A Straight Line to My Heart

by Bill Condon

  ‘Forget that. Anna’s expecting you there sometime this week.’

  ‘Eughhh.’

  In fifteen minutes we pull up in front of Anna’s surgery. Bull gives Reggie a card with the cop shop’s number on it.

  ‘Someone should be there. Give them a bell when you’re ready. They’ll organise a lift home – don’t try to walk it. Don’t want you dropping dead on the side of the road. This is a tidy town, yer know.’

  Reggie pokes his head through the window.

  ‘See what I gotta put up with, Tiffy? Talk about flamin’ police brutality.’

  ‘Haven’t started on you yet.’ Bull winks at me. ‘You go ahead and walk home, old bloke – I’ve been looking for an excuse to try out the taser.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Reggie slaps the car door. ‘See yer, Tiffy.’

  We drive off quickly. I turn around, watching Reggie as long as I can. He looks unsteady on his feet.

  Tell me again he’s going to be okay, Bull. I say it to myself, but somehow he hears it.

  ‘Stop worryin’, mate.’ His gnarly fist scrapes against my jaw. ‘Anna’ll fix him up.’

  The towns whiz by. Bull eyes the clock on the dash. ‘Should make it right on time. You must be chuffed about this. Finally gettin’ a start at a paper. How’s it feel?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Can’t you do better than that? You have to be excited. You wanted to be a reporter from way back – used to cut stories out of the paper when you were a little girl. Then you’d rearrange them and stick them in a book – made your own newspapers. Remember that?’

  ‘Not me. I’d never do anything that lame.’

  ‘You gotta stop trying to be cool, Tiff. Doesn’t do a thing for me.’

  That’s because you don’t know what cool is, Bull! You’ve never had a cool day in your life! In fact, the only thing cool about you, is me! I almost say those things, but then I remember he’s got a gun.

  ‘This is your dream job,’ he says. ‘You’ve always told me that. Right or wrong?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You’re on a roll. Don’t stop. Now tell me what you’re really feeling.’

  ‘Well . . . I guess I am a little bit excited.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And scared – because it’s all new and I don’t know what I’m going to have to do or what the people will be like . . . but I think it’s a good scared.’

  Bull smiles. It’s like he’s just dragged a confession out of a suspect.

  We’re behind a line of cars at a traffic light when we hear a siren. I see a fire-truck across the road on our left. Cars pull over to let it pass and it sneaks through the lights and speeds off.

  ‘Do you think we should follow it?’ I ask.

  ‘Why would we want to do that?’

  ‘In case it’s a big story. I could write an eyewitness report.’

  ‘You’ve seen too many movies.’

  ‘I’m serious, Bull. The editor said he wanted someone who showed initiative. There’s not going to be a better chance than this.’

  ‘But he’s going the opposite way to us. If we chase after him there’s a good chance you’ll be late for your job.’

  ‘No guts, no story. Please follow him.’

  He turns off the highway, mumbling to himself. And soon we’re on the same road as the fire-truck, but way behind.

  ‘Can you go faster? I can only just see him. We won’t be able to hear his siren in a minute.’

  ‘There’s a speed limit.’

  ‘You’re a cop, Bull. Hello.’

  He grits his teeth and plants his foot down on the accelerator.

  ‘Happy now?’

  ‘That’s much better. What about the siren?’

  ‘No. No. Positively no.’

  ‘Just a short burst to get those cars out of the way – we’re gunna lose him if you don’t. One tiny little–’

  ‘Bloody hell! This is the last time I give you a lift anywhere!’

  Bull hits the siren. Cars slow and shift across lanes to let us through. We soon catch up to the fire-engine guy, who surprises us when he switches off his siren, moves to the side of the road, and stops.

  ‘Oh, jeez.’ Bull covers his face with his hands. ‘He probably thinks I was trying to pull him over.’

  ‘I’ll go and explain it to him,’ I say.

  ‘No you will not. Stay here – I’ll do it.’

  He’s about to get out of the car but changes his mind when the firey hops down from the truck and hurries back to us.

  ‘Everything all right, officer? No problem, is there?’

  Bull leans out the window. ‘No. You’re right, mate. You just keep on your way. Thought I’d follow you to the fire, that’s all – case I can lend a hand.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Right. Yeah . . .’

  This guy is sweating bullets. Nervous as. Even Bull picks up on it.

  ‘Anything wrong, buddy?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, um – to tell you the truth, I wasn’t actually going to a fire. It was more like a drill.’

  ‘A drill, eh?’

  Bull gives me a knowing glance – like he’s saying, ‘we’re on to somethin’ here’ – and gets out of the car.

  ‘Think I might wander over and have a gander at your truck, mate.’ He’s already on his way, the driver trying to keep up. ‘You got some id I can have a look at?’

  Suddenly the fire-engine’s siren begins wailing.

  The firey yells, ‘Rory! No! No! Turn it off!’

  A kid of about six or seven sticks his head out of the window and waves gleefully to us from the fire-truck before the siren is switched off.

  ‘Sorry, officer.’ The guy’s in his sixties but that doesn’t stop his face from lighting up as red as the fire-engine. ‘I’m minding the grandson this morning.’ He shows Bull his id. ‘You know how kids are – he wanted to hear the siren. I was only going to take him around the block.’

  Bull puts on his stern-copper face. ‘Yeah, well, it’s not real good, is it? A man in your position should know better.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You can’t just use community property to take your grandkid on a joyride.’

  ‘It won’t happen again, officer. I promise.’

  Bull folds his arms. Sighs. Glares. And then finally . . .

  ‘All right. I’m going to let it go this once.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, mate – officer. That’s really decent of you.’

  ‘But if I hear any reports about you doin’ this again–’

  ‘You won’t. I swear.’

  ‘Go on. Get back to work then – and leave the kid with someone else next time.’

  The poor firey is still muttering ‘thank you’ as we drive away. I can only manage to wait ten seconds before I laugh.

  ‘Bull, you are such a hypocrite.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but it was fun.’

  Because of the fire-engine detour I don’t make it to the Eagle till quarter past nine. Bull offers to go in with me and say it’s his fault I’m late. I know it’s a nice gesture, but I have to pass. Can’t take the risk of him saying something dumb or tripping over the furniture or accidentally shooting the editor.

  ‘You’re not embarrassed about me, are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course not.’

  Just drive away real fast so they don’t see I’ve turned up in a cop car.

  ‘Sorry i’m late.’

  The editor’s name is Andrew Matthews. He’s a big unit, same scale as Bull, except that he’s got a belly you could sit a vase of flowers on. And he’s maybe ten years older, and bald, and his glasses are way big and behind them are small green eyes that are staring at me.

 
‘Late on your first day? That’s not a very promising start.’

  His feet are up on the desk and his hands are behind his head as he slowly rocks back and forth. I wasn’t going to mention the fire-engine because it didn’t quite work out the way I’d hoped, but he looks at me as though he’d be disappointed if he didn’t get an excuse.

  ‘There was a fire-engine, Mr Matthews. That’s why I’m a fraction late.’

  ‘Oh, I see. And why would that make you late?’

  ‘Well, it went past us and the siren was going, so I decided to follow it in case there was a major fire. When we talked on the phone you said to show some initiative.’

  ‘Ah. And was there a fire?’

  ‘Um, I don’t think so, no, not quite.’

  ‘Oh well. Never mind – tomorrow’s another day.’

  I’m not quite sure what he means by that but I have a feeling sarcasm might be involved. Pressing on, I hand him a folder.

  ‘There’s a few references there.’ One’s from Bull – don’t know if that’s allowed or not seeing as he’s hardly impartial. ‘And a copy of my Year 12 results.’

  He drops the folder on the desk without looking at it.

  ‘Good.’ He lifts his feet off the desk and stands up. ‘Now we better get you organised. You would have met Nancy when you came in?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Anything you want to know, Nancy’s the one.’ He opens the door and ushers me out. ‘I’ll be around today but after that you won’t see much of me. Head office has me booked in at an editors’ seminar most of the week. But you’ll be working with a very experienced journalist. One of the best.’

  He calls out to the only person in sight.

  ‘Shark.’

  A lanky, silver-haired guy glances up from his computer. I’m betting he slept in his clothes. Needs a shave and a haircut and a good soak in the fountain of youth. Looks like an unloved antique.

  ‘That’d be me. What can I do you for?’

  ‘Got a new starter for you.’ The editor pats me on the shoulder – or is it a push out the door? ‘Off you go, girl. Oh, and by the way, the name’s Andrew – not Mr Matthews.’

  I want to tell him my name’s not ‘girl’, it’s Tiff. Not brave enough.

  The antique stands up, waiting for me like a gentleman.

  ‘Hi, I’m–’ That’s as far as I get.

  ‘You’d have to be work experience, wouldn’t you?’

  I admit that I am – I can tell he’s not too thrilled about it – but I still blather on about maybe getting a cadetship, if–

  That’s as far as I get. Again.

  ‘This’ll be your computer. Ever used a computer before?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I don’t mean for playing games – Facebook or Twitter or any of that stuff. You ever used a computer for writing?’

  ‘All the time. I write short stories and poetry, and I’ve tried doing a novel but it hasn’t worked out yet. I’m thinking I might write a play.’

  ‘That so?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, good for you. But you can forget about all that now. It’s crap. Did you see the sign out the front? This is the Eagle. It’s a newspaper. What we do is news. No fairies. No vampires. No goblins. Meat-and-potato news. How’s that grab yer?’

  ‘Um . . . good.’

  He thrusts a hand at me. ‘They call me The Shark. You know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because when I sniff blood – I go for it. I circle a story and I wait. Then I strike. They call me The Shark.’

  ‘They call me Tiff.’

  The Shark grunts as we shake hands.

  ‘I can teach you everything there is to know about newspapers; been at this game forty years. But let’s cut to the chase – get the most important thing out of the way first.’ He hands me a grotty, brown-stained cup. ‘I take my tea strong; milk, no sugar. Kitchen’s out the back. You’ll find the urn is boiling right now.’

  My first thought is to tell him to go jump in the urn – Bull and Reggie would never treat me like this – but instantly I suppress that impulse. He’s my boss and I’m a work-experience girl – the lowest of the low. I get the feeling I’m going to be seeing a lot of the kitchen.

  ‘Okay . . . Shark.’

  At the urn I run into Nancy again. We talked briefly when I first got here.

  ‘I see Richard already has you making his tea for him. He doesn’t waste any time.’

  ‘Is Richard the same as the Shark?’

  ‘Oh yes. Richard Park, that’s his real name. Poor old Shark. I think he made that name up himself. We humour him. Takes himself far too seriously, that man. Between you and me I think he’s more like a goldfish than a shark. If he called himself Guppy I could see the sense in it.’

  Once I’ve delivered the Shark’s tea – in a freshly washed cup, which he doesn’t notice – Nancy ‘borrows’ me for a minute so I can meet the rest of the staff. There are only three of them. Two are ad reps: Sue and Warren. They’re both on the phone so I only get a nod, but that’s okay as I’m told I won’t be having much to do with them. They’re in a separate part of the office to us.

  ‘But you will be seeing a lot of my good friend here,’ Nancy says.

  Jordie, the photographer: smouldering blue eyes, thick shoulder-length black hair.

  ‘My kids go to kinder with his,’ Nancy adds. ‘His wife, Emma, teaches there. Lovely family.’

  I don’t really like smouldering blue eyes that much anyway.

  ‘Great to know you.’ He half whispers, like he’s telling me a secret. ‘Now stand just over here.’ He positions me against a door. ‘And let me see a smile.’

  One wall of the kitchen is covered with photos.

  ‘That’s the rogues’ gallery,’ Nancy explains. ‘Every person who’s ever worked at the Eagle is up there.’

  I hate having my photo taken but before I can wriggle out of it, Jordie points his camera and clicks.

  ‘You’ll be there with the rest of the troops by this afternoon, Tiff.’ He gives me a thumbs-up. ‘Welcome to the Eagle.’

  By nine-forty I’m back at my desk and ready to work. The Shark is hard at it, punching out stories so fast it’s a wonder the computer isn’t smoking. I log on, type in the password I’ve been given, and wait to be told what to do next. No one tells me a thing.

  At ten-forty the Shark goes to the loo. A thesaurus on the desk catches my attention. Inside the cover it says: To: Richard Park. From: Richard Park. He gives a book to himself and writes an inscription, like it’s a present? That is sad. I delve further inside and on the very first page I come to, there’s a squashed cockroach. It’s long dead but its antenna sticks up in the air like it’s waving at me. Gross!

  I dump the book and pounce on the Shark when he comes back.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘What you’re doing is brilliant. Winning formula. Don’t change a thing.’

  ‘But I’m not doing–’

  ‘Sweetheart, I got a crook hip and today it’s giving me all kinds of curry. But I haven’t got time to feel sorry for myself because I’ve got a paper to put out. Stopping to hold your hand just isn’t on. We’ll sit down and have a cosy chat tomorrow, when it isn’t deadline day.’

  He starts belting on the keys again but when he feels my eyes burning into the back of his head, he spins his chair around and faces me.

  ‘Look, if you’re desperate for something to do, go see Andrew. He’s bound to have a job for you. And I just thought of one, too – you can bring me another cup of tea on the way back – ta.’

  It’s becoming very clear why he has to buy his own presents. He’s not a shark, he’s not a guppy – he’s a pig.

  I knock on t
he editor’s door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Er. The Shark said’ – I feel so stupid saying that – ‘you might have some work for me.’

  ‘It’s quite possible. Let me have a look.’

  He peers around his desk. At least I think it’s a desk. It might be just one ginormous pile of papers.

  ‘Ah. A press release from our beloved mayor. Burkie’s always after some free publicity.’ He looks it over and then pushes it towards me. ‘Probably a thousand words in that. Cut it down to five pars. About a hundred words.’

  I stand there, staring pathetically, trying to get him to read my mind.

  ‘Any questions?

  ‘No . . . not really.’

  He frowns. ‘Pars are paragraphs.’

  I nod, probably too many times.

  ‘When you finish, print it out and bring it over. I’ll have a look at it, see if it’s up to scratch.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Matthews, er, Andrew. Thanks.’

  As soon as the Shark is fuelled up again with tea, I attack the press release – hacking away mercilessly. In only half an hour I get it down to seven hundred words. After an hour I pare it right back till it’s impossible to lose even another full stop.

  ‘It’s about five hundred words.’ I stand in front of Andrew’s desk. ‘Hope that’s all right. I know it’s more than what you wanted but I couldn’t cut out any more. I don’t think anyone could – but I fitted it all into five pars, like you said.’

  Putting on his glasses, he reads my effort for at least three seconds, then drops it back on the desk and focuses on his computer as if I’m not there.

  This is sooo infuriating. say something! I scream at him.

  Mentally, of course.

  And then, without even looking at me, and very softly, he does say something.

  ‘Do it again.’

  That’s the same response he gives to my next two attempts.

  do it again!

  On the third rejection I flounce back to my desk and flop down as noisily as possible, mad as hell, and utterly defeated.

  The Shark turns and raises an eyebrow.

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘I can’t write this stupid press release. No matter how I do it, it’s wrong – it’s always wrong!’