by Harry Verity
She was clearly talking to the techies at the control desk who snickered.
‘On fine form, as always boss,’ one of them guffed.
Edward remained straight-faced.
‘So, Charlie, first of all thanks so much for coming on the show, mate, really appreciate it,’ Michael said, down in the studio below. ‘Cast your mind back to the day that story was published, to the day you realised what had happened. What was going through your head?’
‘At first I laughed it off. I thought that’s ridiculous, tabloid papers always do that. You know what I mean?’
Michael laughed and so did the audience. ‘Yeah, mate, I know exactly what you mean! There’s a lot of that about lately.’
Charlie continued. ‘I thought all press is good press… but then it seemed like everyone believed the papers. After the initial story about the cheating, the next day Make Me a Star called me into the studio to tell me they were dropping me, and I was mobbed on my way out. That’s when it hit me. It didn’t feel real, I’d lost everything but up until then I’d been living in this bubble, this media frenzy. The day after that the police came and raided my house and interviewed me. I felt sick. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Tell me what it was like living through all of that.’
‘It wasn’t the police investigation that took its toll on me. I knew they had a job to do, it was the press, the media. They mobbed not only me, my family as well. It was non-stop, day in, day out. They wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t even go out to the supermarket to get a loaf of bread without a photographer waiting for me. But then it got proper frightening.’
‘You started getting death threats, didn’t you. Tell the audience at home all about it.’
‘I never use social media. I was never one of them ones who went on, courting attention.’
‘No, course you weren’t!’ said Mags to the gallery.
‘But one day, one of my mates she came up to me and she said, “Charlie, I reckon you need to see this,” and even though I wasn’t on it, she’d managed to bring up all these people.’
‘I actually think we’ve got a screenshot of some of the vile abuse you were sent, it’s absolutely disgusting, isn’t it?’ Michael said.
‘This is what I didn’t understand. I knew the police had a job to do and I knew that people on the internet say stupid things but the press. I thought they were supposed to have some standards. They started joining in as well.’
‘Do you think certain newspapers were encouraging the death threats?’
‘Definitely. Just look at that piece by–’
Michael interjected. ‘We take the moral high ground on this show, we don’t name names but we all know exactly which newspapers you’re talking about.’
The segment continued as Michael turned to questioning Charlie about his future plans and his hope to return to stardom soon.
Next up, Violet had arranged for a man wrongly accused of abducting a university student to give his version of events of how the papers had burgled his home looking for information.
For much of the recording of the episode and the latter half of the afternoon, Edward had found himself with little to do. With no idea of any of the procedures, he felt that by saying, let alone doing anything at all he might well disrupt the recording. He was glad when the day came to an end.
‘I felt pretty useless today,’ Edward said, as the hands on his watch approached half past five and he made his way towards the gallery steps.
‘Then don’t,’ Violet said, following him down.
‘Don’t what?’
Violet turned out the lights. ‘Feel useless.’
3
Michael Matthew O’Shea MBE had built his career on rising from the ashes. It had been his alcoholism and his sobering up that had led to him securing his first job as an agony uncle on local radio and the termination of that contract for accidentally swearing live on air that had brought him to the attention of two executives looking for a fiery host to front a new TV show. But Michael knew that there were some things that it was impossible to come back from and paedophilia was the ultimate nail in the coffin.
Yes, his stupid incompetent brother had been caught looking at all manner of filth on his computer. In many ways Michael was partly responsible. Practising what you preach had always been an important facet of what he did, so right from the start Michael had brought Phillip on to his show. His brother had seen no real need to get a job or to do anything other than sit in his house all day.
So Michael had confronted him on stage, got him to get a proper job, helping out at a soup kitchen. Off the back of that and with his newly found fame, Michael had lobbied hard for Phillip to become an ambassador for a homeless charity. For a while he’d been slightly proud of him, turning his life around. But after all Michael had done, Phillip had soon slacked off – as he always did – complaining that he was too ill to do any work for the charity and now this. This utter mess. It wouldn’t be a story at all if Michael hadn’t turned Phillip into some half-arsed celebrity.
As Michael drove to a rundown hotel room on the edges of town – away from the prying eyes of the reporters who would undoubtedly be camping outside of Phillip’s house, scouting for a good headline – Michael O’Shea contemplated what he would say to his brother. He had thought long and hard about how best to handle this crisis during the drive north from London and he had rapidly come to the conclusion that he was screwed either way. He could throw money at the problem, hire the best lawyers to get him off, do a deal with his accuser but that was only the half of it. If his dim-witted brother did indeed have a dirty hard drive, he failed to see how even the most expensive lawyer could exonerate him.
On the other hand, if his brother was guilty, he, Michael, would be done over by the papers for helping him. The other option was to have it out with him, tell him he’d have nothing to do with him and leave him to rot. It was his own fault after all, why should he help him? Of course, the press might run a few stories if, by some miracle, Phillip got off and Michael hadn’t lent his support but a few pieces about his disloyalty was surely a far better option? The only other solution was to denounce Phillip publicly and fund his court costs in secret, though this was bound to get out eventually. Michael wasn’t exactly ecstatic about the prospect of spending his hard-earned cash on a lawyer either.
When Michael pulled into the hotel car park, he carried out his usual routine of turning off his headlights and surveying the area. Journalists had a habit of surpassing all expectations when it came to surveillance. It was, of course, reasonable in this day and age to expect a reporter to sit outside your house during the middle of the day and he knew colleagues – the vain, stupid ones who cared more about their relations with the media than their own dignity – who had actually gone outside and chatted to them, brought them tea and even posed for the photos they wanted. But Michael had, in the past, made the mistake of thinking that after a week or so the hacks would give up and that he would be okay to go about his normal business without it appearing on page five of The Lion. This couldn’t be further from the truth.
Michael hated journalists more than anything. They would go to extreme lengths to print lies and propaganda for their masters like obedient dogs.
Michael, on the other hand, was a true storyteller. He would ground people in the truth, expose them for what they really were; he was a mirror to them. It was only when they caught a glimpse of their own reflection that they could make amends for their behaviour.
If the press did cotton on to what Michael was really doing tonight, they wouldn’t allow him to explain himself or give him the opportunity to understand his dilemma, they wanted to hang him out to dry, no matter what, and he wasn’t going to allow that to happen.
So Michael waited until he had seen every occupied car vacate the tarmac before he slipped out into the rain. He didn’t bother hanging around and headed straight for room forty-five of the hotel. The door had been left slightly ajar so
that Phillip didn’t have to get up from his bed; he was disabled, the result of being run over by a car when he was fifteen. The accident hadn’t left him anywhere near as crippled as he liked to make out. He certainly didn’t need the crutches he insisted on taking with him everywhere or the generous disability allowance he was afforded by the government.
Michael closed the door and stared at him for several moments. ‘You really are an idiot, aren’t you?’
Phillip said nothing.
‘So…’ Michael could already see the sweat seeping from his brother’s forehead. ‘Did you do it?’
Michael had observed enough liars on his stage to know that what he was about to hear would hardly be the pinnacle of wholesale truth and integrity.
But although Phillip O’Shea opened his mouth, no doubt wanting to reel off a pack of lies, Michael’s brother looked like he was overcome with such paralysis that he couldn’t actually bring himself to utter any words.
‘You’re sick, you know that?’ Michael screamed, moving towards the bed. Phillip winced as Michael went to grab him but he withdrew at the final moment.
‘I’ve met all sorts of people on my show: drug dealers, alcoholics, wife-beaters but NEVER a paedophile and yet here I am confronted by the fact my own brother has been touching up the boy down the road and looking up disgusting filth online.’
‘So what are we–’
‘What are WE GOING TO DO? I’ll tell you what WE are going to do: absolutely fuck all. YOU are going to tell me what exactly was on your computer and then you’re going to stay in this hotel and you are not to leave it without my express permission. You are not to talk to the press, you are not to ring anyone and if I find out you’ve so much as stepped foot in an internet café, your life won’t be worth living. One thing’s for sure: I’m not funding the costs of a paedo, believe me.’
Phillip whimpered.
‘Save the pathetic helpless act for your trial. I need to speak to the police,’ he spat, ‘so, for now, brother, it looks as if this is goodbye.’
‘G-goodbye?’
‘Go and fuck yourself,’ Michael said one last time before he stepped out of the hotel room, closing the door behind him as if nothing had happened.
Everything he had said was true. He would speak to the police to find out what exactly they had on dear Phillip but hell would freeze over before he intervened and got him off the hook: it could be done, oh no doubt it could be done, for the right price, but the chances of his intervention staying hidden forever were… well, he didn’t fancy his chances. No, this was just a case of finding out what exactly they had on Phillip, how likely they were to pursue a conviction and whether there was any point even bothering with a solicitor. The police loved Michael: there would be no question of him being able to set up a sly coffee, maybe even a quick backhander to say thanks, if it came to it.
He sighed. This whole business was such a mess. Not since he had given it up seven years ago had he felt the pull of the bottle so intensely. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. And what was worse was that the night wasn’t over. Before he could relax he had one final journey to make but nobody could know about this one. He had assured his wife Karen that this business with his brother would take some time to sort out and that he would need to stay overnight in a hotel. Michael was taking advantage of the situation. And not a soul was to ever find out. For if they did, he knew he’d lose everything. No, that couldn’t happen.
So, he waited inside his car again to check that there were no journalists on his tail before he set off. He drove to the multistorey car park he’d looked up on the internet and paid the overnight fee; to many a costly excursion, but £25 to Michael O’Shea was nothing.
Then he changed his coat and headed out into the cold, walking for little over a mile before he reached the rundown lockup, his secret. And there, inside it, was a car: a rundown red KA that no member of the press would suspect belonged to him. You see that was the difference between Michael and Phillip, that was the reason he was superior: he would never be stupid enough to get caught, he would always take precautions, above and beyond what was necessary. He opened the driver’s door and then started the engine to begin the journey to pick up his most precious cargo…
4
The press, who’d remained stationed outside the People studios where The Michael O’Shea Show was filmed, had all but abandoned their temporary campsite by the time Edward had walked out of work that evening and they had not bothered to return the following morning. So, without so much as a whisper in his ear, Edward was waved through security and headed back to the basement studio for what he hoped would be a far more productive second day. He didn’t see how he could carry out his job effectively if he didn’t at least understand how the show was put together.
This time neither Michael nor Mags were anywhere to be seen. Only Violet and a serious, intellectual man with greying hair had made it in. As they both busied themselves with something at the back desk, Edward wandered to the other side of the small room, to the gallery deck itself with its many buttons and monitors, all eerily dead, and then to the giant window which looked down upon the set itself. The man who had been chatting to Violet was the Director of Guest Rehabilitation.
‘Hello,’ he said as Edward approached the back desk, getting up to shake his hand. ‘Dr Bernard Braithwaite, nice to meet you. Now, as I was just telling Violet, it is not surprising I suppose – as so many people want to be on television these days – but we do get rather a lot of requests from people ringing in, wanting to be on the show. We have a backlog that the last researcher recorded.’
‘Oh I see,’ said Edward.
‘So–’
‘Ultimately it is up to Michael, Mags, and the new co-host when she gets on board, to make the final decision about who is on the show but they have given us some specifications about the sort of stories they want.’
‘They’ll want something explosive for the first show of the new format,’ Violet said.
‘Quite,’ Braithwaite replied.
‘Have a look through the database and make a few inquiries. If there is nothing that you think is suitable then that’s fine. I have to have a conversation with potential guests after you’ve interviewed them to make sure they are stable. Any questions?’
Edward said nothing.
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. We can regroup after lunch.’ Braithwaite departed the gallery leaving Violet and Edward alone once again.
‘Who is the new co-host?’ Edward said.
‘Olivia Dessington-Brown, Liv.’
Edward had heard of her. She was, if he remembered correctly, a fairly famous reality TV star, a regular fixture in many shows after nine at night, no less. Violet did not seem interested in elaborating.
‘How are we going to do this?’ Edward asked instead, turning his attention to the computer.
It took an age to load and when the screen finally did come to life, the database programme Violet wanted to use took a further five minutes to open. Edward watched her select print with the mouse. He searched around the cramped gallery for any sign of the printer but couldn’t find one.
She pulled out an ID card from her pocket that looked a lot more worn out than Edward’s.
‘Take this to the printers in the station newsroom. I was friends with one of the assistants there and he hooked my card up to their system. My password is mildredthecat, no spaces, all lowercase. Swipe in, enter the password and press the green button? Got it?’
‘But I don’t know where the newsroom is…’
Violet pointed to the gallery door.
‘All the more reason for you to go.’
In fact, the newsroom was quite hard to miss. Backtracking along the corridor from which he’d come, up the stairs and past the reception desk, Edward soon found himself in the central lobby with the glass lifts. The buttons for each floor were helpfully labelled: the newsroom was on the fifth floor.
The newsroom was completely different fro
m the O’Shea studios. Not only was the space itself about three times as big, it was plush, open plan and not at all dark. There were rows of desks with Apple computers but every four or so rows there’d be a small space for comfy-looking sofas and a coffee table. The printers were in the corner in a separate booth of their own.
When Edward returned, with all one hundred and seven pages of the database, Violet was sifting through the newspapers.
‘What’s the coverage like today?’ he asked, wondering whether their work the previous day had paid off.
Violet folded over page seventeen of The Lion and pushed it in his direction.
He had to scan for several seconds before he noticed the small nib in the corner.
‘Troubled’ O’Shea To Launch New Format
Troubled talk show host Michael O’Shea is to launch a revamped version of his show in a bid to quash allegations that his brother is a paedophile. Sources close to the teatime show, fronted by the former alcoholic, say Michael wants to draw attention away from the arrest of Phillip O’Shea, his brother, and further speculation that he has hit the bottle again, by pushing the show to sensational new boundaries and introducing a new co-host. The Michael O’Shea Show returns to our screens at 5.30pm on People next week.
Edward recognised the byline.
‘Sources close to the show…’ Violet said. ‘Me, they mean.’
‘Was that the only coverage we got?’
She pushed the stack of newspapers to one side. ‘Never mind about them.’ She reached forward to grab the paper copy of the database from under Edward’s arms.
‘Anything remotely unusual or exciting, circle it. You heard yesterday. They want real juice for this week and, in my experience, if you want juice it doesn’t just land on your lap, you have to go and find it so I doubt there’ll be anything in here…but it’s worth a look.’ She split the pile into two and pulled out her headphones, plugged in, and got to work.
