by Des Ekin
Hunter swam through a brain filled with molten fudge to identify the caller.
‘FX,’ he muttered wearily. ‘Have you any idea what time it is?’
Francis Xavier Fitzwilton was the political correspondent for the Evening Mercury. He and Hunter had shared a flat during their college years, but these days they were both so busy with their respective careers that they rarely had a chance to keep in touch.
‘I’ll answer your question if you answer mine,’ said FX good-humouredly. He sounded as though he’d been up for hours. Either that, or he’d never gone to sleep in the first place. ‘It’s 6.18am precisely. Beep, beep, beep. I’ll even tell you the date. It’s Wednesday, 22 November, the very eve of our general election. Okay? Now it’s your turn.’
His next sentence was almost drowned out in crackle and hiss. The reception was atrocious.
‘I’d answer your question,’ said Hunter, raising his voice above the static, ‘if I had the remotest notion what you were talking about.’ He propped himself up on his elbow and switched on the bedside light.
FX said something Hunter didn’t catch.
‘What was that?’
‘I said Joseph Valentia’s disappeared. And apparently you’re running a big story about him in Street Talk this morning. I believe the two facts are not unconnected. You tell me what your big splash is, and I’ll tell you all about Valentia’s vanishing trick. Deal?’
Hunter frowned. It wasn’t like FX to get his facts wrong.
‘Someone’s sold you a pup, FX. We’re not running anything about Joseph Valentia this week.’ Hunter yawned.
‘You would tell me if you were?’
‘Of course I would. It’s hardly going to make any difference at this stage.’
‘That’s odd.’ FX sounded puzzled. ‘The rumour is that he went AWOL because he was upset over a phone call from you. And the phone call was about an article you were intending to publish today.’
Hunter sat bolt upright. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’
‘Okay, I’m joking. But I’m not.’
‘I did phone him. On Monday. To check out a story.’ Hunter was treading very carefully. ‘But we decided not to print it. At least, not this week. Maybe after the election. I’m not sure.’
‘Ah. So the rumour is true.’ FX sounded relieved. ‘Congratulations, Hunter. You’ve just made political history. You’ve made a senior Minister disappear without trace, one day before a general election.’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’ Hunter was sceptical. ‘He hasn’t disappeared. He’s refused to give you an interview, or something.’
FX’s voice turned serious. ‘No, really, Hunter. He’s done a runner. His party officials are tearing their hair out. Even Orla Byrne is worried. You do not vanish twenty-four hours before a crucial election.’
‘What the hell happened?’ Hunter rose and struggled into a bathrobe. ‘All I know is that he didn’t turn up for the big debate on TV last night.’
‘Well, that’s serious enough in itself. You know as well as I do that radio and TV are banned from carrying political debate for the last twenty-four hours before the poll. Last night was literally his last chance to put his case before the people. And he blew it.’
‘Well, where was he?’
‘That’s the point. Nobody knows. It seems that after your phone call on Monday night, he lapsed into some sort of traumatic shock. He sleepwalked through a few engagements on Tuesday, then simply vanished off the face of the earth. His private car’s disappeared from his garage. And his wife is going up the walls.’
‘He’ll probably turn up today,’ said Hunter, hopefully.
‘No way.’ FX sounded irritatingly sure of himself. ‘This is today, Hunter. He was due to meet all the pol. corrs for a power breakfast in the Clarence at six. Absolutely vital engagement. We’re all here, he’s not.’
Hunter was stunned into silence.
‘So whatever you said on the phone,’ said FX, ‘it sure scared the hell out of him. I’m just tipping you off, Hunter. As a friend. If Valentia’s clothes turn up on a beach somewhere, you’re going to be facing so much flak it’ll make the Battle of Britain look like a kite-flying contest.’
EMMA was already up. She didn’t see him. Hunter helped himself to freshly made coffee from a spluttering pot and, for a few moments, watched her silhouetted form as she performed the graceful shapes of Tai Chi in front of the open window. Her body was supple and athletic; the first rays of dawn were touching her hair and turning it to palest gold. He’d forgotten just how beautiful she could be.
Irritated with himself, he put the thought out of his mind. He felt like a junkie who’s kicked a serious drug habit only to find the old cravings unexpectedly resurfacing. It had been easier to give up his addiction to alcohol than it had been to give up his addiction to Emma Macaulay.
By the time she’d finished, he’d already squeezed some orange juice and cooked up some scrambled eggs and rashers of bacon.
‘Smells good,’ she said as she took her seat at the table, pulling a grey towelling tracksuit over her black leotard. She glanced at him. ‘What’s the matter, Hunter? Something’s wrong. I can tell. Bad news on the phone?’
He served out the eggs. ‘Joseph Valentia appears to have done a runner,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That was my response exactly.’ Hunter took a seat beside her and told her all about FX’s phone call. ‘There’s nothing about it on Teletext or the Internet. We’ll have to wait for the seven o’clock news.’
By the time Emma had showered and dressed, Hunter had wakened Robbie and was feeding him his breakfast.
She watched them for a while. ‘Hunter, I’m definitely going to hire you as nanny,’ she said. ‘You’ve no idea how hard it is to cope with a two-year-old when there’s no backup. Just being able to go to the loo without interruption is sheer heaven.’
‘Don’t be silly. Robbie’s no trouble,’ said Hunter, feigning the noise of a dive-bombing Stuka as he directed a spoonful of egg downwards towards the toddler’s open mouth. ‘Pow! There it goes. Direct hit.’
Robbie chortled with delight. ‘More plane!’ he pleaded.
‘More plane? Sure. We’ll make it a Spitfire this time. Single Rolls Royce Merlin V12 engine, deep growl, like this. Drrrrrr …’
‘It’s nearly seven,’ said Emma, turning on the radio. ‘Don’t forget the news.’
‘Thanks. Turn it up a bit.’
‘Nationwide News at seven o’clock,’ said a pleasant female voice. ‘The headlines. There is growing concern over the safety of the Tánaiste, Joseph Valentia, who failed to return to his County Athmore home last night after having missed a series of important political engagements in the run-up to tomorrow’s election. In South Africa …’
Hunter’s spoon paused in mid-air.
Emma froze in the act of putting on her make-up at a mirror in the corner. ‘So it’s true,’ she whispered.
‘Seems so,’ said Hunter, completing the spoon’s trajectory, but this time without sound effects. ‘Listen. They’ll give us more details in a minute.’
‘Now the news in full. Mrs Ruth Valentia, wife of the Tánaiste, Joseph Valentia, has asked police for assistance after her husband went missing in circumstances which she says give her cause for concern …’
‘More plane!’ yelled Robbie. But Hunter was staring at the radio.
‘Mr Valentia was last seen at around noon yesterday and since then has failed to attend several vital public engagements. His wife told our political correspondent that Mr Valentia had been feeling very depressed and upset as a result of a phone call he received from a journalist on Monday night.’
‘Jesus,’ said Hunter, putting down the spoon with a clatter.
‘More plane noise,’ Robbie pleaded again.
‘Hunter, is that you they’re talking about?’
‘I don’t know. Listen.’
‘She said the journalist, representing Street Talk magazine, made several s
erious allegations against her husband in the course of the phone call …’
‘Daddy!’ yelled Robbie, louder this time. ‘More plane!’
‘Quiet, love. I have to hear the news.’
‘Street Talk magazine, which today published a front-page article about the Minister …’
‘Bloody hell. He published the story,’ shouted Hunter. ‘The bastard published the story behind my back!’
‘Who?’
‘Addison. He’s published the bloody story!’
‘I’m scared,’ wailed Robbie, unable to understand why his father was shouting.
‘… containing a series of allegations about the Minister which Mrs Valentia has described as scurrilous and irresponsible …’
Hunter’s mobile rang.
‘Hello,’ he shouted, trying to keep his other ear tuned in to the radio.
‘… said the allegations would be strenuously denied and …’
‘Hello?’ said the voice on the phone.
‘Mummy, I’m scared!’
‘Hello. Hunter here. Who’s that?’
‘… described it as a politically motivated smear campaign mounted by her husband’s enemies just hours before the election …’
‘It’s FX,’ said the voice on the phone. It was clipped and cold. ‘Your friend, remember? The sucker you told that Street Talk wasn’t running any story about Joseph Valentia.’
‘We weren’t,’ said Hunter, weakly. ‘I didn’t. I mean …’
‘… colleague of Mr Valentia’s said the magazine article was a dirty-tricks campaign, black propaganda of the worst sort …’
‘Oh yes?’ said FX, his voice still venomously quiet. ‘Then what have I got in front of me, hot off the presses? Street Talk magazine. Front page article, “The Murder Victim and the Minister”. Exclusive by yourself and Mark Tobey. I suppose you don’t know anything about that, old pal?’
‘… urged voters to ignore the ill-founded and ill-researched …’
‘Mummy!’ wailed Robbie.
‘You’re not answering me, Hunter,’ said FX.
Emma’s land line rang. ‘It’s for you,’ she called to Hunter.
‘Who is it?’
‘Nationwide News. They say it’s urgent.’
‘… and condemned journalists who allowed themselves to be used as vehicles for disinformation in the period before a crucial election …’
‘I want my mummy!’ howled Robbie.
Hunter tried to comfort him.
‘Hello, you still there?’ said FX. ‘Not that it matters to you, old pal, but I’ll probably be out of a job in an hour’s time. I told my editors to ignore all the rumours. Gave them a categorical assurance, based on our phone conversation this morning, that Street Talk’s current issue was a Valentia-free zone. Now our early edition has gone to press with a denial story, and I’ve got egg all over my face.’
‘… would have to bear a terrible responsibility if the repercussions of Mr Valentia’s disappearance were in any way serious …’
‘What’ll I tell them?’ mouthed Emma, still holding her phone. She rushed to comfort Robbie. Behind her, black smoke rose from the corner of the kitchen worktop as a slice of bread became jammed in the toaster.
‘Hold on,’ Hunter mouthed back. ‘FX? Listen, can I phone you back? It’s not the way you think. I knew absolutely nothing about this.’
‘… and would be seeking legal advice with a view to immediate action against the magazine …’
‘Maybe you wrote it in your sleep, Hunter,’ said FX sarcastically. ‘Don’t bother phoning back. Ever.’ He hung up.
‘I’ll take it,’ Hunter said to Emma. He grabbed the other phone and dashed over to switch off the smoking toaster.
‘Mummy … scared …’
‘Hunter, is that you?’ said the voice on the phone. ‘Norman Taylor here, Nationwide News. Can you give us a quick reaction on air?’
‘Can’t right now, Norman,’ said Hunter. ‘I need to sort some things out first. Later?’
‘Later’s no good to us right now,’ said Taylor. ‘We’re nearly finished. Come on, just a thirty-second soundbite. You’re sticking by your story, that sort of thing.’
‘Okay.’
‘First, can you turn off that damn radio? We’re getting distortion. And what the hell is that screaming in the background?’
‘It’s okay, it’s just my son. Emma’s taking him into the other room. Fire ahead.’ Hunter switched off the radio.
‘Right? We’re going on air … now.’
The voice of the female newsreader cut in. ‘With me on the line I have TS Hunter, editor of Street Talk magazine and joint author of the front-page article at the centre of this controversy. Mr Hunter, are you having any second thoughts about this article?’
‘No,’ said Hunter decisively. ‘We’re standing by –’
The interview was interrupted by a deafening, high-pitched shriek. Directly over Hunter’s head, the smoke alarm had activated.
‘We seem to have lost TS Hunter,’ said the newsreader.
‘No you haven’t,’ muttered Hunter, as he slammed down the phone. ‘He was lost already.’
‘I SWEAR, Hunter, I know absolutely nothing about this,’ said Mark Tobey.
‘I realise that, Mark,’ said Hunter, pacing up and down Emma’s hall in agitation. He switched the phone to his left ear; his right one was already raw and sore from the pressure of constant phone calls. ‘Of course I accept that. But what the hell happened?’
It was eight-thirty. Emma had left for work. Robbie had been dropped off at his crèche. Hunter was alone in the house, trying to sort out the worst crisis in his life, three hundred miles from the centre of action.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea. The first I knew about it was when I switched on my radio this morning,’ said Mark. ‘The alternative edition went to the printers on Monday night. The banking scandal story, the one we agreed on. I saw it leave the premises with my own eyes.’
‘Then how come the Valentia story’s all over our front page? What happened?’
‘I don’t know, but I can guess,’ said Mark. ‘After you left on Monday night, Simon Addison sat huddled in secret session with your beloved deputy editor for hours. My guess is that they did the switch. They replaced the Valentia story without telling me or anybody else.’
‘While both of us were sent off on a wild-goose chase.’ Hunter sighed heavily. ‘This is great. This is just great.’
‘I wondered why Addison had a sudden attack of benevolence that night,’ said Mark. ‘Why he was so keen for you to go and stay with Robbie in Passage North. He just wanted you out of the way.’ He fell silent. ‘But why? Why go to all that trouble? He could have just overruled your decision and done it all openly.’
‘No, he couldn’t,’ Hunter said. ‘It was part of my deal when I took over as editor at Street Talk. My decision was to be final on all editorial matters.’ He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. ‘No wonder he caved in so easily.’
‘He was determined to screw Valentia, all right,’ said Mark. ‘With or without you. Now we’re stuck with the consequences.’
‘That’s what’s so damn frustrating. It’s our story. We can’t deny we wrote it. And we wouldn’t have written it if it weren’t true. I’ve only two choices: go for broke and back our story all the way, or else resign. If I resign that would be the end of my career – and maybe yours too.’
Mark grunted. ‘If this is a resignation issue, Hunter, I’m right behind you. But if I were you, I’d hold off for a little while. Have you considered the possibility that Valentia’s done a runner because he’s guilty as hell? In that case, we’ve landed the scoop of the century. And the century’s only just starting!’
Hunter smiled. He was forced to admit Mark had a point.
‘Look at it this way,’ said Mark persuasively. ‘If we keep a cool head and stand by our article, there’s an even chance we’ll be vindicated by events. But if we publicly dista
nce ourselves from our own story, there’s a one hundred percent certainty we’ll look like idiots, no matter what happens. The way I see it, we have no option, Hunter. No option at all.’
‘SIMON Addison, please,’ said Hunter, trying to keep his voice calm and even.
‘Who shall I say’s calling?’ asked the receptionist of Addison’s fertiliser company, in her ridiculous airport-announcer voice.
‘Just tell him Hunter.’
‘And the second name?’
‘That is the second name.’ Hunter was fighting hard to control his anger. ‘He’ll know who it is.’
He tapped irritably on the phone as the receptionist treated him to three minutes of ‘Greensleeves’. Then:
‘Hunter! My main man. What’s the good word, bro?’
Harlem today.
‘Well, actually, Simon, a good word might be “shafted”.’
‘Hey –’
‘Or “gutted”.’
‘Don’t take it that way, my man. You should be grateful I put your story out. By this time tomorrow, you’re gonna be up there with Woodward and Bernstein.’
Hunter took a deep breath and tried to count to ten. He got as far as five. ‘You countermanded my decision!’ he shouted. ‘You published the story against my express wishes. Simon, in all my years in this profession –’
Addison’s voice was calming, placatory. ‘What could I do, Hunter? We had a rethink later that evening. Looked at it all again, coolly and calmly; decided it was worth running the story after all.’
‘At which stage you should have consulted me. I’m the editor. Remember?’
‘You weren’t there, Hunter. It was press-time, a couple of hours before deadline, and you’d toddled off early because you wanted to be Mr Family Man. Remember?’
‘Don’t give me that, Simon. I was just a phone call away.’
There was a long silence.
‘It’s all very simple, Hunter,’ said Addison at last. ‘When you work for Simon Addison, there are only three things that matter: commitment, commitment and commitment, in that order. We needed a decision, fast. Your deputy editor was there and you weren’t.’
