Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time (38 page)

Or… we could think of something else. But we all agreed that it’s essential we do something amazing. Something spectacular. One last historic shocker from the ultimate scandal rag. Which means, of course, that my work’s cut out. Five days to get the scoop of my career? Where’s that going to come from?

And then the exciting bit happened.

It was decided that as well as giving bylines to every junior researcher and editorial assistant and grad trainee and work-experience kid in the building, we should sneak bylines in for all those who have been arrested. Another nice gesture. A nice two-fingered gesture, in fact.

And that’s when I had the Greatest Idea Of All Time.

The Greatest Idea Of All Time, Martin!

So there I am, brow furrowed, pen chewed, tie askew, trying to think of what to do about Sunday’s front-page story, of where I might get a good story from, a story good enough, big enough, to deserve the splash on the last-ever
Globe
– and behind me I’m dimly aware of someone saying something about giving bylines to people no longer at the paper… and suddenly everything clicked.

I’m sitting on the best story of my life, Martin! Not only that – I’m sitting on revenge. No: better than revenge – I’m sitting on vengeance. On justice. On a beautiful, perfect, exquisite illustration of what happens to you if you take on the tabloid press. (Do you remember what happens to you if you take on the tabloid press, Martin? You lose. Always. In the end, you always lose. Even if you win today, you’ll lose tomorrow. Taking on the tabloid press is an exercise in Pyrrhic arrogance and futility: even your victories will undo you. If you beat the tabloid press, the tabloid press will ensure they beat you back, harder. No matter how long it takes, they’ll get you. And if you win big enough… well, then you’re asking to get undone completely. You’re asking for annihilation. King Pyrrhus could tell you all about it.)

There I was, Martin, sitting in that conference room, scratching my head, trying to think of a good story lead, when at home I’ve got taped and transcribed the written testimony of a girl who can ensure that the big-mouthed, swinging-sporraned, lushly wiggy man so responsible for taking down this newspaper falls at least as hard and as far as we do.

Running that story in our last-ever issue… well, it would be just too perfect, wouldn’t it? It would be poetic. It would be beautiful.

The only problem is, I’ve been specifically banned from writing it. By the managing editor. If it came out with my name on, my whole career would be finished. Our crooner friend would of course sue, and the managing ed would throw me to the dogs.

But what if someone else were to write it? Someone whose career is already over? Someone currently out on remand but who is almost certainly looking at a prison stretch – if not for the whole Barry Dunn thing, then at least for up to four counts of assault. What if I got Goebbels to write it?

I sent the old psycho a text this afternoon, to sound him out about the idea. I told him it would be his neck on the block if it did happen, but it wouldn’t half make for a show-stopping final act. He texted back straight away. I mean, literally straight away. And you know what he said?

He said: ‘I’m in 100 percent. Let’s take him out.’

Excited, Martin? I’m bouncing! All I’ve got to do now is work out exactly how we’re going to do it.

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, May 17. Amount of my day wasted: ten minutes. Fellow sufferers: Train Girl, Guilty New (Spymaster) Mum, Universal Grandpa.

Thursday morning, Martin. T minus three to the last issue. And I’m back where I used to sit in Coach C – where I used to sit, before I sat next to Train Girl every morning. Which is to say, pretty much opposite where I sat next to Train Girl every morning.

She’s on this train too, of course. I can see her as I type. She’s not said anything to me, but as she passed my seat and sat down opposite and across the aisle she did smile. I smiled back. And then tried not to look as she crossed her legs, her skirt hitching up, her thighs bare, as usual. And then definitely tried not to look as she shook her jacket off, tried not to look at the blouse she was wearing, surely too tight, with one button too many undone… and as I tried not to look I could feel her eyes watching me. And when I glanced up (pretending to gaze around the carriage, as you do) she smiled again. And we both knew what that smile meant.

So I ignored it. I ignored her. I am ignoring her. I got out my laptop and I started writing this letter. To tell you the truth, Martin, I have no idea if this train is going to end up delayed or not, whether I’m going to end up sending this letter to you or not, but, well, it’s something to do, isn’t it? To be honest, I’m really only writing this so I don’t have to look at Train Girl and her blatant come-ons.

So: seeing as we are here, seeing as I am writing, what news from the war? Let me think. So… I’ve been offered another job. Two other jobs, actually. One of them at our leading tabloid competitor, the one owned by the porn baron, the one currently running with the slogan: ‘Hacked off with the other papers? We’re the Sunday read you can trust!’ (See what they did there, Martin?) They want me to be deputy showbiz editor; they’re also offering me a TV column on top of the showbiz stuff. They’ve offered me 15 grand more than I’m on at the moment. They apologised for not having a corporate healthcare scheme they could offer as well, but have promised that as soon as they do I’ll have free private medical whatsit. So that’s nice.

The other job came from a broadsheet. A daily. One of the broadsheets, in fact, that has been so sternly sanctimonious over our actions this year past. It’s not stopping them from casting lots for our staff though, is it? Principles handily put aside on that score.

Anyway, they’re offering me dep ed of their culture section. Plus a weekly music column in the Saturday edition. It’s less money than the other offer, but more kudos. And a chance, as they so condescendingly put it, ‘to really flex my writing muscles’.

What do I do? I suppose I should think them both over. I guess I should take them both seriously. It’s just that I can’t help wondering what Goebbels would say about them. What would he think of me? Is that mad?

But, like I say, I should think them both through properly. I’ve got to eat. I’ve got a mortgage to pay every month. I guess it has to be one or the other.

Oh! Hello, Martin, it seems we are running behind schedule! Looks like you will be getting this letter after all! I’ve just checked my watch, and although the sweeping esplanades and palatial homesteads of Slough are rolling gently by our windows now, they’re doing so a good eight or so minutes later than they should have. Phew! What a relief, eh? I do so hate writing things pointlessly.

All of which leaves me with just enough time to update you on the Goebbels situation. So he’s up for The Greatest Idea Of All Time – he’s supposed to be writing it up today, in fact. And he’s got an idea to make it work. It’s a bit risky: it means basically failing to come up with anything else that could work instead, and enduring three days of beasting from the top bods… and then springing the whole thing, fully formed, completely upfront and with no deception at all on them on Saturday afternoon. If nothing else it covers my back – and it might even cover Goebbels’ too. Not that he cares that much. If ever a man anticipated revenge, it’s Goebbels right now. He’s practically slavering. It’s at once horrible and simultaneously makes me feel oddly proud. How weird is that?

Ooh, look! Southall, Ealing, Acton. The Eurostar sheds. We’re nearly there, Martin! And what are we? Ten minutes late? I timed that one nearly perfectly! That’s what tabloid training does for you, Martin. You wouldn’t get that at any broadsheet culture section, take it from me.

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, May 17.

Dear Dan

Thank you again for drawing my attention to some delays on your trains. The 22.50 service on May 15 was late leaving Paddington due to a problem with the heating regulator. The thermostat had stuck on an exceptionally low rating, meaning that rather than maintaining the optimum ambient temperature for the time of year and late hour of the service, the system instead simulated conditions pertaining to early afternoon in July. After several minutes attempting to rectify the situation, the decision was made to run the service anyway, and I’m sure you’re most grateful that the team’s strong decision-making spared you any further delays.

Today your train was late arriving in London Paddington due to slow running on the line between Oxford and London Paddington.

I would like once again to remind you that being drunk on a Premier Westward train is a criminal offence. Entertaining though your drunken letters may be, if you continue to use our services whilst drunk, I may have no option but to issue you with a formal warning under the relevant section in our Passengers’ Charter, freely available to view on our new ‘app’, available to ‘download’ on both ‘Android’ and ‘Apple’ devices.

And lastly, though part of me hates to say this, run the story. Run the story, Dan! Publish and be damned!

With very best wishes

Martin

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, May 18. Amount of my day wasted: six minutes. Fellow sufferers: Train Girl, Guilty New (Spymaster) Mum, Universal Grandpa.

Woo, Martin! Get you! ‘Publish and be damned!’ Friday morning, on my way in to the best and worst newspaper in the world, the very best paper at being bad, and it looks like you’re up for the scrap! (Hang on. What’s that
Bugsy Malone
song? The best-at-being-bad one? ‘We could’ve been anything we wanted to be, with all the talent we had. With a little practice, we made every blacklist, we’re the very best at being bad!’ Ha! I had to Google that, but how brilliant. How totally perfect. They could have written that song for us!)

Don’t worry, Martin. I’m not drunk. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, for crying out loud. I’m just excited. This is the stuff, eh? I’m waking up in the morning and (metaphorically) chomping at the (metaphorical) bit. I’m up for the scrap too, Martin! I’m up for going out with a bang, not a whimper.

I’m running two offices at the moment. The work office, containing nothing of very much interest – and from which I’m not allowed to remove anything, thanks to heightened security and rather more diligent police searches than previously (you know why they’re searching us? I worked it out. It’s nothing to do with the investigation or the arrests. It’s because they don’t want us nicking anything before the paper shuts down. They don’t want us making off with company assets. Paperclips. Biros. That sort of thing. Somebody ought to tell them about Bombshell’s eight stolen laptops – she’s already put three of them on eBay) – and I’m also running a home office.

And it’s the home office that has the big story. It’s from my home office that I’m co-ordinating Goebbels. It’s from there I commissioned him and it’s from there I’ve edited the copy he’s filed. And you know what? It’s good stuff. It’s dynamite! He knows how to write a proper story does that man. He’s given it the lot, pushed it to the edge. He’s taken what we’ve got and used it to dredge up every story ever whispered in the newsroom about the false-haired fool. It’s just about the nastiest, dirtiest, most scurrilous thing you’ll ever see in a national newspaper. It doesn’t pull its punches; quite the reverse – it wades in there like a streetfighter, smacking seven shades out of everything in sight.

It’s deranged and demented. It’s possibly suicidal. It’s all true. I could have cried, when I read it last night. I could have cried for how utterly, fantastically insane my former boss is. If this comes out, not only will he never work again, he’ll be lucky if any PR, agent, manager, press officer, PA, journalist or editor ever even speaks to him again.

But I will. I told him: I’ll visit you in prison, no matter what. ‘Thanks, Dan,’ he said. ‘No offence, but you wouldn’t last five minutes.’

So – in short, that’s all going to plan. That’s got me going to work with a spring in my step, waking up and eager for the day, eager for tomorrow. It’s tomorrow, Martin! It’s tomorrow when we go to press, when we see which way the chips might fall.

I’ve got something else on my mind, too, but I haven’t got the time or the space to tell you all about it right now. I need another delay, Martin! I need you to slow another train down, bust another heater, burn out another kettle (‘mobile water-heating device’? Really? The train was delayed because the kettle didn’t work?). I need one of your officious little footsoldiers to confiscate another Flower Fairy Barbie Wand or else I’m not going to be able to tell you properly!

Suffice to say, I spoke to Beth again last night. We spoke about Sylvie. And she said a word, a single word that made my blood run cold. She used the word ‘access’. She said that if things continued like this we’re going to have to sort out my ‘access’ to my daughter.

And that made me think, Martin. That made me think hard. I just need to get this weekend out of the way first.

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, May 19. Amount of my day wasted: 11 minutes. Fellow sufferers: No regulars (Saturday).