Читать книгу If Ever I Fall - S.D. Robertson - Страница 9

The phone on Dan’s desk rang.

He looked at the clock; ten past two already. Shit.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello, Dan. It’s Susan on reception. I’ve got a bit of an angry man on the phone: a Mr Doyle. He’s demanding to speak to you. I tried to put him through to one of the reporters, but he was having none of it. He insisted it had to be you.’

‘Right. What’s it regarding?’

‘I’m sorry. I did ask him, but all he would say was that it was about a serious mistake in this week’s Herald.’

A complaint, as he’d feared. They always came through about this time on a Thursday. Dan paused, thinking back through the many pages he’d checked the previous day. The name Doyle didn’t ring any bells.

‘Can I put him through?’

Dan thought back to the good old days when he had a deputy and a news editor to filter out complaint calls. When he had the peace and quiet of a private office to deal with awkward issues, rather than the noisy open-plan space in which he now found himself. He’d been captain of his own ship. He’d been a somebody, at least to his readers in the Northern England towns and villages where the paper was distributed. He’d deliberately avoided living in the Herald’s reporting patch in order to escape work during his free time. But now the office wasn’t even based there, having been centralised to a hunk of concrete fifteen miles down the motorway, on the edge of the city. It was a ridiculous situation, but one he’d had to accept.

Technically he’d been promoted after the move: made editor of two other titles on top of the Herald, his original newspaper. But in reality he’d become a glorified middle manager, a cog in the wheel. The title of editor had only been retained to appease the public. To pretend their beloved local papers were the same as ever, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

‘Dan? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, sorry. Put him through.’

He’d always hated dealing with complaints: the one thing that had risen in number – unlike ad revenues and circulation – since the centralisation two and a half years earlier. It was only to be expected when you considered the cull of experienced journalists that had taken place.

Dan was lucky to still be there. He was one of only a few senior staff from the group’s weekly papers who were still standing. He didn’t feel lucky, though; in fact lucky was a million miles from how he would describe his life right now. He was waiting for the roof to come crashing down on his career as it had on everything else.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Doyle?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘This is Daniel Evans, the editor.’

‘So I’ve finally reached the organ grinder, have I?’

Not really, Dan thought. Not any more. ‘How can I help you, Mr Doyle?’

‘It’s a bit bloody late for that. The damage is done.’

‘Could you be a little more specific?’

‘You called me a paedophile, Mr Evans. Used the wrong photo – my photo – with a story about some sick kiddie fiddler. I’m going to sue you for every last penny your poxy rag is worth.’

Shit. Dan’s mind raced back to the only article about a paedophile in that week’s Herald. It was a court case on page seven. Jane, one of the few original reporters still working for the paper, had been to court and emailed the piece over. So how the hell could the wrong picture have been run alongside it? He doubted it was her fault. She was one of the good ones – always so thorough.

He opened his copy of the paper and flicked to page seven, his fingers catching on the pages as he rushed to find the article. There it was, with a photo of a suited bald man standing on the court steps.

‘Hello? Are you there?’ Mr Doyle asked.

‘Yes. Sorry, I—’

‘You can shove your apologies. I want to know how the hell this happened and what you’re going to do to fix it.’

Dan racked his brains. There were so many ways things could go wrong these days. He’d not had any direct involvement in placing the story or picture. He’d never even seen Jane’s email: only the finished story on the page. Not that any of this would protect him. He’d be the one held to account, blamed for not picking up on it while reviewing the pages.

The paedophile’s name, captioned underneath the photo, was Steven Ross. How on earth had that got confused with Mr Doyle? And why was his picture on the photo system in the first place?

‘Hello? How are you going to fix this? There could be a lynch mob outside my house tonight!’

His tone was pure aggression. Understandable in the circumstances, Dan thought, doing his utmost to stay calm in response. But he could feel himself starting to sweat. What a bloody mess.

‘Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. The picture on page seven is of you and you’re not Steven Ross.’

‘Are you some kind of idiot? Of course I’m not him. I’ve never met this freak in my life.’

‘Have you any idea why your photo is on our system?’

‘You tell me. It’s never been used before, to my knowledge. It must have been taken by one of your lot without my permission.’

‘You were at court yesterday?’

‘No, it was months ago. I was appealing against a drink-driving charge.’

‘And you’ve no connection whatsoever with Steven Ross?’

Mr Doyle let out a loud sigh. ‘Obviously not. I’m a respected businessman. Your article is the first I’ve heard of this nonce. As far as I know, the only thing we have in common is the name Ross.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Ross – his surname – is my first name.’

Dan’s heart sank. That must have been it: a wrongly selected picture due to a similar filename. A schoolboy error. The kind of thing that would never have slipped through in the old days. How was he expected to spot such mistakes when he was juggling three papers; in and out of meetings all day; constantly bombarded by emails and phone calls?

Something snapped inside. It was as though a switch had flipped in his brain, and in that instant Dan decided he just couldn’t handle this any more. He couldn’t take it. Not on top of everything else in his personal life, which had spiralled from bad to really bloody awful over the past month. It was too much. He was done.

Without saying another word, Dan hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the stairs. As he moved, he felt as though his legs were disconnected from his body, making their way out of the room while his insides fought to dislodge the panic in his chest.

Maurice, another surviving editor, was leaving the lift as he reached reception.

‘Coming for a smoke, mate?’ he asked Dan.

‘Sure,’ Dan replied, using him as cover to stay out of Susan’s view, certain Mr Doyle would call back at any moment if he hadn’t already. He dodged behind Maurice, shoving his hands into his pockets to disguise the way they were shaking.

‘Good excuse to get out in the sunshine. It’s supposed to be baking today. Not that you’d know it with the air-con in here.’

‘Right.’

‘Did you see the email from Trent?’ Maurice asked, referring to the boss of their boss.

‘No.’

‘Looks bad. There’s an urgent meeting at three thirty. Everyone has to attend. Rumour has it there’s going to be another round of job cuts. Are you all right, mate? You look a bit peaky.’

‘I’m fine,’ Dan lied. Job cuts? Maurice’s words felt like the final nail in the coffin. As they walked through the door, the heat hit him. It reminded him of exiting a plane at the start of a holiday in the sun. He had to get out of there. ‘I’ve not got any fags. I’m going to nip to the shop for a pack.’

‘You can crash off me, if you like. I’ve got some for once.’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Dan barely knew what he was saying. The words tumbled out, but all he could think about was getting away from the office.

Maurice started saying something about the weather, but Dan had already tuned out.

Instead of walking to the shop he went to his car, a battered silver Ford Focus with an ugly dent in the nearside front door that he’d still not got around to fixing. He sat down in the driver’s seat, switched his mobile off and took deep breaths. His head was swimming; pulse racing. What was he doing? Was he really going to go through with it? Had the moment arrived?

The ground floor flat where he’d been living these past few months was a simple two-bedroom affair in one of the city’s bland outer suburbs – a reasonable but not especially sought-after neighbourhood. Apart from the fact it was conveniently located just a ten-minute drive from work and a quarter of an hour from his real home, Dan hated everything about the flat. It was poky and damp with a mouldy brown bathroom and a kitchen barely big enough to cook a microwave meal. He didn’t even have the freedom to improve things – to occupy his mind with DIY – thanks to an unpleasant landlord who was only interested in getting his rent on time. Dan felt too old to be renting again. He’d never get used to spending so much time alone.

He let himself into the hallway, which he shared with the occupants of five other flats. He hoped not to bump into any of them, as he doubted himself capable of small talk at that moment. The muffled sound of daytime TV was coming from the flat opposite, but the woman who lived there was in her nineties, partially deaf and walked with a frame. The chances of her coming to the door were minimal.

Dan hovered for a moment above the letterbox but didn’t bother checking it. He let himself inside the flat, grabbed the two items he needed from the bedroom wardrobe plus a half bottle of vodka from the kitchen. Then he left without looking back.

There were things he’d miss, but the flat wasn’t one of them. It represented everything he hated about his life. It was a daily reminder of how badly things had turned out.

He thought back to what Maurice had said about more cutbacks. Would they have got rid of him this time? It was possible. The photo cock-up and the legal action that was bound to follow wouldn’t help.

Who knew?

Who cared?

He was done.

He got into the car and pulled the vodka bottle out of the inside pocket of his jacket, taking a long swig. Then he put the key in the ignition and did a six-point turn in the road.

‘Goodbye, flat from hell,’ Dan said, flicking the V-sign as he pulled the car away and headed for the sea. He considered calling in to see to his mum on the way, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. What would be the point?

He’d decided on his destination during one of his lowest moments: alone late at night, drunk and maudlin, looking through old photos on his computer. There was one particular picture that had caught his eye, from about four years earlier. It had been taken on a family holiday on the North Wales coast: a last-minute booking in a gem of a cottage and a rare week of scorching temperatures. Similar weather to today in fact.

They were pictured on a clifftop, framed by a glorious deep blue of merging sea and sky. It must have been taken by a passer-by, as they were all together in the shot. That was one of the reasons he liked it so much. The other thing was how happy each of them looked, all blissfully unaware of the heartache and pain biding time in the shadows, waiting to ravage them.

That night, Dan had stared at the photograph for hours, until the dark moment eventually passed. He’d seen things differently in the sober light of the next morning. And yet the location had stayed with him, rising to prominence again in recent times as his outlook grew increasingly bleak. Even so, he’d been hanging on, hoping against hope that something would change. That a chink of sunshine would break through the black cloud enveloping his world and offer some hint of a silver lining.

But it had never come.

He’d been teetering on the edge for the last few days. Now he was free-falling. The phone complaint had done it, but the prospect of yet more cutbacks had sealed the deal.

The journey would only take a couple of hours or so, as long as the traffic wasn’t too heavy. That was one of the reasons they’d chosen it back then for a holiday: no long car journey, no airports, and yet still a change of country. Goodbye Northern England; hello bilingual road signs, beautiful beaches and cheery Welsh folk. It couldn’t have been easier. And it hadn’t felt close to home at all once they were in that blissful holiday bubble of beaches, picnics, ice creams and meals out. Flying kites. Laughing at in-jokes. Enjoying being a family.

There must have been rows. What family holiday didn’t include at least one or two? And yet there were none that Dan could recall. In his mind, it was perfect.

Now he was returning to relive the highlights. He’d do a whistle-stop solo tour, soaking in the memories. When daylight started to fade, he would head up to the clifftop where that photo was taken. He’d find a secluded spot overlooking the sea to park and watch one final sunset. He’d wait until no one was around before rigging up the car with the items he’d taken from the flat: duct tape and a length of garden hose bought days earlier in anticipation of this moment. Then it would be time to slip away.

It was selfish. He knew that. Especially when you considered the family he still had. But he couldn’t do it any longer. He couldn’t keep going; fighting the awful pain at his core, the unrelenting agony. No, he’d reached the end. It wasn’t like they wanted him around, anyway. They were already doing fine on their own. They’d be better off without him.

And yet he felt like he ought to call. To say goodbye at least.

Dan looked over at the glovebox, where he’d put his mobile after turning it off. He thought about it for a few minutes as he made his way on to the motorway. He kept on thinking about it for the rest of the journey, unable to decide.

What if hearing one of their voices made him change his mind? What if he broke down while speaking to them and they realised something was wrong? Also, if he turned his phone on, there were bound to be loads of messages from work. Mind you, those he could ignore.

He decided to call the house once and let fate decide. If they answered, then so be it. He’d speak to them and see where that led him. But if they didn’t answer, he’d take that as a signal to carry on without hesitation.

It was 4.45 p.m. when he parked in a lay-by. He was already well over the border into Wales. After three more gulps of vodka, Dan made the call.

Sweating in the heat now the car’s air-con was off, he let it ring for more than a minute.

No answer.

He lit a cigarette, smoked it to the butt and, despite what he’d told himself, tried again.

Still no one there.

‘That’s that, then,’ he said aloud. Not even an answerphone to leave a message on.

He switched the phone off, ignoring the eight voicemails and six texts from the office, and dumped it in a rubbish bin before getting back into the car and starting the engine.

He was nearly there. The agony was almost over. He’d been living with it for the best part of two years now. But his ability to cope, or at least to carry on despite the pain, had been eroded by the events of the last few months. He could have done so many things differently. He wished that he had, but there was no going back. The past was the past, whatever his regrets. And yet that didn’t stop everything that had led him to this moment churning around and around in his thoughts.