Undercover Alice
Authors: KT Shears
Undercover Alice
by KT Shears
Copyright © 2015 by KT Shears
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods,
without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial
uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines. I never feel more
alive than when I am juggling more deadlines than should be humanly possible. I
thrive on the fast pace of a newspaper office; the knowledge that, in a split
second, my entire day could be transformed from dull to career-making. I am the
apple of my chief reporter’s eye, and a rotten apple, as far as the editing
staff on the paper are concerned. Sure, my work comes over in good condition;
it’s well researched, well written, and even, sometimes, the right length. It’s
the time it comes over that’s the problem. Long after the other reporters’
stories were being meticulously combed for errors, and being connected to
pictures and laid out on pages, I would be sitting at my desk, hammering away
at the keys, polishing, polishing, polishing.
The polite enquiries of ‘Just about there with that,
Alice?’ became gruffer and less pleasant as time went by until eventually, the
chief sub editor – a perpetually harassed man in his 50s, who wore an ill-fitting
suit and constantly had sweat stains under his arms – would bellow ‘We need
that fucking story right now or it’s not getting in the fucking paper. Jesus
Christ, Alice. Every fucking night’. Only then, when it seemed like the
belligerent bellower was about to have a heart attack, would I press the button
that whizzed my labour of love off to be checked, laid out and printed.
Last night had been the usual kind of night, ending
with the chief sub editor throwing his pencil at the wall after my story came
over 20 minutes before deadline, twice as long as the space left for it. I had
beat a hasty retreat, scurrying out of the office to my car and escaping to the
safety of home before all hell broke loose.
Of course, every day is a new day at a newspaper,
and the arguments and rows of yesterday were long forgotten by the time I
arrived at work the next day. It has to be like that, or in just a few weeks,
no one would be speaking to each other and the paper would have ceased to
print.
As I walked into the office, I saw my editor, Dave
Barry, stick his head out of his door.
‘Alice! Get in here, would you?’
Ah Christ, I thought. That bloody chief sub has
finally complained to the editor about me. Sighing, I crossed the office,
noting my colleagues’ sympathetic stares. A trip to the editor’s office was
rarely a good thing. No one had ever come out of those doors with a payrise, or
a well done, or even smiling.
I nodded to the editor’s secretary as I passed – a
friendly woman in her early 50s whose lot in life was to deal with the
temperamental, and sometimes completely unreasonable, man in the office next to
her. They were like an old married couple sometimes, having worked beside each
other for years.
As I entered the office, Dave Barry was shouting
down the phone. From his side of the conversation, I could tell there had been
some sort of problem with the printing of the papers the night before.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, are you all fucking morons
down there? Is it fucking hard to print a newspaper? They’ve been doing it for
hundreds of fucking years.’
There was a pause while the unfortunate press
manager tried to explain. To no avail.
‘What you’ve just said is fucking gobblydegook, mate.
Meaningless gobblydegook. If I get another call at 4am telling me there’s no
fucking papers, I’ll drive down there and ram the press up your arse.’
With that, Dave Barry slammed the phone down. I
wondered briefly how one began to ram a press, an absolutely massive piece of
machinery, up someone’s arse.
‘Sit down.’ Barry pointed to a chair, and then
manoeuvred his large bulk into a seat opposite. ‘You’ve been fucking off the
chief sub again, by the way. He says he’s going to stage a walkout.’
I grimaced. That wasn’t good; I was pretty sure the
chief sub rated higher than a common reporter in the hierarchy. To my surprise,
though, Barry let out a bark of laughter.
‘He’s a fucking twat, as if anywhere else would take
the sweaty bastard. Now, I wanted to speak to you about an idea I have. Feel
free to say no, but it’ll be the end of your fucking career if you do.’ He let
out another bark of laughter, but I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. I
waited for him to continue, feeling anxious. Barry’s ideas were rarely easily
achieved. His last one had ended up with a reporter spending a night in jail.
‘As you’ll have read, in my editor’s fucking
briefing email that no one even bothers to open, newspapers are in the shit.
The internet and all those spotty cyber youths are where it’s at now,
apparently. Our circulation is in the toilet, and those acne-ridden kids are
shitting all over it.’
I cringed inwardly. I was no prude, but Barry’s
language was still hard to get used to. I reflected that this was the longest
conversation I’d ever had with him: and about 50% had been the word fuck.
‘We need something special, something to shit right
back at them.’ Barry paused for a second, even he realising that sentence
didn’t make much sense. ‘We need an exposé.’
He glared at me, his eyes boring into my face so
harshly that I felt obliged to say something.
‘Well, I’ve been working on something about the city
bypass. There’s been some disagreement between –’
‘Oh fuck the fucking bypass, who gives a fuck?’ He
exploded, banging his fist on the table.
I resisted the urge to reply that, probably, most of
the city cared, as it would reduce travelling times for almost every driver.
‘We need something special. Not a story about some
city council twat bodging his sums. I’ve had an idea, and I think it’s a
fucking good one. What do you say to going undercover?’
I smirked, but quickly rearranged my face into an
expression of puzzled interest when Barry scowled at me.
‘Undercover? What, like an undercover policeman?
Pretending to be someone I’m not to get a story?’
‘Hey top marks, Barbie, you’ve been watching The Bill!’
He leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. ‘That’s
exactly what I mean. I’ve had a tip off.’
I felt he should wink and tap his nose.
‘From a pal of mine out in Spain. It’s about the
boss of that big new IT company that’s just opened those fucking horrendous-looking
offices at the business park. Matt something, I forget his name. Anyway, my pal
says he heard from one of his pals – it’s like a fucking retirement park for
sad old British bastards out there – that this Matt guy has done jail time. For
assault, no less. He doesn’t know where or the story behind it, but it’s a
fucking good story if it’s true. Mysterious Matt, the new face of information
technology or whatever the fuck it’s called, is actually a fucking criminal. It’d
be brilliant.’
He glowered at me; apparently it was my turn to
speak.
‘Is he reliable, this pal of a pal? It seems quite
convoluted and –’ I began. Barry erupted in his chair, leaping to his feet (as
much as a man of his size can leap) and sending it clattering across the room.
I glanced through the doorway; the editor’s secretary hadn’t even blinked.
Evidently she was used to these kind of theatrics.
‘Of course he’s fucking reliable. I’ve edited this
paper for 20 years, I know a fucking good source when one bites me on the
arse.’
I hastened to apologise, realising there was nothing
to be gained from asking any further questions about this pal of his. In fact,
there was probably everything to lose.
‘Ok, ok, sorry. So, you want me to go undercover at
this firm, somehow, and find out what this guy did? Why not just do some
research out there?’
I though this sounded like an eminently more
sensible option, and more ethical, too. I was pretty sure that sneaking around
someone’s company like a thief in the night, rummaging in desk drawers and
grilling employees for information wasn’t entirely in line with most people’s
moral code.
Barry sighed and spoke slowly, like he was speaking
to a child.
‘Because an undercover exposé will sell more
papers. It’ll put us up there with the big boys. The Daily Chronicle, it’ll go
diseased, or whatever the phrase is.’
‘Er, I think you mean viral,’ I said. Although
diseased was probably appropriate too.
Barry shrugged. Evidently it didn’t matter either
way to him.
‘Is it ethical, though?’ I asked, instantly
regretting it when his face turned a getching shade of puce.
‘Ethics? We can’t afford to have fucking ethics at a
time like this, love. Jesus Christ. “Is it ethical?” Fucking hell. Where do you
think you are? This isn’t a church newsletter.’
I sighed. I should have known better than to mention
such a dirty word around Barry. Now he’d be even more determined.
‘How am I going to get inside a massive IT company
when I know nothing about IT?’
Beaming, Barry reached across his desk and picked up
today’s paper, his stubby finger pointing at an advert on the jobs page. I
picked it up and read the following:
Personal Assistant to the CEO – Westwall IT
Solutions
We are seeking an efficient,
friendly and experienced PA to work with company CEO Matt Westwall to arrange
his schedule, deal with telephone calls, and assist with the day-to-day running
of his office. Applicants should contact
[email protected]
for an application form and further information.
‘It’s fucking perfect!’
I didn’t think so. A PA? What did I know about
arranging schedules? I couldn’t even arrange for my own schedule to be on time,
let alone someone else’s. And day-to-day running of an office? What was that? I
groaned inwardly. On the other hand, this could be my chance to escape this
place and join one of the bigger papers, maybe even win an award. That was all I’d
ever wanted. Still, I wasn’t sure this was the right away to go about things.
‘Maybe one of the other reporters might like the
opportunity?’ I said, carefully.
Barry scoffed. ‘Oh, who? Hairy Harry?’
He had a point, I thought. I couldn’t imagine any of
my fellow reporters, all men, becoming a PA.
‘But I don’t have any experience. And won’t he recognise
my name from the papers?’
Barry beamed again, with the air of the cat who had
not only got the cream, but taken great delight in parading around with it in
front of all the other cats in the neighbourhood.
‘I’ve thought of everything. Tell him I’m a fucking
nightmare to work for and you want a new career. He’s not to know you’re still
working for me. It’s genius.’
At least, I thought, I could tell one part of the
story without having to lie.
I considered the matter. While it sounded a bit
dubious, it did sound like there might be a cracking story in there somewhere.
And I was desperate for a good scoop. One of the reporters I had trained with
had just won an award for an article he’d written about hidden child poverty in
one of the more upmarket parts of the city. I was seething with jealously – it
could have been me, if I worked for a paper whose boss who valued that kind of
news. Unfortunately, Barry was tabloid through and through, and his idea of a
story was a footballer finding himself in a three-in-a-bed romp with his
girlfriend and her dad, or something of that nature.
‘You don’t get to the top without stepping on a few
people along the way,’ my best friend Jen had told me once. She’d clambered all
over some people with her three-inch heels, and was now an extremely successful
public relations consultant, with a portfolio containing many of the great and
the good of television and music.
‘Well?’ Barry said, impatiently.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said.
He clapped his hands together, grinning in a not
altogether pleasant way.
‘You won’t regret it,’ he said.
I wondered.