Ben Ryder - Englishmen 3 - Released

by Ben Ryder

  Two of his bodyguards walked through the door and formed a barrier, followed by Johannson and his remaining men. He was efficiently enveloped by security, but the scene was absolute chaos. Reporters were shoving microphones and voice recorders through the gaps and over the shoulders

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  of the bodyguards. Cameramen held their gear high and low to get a glimpse of the tycoon, but his entourage was too tight to get a permanent fix on his face.

  Scores of journalists shouted their questions. “Is your son gay?” “Do you have a comment about your son’s arrest?” “Did you know your son was a homosexual?” “Will your son still serve on the board of directors?” “How will this affect your views on the gay community?”

  I searched the bank of screens. An eager cameraman from MSNBC had pushed his lens over the shoulders of two of the minders. They didn’t have enough hands to keep all of them at bay. Howard Johannson looked aggravated and mad as hell. He pursed his lips and his nostrils flared as he tried to stifle the fury he wanted to scream at the reporters.

  “Someone doesn’t look happy,” Alex said. The racket on screen did nothing to conceal the relish in his voice.

  A black Mercedes wheeled close to the curb in front of the building. Johannson was only feet away, but the old man was stuck in place as his henchmen continued to battle the army of screaming reporters. The bodyguard directly in front of Johansson physically shoved people out of his way to clear a line to the car.

  The shuffle of the ring of bodyguards came to an abrupt halt. Above the din of the reporters, the driver of the Mercedes could be heard shouting at a news van that had parked in the road in front of him, blocking the car in place.

  A camera broke through the bodyguards and zoomed in on Johannson. He was grimacing and tugging at his collar with a boney index finger. For a moment, I was reminded of a performer on stage with a tough audience. He looked more and more flushed as his anger showed. Then the crowd lurched and Johannson disappeared.

  169The shouts demanding comments became

  indistinguishable and a wall of bodies blocked all sight of him. Then one bodyguard broke free from the mob and furiously tapped into his cell phone. His exit created a gap just large enough for one camera to get through.

  Howard Johansson lay on his side on the concrete sidewalk, clutching his chest. His face contorted in pain. Was this real?

  The sheer agony slowly faded from his face, and for a moment, it looked like the episode had passed. But then his rigid body went limp.

  The noise of the reporters was hushed, but the cameras didn’t move. One of the bodyguards rolled the old man on his back and began to thrust down on his chest, administering CPR. In an ironic twist, the reporters stepped back to give the man more space as the other bodyguards joined him.

  We were transfixed by the screen as the guard placed his mouth over the old man’s, giving him bursts of air between the compressions. Johannson’s glazed eyes were still open, but looked vacant. It was clear he wasn’t responding.

  “Surely they aren’t going to show him actually die,” Jackie gasped, shaking her head slowly. “I can’t watch this.”

  I turned away, too, as did others. But Alex remained hypnotized by the screen. He had a faraway look, like he’d entered a parallel dimension. I gently placed a hand over his crossed arms and pulled him away.

  “Don’t watch this,” I said in a whisper. I felt his muscles contract, and he momentarily resisted. But then his arms fell to his side, and he turned away with me.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” he asked in a jarringly matter-of-fact tone.

  170“I don’t know,” I said as I led him out of the office and to

  the elevator. “But if he is, this isn’t where you want to be when you find out.” We didn’t speak in the elevator as it dropped to the lobby. When the doors opened, Alex didn’t move. He remained rooted to the spot, as though his knees were locked and he was in a trance. I softly ushered him forward until his legs moved again.

  We headed across the street to Starbucks. I left him at an outside table, staring into space, while I fetched us both coffees. When I returned, he was tracing the pattern of the wrought iron table with the tip of his finger. We sat in silence for a minute as Alex gathered his thoughts.

  After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke. “I’ve wished death on that man so many times. But now….” His voice trailed off, and he returned his eyes to the table.

  I didn’t want to stare at him in this state, so I took out my phone and pulled up the latest headlines. So far, the news outlets were only reporting that Howard Johannson had collapsed.

  “I can’t believe it,” Alex continued. “I never thought this would happen. I thought I might be able to shame him, and he might be forced to defend his son. I hoped that the things he’d said and done in the past would come back to haunt him, to humiliate him. I wanted to see him suffer the way I did.” He looked at me with pleading eyes. “But he was never going to, was he?”

  I slowly shook my head. Alex would never have been able to replicate his pain. There was no way to compare the situations.

  “I’m just so angry,” he said.171

  “I know, and you have good reason to be. It’s easier to cope with being angry than being sad.”

  Alex’s head tilted to the side, and his eyes went out of focus as he lost himself in thought again.

  I quickly refreshed the page on my phone, but the reports hadn’t changed.

  I set my phone down on the table, which broke his concentration. He looked at me, and his brows raised as though he was seeing me for the first time. “Dominic, I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.”

  “It’s going to be okay. It can’t go much further. Well, at least not with respect to what you said about Reed. It’s not as though Johannson can cry libel when his son has just been caught with his pants down. Literally.”

  “And what I said about his wife?”

  “Well, you did only say it was alleged,” I reminded him. “Anyway, what can he do? He’s lost all credibility.”

  “But that’ll only make him worse than he is now. He’ll still be gunning for us, probably more now than before.” He lowered his head and laced his fingers.

  I refreshed the page on my phone again.

  “Not anymore, Alex. He’s dead.”

  THE rest of the day was a blur. After hearing the news, we returned to the office. The place was a hive of activity, but neither Alex nor I paid much attention. Clive noticed our return and beckoned us to his office. I was still wary of facing him, but reluctantly followed Alex into the glass box.

  172“You two look like hell. We’ve got things covered here, so

  why don’t you take off?” Clive sounded fatherly. It was a shift from his recent commanding voice, but I knew it was for Alex’s benefit.

  Alex didn’t even put up a fight. He was drained and couldn’t struggle anymore. He nodded his assent and shuffled out of Clive’s office.

  “Look after him, will you?” Clive said to me with genuine concern on his face. I nodded solemnly and made my way back to my desk. Jackie was engrossed in her work, or at least she was pretending to be. I was sure she wanted to ask what was going on, how Alex was doing, how I was feeling. But she left it. There would be plenty of time for questions later.

  I quietly grabbed my rucksack and joined Alex, who was already heading for the door.

  “If it’s not too much to ask, would you walk with me? I just don’t feel like being alone right now,” Alex said in a meek voice.

  “Lead the way.”

  We wandered the streets of Manhattan in step with each other, though neither of us spoke. At first, I thought he was aimlessly roaming, but then I recognized his neighborhood. As we walked up to the entrance of his building, I paused. What did he want me to do?

  As though he read my mind, Alex asked, “Want to come up?”

  I was glad he wanted me around, because I was genuinely worried for him. We took the stai
rs to his floor and headed to his apartment.

  173“Make yourself at home. There’s beer in the fridge. I

  need to get out of this getup,” he said, raising his suit jacket with two fingers like it was toxic. “I’ll be right back.” I walked over to the refrigerator and found two beers and popped their tops with the opener stuck on the door with a magnet. I returned to the living room and took a seat on the sofa. I sipped my beer and waited. There were a few photo albums on the coffee table, each one open and displaying various pictures. My eyes stopped on a photo of a smiling Alex, standing with his arm over the shoulder of a young, good-looking guy on a beach.

  Alex walked into the room, dressed in pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt like he was ready for bed.

  “Better?” I asked

  “Much.” He grabbed the open beer on the counter and sat next to me. His eyes paused at the sight of the photo.

  “Is that Ted?” I asked, pointing to the picture.

  “Yeah. That was taken in St. Barts.”

  I didn’t know what to say. You look like you were a great couple? He was a handsome-looking guy? Everything that came to mind was past tense, and it didn’t feel right, like I’d only be drawing attention to the fact that Ted was gone.

  Alex smiled but then closed the photo album, leaving me feeling like I’d intruded into his past.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No, no. It’s fine. It’s just been a long day. While I was changing, I got an e-mail from Clive telling me to take as much time as I want, so long as I’m back in by Monday.”

  “That was generous of him.” I laughed feebly. We both took a swig from our bottles. I wasn’t too sure if I should ask what was on his mind. But I decided I had to. “Did Clive

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  know the reason you went after Johannson? I mean, did he know about Ted?” “Yeah,” Alex said slowly. “He’s known about my personal vendetta against that man ever since I arrived at the paper five years ago. Clive understood. He’s done a few stories where he had a legitimate ax to grind.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d been working on the story for so long.”

  “I’ve been gathering information about Johannson ever since Ted died. Whenever I was having a particularly hard time, missing him, or when I felt lonely, it kept me busy. The distraction helped me cope a little better. But I could never gather enough hard evidence to really hit him the way I wanted to. When I found the source in DC, I thought, ‘Finally! The proof I need.’ Then the prick fucked me over and refused to give me the hard copies.”

  I nodded and quietly looked away. Alex knew what I was thinking.

  “I know you’re still mad with me,” he said, putting his hand on my knee. “I was desperate after losing that source, and when you told me about Reed, I just reacted. Okay, overreacted. I wasn’t thinking. The rage has consumed me for too long. I truly am sorry, Dominic.”

  “Did it help? The article, the fallout, all of it? I mean, do you feel any better?”

  “No. I think that’s why Clive is giving me the time off. I need to clear my head and get my thoughts in order. Right now, they just seem more muddled than ever.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve made me think a lot about Reed Johansson. It was wrong of me to drag him into this, I know that now. I

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  never should have outed him. I was trying to get to his father, not him. But when I was writing the story, his feelings were the last thing on my mind. I feel guilty as fuck for what I must have put him through. But if he’d already been out—”

  “Oh, come on, Alex, you know that’s not the point. It was his decision to make, not yours,” I said in a soft voice so my words didn’t sound so harsh.

  “I know.” Alex dragged his hands down his face and sighed. “I’m well aware of the role I played in this mess. I know I contributed to Howard Johannson’s death. But there’s a part of me—and I’m not very proud of it—that’s kind of glad. That’s what’s fucking with my head the most.”

  “Why?”

  “I only wanted to humiliate him. The story was meant to hurt his public persona. I know Johansson wasn’t the one that was driving the car that hit Ted. I know that, I always have. It was an accident. But I hated Johannson for his ferocity against gay rights. Because of that man, Ted died alone. He must have been so scared.” Alex looked like he was on the verge of tears again.

  “Well, look at the irony. Ted may have died alone, but I’m pretty sure the worst thing for Johannson would be to die in public. For a man like him, it must have been the ultimate humiliation. The entire world witnessed his greatest weakness.”

  Alex pondered this for a moment. “So does that make us even?”

  “Of course not. Even if he’d survived the heart attack, there was nothing you could do to make him suffer the way you did. And now he never will.”

  176Another awkward silence passed as Alex processed my

  words. “I know I have to move on.” The light reflected a small tear in the corner of his Alex’s eye. “All the while I worked on the story, it felt like I was keeping Ted alive. And now I know I have to let him go.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s true, not entirely.”

  “But how do I move on if I don’t? It’s been six years.” “Alex, so much of your memory of Ted has been

  wrapped up in anger. You need to let that go. Remember him with the thousands of good memories you have,” I said, pointing to the photo albums, “not the one bad one. I’m sure you’ll find coping with his death easier that way.”

  I realized my words were true of the death of my relationship and the anger I felt toward Richard. Alex smiled at me, but tears slid gently down his cheek. He reached for the photo album and began to turn the pages. He found one of their first pictures together and told me how it came about.

  I took his hand and let him tell me about the good times.

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  Epilogue

  WHY me? I thought to myself. I was sitting in Reed Johannson’s office, the one he’d taken over from his father. Howard Johansson’s funeral had been held less than a week before, yet here I sat, in the office of the man whose downfall I unwittingly helped precipitate.

  Two days before, I’d received a message on my Outlook account that started the chain of events that led to my being there.

  To:BritBiker121@outlook.com From:UpperEast90@outlook.com Subject: A request.

  Can we talk? On the record.

  Several e-mails shuttled back and forth. Then, after spending an entire afternoon in the glass office with Clive, Alex, and one of the paper’s attorneys, I got the green light for an exclusive interview with Reed Johannson.

  Although he’d approved Alex’s story, Clive obviously was left shaken. He wasn’t keen on the prospect of The Ledger walking back into the den of the family whose highest goal, until very recently, was to shut down his newspaper. But even Alex agreed that being granted the interview could only help the paper’s reputation.

  178Alex sat down with me and gave me a list of questions.

  After all, this wasn’t the type of interview I was used to, and he knew the subject matter far more intimately—in every sense but one—than I did. I knew he wanted to conduct the interview himself, but he didn’t kick up a fuss when the attorney flat out refused. Clive agreed, for fear that any change in the arrangements might make the new CEO of the Johansson Corporation think twice about the exclusive.

  For my part, I would have preferred to let Alex do the interview too. Part of me thought Reed Johansson requested the interview purely to get me on my own so he could chastise me for ruining his life and contributing to his father’s death. But I couldn’t focus on that. This was a way, at least partially, to redeem myself in Clive’s eyes. And maybe even Alex’s.

  So there I sat, in an oversized, high-back chair upholstered in supple leather. Though it was bright outside, the room seemed cavernous and dark. Small specks of dust danced in the near-solid streams of sunlight pourin
g in from the tall windows, but the light was enveloped by the burgundy walls and dark, crimson carpeting. Between the carpets and the tapestries flanking the windows, there was a muffled, claustrophobic atmosphere, despite the high ceilings.

  The question echoing through my head finally came out loud. “Why me?”

  Reed, as he had insisted I call him, leaned forward and switched on the tape recorder I’d placed on his desk. The lawyers instructed me to keep it on from the moment I entered the building so they would have evidence of anything said that might be questioned after the article went into

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  print. But I left it off when I arrived, as I didn’t want the more awkward conversation we were sure to have on tape. “How are you?” he asked, as though he hadn’t heard my first question.

  He sat behind the large mahogany desk, which I recognized from the photo on the second page of Alex’s article, but it didn’t dwarf him the way it did his father. He was in an Oxford shirt, but the top button was undone, and there was no tie. There was a softness to him I didn’t expect, especially now that I knew more about him and his background. He was still as handsome as ever, but now he also appeared charming and casual. He looked relaxed, comfortable, and strangely pleased to see me.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I said, still a little guarded.

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”