by Simon Hall
***
The pack remained set in formation, that semi-circle lurking at the bottom of the grimy, chewing gum blossom steps. The cameramen and photographers may have laid down their weapons for a few seconds rest, but all were still intent on the doors, waiting.
The time had edged on to five. Across the city, above the urban backdrop of the ubiquitous traffic, bells began to ring out the hour. The streets filled with people hurrying their way home.
By no means for the first time, Dan reflected on another of the quirks of his job. As many were finishing for the day, his work was intensifying to its most critical moments.
He stood beside Nigel, fluffy microphone under one armpit, notepad in hand, trying to scratch out a script. If he had a draft ready, Loud could start editing as soon as he was back at the satellite van. Every second saved counted with the beast of a deadline breathing fire into your face.
He tried composing an opening line, crossed it out, attempted another and scored through that too. Dan noticed he kept doodling PP in the margin.
“How’s the writing going?” Nigel asked.
“It’s not going anywhere. It’s like trying to build a house with only two thirds of the bricks. We need to hear from the Newmans.”
Nigel rested the camera carefully on a step and stretched his arms. “It’s going to be darn tight to get on air if they don’t come out soon.”
“You know, I hadn’t thought of that,” Dan replied heavily.
The cameraman smiled an apology. “Sorry.”
“Anyway, what was that about, throwing a question at Martha? I’ve never known you do anything like that before.”
“You didn’t mind, did you? I know it’s not my territory, but—”
“It was the best question of the lot. You were the only one amongst us who landed any sort of blow.”
And now this kind and gentle man was blushing, despite all the years on the road and his vast library of experience. “It just – came over me. I suppose sometimes suffering in silence isn’t an option.”
Dan glanced over at the van. Loud was sitting in the front seat, his feet up on the dashboard reading a tabloid. He tapped pointedly at his watch and grimaced.
A couple of kids on skateboards trundled past. Nigel picked up the camera and balanced it back on his shoulder. “I’m glad I only do the filming. I don’t fancy your job, particularly not on a story like this. I just point the thing, check the picture looks ok and hit the big red button.”
Dan patted his friend’s back. “Nice try, but it’s not quite that simple. If you can make me look half decent, there’s a fine art in there somewhere.”
El polished the lens of his camera and let out a loud belch.
“Another fruit fancy, Great Aunt Ethel?” he giggled. “Sorry, me stomach does that when we’re hunting. It gets all excited.”
Dan was about to reply when the doors of the court swung open. Roger Newman walked uncertainly down the steps, a tight arm around Annette’s shoulders. Her eyes were circled with a red soreness. Behind them, protectively close, stood the usher.
“I… I have a brief statement,” Newman began. “I – we… want to say that this was our last hope of justice. Of being able to believe we could start again. And now…”
His voice faltered. He looked down at his daughter and pulled her closer.
Annette was crumpled and shrunken. Defeat and despair filled every cell of her existence. The young woman had become old in the two days of the kidnapping, the months of waiting for the trial, the weeks of the hearing itself and the final killing thrust of the verdict. The erosion of decades had done their work in only half a year.
Her body was trembling hard and her face ashen. She was struggling to breathe, a hand fluttering to her heaving chest. It was as if she wanted to retreat into herself and hide from the world forever.
The cameras were all zooming in to capture the single shot that told the story in an instant, the summary of a young woman’s torment.
A moan escaped her mouth, an inhuman, unearthly sound, and Annette tensed with the shock of a sudden decision. She sprang down the steps, half stumbled but righted herself, began sprinting hard, dodging around the fringes of the pack, moving fast, her long legs flying across the grey paving stones of the sunlit plaza.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Through the sticky heat of the late afternoon they ran.
The plaza was a mirrored box, relentlessly reflecting the sun’s power. From the silvered windows of the courthouse, the Civic Centre and the concrete paving, the withering rays attacked them.
Roger Newman stood stunned, overwhelmed by yet another ordeal in days which had become filled with so many. He shouted for his fleeing daughter, then began running after her, calling her name, time and again.
“Annette! Please! Annette!”
Even through the disguise of the breathlessness, the apprehension and incomprehension in his voice was pitiful. The scales had tipped a little further against a man’s sanity. Ivy was alongside Newman, running too, that dense usher’s robe a black cloud in his wake.
Dan grabbed Nigel’s shoulder and pulled him to join the pursuit. Other journalists were following. Some strained even to take the steps to get underway, an ignoble testament to an increasingly sedentary profession.
Annette was running towards the tower of the council building. She was still moving fast, filled with the strength of youth, but something else too – that strange spirit which had come upon her.
They rounded a couple of park benches and an old lady resting there, her coat pulled tight around her shoulders despite the day’s warmth.
Nigel’s face was streaming with sweat. They’d discarded the tripod, but the camera remained a dense, unforgiving weight. Dan reached out, took it and received a nod of thanks. The scarce breathing air was too precious to waste with words.
Annette passed the grey, sixties monolith of the Civic Centre. From the glass doorways people watched the careering procession. She was still running determinedly; she hadn’t even glanced back, despite her father’s shouts.
They passed under a couple of thin and pasty trees, this concrete expanse no place to live a fulfilling life. The temporary seconds of the shade were a relief from the pervasive heat. The concrete of the plaza had spent the day baking in the sun and was keenly releasing its stored energy.
Their reddened and breathless reflections passed in one of the algae-green, rectangular ponds. A couple of seagulls bobbed and ducked, their whiteness stark in the grimy waters.
They were nearing the Theatre Royal. Annette dodged around a line of traffic, crossed the road and tumbled through a yellow door into the multi-storey car park. Her father stumbled and crashed into a young couple carrying shopping bags. He ignored the cries and careered through the door after her. Ivy hesitated, pulled off his gown, screwed it into a ball and followed.
Dan lurched to a halt.
“What’re we doing?” Nigel gasped, as best he could. “We’re running out of time. Shouldn’t we be getting the story on air?”
“Maybe. But I’m getting one of those feelings about this.”
The rest of the pack were catching up; a couple more reporters and El at their head. All were panting hard.
Above, they could hear running feet. Through the concrete panels of the car park walls, a tall, thin silhouette was still sprinting.
A hundred yards behind were a couple more figures. They were on the sixth floor, one below the roof.
Dan handed the camera back to Nigel. He stepped back to get a better shot and began tracking the line of runners. Annette was jogging up the final ramp which led to the open air. Her pace was easing. A car passed, then another. One hooted a horn.
Newman and the usher were fifty yards behind. Echoes of Roger’s shouts resonated from the walls of the car park.
“Annette! Please, stop! Annette!”
A group of onlookers were gathering. A couple of young women, a man dressed in a suit, a trio of schoolchildr
en. A woman pushing a pram joined them, a young boy biting hard into an ice cream at her side.
The sun dipped behind the Civic Centre. The plunge into sudden shadow could have been a dive into a cooling sea.
Annette emerged onto the roof level. She was walking now, but still moving determinedly, even robotically. She looked thinner than ever and her hair stuck up in spikes against the clear background of the sky.
The two figures of her pursuers were closer, perhaps twenty yards behind. They’d also slowed to a walk. Roger was reaching out his arms.
“Annette! Come on love, let’s stop all this, eh? We’ll get through it, like we always do – together.”
The young woman had reached the corner of the level. There were no cars here, all now retrieved by their owners after a day’s work or shopping. A low fence ran around the concrete wall, the odd tuft of moss colouring its mundane, functional greyness.
Roger was stepping carefully towards his daughter. “Come on Annette. Let’s go home – please.”
The silhouette turned. A palm raised. Newman stopped, the sun flaring from the pate of his head.
“Come on love, this is silly. Let’s go and get something to eat and have a bottle of wine. We can get through this.”
He was trying to catch his breath, the words coming in staccato gulps. Ivy made to walk forwards, but Newman stopped him.
The dark outline of the young woman stretched out to find a foothold and pulled herself up onto the wall.
As one, the crowd of onlookers gasped.
“Annette,” Newman pleaded. “What’re you doing? That’s dangerous. Please, come down.”
She ignored him and turned her face forwards. Towards the court building and the statue of justice looking back at her.
Upon those below, the understanding of the look was lost. It could have been contempt, loathing, sadness or simple incomprehension. But at the proud lady, and her sword and scales, Annette stared.
“Shit,” El whispered. Nigel too was groaning. Beside him a man called 999. The woman was pulling her son away. But he was resisting, trying to turn back.
“Is she going to jump, Mummy?” the boy asked.
In the distance a siren wailed. At the top of the car park, perhaps seventy feet above them, Annette spread her arms wide.
And now Newman’s voice was filled with panic.
“Annette! You’re frightening me. Love, please come down. We can do whatever you want. We can go out for a meal. Or we can go home and talk. Just come down… please.”
A seagull screeched in the sky. Newman took a careful pace forwards, then another.
The figure of his daughter began to rock back and forth.
“Annette! Don’t do this. You’re scaring me. What about college? What about the company? You’ve got so much more to do with it.”
Another siren joined the first. Newman stepped forwards again, Ivy beside him. The usher was crying silently, tears streaming down his face.
“Please Annette!” Newman begged. “Don’t do this.”
The silhouette turned. A hand raised, as if waving. An easy breeze gently ruffled the spikes of Annette’s hair. It could have been nature’s fond goodbye to one of her beautiful creations.
The young woman’s feet shuffled on the narrowness of the ledge. A couple of loose chippings fell and clattered down to the pavement.
The crowd drew in a collective breath. They had become one in fear and dread. People began to reach out for the comfort of friends.
Annette looked down, studied the expanse of the concrete below. The patterns of the paving stones, the dark waters of the ponds, the trees, the lines of benches.
And gazing over them all, the guardian statue of justice.
To the cloudless sky, Annette lifted her head. She took in one final taste of the sweet air and caress of the warming sun. And then she fell, pitching forwards in a graceful dive, plunging in a curving, elegant arc, flying in freedom through the perfect, autumn’s day until her body smashed into the pavement.
Dan managed one look. Just a brief, half-second, no more than a snapshot, but enough to capture that vision for always.
The shattered body. The fingers of fresh blood stretching from the lifeless head. The cracked porcelain of those fine cheekbones. The one open eye, more contented in death than it was in life.
He fell to his knees and was violently sick.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In the unlikely refuge of the satellite van they sought shelter. Away from the ambulances and the hopeless efforts of the paramedics. Away from the police officers, stretching out the plastic tape of a cordon and trying not to look at that which they were protecting. Away from the gossips, gathering to share their thin and faux horror.
And away from Roger Newman, crying into the arms of the usher. A blanket around his shoulders, despite the heat of the day. A mug of tea thrust into his shaking hand, from which he had taken not a sip. A policewoman trying to guide him to one of the vans parked beside the multi-storey.
As sleepwalkers, Nigel and Dan trudged back to the court. Not a word, not a gesture, just weighted legs moving in automatic time. A pair of friends and colleagues, united over years by the bonds of humour, professionalism and a savouring of life, now with nothing to share except that of which they dare not speak.
So much they thought they had seen and faced down, so much they had come through. But never like this. A black cloak had been cast over them, excluding all light from the world, even on this sunshine day.
It was half past five. An hour until Wessex Tonight took to the air. But never had a deadline felt so inconsequential. It was as important as a wash prior to the guillotine or watering the garden minutes before Armageddon.
Nigel pulled the door closed. It was a time for shutting out the fear of reality. In the van they stood, and stood was all they did.
On every wall, the windscreen, the seats, even on the clocks, there was the broken, lifeless face of a 17-year-old woman. A personal ghost, to be with them always.
“What do we do?” Loud asked, quietly.
“Who cares?” Nigel replied.
He stepped across to the front of the van and sat on the passenger seat, head bowed between his knees. Loud folded his arms and sucked at his teeth. Dan reached for a bottle of water and swigged hard. It cleared some of the tang of sickness, but he could still taste bile. He poured a cascade over his head. Some splashed onto Loud and the edit desk, but the engineer didn’t react.
There was only stillness and silence. And it was enough. The safety of the half light of the cramped space. A place that was not out there, an unwanted existence where young women were so traumatised by the evils inflicted upon them that they could embrace death from the top of a car park.
Dan’s mobile rang. Mechanically, he answered. It was Lizzie. One of the news agencies had put out a flash about Annette’s suicide.
“Did you see it?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you film it?”
“Yeah.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you ok?”
“No. I’m fucked up.”
“Ok, we can talk about it later. You’d better get on with editing the report.”
The thought had hardly occurred to Dan. “The report?”
“I know you’ve had a traumatic time. But it’s a huge story and it’s your job – your duty – to get it on air.”
“Whatever.”
He cut the call and turned the mobile off. The silence returned. The clock ticked around to twenty to six.
“What we going to do, then?” Loud asked.
“I’m going home,” Dan replied. “I’m going to get so drunk I won’t remember my own name, let alone…”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. From this moment, he never would. The sight must be banished, exiled, confined to a corner of the memory from which it could never escape.
A banging on the door made them recoil. It was Adam, t
ie low on his collar, face streaked with sweat.
“Did you film it?”
“I wish people would stop asking me that!” Dan shouted. “Yes, we fucking filmed it, all right? She landed a few feet from me. She died a few feet from me. Splat, dead, dead, dead, right by me. We saw the lot. We filmed everything. I’ve even got some of her fucking blood on my trousers if you want a look. Ok?!”
“Don’t you start—”
“Then don’t you start coming in here and—”
Dan felt a pair of arms around him. The grip was firm, but kind. It was Nigel.
“Calm it down,” he said. “We’ve all had a shock.”
“No bloody shit,” Adam grunted.
“Yeah, right,” Dan snorted.
“We’re all supposed to be on the same side, here,” Nigel continued.
“What are you going to do?” Dan asked Adam. “Are you going after the Edwards?”
“What’s the bloody point? I couldn’t even get them for kidnapping. I hardly stand a chance of pinning Annette’s suicide on them. What about you?”
“I’m going home,” Dan replied, determinedly.
“Home?”
“Yes, home –where I live. The only place I want to be right now. Curtains closed, on the sofa, bottle of whisky in hand. And oblivion, ASAP. Anything but this.”
“Like hell you’re going home. We need you to tell people what the Edwards did.”
Dan picked up his satchel and stepped deliberately down from the van.
“I’m out of here. I quit. From the TV and your bloody police work, too. I can’t take this shit any more. I never asked for it and I don’t want it.”
Adam grabbed Dan’s jacket and slammed him back against the side of the van. He tried to slap the detective’s arms away, but he was too strong, too intense, hurtling too fast down the red tunnel of his rage. His eyes were wild and his breath smelt stale.
“Get back in that fucking van and start telling people what happened here today.”
Flecks of foaming spittle flew with the words. Adam was set rigid and staring, veins standing out dangerously, the hot blood pumping hard. His arms were locked, his look with them.
