In Pieces (5 page)

Following that unexpected meeting with Dougy McCormack, less than a fortnight had elapsed before he had taken up his new post. The promotion carried a degree of risk. Certainly, he was more exposed than in his previous job. For the first time people began to know who he was.

The smell of success terrified him not a little. Surely they've made a mistake in picking me, he panicked. I find it difficult to go shopping on my own, let alone help to part-edit a major national newspaper with millions of readers.

Si started unconvincingly, somewhat overawed by his new responsibilities, but, realising he enjoyed the support of the newspaper's editor, he had started to feel more confident by the day. Now he realised that he could do the job.

Si worried a bit about managing the Diary staff, particularly Bill, who seemed slow to learn the ropes, although he'd already worked for six months at
The Courier
under Si's predecessor; but Si realised that Bill and the others were still coming to terms with the new regime. It was early days yet and he was sure it would work out. Above all, he was determined to be a better manager than Slimey Stevens.

After a month, Si began to enjoy his work. He was still trying to tune into what his editor Dougy wanted, but the gentle satirical style required came easily, and in contrast to his previous job, he was encouraged to take an interest in political stories. He'd always had certain compunctions about what he wrote, but he quickly learnt that Dougy would only accept well-substantiated stories. Surmise and rumour had no place in
The Courier
's Diary.

Si found it best to let his victims stitch themselves up rather than put the boot in himself. Not that he was naturally malicious. But he knew that he would have to cultivate a hard edge if he was to make a success of the job. Fortunately, he found that those who had something to hide normally hoisted themselves by their own petard. He just published what they said and let the reader judge.

Justice was normally done; for instance, in the case of the backbench MP who bombarded the Diary with daily faxes about his latest exploits but seemed not to care that they were rarely used. In fact, on the few occasions Si had to resort to these offerings, the published pieces reflected badly on the MP and his inflated self-opinion.

‘Bloody good journalism' was how Dougy described such stories.

Si was delighted. Praise from his boss, which he'd noticed was not frequently forthcoming, produced a heady feeling not dissimilar to the effect produced by breathing in deeply over a mouthful of single malt whisky.

‘Did you hear about the bomb?'

‘Hear about it? I was caught up in it. The underground was shut for hours. What a mess.'

Bill plonked the mug down on his desk. ‘Coffee, one sugar.'

‘That's great, thanks. By the way, how are you getting on with the Minister of Sport and his fling with that Olympic shot-putter?'

‘Not so wonderful, actually.'

Si hated the word “actually” and ground his teeth.

Bill continued unaware. ‘There was nothing in it.'

‘Who told you that? Mavis or the Minister?'

‘Neither. I found out that he was bonking his secretary.'

‘Oh.' Si sighed. ‘Well, we'd better drop it then.' He knew what Dougy thought about stories involving Ministers and their secretaries. They weren't news. They were all at it, so why make a big deal? And, equally importantly, Dougy didn't want to incur the wrath of his political connections without being sure of his ground. The trouble with secretaries was they hardly ever kissed and told. Far too loyal and always half-hoping that their boss would eventually divorce his wife and marry them. Anyway, Si knew perfectly well that Dougy would never accept a story unless he was sure of its pedigree. It had to be proven to run. Especially in these politically tense times. He silently cut Bill's story from that day's page and thrust a fax into his subordinate's hand. ‘Check that out. It may be a runner.' Bill took the paper and, reading it, left the room.

Si picked up the phone and dialled Jimmy's number. A girl answered. Surely not the supermodel from Saturday night? It hadn't looked serious enough. Jimmy would have booted her out on Sunday morning if he was behaving true to form. ‘Hi, can I speak to Jimmy, please?'

‘He's not here.'

‘What, is he training?'

‘God knows. Why don't you ring back later?'

‘Yeah, okay. Will you tell him I rang?'

‘All right, if you tell me who you are.'

‘Oh, sorry. Just say Si called.'

‘Right.' The girl hung up.

Strange. Si felt disconcerted by the conversation. The voice had been oddly familiar, but the girl had shown no indication that she knew him.

The coffee was good. If nothing else, Bill could do one thing well. The phone rang.

‘Hi kid, look, have you got a moment?'

At the sound of the gravelly tones Si sat up in his chair. ‘Yes, of course.'

‘Well get your butt up here. I want you to do something. And it's urgent. Five minutes max, okay?'

‘I'm on my way.'

~

‘Go straight in,' said Martha softly. The sparkle had disappeared from her eyes in the last few weeks. Although he hadn't exchanged more than a few words with her, Si suspected something was wrong. She appeared to be on the verge of tears. But now was no time to express sympathy and, smiling, he strode through the door.

Dougy beckoned him to a chair as he walked in. Below them Si could just make out the silvery flicker of the Thames' edge. The sky which occupied the majority of the panoramic windows was Airfix grey. Winter in London. How long until spring? wondered Si. He hated this depressing weather.

Even in such a short time, the room had changed since Mini had left. In particular, the meticulous tidiness had been replaced by chaos. Dougy's jacket sprawled over the back of a chair and every surface was covered with old newspapers and magazines.

‘Sit down, sit down.' Dougy swivelled his chair and leaned across the cluttered desk towards Si. ‘I've got a job for you. I want you to run a series of pieces in the Diary about religion and education. Okay? Treat them…well, as usual. And don't be afraid to dish a little dirt. Understand?' Not waiting for an answer, Dougy went on: ‘The important thing is the theme.' Dougy smiled malevolently. ‘Do you think you can do that?'

‘Yeah, course I can.' It didn't take a genius to work out that Dougy's sudden enthusiasm was connected to education's rapid rise up the political agenda. In particular, the Opposition's promise the previous week that, were they to be elected, they would involve religious leaders directly in the formation of education policy. Education was rapidly emerging as the main issue upon which the next election would be won or lost.

‘Good, good. Well, you get on with it. I want to see about half a dozen stories over the next few weeks. Then we'll take another look and see how it's going, right?'

Si nodded. He closed the door respectfully after him. Dougy was already on the phone.

Back in his office he pondered his task. The problem was that he didn't know which way Dougy wanted the stories to spin. He'd feared to ask as Dougy clearly assumed Si knew. Should they support
or undermine the Opposition's initiative? Normally
The Courier
supported the Government, but the forthcoming election had undermined all the usual assumptions.

It didn't help that Sir Lesley Johnson had become increasingly unpredictable in his political loyalties. Of course,
The Courier
's ambiguous position wasn't exceptional. These were strange times. Many habitually pro-Government tabloids appeared to have been working towards an Opposition victory for months, probably with the intention of placing themselves in opposition as soon as possible; what journalist enjoys propping up a creaking Government more than writing critical copy?

Aware of this and knowing what he did of Dougy's personal politics—the man was anti-establishment by nature and loyal only to his own interests—Si decided to play safe and go for the critical approach. As a journalist he found it usually paid off. People took you more seriously if you were hypercritical and cynical.

With growing interest in his task, Si decided he would paint a picture of morally bankrupt religious leaders. He would make his readers wonder how the future of the nation could be entrusted to such individuals. Defrocking a few priests shouldn't be too hard, thought Si, and he resolved to publish his first piece within the next two days. A pro-Government line was the traditional
Courier
approach; it seemed the safest course to take in the circumstances.

~

‘Scratch my back. No, not there. There.'

‘There?'

‘Mmm, there…'

It was a dull February day and Si was at his flat with Roberta. She was a demanding girl. ‘Work hard play hard' was her motto, taught to her by her father at an early age. And, as far as Si could see, she stuck to the letter of it. During the first few weeks of their affair he had seen her rarely, as she studied hard at the college library. During the weekends she never left his side. It was novel for Si. Not far away on the river a long barge drifted past and Si heard the horn boom in the mist. An echo from a slower and more civilised age.

‘Tell me about your family.' He rolled away from her and admired the curve of her breast, unveiled by a lazy sheet.

‘There's not much to tell. I've told you most of it already.'

‘I know, but tell me again.' Roberta's exoticism fascinated him. All his previous girlfriends had been wilting middle-Englanders with little to distinguish them from every other pasty-skinned plain Jane. Si also had a weakness for routine and repeating successful formulae. To recognise a series of phrases or actions helped him to impose some sort of structure on the amorphousness which always threatened to engulf him.

‘Well, my parents live in the Sudan. My mum's German, and they met when my dad was studying in London. He also had a scholarship. It's quite odd that he's so English in many ways and yet when he's in the Sudan he becomes extremely… pious, I suppose, for want of a better word.'

‘Does your mother work?'

Roberta looked at him strangely. ‘You know she doesn't. Si, I've told you all this before.'

‘Yeah, I know. But I want to hear it again. Go on.'

Roberta sighed. ‘Well, no, she doesn't work. Not any more. When they first met she was a teacher. But after they left for the Sudan, just before I was born, she stopped. It's difficult for her to work as a woman and now virtually impossible. Anyway, my father forbids her.'

‘Forbids her?' This was uncharted territory for Si. A land where men could stop their wives doing things. With the authority of the law. Weird. Medieval even.

‘Yes, since the change in power he has become much more Islamic in public. Of course, at home he knows my mother would not tolerate it, but she accepts that in public we must cover up with the
hijab
and behave respectfully.'

‘But she's not a Muslim, is she? Why should she behave like one?'

‘She is now. She converted when they got married. I don't think she thought much about it at the time, but now she seems quite committed to certain aspects. Of course, she's brought me up to recognise my equality as a woman and she's still very western in many ways. But my father has become more Islamic as he's got older and I don't think she wants to make him unhappy… By flouting his beliefs, you see.'

‘Beliefs or customs?'

‘Is there a difference?'

Si decided not to pursue this. ‘So what brought you to the UK? Your mother?'

‘Partly. But also my father supported the idea. He is very much in favour of educating women and thought that it would be good for me to study at the same college as him. I don't think he realised quite what was going on when he was a student here. He must have been very diligent and I don't think he socialised very much. He's quite a serious man.'

‘Have you told your parents about…about us?' Si winced at his own question. It sounded so melodramatic. He wasn't even very sure what he meant by it. They'd only been together a short time after all, and he, at least, was not consciously serious about the relationship. The future would arrive in its own good time. There was no point in hurrying it. Still, he was surprised that he'd felt the need to ask the question.

Fortunately, Roberta seemed to have sense enough for them both. ‘No. And I've no intention of doing so.'

‘Why not?'

‘Why should I? It'd only cause problems. My father would probably order me to take the next plane home if I did.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes.'

Silence followed and Si could just hear the barge hooting downriver.

‘I want another scratch.'

‘I've just given you one.'

‘I know, but that was at least twenty minutes ago and I want another now.' Roberta was headstrong and sometimes, it seemed to Si, rather demanding.

‘Can't we wait a little while… Just a few more minutes?' Worried about his performance, Si thought he might just have an inkling what lay behind Islamic chauvinism.

‘No, I want one now. Now.' And smothering his protests, Roberta lithely rolled over on top of Si. She stifled further debate with a judiciously placed kiss.

~

‘Brenda! I thought I recognised the voice when I called you… Jimmy, mate, how could you? Anyway, I thought you were well away with that other girl at the party. The supermodel. The one you'd been boring all night about your goals.'

Jimmy looked faintly embarrassed. He stared hard at the TV. ‘Yeah, I know. I think that was the problem. She disappeared and left me and, you know, when I came to go home I just happened to bump into Brenda. We'd both had a few and…Well, you know how it happens.' Jimmy lapsed into silence and Si looked at him incredulously. Well, it was Jimmy's mistake, not his. Why make it more difficult for him? He made a conscious effort and for the first time since Jimmy had arrived at Si's place he looked closely at the programme on TV.