Sleeping Malice Read online

  "I know you can write well. I know you are a very able reporter. You fit in well with the whole team, but a good solid front-page byline for you, I have yet to see. Filler stories, short features, and then there are the suicides.”

  ‘Here we go,’ Greg thought, 'bad news is coming'. He knew that if Mike repeatedly used the same phrase whilst talking, he was nervous and about to deliver bad news. Greg did not take well to any one saying that what he wrote was a waste of time. He listened camouflaging the anger that was welling up inside him.

  “Your obsession on discovering the motives for suicides, digging deep often inappropriately for the reasons. Even when there is a suicide note you are still off like a hunting dog, sniffing out and tracking down a theory that to everyone else does not exist."

  Greg interrupted, "Things are not always as they seem. I question the facts like any good reporter," Mike ignored his comment, so he continued, “they are questions that need to be asked.”

  "Let me give you an example of you overstepping the mark. Last year, the guy who walked into the Thames, the suicide; ring any bells? You questioned that one from every angle. Even the coroner has rung up and asked me just why you have such an intense interest in suicides."

  "In my defence," Greg retaliated, “there was no suicide note; that odd scrap of paper that seems to rubber stamp the death and clear everyone's conscience of the real tragedy that has happened. So this one, as I said, no suicide note. He was well-off with no money worries, in a stable loving relationship, not a hint or sign of depression, which is, once again, another social sign of suicide, not a hint of anything that would suggest he would get up one morning and just walk into the Thames. If he is lucky, he might get a misadventure verdict, then at least his partner might get his mortgage paid off. People just don't walk into the Thames unless they are totally pissed, with alcohol that is, not pissed off, and then it is often the case that they just fall asleep on the foreshore and the tide consumes them. This young man was seen just walking straight into the water and just did not stop until he was halfway across and dead. It was no suicide!"

  "There is not a story there. Why couldn’t he have had a row with his boyfriend that morning and just decided enough was enough?" Mike asked.

  "Because people do not just kill themselves on the spur of the moment; it is really that simple, Mike. So for those who did not plan to kill themselves, I like to see their story being told as it should." Greg no longer hid the anger from his voice.

  "Well you might have that interest but I certainly do not and I doubt that many of our readers have either. People taking their own lives, suicide or otherwise, does not sit well on the pages of a local paper. You are no use to me Greg unless you are contributing to the paper, making a real contribution and filling those pages along with everyone else. At the moment you are just a hanger-on and living off the hard work of other reporters.”

  Greg leaned forward on his chair; there was now a realization of where this conversation was going. “At least I believe in those readers, and I still believe the reason I, no change that I don’t just believe, I know that when I write a story I am writing it on behalf of the person whose voice cannot be heard above all those clamouring for attention. The little old lady with condensation running down her mildew-stained walls, who the council is ignoring, I speak for her! The single mother, robbed of the benefits that are rightfully hers, by a nonchalant state, I speak for her! Then I police those politicians who have bellicose voices that tell us what to do; councillors who take advantage of their position, maybe by claiming excessive expenses, maybe taking the odd bribe here and there, I police those places for all my readers! Then not forgetting those who have found the need to take their own life, I speak for them when they have no voice at all. So when I stand up and speak for those who have committed suicide, even though you have not the slightest understanding why anyone would, I am just doing exactly what I signed up for when I became a reporter, which you should have signed up for when you were a reporter. But that’s all changed now, all your golden boys and girls out there, being very politically correct, reporting the right stories.”

  “Greg, ..” Mike tried to interrupt as Greg’s voice grew louder with anger.

  “And you sitting in your executive suite like a fucking lord of the manor. Your only concern is that the accountants are happy with a bottom line and we are making money for the faceless shareholders. It's revenue and not rocking the boat that you worry about. Not the moral value or the moral power of the stories that fill the pages of the Deptford Chronicle, just the fucking financial value.”

  “Maybe you should have worked more with those old ladies and corrupt councillors, then I would not be asking you to pack up and go.”

  “If I did exactly as you asked,” Greg pointed his finger at his editor, “I might well have a job, but I don’t really want to work for a paper whose only priority for news is how much profit there is in the story? You lead an impotent paper, which for me shows no respect for the history of this great campaigning paper.”

  “I’m not sitting around here arguing with you all day, I do not have the time or the inclination. I don't want you around anymore Greg; I'm letting you go. You will be paid your notice and any holiday pay that we owe, but I don't want to see you in the office again after this meeting. Collect your stuff and go."

  Greg stood up abruptly, his chair tumbling onto the floor, the abrupt movement caused Mike to shrink back into his chair, his eyes showing a hint of fear.

  "Clearly you had already made up your mind, or the accountants have made it up for you, that suits me. Fuck you! Fuck the accountants! Fuck the shareholders!”

  "There is nothing more to say Greg, you maybe were once a good reporter, you had your chances but this is the end of the road."

  Greg turned and walked out of the office, “Bollocks!” he shouted to no one in particular.

  As he returned to the open plan office, he sensed the two reporters looking at him, then the sounds of the busy side of the office occupied his hearing: telephones ringing, chatter of several people talking at the same time holding different conversations, keyboards being stabbed with fingers. Greg wondered when he might hear those sounds again as he walked over to his desk to collect his possessions. He could feel eyes, that he hoped were sympathetic, following him across the open office. As the final page turned closing this chapter in his life, he pondered on what lay ahead.

  Brockley.

  Beverley Court, sandwiched between two declining areas, only held onto its own dignity thanks to the fact it was close to the green grassy slopes of Hilly Fields. This helped it maintain a value that set its residents apart. Not far apart, but at least it still had some sensible landlords, who having bought their flat in the eighties as an investment, continued to look after that investment being selective in their choice of residents. There were still a few professionals, or at least people who held down a job, that enabled them to pay the rent without the need to fall back onto the Welfare State to help them; it was a 'No benefits' type of block. Now only three people had actually bought their flat with a mortgage and lived in their own property, one of which was Greg, who now sat in his second floor flat, holding a lukewarm beer and wondering what he was going to do now his income had been severed.

  You can be brave and bellicose, he thought, stand up for your principles, argue and debate with those around you for the right to have an opinion. Which is all well and good in a wine bar or over dinner with friends, who at the end you buy another round for, or serve the Crème Brulee and get on with your life pretty much as you did before standing up for your principles. It is another thing altogether when the person you are disagreeing with has the power to change your life by simply removing your main source of income at a stroke. Standing up for your principles in this situation means that you cannot get on with your life pretty much as you did before, from this moment on things will never be the same. Greg sat, lukewarm beer in hand, knowing that he did not know where the next
few months or years might end. His ex-employers had given him a lump sum, plus his notice, plus his outstanding annual leave. The lump sum was on condition he agreed to leave. It was not a huge sum, but it would last him about three months, giving him time to decide what to do next. Some of his more legally-minded friends said that he should take them to an employment tribunal to fight for his rights; they could not just eject him like that even though he had agreed to go. But he had already stood up for his principles, and no amount of tribunals would get his job back. Well maybe they could, but did he want to go back there? Maybe not. Maybe just walk away and get on with life, wherever that might take him. Tonight, with so many maybes hanging over his head, he knew for certain that life was taking him to the Fox and Hounds in Lewisham, where he was holding his leaving do, well he guessed that it might be more of a wake, as he doubted that many of his colleagues would turn up, so he had taken the sensible precaution of inviting a few regular friends to bolster numbers.

  The Fox and Hounds stood opposite Lewisham fire station. A pub which started life back in the early 1900s, it had been built to resemble an Elizabethan coaching inn, complete with half-timber exterior and low internal beams. When a 1960s fire station arrived opposite, it became the regular watering hole for off duty firemen, quenching their scorched throats after their shifts. That was how Greg started using the public bar of the Fox and Hounds for work on a regular basis, it was a hot bed of stories and gossip. Greg could sit there all night buying rounds and being bought drinks in return, all expenses paid. Once he had moved to Beverley Court, it was only a twenty minute walk away, so it quickly became his local, visiting three or four times a week until closing time and beyond, depending who was in the bar. That was back in the good old days, when those locked in the bar after closing time were mostly firemen, police officers and reporters, with just a couple of regular public drinkers. The police had joined them from the Victorian police station that stood on the next corner, and the mix of public services caused many a night of good banter, a few very rough arguments that on three occasions had turned into a full blown bar-room brawl. Yet, above all this, Greg got story after story and enjoyed every moment of it.

  Then came the onset of political correctness, officers were moved around, and slowly things changed. Just a few die hard old-school drinkers remained trying to stem the tide of correctness that was sweeping the emergency services. So it was that in the 1990s the landlord moved on and then the new ones (two young men from the city) started an on-the-premises brewery: novel, interesting, but too expensive for the local population, so the landlords looked for and encouraged new clients to frequent the bar. Almost overnight it became a gay bar, with a new breed of drinker lining it. Greg, being one to stand by his principles, had no intention of moving out of his local and the beer was very good, albeit a little on the pricey side, but he was still on expenses so he stayed and befriended a whole new range of friends.

  A lot of his friends and colleagues thought he was a bit strange to continue drinking at the Fox and Hounds, now that it was well known to be a gay bar. He suspected that a few of his work colleagues suspected him of being homosexual, not that that bothered him, they could think what they wanted. To those honest enough to ask the question, ‘So you go to a gay bar; are you gay?’ Greg would reply, ‘You shop at the co-op; do you vote Labour?’ Which was especially satisfying if he knew they were staunch Tory voters.

  There were a just a couple of attendees sitting with Greg at the small round table at the Fox and Hounds. The atmosphere at the pedestal table was morbid and silent. Harry, a trainee reporter just out of his teens, knew of Greg's reputation, but had decided that he would come along tonight anyway, just for the experience of being in a gay pub. He thought of it as part of his training, so had collected the receipt for his round, with the express intention of claiming the cost back on his expenses. Donna sat close to Greg. She was attractive, and she made it obvious that she was attracted to Greg and wanted to go out with him. For Greg, it was not that he found her unattractive, it was just he did not go out with women.

  "You would have thought that a couple of your fellow reporters would have come along for at least one drink; after all you have worked at the Deptford Chronicle for over fifteen years," Donna pointed out.

  "Donna, thank you for pointing out that I have wasted the last fifteen years working with a bunch of self-centred wankers, but that is often the case with reporters." Greg gulped down his scotch and soda in one.

  "When I started," Harry chimed in," everyone said you were a great reporter, top class and liked. Of course they mentioned your obsession with suicides, but everyone needs a specialist subject."

  "Did I mention two-faced as well?” Greg added for his own satisfaction, “that’s another trait of a reporter eager to climb the editorial ladder."

  "You are just upset at being made redundant. Then being the man you are, kind and sensitive, you put on this macho persona." Donna stroked his arm sympathetically.

  "Donna you are talking crap; it might sound like being made redundant but I was sacked. No one wants to admit that I was sacked because I am the only person willing to stand up and ask awkward questions when someone commits suicide. Question the reasons it ever happens. Young men are the most likely to commit suicide....."

  "A whole generation is being blighted. Yes you have told us before," Harry added.

  Donna glared at young Harry, with a look of ‘don’t push too many of Greg’s buttons, he is not in the mood for jokes’.

  Greg held up his empty glass, “I need a refill, same again?” Without waiting for an answer; he pulled away from Donna’s caressing hands and strode towards the busy bar.

  Donna leaned forward towards young Harry and explained her glare in case there was any confusion arising, “Tonight is not the night to wind him up, Greg is sweet, but he does have a temper on him. Let’s move away from suicides and talk about football shall we?”

  “Come on Donna, you have to admit, he does have an unhealthy obsession with suicides, everyone says so, yet no one knows why, or at least are not telling. You’re good friends with him, do you know why?”

  Donna emptied her half of cider and looked towards the bar to ensure Greg was still waiting to be served, “This is not for public consumption or to be spread around the office; I will kill you if this gets out,” the look in Donna’s eyes made Harry sure that her comment was not a joke, “his sister committed suicide when she was in her teens. There was no reason given, just a supposition it was the pressure of exams. I guess Greg has never really got over it. I can’t imagine one of my brothers or sisters killing themselves. I am sure he blames himself somehow for what happened. Maybe he thinks he could have done more, seen signs of what she planned to do”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No, I found it out when looking through some news stories on line. Don’t ask me to explain; just accept it and don’t mention it to anyone.”

  “How did she kill herself, overdose?”

  Donna gave the young reporter a glaring look, but before she could answer, another voice joined the conversation.

  “What’s this? A conspiracy?” Standing above them both, was a tall man. “Mind if I join you, I hear that Greg has left the Deptford Chronicle.”

  “They say redundant, Greg will tell you sacked,” Harry explained to the stranger.

  “That’s sounds just like Greg; mind if I sit?”

  The tall stranger, was Edward, a regular at the Fox and Hounds. Edward was in his forties, his grey hair brushed back from his rounded face showing the cleft on his chin. His face was tanned and exhibited just light fashionable stubble. Dressed in an open necked short sleeved shirt with jeans, he was smart with an air of confidence about him, but in his brown eyes were streaks of sadness.

  Greg returned, his hands wrapped around three glasses damp with condensation.

  “Edward, welcome to the wake. Drink?” Greg noticed an unusual sad tint in Edward's eyes.

  “No
thanks, I'm fully topped up. I hear that you might have some time on your hands, maybe I can ask a favour of you?”

  “Fire away Edward, time is something I have plenty of now.”

  Edward lubricated his dry throat before starting:

  “My partner, Martin, has left me; walked out, no note, no reason. I just got home last Thursday and Martin was not there. I waited until about ten. that night, having called his mobile a few times, before I got really worried. I then called our friends, my friends, his friends, none of them had heard from him. I looked around the apartment, he had taken nothing that he treasured; hadn't taken any clothes or a suitcase; the only thing I found to be missing was his passport. I called the police, and they were not interested in the least. As far as they were concerned he was an adult so could do whatever he liked until there was a body or something, they were not interested at all. So I have been out of my mind over the last week. Then, this morning our credit card statement came in, there was a charge for Ryanair. Of course I got onto them and asked about it and it would seem that he purchased a single ticket to Dinard in France. I just don't understand, he has never been to France in his life, save for a couple of duty free shopping day trips.”

  “Did you get back to the police?” Harry asked.