In Pieces (28 page)

Si's mother was less an embarrassment than a mystery. One week, she devoured books about eastern religions; the next, she attended evangelical revival churches. She was passionate in what she termed her ‘search for the Truth'.

Once she had tried to draw a parallel between Si's journalistic ambitions and her own spiritual path. ‘Darling, don't you see, we're both striving for the same thing. It's like George Trevelyan says, we are reborn anew and each soul is on a higher plane, reaching out desperately to get to the Truth at the centre of the universe.'

Si hadn't protested, although he knew that his mother's understanding of modern journalism was clearly limited. The search for truth only acted as an excuse for the real business of selling newspapers. When business success and revelations of truth for the greater good coincided, fine… But that was the exception rather than the rule.

Once Si realised that, despite an accident of birth, he was not expected to take responsibility and could not be judged because of his parents, then he began to appreciate their better qualities.

He noticed how his father controlled his temper even in the face of extreme provocation, for example when Si accidentally ‘weeded' some expensive prize flowers when trying to help in the garden. His father just pointed out the error, leant on his spade and, contemplating the mangled remains of his cherished plants, stoked his pipe and smiled benignly at his errant son. No words, just a few puffs before the pipe automatically extinguished itself again. Si appreciated that.

He also realised that his mother could be a valuable asset. Although he found her mystical ramblings incomprehensible and bizarre, friends he had brought home, including Jimmy, were fascinated by her.

‘She's great,' enthused Jimmy, ‘really fantastic. I wish my mother was like that.'

And Si felt a sort of pride watching his mother, blonde hair pulled back in an Alice band, talking non-stop for half an hour without interruption from Jimmy. Even more bizarre was the fact that Jimmy had never shown any religious or intellectual leanings before or since. But he hung on every syllable as she explained the Tao.

Si passed through the security check and flashed his pass at the guard. The latter wore a black uniform and looked like Officer Dibble from
Top Cat
. Would he really be capable of deterring any would-be terrorist from storming the building? It seemed unlikely. But who would want to attack
The Courier
's offices anyway? Even in the cease-fire, perhaps the IRA? The newspaper had been consistently critical of Sinn Fein's duplicity in the bomb-shattered times before this peaceful interlude. Not that anyone would have much to gain from such a crass action. But then terrorists seemed not to understand that they stood to gain nothing from blowing up civilians. Odd, really, that they bothered at all, reflected Si. Anyway, there hadn't been any bombings in London for the best part of a year now, and the cease-fire seemed to be holding.

He stepped into the lift and, pressing the sixth floor button on the panel, wondered what it would be like to be blown to smithereens. Would he be able to appreciate the sensation or would he be already nothing, non-existent, by the time the blast ripped his body apart?

The thought was intriguing and he pondered it for the rest of the day. As he put on the kettle he imagined he was triggering a bomb… As he pressed 0 on his phone and when he opened a door, he held his breath to see if the action would lead to an explosion.

Si was still wondering about it when he knocked off that evening. Somehow he'd managed to scrape together enough material to fill the page. Insipid stuff, he knew it. But any passion for his job had more or less gone, and increasingly he wondered if he retained enough ambition to get him through the day. The shadows were lengthening and Si was increasingly aware that his position was becoming untenable. He couldn't hide from himself forever; life was too short.

Bill, true to recent form, had produced two good pieces which had carried the Diary past the Editor's censure. Dougy had wanted to know how Si had found out about the past of the Head Chef at Zeno's (a new ultra-fashionable Notting Hill restaurant). Apparently the cook had started out as a
factotum for a notorious Lebanese arms dealer. Preparing food had just been one of several duties; the others were less savoury. Anyway, Dougy decided, after a few seconds of indecision, that he liked it.

Si couldn't be bothered to lie, and admitted that the story had all been Bill's efforts. He didn't feel self-destructive enough to admit that he hadn't even proofread the piece carefully before putting it to the Editor.

‘Mm,' intoned Dougy, ‘he's doing well, Bill, isn't he?'

Si tried to mirror Dougy's thoughtful look and nodded slowly. After that he'd left the eagle's nest office as quickly as possible. Stopping only to chuck the approved page onto Bill's desk, asking him to deliver it downstairs, he grabbed his bag and made for the lift.

Si went straight from work to the station, where he picked up Mary in front of the main noticeboard. He was on time, but she'd been waiting quarter of an hour already; she made sure he knew this.

Si had been dismayed by Mary's enthusiasm to meet his parents. A weekend
à quatre
loomed and it was unclear how it would pan out.

It was the first time he'd been fond enough of any girl to want to take her home; or rather, to agree to her demand that he introduce her to his parents. As they stood on the platform waiting for the six forty which would take them to the little Easfolk village where he'd grown up, he wondered again if he was doing the right thing. Perhaps Mary would get the wrong idea and assume the next step would be a proposal. He felt nowhere near ready for marriage yet. Wasn't this just giving her false expectations? The arrival of the train distracted him.

‘It's here Si; stop daydreaming. The least you can do after being so late is to talk to me.'

Despite the unfair criticism, Si followed her obediently through the automatic doors which beeped repeatedly and then swooshed shut behind him. Like entering the command deck of the Starship Enterprise… Or a gas chamber.

~

Si was at his desk. How long this could go on he didn't know. He knew what he should do, but doing it required more courage than he could muster. And he wasn't even managing to do the job well either any more. He felt caught in no-man's-land between two safe and correct courses of action.

Now, instead of rewriting a piece he'd researched earlier, he was reading a book of poetry. Mary had given it to him last weekend in Easfolk. His parents and Mary had got on extremely well and, after cautiously observing them for the first evening, Si had decided to join in and enjoy the weekend as well. It had been a great success and as a result his relationship with Mary seemed to have moved onto another, highly satisfactory plane.

Mary said the collection was one of her favourite books. So far he had not discovered the same truths within the pages but he was persevering in the hope of understanding Mary better. Only one poem had really struck a chord with him.

 

I go to Ely to sustain my soul

And the Island wind restores me whole
.

Within steep vaults of lofty stone

The beast within groans and is gone
.

On knees of bone I gaze ahead

Beyond the choir, to when I'm dead
.

And in the gloom a glow surrounds

My quietening heart and present sounds
.

The grandparents stand at the mortal watch;

The parents, ageing, now hear the clock;

And I, with no more than twice this more
,

Find comfort in these mortal laws
.

I go to Ely to sustain my soul

And the Island wind restores me whole
.

 

Si hadn't heard of the poet before but this song of death seemed strangely joyful and he could identify with the mortal mood. It was rare to find a modern writer with so clear a perception of death, recognising within that great unknown cause for calm and pleasant expectation rather than nihilism or terror.

The phone rang and Si put down the slim paperback volume.

‘How's the page going?'

‘Fine, fine,' lied Si.

‘Yeah? Well. I hope so. Bring it up to me as soon as you've got all the bits in place, okay?'

The requirement for Dougy to approve the Diary every day before it went to press still held him like a ball and chain; there was still no sign that Dougy would lift the injunction.

‘Only temporary, mind. Understand? Just until we get it back on track, up to your previous standard. Okay?' That's how Dougy had explained retaining control when Si had asked him if they couldn't now return to the previous arrangement.

Despite this half-reassurance, Si wondered how long it would be before Dougy permanently removed his remaining authority. In his heart he knew he didn't really care any more. The glittering prizes of journalism no longer held the same fascination. It could only be a matter of time now.

~

The Sleeper collected the first part of the kit the week after the meeting in Hammersmith. ‘Just a small amount of explosive,' Ginger had said. But within a fortnight the Sleeper had a small arsenal. He suspected that his operation was not the only one Ginger was masterminding. As he had been instructed, he hid the material in a lock-up garage in Kilburn.

Ginger obviously had a sense of humour because the ordnance was always packed in identical Manchester United sports bags, which locked with a small key. The Sleeper wondered if Ginger knew that he'd once had a very similar bag; he used to take his sports kit to school in it. Or perhaps Ginger had been inspired by United winning the Double Double with Cantona's cracking goal? Even Greta had appreciated that one. Anyway, the Sleeper reflected, he found it strangely comforting to associate the operation with his football heroes.

After the last delivery, he saw Ginger once more. Again in Hammersmith, but this time a different pub.

‘Now sit tight and wait to hear from us. Okay? And if you must shag your landlady, do it discreetly? We don't want you getting murdered by a jealous husband now, do we?' Ginger grinned. ‘Not when you're about to be a hero.'

The Sleeper nodded. He was in so deep there was no point in trying to resist or even contemplate a change of course.

‘Good man.' Ginger turned and, without shaking hands, walked straight out of the pub. The Sleeper didn't see him again. Not in the flesh anyway.

~

According to CNN, the new government in Madrid was making heavy weather of the economic inheritance bequeathed to it by Gonzalez's outgoing administration.

Si had been to Madrid once. He'd spent two days a few summers ago researching a feature as a cub reporter desperate to make an impact. The piece had eventually appeared under the title
Madrid After Dark
. Si had been disappointed because the detail of his sleepless visit had been erased by some dumb sub-editor who failed to understand that the repetitious references to drinking beer were essential to the article. As far as Si could work out, the Madrileños measured out their lives in small glasses of beer,
cañas
, as they called them.

Little happened before seven in the evening, but even mid-week the city bustled until three or four in the morning. The bars overflowed with people of all ages drinking
cañas
. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, without a care in the world. During the working hours a heavy inertia descended across the dusty streets. The heat oppressed and little work seemed to be done.

Si was not surprised by CNN's report. But he thought it would take more than a Prime Minister, especially one who looked like Charlie Chaplin, to make Spain adopt the work ethic. Long may it remain as it is, he smiled to himself. Si had loved his blurred, sleepless forty-eight hours in Madrid. A great city which could teach London a lot about nightlife, certainly during the summer months.

Si flicked off CNN as the soapy news presenters—the man imbecilic and the woman disconcertingly cross-eyed—began to repeat the stories he'd listened to just fifteen minutes before. He found satellite news useful from a professional point of view; he could catch up with the main news any time of the day or night. But since its advent, the quality of news reporting had suffered and Si suspected that even tabloid newspapers offered a better analysis than CNN or Sky's so-called ‘informed comment'. Ten minutes a day of this stuff was about all he could stomach. But it was marginally better than working.

Si forced himself to concentrate on the job in hand. ‘Hey Bill, how's your story coming?'

Bill grunted.

It was one of those days. It always got tricky in mid-summer, but this year the stories seemed to have dried up early. It was only June. What would they have to write up in August, if they were already printing pieces of such low quality?

He'd sent Bill off earlier on a wild goose chase to draw a connection between recent gossip about a government reshuffle and the BSE crisis. He suspected that there was nothing in the story, told to him by a notoriously untrustworthy backbencher. No doubt the MP was trying to score points off the Agriculture Minister or the pro-European faction in the party. Si wouldn't have minded if the story was credible. But to suggest that the Prime Minister had timed the release of new information about BSE as part of a strategy to sacrifice the Europhile Agriculture Minister, thereby allowing him to sack the poor fellow and increase support for more Euro-sceptic policies! This was so circumstantial and tenuous that Si would not normally have bothered following it up.

But these were not normal times. There was a dearth of stories and Si knew that Dougy would come down on him like a ton of bricks at the first opportunity. If he was going to leave
The Courier
, he wanted to jump—not be sacked for incompetence.