Tamsin shrugged. ‘Yeah, it’s a diabolical liberty, so it is.’ She pointed at the door again. ‘Now: Dodgy Pete’s, yes or no?’
‘Trouble is, most of this stuff’s ancient.’ He thumped his collection of scoops and exclusives. ‘Could really do with a juicynewstory to show off the old magic touch.’
‘You’ll be lucky. Nothing interesting’s happened in this arsehole city foryears.’
Colin stared at her. ‘Someone just set fire to a migrant hostel with actualpeoplein it!’
‘Racists is as racists does.’ She picked up the folder and flicked through his printouts. ‘Your generation gets a stiffy for that kinda National Front crap, doesn’t it? Assuming you can tear yourselves away from all the misogyny, ableism, and homophobia.’
‘Aye,thanksfor that.’ He plucked the next potential front page from the pile. ‘THE FACE OF EVIL’ ~ ‘SERIALKILLERSTRIKESAGAINASCANNIBALTERRORRETURNSTOABERDEEN’.
Nowthatwas a story.
Tamsin handed his portfolio back, her voice losing the cynical-teenager edge for something a lot kinder. ‘Don’t sweat it, OK? I had my review yesterday and she was fine. You’ll ace it.’ Then nodded towards the exit. ‘Last call for a pint?’
Aye, she was probably right.
He gave her a wee wince. ‘Getting too old to go back on the dole...’ He added the Flesher story to his folder and stood. ‘If you’re still there when I’ve finished with our new Lord and Mistress, I might pop in for a swift one.’
Colin did up his top three shirt buttons – not easy with black leather gloves on, and four prosthetic digits – flipped up his collar, and tied a Windsor knot in the burgundy tie from his drawer. Rolled down his sleeves. Pulled on the linen jacket that completed the suit. And gave his neck a wee stretch.
Cos if you were off to get fired, might as well look good while you did it.
He tucked the ring binder under his arm and sashayed across the bullpen to the double doors.
Paused to examine his reflection in one of the framed front pages. His byline of course, from 2011: ‘TOE TERROR OF BRAVE JENNY – KIDNAPPERS PROVE IT’S NO HOAX’ above a smiling photo of Jenny McGregor (6) with her curly red hair and freckles singing her little heart out during her last ever appearance onBritain’s Next Big Star. Poor wee sod.
He straightened his tie.
Then frowned, running a finger through the furry layer of dust that’d built up on the frame. Making a wee hairy caterpillar.
Was a time when the cleaners would’ve dusted and polishedevery single one of these, each morning. Now you were lucky if the office got hoovered once a quarter.
He shoved the door open and marched out into the corridor.
Which needed more than a quick once-over with a feather duster. The carpet tiles were festooned with coffee stains – like the floor was staging a dirty protest – the plastic pot plants drooped under the weight of furry grey grime, and the paintwork needed at least three coats to cover up the scrapes, scores, and greasy scuffs.
The only clean things out here, were the framed front pages. But unlike in the newsroom, these weren’t from theAberdeen Examiner, they were the worst kind of red-top tabloid: theScottish Daily Post, with its lurid headlines and paparazzi photos. Female stars getting out of cars with their pants on show; unflattering beach bodies; posed underwear shots; cheesy smiles and Bisto tans. All displayed in brand-new frames – courtesy of their brand-new boss.
As if this shite was anything to aspire to.
Colin put a bit of swagger in his walk as he passed doors marked ‘ADVERTISING / SALES’ and ‘ACCOUNTS’ and ‘DISTRIBUTION’ and ‘ARCHIVE’, taking a right at the dogleg, pausing to gaze out over Altens Industrial Estate with its ‘inspiring’ collection of warehouses, lorry parks, fabrication yards, storage yards, offices, and yet more sodding warehouses. All in depressing shades of grey, grime, and blue.
And the paper’s car park, of course. Where Tamsin and a couple of the other interns performed the loose-limbed amble, on their way to Dodgy Pete’s for an after-work pint or three.
Lucky sods.
Anyway, this wasn’t getting the monkey strangled, was it.
He sauntered past ‘LEGAL’ and the boardroom, to the corridor’s end: the editor’s lair.
The previous incumbent – Malcolm J Morrison (64), threeheart attacks, double bypass, dedicated gambler, and cigar fiend – had decorated the door with stickers and dynamo labels, proclaiming things like ‘ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER’, ‘IDIOTS NEED NOT APPLY!’, and ‘I AM A CRUEL & VENGEFUL GOD!’ Instead of ‘EDITOR’ the brass sign screwed to the wood said, ‘THEMONSTERIS:’ with a slidy bit for ‘IN’ and ‘OUT’, though it was jammed between the two options.
A lone, squeaky, plastic chair sat outside the door for those seeking an audience with The Monster. It was occupied by Louis Garfield (26): a bearded wee lad, with dark bags under his eyes and a black-and-white stripy top. Like a nervous burglar. Only instead of a stocking mask it was a pair of big round glasses, far too many tatty friendship bracelets, and a pair of American ‘sneakers’ – one of which bounced against the floor in time with his jiggling knee.
Louis was clutching a half-dozen sheets of black mountboard to his weedy chest. Because the Art Department loved sticking shite to bits of cardboard like that.
‘Dear oh dear.’ Colin leaned against the scuffed wall, opposite. ‘You’re no’ telling me the greatNatasha Agapova, forty-eight, editor to the stars, panderer to the great unwashed, is running late?’
