Whistleblower

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 32

  "You are from the press aren't you? You found me. Deliberately."

  Tom Hanrahan had stopped, one foot still inside Jim's room, the other foot already in the corridor. A nurse passed by, another went the other way carrying a bundle of papers. They smiled at him.

  "Well?"

  Tom turned his head to see Jim sitting bolt upright in the bed looking as if he was about to get out. "Yes," he said, "But.....but I'm not the sort of reporter you dislike, Jim."

  "And what sort of reporter do I dislike?"

  Tom turned fully around to face Jim but remained standing in the doorway. "Those who ruin good men by inventing stories to satisfy a public mood or are paid to find scandal where there is none. Those who wound and then rub salt in just to sell copy. Ones paid to find faults and weaknesses where none exist. Highly paid character assassins, liars, cheats, empty self publicists, paparazzi....... that sort."

  Jim listened intently. He had hardly blinked. "You're using some of my very own words, Mr Hanrahan - words I used when I once spoke to Der Spiegel because I thought they'd like them and might translate well into German. Been checking my life history?"

  "Yes."

  "And so what sort of reporter are you?"

  Tom moved just inside the room. "One who wants to get to the truth. One who once hated what he was being asked to do so much that he gave it all up to run a feckin' paper shop in Dublin......and still does."

  Jim, one arm attached to the drip and monitor, the other dug into the pillow behind to support himself, raised a questioning eyebrow although Tom Hanrahan would not have seen it. Long strands of grey hair covered most of Jim's glistening forehead. "So what do you want?"

  Tom came another step closer, but the door to the corridor was still wide open. "I hated what was going on, Jim. I watched you on TV. I watched your wife give an interview under huge pressure from somewhere. I watched the reporters outside your London flat, stood, huddled, waiting like hungry lions by a waterhole.....and I was supposed to be one of them... but I couldn't do it. I refused, got called in, got another disciplinary warning - I was beginning to collect them. But this one, I was told, was my last - official stuff, written down, refusal to obey instructions, employment law crap. I'd already said that what was going on was bloody wrong. I said we needed to find the real story, the story behind the hounding."

  "Answer the question, damn you. What do you want?"

  "I'd like to help, Jim."

  "And what else?"

  "I suppose I want a story."

  Jim seemed to relax slightly. "Bloody hell. Honesty from a sacked hack. What paper?"

  "I told you I don't work for one any longer. I run a feckin' paper shop - sweets, crisps, chewing gum, fizzy drinks, lollypops - high quality stuff for overweight kids." Even from a distance, Tom saw beads of sweat on Jim's forehead. In his condition, this was not a good time for a discussion like this, but he was still shocked by how quickly Jim had cottoned on.

  "So how did you know where to find me?"

  "Jim, listen to me." Tom edged even closer."This is the God's truth. It was sheer chance I sat next to you yesterday morning in that bar. You didn't look at all well. Next minute you're on your feckin' back. I didn't plan that, for Jesus' sake."

  "I said how did you know where to find me? Are there any more like you on their way?"

  Jim coughed, a hand went to his chest. He coughed again and then slumped back onto the pillows, mumbling something. Tom went a few more steps closer wondering whether to call a doctor. He went right up to Jim, bent over him and touched his arm.

  "Jim - take it easy, OK? I'm sorry but I was going to tell you. But I didn't even know for certain it was you. Give me a chance. You've changed you know, I hardly recognised you."

  Jim turned his head away.

  "Listen, Jim. I want to help you. But only if you want me to. You don't know me but I feel I know you. I always admired you. I'll never forget some of the things you used to say - the election, your speeches, interviews, fantastic stuff. I found it so refreshing and I wasn't alone."

  Jim turned to face Tom who was now doing something to the duvet cover, drawing it up over his chest with fat hands. His big pink arms with the mass of thick, gingery hair looked enormous. He took a deep breath, his grey eyes blinking, watery, red. His voice was quieter now, sounded weaker. "What speeches? I hardly made any. I didn't get a chance."

  "You know what I mean."

  Jim shifted, tried to sit up again, failed.

  "Hanrahan," he muttered as if remembering something. "Tom Hanrahan. Are you the one who punched that photographer outside my flat?"

  "Yeh, sure. You remember that? I had a right brawl with that fucking prick after you left. Never upset a Paddy when he's already mad, OK? It was the start of my own problems. Another warning. Aggressive behaviour towards a colleague. You want to try sitting up again? There you go. You need some more rest, Jim. Why don't I go now. Come again to see you. I'm trying to help, Jim. Believe me. Can I come again tomorrow. Quiet chat. Would you like that?"

  Jim looked at the big Irishman. He remembered him now. At the time, he'd actually felt pleased that someone had done what he had been tempted to but daren't. Yes, he had once been grateful to Tom Hanrahan. He looked away and closed his eyes but behind the lids his mind was racing on everything that was important to him - the unfinished business, Jonathan, Jan, his house, his paintings, his garden - Margaret. Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she well?

  But he knew that if he opened his eyes right now he'd see his predicament - tied to a hospital bed with a needle in his arm, a plastic tube, a drip and a bleeping monitor. And far too close, next to him, was an Irishman whom he could hear breathing heavily through his nose - a press reporter who had been there when he had finally decided to escape from the madness to get away, to think and to decide what to do - three years ago. Three years was a long time to still be trying to resolve the mess he had found himself in. And what had he achieved so far? Nothing yet.

  But what had he learned about himself in three years? A lot. That he was just as determined and opinionated as ever, but also a different person - calmer, despite what it may have just appeared - more sensitive, far more aware of his surroundings. He saw many things quite differently. Forgiving those that had tried to destroy him was hard and wrongs still needed to be put right, no-one could argue with that. Perhaps he should at least make a start on forgiveness. Could he not bring himself to trust just one of those who had once pursued him - pursued him merely because it was what he was being paid to do.

  A quote suddenly came to him - he had read it somewhere - a saying similar to one about a small ant that he'd told Colin. 'Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.' That was it.

  Tom was watching Jim's lips moving. Then his eyes opened, he mumbled something and turned his head. "Mark Twain I think it was." Then a pause. "Just tell me something, Mr Hanrahan. With the whole world to chose from, how did you know to come to this particular, far flung outpost?"

  "My daughter, Katherine," Tom said without hesitation. "She was on a gap year, travelling with an American friend of hers. Pure chance again. She recognised you and told me when she got home. She knew I liked you. I told her not to tell anyone. But I couldn't do anything at the time. My wife, Maeve, was sick - cancer you know..... I'll get the nurse for you, Jim. You just lie there. Rest. Take it easy. Then, for sure you'll be up and running around in no time. I'll come back tomorrow. Would that be OK with you?"

  "Yes," Jim said. "I think so."