Making Headlines (16 page)

She waved hello to the crews splayed out on couches. They barely acknowledged her, transfixed by an action DVD. Funny how so many had nothing to do. Must be a slow news day.

After the hurly burly of the night before, everything moved at half-pace. Especially her brain. She sat at the desk by the window and took her phone from her handbag, staring at the screen. Maybe she could call Mitch. Try and explain what happened at the party. Then she remembered. Time to call Rob and get clearance to head back to the newsroom. She could hear herself breathe, a finger poised over a number —

The floor shuddered beneath her feet and a heavy tremor shook the walls. A window shattered next to her. Rachel felt her body rocking forwards, and then a deep gravelly roar ripped through the room. It was a noise greater than anything she'd heard before. ‘Fuck!' She jumped to her feet. Shards of glass rained down, narrowly missing her. Cold air blew in through the window frame.

Horror froze the cameramen's faces for a split second before they grabbed their gear and raced for the door, shouting about bombs and explosions. Rachel grabbed the chair to steady herself.

‘Quick, Rach, with us!' Gary urged her to follow them.

A second blast, more deafening than the first, thundered through the air. The floor rippled and she gripped the chair to stay upright. The cameramen stopped and stared at each other. Rachel's chest tightened and her breath quickened, but she couldn't move.

‘Fuck, this is serious, let's go!' Gary ran out the door with Andy.

Another piece of glass spiked the floor next to her foot. She didn't want to be left alone. On autopilot, she chased Gary out to the street, struggling to catch up.

Two cars burned fiercely outside the British Consulate-General, and acrid smoke filled the air. People ran in every direction, some leaving their cars in the street as the mayhem forced traffic to a standstill. Screaming and sirens shot through the city street. Glass plummeted to the road and blood spattered the footpaths. People sat in gutters, clutching open wounds. Fire trucks roared closer. Police called out to stay away from parked cars. Another might explode at any moment.

Rachel followed Gary to the middle of Collins Street, closer to the inferno, with two camera crews ahead of them, completely absorbed getting the shots that mattered. Rachel didn't want to get closer. Piercing cries came from those blazing cars. She glimpsed what might have been a hand straining through the flames and looked away.
Firefighters struggled to help but they would be too late. Now helicopters whirred overhead, muffling the noise on the ground. She held her breath until her lungs felt they would burst.

Gary's pager beeped. He swore, but kept walking, reading the message. ‘Rob wants other crews covering this. We have to head to the hospitals to cover the victims' stories. Shit!'

A man ran towards them, gesturing at them to move back. ‘A man's been killed,' he shouted. ‘They think it's a security guard. Maybe others too. Stay away, run!'

More reporters and crews from other networks converged on the scene. Gary was reluctant to leave.

‘What the fuck? We need as many crews here as possible. What if another car goes off?' He kept filming. His phone rang again. He ripped it out of his shirt.

‘Yeah, yeah, alright, alright. I got it, okay? We'll head off now.' He hung up, turning to them, running a hand through his hair.

‘Shit. Okay, Rach, Andy, we really have to go. They can't get any more crews into the city 'cos the roads are blocked off. Rob says ambulances will be here soon and he wants us at the hospitals to cover the injured as they arrive. We can't take the news car, so we're going to have to run.'

Rachel nodded, light-headed, glad they were being sent away.

‘Andy, you can take the sound equipment, and Rach, we'll need you to carry the tripod.' Gary paced quickly. Rachel and Andy worked hard to keep up.

It was about two kilometres to the Royal Melbourne Hospital. Rachel stumbled under the weight of the tripod, trying to balance in high heels. Knives jabbed at her feet with every step, but there was too much glass on the ground to rip off her shoes just yet.

They made it to Emergency just in time. Rachel stood at a distance while Gary and Andy went to work filming as one victim was wheeled in after another. People arrived, faces distorted with worry, to learn the extent of loved ones' injuries. A medic approached a pacing woman and spoke to her quietly, hands on her shoulders. She knelt to the ground, screaming. ‘No, no, no!' Rachel cringed as Gary filmed her grief. The wounded lay on stretchers, waiting to be ferried to operating theatres, their features contorted in pain, despite drugs administered by the paramedics. A moaning, wailing sound replayed like a stuck record. One young man was louder than most. A large slice of metal jutted from his shin like a bad prop in a movie. But this wasn't a movie. This was reality being filmed by her crew for the evening news.

After an hour the mayhem subsided. Rachel asked a nurse if anyone was fit to be interviewed. Yes, the nurse thought she could help. There were three victims who had suffered minor cuts from falling glass, and they'd be okay for interviews after she'd cleared it with the hospital's media unit. No others. Ten had suffered serious injuries and another six were in a critical condition.

Two victims didn't even make it to hospital.

***

The nurse showed Rachel to a patient's bedside. Irene had been on her way to the embassy to sort out a visa. Falling glass had grazed her face, but her right arm had suffered a direct hit. A larger shard had sliced through her thin cotton shirt, cutting the skin deeply from shoulder to armpit. She'd already been stitched and bandaged. Her lined face was pale and fragile, her hair streaked with grey.

‘Are you sure you're okay to have a quick chat with us on camera?'

‘That's fine, love.' Irene turned to look at Rachel more directly. She had an English accent. ‘I might have expected this if I were back home, but not 'ere in Australia.'

Rachel nodded at Gary to begin filming. ‘Can you tell us what you saw?'

‘It's hard to remember, it 'appened so quickly. I was on me way to extend me visa, because me son's unwell, and I was just enjoying the walk, you know, in your lovely weather, when there was this roaring in me ears. So loud, it was. So loud. Bang! Shook me to me bones, it did. And the smell, oh my Lord, the smell . . .' She closed her eyes, as if she was drifting off.

‘Did you see the actual explosion?'

She opened her eyes. ‘Yes, a fiery burst it was. Up in the distance. Then there was another one. Another car, I think, and suddenly all this glass was falling on the streets like hail. People running everywhere and the screaming got louder. I ran too, until I was hit. Such a shock, it was. Such a lot of blood.' She lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

The nurse looked pointedly at Rachel, tapping her watch. Rachel nodded to Gary to turn off the camera. ‘Thank you, Irene,' she said, placing her hand over the woman's. ‘I hope you make a speedy recovery.'

Irene nodded, smiling faintly. ‘Thank you, dear,' she whispered.

As Rachel wrapped up the last of her interviews, she saw her reflection in a glass door. Dishevelled hair, drawn face and blank eyes. Sirens still rang in her ears. Her chest
heaved as she looked at her watch, realising how little time she had to meet her fast-looming deadline and do justice to the story.

‘No taxis? Great.' Gary was on the phone talking with Rob. He shook his head at Rachel. ‘So how the hell do we get back?' He paused. ‘Okay, I guess that's the only way.' He hung up and sighed. ‘Okay, guys, grab the gear. We have to run to the helipad and take a chopper. It's the only way we'll make it on time.'

The soles of her feet were already swollen and sore from the first run. ‘Let's do it then,' said Rachel. ‘It'll take at least twenty minutes. We must be more than ten blocks away.'

‘No kidding. Get those biceps working.' Gary shoved the tripod in her direction and the three of them dodged their way through the crowded corridors onto the street. Rachel tore off her shoes. Better to run over rough asphalt in stockings than suffer the agony of pinched toes. She sprinted to catch up, the legs of the tripod banging against her shoulder. They had less than two hours before the news went to air at six.

***

Every sound intensified in the newsroom. Urgent voices called out. Journalists and producers thrashed at keyboards. Editors ran from booth to booth, trying to sort images. Ned, the head producer, was the calm centre in the middle of a blood-spattered jigsaw. Only he knew how to shape the pieces in a way that would make sense.

Rachel's story was crucial in the line-up. She had to cover the fall-out. No explanation of events leading up to the bomb, speculation about a terror attack or police investigations required. She began typing, ignoring her blistered feet and laddered stockings. There was no time to preview her footage but the interviews were still vivid in her mind. Writing helped her detach. Caught up in the words, she barely nodded as she heard Mitch stop by her desk, place a hand on her shoulder and ask if she was okay. He said something about him wanting to stay but having to edit the lead story.

Keep typing. She liked the cocoon feeling, keeping everything in its place. Like she was looking at the world, but wasn't really there.

In the edit booth, Dan worked with lightning fingers. Rachel kept looking at the ticking clock. They barely spoke. She sat in front of the pictures playing out before her, over and over. Fast rewind, fast forward. Endless ambulance sirens and victims wailing. Lost limbs and shrapnel-slashed skin. Blood. Lots of blood. Irene barely able to talk through her pain but wanting to help. Grief-stricken family members who spoke of horrendous injuries to their loved ones. Two people killed. Their families couldn't speak.
The world felt like a different place. The cocoon dissolved and Rachel's eyes shimmered with tears.

Counting slowly, she breathed in and out, in and out. Dan's fingers flew. The story was due in less than ten minutes. Sweat beaded on the palms of her hands. She wiped them on her skirt. ‘Are we going to make it Dan?'

‘Most likely.' His voice was flat and he stared straight ahead. She knew better than to push for a definitive answer.

With two minutes to spare, the story was done. She wasn't sure if it was any good, but they'd met their deadline. She joined the rest of the staff, gathered in silence to watch the bulletin go to air. Gone was the usual sense of camaraderie and playful competitiveness among the reporters. The news theme began.

The journalists had produced the goods with packages that were insightful without melodrama. Then her story brought home the anguish and suffering. Rachel watched the reporters. Rob stood there silently. Gerard bit his bottom lip. Julia had a hand over her mouth. Their cocoons had dissolved too.

The ad break came and Julia looked at her, eyes welling. She moved forward to give Rachel a hug. Mitch cut through the throng and made his way to them.

‘That must have been rough. You alright?' He put his hands on Rachel's shoulders, his eyes intense, searching hers.

‘I'm fine,' she said, wanting nothing more than to fall into his arms. But then she'd fall apart. She had to hold it together. ‘I might head home now, though.'

Walking back to her desk, Mitch followed. ‘Wait, Rach.' He grabbed her hand. ‘Look at me. You don't seem fine. Do you want me to give you a lift home?'

‘No, I really am okay,' she said. ‘A bit sore from running to the chopper, but I survived pretty well.' She tried to smile. Mitch frowned.

‘I was so worried you could have been hurt. You were right in the thick of it.'

‘Ah, well, I'm a survivor.' She forced a wink. ‘Got to dash.' She grabbed her bag and walked quickly to her car, feet aching. Highway traffic roared in her ears. Flames engulfing cars rose in front of her. She smelt the smoke, felt the heat and heard the screaming. She shut the car door and buried her head into folded arms on the steering wheel. She closed her eyes. It didn't help. She could still see and hear and feel it all.

‘The death toll from the bombing has risen and now stands at . . .'

‘Investigations have failed to find a motive for the attack . . .'

‘The British Government has vowed it will leave no stone unturned . . .'

Rachel slumped on the couch, staring vacantly at the breakfast show on the TV — scenes from the Collins Street bombing on high rotation. The noise and pictures merged into a sheet of fine sand, falling through the air until it blurred her vision.

Kate bustled in wearing a pink dressing gown and fluffy Ugg boots. She marched over to the coffee table, grabbed the remote control and switched off the TV. ‘Enough. We don't need to start the day with this, do we?' She looked at Rachel. ‘And what are you doing, lying there in your pyjamas? Haven't you got to get to work?'

Rachel sat up with a start. ‘Oh, shit! What's the time?'

‘It's seven thirty. You should be leaving in half an hour.'

‘Oh, fuck. What was I thinking?'

‘I don't think you were . . .' Kate eyed her. ‘Are you okay?'

‘Of course. I'm totally fine.' Rachel hurried to the bathroom.

The warm rush from the shower enveloped her. She knew she had to be quick, but the water was mesmerising. It was like a baptism. She'd survived the bombing but felt like a different person. She stood there, closing her eyes, trying to block the images. Think waterfalls and peaceful walks through the bush. But the whirring of helicopters and screaming interfered. The acrid smoke. She heard a knock on the door.

‘Rachel? You'll be really late if you don't hurry,' called Kate.

She turned off the taps and grabbed her towel. She couldn't think clearly. Choosing what to wear was difficult, so she opted for a plain black suit. She arrived at work fifteen minutes late. Rob was shouting at her before she'd even reached her desk.

‘Get your arse over here, Bentley! What time zone are you living in?'

She dumped her handbag and walked straight to his desk. ‘Sorry, Rob. Shocking traffic this morning.'

‘Yeah, right. Well here's your story.' He handed her a media release. ‘Starts at nine thirty. The Blood Bank's staging a special appeal post-bombing. Try to find an interesting angle, okay?'

‘Sure, sure. Will do.' Rachel read the document. At least she'd be doing
something worthwhile.

‘You're with News Two. Now get going.' He waved her away.

Grabbing her bag and newspaper, she was about to head off when Julia called out, running towards her, balancing a coffee cup. ‘Hold on. Do something about that package on your desk. It stinks!'

Not having noticed, Rachel looked at the box wrapped in brown paper. Then slowly the stench began to hit her. As she tore off the paper she paused, recognising the handwriting. Her Devoted Admirer X.

‘Well, hurry up,' said Julia. ‘It's not going to bite you.'

A cardboard box contained a blue plastic container. Inside the container was something brown, like a sausage. But no, it wasn't food. The odour was foul. It looked more like dog shit.

‘Arghhh!' Rachel dropped the box in her bin.

‘Oh sweet Jesus,' said Julia. ‘Take that outside, quick!'

Grabbing the bin Rachel raced to the exit and shoved it out the door. ‘What the fuck does he want now?' she said, returning to her desk and reaching for the letter.

Rachel,

I thought this would FINALLY get your undivided attention. If you continue to treat me like a piece of unwanted shit then I'm afraid that's what I'll have to serve you. What in God's holy name were you thinking? Sullying your good name and reputation and our shared future by making a public spectacle of yourself? I saw the pictures, you whore. You slut. As for that INSECT who stuck his tongue down your throat, I'll make sure he suffers.

So. What now? What now, my love, my love, my sweet, sweet love? It is absurd, yet still I desire you with a raging passion. My anger merely intensifies my desire. And I will fuck you. Fuck you. And yes, I will fuck you, my sweet. Not long now, and you will be mine. ALL MINE.

Your Devoted Admirer X.

‘I don't know what to do.' Rachel dropped the letter on the desk. ‘The cops say they're working on it but haven't come up with anything. What now?'

‘You'll have to see Helmut,' said Julia. ‘He has to take some responsibility for your safety.'

‘Except that he just laughed last time.'

‘Bentley, are you still in La La Land?' Rob's voice cut through.

‘Yes, yes, on my way.' She nodded at Julia as she gathered her things. ‘I will show this to Helmut though. Maybe this time he'll take it more seriously.'

She raced to the door, grateful she'd be working with Charlie.

‘Hope I didn't keep you waiting.' She hopped in the news car.

‘No problem. Plenty of time.' Charlie smiled. With his bushy beard, stocky frame and down-to-earth manner, he reminded her of a miner from the gold rush. ‘Guess you won't be doing as much of this soon,' he continued, ‘what with getting the promotion and all.'

‘Oh, yes,' said Rachel, a little surprised. After the bombing, her future as a newsreader had paled into insignificance. ‘Although I'll still be reporting three days a week.'

‘Which is a good thing,' said Charlie. ‘Newsreader's jobs come and go, so you want all the experience you can get as a journo. Something to fall back on, if it doesn't work out.'

‘I guess you're right.' Rachel frowned. That wasn't something she'd contemplated. Then she remembered the photo of her and Damien in the newspaper yesterday and her heart skipped a beat. The bombing would have distracted Helmut. He'd surely give her hell today. A tight knot twisted in her stomach. At least for the time being she was out of the newsroom.

When she arrived at the Blood Bank and saw donors sitting in rows of padded armchairs, she knew instantly what she had to do. Rob said he wanted something different.

‘Charlie, I've got it,' she said. ‘No interviews with donors. That's boring. I'm going to give blood myself. We'll film it from a personal perspective so I can tell people first-hand what it's really like. Point of difference.'

Charlie shook his head. ‘I don't know, Rachel. Could look a bit gory.'

‘Are you kidding? After yesterday? Just film it at the right angle. Not too close on the needle and it'll be fine.'

‘Are you sure you're okay with needles? This one stays in your arm for a bit. It takes quite a lot of blood, you know.'

‘Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine.'

Rachel walked away to find the public relations officer. She went through the
forms and questions with a staff member and ticked all the boxes. Twenty minutes later, she was lying back on a cushioned recliner with a nurse sitting next to her on a chair.

‘Ready, Rachel?' Faint drops of perspiration formed above her top lip.

‘Yep, all set. You right, Charlie?'

‘Yeah, ready to roll.'

‘Okay,' said the nurse. ‘Deep breath and here we go.' She jabbed the needle into Rachel's skin. A shot of pain surged up her arm. ‘Oh, dear, that didn't work.' The nurse removed the needle.

‘What do you mean?' Rachel stared at a small hole, oozing blood on the inside of her arm. She felt woozy.

‘Well, your veins aren't very obvious.' The nurse pushed a strand of hair under her cap. ‘Sometimes it takes more than one go.' She blinked rapidly and Rachel wondered if she needed glasses.

‘Jesus . . .' she breathed, closing her eyes and lying back. ‘Try again.'

She felt a second stab in her forearm and heard the nurse sigh in relief. ‘Ah, that's better. Got a good flow now.'

The dark purple liquid ran through clear tubing into a plastic bag. There was a slight throbbing in her forearm, but otherwise it was quite painless. Thinking of the suffering of the victims from yesterday's blast, she almost wanted it to hurt more.

‘Okay Charlie, time for a piece to camera.'

***

Returning to the newsroom, there was a message on her desk from Julia. Damien had phoned the landline after she'd ignored his calls to her mobile. He wanted her to call back. After the photo of them in the paper, it was better she keep a good distance.

She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes, saw cars engulfed by flames, heard anguished screams and sirens.

Her phone rang. ‘Darling, how are you? I left you a message yesterday and was worried when I didn't hear from you.' Her mother.

‘Hi Mum, it's okay, I'm fine.'

‘I saw your story. It must have been terrifying. I was up all night thinking about how close you were to it all and how lucky we all are that you weren't hurt.'

‘Yes, you're right, I am lucky. Horrific, though, for so many . . .' Again the images of fire and pain. She needed to change the subject. ‘Sorry, Mum, it was a big day. I can't talk for long. I guess you saw the picture in the paper too?'

‘Oh, yes, that! The one of you kissing that man? Some of my friends have called wanting to know what's going on and I've told them that the only thing I care about is that you're safe after the bombing.'

‘Thanks Mum. I just wish it hadn't ended up in the paper.'

‘Well, if they keep asking, I'll just tell those sticky-beaks that you were trying to beat the Guinness Book of Records longest-pash-in-public record.'

‘Good idea. I just hope my boss will swallow that.'

‘Is he cross about it?'

‘He hasn't mentioned it yet, but I'm sure he will.'

‘Oh, dear. Well just tell him that man forced you and it only lasted for a second. I'm sure it wasn't really your fault.'

‘Right. No, Mum. Look, I've really got to get back to my story. We'll chat soon, okay? Bye.'

She hung up and started typing furiously. She wasn't angry with her mother, she was angry with herself. How could she have let herself get so drunk in public, so soon after such an important promotion? And in front of Mitch? Maybe she had a drinking problem. Maybe she harboured some deep-seated need to self-destruct. Her frustration poured through her fingers into her story. She finished it in record time.

As she walked out of the voice-recording booth, Shirley approached her with a sympathetic look. Rachel knew what was coming.

‘Dear, Helmut wants to see you in his office. Straight away, he said.'

Her shoulders slumped. ‘I was wondering when.'

‘I guess you know what it's about?' said Shirley.

Rachel dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Oh God, Shirley, what if I lose my job?'

Squeezing her arm, Shirley said, ‘I'm sure it won't come to that. Go and get it over with. Everything will be fine.'

Rachel smiled weakly and drew a deep breath. Her legs quavered as she walked. He was on the phone, his face dark, frowning. He nodded as she entered and pointed to a seat. Then he swung his chair around with his back to her while he finished the call, a hard, unforgiving wall. She could hear her heart thumping.

Finally, he hung up and turned back to face her.

‘Shut the door please, Rachel.' His voice was even, his eyes narrowed to dark slits.

She closed the door. Several faces in the newsroom stared in her direction. She
sat down again, trying to keep her breathing measured.

After a short silence Helmut leapt up, grabbed a newspaper, ripped open the pages and thrust it in her face. ‘The Catwalk Kiss
.
' Then he whacked it on the desk, thumping his fist on the photo in time with his words. ‘What . . . the . . .
fuck
. . . did you think you were doing! After our talk? After your promotion? Come on, girl, tell me.'

‘I . . . ah . . . um.' She could barely speak. Her mind was blank, her breath jagged. She had to pull herself together. ‘Ah, firstly, Helmut, I'm . . . ah . . . extremely sorry this has happened—'

‘Too bloody right you are, too bloody late.'

‘Well, you see, Damien just grabbed me on the spot and the photo was taken in that split second he kissed me. There really wasn't anything I could do.'

‘Listen, love, whatever you do, don't treat me like an idiot. It's obvious here that you're kissing this bloke
back
. How much had you had to drink?'

‘I had a couple of cocktails . . .' Her voice shrank.

‘More than a couple. Stupid fucking
idiot
! The one thing a newsreader needs more than anything is a good bloody reputation. Rock solid. And you're off to a rotten start, aren't you?'

‘I guess so.' She sat on her hands and stared at her feet, not meeting his eyes.

‘This had bloody well better not happen again.'

‘No, sir, it never will.'

‘Don't “sir” me! I'm not your damn teacher, for Christ's sake.'

Rachel watched his feet pacing back and forth, hearing him sigh.

‘Look, it was a fuck knuckle thing to do, but everyone's allowed one slip up. The only positive way to look at it is that other blokes — viewers, that is — might think you're the sort of chick they can get in the sack. So that
might
make you more of a ratings magnet. But never do anything like this again. And we'll have to get the publicity department working overtime to align you with some respectable charity — try to polish up your now-tarnished image.'

She breathed out and her shoulders relaxed a little. She wasn't going to lose her job. ‘Thank you so much. Maybe I could help with some ideas? Like something to do with Josie and her cancer education program?'

Helmut snorted. ‘We'll look after it. Anyway, at least you're single. The press would have had a field day if you'd been married. But stop drinking so much.' He glared at her.

‘I will, Helmut. Absolutely. Thank you. Again, I'm really sorry, and I . . .' A pile of mail on his desk caught her eye and she remembered she needed to talk about the putrid package she'd received. But not now. That would only aggravate matters. It would have to wait.