by Harry Verity
Contrary to what Violet had said, Edward seemed to have found a strong story on the first page of his stack. Identical twins, working for precious little money as dancers and adult movie stars had fallen out of love with each other after one of them had a baby whilst the other had started seeing a controlling boyfriend. Their USP, so to speak, was in jeopardy and they wanted help resolving their differences so they could start working together again. This was three months earlier though. By now they might have sorted out their problems and given up on the dancing. Edward circled it, nevertheless, and carried on.
Other stories were more recent but far less interesting. There was the daughter who hoped to reconcile with her abusive father and the drug addicted husband driving his family into debt and despair, or in a more bizarre vein, the woman who elected to leave her husband in order to identify as a three year old child. She refused to speak in anything but sobs or eat anything more substantial than baby food. All of these stories, however, seemed to lack that ‘juice’.
‘There isn’t enough conflict,’ Violet said, as Edward whittled off his circled stories.
‘Okay,’ Edward said, turning to the front of his stack to reveal his trump card, which he’d saved until last: the identical twins’ story.
‘It’s a start… it’s not perfect. Their reason for contacting the show is to resolve their differences and it’s in their interests to come carrying a white flag, seeing as they’ve both been pretty much unemployed since they fell out. But maybe if we can plant the idea this guy they’ve been seeing has been playing them off against each other, bring him out as well, turn them both against him, I guess that could work.’
‘Right,’ said Edward, tentatively, ‘that’s all I’ve got. So shall I go and call Bernard?’
‘Top tip,’ she snipped, curtly, ’Bernard Braithwaite stays out of everything.’
‘Oh?’
‘He thinks about the guests, we think about what makes great TV. We fend him off until we have a strong line-up and then it’s too late for him to do anything.’
Violet reached inside her pocket, pulled out her wallet and handed Edward a ten-pound note. ‘Go and fetch me today’s local papers, a cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps, please.’
‘The local papers?’ Edward said.
‘As many as you can find. The Brixdale Gazette’s a good one.’
Edward didn’t want to question Violet any further, but she could still see the confused look in his eyes.
‘For the court reports,’ she said, but he still didn’t fully understand.
Edward did as he was told and returned little more than twenty minutes later. With the database exhausted, they were turning to a new source of inspiration for stories…
‘We can’t prejudice ongoing cases so anything we use is all dependent on the verdict and whether the trial will be over by the time the show airs.’
‘I see…’
It was clear to Edward that Violet sensed his hesitation. He couldn’t help but feel a little shame at approaching people to appear on the show at one of the worst periods in their lives.
‘What did you expect? You’re working for The Michael O’Shea Show.’
‘But I thought we’d at least…’
‘Morality,’ Violet clipped, ‘is not our department. That is what Braithwaite is for. We just make great TV.’
Edward said no more and continued with his work.
This time, the two of them dissected the back pages of the papers together. Edward suspected this was because Violet thought he might ignore some of the most show-worthy cases as he worried for the safety of potential guests, though she needn’t have bothered. He’d been told once and wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. So, up and down they searched until by the end of the afternoon they’d got what Violet thought was a good strong set of cases for the following week.
‘That’s ten stories. I think that’s enough to go on.’ Violet swept the newspapers into a pile, picked up her handbag and headed towards the gallery steps. ‘Tomorrow we’ll investigate further.’
‘Right.’ Edward wondered whether to catch up with her.
‘Goodbye.’ She waved as Edward turned out the lights in the gallery and in the end he made his way out of the building at his own pace.
5
Violet had never been one for sticking around. This job, however, was the longest she’d stayed at any job. Not out of any loyalty for Michael. She wanted a promotion and she had a strong feeling one would be coming her way. Producer of one of the highest rated shows on television would perk up her CV no end and the extra pay would not go amiss. Then she’d make a name for herself for a few years and jump ship.
Even if this paedo affair did not derail her boss, Violet knew it would only be a matter of time before Mags was shown the door. True, she was Michael’s pet project, but someone that unhinged would not last long, particularly if the management interfered – like they eventually did on all the other shows – and that was surely inevitable given the amount of press they were getting. Biding her time, that was what Violet was doing. Riding the wave.
Outside the People studios, she crossed the road and walked further up The Strand until she was safely away from prying eyes. Then she hopped into a taxi and asked the driver to drop her at her favourite bar.
Everything about The Albatross suited her purpose. The tall ceilings and endless alcoves and columns meant Violet could easily hide away in one of the smaller booths and nobody would disrupt her. And, what was more, there were no windows. Everything was permanently dim, draped in a kind of fake candlelight to give it a prohibition, jazz-age feel. All in all, she could get as drunk or as high as she wanted and nobody would even notice, whatever time of day it was, not that any of the bartenders would have called her out on it. The drinks were so expensive: in this bar, you paid for discretion.
By the front door was a steep, narrow staircase. Violet stalked off down the steps as quickly as she could. Nobody appeared to notice her, as she preferred. The toilets were just as opulent as the bar. There was a small sofa and chandeliers above, glistening in the circular mirrors. They looked real enough not to appear tacky but of course, they were fakes.
Violet was in no mood to admire the decor. She rushed straight for the cubicle and locked the door. Without even a moment of hesitation, she reached inside her handbag and rummaged around for the small plastic packet she so craved.
Cocaine was a necessity in this job. How could she function without it? With crisis after crisis, this was all that kept her from burning out. At least she was buying it with her own hard-earned cash. The Lion let their reporters claim it on expenses, though the pressures of that job didn’t bear thinking about. She had it easy…
But tonight, the cocaine had another purpose: she could drink herself under the table but still feel in control. Although she could still function after a couple of drinks following a hard day’s work alcohol had a tendency to send her straight to sleep. Combined with the cocaine, however, two or three drinks gave her just the right buzz. Though drugs would not be the only source of her adrenaline tonight…
Violet snorted back the white powder and let it wash over her whole body, giving her a fresh sense of purpose. She was careful to wipe her nose of any residue, before she proceeded to change into a sleek pink outfit, brushed back her hair and re-did her make-up. Her phone pinged and she looked down at the face of the stranger she was about to meet, wondering if they would look as handsome as the picture on their profile made out.
6
The weather the following day was unfortunate. It had been fairly bleak since the beginning of the week but now, as Edward and Violet made their way across the road to Blackfriars Tube station, it seemed to take particular umbrage with them: the rain lashed down onto the tarmac at an almost frightening speed and at one point the gaps between the thunder and the lightning grew so short, Edward felt genuinely concerned that they would be struck down.
‘I hope it hasn’t affected a
ny of the trains,’ Violet said. Edward wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about where they were heading. Yes, they were off to go and meet potential guests, to a council estate no less. The two of them had spent the morning doing some light research about each of the families. Double-checking or, in Violet’s words, ‘making sure they got the full picture’, plugging the gaps in the guests’ version of events with bank details, birth certificates, criminal records.
‘And then we confront them with the truth during the show,’ Violet said, as they awaited their train, ‘and…maybe let slip to other family members what they’ve been up to beforehand.’
‘What! That’s…’ Edward protested.
‘That’s television,’ Violet said, barely lifting an eyelid.
As it happened, the train to their first stop: Graysmead Park – the council estate home to the identical twins they had discussed the previous day – was neither late nor disrupted because of the weather.
Violet said almost nothing for the entire journey, so Edward had first taken to his phone, until the signal had inevitably faded. He instead took solace in the broadsheet newspaper that had been discarded on the opposite seat. Michael O’Shea’s family drama had finally been overshadowed by the failure of the coalition government to pass their budget and speculation about the inevitable general election that was to follow.
Edward had never really taken much of an interest in politics, despite the encouragement of his parents, or the fact that he had already been eligible to vote in three general elections; and this particular paper with its commentary about the various in-fighting and deal breaking only served to confuse him further. In the end, he gave up and stared out of the window. The greenery was fading and in the far distance he could see the outlines of tall buildings, the council estate could not be far off.
Indeed, Edward felt himself slumping into a small depression as he caught glimpses of Graysmead for the first time and saw for himself the abandoned factories and the enormous council flats, towering above him like giant concrete pillars. It was a terrible sight.
They pulled into the station and the sun broke through the sky, casting an ugly shadow over the rows and rows of council flats, all of which looked a visibly darker shade of grey in the aftermath of the storm. Violet put on her sunglasses nevertheless and they stepped out onto the single platform. There was no ticket office and the only shelter was a burnt-out wreck; it was as if they had arrived in the middle of nowhere.
‘The twins live on the tenth floor, in the east tower of Deacon Court,’ Violet said, looking at her phone once again. ‘It’s about a fifteen-minute walk.’
‘Right,’ Edward replied, realising she probably hadn’t been texting earlier but checking for directions.
This was a journey that Edward was dreading. They both looked out of place but Edward more so than Violet. He was cleanly shaven, his black hair was combed over his forehead neatly and, though the overcoat he was wearing was long, it had a tendency to flap open, revealing his suit and tie. Violet, on the other hand, had been a little more tactful with the way she had dressed, perhaps to help her gain the trust of the people they were about to interview. Instead of her usual colourful cardigans, she had donned a white tank top and jeans, her hair was tied back tightly and even the bag she was clutching was a lot less ostentatious.
When the two of them finally did reach the east tower, they pressed the buzzer for the flat they wanted but, worryingly, there was no reply. Edward and Violet hesitated for a few seconds before deciding that, since there were so many people walking in and out of the building freely, it probably wasn’t too much of a crime to sneak in through the front door and make their own way up. They took the lift rather than tackling the stairs and instantly regretted it. The distinctive and putrid stench of cheap cannabis did little to ease the awkward and cramped few seconds as Edward and Violet ascended to the top floor.
When the lift doors finally creaked open, they made their way to flat fifty-two. The front door was already ajar.
‘Hello?’ Violet called, tentatively, pushing the red door even further open.
There were gentle sobs from within.
‘Hello?’ she said again. The sobs grew louder.
There were smashed ornaments and broken plates scattered across the carpet.
‘We’re here from The Michael O’Shea Show,’ Violet explained, making her way through the corridor and into the living room. Edward followed shortly behind. The girl within looked a mess. Her hair, which had been cropped into a bob, was frayed and quite obviously dyed, her make-up had run down her face, flowing like a river.
‘We spoke on the phone this morning, didn’t we, Tiffany isn’t it?’ Violet said. She had adopted her telephone voice. ‘You did say it would be okay to pop by for a little chat. Can we sit down?’
‘’Course!’ Tiffany had a vaguely cockney accent. ‘Jayden’s in bed, surprised he wasn’t woken up…’
She was clearly talking about her child, a little over one year old.
There was silence for several seconds. Violet took off her sunglasses and smiled.
‘My twin sister,’ the girl began, breaking down, ‘she’s left!’ She tried to mask her tears by burying her face into a nearby pillow.
‘I’m sorry, we could come back another day?’ said Violet.
As much as Edward sympathised with the girl and was glad to be temporarily free of the office, he couldn’t help but hope that they didn’t have to return to this place.
‘No, no. It’s fine. I’m, I’ll be okay,’ the girl said.
‘And, sorry to have to bring it up, but your sister is Annabel? That’s all correct?’
‘Yes, that’s right. My twinnie. We used to do everything together.’
‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’
Edward noticed Violet discreetly taking out a notebook and a pen.
‘Annabel used to work at a club, dancing. She earned a bomb; I went to go and see her and she suggested I do it. ’Course I gotta do everything with my sister and the manager liked us dancing together. So that’s how it started and then, I dunno, one thing led to another. Then we made videos, posting them on the internet. We got loads of views and were offered a proper contract for a professional site but…’
‘That was when you got pregnant, with Jayden?’
‘Yeah, I didn’t plan it, but I had to stop everything. We were out of work. Then my sister started seeing…’
‘And this man your sister is seeing…?’
‘Yes, he’s the manager of the club. He’s really controlling.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘He won’t let me see my sister and he doesn’t want her to leave the house or to work anymore. He wants to keep her all to himself.’
‘Do you think he’s abusing her?’
‘Yes,’ Tiffany said, though it looked to Edward that she was saying what she thought Violet wanted to hear.
‘And talk to me about your childhood.’
‘It was all right.’
‘Where were you brought up, around here?’
‘Yes…’
‘Do your parents live here?’
Edward wondered why Violet was even bothering to ask these questions. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the answers, as did he. They’d already searched for the death certificates. And it wasn’t as if Tiffany was lying, just naturally tentative about discussing the nature of her parents’ death. When Violet pressed her again, however, she seemed to liven up.
‘Never knew my dad. Probably someone my mum got with when she was high. My mum… well, she was a good mum. It was just her drug problems. She died of an overdose when I was seventeen. It was my sister that found her, sitting there, all still on the sofa. Guess we always knew it was coming.’
‘Have you ever taken drugs?’
‘No! Never. Not after Mum. Always been clean.’
‘Not even weed?’
No doubt you’d get high by osmosis if you spent long enough in Graysmead, Edwa
rd thought.
‘Once!’ she protested. ‘But that was before Mum died.’
‘And what about your sister?’
The silence seemed to say it all.
‘Does her boyfriend give her drugs?’
‘Maybe…’
‘Maybe?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So, have you seen her on drugs?’
‘He has such a hold on her, he’s stopped her doing any more work and now she’s moved out. She spent most of her time round his anyway.’
‘So you think this boyfriend has been giving her drugs and that’s why she’s with him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And tell me,’ Edward knew Violet was going in for the kill, asking the question – or at least attempting to elicit a vaguely sympathetic answer – from which the entire show would hinge, ‘tell me, Tiffany, have you ever slept with your sister’s boyfriend?’
Tiffany’s cheeks lit up and, although she kept perfectly cool, Edward knew Violet was clocking all of this.
‘What’s with all these QUESTIONS?’
Edward started to sweat. He’d never liked confrontation and here he was, bearing witness to Violet poking a poor girl with a giant wooden stick. Violet, however, seemed to realise she had gone too far. She put down her notepad and crossed the room, gently placing her arm on Tiffany’s shoulder.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘we have to ask these questions for the show. It’s just so we can get a good picture of what’s going on.’
Tiffany seemed consoled enough and was quite content to take out a cigarette and start smoking. Violet moved away and returned to her seat.
‘Am I really going to be on TV?’ Tiffany said.
Violet smiled.
‘Of course.’ The ease with which Violet lied had impressed and sickened Edward with equal measure. Nothing had yet been agreed. There could quite easily be a problem with some of the information Tiffany had told them. Equally, Braithwaite, Michael or Liv could veto the story. Nevertheless, Violet moved the conversation on.
