Wicked Leaks

by Matt Bendoris

  The éclair and the coffee helped pass the time until she saw her target lumber into view. Nurse Jim Drury walked in some discomfort, out of puff from hauling his huge frame the short distance from the ward to his car. His immense size made April feel positively skinny. She also knew there would literally be nowhere for him to run.

  Drury had his keys out in anticipation as he approached his Jeep, which was inconsiderately parked over two bays. He always did that to allow himself more room to get in and out of his driver’s door, even though spaces were at a premium. He kept telling himself he would apply for a blue badge for his obesity so he could park in one of the disabled spots nearer the hospital’s entrance.

  ‘Nurse Drury, April Lavender from the Daily Chronicle. We have been sent footage of you sexually abusing one of your patients this week and would like to give you the right to reply.’

  Drury’s face was already pink from the effort of walking, but it now turned puce with anger as April stood in his way, her notepad in hand. The photographer was out of sight, but was capturing the entire encounter on his camera.

  ‘Whit footage? Whit are you talking about?’ Drury said as he continued towards April and the sanctuary of his car.

  ‘This footage,’ April said, producing a large, blown-up, colour picture of Drury clearly massaging a patient’s breasts.

  ‘That’s no’ me,’ Drury said as he barged past April, fumbling with his key fob to unlock the car doors.

  ‘Oh yes it is, as well you know,’ April said as she blocked Drury from opening his door.

  ‘Fuck off, you fat cow,’ the nurse snarled.

  ‘I’d rather be a fat cow than a fat pervert,’ she retorted. ‘Now, this is your last chance for a right of reply before we go to press. Do you have anything to say?’ she said, pointing her Dictaphone toward his mouth.

  ‘Aye, take this,’ Drury said as he swung a wild right hook at April. But his pathetic punch may as well have been telegraphed. The wily old hack simply sidestepped out of the way, and Drury’s momentum carried him forward, tumbling to the ground. Winded, he lay sprawled on the tarmac, unable to move, his car keys landing at April’s feet.

  ‘I’m guessing that’s a “no comment”, then?’ April said, feeling pleased with herself as she calmly picked up the nurse’s keys, locked the doors with the fob, then dropped them down the drain by his head with a satisfying plop. ‘You won’t be needing a car where you’re going. Look forward to seeing you in court.’

  April smiled as she made her way back to her battered old car. The last sight the prostrate nurse was treated to was April’s Dune high heels and the distinctive wiggle of her voluptuous backside as she disappeared into her car.

  94: A new beginning

  Connor enjoyed the walk through the bottom end of Glasgow city centre, after taking a shortcut through the lanes that link Queen Street to Miller Street and Virginia Street and beyond. This quieter route allowed him to avoid the chuggers, with their cheery smiles and clipboards, who clog the pedestrian precinct on Argyle Street. Although he was more at risk of bumping into the equally annoying junkies who ask for money, or a light – or both – in their high-pitched, nasally voices, whilst their eyes swivel about in their heads. Connor was always amazed how Glasgow changed from street to street. You had areas with working men’s pubs round the corner from trendy restaurants and bistros. It all helped give the city its unique character.

  He took the side entrance from Virginia Street into the food court in the basement of Marks and Spencer, where he was met with a dazzling display of bouquets. Connor had bought plenty of flowers over the years without really knowing what he was buying. He was wary of lilies though after an ex-girlfriend claimed they had nearly killed her cat. He had no idea that something so easy to buy on the high street could prove fatal to pets. But nearly killing the cat had been the death knell on yet another relationship. So how come Anya had forgiven him so readily, given that he’d placed her daughter in such danger?

  Connor had a spring in his step as he strolled the short distance to the busy bars and restaurants of Merchant City and on to the Happy Cossacks. The door had the ‘closed’ sign on display but it was open when Connor pushed it. Inside, Katusha was already setting a table for their dinner, which they’d have before the restaurant opened to the public at six. She squealed with delight when she saw him, running to throw herself into his arms.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Anya chided her daughter, ‘he must be tired after a long day making up stories.’

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ Katusha asked cheekily.

  ‘Katusha. Manners,’ Anya said, scowling.

  ‘She’s certainly as forthright as her mother. It’s for you, Kat,’ Connor replied, handing over the Hamleys bag.

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ Anya said softly, although she was glad he had.

  ‘Mama, it’s Anna and Elsa,’ Katusha said, before tearing into the packaging.

  ‘I don’t really know what wee girls are into but reckon you can never go wrong with anything Frozen. And these are for you.’ Connor handed over the bouquet of long-stemmed lilies to Anya.

  ‘What are you trying to do? Kill my cat?’

  ‘Oh no, not again,’ Connor said, the colour draining from his face.

  ‘Only kidding. We don’t have a cat,’ Anya replied, giving him a playful nudge. ‘Only this little Kat,’ she added, hugging her daughter. ‘Thank you, Elvis. I presume you won’t say no to beer and something to eat?’

  ‘You’re right, I won’t.’

  ‘Well, take a seat. Katusha shall serve,’ she said, disappearing into her kitchen.

  Connor tended, as a rule, not to date women with children. It wasn’t a selfish thing but his mum had had a series of boyfriends during his childhood and he knew what it was like to have men come and go in your life. He never wanted to be that type of guy. But as the Siberian beer hit his stomach he was suddenly overcome with a warm, fuzzy glow, imagining what it would be like to be part of Anya and Katusha’s life. It made him feel nice to think he might finally have a purpose.

  95: The tap

  The Daily Chronicle ‘editor’ was a relatively young man for such a position of power. Fraser Commons was nothing like his surname suggested, having been the product of two extremely wealthy corporate lawyers. But he was a good sort, and had landed the top job at the paper almost by default. The publication had virtually been rudderless since the departure of the previous editor, Nigel Bent. Nobody had shed any tears over Bent leaving, as his main aim during his tenure seemed to be to fill his own boots.

  The news editor, Big Fergie, had taken over as acting editor for a while. But when management failed to offer the substantial wage increase his new position deserved, Big Fergie told them to get stuffed and returned to his old post. Senior executives then came up with a restructuring plan that changed all the desk heads from sports, news and features editors into ‘content managers’. Each in turn would edit the paper on a rotational basis. It was being sold to them as an opportunity to expand their skill-set, but still came without any financial incentive.

  Just before the new structure was to be signed off, the newspaper’s American owners paid off all the senior executives, so now there was a new system in place but no editor. Fraser Commons was the most senior production figure left, and so, through default, found himself in charge of Scotland’s biggest-selling daily publication. Commons had been a quiet but competent former sub-editor who had been steadily working his way up the career ladder. Although even he hadn’t expected such a lofty position quite so quickly, even if he didn’t have the salary or title to go with it. Sadly it proved to be something of a poisoned chalice as Fraser was expected to implement round after round of swingeing budget cuts and staff redundancies. He soon discovered his heart just wasn’t in it.

  Fraser approached the door of the special investigations broom cupboard with dread. He politely knocked
and waited for an offer to enter, which was a mark of his upbringing and indicative of how his manners were unlike most of the other journalists at the Daily Chronicle.

  ‘Ap-pril, do you mind coming to my office so that we can have a word?’ Fraser stuttered. April and Connor shot each other a knowing look.

  ‘Not at all,’ April said, regaining her chirpiness. As she closed the door Connor silently mouthed, ‘Good luck.’

  Less than fifteen minutes later April returned to their cramped office and took her seat, wearing a haunted look. ‘I need a fag,’ she said, reaching for her top drawer, where she knew she had at least one left in a packet.

  ‘And I need a passive smoke,’ Connor replied, grabbing his jacket to join her. They didn’t speak until they were outside. April lit up and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Well?’ asked Connor.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ she said, taking another long drag.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was nice about it... said I’d been a great servant... and there’s money on the table.’ The cigarette was trembling in her hand and her voice quavered as she spoke.

  Connor knew he’d have to muster all his diplomatic skills for his colleague, who needed a shoulder to cry on in her time of need.

  ‘You lucky bitch.’

  ‘What?’ The insult shook April from her trance-like state.

  ‘Don’t you see? You’ve made it, old girl. You’ve crossed the finishing line. What are you, sixty-something?’

  ‘Fifty-blooming-eight – how many times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s almost retirement age. And you’re getting a golden handshake to go. You’re leaving while they still have money to make people go away instead of piss them off out the door, like they’ll do to me. Well done,’ Connor said, with tears of joy in his eyes as he tried to get both arms in a hug around April’s frame. ‘Well bloody done.’

  April began to laugh. ‘You’re right. I got away with it!’

  ‘Eh?’ Connor leaned back to look at her.

  ‘I used to clean pub toilets for a living. Then I ended up writing for a living. No training. No nothing. And they never found me out. I got away with it,’ April beamed, showing off her prized gold tooth.

  Connor hugged her again.

  ‘I just hope I’ve got enough to last me. I’m far too old to clean lavvies again,’ April said, her mind already trying to figure out what she would do next. She’d now have the whole weekend to think about it. Or maybe the rest of her life.

  96: Growler

  ‘Guess where I’ve just been?’ April asked as she breezed into the tiny office on Monday morning, almost an hour late. Her presence instantly made it more claustrophobic.

  ‘Away to see about your prolapse?’ Connor asked, without looking up from his screen.

  ‘No. I’ve got used to that.’

  ‘For a nip and tuck, then?’

  ‘Nope. Although I do fancy one.’

  ‘For an arse implant – i.e. they’re using your arse for implants?’

  ‘Wrong again. I’ve worked hard for this booty,’ April replied as she slapped her ample behind.

  ‘Electrolysis for your moustache?’

  ‘Nah. Although I should book myself in,’ she said, stroking her top lip.

  ‘Your growler?’

  ‘NO. Although, yet again...’

  ‘The denture clinic?’

  ‘These gnashers are all my own, sunshine.’

  ‘The dementia clinic?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, thingummy.’

  ‘The STI clinic?’

  ‘Not for a long time.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve exhausted all possibilities. Pray tell. Where were you?’

  ‘Seeing a financial advisor,’ April beamed.

  ‘And, judging by your Cheshire Cat grin, I’d say it’s good news?’

  ‘Turns out I’m something of a financial mover and shaker. A real Warren Buffett.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve seen plenty of buffets in your day.’

  ‘You really are a cheeky wee bastard. Anyway, it turns out I’m going to be alright.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Financially, of course, stupid. I have nearly £400,000 in my pension pot. I can take £100,000 of that tax-free. More, if I want, and still have an income of £15,000 a year. Not to mention the income I have from the six flats I have.’

  ‘I thought you had five.’

  ‘So did I. I forgot about one. He says if I get into any financial problems I could always sell a flat every year without paying any extra tax, as long as the profit is less than £40,000. Or I could release some of the capital on my £300,000 home as that’s mortgage-free.’

  ‘And you understood all this?’

  ‘Not really. I just nodded a lot.’

  ‘How does a crazy old bat like you end up a paper millionaire?’

  ‘By turning up at work for thirty-odd years, come rain or come shine.’

  ‘That’s a line from a Sinatra song, isn’t it? You’re not going to start singing, are you?’

  ‘I feel like dancing.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ Connor said sternly, ‘I don’t think my desk can take another 9.7 on the Richter scale. But well done. Seriously. Maybe you can stop living in fear now.’

  ‘I do not live in fear,’ April replied huffily.

  ‘You do too. Any time we have a company meeting, fear is written all over your face.’

  ‘Only in case they start talking about technology.’

  ‘That’s all in your mind too. You have an iPad and a smartphone. You’re not as technologically illiterate as you think you are. But seriously, well done. You’ve achieved most people’s life goal.’

  ‘And for one so young too,’ April said as she theatrically struck a pose, her moon face a mass of wrinkles as she put on her cheesiest Hollywood smile.

  ‘Quite. In another twenty years maybe I’ll be just like you, although hopefully without the massive weight gain.’

  ‘All bought and paid for,’ April said, rubbing her tummy.

  97: Bothans

  April had been given her departure date. In just four days’ time Connor would be the one and only member of the Daily Chronicle’s special investigations desk. The situation sat heavily with him as he stabbed at his food in Peccadillos with his fork, with no enthusiasm for his full fry-up. He looked across the table at his soon-to-be forcibly retired colleague as she tucked busily into her breakfast. He would never cease to be amazed by her unwavering devotion to eating.

  ‘Here, you can have mine if you want,’ he said, pushing his completely untouched plate towards her.

  ‘You’re not hungry?’ is what Connor thought she’d said, but he couldn’t be too sure because her mouth was full.

  ‘I’ll just take the toast. You have the rest, my bottomless little chum.’

  ‘No, no,’ she protested feebly. ‘Well, perhaps just the sausage,’ she said as her hand shot across the table like a street urchin, expertly stabbing a sausage and whipping it across to her own plate in the blink of an eye.

  Connor waited for April’s next inevitable move.

  ‘It’d be a shame to waste the bacon. And the black pudding too,’ she said, repeating the process.

  ‘That’a girl,’ Connor smirked.

  April cast a rare glance from her morning meal towards Connor, her cheeks as full as a hamster’s as she continued to chomp away. Connor nibbled half-heartedly at his toast, before taking a sip of his coffee.

  ‘You’ve got the appetite of a sparrow this morning,’ she observed.

  ‘At least you’re still eating like a seagull at the dump.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, don’t take your foul mood out on me and my love of food. What’s up?’

  ‘Everything.’
r />   ‘We helped save Kelly, didn’t we? We nailed a perverted nurse.’

  ‘Yeah, but we failed to get the info out there. The paedophile rings. The corruption. The cover-ups. The establishment win again.’

  April stopped eating for a moment, pointing her greasy fork in Connor’s direction. ‘We tried our best and that’s all we can do. Don’t forget you also saved that little girl too.’

  ‘After putting her in danger in the first place. And I couldn’t save Stevie. He told me he didn’t want any part of all of this and then I do my usual: badger away and drag him into it. I cost a man his life, and for what? Nothing at all.’

  April opened her mouth to speak, but then decided against it. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘This came for you this morning, Elvis,’ the waitress Martel said, placing a brown package on the table. ‘Oh, and Elvis, the boss says in future ask first before you start using us as a mailing address.’

  ‘I didn’t...’ But he was speaking to Martel’s back as she stomped off in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ April asked, sending tiny flecks of whatever was in her mouth in Connor’s direction.

  ‘You know us. Always blowing hot and cold,’ he explained.

  ‘I’m guessing this is a cold snap, then? Maybe it’s blown in from Russia?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Connor said, trying not to give the game away about his new relationship with Anya. He studied the package, which was simply addressed to: Elvis, Regular Customer, C/O The Peccadillo Cafe, Queen Street, Glasgow.

  ‘That’s weird. Not too many people know I’m a Peccadillos regular. In fact, I’m struggling to think who I’ve even brought in here. There’s only you and Stevie...’

  Connor tore open the package, recalling how he’d interviewed Stevie Brett in the café the first time he’d met him after his court case many years ago. A small, black box around eight centimetres long and six wide fell into the palm of his hand. There was a piece of folded paper stuck to its base with Blu-Tack, which he carefully flattened out on the table. It read: