The Dead Beat (2 page)

‘I’m here for work experience at the
Standard
, on the news desk. I’m supposed to report to the news editor.’

The receptionist was the same age as Martha, peroxide hair extensions, push-up bra too tight and sticky lip-gloss. ‘Name?’

‘Martha Fluke.’

‘Fluke?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Take a seat.’

She stalked around the reception area trying to look casual, trying to feel calm, trying to breathe. Not long ago, the news editor would’ve been Ian. She didn’t know if they’d replaced him yet. The plan had been that neither of them would reveal she was his daughter, didn’t want accusations of cronyism or nepotism, even though he’d never really been much of a part of her life. The different surnames helped. She would be treated like any other third-year journalism student on Easter placement, exploited as free labour for three weeks, doing all the shittiest jobs. Now, with Ian’s suicide, she was doubly sure about not revealing the connection. The last thing she wanted was to be connected to that stigma.

She pulled a small mirror out her bag and checked her make-up. Infinitely better than Little Miss Trowel-Face behind reception. Just a thin layer of natural lippy, a little smoky eye shadow and mascara to offset the blue eyes and auburn hair. Her eyes were her best feature, easy. Lips not bad either, a natural pout. Couldn’t do anything about the stubby nose or the square jaw, but the spread of freckles across her cheeks helped a little. She tucked her hair behind one ear and put the mirror away.

‘Fluke?’

Martha turned. A woman was swishing her pass on the security gate and waving her over. She was late twenties, black hair in a ponytail, and wore a Motörhead T-shirt with the cleavage and sleeves cut out. She had big tits, bigger biceps, a black eye and a cut lip.

Martha walked over and held out a hand. ‘Martha.’

She got a slap on the back.

‘I’m gonna call you Fluke cos it’s a cool name.’ The accent was American, somewhere Southern. ‘I’m V.’

‘V?’

‘For Virginia. My asshole parents are eternally disappointed in my lack of virginal status.’

Martha stayed quiet.

V pointed at her eye. ‘You’re wondering about the shiner, right? You should see the other bitch. I’m an amateur wrestler, helps let off steam after this stinking shitheap. Sorry, you’re probably full of journalistic principles, right? Forget I said what a backstreet abortion of a paper this is.’ V threw out a massive smile and nudged Martha’s back. ‘Come on, let’s walk and talk.’

They headed for the stairs, V striding off, Martha scuttling behind.

‘There’s been a change of plan,’ V said. ‘You won’t be working the news beat, at least not today.’

V took the stairs two at a time, Martha struggling to keep up.

‘Why?’

V shrugged. ‘Just the usual Monday shitstorm.’

‘But I’m supposed to be doing news, that’s what I’m studying.’

They were a flight up already, V holding the door open. They emerged into an open-plan office, thirty or so cheap desks, only half with computers and phones. Martha did a quick head count. Seven people.

‘Where is everyone?’

V laughed. ‘This is it.’

‘What?’

‘Welcome to the
Mary Celeste
of newspapers. Lay-offs and cost cutting. Don’t get me started. Only reason you’re here is cos they don’t have to pay you. If they could run the whole paper with work experience lackeys they would.’

V was off again, heading to the darkest corner of the office, away from the large glass window at the front of the building where a couple of well buffed thirty-somethings were sitting gossiping.

‘Don’t even look at them,’ V said, ‘or you’ll turn to stone. Or is it a pillar of salt?’

V was almost in the corner, two desks obviously in use surrounded by three empty ones.

‘This is our exclusion zone,’ V said. ‘From the assholes.’

Martha looked at the desks. One covered in empty cartons of protein shakes, a pile of letters, pictures of male wrestlers pinned up everywhere, a sea of oiled muscle. The other desk was plain, just an in-tray with a couple of inches of paperwork in it.

‘Pastyface didn’t make it in today,
quelle surprise
,’ V said. ‘Chances are it’s another stretch of long-term stress. Guy’s got a doc in his pocket for sure. But this could work out well for you, one person’s whatever-it-is being another one’s whatchamacallit, if you get me.’ She waved a hand vaguely. ‘Over at the news desk you would get fuck-all writing done. They never give the Oompa-Loompas a break. With us, you’ll be in print most days. Probably the whole time you’re here, if Pastyface is true to form.’

‘So what am I going to be doing?’

‘Welcome to the dead beat.’

‘What?’

V pulled out the chair at the desk. ‘Congratulations Martha Fluke, you are the
Standard
’s new obituary writer.’

V edited the letters page. ‘As well as doing a million and one other things around here.’ She sucked on a protein shake. ‘It’s basically a magnet for psychos. The same little gang of self-important mentalists send me ridiculous emails every day, usually about wind farms or independence. Sometimes just to mix things up they’ll write me an actual letter in green pen. They get filed straight in the bin.’ She threw the empty shake carton onto her desk. ‘Actually, the worst thing is that I have to read ’em all, you know, just in case Tony Blair or the Dalai fucking Lama sends in a vital missive and I accidentally use it to wipe my ass.’

She spent the next twenty minutes showing Martha the ropes of the dead beat. Martha was actually sitting in for the editor of the page, and the job was mainly commissioning out work to a handful of reliable freelancers, making sure she got stuff in, subbing it, setting it out on the page, also checking the other papers first thing to see if they’d missed any obvious deaths. But she would have to write shorter obits too.

Part of the job was manning the phones, dealing with the bereaved, giving them a sympathetic ear to talk to. They could get a bit crazy sometimes. Never get into an argument, and never admit responsibility for an error; the paper could get sued.

 ‘We have to get the pages to bed by end of shift at eight p.m. It’s usually pretty relaxed, but sometimes there’s an almighty fuck-up and you have to work on.’

V showed her how the computer network was set up, pointed her at the appropriate folders. There was a folder full of advance obits of famous people ready to go. Prince Philip, Bruce Forsyth, all that.

‘One other thing,’ V said. ‘If you get some widow or son on the phone, weeping away about their dearly beloved, try to get them to write something themselves.’

‘Why?’

‘If we get a family member or close friend to write something, it’s called an appreciation rather than an obituary, and we don’t need to pay ’em.’

‘Is the paper really that strapped for cash?’

‘You have no idea, honey-child.’ V waved a hand around the office. There were even fewer people than were there earlier. ‘All this will be dust in five years, believe me.’

Martha shook her head. ‘Glad I’m getting into journalism, then.’

V laughed. ‘That’s the spirit.’ She sprang out of her seat and ripped one of the wrestling posters off her pinboard. ‘Now, I’m off to the ladies for a quick wank.’

Martha raised an eyebrow and V looked at her watch. ‘Only joking, it’s a bit early for that nonsense. But I do need a massive shit. All these protein shakes.’ She flexed her arms, kissed her biceps. ‘Worth it, though, huh?’

She strode away with the poster clutched in her hand. She turned and walked backwards for a moment. ‘While I’m gone, just read some obits, get a feel for them, and pray you don’t get any crazies on the phone.’

The phone on her desk rang.

She looked round. V was still gone. The two buffed floozies were still chatting half a mile away across the office. A dishevelled, lanky guy had slouched down at a desk closer to her, and was clicking a mouse.

She stared at the phone. Fumbled a notepad and pen out of her bag. Picked up the phone on the seventh ring.

‘Hello, the obituary desk.’

‘Who is this?’ A man, middle-aged. He sounded very stressed.

‘My name is Martha Fluke, I’m the obituary writer at the
Standard
.’

A pause. ‘No you’re not.’

‘What?’

Silence. The man began sniffling, seemed on the edge of tears. One of the crazies V had warned her about, maybe. ‘I have an obituary for you.’

‘I’m sorry, your name is?’

A pause. ‘I can’t give you my name.’ He was really crying now.

‘That’s not how things work, Mr . . .’

‘I know how things work.’ He was struggling to get the words out between gasps and sobs.

‘You can email an appreciation to us.’

‘Just write this down.’

There was panic in his voice, Martha could sense it down the line. She thought about her shorthand, forty-eight per cent in the last test. She spotted a jack dangling out from the phone handset.

‘Just a minute.’

She dropped the handset and pulled the Walkman out her bag. Pushed a random cassette into it and plugged it into the phone. Backup. She pressed Record and Play, then picked the handset up again.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Gordon Harris died this week in tragic circumstances at his home, aged forty-five.’

Martha scribbled shorthand and watched the tape creep round the Walkman’s spindle, hoping it was recording.

‘He was educated at Inverness Academy, then the University of Edinburgh, after which he got a job on the
Standard
newspaper.’

‘Wait . . .’

‘He wasted the next twenty years of his life, cynical and jaded about everything he wrote, guilty and depressed because of everything he’d done in the past.’

‘I’m sorry, this is inappropriate, it’s not the kind of thing we print.’

‘Please don’t interrupt.’

Something in his voice kept Martha quiet. She thought she heard a noise down the line between the sobs, the rustling of paper maybe, or the scrape of a hand on stubble.

‘Gordon Harris was a terrible human being.’ He was crying hard now, hardly able to speak.

Martha didn’t say anything. Just let the crazies vent it all out, V had told her. Don’t interrupt.

‘He never did a good thing for anyone in his entire life, and he deserved to be haunted by guilt and depression. The manner of his death was a fitting end to his pathetic existence.’

He broke down into uncontrollable tears.

‘Harris is survived by his wife Samantha and his mother Morag. He was born on the ninth of March 1969 and died on the thirty-first of March 2014.’

‘That’s today,’ Martha said.

He could hardly speak through the sobs. ‘I’m Gordon Harris.’

There was a loud bang.

Martha jumped and dropped the phone.

‘Fuck.’

She picked it up again.

‘Hello?’

Silence down the line.

‘Hello? Mr Harris? Jesus Christ. What did you do? Gordon?’

Silence. Martha’s heart was clattering. She tried to listen to the phone. Couldn’t hear anything.

‘Mr Harris, are you there?’

Was this a hoax, a prank they played on the new girl in the office? Something in the guy’s voice told her it wasn’t.

She looked round the office. Only the slacker guy, sucking on a pen with his feet up on the desk. He had a thick pink scar across the back of his head.

‘Hey you,’ she shouted.

He swivelled round and raised his eyebrows at her.

‘Do you know Gordon Harris?’

‘Sure, he’s the obit writer.’

‘What?’

‘That’s his desk you’re sitting at.’

She still had the phone handset in the crook of her neck. She waved it at him. ‘I think he just shot himself while on the phone to me.’

‘Shit.’ The guy came over, limping a little. Held his hand out. Martha handed him the phone.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘He read me his own obituary, he was crying, then there was a sound like a gunshot.’

The guy’s eyes widened. ‘Oh shit, Pastyface has gone and done it. Did he say where he was?’

She consulted her shorthand. ‘At home.’

The guy handed the phone back to Martha, who put it to her ear. Nothing. The guy lifted V’s phone and pressed some buttons.

‘Debbie, it’s Billy Blackmore here. What’s Gordon Harris’s address?’ A pause. ‘I know you’re not supposed to, but this is an emergency.’

A long beat.

‘Christ’s sake, Debbie, I won’t say where I got it, just tell me.’

He scribbled something down on Martha’s notepad.

‘Thanks, Debs.’

He turned to Martha. ‘Come on.’

‘What?’

Billy looked at her. ‘Let try to save this poor fucker’s life.’

They got a taxi from the rank outside the office. Billy held the door open for her, then ducked in and spoke to the driver.

‘Twelve Noble Place, please, Leith Links.’ He shut the door behind him. ‘Listen, there might be someone dying there, so we need to get a shift on.’

The driver was young, Hibs tattoos and a crew cut. ‘Shouldn’t you call an ambulance?’

Billy waved his phone. ‘I’m on it.’

The taxi did a U-turn and sped round the corner, past Holyrood Palace and the Parliament. Billy was on the phone, trying to explain, not getting very far.

They headed up Abbeyhill. Sat at the lights next to the Regent.

‘I’m not running a red,’ the driver said. ‘We’d need that ambulance ourselves.’

Billy hung up. ‘They’re not coming.’

‘Why not?’ Martha said.

‘Not until they know there’s a definite incident. They think it could be a hoax.’

Martha stared at Billy. ‘But you don’t?’

Billy shook his head. ‘I know Harris. This isn’t a joke.’

They were pushed back into their seats as the taxi lurched forward at the lights.

Martha stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Martha, by the way.’

Billy looked at her hand then shook it. ‘Billy.’

He smiled. He had a squint smile, a red mark above his left eye. Martha thought about the scar at the back of his head, his limp. She smiled back.

‘This your first day on the job?’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Welcome to the
Standard
, where every day’s a big adventure.’

He laughed, but it faded as he furrowed his brow and stared down Easter Road.

Martha prayed this whole thing was a stupid, puerile joke.

They swung away from Leith Links into the colonies. Stopped at the end of Noble Place. There was no point trying to get the taxi down there, cars were double-parked all the way along.

Billy threw a tenner at the driver and opened the door. Loped up the street, Martha beside him, counting the houses.

Number 12 was the same as all the rest, modest grey stone, small bay windows, terraced normality.

Martha walked up the path and tried the door. Locked. She rang the doorbell as Billy banged on the door.

‘Gordon?’ he shouted. ‘You in there?’

Martha went to the window, raised her hand to the glass to shield it from sunlight and peered in. She could see someone lying on a sofa, but couldn’t make out the details.

‘Someone’s in there.’

Billy shouted through the letterbox. ‘Gordon. Open the door. It’s Billy from the office.’

They waited a few moments. Nothing.

Billy sized up the front door. Solid. He pushed his shoulder hard against it and grimaced. Rubbed at the back of his head.

Martha eased him out the way.

‘Breaking down doors is women’s work.’ She raised a foot and kicked at the lock. The door shuddered. She kicked again.

Billy was at the window, squinting in. ‘I think that’s him. Can’t see properly.’

Martha kicked a third time and the lock splintered away from the door jamb. She weighed a shoulder into it and it sprang open, then she was inside and through to the living room, Billy right behind.

‘Jesus,’ Martha said.

He was slumped sideways on the sofa, his legs still pointing forwards, as if he’d just been blown over by a breeze. Part of his face was missing and there was a gun slack in his left hand. Next to his right hand was the phone.

Martha took that hand and held his wrist, keeping her eyes away from the mess of his face. Felt for a pulse. All she could hear was her own heartbeat flooding through her body. Tried to relax. She thought she felt something, yeah, definitely, a weak pulse, erratic, but holding on.

‘He’s still alive.’

Billy was on his phone.

‘We need an ambulance, someone’s shot himself.’ Billy pulled a hand down over his face and made a ‘please hold’ face. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said to himself, then down the phone: ‘Yeah, twelve Noble Place. Gordon Harris has tried to kill himself. Shot himself in the mouth, by the look of it.’

Martha glanced at Gordon and winced. His nose was gone, along with one eye, replaced by a mush of flesh and cartilage. There was a hole at the top of his head just at his hairline, ragged with blood, brains and bone. Behind his head, the sofa was dark and glistening. Blood was spattered up the wall behind, where he must’ve been sitting when he fired. Martha let go of his wrist and got up.

Billy ended the call. ‘On their way. They’ll be here as soon as they can.’

Martha breathed deeply. ‘Are we supposed to do anything?’

Billy shook his head. ‘Just wait.’

‘We need to do something. We can’t leave him like this.’

‘We shouldn’t move him.’

Martha stole a look at Gordon. His remaining eye was closed. If you ignored the mess of the rest of his face, he looked peaceful, could’ve been fast asleep.

‘I can’t look.’ She turned to Billy, away from Gordon.

Billy put his hand on her back. ‘It’s OK.’

She looked at the phone handset. Fifteen minutes ago she was sitting in the office, listening to the sound of his voice. An hour before that she had been standing outside the
Standard
office, a future career as a news reporter ahead of her. An hour before that she was in a graveyard talking to her dead dad. She wanted to rewind her day back to that point, put a different tape in and press Play.

She knelt down at the handset.

‘Don’t touch it,’ Billy said.

She looked at him.

‘Potential crime scene.’

‘Is attempted suicide a crime?’

Billy shrugged.

Martha knelt down and moved her head towards the phone, placing her ear as near as she could to the earpiece. She listened. Was it still connected to her line at the desk?

‘Hello?’ she said.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Shhh.’ She waited. Nothing.

She remembered the Walkman. She hadn’t pressed Stop. It would still be recording.

She adjusted her weight to move closer. Put her hand in a wet patch of carpet by Gordon’s foot. Lifted her hand to her nose. Piss. She looked and saw a stain all down the front of his trousers.

She got up, holding her wet hand away from her like a radioactive spider.

‘I need to find some soap,’ she said.

‘Maybe we should wait outside for the ambulance.’

It seemed obscene to leave him lying there, but what else could they do? He was unconscious, dying. But they weren’t qualified and had been told not to touch him.

Martha found a bathroom and washed her hands. The decor was flowery, old-fashioned, a middle-aged woman’s touch. She remembered. ‘Harris is survived by his wife Samantha and mother Morag.’

Shit. Someone would have to break the news to them.

And Mrs Harris would have to clean up this mess. She would have to throw the sofa out, surely? Blood soaked in, blood up the walls, piss all over the carpet. Never mind the selfishness of leaving loved ones behind, what about the selfishness of leaving a mess of body fluids behind? Leaving parts of your face splattered up a wall, hidden down the back of the sofa, stuck to the skirting boards.

She went outside and joined Billy, who was sitting on the front step, scratching at the mark above his eye.

‘This is fucked up,’ Billy said.

Martha didn’t say anything.