Switchback Stories (18 page)

A breath of relief surged through her, as invigorating as an ocean breeze. It was done. The presses would be running by now. In a little over four hours the finished product would be loaded onto dozens of trucks for despatch all over England. Millions of readers.

She noticed a printout of the review on the other side of the PC. Curiosity compelled her to take a sneak look. A triumphant gleam radiated from her eyes as the words filled the screen. ‘UNDERSTUDY LIFTS PREMIERE PERFORMANCE TO NEW HEIGHTS’ read the headline.

Duncan shifted his weight in the chair and mumbled something. Robina shook him lightly by the shoulders. ‘Duncan …’

He tilted his head toward her, one eye opening lazily. ‘Head feels like a steamroller flattened it …’

‘Come on, let’s get you to bed so you can sleep it off. Everything okay with the review?’

‘All done. The lovely Miss O’Leary will have producers knocking her door down tomorrow.’

Minutes later, Duncan had dozed off again, this time lying fully clothed on top of his bed. Robina decided to put her feet up on the lounge in the living room and sleep there. It seemed only a short while later when she was woken by the shriek of the telephone. She was surprised to find it was 7.30 and a soft, natural light filled the room with the muted colours of an Autumn morning, all warm golds, reds and browns.

Alan Frasier, the Tribune’s editor, was on the line. ‘He’s still sleeping it off, eh,’ Frasier repeated Robina’s words. ‘Guess I’ll have to wait ‘til later to give him a blast.’

‘A blast over what?’ Robina asked, still groggy from sleep.

‘Stupid mistake,’ came the answer. ‘I heard Duncan hit the bottle early last night, which explains why he kept typing Stephanie Sanders’s name in his review, when it should have been that of the understudy, Catherine O’Leary.’

‘Wrong name ,,, God no …’

‘Oh it’s all right,’ Frasier assured her. ‘I checked his copy when it came in last night. Luckily, I’d heard earlier about the understudy having to step in. So I corrected Duncan’s copy.’

‘Thank goodness,’ breathed Robina. She was wide awake now, her pulse racing. From the corner of her eye she saw Duncan amble into the room, a puzzled expression on his dishevelled face.

‘It would have been an absolute disaster otherwise,’ Frasier continued, ‘the paper would’ve been a laughing stock.’

‘I’ll get him to phone you when he wakes,’ Robina said, and she hung up.

Duncan cleared his throat. ‘What was that all about?’

Robina told him and Duncan ran his fingers through his greying hair as he listened. ‘I may have been under the weather,’ he admitted, ‘but I wouldn’t have made a mistake like that.’ Followed by Robina, he padded his way through to the study. His fingers tapped a command onto the keyboard and a second later his review was on the screen. ‘What in blazes is Frasier on about,’ he muttered. ‘The name’s correct … Catherine …’ He cut himself short, groaned, then placed his hand to his forehead and rubbed vigorously. ‘Surely not …’

‘What?’ There was alarm in Robina’s voice.

Duncan issued another command, calling another item onto the screen. ‘Blast,’ he moaned. ‘The article I thought I’d be using, the one I wrote earlier in the day. Could’ve sworn I’d deleted it. God no …’

‘What
is going on, Duncan?’ Robina’s voice was raised, anxious.

‘I must’ve attached the wrong article to the email, the one I was certain I’d deleted,’ Duncan said, ‘the review
attacking
Stephanie …’

• • •

Across the city, Catherine leapt out of bed. Despite the late night she was still hyped up, anxious to see the review in The Morning Tribune.

She pulled on a sleeveless cotton shirt and blue jeans, stepped into a pair of sneakers, and sprinted from her apartment block to the corner newsagent. She could’ve checked the online version but she wanted her first sighting of the review to be the physical paper, in the store, in all its glory. A moment to remember.

The paper had devoted a double page spread, on pages two and three, to the premiere.

In the shop, Catherine’s eyes hungrily scanned the text. Duncan Marstein’s review ran the full depth of the right outside two columns on page three, boxed in a special border. The expression on Catherine’s face mirrored the sudden, plummeting sensation she felt inside, like a light dropping away into a void of darkness.

‘LEADING LADY’S LACKLUSTRE PERFORMANCE KILLS POTENTIAL HIT’, read the headline. ‘In an uninspired piece of miscasting, Catherine O’Leary last night failed to deliver the range of emotions needed for the lead role in “The Loneliest Star” …’

S
ometimes you never forget a face.

It was twelve months since the country’s worst train disaster and, ever since, I’d cursed myself for not asking my helper his name. I’ve no doubt it was the pain or the fear or the dark cloud of dust, or a combination of the three, that had made me hazy and disorientated, slurring my words and making little sense.

‘Are you an angel?’ Stupid question. It was the only thing I asked him as he helped the rescuers pull me clear of the overturned carriage.

‘I’m just an ordinary guy.’ The gentle touch of his fingers brushed the wisps of hair from my face. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

I had been trapped in the wreck for hours, my legs caught between the twisted seats, no-one moving or talking in the dusty half-light around me. When the rescue team arrived, it had taken them an hour to clear their way through to me, and another hour to cut me free. All the time, the man with the kind, raggedy face had been there, just beyond the carriage, looking through, his smile reassuring me, his words keeping my mind off the anxiety.

Then as the paramedics lifted me away, I’d caught my last glimpse of him, silhouetted by the afternoon sun.

No-one knew who he was or where he went. He wasn’t one of the rescue team members, and he never came forward to identify himself as one of the train’s passengers.

Later, others told me he’d been at the site of the wreck into the night, looking for survivors, comforting them. But he hadn’t told anyone his name, and in the chaos of the clean-up, no-one paid attention as he walked away …

‘You watching that news footage again, Claire?’

Roger Gale, my boss, broke my reverie as he entered the edit suite. Roger was one of the best television news chiefs in the business, and I still remembered his words, eleven months earlier, when I’d returned to work. ‘From now on, young Claire, I want you to stick to reporting the news – not being a part of it. Okay?’

‘Got it,’ I’d said, and he had hugged me close.

As a survivor, I had recorded my own segment about the disaster for our nightly current affairs program, reliving my experiences. I’d spoken of the gentle stranger, and of how he’d referred to himself as just an ordinary guy. Other survivors also told of the mysterious helper, so the media homed in, spearheading the search for the man they dubbed ‘the ordinary angel’.

Roger sat beside me. ‘Still looking for clues to your angel’s identity?’

It had been a while since we’d discussed the story. The media frenzy had died down months before. There wasn’t anything to report. No-one, it seemed, had any idea who the man was. It had been a great human interest story for the media for a while, but time moves on, and the media moves even faster.

‘You’d think that someone knew him and would have come forward,’ I remarked. All the papers had published sketches of the man, drawn by their artists from the descriptions given.

‘It’s as though he doesn’t really exist,’ Roger said, ‘or he really is an angel from somewhere beyond. But then, we’ve been over this time and again. I’m afraid this one’s likely to remain a mystery, Claire.’

It was a mystery that I wanted to solve, but I held my tongue. Roger didn’t want his journalists personally obsessed with stories that led nowhere. But I still had a burning desire to find this man, to see that strong, comforting smile again. To say, ‘Thank you’.

My producer, Jane Merrick, looked through the doorway. ‘Hey there, Claire Mapstone, ace reporter. You ready?’

‘Willing and able,’ I said, switching off the footage and reaching for my bag.

Jane and I were working on a major consumer affairs story. A Sydney-based mail order company that sold a variety of goods had closed. Its owners had vanished, leaving thousands of customers without the goods they’d paid for.

The firm, Quality Plus–‘More like Quality Minus,’ Jane had joked – had a suite of offices and a small warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Jane, a pushy, sneaky woman at the best of times, coerced the building’s landlord to allow us access to the site.

We arrived, with our cameraman, Rodney, and the camera followed me as I walked past deserted work stations and into the empty warehouse.

‘Let’s see if we can find any of the staff’s names and numbers,’ Jane said. ‘It would be great if we could get in touch with one and film an interview.’

In the rush to clear out, the owners had left one lone PC in a corner. Jane sat, plugged it in, and began tapping away at the keys. She had a geek-like knack of accessing information from computer systems.

‘You won’t find anything, surely,’ I said to her. ‘Wouldn’t they have wiped everything from the system?’

‘You never know.’ But moments later Jane shrugged and rose from the chair. ‘You’re right. They’ve trashed all the data.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve still got time to rifle through the place to see if these jokers left anything else behind.’

They had.

In a tiny cubicle-cum-office was a despatch desk. In the bottom drawer – a folder with the names of the workers and suppliers associated with the company, something else overlooked when the owners had left.

Back at the studio, Jane and I analysed the list. No customers on it, but we already knew who many of those were, they’d been making complaints in droves – but the folder did have the names of a dozen freelance workers. One was a telephone marketer named William Danziger who lived a few suburbs away. There were contact numbers against the names.

I cross-checked his name against the list of professional complaints. Curiously, his name wasn’t among the external suppliers or customers who’d filed complaints against Quality Plus.

He seemed like a good prospect for an interview. I dialled the phone number on his invoices, and I found myself listening to the message on his answering machine.

But I didn’t leave a message. My mind seemed to go blank, and after a few moments of silence I simply hung up. My hands were shaking.

Jane came charging into my office and saw the expression on my face. ‘You okay, Ace?’

‘I just phoned William Danziger,’ I said hesitantly, ‘but his … answering machine was on.’

Jane took the seat opposite. ‘What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘No. But I think I’ve been listening to an angel.’

There was a momentary pause. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘William Danziger is the same man who talked me through the ordeal of that train wreck twelve months ago. I’m sure of it.’

• • •

It was a modest home in a suburb that was nothing out of the ordinary. Jane parked the car outside.

I said, ‘I’m having second thoughts about this … surprise visit.’

Jane waved away my doubts. ‘This is the best way. This guy’s elusive – never came forward, doesn’t want to be known for some reason. Talk to him on the phone and he could fly the coop.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to be in the public eye,’ I said. ‘We can’t force him.’

‘No. But I’m sensing there’s a bigger story here.’

We approached the front door. Someone was home. Lights burned in the front living room window and, in response to Jane’s knock on the door, a voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

‘Jane Merrick and Claire Mapstone,’ Jane called out. ‘We’re from NewsZone, Mr Danziger, Could we have a moment of your time?’

There was a pause. When he spoke, it was clear he was now behind the door. He would not open it.

‘I’m sorry. Not right now. Perhaps someone else in the street can help you.’ There was a halting, cautious tone to his voice.

‘Mr Danziger,’ Jane pressed, ‘my colleague and I believe you helped many people at the Petersville train smash last year. We’d like to speak with you.’

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’

I had felt bad about coming here unannounced. Now I was intrigued. Why wouldn’t this man speak to us? Or even show himself?

‘Please Mr Danziger,’ I called out. ‘We met at the crash site. If I could talk with you, just briefly …’

‘I’m afraid I have to go.’ There was the sound of retreating footsteps, then a door opening and closing. Someone running.

Jane and I raced around the side of the property into the backyard. There was no sign of William Danziger.

Jane shot me one of her “have we got a story here” looks.

‘What is it with this guy, Claire? All we were doing was knocking on his door. And he flees. This isn’t remotely normal.’

I had begun to fear William Danziger wasn’t the angel we’d all thought. Clearly, he had something to hide. Was he hiding from the law? Was Danziger even his real name? The thoughts both chilled and saddened me at the same time.

A woman from a neighbouring property poked her head over the fence and said, ‘May I ask your business?’

I explained why we were in the yard.

‘Well, my neighbour keeps to himself a great deal,’ she observed, ‘and you are trespassing on private property. Perhaps you should leave.’

She turned and marched back into her house. Jane and I retreated along the side passage. Jane stopped suddenly and whispered, ‘Listen,’ pointing to the house alongside.

We were just beneath the other woman’s lounge room window and we could hear the sounds of push buttons on a telephone. The woman was right beside the half-open window with her back to us. ‘Hello? I need to speak to Dr Gideon, please. It’s about William Danziger and it’s urgent.’

J
ane and I arrived at work the next morning, aware we could not turn our backs on this story. Not now.