In Pieces (7 page)

In a flash of inspiration Si recognised that he should write this story straight. He would begin with a reference to the Shadow Education Spokesman's Commons speech, then use a description of contemporary London lifted from one of the evangelical Muslim journalists, counterbalance that with a quote from the ‘Mega Mufti', and finally report that, following the pop singer's example, thousands were converting every day. ‘
The Diary reports this phenomenon just in case you hadn't yet noticed
,' would be the ironic last line.

Dry, very dry. Si knew Dougy would like it because it could be read in several different ways and was all things to all men. It also meant he would gain extra time to divine the exact nature of Dougy's instructions.

The rest of the leftover material was either too useless for words or too obviously placed at the instigation of some public relations company. They were always ringing up, these PR executives. Jolly, bouncing voices on the phone—‘Hi Si… Have I got a story for you…' before delivering some crap idea designed only to market their client's product / film / book / event / whatever… Didn't they realise that he needed a hook to make the story work? Something newsworthy or humorous. PR people were his least favourite breed. Of course there were exceptions: those who catered for his needs as well as their own. But they were very much the exception proving the rule.

Bill came back with the coffee. ‘Thanks.'

‘Pleasure,' mumbled Bill, clearly not meaning it.

‘So what have you lined up today?'

‘Gi' us a chance. I've only just got in.'

‘Sure, sure,' comforted Si gently. God, Bill could be testy sometimes. But Si tried to remember his management-training course: never work against the grain of your staff, move with them. He sipped his coffee. It was boiling hot and almost burnt his tongue.

After a pause Si forgot his management training. ‘So?'

‘So what?'

‘So what have you got that might make a story?'

‘Not a lot. Well, there may be something in a comment I overheard at a party last night.' Bill told him about the story he'd eavesdropped. It combined a whiff of financial scandal and infidelity and starred a leading City figure, a property developer and an actress from
Eastenders
; classic Diary material.

‘Good man,' congratulated Si when he'd finished. ‘That sounds a runner. Maybe even a lead.'

‘D'you think so?' Bill perked up. Despite being relatively new to journalism, and the increasing sexual confusion which tormented him, he was convinced of his destiny: to get on and up. In a year or two he aimed to edit a rival diary or maybe do news… After all, diaries were no place to get stuck for very long. Real journalism was happening elsewhere. Bill was quietly ambitious, but Si was beginning to notice and to use this knowledge to good effect.

‘Yeah, you never know. Depends how it develops, eh?'

‘Yeah, suppose so. I'd better get on the phone, then.'

‘Good idea.'

Bill shuffled off and Si pulled out a blank piece of paper. His plan for the day. He took a pencil, sharpened it and began to map out what would go on the page. Getting going was always the hardest bit. In half an hour's time he'd be fine. He got a kick out of watching the empty space fill up. Beautiful black typescript trickling into all those vacant white gaps. Yeah, he enjoyed his job—well, most of the time. Wouldn't swap it for anything else.

After he'd covered his blank piece of A4 with a complex diagram showing all the options available, he laid down his pencil. With a sigh he realised there was no time like the present. He flicked through the phone book and then dialled a number.

‘Hello, can I help you?'

Si affected his best Russian accent by imitating a James Bond villain. Time to expose the naughty diplomat's weakness for Rubenesque sopranos. He thought idly that he might write this up as a sort of spoof
Traviata
, depicting the dying Ambassador sprawled on a
chaise longue
with his fickle lover dancing attendance—not a dry eye in the house. ‘Good morning. Is hospital?' Si vaguely remembered chatting up a Russian girl at last year's
Londoner's Diary
Christmas party in the Irish Club: she had explained that in Russian there is no definite article.

‘Yes, how can I help you?'

‘Good, good. I believe my brother, he is not well and is in your hospital…'

‘Could you tell me your brother's name, Sir, then I can try and put you through to the ward.'

‘Yes, thank you. My brother… He is Russian Ambassador.'

~

It had been a strangely frustrating day. In one respect things could not have gone better.

Dougy had called him just before lunch to say how much he'd appreciated the Islamic converts story. ‘You're on the right track, kid…' Unfortunately, he'd left it at that and Si was still none the wiser whether he'd been on the right track by implying that the Opposition party were in tune with the times and appealed to all religious groups or, if Dougy had read the story another way, that the Opposition were as ridiculous as the claims that London was infested by evil and that thousands were converting to the teachings of Mohammed.

Dougy had also let out a belly laugh that almost deafened Si, who was holding the earpiece too close in his anxiety to please his boss. ‘I loved the Russian Ambassador piece. Brilliant. Brilliant. Where do you find them, kid?' But without waiting for an answer he'd rung off.

The rest of the day had been dreary and the stories they used were uninspired. Si knew for a fact that he wouldn't be getting a congratulatory call from Dougy the next day.

He left work late and went straight to The Feathers to meet Jimmy. As he came out of the tube he passed a man who made him feel slightly uneasy. Well, not the man so much as a sign the man was carrying.

CHRIST HAS DIED.

CHRIST IS RISEN.

CHRIST WILL COME AGAIN.

It was printed on a sandwich board and enclosed the emaciated body of a forty-something man in a woolly hat and donkey jacket. The man walked ahead of him down the street and seemed impervious to the icy wind which penetrated Si's woollen overcoat.

What had possessed the guy to humiliate himself in public by such an absurd display? Si increased his speed and stepped into the road to overtake, although there was probably space enough to pass on the pavement. You never know, reflected Si, he might be dangerous. But the soft expression which met Si's passing glance was disconcerting.

Si looked away quickly. The man said nothing, but Si could feel his eyes burning into him as he hurried on down the street and turned into the warm yellow embrace of the pub.

With relief, Si sank back into the deep upholstery of the snug bar and waited for Jimmy to bring over the pints.

Roberta arrived as they were merging with the fug over their second drink.

‘Jimmy, this is Roberta.'

‘Hi,' nodded Jimmy without getting up.

Roberta didn't seem fazed by the cool reception. She'd heard a lot about Jimmy and suspected that their first meeting wouldn't be easy. In her experience close male friendships rarely included women without some initial friction. Many such attachments excluded women completely, such as the ones in her own country.

‘Jimmy, it's good to meet you. I've heard so much about you.'

Jimmy immediately reacted. ‘Yeah? Like what? I suppose he's told you I'm a failed soccer player.'

‘No, quite the opposite. He said you had great prospects.' Roberta smiled.

Jimmy, disarmed, just grunted. ‘Some prospects,' he muttered.

Si felt it time to intervene. ‘We were just getting another round in. What would you like?'

‘An orange, please.'

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. As Si moved off to the bar he made a conscious effort to pull himself together. ‘He really said that, did he?'

‘Said what?'

‘That I had great prospects.'

‘Yes, he did.'

‘Oh.' Jimmy furrowed his brow. ‘Where's the Sudan, anyway?' he asked.

Later, as they left the pub and Jimmy prepared to peel off home, he leaned over to Si and whispered ‘She's all right… Not bad at all.'

Si smiled. ‘I know. I know.'

~

Jimmy was exhausted. Ninety minutes of running about in the slush playing for a second-rate football team was not his idea of fun. The stadium was on the point of collapse and there was no money to rebuild the crumbling stands with their warping cantilevers and cracking, concrete floors. Vast swathes of orange plastic shone out from the gloom beneath the holed, wooden roofs—empty seats witnessing to the club's dwindling support and dire financial situation. And as for the pitch… The Chairman had clearly resorted to grazing cattle between matches to raise money, such was the state of the churned up turf: more mud than grass.

Jimmy had enjoyed scoring the goal which separated the two teams, but if there weren't any scouts watching, then what was the point? Here he was already twenty-seven, and no prospect of making the top flight. Jimmy knew he was living proof that Nick Hornby had got it wrong when he wrote that there was no such thing as a genius striker failing to get noticed in the lower divisions; the
scouting system was
not
foolproof and
everyone
did
not
get watched. But despite this conviction and a growing sense of injustice, Jimmy knew that time was running out for him.

The whistle went. Thank God. He exchanged desultory handshakes with the other team and made his way towards the dressing room.

‘Well played, laddy… Although you looked a bit bored out there, if you don't mind me saying.'

Jimmy looked at the man. He was in his fifties, wearing a heavy-duty nylon anorak. His broken capillaries and windburnt face testified to many hours exposed to the elements. ‘Thanks. Who are you?'

‘Mike McDonald. Pleased to meet you. I think we might be seeing more of each other soon.'

‘Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure?'

‘Oh, I just know. Trust me.' With that McDonald walked off in the direction of the stairs leading to the Directors' box.

Jimmy sat down and pulled off his boots. Weird guy, he thought.

‘I see you met Mike, then?' It was the manager, Steve Burns. They got on all right, but he knew that Jimmy was desperate for a greater challenge than the Second Division.

‘You know him? Who is he?'

‘A scout.'

‘I thought you told me that there wouldn't be any scouts around today.'

‘I lied.' Burns grinned. ‘I knew you wouldn't play so well if you were nervous about being watched.'

Jimmy's heart was beating ten to the dozen. Clearly, Nick Hornby had been right after all. ‘So who's he a scout for? Someone big?'

‘Could be. You just keep cool. I'll let you know as soon as there's something to get excited about, okay?'

What a prat. Treating him like a child. But if there was interest in him from a big team like Arsenal or Chelsea… Even if it was only a good First Division team… Then… Who could say, perhaps his career would finally take off?

Despite his irritation with Burns, Jimmy couldn't help feeling on top of the world. Just wait until he told Si.

~

When the Sleeper first arrived in London he wondered what he'd got himself into. It had all seemed fair enough at home when the English soldiers waved guns in kids' faces and shouted to get out of the road. It wasn't difficult to hate those scared-looking squaddies with their camouflage jackets and ridiculous patrols. They were an invasion force and as such there was a duty to resist them. But in London, at first, it was a bit different. He'd expected to work within a cell, in close contact with other
‘soldiers' such as himself. But the leadership had recently decided on a change of tactic, and were now sending young sleepers to integrate themselves into the community, isolated from the organisation except for the most minimal operational contact, until the moment came to act—the awakening.

The Sleeper crossed to Liverpool on the ferry. He knew all about Liverpool, of course, from following the football. And he'd laughed with his family at the reruns of the
Liver Birds
he'd watched on the telly, so it was exciting to sail up the Mersey for the first time, watching the seagulls wheel and squawk over the choppy grey water and taking in the great city's memorable skyline. He'd have liked to stay a few days, but his orders were clear. He grabbed some fish and chips and then took a National Express coach to London. West Hampstead to be exact, where he'd been told to stay until further instructions arrived. Fine, he thought, and went exploring. Carefully, mind, so as not to arouse suspicion, but he wanted to see what was what in London.

The people all seemed okay, not much different from at home. A bit sadder and more serious, but generally the same. He told this to Mrs Donnelley, his landlady.

‘Don't be so stupid.' She had a sharp tongue in her head.

The Sleeper liked her at the start as she reminded him a lot of his ma. But Mrs Donnelley was more passionate and didn't have the tired eyes and sagging body of his ma.

‘They're the agents of oppression as much as the soldiers on the Falls Road. These respectable-looking folk are the bastards who pay for freedom fighters and patriots to be locked away and to die from starvation and beatings in English prisons. Don't be taken in by their looks,' and she wagged her finger angrily in his face. ‘Don't be taken in…'

He heeded her words and soon saw through the masks of the people around him. The crowds on the tubes and in the buses, they were as much to blame as the English Government. He realised that. The smug bastards… They were the ones who maintained the occupying army in Ireland. It was their sons who'd killed the heroes of Ireland. It was a good feeling to know that soon he'd blast a great big hole in the middle of their complacent lives.