Experiment in Terror 05 On Demon Wings (43 page)

you pretend to forget a lot of people.

I pause in front of Joe’s office. Marilyn sits to the right of

the door, eyebrows furrowed as she types furiously at her

computer.

I reckon Marilyn would have been quite a stunner back in

the day. For someone in her 60s, she’s quite a stunner

now. She’s gained a few kg over the years I’ve known her,

but the weight keeps her looking youthful and smoothes out

the “beak-face” older women get when their noses get

longer but they pul their cheeks back with plastic surgery.

Marilyn just has a warm, if somewhat anxious, visage, with

friendly eyes that she denies behind cat-eyed glasses. She

keeps her grey hair a rich brown and dresses in thick

materials that seem opulent and itchy at the same time.

She pauses in mid “clackity clack” and glances up at me

with a stern, motherly face.

“You done?”

“Just emailed it to him.”

“You know you’re late.”

“One minute late.”

“Two minutes late. You know Joe wants it printed out.”

I sigh and look back at my computer. I know he wants our

work printed out and handed to him, the old-fashioned way.

But it seems like a waste of time when he can just read it

on the computer. You know, like the rest of the planet.

“Joe can print it out himself if he needs to.”

She rol s her eyes and resumes her symphony of

keyboard sounds.

“No, he can’t. I’l be the one printing it out for him.”

“I just don’t understand why you’ve figured out how the

printer works and he hasn’t. Weren’t you both born around

the same time? World War One?”

I grin at her and scoot over to Joe’s door before she has

a chance to whack me with her hand. Her nails are fake

and sharp. I’ve learned the hard way.

I raise my hand and am about to knock on the door just

beneath the gleaming plate that reads JOE BRADLEY –

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF when he barks from the other side. I’m

sure there were words attached to the noise, but to me he

just sounds like a dog more often than not.

I open the door cautiously and poke my head in. As

usual, Joe’s office looks like a bomb went off in it. The desk

is piled high with folders and files that I haven’t ever seen

him move, and his blinds are so jumbled that it gives one

the impression he spends half his time peering out of them

with keen paranoia. Perhaps Joe’s been in the Witness

Protection Program. Would explain a lot.

Everything is just so
grey
in here. The skies outside the

messy window are grey (even at night, it’s a deep

charcoal), the coffee in Joe’s cup looks grey (expired

Coffee Mate wil do that), Joe’s col ared shirt is grey (was

white once, I’m sure), his hair is grey and Joe’s face is

grey. The expression on his face is grey. I do that to him.

“Chris!” he barks, now making legible words. “Get your

skinny British ass in here.”

I quickly close the door and stand nervously by his desk.

Joe’s an American. He believes al British men have

abnormal y smal behinds. I haven’t looked around enough

to figure out if it’s true or not.

“Where’s the article?” he narrows his eyes at me. “It’s

late.”

“I emailed it to –“

Joe sighs. Loudly. Enough that the grey coffee wavers in

the cup.

“Whatever, whatever,” he says with a wave, and then

rests his head in his hands. He doesn’t move or make

another sound. For a brief instant I wonder if he’s been a

robot this entire time and he’s final y ran out of batteries. A

robot in the Witness Protection Program – now that’s a

story.

“Sir?” I ask, and step a smidge closer to him. I can see

the liver spots on the top of his balding head and I

instinctively run my hand through my own dark, thick hair. At

least I have that stil going for me.

Final y, a tired little sigh fal s out of him like a fluttering

leaf.

“What am I going to do with you, Chris?” he says, his

voice low and muffled.

This isn’t an unusual question but I never seem to have

the right answer. Fact is, I don’t know.

“What are we going to do?” he continues, his pitch

rising. I can almost hear a pinch in his words. This is a new

question. New questions scare me.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Sir,” I tel him honestly. I

look down at my cufflinks and make sure they are evenly

polished. There is a weird tension in the room that makes

me feel awkward, like I should be adjusting my clothing.

Another sigh and Joe looks up, his cheeks smooshed up

by his hands like a droopy-faced dog. His eyes avoid mine

and stare straight forward into grey space.

“When are we going to have to write an article about the

fal of The London Herald?” he asks in a weary, dreamy

way. “Or wil we read it on the Sun’s website?”

Sun’s website, natural y, via everyone’s iPad or iPhone.

But I keep my mouth shut. When Joe admits fears and

failure, you know something is seriously wrong.

His eyes flit to me briefly before he straightens up in his

chair and his “harrumph” expression returns to his face. It’s

almost a relief to see it.

“I hope you realize how much is riding on your trip

tomorrow,” he says, clearing his throat dramatical y. “This

isn’t about you and your girlfriend.”

“I know, Sir.”

“Do you? You need to interview that Cooper woman.

You need to convince her to write for us. If we don’t get

some fresh blood soon, we’re al out of a job. You

especial y. And I don’t care what your mother says.”

I sniff and tug at my hair again. Seems to be what I do

whenever my mother is mentioned. And Joe mentions her a

lot. She’s real y the whole reason I stil have a job.

And, yes, the real reason for the trip to Gibraltar isn’t

because I wanted to take Alexa on a romantic escapade.

OK, it is. But saving up for a ring can leave you broke,

especial y on my salary, so when Joe ordered me to

interview this travel writer down in Gibraltar, I jumped at the

chance. At first, I thought he just wanted a story but over the

past few days, I learned that not only am I supposed to write

up a big piece about this woman, but I was to convince her

to write for the Herald. Not exactly a smal order.

In fact, the whole ordeal makes me feel uneasy. I don’t

real y understand why I have to go to Gibraltar to interview

Jamie Cooper (wouldn’t a phone cal with Human

Resources suffice?) and I don’t understand why she’s

needed so badly. I looked at a few samples of her writing.

It’s fun and a bit kooky, but without sounding immodest, I’m

a far more talented writer than she is. But I don’t want to

analyze it too much. This is a free trip to the Mediterranean

and the one thing I’ve been looking forward to for a very

long time. Alexa and I need it.

“What do the other papers have that we don’t?” Joe

asks, interrupting my thoughts before I started brooding

about my relationship.

“Online versions? A friendly boss? Better coffee?”

“They have sex appeal. They have the youthful slant. No

offense, Chris, but you’re not exactly a spring chicken.”

“I’m thirty-five and girls tel me I look like David Tennant,”

I reply. “I’m a big hit with the tardis set.”

“Re-tardis set, if you ask me,” he scoffs and leans

forward. “Listen, this woman has a large fol owing and she

has yet to commit to a regular column anywhere. I think if

we got a contract with her, she would help us out a lot.

People don’t want to read about the economy anymore.

They don’t want the doom and gloom. They want to escape

from their problems. They want to travel but can’t afford it.

That is where travel writing comes in. Armchair travel for the

broke and despondent.”

A newspaper that wants to focus on the good news? I

think I’ve heard it al .

“Get that interview first. Then convince her that writing for

the London Herald would be the best thing for her career.

Emphasize stability. Everyone likes that in this climate,

especial y an American like her. Do that first and then you

can go relax…or whatever it is that you do when you’re not

here.”

I give him a weary smile and then hustle myself out of the

office as quickly as possible, blowing Marilyn a kiss, which

she pretends not to notice. Outside, the air is strangely cold

for a June night and peppered with exhaust and grime. I

walk to the tube dreaming of the Mediterranean shining

bold and blue before me. First I’l get the travel writer out of

my way – I’l try my best, or maybe I won’t. Then it’s just me

and Alexa, sunshine and ignorance as far as the eye can

see.

3

JAMIE

June 20th

I’m behind my deadline again. Hildy has been calling

the hotel nonstop, threatening me with the same old “Your

book will never get published at this rate” and “You’re

making me look like a bad agent.” WELL I’M SORRY,

HILDY. YOU ARE A BAD AGENT! There, I said it. And

one day I’ll say it to her face. I know that publishers are

under the gun these day,s especially with the advent of

those e-books and all (horrible things, should be

abolished along with cell phones) but COME THE FUCK

ON, a $5000 advance on a book? What happened to

authors making money? Or does that not happen

anymore? I almost make that much after a few months of

freelancing. WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY THINKING?!

OK, enough ranty rants from moi. I know I shouldn’t

complain and I don’t normally … much… other than here.

But it seriously demotivates me and I’m having enough

writer’s block as it is. I mean, Morrocco. What is there to

say about it that hasn’t already been said? I said it all

myself when I was here three years ago. Where’s the

story? There is no story. I got hit by a rickshaw, that’s

really the only story I’m limping away from. Speaking of,

I’m dying for a drink once I hit Gibraltar. These pain meds

just don’t cut it anymore and are making the right half of

my face twitch. I’m a limping, frazzle-haired twitching writer

and I don’t like it. I miss Greece. I miss Crete. I miss Nico

and his pecs and his dick and his pronunciation of the

word avocado. I miss happy, smiling, sexy Jamie, part-

time writer, part-time huntress of foreign men who are

dumber than they look. The frazzle-hair never leaves me

but I know I look better when my eyes are twinkling.

Maybe it’s Northern Africa, though. Maybe it’s that you

can’t let your guard down here (not that I do anyway), and

that being a female isn’t exactly embraced. Maybe

Gibraltar will be better. Aside from the drinks and the

British charm, there’s the interview. Maybe having some

dopey newspaper reporter ask me questions will make me

feel better about myself. Motivate me. Get my ass in gear

for Lisbon (or Grasse, France, I haven’t decided yet) and

when the damn jaunt is over, I can sort out this diary and

get a manuscript in order. Then maybe, just maybe I’ll

finally see my name on a book and I’ll make back that

$5000.

And maybe I’ll find a new victim too. Did I say victim? I

meant Nico. Same difference.

4

CHRIS

Hot.

Hot.

I’m so damn hot.

And tired. My brain feels like a wad of chewing gum. And

the glare off the water and whitewashed buildings is so

strong that my imitation Ray-Bans can’t handle the UV rays.

This is my impression of Tangier and I can’t wait to

leave.

Granted, we aren’t here for very long. The cheapest way

to Gibraltar was actual y to fly out of Gatwick to Tangier and

then take the ferry across to Gibraltar. I original y didn’t

mind that Joe booked this more exotic route, thinking Alexa

might find it al uring (and it was one of the few places she

hadn’t been to).

But she’s glaring at me and it’s not because of the

sunshine (no, her Gucci shades are real).

I loosen my col ar, feeling the beads of sweat evaporate,

wondering why I didn’t dress for the occasion and give her

an innocent smile.

“Something wrong, sweetie?” I ask her.