by Harry Verity
‘Fuck off,’ she said, throwing her cigarette down onto the floor and stubbing it out with her feet.
‘We saw what you said in the paper…’
‘I know why you’ve come.’
‘We just wanted your advice about something.’
‘You shopped my mate, had him done for fucking child abuse, and then you want my advice? Fuck off!’
Edward tried a different technique.
‘Why do you think he’s innocent?’
She shuddered slightly and pulled another cigarette from her pocket. ‘He wouldn’t do it.’
‘But all the evidence and I saw him, I walked in on him. We didn’t stitch him up.’
‘It must have been wrong. I’ve seen him.’
‘What?’
‘In prison, I went to visit him. That man did not kill those children.’
‘Okay, well we’ll say no more about it, but look we’re not here about that, we need you to come back, to work on Braithwaite’s show. We can’t cope. It’s all going downhill, we’re overworked and he won’t listen to us. The producer is useless.’
‘You want me to work with Braithwaite, that slimeball? Are you having a fucking laugh? Bernard Braithwaite understands nothing, NOTHING about people in this world. No one wants to talk about the truth anymore but he did: Michael would always tell it how it is. He knew that no amount of counselling would stop these people. They shag everything that moves out of sheer boredom, they piss their benefits up the wall, pawn their grandmother’s jewellery for a few lines of crack…’
‘We’re trying to–’
‘Trying to what? Save the show? Save your pathetic little jobs? Bet you got a pay rise, didn’t you? You’re all at it, cashing in on his misery, suits you down to the ground that he’s rotting in some cell. Now fuck off out of my sight…’ She lit another cigarette and Edward, fearing she might try to throw it at him, thought it best to leave.
‘That was productive,’ Violet said when they were back in the car.
‘Do you really think she’s right? That Michael’s innocent.’
‘No. She’s confused, upset about her friend. That doesn’t mean she’s right. We’re just going to have to go at this alone, find a way to get Braithwaite to see sense.’
38
‘And I want to talk to you, Danielle,’ the lights had been dimmed and a spotlight shone down on Braithwaite and his guest, ‘about your relationship with your father.’ The silence was eerie but there was little tension high above in the gallery where Edward was sat with the techies, co-ordinating the show.
‘We need to get off this ASAP,’ Edward said over the mic.
‘The ad break is roughly around now,’ the techie said to Edward. ‘If you want him to leave a cliffhanger you better get on to him.’
‘Wind up the stuff about his childhood, let’s get on to what she did to her stepmother to get back at him. You need to mention her sexuality and the fact she slept with the stepmother.’
Braithwaite seemed to take no notice of Edward and continued to question the girl about how her father abused her. Twenty minutes passed. Still nothing, just Braithwaite talking her through ways she could come to terms with her father’s abuse. It was as if he could not stomach any kind of confrontation at all.
By the end of the show, Edward was trying hard not to shout down the microphone: only now did he understand Mags’ frustration. In the final five minutes there was a brief mention of Danielle’s ‘slightly irregular’ preferences and no mention of the fact that she’d slept with her stepmother. Obviously embarrassed, Danielle began to stutter and Braithwaite suddenly changed tack, ending the show abruptly.
Violet was backstage waiting to greet her. She’d forgotten to turn her mic off so Edward could hear Violet escorting Danielle out of the studios, pointing her in the direction of the Tube station. He made himself a coffee as he waited for Violet to come back.
‘I’m off.’ Dave swiped his denim jacket from the table with one motion and reached inside the pocket for the remnants of a sausage roll he’d eaten for lunch.
‘Bye,’ Edward murmured, wondering, if only momentarily, about the caveman’s home life.
Edward took his coffee to the office and Violet arrived back a few minutes later. Her hair looked out of place, she’d parked pens behind her ears and she had bags under her eyes. Everything was up to the editors now. They had their own office upstairs in one of the fancier rooms of the building where a team of them worked on the entire channel’s output. How on earth they were going to make the episode even remotely interesting was beyond Edward. It was a catastrophe, a nail in the coffin.
‘There’s no way we can broadcast this,’ Edward said.
Violet said nothing. She didn’t appear to be listening: she was too busy reading a letter.
‘Did you not hear me?’ Edward snapped.
Violet looked up and handed him the letter. ‘It’s inviting us to a meeting with the director of the channel to discuss a “way forward” for the show. First thing tomorrow morning.’
At that moment Braithwaite walked in with characteristically bad timing.
‘Ah, I know you weren’t all that happy with that episode, but I do think that’s really helped Danielle and we got some really good emotional shots, I think.’
‘There’s a letter,’ Violet said.
‘Oh yes, I got that too. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ Braithwaite said, but he seemed agitated.
Edward knew Braithwaite was lying: he could tell he was deeply concerned about what senior management was going to say the following morning, as was Edward. For it almost certainly had everything to do with the declining ratings. ‘I’ll have a read a bit later, but I think I’m going to head off home and have a rest now. Have a good weekend, Violet, Edward.’
He closed the door and Edward shook his head in disbelief.
‘He’s killed the show. He’s FUCKING KILLED IT.’
Violet held up her hands. ‘Don’t swear,’ she said, calmly. Edward blushed. ‘Let’s go out.’ She added.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. If it will stop you stressing.’
‘But the show’s about to… we need to… we need to prepare something for the meeting.’
‘Forget it.’
‘What?’
‘Like you say he’s killed the show. Might as well accept it and go out and…’
‘And aren’t you supposed to be driving home?’
Violet sighed.
‘Are you coming up or not?’
They were in the busiest bar they could find. The music was loud and Violet was necking back the drinks.
Edward tried to keep up with her though he had no idea why.
Before Edward knew it, the night was running away with them and they’d forgotten all about everything.
‘I gave up the coke,’ she said on their third drink in.
‘Well done,’ Edward said.
‘God, you’re always patronising me,’ she said, playfully.
‘I’m just glad you were able to get over your addiction.’
She knew he was joking.
‘I didn’t have an addiction. But it’s much better for my bank balance.’
‘If you’d not come back to work on the show I would’ve had you back on as a guest, booked you into rehab.’
Violet laughed.
The music got louder and louder, the conversation more and more outrageous until suddenly and without warning, Violet started making out with him. Finally, it had happened.
‘Come on,’ Violet said, at about midnight.
‘I, I…’
‘We’re just going to have to find something to pass the time until we sober up and I can drive you back home!’ Violet said and Edward could do little to disguise his grin as they approached the garages which were behind a tall security gate. With one click of her fob, they slid back and Edward and Violet slipped through. In normal circumstances, it would have been eerie. Darkness had set in, there were n
o lights and every step he took on the pavement reverberated around the compound like a violin string. Violet’s boots made even more noise. But the alcohol was making everything seem funny. In fact, it was hilarious. They looked at each other and burst into giggles as they made their way in. Edward had heard something and Violet had heard it too. Voices, breathing, rattling. Surely there wasn’t anyone else working this late? It could have been people on the South Bank but it seemed unlikely.
‘Did you hear that?’ Edward whispered and his words were like a dagger, cutting through the silence.
‘Could be a ghost. Maybe it’s a sign.’
‘A sign of what?’
‘That we shouldn’t have come back so early, that we should be out there…’ Edward pointed to the city behind him, ‘living life!’
Violet smirked and shook her head in shame at how drunk he was.
They crept towards Violet’s garage door.
There it was again. It was a muffled sound, but it was definitely there, and then an unmistakable bang. It was as if somebody was kicking at the doors. But it wasn’t coming from Violet’s garage, but the one next door.
Edward approached, Violet by his side. Then, without warning, the doors to the garage next door slid up. They were about to find out what or who was inside. They moved further back, squinting into the dark, trying to see between the gap as it widened and widened. An engine started, Edward and Violet ventured further in. It was only as the garage doors reached the top of the frame that Edward could finally make out what he was looking at, but he had no time to react. Before he had a chance, the headlights on Braithwaite’s car burst into life, full beam. Without warning, the driver hit the pedal. The lights went out and the world went black.
SOME WEEKS EARLIER
39
‘Now fuck off out of my sight…’ Mags had said to Edward and Violet, billowing smoke from her mouth like a chimney. She meant what she said. How fucking dare they come and find her like that? She didn’t care how badly she needed the money, she was not going back there with him as her boss. And why did he even want to work with her anyway? She hated him. She’d made that much clear, hadn’t she?
Mags couldn’t stand snakes. People who whispered, who tiptoed and stalked about but behind closed doors they plotted and planned their every syllable, biding their time like life was one giant chessboard.
And that was just what Braithwaite had done and look at him now. The truth had already started to seep out. Instead of creeping back into his hole, the obvious place for a man who had no charisma and apparently not an ounce of common sense, he had miraculously ended up with his own prime time television show and a book deal. Funny that, Mags thought.
But it wouldn’t last for long. Bernard Braithwaite was nothing like the man he’d trampled all over; prison was killing Michael O’Shea. It was unbearable. Michael was tough but not that tough. Under normal circumstances, he probably could have hacked a few years in prison but for GBH, not as a kiddy fiddler. Nobody could survive that. It was outrageous. He had well and truly been done over.
She needed to see him, the rumour was that he was back on the bottle. It wasn’t surprising, of course. But she knew first-hand how long it had taken him to quit. She needed to hear it from him, confront him and then try to knock some sense into him. He’d thank her later because she knew that he would have done the same for her if she’d ever shown an ounce of weakness…
When they brought him out, he looked even worse than the last time she had come to visit. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was out of place and the beard that he had been growing during the trial had now reached fruition, spiralling and contorting around his face like a forest.
‘Have you brought any?’
So it was true.
If it hadn’t been for the strict rules about bodily contact, she would have slapped him there and then.
‘Is this what they’ve reduced you to? The great Michael O’Shea, a fucking alky, an alcoholic.’
One of the prison guards started to make her way over. The other visitors turned their heads. Mags wondered which one of them would contact the papers first. Michael said nothing. He barely lifted his head.
‘Get a fucking grip!’ she shouted. ‘Do you think you’re going to get out while you’re on the bottle? I need you on fine form. I need you to go over everything that happened the nights those girls disappeared again.’
‘What good would it do?’ Michael muttered.
‘I’ll tell you what good it’ll do. I’m going to prove you didn’t do it. And when you’re out, we’ll campaign, we’ll use it, we’ll whip up a storm, get the death penalty brought back and The Lion, the fucking Lion, we’ll close ’em down, we’ll sue ’em for so much they won’t have enough coffers left to cover the printing costs of one issue of their fucking pathetic excuse for an arse wiping rag of a paper.’
Michael’s face flickered vaguely into shape. ‘All right,’ he said. He was trying.
‘First, tell me everything about where you were on both nights.’
‘With Liv,’ he said, ‘in that garage, having–’
‘I get the picture,’ Mags said, ‘that whore,’ she said, this time more quietly, so as not to get thrown out, ‘scheming little bitch, we’ll get her to admit it. Change her testimony.’
‘All that does is place her at the crime scene as well, makes her culpable.’
‘Good!’ Mags said. ‘I hope she rots, she deserves it.’
‘Maybe…’ He didn’t sound convinced. Mags sighed, even after everything Liv had done to him he clearly still held a flame for her. ‘But that does little to change the situation.’
‘Who might have seen you?’
‘I made sure nobody did.’
‘You’re too good at your job.’
Mags was silent for several seconds. She wanted to pace up and down the room.
‘Think, think. Somebody must have found out about the garage. Somebody must have known, you must have let it slip,’ Mags said, eventually.
‘Not even you knew about us, let alone the fact we had a secret lockup. It was all supposed to be just that, a fucking secret.’
‘If it was someone who worked on the show, then…’
‘Then we can rule out Liv which leaves several options. You…’ he said, flippantly.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘…one of the techies, Violet, Edward and Braithwaite.’
‘The techies only come in on recording days, what grudge could they possibly hold?’
‘You don’t need a grudge, just a liking for teenage girls and a convenient opportunity to cover it all up.’
‘Besides, they barely came into contact with me, how could they have seen so much and put all the pieces together, found out about my affair, the garage, and the schedule? We never told them who would be on the show, we expected them to turn up and film it and if they didn’t know when Minnie and Jessica would be on, how could they have possibly engineered this situation?’
‘So that leaves…’
‘Edward Lewis, Violet Dearnley, Bernard Braithwaite…’
Mags smirked, she’d been thinking it all along.
‘There’s only one cowardly snake in the grass capable of pulling this off.’
‘Oh, I think Edward and Violet would like to see the back of me.’
‘They’re jobsworths, they’re hungry. They want to climb the ladder but they wouldn’t do this. What have they gained from this? They put themselves out of a job and of ever having one again. Whoever did this is a sick fuck, Michael. Do they seem like sick fucks to you?’
‘Correction. Whoever did this is a clever sick fuck, a sick fuck who can cover their arse and play the happy smiley game. Edward and Violet were more than happy to shop me at the first opportunity…’
‘You should never have let that happen…’
‘Don’t you think I know that!’
Michael had lost his cool with that slapper, Tiffany, just as Edward had wa
lked in. Mags had been forced to admit that, when she’d first heard about what had happened, even she had had doubts. This was the one and only time she questioned her boss’ innocence. But as it happened, Mags’ suspicions of her former boss were partly her own fault. She’d been lax with the rules, allowed guests to wander in and out of the dressing rooms, collecting autographs as they pleased and, as a result, Tiffany had seen and then filmed Michael kissing Liv.
‘You know she was trying to blackmail me, sell the story to the press. She could have destroyed my marriage, my entire show. Is it any wonder I had my hands around her neck? I could have done time for her, and trust that idiot to walk in at the wrong moment and put two and two together and get five.’
‘The footage!’ Mags screamed.
‘Don’t you think I’ve thought about it? Even if she hadn’t have kept that quiet during the trial and it had come out in court, again all it proves is that me and Liv were having it off. It implicates her and makes it seem like we’re having some sick murderous fantasy but it doesn’t change the fact that somehow my DNA was at the crime scene.’
‘How could that have happened? How could they get your DNA?’
‘I can’t explain it…’
‘The point is if Edward and Violet went to the police about the garage when they were the ones behind the murders and knew about the garage, why didn’t they shop you there and then? Why wait? Why run off and cast suspicion on themselves?’
‘Because they’re smart, because they wanted to muddy the waters.’
‘I’ll tell you who the traitor is. He’s been staring at you all along.’
‘Bernard Braithwaite is not clever enough to set this up, he’s too much of a weasel, believe me!’
‘You never even told me how you came to give that clown a job.’
‘Can you blame me? The mess we were in…’
The time leading up to and following the first court case had been hectic, to say the least. They had been fighting for their survival.
