Хилари Боннер - A Moment Of Madness

At first it was the drinking and the drugs which got him through the long hours, the overnight flights followed by mad races to catch a deadline before you could even allow yourself to grab a few hours’ sleep, and then gradually, the drinking and the drugs began to make it more difficult for him to do his job, rather than easier.

Once in a central African state torn apart by revolution he had lain comatose in his hotel room after a particularly heavy binge just at the moment when the president and his entire cabinet were summarily executed. Kelly had been blissfully unaware of his colleagues filing copy down below. But those had been the days of teleprinter machines, and everything that all the other reporters had written lay in long curled strips on the floor of the office which housed the hotel’s machine. The hotel’s night porter, a legendary character who had gained such experience of the way the press worked during his country’s troubled history that he had ended up knowing almost as much about newspapers as many of the correspondents he encountered, had gathered up those remnants of everybody else’s copy, lumped them together, and sent them over to the Despatch .

The man had had a big soft spot for Kelly. People were drawn to him in those days. He had always had the ability to be both warm and charismatic if he chose. It was just his family and those close to him back then who were beginning to suffer the downside of his crazy lifestyle. The night porter did a good job. Kelly had received a hero-gram by return. Only he didn’t know it straight away. He had still been flat out.

Inevitably, perhaps, Kelly became overwhelmed by his excesses. Whatever he did in life he seemed to do to excess. Looking back he sometimes thought that because the thrill of his job had been so amazingly extreme, he had wanted that in every area of his life too.

The miracle was that he had not permanently destroyed himself during those heady days. But by God, he thought to himself as he approached the Chiswick flyover, a stone’s throw from his old London home, that hadn’t been his fault. He’d tried hard enough to kill himself in every way. And he’d had to sink right to the bottom of the pile before he could even begin to climb up it again. But Kelly still hated even to think about that.

He took his old route into town. Along the Cromwell Road, straight through Knightsbridge, down Constitution Hill past Buckingham Palace.

Then he decided to indulge in the sweet torture of driving along Fleet Street to Ludgate Circus. The wave of nostalgia he usually felt in this part of London was not as great as it would once have been, however. So many years had passed that the pull had lessened, and most of the buildings that had once meant so much to him were either long gone or had taken on an identity so different that he barely recognised them. The bulk of the pubs were still there, though, the King and Keys, the Old Bell, the famous Cheshire Cheese up that little alleyway on the left.

He swung a left, north up Farringdon Street and then right past Clerkenwell Green where he pulled in to check the route to Chain Street in his A to Z ; his one visit to the Hobbs family home had been so long ago. His memory refreshed, the destination proved easy enough to find and just a few minutes later Kelly turned slowly into the street where Angel Silver’s mother lived.

A small group of men and women, some with cameras, were standing around outside what was sure to be her house. Robertson had been right, of course: the pack would have been doorstepping Mrs Hobbs from the moment the story broke. But their continued presence indicated that they hadn’t got what they wanted yet, and that at least was good news for Kelly. He pulled to a halt in a conveniently empty slot in residents’ parking and sat thinking for a moment or two. He’d get one crack at it, he reckoned, and he certainly didn’t want to get involved with the pack. The nationals would already have offered a bundle of dosh, for sure, and he had no money at all. In fact, he’d be lucky to get the expenses to pay for this trip.

He reached behind his seat for his overnight bag and removed a sheaf of notepaper. Swiftly he wrote a brief note. Then he got lucky. His first news editor had told him he only employed lucky reporters. Perhaps that had been at the root of Kelly’s demise, he thought to himself wryly. His luck had certainly changed, that was for certain. A bored-looking lad of twelve or thirteen, carrying a large canvas sack over his shoulder, turned into the road and pushed a circular of some kind through the letter box of the first rather twee front door that he came to. Then the second.

Kelly was out of the car quick as a flash.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Delivering something, are you?’

The boy, who had cropped brown hair and eyes which somehow indicated that they had already seen too much, studied him suspiciously.

‘Wot’s it look like?’ he enquired sullenly, his thin face setting into a deep frown.

Kelly glanced down at the bag. The words Clerkenwell Chronicle were printed in big blue letters on the grubby grey canvas. The local giveaway newspaper, Kelly guessed. At least he was working for a regional newspaper which still made an effort to be the real tiling. At least people still paid for it and its staff still got a proper wage. Well, very nearly. But it could be worse.

‘Delivering to number forty-four?’ he asked.

‘I might be.’

He was the sort of kid Kelly would like to shake. That wouldn’t help, though. Instead Kelly put his hand in his pocket and produced a five-pound note.

‘If I give you this,’ he said, waving the fiver enticingly in one hand and the sheet of folded notepaper in the other, ‘would you put this through number forty-four’s letter box for me?’

The boy looked unimpressed.

‘Make it a tenner,’ he said.

Shaking was too good for the brat, thought Kelly. A good kicking would be better. He paid up.

The boy grunted and carried on down the street, Kelly’s note stowed in his bag along with the giveaways.

There was nothing to do now but wait. Kelly climbed back into the MG, reclined the seat as far as it would go and almost immediately fell asleep. He was tired from the long drive and he had not spent very much of the previous night in his bed. It was long ago on the road that he had learned the knack of catnapping, grabbing your rest where and when you can.

He was woken by the strident ring of his mobile. Instantly awake, he picked it up and looked at the display panel. It was Hansford. Well, he certainly didn’t want to speak to him. Kelly settled back into his seat and let the phone ring until it diverted to his message service.

He peered down the road. The scene outside number forty-four had not changed. He wondered if he was wasting his and his newspaper’s time, just as Joe Robertson had feared. More than likely his ploy would have no success at all. It was almost six o’clock. The last of the wintry sun had dropped behind the tall buildings of Clerkenwell and the City to the east more than an hour ago. Kelly shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. He realised suddenly that he felt quite cold. It was November, after all. His excitement at being involved in a major story after so long had faded as well. Waiting did that to you.

When the phone rang again it woke him up. He reached out with a stiff arm. The movement sent a shooting pain down his back. He realised that he was now seriously cold. He was also cramped into an extremely awkward position and his whole body was aching. He had no idea how he had ever managed to fall asleep like that. Trying not to think about his discomfort he once more glanced at the phone’s display screen. It was Moira. He didn’t bother to answer her either. He wasn’t in the mood. He would call her later when he could choose the moment.