by P. R. Black
‘Is this for you, or for something in here?’
‘Something for me.’
‘And what kind of thing do you want to check?’
‘See, I’ve got this thing about politicians. Not a “thing”, god, that’s not the right way to put it. I am a little bit suspicious about some public officials, and there’s one or two little checks I want carried out.’
He sipped what was left of a coffee. ‘Freedom of Information is your friend.’
‘It’s not open public information I’m looking for. It’s something dirtier than that.’
‘Oh.’
‘A long inquiry. Using some information that wouldn’t come up on a Google search. By someone who would like to see what public officials do brought into the light. You’d like that, wouldn’t you Jarrod? Or you know people who like that kind of thing?’ Jarrod’s green army-style jacket was draped over the back of his chair. Becky traced an ‘Anarchy’ symbol decal stitched into one of the shoulders.
‘That’ll be difficult.’
‘But you maybe know someone who could help?’
He shrugged. ‘I could ask.’
‘That’d be good. Could you ask them soon?’
‘I could maybe do that.’
‘Could you maybe give me a number to call?’
‘No, they’ll call you.’
‘I’d best give you a number then.’ She did so, using a burner phone she’d bought the other day.
‘It’ll cost,’ he said. ‘I’ll say that upfront. A bit more than a knock-off version of Office.’
‘That’s absolutely fine. So long as I get what I pay for.’
‘Leave it with me.’ He replaced his headphones. ‘I’ll do it as a favour. But I’ll deny I ever spoke to you. I’d advise you to do the same for me.’
‘Of course.’
‘There’ll be some code words, when they get in touch. You’ve got two things to remember. Number one, you’re Jessica Rabbit.’
‘I’m not sure how I feel about that, but okay.’
Jarrod waved his hand, irritably. ‘This is important. The second thing to remember is the position of the mouse. Which is in the grandfather clock, in his house.’
‘This is great!’
‘Don’t write it down. Seriously – just remember it. No records. All right?’
‘Sure. Thanks. Ah, you’re a love, Jarrod. By the way, fascinating blog you wrote. The one about Jesus coming from Tahiti?’
He frowned and turned towards the screen. ‘I’m a bit busy, Becky. Speak soon.’
‘Not to worry Jarrod. I’ve got a meeting, as it happens.’
*
Apart from a persistent tic at the corner of her good eye, Becky had just about annulled the pain and most of the shame by the time she caught up with the Human Resources lady at one of the country’s last remaining mid-market tabloids, The Mortar. The woman, whose name was Rose, hefted a folder full of material like a battleaxe, but she seemed a little embarrassed to be there.
‘Devin will be along in a minute,’ Rose said, as she unlocked the conference room.
‘Doing his “I’m late” routine, I guess. He usually saves that for the university kids he takes for interview.’
‘I don’t think you should mention that, Becky.’
‘Best we sit in awkward silence, then.’
Rose did not smile at this.
Becky studied a sheet outlining the formal procedures, the only blemish on top of a long table buffed to a high sheen. She could remember when this room was full during the daily conference, when news editors and senior reporters would go through the agenda of the day. That had been less than seven years ago, but now only a handful of people were involved, and the vast empty spaces throughout The Mortar building told a sad story of an industry in denial.
Rose coughed occasionally to break the absolute silence.
The door burst open a few minutes later, and Devin McCance squeezed his bulk inside. He was still in his twenties, a tall, thick-set man with spiky blond hair and startling blue eyes which lent him the look of a truculent child. A survivor of bad skin in his teens, his cheeks looked corrugated in a certain light, but this didn’t spoil his looks. What came out of his mouth did that instead.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he mumbled, pulling out a seat opposite Becky and Rose.
Rose cleared her throat and squared her paperwork. ‘If we could just get started?’
Becky said, ‘Well, in a nutshell – why can’t I go on sabbatical, Devin?’
‘Because deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "erwork up for the fifth or sixth time. "eens, but he didn'd himall, thick-set man wit I’ve got a paper to run, Becky. You’re our chief reporter – you’re a trusted member of staff. I could get some 21-year-old in to cover you while you go off on your great big holiday. But I’d rather not. We need you, and that’s the truth of the matter.’
‘I understand that, Devin, but I’ve also got a life to lead. Technically I’ve been here since school, and I’ve asked for nothing. My first year, in fact, they had to beg me to take some time off. I’ve asked you for one period of unpaid leave. It’s all perfectly valid under regulations. Right, Rose?’
Rose’s eyes did not leave the table. ‘That is correct, Becky, but as you know, operational issues can sometimes take precedence.’
‘Isn’t that only in an emergency, though? Like if there’s a major incident or some sort of crisis?’
‘It’s at my discretion,’ Devin said, squaring his shoulders.
‘I don’t think that’s the case. I’ve looked at the company regulations, and I am entitled to take an unpaid sabbatical if it’s reasonable and appropriate to do so – which it is.’
He grinned. ‘Well sunshine, there’s company regulations, and there’s reality.’
Becky folded her hands. ‘I think the union might want to help out with your idea of reality. Or I could cut out the middle man and just go with some lawyers.’
‘What? Are you actually threatening me?’
‘You can take it any way you like, Devin.’
‘Well,’ Rose said, blinking rapidly, ‘I’m sure there’s no need for that. We can have a sensible discussion here.’
There was a quick tap at the door. Before anyone could answer, a tall, thick-necked man with long whiskers, a knee-length dark overcoat and broad-brimmed hat entered the room. The coat and hat were beaded with rain, and the big man took his time removing both garments and hanging them up on a stand. He seemed to lose nothing in girth by taking off the big coat, and a white shirt clung to his monumental paunch as he pulled up a chair and sat down.
Jack Tullington was in his late fifties, but might have been younger or older by a differential of about ten years, with more grey than black in his thinning hair.
‘Blowy out there,’ Jack said, brightly. ‘Sorry I’m late, Devin.’
‘No problem Jack,’ Devin said, neutrally. ‘I didn’t realise you were coming along.’
‘Thought I’d sit in. I hope that’s all right.’ There was a hint of Scots in Jack’s voice, buried after years of enunciating for English ears. There was a hint of it in his face, too, Becky thought – something in the whiskers, the small, tight-packed eyes and the flinty hair that struck her as peculiarly Caledonian. One of the lads on the sports desk had referred to him as ‘Willie Miller’, although that name had no meaning for Becky.
‘Well,’ Rose said, squaring and re-squaring her paperwork, ‘I didn’t expect to see you in here today, Mr Tullington.’
‘I won’t take up a lot of your time.’ Jack turned to Becky: ‘You sent in your paperwork for your sabbatical as outlined in the Human Resources policy document?’
‘Yes, Jack.’
He turned to Rose. ‘And was it all in order?’
‘Well, yes. Pending review.’
‘It’s reviewed.’ Jack beamed. ‘Consider your request granted, Becky. Don’t be doing anything silly like running off and getting married now, will you?’
Dev
in’s cheeks flushed much as a cuttlefish might change colour after a fright. He raised a hand. ‘Just hold on a second, Jack. We haven’t scratched the surface of this.’
‘There’s no need. I’m calling it in. Becky’s one of the best we’ve got. And her leave’s unpaid. We can hire someone on secondment for… how long you off for?’
‘Three months.’
‘There you go. We can get some housekeeping done. Save a bit of cash in the short term. Pay less than the going rate for a chief reporter. Helen on accounts will be cheering you to the rafters for that.’
Devin set his jaw. ‘I didn’t agree to this, and to be honest, Jack, I’m not happy.’
‘Duly noted,’ Jack drawled.
Devin stood up and strode towards the door. ‘We’ll talk about this in a bit,’ he said to her, thickly.
Jack stabbed a finger at him, and the kindness disappeared from his eyes. ‘We will. And we’ll do it in my office, in twenty minutes’ time. Got it?’
The door crashed shut behind Devin.
‘Well,’ Jack said, relaxing, ‘that was quick and painless. What do you say, Rose? Can we get the paperwork signed off today?’
Rose looked drained. ‘I suppose I can get that seen to.’
‘Great. Becky and I were just going to step out for a bite to eat. Roughly lunchtime, is it not?’
Becky grinned. ‘Only if you’re buying.’
6
The atrium at The Mortar had been intended as an oasis in the midst of a glass and brushed chrome structure which, to Becky, had always looked unfinished. The reception desk and the revolving doors dominated the space below them, but up here you could sit down in soft leather set amid broad green palm fronds. There was even a water feature – a gentle accompaniment to the pattering rain above.
Jack Tullington spread himself thickly across the sofa. ‘Did you know, we once had Sean Connery up here?’
‘Everyone’s had Sean Connery up here. Who hasn’t had Sean Connery up here?’
‘It was a drinks reception. He was in town for an award or something. Excellent big guy. Sort of intimidating, in a strange way. It’s like a mountain range moving towards you. Then speaking.’
‘In a shtrange accshent.’
‘Of courshe.’
‘Thanks for today, Jack.’
Jack sat forward and swirled his coffee. ‘It was a pleasure. Perk of the job. What is my job, again?’
‘Being McCance’s boss. As you so nicely illustrated.’
Jack frowned. ‘You know what he calls me? In his bitchy emails to folk? “Editor emeticus.” The cheek of it! I was 22 the last time I spewed on a night out. And that includes my stag do.’
‘You read people’s emails? Didn’t think that was your style, Jack. I’ll have to watch what I say in future when I’m bitching about you.’
He chuckled. ‘What can I tell you? I’m a hack. I was born that way. I don’t usually snoop… but if anyone tells me I can’t snoop… things get problematic. This time, I was snooping in an official capacity. We had a bit of a leak in the office. You might recall The Bolt had an annoying habit of running with our scoops on the same day?’
‘I thought that was the same Whitehall creep, briefing different papers separately?’
‘Nope. Someone in here was leaking our splashes. Big ones, too – like when Brian Louvens was caught with rent boys, or when that old lady turned out to have been a Soviet spy back in the 1950s. We never found out who it was, but it did turn up some interesting stuff in Devin’s deleted mails file.’
‘I guess you can’t cheat a thief, as they say.’
Jack chuckled. ‘So, kiddo… did you see the telly last night?’
‘I did.’
‘How are you feeling about that?’
‘I want to say “mixed feelings”, but that doesn’t cover it.’
Jack indicated Becky’s eye. ‘I hope your mixed feelings didn’t extend to nutting somebody.’
‘Nah, I shut a car door on myself.’
‘My brother used to be a copper. Know how many times he’s heard that one?’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Anyway, I’ll keep it brief. You know where I am if you need anything. The police been in touch to update you? Anything new from the show? Sometimes they turn up a new lead.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not expecting much. They’ve dug up as much as they can. I can’t see someone sitting in front of the telly watching the show, thinking, “You know, that rings a bell. I think I do remember something about a mass ritual murder from round about that time. Completely slipped my mind.”’
‘Don’t rule anything out. You do get results. The smallest details can trigger memories, it can happen. Lots of cases have been solved from these shows…’
‘Never underestimate the value of a nosey old bugger.’
‘Loyalties can change, too. The guy who did it might have had a wife who suspects something. It’s a fair bet that he’s been abusive. A guy like that surely can’t be normal behind closed doors. Say they’re getting divorced. That’s all it would take – for her to see the show, connect the dots, lift the phone.’
‘I’m not holding out much hope, Jack. If something shows up, it might nail him. But most of it will probably be a distraction. Kooks and loonies giving false information, which they’ll then have to follow up. It might even be well-intentioned people, just desperate to help. People who make things up but hardly realise they’ve done it.’
He sighed. ‘Yeah. That’s the truth.’
‘Did you watch, Jack? I know it will have been hard for you, as well.’
His shoulders flinched. ‘It’s hardly on the same scale, Becky.’
‘Technically, you knew Mum and Dad longer than I did. Stands to reason.’
‘Reason doesn’t come into it, really. “I’m fine” is my formal answer.’ Jack smiled kindly. ‘Whatever happens, you know where I am. Anything you need, lift the phone. I’ll be there. And if that toilet-brush-headed twat gives you any nonsense when you come back, let me know, and I’ll straighten him out.’
‘Appreciated.’
‘Where are you off to on this sabbatical, anyway? Don’t tell me you’re going to “find yourself”. When people say they’re going to find themselves, they mean “I’m off to Thailand to smoke doobies and shag surfers”. Is that your plan?’
‘I’m going to do a spot of travelling, that’s true. Take a proper holiday. I’ll do Europe. Minus the beaches. Do you know, I realised that I’d never been to Budapest before?’
‘One of my favourite cities, that. To say, I mean. To pronounce. Just sounds exotic. Budapest.’
‘My favourite city to say is Caracas.’
He burst out laughing, and that’s when he hugged her.
After the usual promises to call – or at least exchange Christmas cards – she watched him plod down the spiral staircase.
As Jack started to flirt with the lady on the front desk, her phone rang. The number was withheld.
Instinctively, she turned away from the staircase, her face to the wall. She took two deep breaths before pressing ‘answer’. She knew. This was it.
The young man on the end of the line said: ‘Hello there. Can I speak to Jessica Rabbit?’
Becky’s heart picked up the pace. ‘This is Jessica Rabbit.’
‘Is the mouse in its house?’
‘The mouse is in the grandfather clock.’
‘Okay. Tomorrow night, Masquerade. Bewley Street. Just you, no one else. The corner booth, opposite the DJ box, stage left. That means on the right-hand side.’
Becky bit her tongue.
‘Two minutes to midnight,’ the man said. ‘Midnight minus two. Got it?’
‘That’s a little past my bedtime. But I’ll be there.’
‘One more thing to remember – so listen very carefully. You’ll be sent a text message with a code. You’ll need this in order to proceed. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
He hung up.
7
Him
He woke up moments before the alarm, as usual. He knew precisely where his phone was in the dark, reaching over without looking to silence it upon the first pip.
His exercise regime had changed over time. For many years, his mornings had begun with painful stomach crunches, press-ups and stretches, before the tyranny of dumbbells and bench presses. One or two pulled muscles and an alarming tendency for his back to seize up whenever he dead-lifted weights had put paid to this early-morning violence. Now, he preferred to stretch slowly, his body resisting gravity rather than sparring with it.
The light underneath his bedroom door cast his body in a thin effulgence, and he made sure to admire his ghostly outline as he passed the mirror. His face was utterly motionless as he flexed and preened. The stomach was not what it once was; there was no disguising that. Perhaps there was nothing to be done about it, at his age.
‘All things must pass,’ he whispered to himself, and smiled.
He put on a dressing gown and joined his family.
His wife was always awake, showered and dressed for work well before him, and usually had breakfast ready for the three of them. Making breakfast was a task she preferred doing, part of a long-established routine. If he was home, he cooked the evening meal, and he was far more fastidious about household chores and keeping their house clean and in good order.
‘What time do you fly out tonight?’ she asked, buttering a slice of toast.
‘About eight o’clock.’
‘Will you be in a fit state to go out with Mats and Verena on Saturday?’
He shrugged. ‘So long as the flight’s not late, I can’t see it being a problem.’
‘I don’t want you falling asleep on their couch again. You did that last time.’
He bit the corner off a slice of toast. ‘That was different. I was jet-lagged. I won’t be going so far this time.’
She smirked. ‘It was funny, though. You fell asleep clutching your dick. You looked so peaceful. Like a baby sucking its thumb.’
He brushed a crumb from his lips and fashioned a smile.
Their daughter loped downstairs, a thin, dark 14-year-old. She had inherited her height from her father’s side and kept her hair long and black. It sometimes pained him to see her in this guise. The girl was willowy, lissom, and would have suited delicate things. But she was in the midst of a gothic phase: dark make-up, purple fingernails, black T-shirts, bands with incomprehensible names glowering from her walls.
