Alan had already gone. Couldn’t stand you, even before Jo-Jo cracked up.’

  He was in my face. I could smell his breath now, and feel the tiny dots of spray hitting my chin.

  Back in the past Fascionni rubbed his eyes, tired of carrying this around. ‘You killed him. He helped us and you killed him. Why did you give them his name? Why?’

  ‘They wouldn’t believe me. Wouldn’t believe we could prove it. I lost it, got angry, it just came out. It was an accident.’

  ‘No, Ralph, you were drunk and it slipped out. Had one of your liquid-lunches before the meeting.’ He shook his head. ‘There’re always accidents with people like you. Always some other poor fuck who gets it.’

  I edged round the journalist, nearer to the door. What happened next took me by surprise. A slap. The most humiliating thing. Four years later and thousands of miles away the colour rose in my face. Fascionni had grabbed my lapels, the silver paperweight fell from my hand into the trough; water and urine flowed over it. ‘The trouble with you is you’re a cowboy. Worse. A fuckin’ dangerous cowboy.’

  He looked past me. ‘Don’t forget your gong, Ralph. Enjoy the rest of your night.’

  That sentiment again. The door banged. I lifted the award and wiped it on the roller towel. The exchange had shaken me. Remembering it had shaken me.

  In the flat in Lahore I lifted the bottle of Dewar’s and put it to my lips.

  -------

  I woke up in stages, stiff and cold with the postcards from hell arriving. Half-focused snapshots of the night before. Unconnected fragments of memory floating on a sea of anxiety. I fought against the incoherent movie playing in my head and opened my eyes. Light flooded in.

  Not the men’s room at The Dorchester. Thank God for that.

  I uncurled from the armchair in slow motion, kicked something with my foot and looked down. A bottle lay on its side, another had rolled across the room, both empty. The symptoms of the night’s excess hit me; thick mouth, headache, nausea, weakness.

  Starting the day in this condition had become the norm even before I arrived in Pakistan. In the fridge I found a beer, took a drink and carried it to the chair. It helped, it always did. ‘Here we go again, Ralph.’

  Before the drinking started in earnest, a hangover was the price of a night on the town, and with it anxiety and depression that only more alcohol assuaged. And the morning drinking began. A beer before breakfast, then a couple. Cornflakes and the Famous Grouse.

  I sat up, in no hurry to go anywhere, and looked round the room. It was a mess. I didn’t know when I’d last cleaned the place. Clothes, papers and magazines lay where they’d been left and a stale smell filled the small space; an open window would make a big difference. The kitchen was tidy, unaffected, I never used it. No cooking meant no mountain of plates or congealed food welded to their greasy surfaces. None of that. Except for a couple of glasses, it was fine. That couldn’t be said for the bedroom; sheets lay on the floor and the air was musty.

  ‘So what?’

  I gulped down the beer.

  A hangover was par for the course. A couple of drinks would send it on its way. That was the pattern. Never completely sober, topping-up until the evening session. The emotional consequences were something else – the cycle of anxiety to depression and back again – plagued the daylight hours. I’d gone from newspaper ‘superstar’ to maintenance drinker. I didn’t discuss it with myself, but I’d lost my way, wasted my gifts and evaded my responsibilities. Nobody knew it better than me.

  A guy with a great future behind him.

  The decision to do nothing today was easy. I got another two cold ones from the fridge, pulled the top off one and sat back down. Last night I’d talked to a guy who knew me….Seaton, Eaton, a name like that. The whisky mist held firm. What had he said? Something about The Dorchester hotel. It wouldn’t come. Christine Douglas was in there, how strange, and Tony Fascionni. Crazy stuff. A blur. John, was that it? John Eaton? No, not right. Memory mocked me with glimpses and fragments, like the moon playing with the clouds. Eton, John Eden. Got it. He’d been at the awards, that’s how he knew me. And that sparked off… what?

  Oh, fuck! Fuck! A flash flood washed through my blacked-out mind, sweeping yesterday into plain sight. Not all of it but enough, more than enough. The star of the show the guy had said. Tony Fascionni had a different take. I felt the flat of his hand and my response screamed in my brain. I’d stood there and taken it.

  because it was true, because it was deserved

  When Jo-Jo Reynolds kicked the stool away we’d both started to fall. The rope broke his neck, I had continued down. And I was still falling.

  Jo-Jo was only the beginning. Chic Logan had given me insight into the business at the beginning. Chic was an old-timer, ready to spend more time with his family. After thirty-five years his coat was on and he was headed for the door. One day he saw me writing my copy, glancing at my notebook for the few facts so I could tease them into a piece of work. He walked over and pulled up a chair. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Hi Chic, how’s it going?’

  ‘Fine, Ralph. Going fine. What do you have?’

  ‘Man kidnapped his own
child. Caught driving a stolen car trying to leave the city. I interviewed the arresting officer. It’s all here.’

  ‘Mmmm, sure about that?’

  ‘‘Course I’m sure. What d’you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, except you’re in an awful hurry.’

  ‘I’m doing something wrong?’

  ‘Don’t know, Ralph. Can’t say you’re doing it wrong ‘til I know what you’re doing.’

  ‘But what, Chic?’

  ‘Tell me again what the speed writing’s about.’

  I repeated what I knew, suspecting the backside was about to fall out of it. ‘A kidnap, the guy’s own daughter. Stole a car, got caught. All straight from the horse.’

  ‘And that’s your story. That’s it?’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Nothing, far as it goes’

  ‘Very helpful, Chic. But what’s wrong with it?’

  Logan unbuttoned his jacket. ‘Seems to me it isn’t the story. I mean, where’s the mother?’

  ‘Covered that, she’s dead.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘Chic, you want to help? So just tell me. I’m here to learn.’

  ‘Okay. I’m sitting here, minding my own business when you burst in, rush to your desk and start writing. Everybody else’s moving just enough to keep the circulation going. I come over and ask what you’ve got. You tell me, and now I know.’

  ‘Now you know what?’

  ‘I know you’ve got the same everybody else has, the story that sits on top, the obvious stuff. The real tale’s underneath. A good newspaperman appreciates that nothing starts where you think it starts. What happened to get it to where it is now is the interesting part. Why is the key.’

  He paused to let me catch up. ‘Why is the father doing this? Where was he taking them? Where is his car? If he doesn’t have one, why is that?’

  He took a breath. ‘It’s called digging for the truth because it’s underneath. When you can answer those questions you might have a handle on it.’

  I’d learned something. ‘Thanks, Chic, I’ve got it.’