by Amy Cross
TODAY
Standing at the window in the front room, Mary stared out at the dark garden, her eyes fixed on the mailbox by the gate. She had no doubt that there'd be another white envelope in there soon, probably with threats and photos, and part of her just wanted her tormentor to get it over with and reveal everything. She was quite certain that neither Andy or Carol were the culprits, so there was no-one else left to suspect.
If Donald had let information slip, it could have been to anyone.
“I should have left you that night,” she whispered. “Then again... Maybe it was all worth it. If we hadn't stayed together, we'd never have had -”
Hearing Sophie coming down the stairs, she turned and looked over at the door. She took a deep breath, determined to calm her nerves, and then she headed over to the table and picked up the DVD that they were planning to watch. It looked like some god-awful thriller, but she figured she should just let Sophie choose. She couldn't remember the last time the pair of them had simply stayed in and watched a film together, and she was surprised by how desperately she wanted to just be in the same room as her daughter. They even had a bottle of red wine to share, which would be Mary's first proper drink since Donald's death.
“Are you ready?” she asked her daughter as she entered the room. “I can -”
Pausing, she saw that there were tears in Sophie's eyes again.
“Sweetheart, if -”
“I just got an email from some journalist,” she replied, her voice trembling with emotion as she took a seat on the sofa. “Some fucking arse at one of those fucking tabloid rags. Sorry about the swearing, Mum, but I just really want to rip someone's head off right now.”
“A journalist got in touch? Is it about your father?”
“About Dad? Why would it be about Dad? It's about those fucking photos Tom put up.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Wait, what? Why would -”
“They're gonna publish some tomorrow,” she replied, staring at the blank TV screen. “They'll put black bars over certain parts, but...” She took a deep breath, as if she was trying to hold back the tears. “People'll just go online and find them anyway. Apparently they think it's a public interest story. Public interest my ripe arse, it's about perverts getting their rocks off on the loo.”
“No,” Mary replied, “they can't do that, its illegal! What about your right to privacy? What about copyright?”
“They don't care. They'll just do it and assume that no-one can raise enough money to fight back, and then if I do make a squeak they'll just throw some money my way to shut me up. None of the other papers are quite that bad, but this one... They're just the lowest of the low. I swear, they don't even try to act like they care.”
“We can stop them,” Mary said firmly. “A national newspaper can't be allowed to humiliate someone like this!”
“They can and they will,” Sophie replied. “They do it every day. It doesn't matter, though. I won't let them stop me. I'll just use it as a platform to make a bigger fuss.” She turned to her mother. “I won't let this break me. By the time this is over, I'm going to make sure everyone's talking about this issue. I didn't ask for this to happen to me, but I swear to God I'll just become stronger. People won't start calling for change until they see just how low these fucktards are willing to go.”
Mary stared at her, unable to come up with a response.
“It's okay,” Sophie added, sniffing back more tears. “I'm fine. I'll beat these bastards at their own game. If Dad was here... It's what he'd want me to do. Dad always said that it's important to stand up for what you believe in. That's what I'm doing.”
“Your father would pull strings and have the newspapers stopped,” Mary pointed out.
“I wouldn't let him. Not now. Someone has to stand up and speak out, and I guess I'm going to have to be that person. If a bunch of wankers want to jerk off to the pictures, let them. Fuck them. I'm going to turn this into a positive experience that changes the way the world works.”
“But if -”
“Can we just watch the movie?” she asked finally, wiping her eyes. “I want to get my mind off all of this.”
After taking the DVD out of its care, Mary headed over to the player. Her hands were shaking so much, she could barely find the right buttons, but finally she got the disc loaded.
“Who's Sarah?” Sophie asked suddenly.
Mary turned to her.
“I heard you last night,” Sophie continued, “you were talking in your sleep. You said the name Sarah a few times. I've never heard you mention a Sarah before, that's all.”
“Sarah? Oh, she was just someone your father and I knew a long time ago, that's all.”
“A friend?”
“Yes,” she lied, heading over to the sofa and taking a seat. “She passed away long before you were born.”
“Sorry. That sucks.”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
“But did she -”
“Shall we watch the film?” Mary asked pointedly, keen to end the discussion. “It's getting late and we don't want to be up past midnight, do we? Now, how about a big glass of wine?”
“I don't mind being up past midnight,” Sophie told her. “I'm too wired to sleep anyway.”
“Well, you'll be on your own,” Mary told her as she poured. “I have to go out tomorrow, and I might be gone all day. I'm afraid I have to go and see someone in London.”
“But you hate going to London.”
“Well,” she replied, setting the bottle down and taking a large sip of wine, “sometimes one just has to do things that one would rather not.”
PART FOUR
TODAY
“Of course I know who you are,” said the reporter, Robert Shirley, as he led Mary across the newsroom. “I used to cover the Westminster scene for a few of the broadsheets before I was down-sized and ended up in tabloid-land. Your husband was something of a political titan during the late eighties and early nineties.”
“That's certainly how he styled himself,” she replied, stepping into Robert's office.
“I've got to admit,” he continued, shutting the door and heading over to his desk, “I was expecting some contact from your family, but I assumed it would be via your lawyers. This is -”
“Let's cut the preamble,” she said firmly. “I know about the story you're going to run concerning my daughter, and I'm here to stop you.”
“Right.” Taking a seat, he smiled. “It's a little more complicated than that, Mrs. Heaton, we -”
“It's not complicated at all,” she replied, interrupting him. “It's simple. You are going to spike that story, and that's simply not up for negotiation.”
“Sit down, please.”
“No.”
“Mrs. Heaton -”
“I know how this game works,” she continued. “I'm not naive, I was involved in the political scene since you were in long-pants. I also know how the media works, and I know that photographs of naked young women sell papers by the truckload to perverts up and down the country. I also understand that those photographs are online now and that they'll never, ever go away. My daughter will be haunted by them for the rest of her life. If I could change that fact, I would, but I can't. I can, however, prevent you from drawing further attention to them by running your story.”
“I'm not sure there's -”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she added. “I know appealing to your conscience alone won't stop you, but I hope you rot in hell for the misery you bring to people. What happened to the day when journalists actually covered real news?”
“Is there anything else, Mrs. Heaton?” he asked, forcing a smile. “I'm a very busy man and -”
“Scrap the story,” she replied, interrupting him again, “and I will give you one to replace it.”
“Right... Okay, I'm listening.”
“This tabloid, does it cover political scandals?”
“Sometimes. Depends what they involve. Our readers prefer the
juicy stuff.”
“I have a scandal for you,” she continued, reaching into her pocket and taking out a brown envelope, from which she removed a sheet of paper. “I have a friend who's a lawyer,” she explained, “and he's helped me to draw up this watertight contract. If we both sign it, I will deliver a story, Mr. Shirley, that will put your name back on the map. Perhaps you'll publish it with this newspaper, or perhaps you'll go to one of the biggest papers in the land, I don't care, but it will be sensational. It will lead every news bulletin for days and it will redefine how a great man is regarded by the world. And all you have to do, in order to acquire this story and all the proof you could possibly require, is to promise that you won't run a story about my daughter and those awful photographs.”
He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her.
“Go on,” he said finally.
“Sign,” she replied.
“I need to know what story I'd be getting first. The one involving your daughter, Mrs. Heaton, has actual nudity and -”
“So does the story I'm offering you.”
“It does?”
She nodded.
“And why are you bringing it to me today?”
“To try to buy back just a little decency and privacy for my daughter,” she replied, forcing herself to hold back the tears, “and to bring out the truth. It's going to be extremely uncomfortable and humiliating for me, but I've held back and held back until I can barely even breathe. I'd have held on until my dying day, but now I see that I can use this secret to obtain something far more important than my own peace of mind. I can help the only person in this whole world who matters to me anymore.”
“Right.” He paused. “If this story is as big as you suggest, I'd need photographs.”
“You'll get them.”
“I'd need permission to print them.”
“You'll get that too.”
“I'd need to interview you, and quote from you, and record that interview for our website.”
“Is that strictly necessary?”
“It is.”
“Then...” She paused for a moment, hating the idea but fully aware that she had no choice. “Then you'll get it. I'm tired of hiding.”
“Is this story about your husband, or is it about -”
“It's about him.” She paused again. “And me. Both of us, together.”
“Your husband has a great legacy,” he continued. “Are you sure you want to trample all over it?”
“Of course I don't want to, but for Sophie... I've made my decision, it was difficult but it's settled and I don't need you to counsel me on its possible consequences. Just agree to cut the story about my daughter and I'll tell you everything else.”
“You know the photos of her will still be out there, don't you?”
“If even one less person sees them as a result of what I tell you today, then that is more than enough for me.”
“You're scared,” he replied. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I'm not scared, Mr. Shirley. I'm terrified.”
“But you'll do all of this for her?”
“And more. I would lay down my life for that girl.”
“Then maybe you should start by sitting in that chair and telling me a little more. If the story you're peddling is really as scandalous as you're suggesting, I think we might be able to come to an agreement.”
“Do you know how my husband made the money that allowed him to enter politics?” she asked.
“Not off the top of my head, no.”
“Suits. At least, that's the story we told everyone. Today, people would probably poke around and expose such a lie very fast, but back then things were different. We got away with so much.”
“Okay,” he replied, grabbing a notepad and a pen. “Why don't you tell me what he really did to make all that dough?”
“Sign the agreement first.”
“Tell me the details, then I'll sign if the story's worth it.”
“Sign,” she said firmly. “I'm offering you the scoop of your career, Mr. Shirley, so I strongly suggest that you do the smart thing. This isn't just a story about a politician's secrets. It's much more than that. It's my story too. In fact, one might say that it's a long overdue confession to something awful that I did many years ago. It contains the one thing that sells more papers than sex. It contains a death.”
THIRTY YEARS AGO
She sat at the kitchen table, staring at her hands, sliding her wedding ring to the tip of her finger and back over and over again.
In front of her, the telephone was waiting. She knew she should call the police, but at the same time she didn't know how to start the conversation, how to explain everything that had happened. For the past hour, she'd been sitting in the exact same way, trying to build up the courage, but deep down she knew she'd never be able to do the right thing. After all, why should the police believe her story? The media would get hold of the details, and then she'd drag down not only herself but also her husband, the man she'd fought so hard to push to the top.
Hearing a key in the front door, she wiped a few tears from her eyes and got to her feet.
“It was bloody unbelievable,” Donald said as he led John Neville into the hallway. “I mean, I don't know what he thinks he's playing at, but he almost threw the whole bloody election right there and then. Honestly, I think our best strategy right now is just to let the guy talk as much as possible. Labour doens't have a chance around here, not if their candidate continues to talk shite every time there's a microphone in front of him.”
“Don't get too cocky,” Neville reminded him. “Cockiness doesn't go over well on the TV.”
After double-checking that there were no more tears in her eyes, Mary went through to join them. She'd become adept over the years at masking her true feelings, and although this was a particularly difficult occasion, she was determined to stay strong. At times like this, she usually just tried to focus on the project, on the need to hold herself together so that Donald could continue his rise to the top; now that he was finally confirmed as the local party's parliamentary candidate, however, she felt as if she needed some other project, something new to focus her thoughts. So far, she'd come up with nothing and she felt as if her life was draining away.
“And there's the power behind the throne,” Neville said, stepping over and shaking her hand. “How are you doing, Mary? Still keeping this rogue under control, I take it?”
“Something like that,” she replied with a smile, looking over at her husband. She wanted more than anything to tell him what had happened a few hours earlier, but as he glanced at her she could tell that he saw none of the fear and sorrow in her eyes. Instead, he was too busy enjoying his new life as the big political headliner in their little corner of the county.
“I told John I'd let him taste that new whiskey,” Donald said, slipping his shoes off. “Could you pour us a couple of glasses, darling? You know, that one Olly gave me last week, the one from way up in the Highlands. Bloody Scots don't know much, but they can certainly knock up a decent barrel or two, eh?”
“Of course,” she replied, turning and heading through to the front room. Her hands were trembling with shock as she took two glasses and filled them, and by the time Donald and Neville entered the room she felt as if she might just be about to scream. All she could think about was Sarah's face a few hours earlier, and the look of absolute terror in her dead eyes. The thought of that moment when she'd -
“Alright there?” Donald asked suddenly, kissing the side of her neck from behind.
“Jesus!” she shouted, startled as she turned to find that he'd crept up behind her.
“Steady on, old girl!” He reached past her to grab the two glasses of whiskey. “None for you, I think. You haven't had some already, have you?” He sniffed her breath.
“Of course not, I just... I've had a, quite a tumultuous day. I went to sort out that problem we've been having.”
“What problem's that?”
&nbs
p; Behind him, John Neville wandered into the room.
“The problem,” she continued, hoping against hope that he'd understand. “Remember? The problem.”
“Come through to the kitchen and tell me about it,” she wanted him to say. “I'm your husband, let me help you.”
“Well, jolly good,” is what he actually said. “Not sure what you're on about, but hey, what's for dinner?”
“I haven't decided yet,” she replied. “I suppose I'll see what's in the freezer.”
“Do you want to stay, John?” Donald continued, turning to Neville. “Come on, let's continue our deliberations over some of Mary's fine cooking. Besides, if you're here, she'll have to abandon that horrible freezer idea and make something fresh. We can't serve frozen lasagne to the head of the local committee, can we?”
“Please don't stay,” she thought to herself. “Please, please...”
“I'd love to,” Neville said, “if it's not inconvenient.”
“Of course not,” Donald told him, before turning to Mary. “It's not, darling, is it?”
“No,” she replied quickly, heading to the door. “I'll have to pop to the supermarket, that's all.”
“Well that's only down the road,” Donald continued, as if the problem was solved. “How about duck? You make good duck.”
“Always good when a woman knows how to duck her husband,” John said with a grin.
At that point, both men exploded with laughter.
As soon as she was out in the corridor, Mary hurried to the kitchen and stopped by the counter. Her heart felt as if it was about to explode, as if all the pressure was too much and she'd simply drop dead where she stood. Wincing with pain, she actually began to worry that she was having a heart attack, before the sensation seemed to pass and she could breathe again. Hearing footsteps nearby, she turned to see that Donald was watching her from the doorway.
“Are you okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
She shook her head.
“What's got into you?” he continued, heading over to join her. “Come on, love, we need to impress John Neville. I can't have you running around like some kind of ashen-faced goon.”
