The Reporter at The Reporter

Chapter 1

WELCOME HOME

Jude knows he should be asleep; ensuring he’ll be in the best shape possible to start his new job, begin his new life. But sleep is as elusive as the moonbeams threading through the thin curtains of Jude’s little bedroom, above the entrance to the public bar of The Proud Stag.

‘It’s hopeless,’ he realizes, pulling himself up and along the soft mattress into a sitting position. Jude’s head is a jumble of excitement and fear about the following day and realising sleep is as about as likely as winning the Pulitzer Prize on the first day of his new career as a journalist, his only option is to get up. ‘Maybe a run will clear my head and then let me sleep?’ He gingerly walks the three steps across the faded cold lino to the window and pulls back the curtain.

The view across the New Forest is impressive and huge, silent and open. To Jude its intimidating and unsettling, in its own way so bright and noisy. ‘In the city,’ he thinks, ‘you’re wrapped in a duvet of dull light and quiet hum that helps you relax and sleep. But here, miles from any other dwelling, the Forest’s heathland is so silent. Then, maybe a mile away, an owl will screech or a pony bray and it sounds like the bloody thing is next to you, in your bedroom.’ As he watches, the cloud parts and the moon emerges. Jude’s bedroom transforms from battleship grey to bright silver and, outside, the impossibly large, full moon seems closer and brighter than he’s ever seen. Eyeing the dark, flat silhouettes behind the gorse bushes that stretch as far as he can see, he decides it’s definitely bright enough outside for a run. ‘It’s like that old Cat Steven’s song, Moonshadow,’ he thinks, and his eyes are drawn to a moon-illuminated movement on the horizon. Jude peers and spots the shape of a motorcycle and rider, lights turned off, silently heading down the hill on the single-track road towards The Proud Stag. ‘Strange,’ he thinks, but dismisses the idea – it is his first night staying in the remote pub – but carries on furtively watching. The rider glides the bike to a halt in the pub’s small carpark and pulls the heavy machine silently onto its stand.

‘Country folk, a weird lot,’ Jude thinks and checks his watch, ‘2AM on a Monday morning?’ The helmeted and black leather-clad biker bends over and picks something up from the pub’s flowerbed. He or she, Jude can’t tell for sure, draws back their arm and hurls whatever they’d picked up. An explosion of glass shatters the night, followed by a second of total silence, which is, in turn, shattered by the barking of a dog and joined by the cries of a baby. Unhurriedly the biker walks back to his machine, rolls it off its stand and kicks it into life, revving its powerful engine. Now, with headlight switched on, the rider speeds back up the hill. Jude has the presence of mind to grab a pen and scribbles the bike’s numberplate onto the back of his hand.

The sleeping pub ignites into life. Jude stumbles downstairs to see the naked figure of his cousin, Gerry, the pub’s young landlord, moon-silhouetted in the doorway, screaming obscenities in the direction of the biker’s flight. His strong left hand holds the collar of his barking puppy Alsatian, Rin Tin Tin, the dog desperate to chase after the motorbike.

Jude heads towards where he thought the light switch is – he’d entered The Proud Stag for the first time some four hours earlier – and screams. The welsh accent of Milly, Gerry’s wife, cuts through the chaos. ‘Jude, stand bloody still, can’t you, there’s glass on the floor. Gerry, calm down. And stop Rin Tin Tin barking; give him some crisps from behind the bar and lock him there, safe from the broken glass. Right, hang on.’ There’s a click and the lights come on throughout the public bar. Milly was the only one of the trio dressed, a dressing gown quickly thrown on. She chucks Gerry’s woollen dressing gown at him. ‘No one wants to see your old meat and two veg. When the dog’s calm, can you grab a dustpan and brush? Right, Jude, I’ll get you some slippers, a bandage for that cut on your foot and some trousers. Mind, you look alright in Y-fronts.’ She smiles; it was a matter of personal pride to Milly never to appear rattled or upset, a trait, she believes, from her Welsh Calvinist upbringing and her mother’s heartfelt belief that ‘God helps those who help themselves.’

Mollie marches back upstairs towards the crying of their baby, George, who sounds desperately upset to be missing out on all the fun. Rin Tin Tin’s barking subsides into the occasional yelp and, now wearing jeans and T-shirt, Milly reappears, laden with the items she promised and a simpering infant on her hip.

She passes her cousin-in-law a pile of bandages, clothes and slippers. ‘Sort yourself out Jude, just don’t stand on any more of that glass, right?’ Milly walks to the back of the bar to pat and calm down Rin Tin Tin. On the floor she spies, then picks up, a mauve pebble the size of a large egg. ‘I’ll put that back in the rockery tomorrow. The bastard.’

Gerry is obviously used to doing as Milly orders and finishes sweeping the glass shards into a dustpan. ‘Bastards? I’ll give ’em bastards. How dare they come here, to our pub, to our home, in the middle of the night, with our baby asleep. That bloody pebble could’ve killed George.’

Jude has managed to stem the bleeding from his right foot and wraps the bandage over a piece of lint he presses onto the cut. He makes a white figure of eight by circling the crepe around his foot and ankle and ties the bandage. Jude leans back to admire his handiwork and flexes his ankle. The bandage immediately goes loose and falls down his shin.

‘I’ll do that,’ Milly says, looking at Jude, ‘are all the Devlin men useless or is just you and your cousin?’ She unties the bandage, unwraps Jude’s feeble efforts and, within a few moments, his foot is professionally bound. Milly looks at her husband across the room. ‘Gerry, have you upset someone? What was that all about. Shouldn’t we call the police?’

‘It’s as much a mystery to me, love. Maybe we’ll call them in the morning? Not much point now, is there. They won’t want to come all the way out her in the early hours of a Monday morning for a broken window.’

Milly gives Gerry the look that a wife gives a husband when she knows she’s not being told the full story. ‘Right, if you don’t mind finishing clearing up, I’ll try and get George back down and get some sleep myself; I’ve got a breakfast conference call with a client at seven bloody thirty. Don’t be too long you two.’ Milly disappears upstairs with George again on her hip, his eyes alternating between open and asleep.

The clearing-up finished, Gerry hovers in the pub’s lounge and Jude senses that his cousin wants to talk. Jude grabs his car keys from the hook and suggests the pair ‘inspect the damage from outside.’ He feels inside his old Peugeot’s glovebox, eventually finds his instamatic camera and tells Gerry to stand next to the pub’s broken window. ‘One for the record, you might need it for the insurance.’ The little camera’s powerful flash ignites the building’s exterior and sears Gerry’s retinas.

After a desultory and depressing look around, the pair head back inside to the pub. ‘Why don’t you pour us each a pint of your Ringwood Fortyniner and tell me what’s this is all about?’ Jude suggests. Similar in build and outlook, although Jude is slightly the taller, the pair were born the same year, 1955, and have always enjoyed an easy, understated relationship. Neither of the 32-year-olds can remember a time they hadn’t been friends, although they’d seen little of each other over the last decade.

‘It’s nothing, not really, but let’s have a pint to welcome you home. We didn’t get a proper chance earlier, did we.’ Gerry drains off a half glass to clear the pipes before expertly pouring two pints and the pair sit at a table by the broken window, looking out into the moonlight, appreciating the light, forest-scented breeze on the warm August night.

‘Gerry, don’t give me the old bollocks it was nothing. I couldn’t sleep, was thinking of going for a run to clear my head and looked out the window to see if it the moonlight was bright enough. That’s when I saw a motorcyclist drive down, his engine and lights turned off, pick up the pebble, throw it and smash your window, then drive off. He came here for a reason. Have you been up to no good with a regular’s missus or what?’

‘Are you joking? The baby, the puppy, this place and my little gardening business... I’m too exhausted to raise a smile, let alone anything else.’ The old friends laugh lightly.

‘Look,’ Jude holds out his arm, showing the writing on the back of his hand, ‘I’ve got the motorcycle’s registration. I reckon the police will be able to track him down pretty quickly.’

‘There’s no need. I know who it is. Well, not exactly who, but why. I had two big guys, strangers, in here last Wednesday lunchtime. They said I needed bouncers on the doors and they could help me with that. I laughed; as you can see, we’re a quiet country pub that does a bit of food at the weekend, not a city centre disco, for God’s sake. They said it was insurance. I said I had insurance. “Not like ours,” one said and I asked them to leave, polite but firm. They said we’d be hearing from them. Well, I reckon, we just have.’

‘Bloody hell, that’s a story. We should tell the police.’

‘No, it’s not a story, not for a newspaper. Look, there’s been rumours about a protection racket at local pubs for the last few months; that’s why I got Rin Tin Tin.’

Over two more pints the pair reminisce, laugh and retie the old bonds that had slipped and unknotted over the 10 years that Jude has spent in exile, away from Southampton, his home.

Exhausted and a little drunk, Jude starts up the stairs, then turns to his cousin. ‘I really appreciate you letting me stay here until I find somewhere permanent, in the city. We’ll catch up over the weeks, it’ll be like old times.’

‘I couldn’t let you stay in some dingy B&B with only cornflakes and cold milk for breakfast. Well, I could, but Milly wouldn’t hear of it. And it was about time you met George.’ Gerry smiles. ‘Jude, there’s one thing I’ve got to ask. What about Sue? Aren’t you going to see or contact her? Don’t you owe her that? You’d have been married, what, 10 years?’

‘I’m thinking about it,’ Jude climbs the rest of the staircase towards his room. ‘Night Gerry,’ he stage-whispers, hoping to claim the four hours of potential sleep left before his alarm will sound.

Chapter 2

LET’S GET YOU STARTED

Hung over, 15 minutes late and buttered crumbs sticking on his tie from the toast Milly had insisted he ate, Jude realises this isn’t a great way to start his new job, let alone his new life. What did his old sales manager used to say? ‘You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression.’ With a boss like that, was there any wonder he had left the exciting world of electrical wholesaling…?

Through the frosted glass of the office door, he watches the outline of moving bodies before catching his own reflection – it is worse than even he’d imagined – and reads again the large calligraphically on the glass: The Reporter, Newsroom, followed, in smaller font, Journalists and Photographers Only! Jude straightens his tie, runs his hand through his blonde hair and takes a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s me, from today. So, why am I nervous? This is the job I’ve worked so hard to get,’ he tells himself. ‘A new job and new life. Just smile, push the bloody door open and say “Hello, I’m Jude.” Do it!’ For once, he follows his own good advice, but rather too successfully: the door flies open, smashes against the adjoining wall and spits out its frosted glass window with the force of an infant who decides that they now hate carrots. The glass shatters impressively on the wooden floor. ‘That’s two windows in two days. Is that 14 years’ bad luck or does that only apply to mirrors?’ Jude wonders, before realising that three faces and five eyes are staring at the suited, booted and, now, pink-faced trainee reporter. ‘Hello, I’m–

‘A man who obviously likes to make an entrance. Tea? I’ve been waiting for you to turn up before making it. How do you take it?’ The welcome is from a short, smiling, impish looking woman in her late 20s with sparkling eyes and dark red hair. ‘White and no sugar, no doubt. Step over the glass and we’ll get Old Jones to clear it up, he’s always desperate to please. I’m Sarah and you must be the dramatic Jude.’

Jude nods a thank you for the offer of tea and starts a clumsy apology, embarrassment hindering his normal easy charm and relaxed smile. The staccato stutters are halted by a tall angular young man, who walks with difficulty towards the new reporter and grins. ‘Sorry, can’t shake hands,’ he looks down at his long gangly arms, each half immersed and moving inside a large black bag. ‘I’m developing pics from Saturday’s game. Well, first I’m trying to wrestle the wretched film out of its canister, but it’s a bit stuck. Robert, Robert Freeman-Adams. As you’ve already deduced, no doubt, the photographer on this great journal. Good to meet you, Jude.’

Before Jude can reply a deep northern accent emanates from the remaining figure in the office. ‘Now, don’t take no notice of either of those.’ Jude thinks the voice is rather deep for the diminutive middle-aged, grey-haired man sat behind a large desk which is all but concealed under mounds of untidy newspapers, opened envelopes and books. In the middle of the desk is a battered grey typewriter, and tidy columns of typed pink paper. ‘They’re only lead you astray.’ He minutely adjusts the black patch over his right eye. ‘I’m the editor, your boss. Remember that and we’ll get along fine. Call me Jimmy, it’s not my name, that’s James Graves, but as long as I can remember everybody has thought calling me Jimmy Graves was hilarious, although I hate bloody football.’ The editor shakes his head.

Without apparently being summoned ‘Old Jones,’ dressed, as always, in a long brown overall that, like its owner, has seen better days, slouches into the office and surveys the scene. ‘Ooh, that’ll be expensive, with the signwriting on and everything.’ He turns and looks sternly at Jude, appraising him from head to toe. ‘You must be the new journalist. Hope they’re going to pay you well; they’ll take the cost of the window out of your wage packet. Well, your first story can be on office vandalism, written in the first person.’ The blood-induced pink colour that had started to fade from Jude’s cheeks flushes back with a vengeance, causing Old Jones’ face to split into a wide grin. ‘Only joking, lad, only joking. I’ve got a mate who does that calligraphy stuff. He’ll do it as a favour, no worries. And remember, if there’s anything you want to know about this place, ask me, not this bloody lot.’ Old Jones offers his hand and Jude shakes it, feeling slightly bewildered. The caretaker starts clearing up the broken glass. ‘Is that coffee I can smell, Sarah? I’m feeling a little parched…’

‘Right, Jude the destroyer, sit yourself down over there.’ Jimmy nods towards a dark wooden desk of indeterminable age, inhabited by an old Imperial typewriter sporting a Death to the Ruling Class bumper-sticker on one side. Next to the typewriter is ‘the spike,’ a dangerous, sharp thin stiletto of metal projecting into the air. ‘The sticker was Kevin’s, your predecessor. He left here for The Times and didn’t think it would fit well with the ethos of his new employer. Right, make sure you take a carbon copy of everything you type and keep it on your spike for future reference. Don’t go and fall on the spike. Bloody Robert did last year, he’d only been here a month, and couldn’t take any photos for weeks.’

‘Jimmy, you know I was only off work for two days. The spike went right through my finger,’ Robert protested.

‘Anyway, you can forget all that next week, when the fancy new computers turn up, God help us. The managing editor probably told you that at your interview, we’re going to be the first newspaper in the whole company to have Apple computers. No more paper, at least that’s the idea. We’re the guinea pigs for the whole group because we’re the smallest office, so any problems can be sorted out before the bigger papers get the technology. That’s what they reckon. Next Monday and Tuesday we’re all going to be trained how to use them. I tried to book the week off as holiday but they wouldn’t bloody let me.’ Jimmy again shakes his head.