‘Noah, you’re three years older than him,’ I scold. ‘Try and act your age.’ I wince. Sometimes my mouth opens and my parents’ words tumble out. ‘Please give Alfie back his spinner.’ Now I’m pleading. That sounds more like me. Life would be easier if I gave in to Noah’s demands and allowed him to sit in the front.
As I pull up at the bus stop a few feet away from the entrance to Kingswood Secondary School, Noah hands over the toy. Then he leaps out of the car and strolls away without so much as a goodbye.
I drive around the corner to the junior school. Stopping on the yellow zigzag lines, I flick my hazards on. Alfie and I get out of the car.
‘I’ll come in and apologise to your teacher,’ I say, grabbing Alfie’s bag from the passenger seat.
‘I can go in by myself,’ he says, slamming his door shut and peering up at me through his mother’s chocolate eyes. Invisible fingers pinch my heart.
‘I know you can, but we’re late and—’
‘Dads never come in.’ The way he says it implies it’s only mums who do, and now the hand gives my heart a hard squeeze. ‘Anyway, she knows you have a problem with punctuality. She’s used to it,’ he adds. ‘Plus if you park there …’ he points an accusatory finger at my Ford Focus ‘… you’ll get another fine.’
I can’t believe I’m hearing my nine-year-old son correctly. I ruffle his hair and hand over his bag before getting back in behind the wheel. A wave of sadness breaks over me as he turns away. He reminds me so much of his mother. Too much. Putting the key into the ignition, I watch him sprint through the school gates.
Fifteen minutes later and fifteen minutes late, I slide into the chair at my workstation next to Kelly, our junior reporter, who grins at me. I smile back, pretending not to notice as she hastily closes the Facebook window on her laptop.
A drill starts somewhere in the office so I take my earplugs out of their box and push them into my ears. Now I’ve been officially made chief reporter, I’m to have my own private office. As far as I can see, this is about the only perk to a promotion that amounts to a token increase in salary and a large increase in my workload. At the moment, however, everything is being refurbished to our new editor’s requirements. The need to get rid of the open-plan office space for our reporters is about the only thing we’ve agreed on since she took over six months ago.
The idea now is to put up a combination of Perspex and plywood walls to create cubicles with the aim of reducing not only noise levels in the workplace but also the stress levels of the journalists working there. In addition, it’s supposed to boost productivity at The Redcliffe Gazette – or The Redcliffe Rag as we call it, although I imagine in Kelly’s case she’ll be able to spend more time on social media without feeling like she’s under surveillance.
I’ve booted up my laptop, replied to a few emails and fetched myself some coffee before Kelly speaks to me.
‘What was that?’ I pull out one of my earplugs and try not to stare at the diamond stud in Kelly’s otherwise perfect button nose.
‘Just remembered. Saunders wanted to see you in the Aquarium as soon as you got in.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter.
‘You’re welcome.’ Not picking up on my sarcastic tone, or maybe choosing to ignore it, she turns back to her computer screen.
‘Did she say what she wanted?’
Kelly shakes her blond bobbed head. Claire doesn’t usually call me into her office first thing in the morning. This can’t be good.
I raise my hand to knock on the door of our news editor’s glass-walled office, but she has already noticed me, and waves her hand for me to come in. She’s standing at the open window, blithely flouting the law by lighting up a Marlboro. My favourite brand. I gave up years ago, just before Noah was born, in fact, but every time I come in here, the old habit beckons to me and I feel like a cigarette.
Between puffs, she purses her thin lips and flutters her long eyelashes at me. It’s a look I know well. It means this isn’t open to discussion. Nope, I’m not going to like this.
Suppressing a sigh and adopting a military at-ease stance, I give a fairly good impression of a patient man while I wait for Claire to finish her cigarette. Eventually she stubs it out in an ashtray on the windowsill, and closes the window.
A petite, slim woman, Claire has a long, straight nose and an angular jawline, high cheekbones and hollow cheeks. Her cropped hair is dyed jet black. A pencil lives almost permanently behind her right ear, but I’ve never seen her use it. She has striking green eyes, which bore into me now.
She gets straight to the point. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the Slade woman’s appeal application,’ she says.
‘Yes, of course.’ It doesn’t sound very convincing, even to me. I worked late last night, updating an online story, so I didn’t watch the news, and this morning I turned off the radio in the car because the boys were fighting. I have no idea what Claire is talking about, but I’m not about to admit that.
‘I’d like you to look into it,’ she continues, arching an eyebrow at me. She’s not fooled. ‘All we know is that new evidence has come to light. Find out what’s going on. Interview family members. There’s a front-page news story here, I’m sure of it. I don’t need to tell you that a good article could attract digital display ads for our online paper, too. I want to run this scoop for The Gazette before The Post even gets wind of it.’
The Rag is only a small-market weekly newspaper. We’re understaffed, underpaid and overworked and we’re all multi-tasking. But Claire is very ambitious and has set her sights on having a bigger circulation than The Bristol Post one day and a larger online readership than their website, Bristol Live. Personally, I doubt that will happen any time soon, if ever.
‘I’m thinking a big front-page splash,’ Claire continues, spreading her arms in an expansive gesture. ‘I’m thinking exclusive interviews with her son and her husband. I’m thinking never-before-seen baby photos …’
Claire continues in this vein and I tune out. I’m thinking pizza and Paddington 2 with Noah and Archie after this evening’s homework. Then I groan inwardly, remembering I’ve got to go to a Chekhov play tonight to write a review for our monthly print magazine. I can hear the rise and fall of Claire’s voice, but it sounds muffled, as if I’ve put my earplugs back in. Lost in my thoughts, I nod and shake my head in what sounds like the right places and grunt periodically.
I snap out of my reverie when Claire barks, ‘Understood?’
‘Yep.’
‘Good.’
I still haven’t a clue what she’s on about. Slade. It’s a very common surname in the Bristol area, but it does ring a bell. An alarm bell. A distant, dormant memory stirs lazily in a corner of my mind. I can’t quite bring it to the surface. Something unsavoury, though, I’m certain of that. A knot forms in my stomach. Although I can’t recall who this woman is, a voice in my head is warning me not to rouse this memory. Some strange sixth sense is telling me to stay away.
‘We’re done.’ I’m being dismissed. ‘Oh, and Jonathan? Send Kelly in here, will you? How that girl got an English degree with grammar as terrifying as hers is beyond me.’ Claire pauses and tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear, knocking the pencil to the floor. I find myself wondering if she used to have long hair as I pick it up for her.
‘Yes, of course.’ I leave the office. Poor kid. If there’s anything sharper than Claire’s features, it’s her tongue, and I think Kelly is about to be on the receiving end.
‘It’s your turn,’ I say to Kelly, slipping back into my swivel chair. I follow