Thomas Enger: Burned

‘You may have noticed that things have changed, but I haven’t touched your work station. It’s exactly the same. After what happened, I thought that you — eh — would want to decide for yourself if there was anything you wanted to throw out.’

‘Throw out?’

‘Yes. Or reorganise. Or — you know.’

Henning looks around.

‘Where are the others?’

‘Who?’

‘The rest of the team?’

‘Buggered if I know, lazy sods. Oh yes, Heidi is here. Heidi Kjus. She’s around somewhere. In charge of national news now, she is.’

Henning feels his chest tighten. Heidi Kjus.

Heidi was one of the first temps from the Oslo School of Journalism he hired a million years ago. Newly qualified journalists are usually so bursting with theory that they have forgotten what really makes a good reporter: charming manners and common sense. If you’re curious by nature and don’t allow yourself to be fobbed off with the first thing people tell you, you’ll go far. But if you want to be a star reporter, you also need to be a bit of a bastard, throw caution to the wind and have enough fire in your belly to go the distance, accept adversity, and never give up if you smell a good story.

Heidi Kjus had all of the above. From day one. On top of that, she had a hunger Henning had never seen before. Right from the start, no story was too small or too big, and it wasn’t long before she had acquired sources and contacts as well as experience. As she began to realise just how good she was, she added a generous helping of arrogance to the heavy make-up, she plastered on every morning.

Some reporters have an aura about them, an attitude which screams: ‘My job is the most important in the whole world and I’m better than the lot of you.’ Heidi admired people with sharp elbows and soon developed her own. She took up space, even when she was working as a temp. She made demands.

Henning was working for Nettavisen at the time Heidi graduated. He was their crime reporter, but it was also his job to train new reporters and temps, show them the ropes, put them straight and nudge them in the direction of the overall aim: turning them into workhorses who wouldn’t need micromanaging in order to deliver top stories that attract web hits 24/7.

He enjoyed this aspect of his job. And Nettavisen was a great first job for young journalists, even though most of them had no idea they were driving a Formula 1 car around increasingly congested streets in a media circus that grew bigger every day. Many were unsuited for this life, this way of thinking and working. And the problem was that as soon as he saw the beginnings of a good on-line reporter, they would leave. They would get offers of new jobs, better jobs or full-time employment contracts elsewhere.

Heidi left after only four months. She got an offer from Dagbladet she couldn’t refuse. He didn’t blame her. It was Dagbladet, after all. More status. More money. Heidi wanted it all and she wanted it now. And she got it.

And she’s my new boss, he thinks. Bloody hell. This is bound to end in tears.

‘It’ll be good to have you back in the saddle, Henning,’ Kare enthuses.

Henning says ‘mm’.

‘Morning meeting in ten minutes. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

Henning says ‘mm’ again.

‘Lovely. Lovely. Got to dash. I’ve another meeting.’

Kare smiles, gives him a thumbs-up, and leaves. In passing, he slaps someone on the shoulder, before he disappears around the corner. Henning shakes his head. Then he sits down on a chair that squeaks and rocks like a boat. A new red notebook, still in its wrapper, lies next to the keyboard. Four pens. He guesses that none of them works. A pile of old print-outs. He recognises them as research for stories he was working on. An ancient mobile telephone takes up an unnecessary amount of space and he notices a box of business cards. His business cards.

His eyes stop at a framed photograph resting at an angle on the desk. There are two people in it, a woman and a boy.

Nora and Jonas.

He stares at them without seeing them clearly. Don’t smile. Please, don’t smile at me.

It’ll be all right. Don’t be scared. I’ll take care of you.

He reaches for the frame, picks it up and puts it down again.

Face down.

Morning meetings. The core of every newspaper, where the day’s production plans are defined, tasks distributed, stories up- or down-graded, based on criteria such as topicality, importance and — in the case of 123news — potential readership.

Each news desk starts by holding its own morning meeting. Sports, business, arts and national and international news. Lists of potential stories are drawn up. At this stage, a morning meeting can be inspirational. A good story often matures through discussion, while others are discarded — by common consent — because they are bad or a rival newspaper ran something similar two weeks ago. Afterwards, the editors meet to update each other and inform the duty editor of the kind of stories that will unfold throughout the day.

The one thing Henning hasn’t missed is meetings. He knows before it has even begun that this meeting is a total waste of time. He is supposed to cover crime; murders, filth, evil. So why does he need to know that a sports personality is making another comeback? Or that Bruce Springsteen is getting divorced? He can read about it in the paper — later — if he cares, and if the reporter in question writes something worth reading. The finance editor or the sports editor is often clueless about arts and vice versa, which ruins any chance of a productive meeting. And secondly, each editor is too preoccupied with their own area of interest to offer each other valuable ideas or suggestions. However, the paper’s management insists on such meetings, which is why Henning is now entering a meeting room with a table whose surface shines like a newly polished mirror. A stack of plastic cups and a jug of water are placed in the middle. He hazards a guess that the water is stale.

He sits down on a chair that isn’t designed for lengthy discussions and avoids making eye contact with the others who are taking their seats around the table. He doesn’t do small talk, especially when he believes everyone knows who he is anyway and isn’t entirely comfortable with his presence.

Why is he here?

He’s not an editor?

I heard he had a breakdown?

Kare Hjeltland is the last to arrive and he closes the door.

‘Okay, let’s get started,’ he shouts and sits down at the end of the table. He looks around.

‘We’re not expecting anyone else?’

No one replies.

‘Right, let’s kick off with foreign news. Knut. What have you got for us today?’

Knut Hammerstad, the foreign news editor, coughs and puts down his coffee cup.

‘There’s an upcoming election in Sweden. We’re putting together profiles of their potential new prime ministers, who they are, what they stand for. A plane crash-landed in Indonesia. Suspected terrorist attack. Crash investigators are looking for the black box. Four terror suspects have been arrested in London. They were planning to blow Parliament sky high, I heard.’

‘Great headline,’ Kare roars. ‘Sod the Swedish election. Don’t waste too much time on the plane crash. No one cares about it, unless any Norwegians were killed.’

‘We’re checking that, obviously.’

‘Good. Push the terror story. Get the details, planning, execution, how many potential deaths and so on and so forth.’

‘We’re on it.’

‘Great. What’s next?’

Rikke Ringheim sits next to Knut Hammerstad. Rikke edits the sex and gossip columns. The paper’s most important news desk.

Kare ploughs on.