The paedophile’s name, captioned underneath the photo, was Steven Ross. How on earth had that got confused with Mr Doyle? And why was his picture on the photo system in the first place?
‘Hello? How are you going to fix this? There could be a lynch mob outside my house tonight!’
His tone was pure aggression. Understandable in the circumstances, Dan thought, doing his utmost to stay calm in response. But he could feel himself starting to sweat. What a bloody mess.
‘Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. The picture on page seven is of you and you’re not Steven Ross.’
‘Are you some kind of idiot? Of course I’m not him. I’ve never met this freak in my life.’
‘Have you any idea why your photo is on our system?’
‘You tell me. It’s never been used before, to my knowledge. It must have been taken by one of your lot without my permission.’
‘You were at court yesterday?’
‘No, it was months ago. I was appealing against a drink-driving charge.’
‘And you’ve no connection whatsoever with Steven Ross?’
Mr Doyle let out a loud sigh. ‘Obviously not. I’m a respected businessman. Your article is the first I’ve heard of this nonce. As far as I know, the only thing we have in common is the name Ross.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Ross – his surname – is my first name.’
Dan’s heart sank. That must have been it: a wrongly selected picture due to a similar filename. A schoolboy error. The kind of thing that would never have slipped through in the old days. How was he expected to spot such mistakes when he was juggling three papers; in and out of meetings all day; constantly bombarded by emails and phone calls?
Something snapped inside. It was as though a switch had flipped in his brain, and in that instant Dan decided he just couldn’t handle this any more. He couldn’t take it. Not on top of everything else in his personal life, which had spiralled from bad to really bloody awful over the past month. It was too much. He was done.
Without saying another word, Dan hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the stairs. As he moved, he felt as though his legs were disconnected from his body, making their way out of the room while his insides fought to dislodge the panic in his chest.
Maurice, another surviving editor, was leaving the lift as he reached reception.
‘Coming for a smoke, mate?’ he asked Dan.
‘Sure,’ Dan replied, using him as cover to stay out of Susan’s view, certain Mr Doyle would call back at any moment if he hadn’t already. He dodged behind Maurice, shoving his hands into his pockets to disguise the way they were shaking.
‘Good excuse to get out in the sunshine. It’s supposed to be baking today. Not that you’d know it with the air-con in here.’
‘Right.’
‘Did you see the email from Trent?’ Maurice asked, referring to the boss of their boss.
‘No.’
‘Looks bad. There’s an urgent meeting at three thirty. Everyone has to attend. Rumour has it there’s going to be another round of job cuts. Are you all right, mate? You look a bit peaky.’
‘I’m fine,’ Dan lied. Job cuts? Maurice’s words felt like the final nail in the coffin. As they walked through the door, the heat hit him. It reminded him of exiting a plane at the start of a holiday in the sun. He had to get out of there. ‘I’ve not got any fags. I’m going to nip to the shop for a pack.’
‘You can crash off me, if you like. I’ve got some for once.’
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Dan barely knew what he was saying. The words tumbled out, but all he could think about was getting away from the office.
Maurice started saying something about the weather, but Dan had already tuned out.
Instead of walking to the shop he went to his car, a battered silver Ford Focus with an ugly dent in the nearside front door that he’d still not got around to fixing. He sat down in the driver’s seat, switched his mobile off and took deep breaths. His head was swimming; pulse racing. What was he doing? Was he really going to go through with it? Had the moment arrived?
The ground floor flat where he’d been living these past few months was a simple two-bedroom affair in one of the city’s bland outer suburbs – a reasonable but not especially sought-after neighbourhood. Apart from the fact it was conveniently located just a ten-minute drive from work and a quarter of an hour from his real home, Dan hated everything about the flat. It was poky and damp with a mouldy brown bathroom and a kitchen barely big enough to cook a microwave meal. He didn’t even have the freedom to improve things – to occupy his mind with DIY – thanks to an unpleasant landlord who was only interested in getting his rent on time. Dan felt too old to be renting again. He’d never get used to spending so much time alone.
He let himself into the hallway, which he shared with the occupants of five other flats. He hoped not to bump into any of them, as he doubted himself capable of small talk at that moment. The muffled sound of daytime TV was coming from the flat opposite, but the woman who lived there was in her nineties, partially deaf and walked with a frame. The chances of her coming to the door were minimal.
Dan hovered for a moment above the letterbox but didn’t bother checking it. He let himself inside the flat, grabbed the two items he needed from the bedroom wardrobe plus a half bottle of vodka from the kitchen. Then he left without looking back.
There were things he’d miss, but the flat wasn’t one of them. It represented everything he hated about his life. It was a daily reminder of how badly things had turned out.
He thought back to what Maurice had said about more cutbacks. Would they have got rid of him this time? It was possible. The photo cock-up and the legal action that was bound to follow wouldn’t help.
Who knew?
Who cared?
He was done.
He got into the car and pulled the vodka bottle out of the inside pocket of his jacket, taking a long swig. Then he put the key in the ignition and did a six-point turn in the road.
‘Goodbye, flat from hell,’ Dan said, flicking the V-sign as he pulled the car away and headed for the sea. He considered calling in to see to his mum on the way, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. What would be the point?
He’d decided on his destination during one of his lowest moments: alone late at night, drunk and maudlin, looking through old photos on his computer. There was one particular picture that had caught his eye, from about four years earlier. It had been taken on a family holiday on the North Wales coast: a last-minute booking in a gem of a cottage and a rare week of scorching temperatures. Similar weather to today in fact.
They were pictured on a clifftop, framed by a glorious deep blue of merging sea and sky. It must have been taken by a passer-by, as they were all together in the shot. That was one of the reasons he liked it so much. The other thing was how happy each of them looked, all blissfully unaware of the heartache and pain biding time in the shadows, waiting to ravage them.
That night, Dan had stared at the photograph for hours, until the dark moment eventually passed. He’d seen things differently in the sober light of the next morning. And yet the location had stayed with him, rising to prominence again in recent times as his outlook grew increasingly bleak. Even so, he’d been hanging on, hoping against hope that something would change. That a chink of sunshine would break through the black cloud enveloping his world and offer some hint of a silver lining.
But