“So we’re someone’s willing stooges, is that what you’re trying to say?”
Bob shrugged and lit another cigarette as he watched Evelyn walk back and forth across the room. He observed that she seemed uncomfortable with herself. He stared at her legs, her best feature.
“No, of course not. Except in your case perhaps.”
“You’re a dick! How dare you tell me I’m just a stooge?”
“Because you are, Evelyn, and you know it.”
“I am an investigative journalist,” Evelyn replied, on the defensive.
“You? I don’t think so, sweetheart. We have colleagues who go on the hunt without anybody telling them to, without being given a tip-off beforehand. When that’s the case you usually find yourself facing a wall, which consists of the interests of the very paper you work for. Even so, they keep going. They press on and sometimes they jeopardize the ‘system,’ and other times their obsession ends up turning them into pariahs. Years ago I met one of the best in our field. You’ll have heard of him. Neil Collins. He was freelance.”
“Of course I know who Neil Collins is. His pieces were in so many of the major papers. He’s famous.”
“Yes, famous for his integrity, because he never made concessions to power, because he never gave in to threats, because he checked every single detail of what he published and nobody could deny that what he wrote was the truth.”
“He doesn’t publish anywhere anymore.”
“They got rid of him for knowing too much. He was drinking too much. One night he met a guy in an underground casino whose tongue had been loosened by alcohol and cocaine. This guy worked for the Ministry of Defense and let slip that our beloved country was selling weapons to buyers it shouldn’t. You know, those countries on the United Nations’ blacklist. Neil took it upon himself to investigate and write the story, but none of the papers would buy it. The ramblings of a drunkard—that’s what the editors of all the papers said. Who can trust a guy like Neil who always smells of alcohol and has a trace of white powder under his nose? But Neil didn’t give up. He ended up publishing the story in a marginal magazine, but he published it. Since then no paper has bought a single article from him.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s going through hell now. He’s a pariah. Embittered. He can barely live with himself. That’s how those in charge treat people; they ostracize those who get too close to their secrets.”
“Like in the Watergate case?”
“That was pure journalism. Two guys found the story, followed the thread, and were able to unravel the whole thing. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein are two of the greats, proof that there are decent people in our line of work. But the world was a different place then, and although the newspaper magnates wanted to earn money, they also had what you might consider a romantic idea of journalism. They wanted to be loyal to their readers. Today the media is in the hands of investment groups for whom the truth is a mere inconvenience, especially if it could lose them money.”
“You’re too obsessed with the powers that be. You think everyone high up is full of shit.”
“More than you know. That’s the way things work. I’ve absolutely no doubt that this Roy Parker has something to do with what happened to Frank Wilson and what’s currently happening to Jimmy Doyle.”
“If things are as you say, why haven’t they sent me another anonymous tip? I…”
“Yes, it would’ve been a real coup for you. Too risky. A young reporter who gets a lucky break once is believable, but twice in such a short span of time…They’ve been leaking the Doyle stuff to the competition.”
“And now Blake is determined that I should play my part.”
“You’ve got it easy. So far they’ve published a few documents supposedly leaked by an employee of the bank. We already know that Doyle spends what he doesn’t have and that he’s misappropriated party funds. It would appear that he likes to spoil his wife. Talk to the wife’s friends, to local shopkeepers…You could write a piece with a more personal touch. Surely someone will tell you about Mr. and Mrs. Doyle’s private life in lurid detail and how their standard of living was a surprise to their friends. Look at how the children live, what cars they drive, whether they get handouts from Daddy…”
“You’re amazing!” Excited by Bob’s suggestions, Evelyn had turned back to face the bed.
“You’re very green, Evelyn.”
“But I’m learning so much from you. Although I’d say that you have a very romanticized idea of journalism,” Evelyn reproached him.
“Romanticized? You know, Evelyn, that article you wrote about those poor women has nothing to do with journalism.”
“Of course it does! We fulfilled our duty to inform. The public has a right to know.”
“Journalism is an obligation. We have a duty to the readers, to everyone who buys the paper each morning and has faith that we’ll tell them the truth. But in order to fulfill that duty we have to steer clear of power, of the people in charge, to prevent them from manipulating us and protecting their interests. If even once you sell them your soul, you’re no longer a journalist. I may romanticize journalism, but, you know, I do think it’s worthwhile. I’ve known some of the best, journalists who haven’t compromised, who’ve never betrayed their readers. Without journalists there would be no democracy, and the world would be a much worse place. We have colleagues who risk their lives because they believe in these principles, because their only mission is to tell people the truth. We’ve lost a lot of our own trying to bring the shit that goes on in the world to light—wars, weapons, drugs, corrupt politicians…”
“Stop giving me morality lessons.”
“Calm down, girl. You’ll go far.”
Bob privately thought that she had more ambition than brains and that she lacked the raw talent to be a good journalist, and that there would always be a Blake to exploit her ambition. What Bob could never have imagined was that his hero Neil Collins was the one who had helped to dig up some of the dirt that had been essential for getting those candidates out of the picture.
—
Evelyn managed to get some of Mrs. Doyle’s friends on the radio, who declared that they were devastated by the scandal, yet commented on the Doyles’ expensive standard of living, especially given that they were Labour.
Jimmy Doyle appeared alone at a live press conference to announce that he was withdrawing from the race and that he understood the voters’ anger. He admitted to having financial problems but swore he’d never swindled anyone.
Mrs. Doyle did not accompany him. Her friends told those who would listen that she was undergoing treatment for depression.
—
I was with my team watching the press conference on television. Philip could barely hide his satisfaction while Cathy, Janet, and Richard Craig remained silent.
“This whole thing stinks of foul play,” Cathy declared.
“Foul play? What do you mean?” I asked.
“Come on, Thomas. You’re not going to tell me it’s a coincidence that two of the most important candidates in the county have had to withdraw from the race.”
“Well, one of them was visiting prostitutes and the other was spending money he didn’t have,” Philip asserted.
“And who cares whether a candidate in a rural town uses prostitutes?” said my assistant, Richard.
“Well, since he’s a Conservative…” Philip replied.
“I never imagined you to have such exacting moral standards.”
“I’m not running for office, nor do I tell others how to live or what’s right or wrong. It’s not unreasonable for me to expect politicians to be what they claim to be,” replied Philip angrily.
“We’re not going to fight over this, are we?” Janet intervened.
Janet McCarthy couldn’t bear arguments. She became nervous if any of us so much as raised our voice.
“What we need to do is keep working for our candidates. Roy and his guys have an opportunit
y here and they need to make the most of it. I wouldn’t say that it was pure luck, but very nearly,” I declared.
Cathy looked at me sideways. “Well, I doubt that those scandals were triggered by an innocent party.”
“That’s not our problem. Roy Parker hired us to make his campaign a success and things are going more and more in his favor. Cathy, I want you to give Suzi a media training refresher; she talks too much and could put her foot in it with the press. Janet, you need to prepare for Roy’s television debate with Brown from the Lib Dems. Brown’s an experienced man. He’s at retirement age but it looks like he’s set on becoming mayor. And Roy still isn’t completely comfortable in front of the camera.”
“But we’ve got several more important clients who need us during the last few days of campaigning,” Cathy interrupted me.
“Realistically, the Rural Party is…well, it’s not going to get anywhere,” Richard declared, still on his high horse.
“Oh really? What makes you so sure?” I tried to appear unworried.
“You’ll see, Thomas. They’re outsiders, people from outside politics; they’re not in the big leagues. I’m not saying that Roy won’t be mayor, given the circumstances…and one or two of his friends might be successful too. But at this point both Labour and the Conservatives are wondering what happened in Derbyshire and I guarantee that both parties will go above and beyond to take the wind out of their sails. He’s just too much of a bumpkin. He doesn’t fit in,” my assistant explained, very seriously.
“He doesn’t fit in? What do you mean he doesn’t fit in?” I asked, containing my anger.
“With the system. You’ll see how the system swallows him up. It’s a question of time,” said Richard.
Richard was exasperating. In spite of his jeans, his deconstructed jackets, and his sneakers, which, admittedly, were Prada, he was still the little Conservative boy who had studied history at Oxford, but had finally settled on a career in PR because he thought it would be fun to do “something different.”
A few days ago there had been photos of him in the papers, at a party where members of the royal family were also in attendance.
I decided not to argue with him. I wasn’t inclined to be Roy’s defender. It seemed unnecessary.
“Well, until the system swallows him up we have a contract with Parker. You’re right, Cathy, we can’t put more effort into the Rural Party’s campaign. Anyway, the people we’ve assigned to them are doing a good job. I just ask that you take the time to speak to Suzi, even over the phone; you know how much she admires you. Really, you’re the only one she listens to. Regarding the TV debate, I do need you to go, Janet. Find a train that leaves first thing and come back the same night. Roy will do fine with a few pointers.”
Cathy looked at me in surprise. She clearly didn’t understand me. Giving in without a fight didn’t bother me. Only an idiot would have tried to stir up my team’s suspicions any further. Janet was a simple soul, incapable of thinking ill of anyone, not even me, but it was clear that Cathy and Richard had an inkling about my part in the scandals.
As for Philip Sullivan, he maintained an uncomfortable silence, seemingly shocked by Cathy and Richard’s suspicions.
—
Roy was elected mayor. We had considerable success. Of all the candidates whose campaigns we were running, only ten weren’t elected.
We followed the election results from the office. I asked Maggie to arrange for some sandwiches and something a bit stronger than tea.
Even Mark Scott and Denis Roth dropped by our headquarters, the meeting room where we had several television screens set up and four or five interns listening to the radio coverage while following developments online.
“Well, things haven’t turned out badly at all,” Mark admitted.
“But we’ve winged it. Now that it’s all over we’ll have to think about setting up a more professional political and electoral publicity department,” Denis announced.
I caught Mark looking at Cathy and I wondered whether they had already planned my exit and were about to tell me that Cathy would be the new department head. I didn’t say anything, just in case, but let myself be congratulated by my team. At the moment we numbered more than twenty because we’d had to bring in external subcontractors.
Philip Sullivan was the most enthusiastic of us all. I guess he was worried about his future. He was friendly with Richard, but recently they had drifted apart, and he must have been wondering whether I had more of a past than a future at the Scott & Roth Agency.
“You have to come! Suzi wants to thank you in person for what you’ve done for us,” Roy said on the telephone.
“I’ll come as soon as I can. But I can’t right now. I’ve got too much work.”
“Then quit and come and work exclusively for me. We’re on to phase two now. Remember that I want a seat in Parliament. We need to get to work immediately.”
“Come on, Roy, you haven’t even been sworn in as mayor yet. Don’t be in such a hurry. The only way you’ll make it to London is by doing a good job at the local level, and given the situation there it’s not going to be easy for you. We’ll see whether your stint as mayor doesn’t prove the Peter principle.”
“Peter? Who’s Peter? Listen, don’t tell me to read more weird stuff like that book, The Art of War, by the Chinese guy…Forget about Peter and come to Derbyshire. We need to celebrate and talk about the future.”
“I can’t, Roy. I’ll call you as soon as possible.”
I let a couple of days pass without answering Roy’s calls. I didn’t want to talk to him in front of Mark and Denis, or any of my team members. Despite the fact that my phone never stopped ringing and Maggie kept telling me that Roy had called to speak to me, I focused on dealing with other clients, the ones from “the system,” as Richard would say. Roy could wait.
4
Over the next two years I settled into monotony. My department grew larger, always under Mark Scott’s distrustful gaze.
It was about two in the morning on a Thursday. I’d been wandering around my apartment for a while and was on my second whiskey when the telephone made me jump. If it was Roy I’d tell him to go to hell, I thought, but it wasn’t him. My father’s number had come up on the screen. It was nine at night in New York, what could he want? I hadn’t spoken to him for two or three months. I imagined him sitting in his office with a glass of cognac in hand, wondering how I was getting on. He didn’t usually call me. Nor did I often call home. I didn’t have anything to say to them and our conversations, although brief, struck me as absurd. I hesitated before picking up.
“Thomas.” My father’s tone of voice unnerved me.
“Yes?”
“Please excuse the time. I know it’s very late in London. I must have woken you. But…you have to come. Your mother is dying.”
I remained silent. Had he just said that my mother was dying?
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry to give you this bad news.”
“What happened?” I asked. I felt strange, as if my father’s words had nothing to do with me.
“Cancer. They diagnosed her with lung cancer a year ago. They’ve operated on her twice and she’s been through chemo and radiotherapy…But none of it’s worked. She’s dying.”
We remained silent. I needed to process my father’s words and he was giving me the time to do so.
“So she fell sick a year ago,” I murmured.
“Yes. She was the one who realized something wasn’t right. She asked one of the doctors at the hospital to do a scan and the result was positive. Cancer in her left lung. Your mother’s always been a heavy smoker, and so…”
I was aware of that, but what I had to take in was that she was dying. I wasn’t really sure what I felt right then, but I realized that I didn’t feel any pain, or at least that kind of pain that other people feel when they’re about to lose their mothers.
“She didn’t want us to tell you. She said that you needed to live your life, that it was u
nfair to clip your wings and make you come back. But now…She’s been in the hospital for the last month but she’s asked her doctor to let her come home. If you’d been able to hear that conversation…Your mother said, ‘Dr. Cameron, you’ve done everything possible. Let me die in peace at home. They’ll take care of me. All I ask is that you ensure I’m not in pain.’ Your mother is a good nurse. She’s seen a lot and nobody can lie to her about something like this.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“She’d like to say goodbye to you. Things have never been easy between you two, but…well, she’s your mother. She loves you and you love her.”
“No. To be honest, I don’t love her.” The whiskey made me more honest than usual.
“Son! You can’t say that. You’re both strong characters and that’s caused you to clash, but of course you love her! As she loves you, there’s no doubt about it.”
“You may not have doubts, but I do. And, honestly, nor do I care. I may have cared once, but, in any case, I don’t care now.”
“Thomas! I can’t believe you’re saying this. She’s your mother. You’re talking about your mother.”
“Yes, I’m talking about her, and you know what, Dad? I have absolutely no desire to pretend that I’m distraught. I’m not. The last few days have been exhausting and it’s two in the morning here. The only thing I need is to finish my drink and go to bed.”
“You have to come.” My father’s voice was pleading.
“Why? She’s going to die whether I’m there or not. She doesn’t need me there to die.”
“I’m going to forget you said that. You’re a man now. Don’t fly off the handle like you did when you were a little boy. You have a responsibility to her, to us. You can’t let her go without having the chance to speak to you.”
“I’m not promising anything. I’ll call you later.”
I hung up the phone. I couldn’t stand the tone of supplication in my father’s voice. I poured myself another generous measure of whiskey and downed it in one gulp.
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