Читать книгу Tugga's Mob - Stephen Johnson - Страница 10

It was rare to find Ciaran O’Malley still working in the newsroom at 6.35pm on a Saturday. He had gone well beyond his rostered 12- hour shift, which started at 5am, even though no overtime had been approved at the station in this millennium. It was professionalism that kept him there, unpaid, to ensure the late-breaking Tugga Tancred story made it to air on time. Staff cuts meant Deveraux had the help of one junior producer to prepare the weekend news bulletins. O’Malley had therefore taken responsibility for the lead story himself, wrangling all the elements together to make the video package presentable.

They struck more good fortune after pinching the chopper pictures from the opposition channel. Curly Rogers, a senior producer with the station’s current affairs show, was taking his wife to Lorne for a weekend without the kids. Mrs Rogers’ holiday was delayed as Curly’s news instincts kicked in when he encountered the emergency crews a few kms from Lorne. His biggest error was to call O’Malley and ask, ‘Is everything under control?’

Ten minutes later a disgruntled Mrs Rogers was driving the family sedan on to the next layby to await Curly’s summons for pick-up, as the crash site was packed with every police car, fire engine and tow truck on the coast.

Curly’s on-screen news reporting days were long gone, like the thatch that once adorned his now shaven head. A certain “look” is required for commercial television reporters and Curly’s chrome dome didn’t suit the station’s presentation requirements. Management still appreciated his journalism skills and encouraged Curly to try his hand at producing and directing. It was still television journalism. Curly loved telling stories with pictures and he successfully made the transition to production, earning himself several awards over the past decade.

But this night, equipped with nothing more than his mobile phone with video and sound apps, Curly launched into the story. He interviewed a senior sergeant, a paramedic and three people involved with the recovery operation, culling the dullest before emailing the files back one-by-one to the station.

Curly looked lean and fit enough to be part of the rescue crew heading down to the wreck. So, like a pro, the 43-year-old enthusiastic mountain biker and keen runner attached himself to the group that clambered down to the rock shelf where the flattened vehicle rested.

Earnest discussions were continuing about how to recover the body and vehicle before the next high tide. Curly picked up rough but pertinent dialogue and pictures. Then someone realised the dude without a fluorescent jacket pointing a mobile phone in every direction was part of the media. Curly didn’t mind getting banished back to the road, as he had content the opposition channels didn’t: exclusive sound-bites and close-up pictures of the mangled car.

Even better, he’d overheard a cop raise an alternative explanation for the crash. That angle would require time to check, and would better suit his current affairs show, Melbourne Spotlight, on Monday.

Curly emailed the last of the story elements through to the studio at 5.15pm The pictures and sound were barely broadcast quality, but in the news business that could be forgiven if you had no other option.

O’Malley, who’d written a script as the files arrived, hauled the newsreader back into the voice-over booth to record the final few paragraphs at 5.25pm. At 5.53pm O’Malley stood beside Deveraux in the cramped news edit suite to view the finished product.

‘You’ve produced a bloody miracle, mate,’ Deveraux smacked the chief of staff on the back. ‘Tell Curly we’ll shout him a few beers when he gets back to town.’

‘Not sure if we’ll see him again,’ O’Malley laughed. ‘His wife was so pissed off about spoiling their dirty weekend she left him to walk to Lorne. He’ll probably have to hitch back to Melbourne too.’

Deveraux grinned as he headed to the studio. Teamwork, and a lot of luck, had produced a better news bulletin than they had contemplated before their lunchtime pies.

Therefore, post-program, O’Malley was feeling reasonably mellow. He looked forward to a cold beer on the way home, ignoring the fact he had to be back at the COS desk before dawn the next day.

That’s when Hackett’s reply text caught his attention. O’Malley sighed as he reached over and plucked the phone from the charger on his desk. He failed to notice the last reporter and camera operator making hasty exits from the newsroom in case the text involved a new story. They had Saturday nights in Melbourne to consider. Deveraux, however, continued to tidy his desk.

‘You fucking wanker.’ O’Malley exploded as he thumbed through the text.

Deveraux wasn’t a mind reader, but guessed the expletives were directed at the station’s financial controller, rather than himself. ‘What does The Hatchet have to say about our request for another chopper? Sorry, got the message too late?’

‘Yep. I reckon he has alarm bells on my caller ID on weekends. But get this: he knew the victim.’

Deveraux stopped binning the used news scripts. ‘Is there a follow up? Was this landscaper more famous than we know? Some sort of modern Capability Brown? I can’t imagine The Hatchet associating with the hoi polloi.’

‘Nah, don’t think so. Apparently, they travelled on the same tour bus 30 years ago. You know, those trips where you colonials drank and shagged your way around Europe for weeks on end? None of you could remember anything until you had your films developed six months later.’

Deveraux smiled and nodded. ‘Ancient history now, mate. The BC days – before children.’

O’Malley laughed as he shut down his computer, ready for the pub. ‘Yeah. I’m wondering if The Hatchet wants an update – any gossip that we picked up. Should I tell him Curly thinks there is something a bit whiffy about this accident? Well, at least according to one cop.’

‘Nope,’ Deveraux checked his wallet for enough cash for his round. ‘If Curly can dig up some dirt, The Hatchet can watch it on Monday with the rest of us. Come on, two beers and then I’m out of there otherwise I’ll be looking for new digs with Curly.’

June 21, 1986

Nine days in Italy – not enough! It is the most romantic country in the world. Sorry Te Awamutu, you’re just not in the same league. The Italian men are gorgeous: dark eyes, long lashes, tight jeans and wandering hands. The other girls were complaining about getting their bums pinched. I loved it. (Dear diary – Make sure Mum never reads you!) We’re just leaving Sorrento and on our way to Brindisi to catch an overnight boat to Corfu. Italy today, Greece tomorrow. If you had told me that 12 months ago I would have laughed.

I’ve wanted to travel here since I was 16 after watching a documentary series on England, France, Italy and Spain. It was the mixture of people, culture and hundreds of years of history that captured my heart. I made it a goal, working two jobs for years to make it happen, yet a little part of me wondered if it ever would.

Dating Derek for two years slowed things down but Europe always nagged at me. I tried to get him interested in joining me, but he never saved any money. He’ll always be a rugby, racing and beer man which is like so many other guys in Te Awamutu.

My decision to cast off the shackles with him made me more determined to buy that plane ticket and now I’m living the dream, visiting places I’ve read about in books and magazines, or seen on TV. We went out to the Isle of Capri yesterday. It used to be home to one of the Roman emperors, or probably several of them. Eddie, our driver/guide, needs to do more research on his history spiels.

Anyway, we hired taxis which were old American convertibles. They were huge and we squeezed six people into each, so it was cheap for a few hours travel around the island. We went to Grotta Azzurra, the Blue Grotto, and took a boat inside. It was beautiful. I felt like diving over the side and wallowing in that clear, deep water. Might have been dangerous as there are so many boats trying to get in at the same time.

Then we took chairlifts to the top of a mountain near Anacapri (sorry, can’t remember its name – so many!). Spectacular views but Tugga made a pig of himself. He was peeing from the chairlift. Gross! He’s getting creepy. I caught him staring at me in the disco at the Rome camp site. He wouldn’t take his eyes off me even though I was dancing with other guys. He’s mostly okay during the day, in fact he and his mates can be funny and entertaining. But they start drinking heavily in the afternoons and Tugga’s mood changes. There have been a couple of situations that could’ve turned nasty if Andreas and others hadn’t stepped in to calm things down. Enough about Tugga.

It’s Italy I love most: pizza, pasta, chianti, the history, the people – well, mostly the men – and the fashion. My God, the shops in Rome are stunning. I wish my savings would stretch to a Gucci handbag. The leather jackets and shoes are so stylish but also way beyond my budget.

It’s such a funny country in a way. Everywhere you see the crumbling ruins of their great empire. And then you see the modern Italians; beautifully dressed and groomed and so nonchalant – as if the past has nothing to do with them. Such a pity.

Pompeii was fascinating (especially the brothels with the stone penises everywhere – or should that be penii?) The camp site in the olive grove at Sorrento has been one of my favourites. The fireflies dance through the olive grove at night and the smells of cooking from the camp site kitchens and local homes made me want to stay for a whole summer. Maybe one day in the future? It was very romantic.

We kept stumbling over bodies in the dark as we searched for a quiet patch of grass to watch the moon and stars. It was a giggle. Skinny dipping in the pool was a hoot as well. Enough about the naughty nights (and there have been a few – it’s the Roman influence ha ha), I’m looking forward now to what Greece can offer. I’ll be happy if it’s half as good as Italy.

It was the line, We kept stumbling… in that entry that irked the diary holder. Who was with Judy on that hot summer’s night 30 years ago in the Italian olive grove? There was no doubt she had been promiscuous. The number of trysts recorded in the diary was a shock. It was so out of character for the young woman who left Waikato. The other companions had been identified by collating references across several weeks and countries. They were one-night- stands that seemed irrelevant.

But not the Andreas mentioned in Sorrento. He appeared regularly in the diary as a bed companion for Judy. Yet it was difficult to properly identify and locate him, and that was extremely frustrating.

The diary holder took a deep breath and held it for the count of five, then exhaled to the same beat and repeated the stress relief exercise another four times. It eased the tension. Patience and diligence had brought results so far and was the right strategy to carry forward. The diary was closed, wrapped again in silk and returned to the small wooden box where it had been buried for three decades.