Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time (29 page)

OK? Good.

Actually, I’m not going to tell you about what’s happening at home. I don’t want to talk about home. I don’t want to start crying again. Not in public. Not even on this late train of the tired and emotional.

Let’s talk about work. Guess how work is? Work is toilet.

You know that business with the chief executive resigning? How she was going to draw the fire away from the paper, take the bullets, distract the world from taking aim at us? Well, guess what? It’s not worked. What’s happened is, she’s just given the whole story new legs. Instead of taking the line that with her departure comes a brave, ethical new dawn for the
Globe
, it seems that everyone’s gone and followed the opposite way of thinking.

How bad can it be at this paper, runs the line, when even the chief exec, a woman who has lived and breathed tabloid journalism, a woman whose loyalty to the organ is legendary, cannot stand to stay there any longer? How deep goes the poison when even she didn’t know about the nefarious goings on? When even she didn’t know about poor little Barry Dunn? When even she feels she’d rather resign than stay there a moment longer? Just how bad must it be at that place?

Hmm. Not, in short, what anyone was hoping for. Not a good result. (Unless she’s really super clever, but I doubt that. Really, that would imply a level of deviousness and cynicism even beyond that of the very worst kind of tabloid hack. Nobody could be that smart. Not even her. Right?) In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s exactly the worst result. And it’s put everyone in a bad mood.

There’s more bad news. Following her departure, following the reaction to her departure, the advertisers have apparently been getting antsy. Those paragons of virtue, the multinational supermarket chains, the banks, the fast-food outlets whose adverts pay for the massive print run and relatively cheap cover price our paper has… they’ve been making uneasy noises. They’re unhappy, apparently. They’re unhappy about being associated with such a paper as us. They’re worried we might be making them look bad by implication. And they’re talking about pulling out. And once the paper starts losing money… well, then the game changes altogether.

At the moment, Martin – what most people don’t realise in fact – at the moment we’re still selling an awful lot of newspapers every week. We’re still outselling the rest of them. We’re still the nation’s favourite Sunday read. And just so long as it stays that way, just so long as we can ride out these scandals with readers intact, well, then we’ll be fine.

But if the advertisers go… if the money goes, everything changes. Without enough advertising, every copy sold becomes another few pence lost. The cover price does not cover the cost of making the paper. And a newspaper without adverts is just a very expensive vanity project.

Our rivals know this, of course. There is no honour among thieves. Here’s what one of the other papers ran yesterday:

‘Following the hasty resignation of the chief executive, the
Globe
is left rudderless, and, one fears, without any kind of moral compass. Most ethically minded companies have already pulled their advertising from the paper, not wishing to be associated with such scandals as the alleged illegal accessing of murder victim Barry Dunn’s private information, and now it seems that many of the remaining advertisers look set to follow suit. Those still on the fence will be watching the conclusion of the six-month court case brought about by various celebrities against the
Globe
with great interest. A verdict on that case is expected within weeks.’

I know the guy who wrote that, Martin. He used to work here. Until today he still had friends at this paper. And now… now he all but incites our advertisers to take away the one thing that’s keeping us afloat. Does that make him a better man, or a worse man?

No such moral dilemmas for Goebbels, however. Just straight-up fury. And when someone came back from lunch and mentioned that the man in question was outside with the rest of the pack, he flew out of his seat, stormed down the stairs, shouldered his way past security, marched past the cameras (and they all swung to watch him do so, every lens trained, every finger clicking, every shutter whirring), grabbed him by his throat and literally threw him to the floor. He would have kicked him too, had some of the rest not held him back.

And now, of course, it’s all over the TV. Over and over again. Each time as shocking as the last. Goebbels of the
Globe
physically assaulting a rival journalist. Face twisted in rage, spewing out a list of obscenities. The human face of our paper – snarling, thuggish, bullying, brutal.

Perfect. That’s going to make everything OK again, isn’t it? That’s exactly what we needed. Well done. Oh, well done that man.

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, February 10. Amount of my day wasted: 14 minutes. Fellow sufferers: Guilty New (Spymaster) Mum, Lego Head, Train Girl.

Ooh, another week without delays! Get you! You must be very proud of yourself. Award yourself a bonus, Martin! Give yourself a dividend!

I’m glad things are going well for you. I’m pleased you might be finally getting to grips with this job of yours, because that will at least make one of us.

I am what you might call unhappy at work, Martin. Could you guess? Is it becoming obvious? Unhappy at home and unhappy at work. And it’s not the imminent conclusion of the court case against us (that case that started out so sensationally and quickly lapsed into droning legalese… but don’t be fooled by that. If we should lose, if the verdict was to come back in favour of our favourite philanderer, it’s going to be headline news again all right). It’s not the arrests or the resignations. It’s not the protestors outside the building, the condemnation of the world or even the betrayal by our erstwhile brother journalists. These things I’ve been coping with fine, as it happens. No: the problem, my problem, is the descent into madness of my boss. What’s making me unhappy is the insanity of Goebbels.

Sunday’s paper sees the last of my Narcotics Anonymous scoops – and rather than them getting pushed further up the news agenda, up towards the front of the paper, as I thought, he’s been bumping them back. My high court judge is currently on page 23. Twenty-three? What’s the point of that? Who cares about what’s on page 23 for crying out loud? Not me. Not Goebbels either.

But that’s not the issue. The issue is that Goebbels wants me to go after bigger fish than dope-smoking butlers and coke-snorting judges. Even the ketamine-addled clothes heiress wasn’t lighting his fire. What Goebbels wants is revenge. He’s finally flipped his lid altogether, and he wants to use me to take revenge on the world.

‘This is where the worm turns,’ he snarled at me this week. ‘This is where the dog stops taking the kicks and bites back. This is where the cornered bear charges – and rips off the arms and legs and heads of those who’ve been after him. This is where we go on the attack. For months we’ve been subject to every accusation and insult under the sun and we’re not going to take it any more. We’re going to come out swinging and annihilate the bastards.’

And then he grinned one of those horrible grins – utterly devoid of warmth or humour. Harry the Dog calls it his ‘Darth Vader grin’. The sort of grin that sends a shiver down your spine. ‘Or rather – you’re going to do it. You, my boy, as showbiz editor of the best newspaper in the world, are going to get me the dirt on every one of those lowlifes currently giving us such grief. The whinging celebrities, the bent policemen, the hypocrite politicians. The editors of all those newspapers camped outside our doors every day, the BBC, ITV, CNN. That bloody woman with the dead kid we supposedly hacked. Take her out. Take them all out. Everyone’s got a skeleton. Everyone’s got a secret they don’t want the world to know. Find them. Find them quick and let’s slaughter the lot of ’em. Let’s show them you don’t go to war with the
Globe
.’

And how, I dared ask, was I supposed to do that? Given that everything we’re doing right now is subject to ludicrous levels of scrutiny? Given that standard practices (hidden mics, checking the bins, slipping the odd couple-hundred quid here and there) have basically become off-limits? And also – is going to war with the whole world really such a smart idea? Right now especially? Is it… ethical?

And then… and then Goebbels went ballistic. The first thing he threw at me was a notebook. The second was a stapler. Then a barrage of pens, pencils, post-its, bits of paper, whatever he could lay his hands on, before he stood up, picked up his chair and launched that across the desk at me. (It missed – thank Christ.)

‘Don’t you DARE tell me what to put in my paper, you snotty little SOD!’ he screamed. ‘Don’t tell ME what’s smart and what’s not! Who are you to tell me ANYTHING? Get out of my sight! Get out of my sight and get me a proper story before I throw you out of that window myself!’

And so now I’m chasing down the very people who’ve been condemning us. Now I’m trying to dig dirt on the same people who’ve been saying the way we dig dirt is unethical. Sensible? No. Suicidal? Probably. But that’s what Goebbels wants and no matter how crazy he’s gone, he’s my boss and that’s the bottom line. What can I do? This isn’t why I became a journalist. This isn’t any fun.

And what’s worse is I’ve had to rope in Wee Tim’rous Trainee to help me. The poor girl, so eager to learn, so anxious to impress, smart enough to get those NA scoops and also smart enough to gently rebuff Harry the Dog’s advances – I’ve had to drag her down into the gutter with me. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be getting her hands so filthy, so quickly. It’s not fair on her.

Unhappy at work, and unhappy at home. You know I’m unhappy at home, of course. This isn’t news. What is news is that I tried talking to my wife again. After five weeks of silence, last night I tried to look her in the eye and talk to her again. I didn’t go to the pub after work for once; I came straight home. I came home to try to talk to Beth.

And the problem was – I couldn’t. I walked in the door and hung up my coat and put down my bag and mumbled something, something like ‘You all right?’ and her face when she looked up at me, all that hope, that sudden, wide-eyed, open, naked hope, unabashed and unselfconscious hope, just pure hope on her face that perhaps I was going to talk to her again, start being nice to her again, that I might forgive her again, that we might be friends again… Martin, it broke my heart. Or rather, it melted my heart.

‘Yes thank you, OK, how are you?’ she tried, all in a rush. And she took a step forward, towards me. She started to lift her arms, her hands, as if to welcome me back in. As if to welcome me back to her, to us. And I almost forgave her.

Almost. And then, even as I opened my mouth to speak, even as I started – ‘I’m…’ – I looked at her face again, her eyes, her mouth, and all I could think of were those eyes locked into the gaze of Mr Blair. That mouth kissing his. Her hands, her legs, her body… on his. Skin to skin contact. And my heart stopped melting. It froze again.

How can I forgive her, Martin, when literally everything about her reminds me what she did to me? How can I get past that? I can’t look at my wife, Martin. I can’t even look at her any more. That face. That open, hopeful face… I couldn’t even meet her eyes. And so I turned and walked back out of the door again and went to the pub until I knew she’d gone to bed.

So, am I unhappy? As someone once said: do newborn babies cry? Did Little Red Riding wear a hood? Did the three bears shit in the woods? Was Humpty Dumpty fat? Does the Pope wear a funny hat? Is wrestling fixed?

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
23.20 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, February 14. Amount of my day wasted: 24 minutes. Fellow sufferers: No regulars.

And she’s gone. To her mum’s. Yesterday. With Sylvie. She’s gone, in tears, hurrying down the street, pushing the pram with her hair all down in her face, shoulders shaking and legs moving too fast, heading for the train station as Sylvie wailed and wailed and drowned out the sounds of her own sobs.

And I watched. I just watched. I didn’t say a word, I didn’t move a muscle to try to persuade her to stay. I didn’t even know if I wanted her to stay. I didn’t want her to stay – but I didn’t want her to go either. I don’t know when she’s coming back. I don’t know if she’s coming back. I don’t know when I’ll see my baby daughter again.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Martin.

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
23.20 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, February 14.

Dear Dan

I’m so sorry to hear your latest news. Really, genuinely sorry. I’m not sure if you’d like my advice any more, given some of the things you said to me a few letters ago, but for what it’s worth, I would urge you to think of your daughter first and foremost. Every marriage has its ups and downs and in every relationship there comes a time when one or the other party might have to swallow their pride in order to make it work. I understand how difficult it must be for you to get past what happened, but perhaps you should ask yourself if you’re prepared to lose everything you had before just because of one mistake. And also, whether you’re prepared to put Sylvie through all that pain too.

As I said, my advice to you might be completely unwelcome, but I feel that, despite the occasional disagreements we’ve had over these last nine months or so, we also have built up a kind of ‘relationship’. And you did once describe me as ‘avuncular’! So I’m urging you, please, don’t think of yourself this once, think instead of what really matters.