Читать книгу Tugga's Mob - Stephen Johnson - Страница 7

Chapter 2

The Melbourne television office for the fourth-highest rating news service – they were still beating the ABC and SBS – was all but empty by 1.30 on Saturday afternoon, which was usually a good sign. It meant the four reporters and camera operators on duty were gainfully employed on stories for the six o’clock bulletin, and that satisfied the weekend chief of staff, Ciaran O’Malley. He might at least keep his job for another week.

O’Malley was born in Ireland but showed few traces of his origins. He’d arrived as a toddler almost 40 years before. He was waiting for the weekend producer to return with their standard Saturday lunch: two meat pies each and a brace of caramel slices to top it off. He would atone for the heart disease risk by consuming lunch with a healthy green tea and a twist of lemon. A balanced diet in O’Malley’s view, even if half the tea was never consumed.

The absence of annoying phone calls from reporters, camera crews or PR companies seeking publicity for their clients gave him a few minutes to trawl through online news sources to see if he had missed anything important. A grimace suggestive of a heart attack contorted his 43-year-old features when he spotted the lead story on the most popular news site, then a prolonged expletive bounced off the four monitors that streamed his opposition news channels.

‘Fuck!’

Fatal Coast Road Plunge

Police believe alcohol was a factor in a car accident on the Great Ocean Road near Lorne this morning, which led to the death of the driver, a 54-year-old Geelong resident.

The utility was found upside down on rocks below a parking bay between Eastern View and the resort town. Police believe Kevin Tancred might have fallen asleep. They suspect the accident happened between 2am and 8.30am when the vehicle was found by a rock-walking group.

The Geelong landscaper was refused service at an Aireys Inlet pub last night after arriving intoxicated. The manager persuaded Tancred to spend the night in his utility beside the pub after surrendering his keys.

Police suspect Tancred, who owned a holiday home at Apollo Bay, had a spare key in the vehicle. It’s believed Tancred, known as Tugga, attempted to drive home when he awoke during the night.

O’Malley ignored the rest of the story, the guts of it was in the first two paragraphs: fatal plunge off a famous tourist route, publican acting the Good Samaritan and the stupidity of drunk drivers. This was bread and butter material for a commercial television news service and he had no resources to deal with it.

‘Fucking stupid arsehole,’ O’Malley screamed at a picture of Tugga that accompanied the story. The anger wasn’t frustration for a senseless accident, more a case of a missed story opportunity.

‘You’re an absolute tugger all right. Couldn’t have done a high dive from somewhere more convenient? You wanker, how am I going to get a camera and reporter to Lorne and back before the news?’

Journalistic sympathies didn’t extend far for those who juggled weekend news-gathering duties on limited budgets. Lower ratings meant fewer bodies to do the work. O’Malley’s crews were committed for at least another hour or two, and the station’s only news helicopter was 220 kms away at Echuca, on the Murray River. There was more chance of Hawthorn tumbling to the AFL wooden spoon next year than of O’Malley getting that chopper to Lorne in time for the news. It was career suicide to hire another chopper and send a stringer camera operator. The station, especially the news and current affairs departments, was on a cost clampdown. Every extra expense above $500 had to be approved by The Hatchet, as the financial controller Andrew Hackett was commonly known. He made the Federal Treasurer look like a philanthropist. It was at least a four-hour return trip from Melbourne by car, and that didn’t factor in filming time at the scene and chasing interviews. The mobile broadcast truck wasn’t an option either; it was in the garage to replace a blown head gasket.

O’Malley was still cursing Tugga Tancred when the news producer, Alan Deveraux, entered the room. Deveraux casually slung a plastic bag onto O’Malley’s desk. ‘What’s happened?’ His question unwittingly initiated a new tirade.

O’Malley took a deep breath. ‘Some drunken landscaper has planted himself all over rocks beneath the Great Ocean Road near Lorne. A local publican tried to stop him from driving, but the pisshead managed to get another set of keys and tear off into the night. Naturally the tosser, who is aptly named Tugga, zigged when he should have zagged and did a Thelma and Louise off the road into the surf below. The only reason he wasn’t fish bait is that his ute was so pancaked by the rocks they couldn’t squeeze inside to nibble him.’

Deveraux reached into the food bag to retrieve a pie. He took a big bite. ‘So, a good story for us, given we’re post-footy season and we don’t have rights to broadcast the Melbourne Cup on Tuesday?’

O’Malley nodded as he retrieved his own pie and scrabbled around on the desk looking for a sachet of tomato sauce. Deveraux was a bite ahead.

‘I gather you don’t have a camera, reporter or chopper within range to get to Lorne in time for the news?’

O’Malley nodded glumly, but continued to eat. Macabre scenes of mangled bodies on rocks could never put veteran newsmen off their tucker.

‘No, the chopper’s at Echuca for the wine story with Louise. Max, Liz and Dianne won’t be back to the station for another two hours. I’ve got a casual camera operator I could call in, but getting a chopper, even at mate’s rates, would cost me my left testicle. Well, that’s what The Hatchet would take if I booked it without asking him.’

O’Malley let his producer digest that information. He knew Deveraux didn’t like to upset station management. The Chief of Staff couldn’t blame him as The Hatchet sent memos every month demanding all departments cut their expenses or face more retrenchments. O’Malley was divorced, but Deveraux had a wife, three teenage boys with bottomless stomachs, and a large mortgage. They needed the story, but O’Malley guessed Deveraux wouldn’t jeopardise his job by bringing down the wrath of The Hatchet.

‘Okay, we know The Hatchet will say no, but we have to go through the motions. Call him and see if he’ll let the moths escape his wallet.’

O’Malley opened his mouth to protest about the futility of the gesture but was silenced by Deveraux’s raised hand.

‘We’ve got to cover our own butts as well, mate. If it blows up on Monday, and this guy turns out to be famous, we can say we tried to get another bird and camera to Lorne, but the skinflint said no.’

O’Malley nodded again as the last chunk of the second pie was demolished. He opened the treats bag and held up a chocolate brownie in bewilderment. ‘What the? Where’s the caramel slices?’

‘Sorry mate, they were sold out.’ Deveraux shrug ged. ‘Can this day get any worse?’

Seconds later, one of the opposition channels shoved his nose in the brownie, bursting on air with pictures of the Great Ocean Road from its news chopper. Deveraux dived for the remote on the COS desk and turned up the volume on the monitor. Naturally all four channels went to full noise. O’Malley snatched the remote back and muted the non-important channels, which were also getting a taste of the brown stuff.

The pictures showed a flattened vehicle upside down on the rocks with waves lapping nearby. Teams of police and rescuers loitered but no one seemed to be in a rush. The voice over for the pictures was more urgent, as if the reporter had dashed from the scene to the sound booth. She gave the same details as the online news source, although Tugga’s status, while still dead, had now been elevated to “famous’ ex pat New Zealand landscaper” and his Apollo Bay abode had become “luxurious”.

The cross lasted 30 seconds and promised more details of the horror crash at six o’clock.

Deveraux turned to his Chief of Staff. ‘We’ve got a new lead story. Put in a call to The Hatchet and spell it out that you need approval for another helicopter, camera op and reporter ASAP. If he doesn’t answer, as usual, leave it all on his voicemail.

‘Next, call every cop, ambo, rescue service and rock-walking group between Torquay and Lorne to see if someone had a camera on site – I don’t care if it’s mobile phone footage. We need more on that flattened ute. If they sound like they have half a brain, get someone to record a FaceTime or Skype interview as well. Put a note on our Facebook page for any motorists who might have had a peek over the side of the cliff. And track down that publican.’

Deveraux saw an editor returning from his lunch break. ‘Jacko! Make sure media ops recorded that news cross from the Richmond mob. If they did their jobs properly, grab the aerial shots of the crash site and work on a promo. I’ll get stuck into a script shortly.’

O’Malley did a double take. He realised what Deveraux had noticed on the opposition’s news promo, and what would ultimately save their day. The news footage wasn’t branded, obviously missed in the rush to get the raw footage to air first. It was a cardinal sin in the cutthroat media business of Melbourne. You had to stamp your station’s news logo over everything; with a swarm of news choppers around the crash site the pictures were bound to look similar. Who would know that their chopper didn’t arrive until late in the day – or not at all?

O’Malley pointed at the monitor and lapsed into his Irish vernacular. ‘Those boyos fucked up!’ But when he slumped back into his chair to make a futile call to The Hatchet he uttered a silent prayer. Please don’t ruin my day and have that eejit turn out to be a former All Black, or someone important.