by Sean Mallen
Every corner of the V&A offered a new vision of beauty — my favourite was the hall of sculptures overlooking an elegant garden with a string quartet playing.
When I got home, I could not wait to share the news with Isabella — looking forward to showing it to her.
“The day started out kind of dull,” I enthused. “I wasn’t sure what to do and was getting a bit frustrated. But then I went to the Victoria and Albert and —”
“I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE FUCKING MUSEUM YOU WENT TO AND FUCKING SAW TODAY!” was her response. “YOU FUCKING LEFT ME ALONE TO DO EVERYTHING — COOKING, CLEANING, PACKING, CARING FOR JULIA, EVERYTHING — ALL WHILE I’M HOLDING DOWN A FULL-TIME JOB. SO KEEP YOUR FUCKING MUSEUM STORIES TO YOURSELF!”
You’re sure you don’t want to hear about the exquisite sculpture wing? I thought about asking but didn’t.
The Buckland flat was starting to show its true colours. The water temperature for the morning shower and shave was becoming variable — scalding one moment, chilling the next. One night I returned from work to find a form letter from the National Grid: the gas had been cut off due to a leak. No word on when it would be restored. My expensive, dumpy flat now had no hot water and no stove. Great.
At least there was the option of using the change room at the gym. The next morning, after finishing my workout, I set up my shaving kit in front of a mirror where a sign advised: NO SHAVING POLICY DUE TO HEALTH REASONS. Shaving certainly rates as one of the unhealthiest practices known to man.
Not wishing to incur the wrath of the club, I chose to shave in the privacy of the shower stall, learning how much one relies upon a mirror when scraping one’s face. Somehow I managed to get the job done without slicing off a chunk of my nose.
Back at the flat, barriers went up in front of the building and warning signs were posted advising that smoking would be inadvisable. Other than that, I saw no sign of any workers. I called the number on the form letter and got through to the National Grid operative in charge of our file.
“It’s a very odd case,” he said. “The very same day that the owner of the garden flat complained about gas lines running through his place he reported a gas leak.”
This was the flat being renovated by the guy who would not allow anyone else in the building to walk across his patch of weeds to access the supposedly communal backyard.
“Perhaps it’s more than odd,” I suggested. “Perhaps it’s criminal.”
Buddy seemed to have calculated that because he did not like the pipes he would just poke a hole in one so that they could be moved in order to beautify his flat and push up the exorbitant price a bit more. So sorry if that leaves the neighbours at risk of being blown sky high.
Given life in my expensive cold-water flat, this would have been the perfect time for a road trip. Since beginning as Europe Bureau Chief a couple of months earlier, I had not travelled outside of London. Now would be the easy time to go, because I would not be leaving Isabella and Julia alone in London, having already left them alone in Toronto.
Before I could make any plans, however, a sickening story unfolded in Norway. Someone set off a huge bomb in the government district of downtown Oslo, killing eight people. A short time later a gunman landed on a holiday island not far away and started murdering young people at a summer camp for the youth wing of the governing political party. Before he was done, sixty-nine more people were dead, mainly teenagers.
It turned out that the same sick individual was responsible for both atrocities, a neo-Nazi lunatic named Anders Behring Breivik. It was quickly apparent that we needed to go to Norway. But it would not be me, because I was already booked for a “hazardous environment” training course for Monday. Dan headed for Heathrow and Stu would meet him in Oslo.
I came into the bureau on the Saturday, partially to write and edit a little feature story on the hacking scandal that had been pushed aside by the Norway massacre, and partly to help coordinate daily news video that would be needed by Dan and Stu. Under the circumstances, not expecting to be on TV, I wore a casual shirt and did not bother to shave.
Given that I had some basic laptop editing skills, I had offered to be a good, cost-conscious soldier and edit my own stories when Dan was occasionally away. Even though I was slow and not confident, I would be starting early so it should have been an easy day.
After my day at the office, I had, most unusually, plans to go out. My cousin Suzie’s dad, Tom, was in town, visiting from Ireland, and we were all set to go to a pub that night for dinner.
Just as I was finishing the feature story in late afternoon, however, a bulletin came across on Sky News: Amy Winehouse had just been found dead. Not only was she dead, but she was dead in her Camden home, only a ten-minute walk from where I was sitting. Shit.
Shit, not only because a sublimely talented artist had died tragically before her time, which was very sad indeed, but she died when I was solo in the bureau, without a cameraman-editor. Within seconds the phone rang, and naturally Vancouver needed me to file an obituary. Meanwhile, I was still trying to figure out how to FTP video on the Norway story to Dan and Stu. Beads of sweat started to pop out on my forehead.
Luckily, piles of Winehouse material started moving almost immediately. Various editors at various obit desks at various agencies had evidently deduced that Amy was a prime candidate for an early death and had banked video. Writing and editing the obituary was going to be relatively easy.
Vancouver suggested that perhaps I could send out the story early and then head for the Winehouse home for a live hit into the news program. I pleaded that I was a slow editor and could not be sure I could get it done in time. They persisted.
“Okay, well, I have to tell you that I also haven’t shaved and am wearing a casual shirt. Didn’t know I’d have to be on camera today,” I finally admitted.
“Well … you might have told us that earlier,” said the blunt-spoken resources guy.
By early evening, my story was ready to go. Time to FTP back to Canada. I followed the idiot sheet that I had prepared for myself under Dan’s instruction. It had all gone fine in my practice runs. Now, of course, it was not working. The sweat on my forehead was now joined by moist rings under the armpits.
The resources guy tried to talk me through the procedures over the phone. Still did not work. He went off the line to make inquires. Dan called from Oslo, asking me to resend the video that I had forwarded earlier because there was a sound problem. Now thoroughly flustered, I could not find the video. Sensing the rising panic in my voice, he said reassuringly, “Okay. No worries.” And hung up to deal with his own problems.
It was now ninety minutes to airtime. With the glacial speed of our bureau’s broadband, it could take up to one hour to send a story and have it flip into the system in Vancouver. Finally the resources guy found a solution and the story was en route. I watched its slow progress out of my computer, cursing the concept of FTP and taking long, slow breaths in an effort to slow my heartbeat.
At last it arrived in Canada, apparently on time. Nothing more to do now, except call Suzie and ask her to order me some fish and chips before the kitchen closed at the pub and to get into a taxi.
Suzie’s parents, Tom and Sheila, had lived for many years in London. Now retired, they had bought a cottage on the west coast of Ireland. Tom was Irish and I knew he was a voracious reader of the Irish Times, so I was looking forward to pumping him for story ideas from the old sod.
But as I stumbled, glassy-eyed, into The Vine on Highgate Road, my first priority was to get on the outside of a pint of Guinness. Tom, Suzie, and her partner, James, all listened politely as I breathlessly ranted about my day. As a measure of calm returned, Tom happily expounded on several Irish stories I could do.
Most compelling was the story of the Magdalene Laundries. Generations of so-called “fallen” women were sent, often against their will, into the kind embrace of nuns who then used them effectively as slave labourers, washing clothes for the upper classes in
Ireland. Their plight had only recently come to light, but the attention paid them had been generally overshadowed by the series of scandals involving priests sexually abusing children. This was a story worth telling and I resolved to pitch it to the 16x9 current affairs show.
The night out at the pub was a nice break from the loneliness waiting for me back at the flat. Sunday brought one of the few sunny, truly summery days that I had seen in London. I thought about going to a museum, but it seemed wrong on such a rare day. Instead, I took a book and hiked down to Primrose Hill, partly to scout out playgrounds for Julia, partly just to enjoy one of the most spectacular views of the city. It was teeming with pale Londoners, soaking up rays from that rare visitor: the sun.
That glorious Sunday offered only a brief respite, however. Awaiting me on Monday was another rite of passage for the modern foreign correspondent: hazardous environment training.
Chapter Six
Mr. Wikipedia tells us that there are 366 railway stations in and around London. They vary from grotty little outposts to the glorious expression of British pride that is St. Pancras.
Paddington is among the most storied — the home of a famous teddy bear and the gateway to the Heathrow Express. It is also the starting point for journeys to the southwest. My destination on a bright July Monday was Castle Cary in the heart of Somerset, where, in one of the prettiest corners of England, I was to learn tips on how to keep myself and my colleagues alive when covering stories in danger zones.
I doubt that the brave reporters who splashed ashore with the troops on D-Day, or who trudged through the jungles of Vietnam had to take hazardous environment training programs. While many died or suffered grave injuries, it was usually the result of an accident — caught by a stray bullet or bomb when they were doing their jobs in the midst of battle.
Now, journalists are regularly targeted. Big news organizations have security consultants on staff. The BBC has a detailed protocol that must be followed before crews are deployed into danger zones.
Several security firms, often staffed by former British SAS officers, have popped up to train reporters both in first aid and how to handle themselves in hazardous environments. News organizations cannot get insurance for an employee unless they take the training.
Jonathan, the organizer of my course, was a former cop, soldier, and war crimes investigator in the former Yugoslavia and had spent some time as a security consultant in postwar Baghdad. He advised that my course would begin within moments of getting off the train. There would be fake blood along the way, all perfectly washable, but he recommended that it was best to wear old clothing.
Friends who had taken similar courses warned that I should expect to be kidnapped at some point — blindfolded and pushed into the back of a car. It’s all part of the routine.
Castle Cary is just a tiny rail stop out in the country. Jonathan was waiting for me on the platform, along with Julie — a freelance English producer who would be taking the course with me. As it turned out, we would be the only two.
True to his word, Jonathan got us started immediately, handing over some fake money and directing us to our “fixer,” Mick, who was waiting in the parking lot at the wheel of a battered Land Rover. The scenario was that we were in a troubled nation that sounded very much like Kosovo, with a rebel movement battling an authoritarian government — both sides ruthless.
Jonathan warned us to expect to run into a checkpoint somewhere along the road.
As we drove away, Julie told me that she had been born in Kenya but was brought up in England. Her work was usually with the BBC and Channel 4. Initially, I pegged her as a small-timer, with naive ambitions. How wrong I was. In fact, she had been everywhere — several times to Afghanistan, all through crazy spots in Africa. The reality was that she was the veteran and I the novice. She had already taken several of these courses, but insurance companies require a refresher every few years.
We tried to extract some information from fixer Mick, who had an indeterminate Eastern European accent that we later learned was Romanian. We tried to find out if the border guards would be trigger-happy, would they expect bribes. Mick shrugged and grunted. His role was as an incompetent fixer — one of the hazards of the game.
The “border post” turned out to be a shack beside a rugby field. The guards, speaking broken English, brought us inside and kept us waiting while they scrutinized our passports. I regretted that I had left my day pack in the vehicle.
One of the guards called me up and demanded payment through gesture and muttered gibberish. I pulled out my play money and peeled off a few bills. Later, Julie gave me a useful tip: spread out the cash through different pockets so that it is not obvious how much you are carrying. A lesson too late this time because, sure enough, the guard spotted my wad of cash and motioned to me to add a few more notes.
There was a crack of gunfire, one shot, and then sounds of moaning from outside the door. We ducked down. Julie called to Mick, asking what was happening. No answer.
I crouched below the window, figuring that I was being pretty bright by taking cover out of sight. After a few minutes of uncertainty, Jonathan strolled in and told us that the exercise was over.
In the review afterward Jonathan advised that a bullet from a high-powered rifle would likely pass right through the wall I had been hiding behind and that I really needed to be lying flat on the ground for maximum protection. The first of several occasions that week when I would make a choice that, if it were real life, would have gotten either myself or a colleague killed.
These gruesome scenarios were played out in the heart of a bucolic and storied corner of England. Jonathan, an astute businessman, had clearly reasoned that it would be so much more pleasurable learning how to bind bullet wounds and negotiate with fanatical kidnappers if we were also able to admire the rolling hills of Somerset. In the same vein, he booked us into a beautiful little bed and breakfast called The Yew Tree on the edge of the village of Compton Dundon. Co-owner Sarah, who also worked as a hairdresser in the movie industry, had bought the place three years earlier and had tastefully restored its old farmhouse and the outbuildings to provide accommodations that were both cozy and elegant.
It was in the shadow of an old church and a thousand-year-old yew tree, thus the name. She explained that yews were favoured by pagans as a place of worship, and when the Christians arrived they would often build churches nearby in hopes of attracting new converts. I walked up the hill to have a look, noting the tilted and ancient gravestones in the church cemetery, daydreaming about pagans and Christians comparing spiritual notes in the Middle Ages.
Julie and I agreed to meet a couple of the trainers for supper at the pub in the village, only to discover that the kitchen was closed on Mondays. We arranged to get a lift over to the next village where there was food. Several bottles of wine were consumed through the evening as we exchanged learned and increasingly lubricated opinions on which of the Royals was most and least attractive.
As closing time arrived, we realized that we were several miles away from our bed and breakfast with no car. Here was an unexpected challenge to the resourcefulness of a group who were supposed to be experts in navigating unknown territory. Somerset did not exactly qualify as a conflict zone, but none of us wished to hike for an hour along darkened English country roads.
After some discussion with the pub staff, we offered a young waiter a few quid to give us a lift.
Day Two began with more first aid instruction and then our next field exercise. We piled into the Land Rover and headed off to a nearby wood. The scenario was that we had gotten a tip that a local wanted to talk to us about some mass graves. Along a rutted pathway, we saw smoke ahead. Moving closer, we could see that it was coming from underneath an SUV. A guy spurting fake blood emerged from the brush and pounded on our window, pleading for help and leaving an impressive smear of red on the glass.
We paused for a moment to consider the risks, having been warned that this can often be a ruse
for thieves or kidnappers. But then the bleeder told us he was a TV guy, so we decided to help a fellow journalist.
The more experienced Julie immediately donned the latex gloves that we had been issued before we approached him. He collapsed, in the process squeezing an unseen balloon that sent a geyser of blood gushing from his wound, bypassing Julie and splattering all down the front of my pants. I recalled Jonathan’s assurance that it would be washable.
While she started to treat his wound, one of the trainers suggested that I check the smoking vehicle to see if there was anyone else in need of aid. Sure enough, I found another victim, this one lying on the ground moaning, bleeding from the arm and with a gruesomely broken leg — the bone sticking out from his shin. Unfortunately, our Day One first aid course dealt only with treating simple breaks, not compound fractures. I improvised, binding his leg to a splint with a bandage wrapped directly over the spot where the bone broke the skin, thus producing a lusty scream of agony from my patient. At the end of the exercise, as he pulled off the fake bone fracture, he advised that it is easier on the victim if you cut a hole in the bandage above the wound so you do not add to the misery.
Having survived the morning’s exercise without getting ourselves or anyone else killed, we lunched on the grass outside the meeting hall, munching on sandwiches, enjoying the view, and listening to the next scenario. It was to be another tip about mass graves. This time a local farmer wanted to meet us to talk about it.
Given the morning’s bloodbath, we would have been unlikely to bite if it had been the real world, but, in the spirit of exercise, we decided that it was better to go and see what transpired. Julie reminded me of another helpful tip for this kind of situation: call head office and tell them what you are doing and that we will be in touch at a given time to advise that all is well. That way they know to send out a search party for your bodies if you are late. This was a scenario I rarely faced while covering the Ontario legislature.
