The Child(17)

MONDAY, MARCH 26, 2012

It was Monday—“Another day at the coal mine,” the Crime Man had announced to no one in particular as Kate arrived late. Not a good start to the week.

Terry had given her the what-time-do-you-call-this? eyebrow tilt, but she’d decided to ignore it and not offer an excuse. Instead, she went to sit at her “work station,” as the management now called their desks.

Kate looked around the newsroom to see who else was in and saw the political editor was already deep in conversation with Simon Pearson, the Editor. There was loud, laddish laughter as the political editor told an off-color story about one of the cabinet and his boss clapped him on the shoulder. He looked pleased with himself. Master of his universe, Kate noted.

All quiet, otherwise. The muted clatter of keys and the hunched shoulders of the online slaves would keep Terry happy—and off her back, she hoped. She logged onto her computer and scanned her inbox. She’d already looked at the messages on her phone, but she hoped that in the ten minutes since she’d last glanced at them, there’d have been some reaction to the baby story. A bit of information, maybe, to give her a leg up. But nothing.

She didn’t bother with her voicemail. People used to phone her with stories and tip-offs and they’d bounce ideas around and pass the time of day. Now it was all online. She didn’t need to physically speak to another person all day, sometimes.

Kate yawned. The Crime Man yawned back, companionably, from across the desk.

“By the way, Nina’s had a word with me about Terry’s latest crackdown on expenses,” he said quietly.

Nina, the news desk secretary, was the fount of all knowledge and was loved universally by the reporters. She’d been around “since Moses published his commandments,” she told everyone and knew how to get four-star hotel bookings for reporters past the managing editor, how to cover for “her” boys when there was trouble at home or at work—“I’m sure he’s on his way,” she’d purr down the phone to an angry wife or Terry. She could also get you into a war zone with a hire car and no visa without batting an eyelid.

“She says that Terry is ringing restaurants to make sure the staff ate there and that the total on the receipt matches their records. Death to the blanko is his goal this month. It won’t last.”

The war on reporters’ expenses re-erupted periodically, usually when the news desk budget went bust. The blanko—a blank receipt from a hotel or restaurant that could be filled in by the reporter, rather like a blank check—was the usual target.

Producing receipts used to be an art form in the old days—rumors abounded of children’s John Bull printing sets being used to make whole books of receipts. Coffee stains and insects were then added to give them foreign credentials.

“Oh dear,” Kate said.

They both stared at their screens.

Kate wondered what an alien would make of the scene. Dozens of people sitting in isolation in front of computers, not speaking or looking at each other. It was a bit like the lost souls in Las Vegas casinos, perched for hours at the slot machines, with dead eyes, mechanically pressing buttons in the hope of a jackpot.

Alert! News editor approaching, she thought.

Terry had a winning smile on his face. He obviously wanted a favor. Kate pretended to be absorbed by something on her screen.

“See you managed to get in this morning, then.” He attempted a light touch but his banter clanged to the floor.

“Sorry, bad traffic, Terry,” she said, her fingers resting on the keys as though in mid-sentence.

“Yeah, yeah. Terrible out there. Anyway . . .”

Here it comes, she thought. The task of death.

“Kate, the Editor has got his eye on one of the new young reporters and he wants you to take him under your wing.”

She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “My wing?” she said, tartly.

“He’s very bright,” Terry said. Her heart sank. “Very bright” was code for “extremely irritating.”

“And you’re the best reporter on the paper.”

The Crime Man cleared his throat in a warning growl at the slight.

Kate felt herself soften, despite herself. Compliments had been thin on the ground lately. Her star billing after the Widow Taylor exclusive had begun to wane. It was two years since she’d broken the story of what really happened to little Bella Elliott, the toddler who vanished from her garden. The story, with its twists and setbacks, had consumed her, and when the truth finally emerged in the pages of her newspaper, there’d been lunch with the Editor, an award, and a pay rise.

But that moment had passed, as they always do. The Editor’s focus had moved increasingly from investigative journalism to the sort of instant news that got the online community clicking and commenting. She now found herself ever more redundant in this new world order. She could write a picture caption with the best of them, but it was hardly a job for a grown-up, she told herself, as she tried to hold on to her dignity.

And she felt a growing paranoia every time Terry sent one of the kids on a story instead of her.

“Saving you for the big one,” he’d say when he caught her eye. But the big one hadn’t come for a while. Now, she was being put in charge of the office crèche.

“I’m too busy for ‘work experience,’ Terry,” she said.