If It Bleeds

by Bernie Crosthwaite

*

  The buildings that made up the outer reaches of Ravenbridge looked as if they’d been flung against the hills and the lucky ones had stuck. They rose in tiers on both sides of the River Raven, old and new, stone and brick, mixed together to create an untidy chaotic jumble, which was one of the things I loved about the place.

  As I crawled towards the traffic lights on East Bridge, I could see up ahead the ruins of the fourteenth-century castle and the tangle of medieval streets that led up to it. The lights changed and I shot across the bridge before they flicked back to red. I turned left into the wide Georgian market square, then took the right fork at the war memorial. Paper and linen mills had made Ravenbridge rich in Victorian times, and the grand ebullient architecture here on Queen Street — the town hall, the central library, the Hutchinson Art Gallery, and the shops with their ironwork canopies — were evidence of this past wealth. There were only a couple of working mills left now, and Ravenbridge had gone through some hard times before its current revival. These days new office blocks and housing estates and shopping centres seemed to be going up all over the place.

  There was gridlock at the roundabout at the end of Queen Street. I tapped my steering wheel impatiently. This was the downside of the town that planning forgot — it was hell during the rush hour. My Triumph juddered at the edge of the roundabout, like a dog straining on a leash. At last a small gap opened up and together we shot forward, swinging round in a wide arc and exiting on to Millhouse Lane, a straight stretch of comparatively fast-moving traffic. Nearly there. Just after nine o’clock. Not bad, only an hour late.

  The Ravenbridge Evening Post had its offices in an ornate redbrick building. It was linked to the noisy printworks next door by a glassed-in walkway at first floor level. I drove under this glass bridge to the car park. Hurrying to the staff entrance, I swiped my key card to get in, then, unzipping my leather jacket as I went, I took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.

  I burst through the swing doors into the newsroom where a battery of computer screens blinked and hummed. About a dozen reporters were slumped in their swivel chairs, most of them looking wrecked. They’d obviously had a better holiday than me. On New Year’s Eve I watched a couple of lousy films and ate a whole drum of popcorn on my own, and I spent New Year’s day working. The only chemical stimulants I’d seen had been in dishes in my basement darkroom. It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends. But I’d found out about my partner’s infidelity at one raucous New Year’s Eve party and I’d turned my back on that particular celebration ever since.

  There were a few muttered greetings, one or two meaningful looks at the clock, nothing I couldn’t handle.

  The venetian blinds of the editor’s office snapped open as I approached. Tony Quinnell glared through the slats at me. He came to his door.

  “Nice way to start the New Year, Jude.” He spoke in a grainy London accent, deepened and roughened by nicotine.

  “Sorry, Tony. Had to climb a tree and rescue a ferret.”

  He noted my bloody chin, then his eyes flickered down to my torn shirt, lingering there for a moment. I guessed my bra was showing. I tugged my jacket closed.

  “Staff meeting. Conference room. Fifteen minutes.” He backed into his office and closed the door. The blinds snapped shut.

  At the far end of the newsroom was the photographic department, essentially one cramped windowless space with rows of computers and scanners on clinical white benches, and walls dotted with enlargements of our work.

  Raymond, our sports photographer, swivelled his chair to face me. “Happy New Year, Judith.”

  There was no point telling Raymond not to call me Judith. There was no point telling Raymond anything.

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you, by any chance, see the latest test match down under?”

  “Sadly I didn’t catch that one, Ray,” I replied, getting my retaliation in. He hated his shortened name even more than I hated my full one.

  “England had to get 256. They were on 253 for nine, took four off the last ball of the over and beat Australia with an unbroken last-wicket partnership of 45.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.” He pursed his lips and shook his head, making his jowls wobble. “You missed a tremendous sporting occasion.”

  The bags under his eyes looked even heavier than usual. It always amused me that sports snappers were usually the most overweight, wheezy and downright unfit members of the team, and Raymond was no exception. His pictures were notorious for being blurred (An action shot, he would explain). Quite often there was no sign of the ball (It’s a close-up, what do you expect?), or the heads would be missing (Sport happens from the neck down, dear girl).

  I blew him a kiss. “I’ll try and get over it.” I dumped my bag on the workbench. I took out a carton of milk and put it in the fridge, the same one that had contained boxes of film in the old pre-digital days. Then I put my Nikon F camera in the stationery cupboard. I always brought it to work for the occasional job that needed a really high-definition picture, but it was too heavy to lug around everywhere in my workbag.

  In the chair next to mine sat a long, thin, under-nourished figure. He was staring at his screen through a curtain of dead-straight mousy hair, cut shorter on one side than the other, and absently fiddling with a star-shaped pendant on a leather thong around his neck.

  “Morning, Harrison.”

  He turned slowly and grunted, “You’re late.”

  “Perhaps I’m on second shift, and am, in fact, incredibly early.”

  Harrison glanced at the rota on the wall and muttered something in a Neanderthal dialect I wasn’t familiar with.

  I booted up my machine and began dealing with the backlog of pictures. I worked fast, erasing scratches, removing anything unsightly, brightening the colour, all with a twitch of my mouse. Who said the camera never lied?

  “Where’s Buzz?” I asked.

  “Chatting up that Danish girl in telesales,” said Raymond.

  “That figures.”

  I got up and made coffee in my favourite mug, the Photographers Do It In The Dark one with the hairline crack. Just as I took my first reviving sip, Burhan Hussein, known to his colleagues as Buzz, arrived at top speed. Buzz did everything at top speed. Immediately, the energy level in the room shot up, the air fizzing with his infectious vitality.

  “Hi, Buzz…” I did a double take. “Nice trousers.” They were leopard skin, worn with a tight black top. The effect should have been utterly tacky, but on Buzz’s lithe body everything looked good. From his glossy black hair to his shiny shoes he was so well-groomed you could have eaten your dinner off him, and I knew several women who would loved to have done just that.

  “Thanks, Jude. It’s nice to be appreciated.”

  It wasn’t difficult to read Buzz’s mind as he conducted a high-speed scan of the three of us, taking in Raymond’s defeated-looking tweed jacket, Harrison’s grubby hooded top, and my stained shirt, complete with ventilation holes. His eyebrows rose eloquently before he turned and bustled with his computer.

  “Raymond says you’ve been chatting up Birgitta,” muttered Harrison, still staring at his screen.

  “Dirty work but somebody has to do it,” said Buzz.

  “Result?” asked Raymond.

  “Taking her for a drink tonight.” He punched the air. “Yes!”

  “What do you do, hypnotise them?”

  “OK, guys,” I intervened. “Can we get on with some work?”

  For a while the only sound was the humming of the machines and the soft clicking of keys and mouse. I opened up the business supplement file and made a start on that. Buzz grabbed a batch of job tickets and headed out on the road. Raymond tagged along, but he was only going as far as the coffee shop down the street for his usual late breakfast of muffins and hot chocolate with whipped cream. When I glanced at my watch, I noticed that the beads of blood on my hand had congealed in a jagged line and the bite its
elf looked inflamed. I’d have to clean it up and put some antiseptic on it later.

  I leaned across to Harrison. “I’ve got to go to a meeting in a minute.” He looked at me blankly, his mouth hanging open so that I could see the stud piercing his tongue. “If anyone rings or brings in a photo order, make sure you write it down. OK?” Harrison had been known to bodge the simplest tasks. He had a diploma in photo journalism, or so he said. I found it hard to believe.

  Then I remembered an extra job. “Can you do something for me while I’m in the meeting?”

  Harrison grunted.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t take you long.” I pulled a folder of prints from my bag. “I processed several rolls of film over the holiday, stuff I’ve had hanging round for ages. Can you scan and file these three pics into the system? They could be useful for the picture bank.”

  I spread the black and white prints on the workbench. I’d taken them in my free time with the Nikon. One was a view of gridlocked traffic in November when a freak snowstorm had caused chaos on the roads. Then there was a picture of the river in flood, next to the modern housing development that had transformed the run-down riverside area. From the bridge I’d noticed that a for sale sign on one of the properties had been bent over by the wind so that it nearly touched the rising water. It looked as if the river was up for grabs. The last one was a shot of industrial cranes working on a new cinema complex on King Street, starkly beautiful against a stormy sky. In my opinion, it was one of the best I’d ever done.

  Harrison picked up the river picture. “What’s this all about?”

  I explained the visual joke.

  “That’s balls.”

  “Thanks for that critical assessment, Harrison. But cojones or not, just get on with the job, will you?”

  “Coho-what?”

  “Cojones — Spanish for testicles.”

  He made a low sound that was probably Neanderthal for bog off, then peered at the other two prints. “I like the cranes, though.”

  “Good choice.”

  “And the snowed-up traffic. The line of cars against the white background… it’s kind of like… abstract.”

  “Kind of,” I said casually, but for the first time ever I was impressed by his intelligence. That didn’t last long. I looked back at my screen, called up an image that Harrison had taken and filed as Boringpic. Not exactly a helpful label, when file names were meant to be a kind of shorthand summary so that we could find an image fast. It turned out to be a mug shot of the manager of the estate agents where Lara worked, celebrating the fact the branch had won a productivity award. It was a terrible picture, badly composed and slightly out of focus. I realigned it and burnt in the edges, making it almost passable. But what had Harrison done to make the poor man’s skin so raw, as if he’d shaved with a lawn mower? With a few deft swipes of the mouse I gave him a complexion of peachy smoothness. Then I closed the file down, grabbed a notebook and ran.

  Two

  “Where’s Matt Dryden?” Tony was yelling as I slid into the conference room.

  Charmaine, the news editor, looked up from her notebook. “He rang in to say he’s following up rumours of contaminated blood products being used at the hospital. He’s gone straight there and he’ll be back as soon as he can.”

  Tony grunted. When he saw me he stretched backwards in his leather chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Though only in his early forties, his skin was grey from smoking too much. His eyes were dull and sunken, and he had a lean, wolfish look. Despite the chilly day two perfect circles of sweat had formed in the armpits of his shirt.

  “Jude. Glad you could spare the time.”

  “I can’t.” I sat down next to Charmaine.

  “As I was about to say…” Tony released his clasped hands and leaned forward, staring at my torn shirt. I didn’t bother to cover up this time. He peeled his eyes away and glowered around the room. “These are not easy days for the newspaper industry. Remember what I told you all before Christmas?”

  I sighed. I could tell we were in for one of Tony’s periodic inspirational talks. New Year, new start, all that stuff. Most of the reporters were there, plus representatives from the other departments — telesales, advertising, printworks, and me from Photographic. Looking across the table I made eye contact with Stan, the legendary number one from the press hall. He winked at me and I grinned back. It was hard not to smile at Stan’s cherubic imperturbable face. I reminded myself that he was Lara’s uncle, so if she and Daniel were going to get together that would make Stan and me practically family. I mouthed Happy New Year and he gave me a double thumbs-up.

  Tony was ranting on. “This paper is barely holding its own. Circulation is rocky and therefore so is advertising, and as we all know, that’s where the real money comes from. We’ve all got to work harder to make the Ravenbridge Evening Post a more exciting read.”

  Sensational tabloid stuff was what he meant, not always easy to come by in a town like Ravenbridge. Last year our biggest stories were the blowing up of a block of flats which had been an eyesore for years, and a student protest over the opening of a strip club. The gossip was that Tony had come here from London two years back, all for the sake of love. There was a picture of a smiling red-haired woman on his desk, who we assumed was his partner. He never talked about her, just occasionally stared wistfully at the photo. But love, if that’s what kept him here, was a false friend, since Tony clearly found Ravenbridge about as exciting as an old people’s home.

  He thumped the table with the flat of his hand. “It’s up to each and every department to pull its weight, or else… you know the consequences.” He was referring to his habit of sacking people he didn’t feel were taking his mission statement seriously enough. He leaned back again. “Right. What have we got for today’s second edition?” There was no response. “How about tomorrow? Charmaine?”

  Charmaine was a tall graceful woman with skin the colour of burnt sugar. Normally cheerful and outgoing, now she was tugging nervously at a strand of beaded hair.

  “Typical post-Christmas drought, I’m afraid. If it turns out to be true, the contamination rumour at the hospital is a possible lead story. Like I say, Matt’s chasing that up. Traffic-calming measures, dog fouling…” She sounded desperate.

  I spoke up. “I’ve got plenty of picture fillers — Christmas parties, cheque presentations, that sort of stuff.”

  “What else?” Tony barked.

  No one spoke.

  “Well?”

  Nick, one of the chief reporters, said quietly, “I might have something…”

  “What?”

  “Doggy story. You know - dog jumps into a van, gets taken fifty miles away. Kids heartbroken because they don’t know where it’s gone. But the dog makes its own way home in time for Christmas.”

  Tony received this in grim silence.

  “Great,” said Charmaine brightly. “Nice feel-good piece. Big picture of the children hugging the dog…”

  Tony’s jaw was working. “Jesus wept,” he muttered.

  The door opened and Matt Dryden walked in, wearing a long dark coat. He’d been with the paper for nine months or so, having worked on a weekly in Manchester before. He was a good young journalist, keen and ambitious, ready to take on any job that Tony threw at him, even the shitty ones.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. He took a seat next to Stan.

  “You haven’t missed much,” said Tony. “What did you get from the hospital?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “They closed ranks. Nobody would talk to me. No press release. Nothing.”

  “Not even a quote from the hospital manager?”

  “Zero. It’s just rumour and hearsay at the moment. So, no story.”

  “Do you know what you are?” Tony paused for effect. “You’re an arsehole.”

  Matt ran a hand through his curly dark hair. I saw his ears turn pink.

  I kicked my chair back and stood up. “Now just a
minute —”

  “Moving on,” said Tony.

  “No. Rewind to that last comment. Matt is not an arsehole. He’s a good reporter trying to do an honest job. The question I want to ask is this — who really is the arsehole round here?”

  Some people stared at me with shocked expressions, others suddenly found their notebooks rivetingly interesting. Stan was the only one who nodded with approval.

  “Perhaps there’s more than one,” said Tony quietly. He began to study his fingernails. “I was only saying to the managing director the other day that the photographic department is overstaffed.”

  “What? Are you crazy? We’re rushed off our feet!”

  “So how come, on the first day back, you’re over an hour late? Some bullshit about a ferret when it’s obvious you had a late night with your bit of rough, whoever he is.” He gestured at my rips and scratches.

  “That’s rubbish! I’m not even in a relationship at the moment and what’s more…” I stopped before I revealed to everyone in the room how long it was since I’d had sex.

  “One-night stand, eh? And you’re questioning my judgement?”

  “Somebody has to.”

  Before he could answer, his mobile phone began to trill. Tony picked it up on the second blast.

  “Yeah?”

  He listened intently, then sat bolt upright. He mouthed to Charmaine the single word Fred. Everyone knew that Fred was Tony’s contact at the police station. He gave us advance warning of anything newsworthy. No one knew what Tony gave him in return.

  He scribbled something on his pad. “Right. Cheers.”

  He switched the phone off. A half-smile appeared on his face.

  “The police have received a phone call about a body. A young woman.”

  The atmosphere in the room, already charged, crackled with electricity, the way it always did when a real story came in. In the skewed world of journalism, death, especially violent death, was good news. I saw a frown cross Stan’s face. Like me, he didn’t share the hacks’ delight at other people’s misery.

  “Any details?” asked Charmaine.