Хилари Боннер - A Moment Of Madness

Kelly looked across at his news editor. Kit Hansford was twenty-five years old, little more than half Kelly’s age. A career provincial man, had it written all over him already. There was a good life to be had in the provinces now if that was the type of journalist you were. The remains of Fleet Street was tougher, more competitive, more cut-throat, more in a hurry than ever before, while in the provinces a man with application and not a lot more could become a big fish in a little pond pretty swiftly.

Hansford was cut out for that. Hand-tailored. Absolutely. Sickening though he found the prospect, Kelly would happily have bet a month’s salary that Hansford would be editor-in-chief of the Argus group within ten years. And on the board, of course. Then maybe he’d go into politics, local councillor, mayor, even stand for MP. Kelly wasn’t sure about the last, though. That might lead to a big pond, which wouldn’t suit Hansford at all. Kelly couldn’t imagine the mentality of a talented young man who could ever be content with anything except at least attempting to break into the biggest time going. But then, he was still inclined to think about talent, which almost certainly ruled Hansford out. And even if it didn’t, Kelly had to admit that he himself was no great advertisement for the so-called big time. He’d been among the best, but look at him now.

The familiar self-pity, which he tried so hard to defy, surged through him in an unwelcome burst.

Hansford looked up from the screen he had been scrutinising. His eyes caught Kelly’s. The older man strove to make his face expressionless. Kelly knew better than to make enemies at his time of life, but it was hard to disguise the lack of respect bordering on contempt that he felt for the young news editor.

Hansford wore round metal-rimmed spectacles. Behind their inadequate disguise he blinked a lot. His fairish hair, already thinner than Kelly’s, was shorn in a trendy crop, but the rather plump face wasn’t strong enough to carry off the look, nor was the head a good enough shape. Hansford’s cheeks and jowls were fleshy, but his lips were narrow, a curious mix. He had pale creamy skin and looked as if he barely needed to shave. In some ways he could be even younger than his twenty-five years. But his body was lean and spare as if he spent every spare moment in the gym training hard, which Kelly knew that he did. Hansford was image-conscious and they were living in the age of the body. It wasn’t just the gay guys and the sporty types who were intent on the body beautiful nowadays.

Kelly leaned back in his chair and gave his present situation some thought. He was still arrogant enough to believe that he was the only man on the Argus who really knew how to handle the Silver story. Did he care enough to push it all the way? He wasn’t sure.

While he was thinking, Hansford stood up abruptly and began to walk across the office towards Kelly. Now what? thought Kelly. It wouldn’t be anything sensible, that was for sure.

‘Are you clear, John?’ Hansford asked.

Kelly suspected that he was about to be baited and determined not to rise to it.

‘Did you like yesterday’s Scott Silver exclusive?’ he asked none the less.

‘Oh yeah, good stuff,’ muttered Hansford, looking vaguely embarrassed. News editors were never inclined to issue many compliments, as Kelly well knew, but with Hansford there always seemed to be this lurking resentment of Kelly, which the older man only half understood. After all, Hansford had it all in front of him. Kelly had left his best days well behind. He had come to terms with that long ago but it still rankled on a bad day.

‘I’ve nothing more to file for tonight, if that’s what you mean,’ he replied edgily. ‘Not yet anyway. But as this is the biggest story there’s been on this patch since they found Bruce Reynolds living next to a house full of so-called trainee journalists just above the old offices of this very newspaper, I thought you might like me to carry on working on it. We are having a newspaper tomorrow as well, aren’t we?’

Kelly was aware of the note of sarcasm in his voice becoming more and more apparent as he continued talking. He really hadn’t meant to rise to Hansford, but he found it so hard not to.

The news editor merely stared at him levelly and handed him a sheaf of papers. Kelly barely glanced at them. He knew what they were and he could hardly believe it. Council minutes.

‘There’s a meeting of the planning committee at two o’clock. I want you there,’ Hansford said. ‘We’re expecting a crucial decision re that proposed new shopping mall there’s been so much hullabaloo about. This is a solid provincial evening newspaper which maintains an extremely high circulation through wide and comprehensive coverage of local news. And I’m employed to keep things that way. The Scott Silver murder will be dealt with appropriately and given the right amount of coverage and no more. There are other stories. We’re not a red-top Fleet Street tabloid, John.’

Kelly didn’t reply.

‘Oh, and, John, you didn’t waste much time getting that exclusive into the nationals, did you? They had a field day this morning with it. You won’t forget who pays your wages every month, will you, old son?’

‘No I won’t,’ replied Kelly evenly, ignoring the ‘old son’, which he knew had been intended to provoke. ‘And you won’t forget that I have an agreement with the editor that I retain my own copyright and get to sell on anything I do for this newspaper on the condition that I make sure the Argus gets to print it first, will you, Kit?’

This time it was Hansford’s turn to make no reply. Kelly waited until the younger man was safely back at the head of the news desk before getting to his feet and setting off across the room for the editor’s office. He could feel Hansford’s eyes on the back of his neck. The news editor was going to dislike him even more now. Kelly was about to do his best to go over his head, and it wouldn’t be the first occasion.

‘Fuck it,’ Kelly muttered to himself as he passed by the desk. ‘No more Mr Nice Guy. There really is no point with that little prick.’

Joe Robertson’s office door was ajar as usual. The big man, minus his jacket, was leaning back in his chair with his feet on his desk. His forehead glistened with sweat even though it was not particularly warm in the Argus office. Joe was a good six foot five tall and from certain angles appeared to be almost as wide. The jacket of his suit, slung over the back of his chair, was charcoal grey; as usual, his tie, in the colours of the beleaguered Torquay United football team, had been loosened, its knot an inch or two below the opened neck of his immaculate white shirt. He wore red braces and smoked an overly large cigar. The editor’s office was the only place in the building where the no-smoking rule was allowed to be broken. The management pretended not to notice. It was probably either that or lose their editor. Joe Robertson was that kind of guy.

Kelly smiled appreciatively as he hovered in the doorway. Joe still looked every inch of the old-fashioned Fleet Street production man he had once been. He and Kelly had worked together in the Street of Shame many years previously when Joe had been the youngest night editor in Fleet Street history and Kelly one of the brightest stars on the road. There had always been tremendous mutual respect between the two men, and it was thanks to Joe Robertson, already editing the Argus when Kelly had somewhat spectacularly fallen from grace, that Kelly had been given the job on the Torquay newspaper that he had so far managed to keep. Kelly studied Joe for a moment. The other man had had very different reasons for ending up in a job way below his talent and ability. Robertson’s wife, whom he adored, suffered from a rare mental disorder which resulted in severe panic attacks. Only in her home town of Torquay, among friends and family stretching back to her childhood, did she manage to hold herself together sufficiently for the couple to share anything like a normal married life and successfully raise their two children. And that to Joe had been far more important than his high-flying career. He had chucked it up without a backward glance and thrown himself wholeheartedly into a provincial editorship that barely touched the edges of his vast talents. He had stuck at it, though, with impressive success. In an age when local papers were folding all over the place, the Argus had gone from strength to strength under Joe’s leadership, which had now lasted almost fifteen years. The various awards the newspaper collected almost annually were scattered around the big man’s room.