Колин Бейтман - Titanic 2020

'You did all this?'

'No. I had a team of elves to help me. Am I right in thinking your dad ordered you to come down yesterday to help me?'

'Yeah, well, I was busy.'

'I'm sure you were.'

'That it then?'

'Yes, Claire.'

'All right. See you.'

She shrugged and turned out of the cabin. Scoop waited until he was sure she was gone, then called Jimmy out of the bathroom. 'Sorry about that. The owner's daughter.' He shook his head and sighed. 'And to think that one day she'll inherit all of this . . .' Scoop waved vaguely. 'She'll probably paint it pink.'

Jimmy sat on the edge of one of the desks and folded his arms. He wasn't the slightest bit interested in hearing about Claire Stanford. 'So why can't you put the paper together yourself?'

'Well. It's like this, Jimmy — this is my final trip for the company, my job is just to set up the newspaper here on the Titanic like I have on every other ship the Stanfords own, then hand over the reins to the new man when we arrive in Miami. There's a nice big company pension waiting for me if I can get through this trip, as I'll have completed my twenty-five years of service. But if for any reason I don't complete the voyage, then I'll get nothing. It's just the way big companies run. Anyway, the thing is, I don't know if I can do it. I'm just not well, son. It's not the legs, I'm used to them being gone, it's the other stuff — my blood pressure's bad, Jimmy, I've a real shake in my hands, and my eyes go all cloudy and I can't concentrate for more than . . . anyway, the truth is, I lied to the doctors before we set off. I told them I was fine, but I'm not. If you don't help me do this then I won't have a leg to stand on.' He thought about that for a moment. 'Or two, for that matter. Jimmy, I want you to help me run the paper. You'll do a bit of everything — find stories, write them up, design the pages, print it. Will you do it, Jimmy, will you help me?'

'No.'

'Aw Jimmy — why not? You could do it, easy.'

'Look, I'm sorry, all right? I'd be . . . useless, you know?'

'But how do you know?'

Jimmy shrugged. 'I just know. All right?'

Scoop rolled a little closer. His voice softened. 'You got expelled, didn't you?'

'How'd . . .?'

'It was on the report they sent with the photo. What'd you get expelled for?'

'For being stupid.'

'Ah, nonsense!' erupted Scoop. 'You're not stupid, Jimmy! Not stupid thick anyway. Stupid headstrong probably; stupid I always know best maybe.'

Jimmy gave the smallest shrug.

'Jimmy, son, that's the kind of stupid that gets things done, that changes things. They call people stupid when they just don't understand them. Guy that came up with the wheel, they probably called him stupid. Guy that invented aspirin, they probably told him he was thick. Photography, there's a stupid mistake, if ever there was one, and where would we be without it? Do you understand what I'm saying? You can do this, Jimmy, I know you can. It's your chance to prove to yourself that you're not the sort of kid they say you are. So are you on, Jimmy? Will we do this together?'

'No,' said Jimmy.

'I'll pay you,' said Scoop.

'OK,' said Jimmy.

Thousands of miles away from the Titanic a small earthquake shook the city of San Diego in California. One person was killed, twenty-seven injured, and a dozen buildings collapsed.

'You see,' said Scoop, 'that isn't particularly massive news — but if you were to check with our passenger list, you might find that dozens of them come from San Diego, and you can be sure it'll be big news for them. They'll be worried about relatives, their businesses — do you know what I mean?'

Jimmy had found the story on a newspaper website. Now he proceeded to copy it into the cruise ship newspaper they'd begun to put together that morning. Scoop stopped him. 'No, Jimmy you can't just copy it. You have to make up your own story, based upon what you've read here.'

'Why?'

'Because those words, in that order, belong to that website. You have to take the facts that are there, and rewrite them.'

'So I can steal their facts?'

Scoop sighed. 'Up to a point. You should look at this story on perhaps a dozen different news sites, because each one is going to have their own version of it. One will know the name of the man who died, another will have an interview with the leading expert on earthquakes, yet another might know how long it will take to repair the damaged buildings. Do you see what I'm getting at?'

He did, kind of.

'Any story you write has to answer the five basic rules of journalism, and they're quite simple: you ask who, what, where, when, how. All right?'

'Who, what, where, when, how,' Jimmy repeated.

'That's it — who is who was killed, what is what caused him to die, where is obviously San Diego, when is clearly when did it happen, and how is what caused the earthquake.'

'Who, what, where, when and how,' Jimmy repeated again.

'Exactly.'

'So who is going to get me my lunch? Is that what you mean?' Jimmy asked.

'Well I . . .'

' What are you going to get me? And where are you going to get it from?'

'Jimmy, it's only eleven . . .'

' When are you going to get it then? And how are you going to get it before I starve to death?'

'That's very funny, Jimmy,' Scoop commented dryly.

'It's not funny. I'm starving. Being a journalist is hard work.'

Scoop took a deep breath. 'All right Jimmy, even though we've hardly started, I'll go and get you something.' He turned his wheelchair towards the door. 'Although if you weren't a wanted criminal it would most certainly be the other way around.'

***

Jimmy was a bit concerned about the design end of things, but Scoop quickly reassured him:

'Don't worry, Jimmy — there's software for that. A monkey could do it!'

'Are you calling me a monkey?'

Scoop gave him a long look. And then: 'There's some very bright monkeys around, you know.'

***

In the late afternoon Scoop said: 'I'm just going to stretch my legs, as it were.'

When he'd gone Jimmy returned to surfing the Internet for the latest news, and it was while doing this that his thoughts returned to home. His parents would be tearing their hair out (and his dad didn't have much to spare). He had the opportunity now to send them an e-mail — if only they had an e-mail address, access to the Internet, or, indeed, a computer. Well, they could just wait a few days. Maybe it would teach them to appreciate him a little more. There was nothing to stop him sending a message to them via his school, of course. It had a website.

School — he was actually missing it, a tiny little bit. Not the work, obviously, but his friends. Messing around. If he could have changed anything about the past few days it would have been to bring Gary Higgins with him on this adventure. They would have had a cracking time together.

Thinking about Gary reminded him of his expulsion. What choice had his headmaster had? None at all. He'd been reckless and disruptive and had almost destroyed a school bus. He should e-mail Mr McCartney and apologize for his actions.

Jimmy logged on to the school website, and clicked on Mr McCartney's e-mail address. He wrote, Dear Mr McCartney. Then he hesitated. He knew what he should write. He knew what he ought to write. But he was Jimmy Armstrong, and there was really very little doubt about what he would write.

Dear Mr McCartney. How're you doing you scabby-faced baldy-headed vulture? Do you know that your secretary looks like a hamster? Does she keep nuts in her cheeks? Does she have an exercise wheel? Are you having an affair with her? If you are your children will be scabby-faced baldy-headed vultures too, but with the added attraction of big teeth and cheeks for nuts. Yours sincerely, Jimmy Armstrong.