Bay of Martyrs

by Tony Black

  ‘What’s going to happen to Frank Anderson?’ she asked.

  While Clay had been buried in his office, Bec had overheard discussions between the editor and deputy editor about the resultant stories Clay was churning out. Usually they were ecstatic with what they read, but Clay’s unexpurgated details about Frank Anderson’s involvement in the killings had given them conniptions. Accusations of cover-ups and providing a killer with a gun were pretty big rocks to throw at a senior police officer. The lawyers had been called in, but Clay had stood by his story and in the end they’d sided with what Clay wrote, fingers crossed that it was one hundred per cent true.

  ‘Last I heard, he was dodging some stuff, pleading ineptitude on other parts,’ said Clay. ‘He’s claiming he didn’t cover anything up, that he was just incompetent. My interviews with a few of his fellow officers are suggesting that’s not the whole truth, but as much as they’re trying to throw him under the bus, the fat bastard will probably escape with a demotion.’

  Bec could hear the bitterness in Clay’s voice. It was the only part of the story that hadn’t wrapped up neatly for him and she knew the personal animosity between the reporter and the policeman would only grow. There was unfinished business there, despite Clay’s best efforts to take Anderson down.

  ‘And what are you going to do now?’

  Clay blew a long plume of smoke into the air. ‘I’m going to take a few days off; I think I’ve earnt them. Tudor’s letting me have Monday and Tuesday off.’

  ‘Your stuff’s still at my house.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Never did get to spend that night on your couch, did I?’

  Bec smiled. ‘Where have you been sleeping?’

  ‘Tudor put me up at the motel next to the office. I think his conscience kicked in. Either that, or he didn’t want anyone finding out that his star journalist was homeless.’

  ‘You’re still welcome to crash at my place.’

  Clay gave her a quizzical look. ‘You know, I half expected you to hand in your resignation and skip town after everything that happened,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed ya.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said, with a tiny hint of defiance in her voice. ‘I kinda like it here now things have quietened down a bit.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the offer, but I might see how long Tudor’s largesse lasts for now. Having my room cleaned for me every day ain’t a bad thing. In the meantime, I’ve got a lead on a couple of apartments that… oh, crap.’

  Clay’s train of thought had been derailed by something in his line of sight and Bec spun around in her chair to see what it was. It was Clay’s face, larger than life, on one of the big screen TVs looking down over the smoker’s lounge. He’d been a fixture of news broadcasts and current affairs programmes for the last few days. She let out a laugh.

  ‘You look alright on television,’ she teased.

  ‘Ha. They must have got my good side.’

  ‘Actually, you’re looking better than I’ve seen for a while.’

  Her compliment appeared to catch Clay off guard and he looked embarrassed for a second. ‘I’m sleeping better,’ he said. ‘The bad dreams have stopped. At the risk of sounding like a nutcase, I feel like Kerry Collins is satisfied and is leaving me alone.’

  Bec met his gaze and something like an unspoken thought passed between them; after all that had happened there was no escaping the hurt Kerry Collins’ death had caused. Clay took a sip of his beer and his usual mask of bravado slipped back into place. ‘Now if only the news crews would leave me alone,’ he said, frowning at the TV.

  Bec looked around the lounge to see if anyone was paying attention to the screens or if they had noticed Clay was there. No one so much as looked at him. In this setting, with his cigarette and his pint, he was anonymous, despite being one of the week’s biggest newsmakers.

  Then Bec spied the young girl; she seemed barely old enough to be in a pub. She was standing near the door to the lounge with a backpack over one shoulder, long dark hair down to her shoulders, and dressed in a T-shirt and jeans that highlighted her slim physique. She was looking up at the screen and across to Clay, then back up to the screen. Bec turned to Clay but he hadn’t noticed the girl, and when Bec looked back at her she was making her way towards them.

  ‘Hi,’ said the girl as she stopped at their table.

  Clay stubbed out his cigarette and gave her a polite smile. ‘Hi.’

  ‘That’s you, isn’t it? On the TV.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

  ‘Clayton Moloney?’

  ‘Yeah. And you are?’

  The girl ignored the question or didn’t notice it, too lost in her own thoughts, like she had rehearsed what she was going to say. ‘You’ve been on the news for the last few days. You saw those people get shot.’

  Bec noticed it before Clay did. There was something in the way she spoke, her mannerisms, a look in her eyes. Oh, my God, she thought, her gaze darting between Clay and the girl.

  ‘Yeah, I saw them get shot. It wasn’t pretty.’ Clay looked at the girl as if trying to figure something out. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I guess you don’t.’ She took a deep breath and forced a nervous-looking smile. ‘I’m, well, I think… I’m your daughter.’