The only notice Miles took of McKinnon’s threat was to include it in the story. The real problem he had with the story – the best he had written so far - came from inside the newspaper group. He should have known.
He was sitting at his desk on Monday, writing up the police round material and a late story – the president of the local community radio station had died, again, with the position now being seen as a ticket to an early grave – when someone walked into the newsroom and tapped him on the shoulder. The reporter turned to see a dumpy, red-faced man perhaps in his 40s, in a fading tee shirt that said Brisbane Sun set out in the manner of the masthead of that distant paper. He had a hearty manner.
“Hey mate, I was after the newsroom for the Koala Bay Bugle.”
“You’re in it.”
The stranger looked around the tiny room, puzzled. “I meant where the reporters are.”
“You’re in the news room and you’re looking at the reporters, all of ‘em. I’m sorta busy now. Is this about a story?” Eyeing the tee shirt, it crossed Miles’ mind that the stranger might be a journalist.
The stranger looked around the tiny room in astonishment. “This is it?”
“All the news that’s fit to print. What’s on your mind? I’m on deadline.”
“Justin said something about the cops being here.”
Miles finally began to pay attention. “Did Justin send you?”
“Oh right, yeah, sorry mate. My name’s Martin Towers.” They shook hands. “Justin’s an old mate from police rounds. He’s hired me for a bit of consulting work on these things.”
“Does that mean you’re going to help out with a few stories?”
“Nah, nah mate.” Towers seemed amused by the idea. “I’ve been hired to do the rounds of the newspapers and give you guys a few pointers. Show you what you’ve been doing wrong.”
Miles was occasionally nettled by the way it was always assumed his work was inferior to the journalists who worked on larger publications, and Towers’ casual remark about ‘going wrong’ was not tactful. In any case he was on deadline.
“Haven’t been told anything about you.”
“Oh yeah, well, you know Justin. Not exactly the best organised guy around.”
“And I’m on deadline. Got a couple of things to get out of the way, so you’ll have to come back. I can spare some time this arvo or tomorrow.”
The visitor shook his head. “Can’t do that, mate. Justin wants me to get on. I gotta get to the South Forest paper tomorrow.”
“They’ll be just as pleased as I am; their deadline day is tomorrow. Maybe you wanna talk to Justin and rethink your schedule.”
“I also want to talk to the subs...” Towers said, as if Miles had not spoken. He looked around, as if he expected to see another room with sub-editors in it.
“They’re at South Forest, where they produce all the papers for the group. Why don’t you go to South Forest to talk to them.”
“What are they doing there?”
“Subbing the papers, mate. I’m writing now what they have to sub soon.” Miles was beginning to find the newcomer annoying. That fact that he knew nothing about the work flow or internal structure of the group was about par for the course for a Bugle Group consultant. Perhaps he might even be useful, if he could be persuaded to come back at a reasonable time. For his part, Towers had never previously strayed far from newsrooms with more than 100 journalists scrambling around to get the next day’s paper out. He was dimly aware that the Koala Bay Bugle was a small paper, but he thought that meant it had perhaps half a dozen journalists plus a few subs.
“Okay, I’ll catch up with the subs later,” said Towers, still puzzled. “Now I thought first I’d have a look at some of your stories and we could go over them, ya know…”
“Mate, I’m ON DEADLINE!”
“Oh right – but it’s a weekly and you’ve got urgent stories now?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Why didn’t you write them last week?”
“Because I didn’t know about ‘em last week,” Miles snapped. “Do you mind?”
Miles turned back to his PC hoping that the annoying consultant would go away. No such luck.”
“Okay,” said Towers, after watching Miles type a sentence, “why don’t you print out some stories and I can look at them while I’m waiting.”
“Fine.” Miles printed copies of half a dozen stories on his list for the week, without looking to see which ones, and went back to work. The printer chattered and Towers went quiet for all of a minute.
“This is a great story, mate.”
“Um, oh yeah its good.” Miles look across the tiny office to see that Towers was holding a copy of his declaration of the poll story, then went back to work.
“You just need to sex up the bit about the factions.”
“Um what?” Miles looked up from his PC in alarm. “All the stuff about the factions is in there.”
Towers smiled pityingly. “You didn’t believe the stuff about the deal being done, and this guy being a loose cannon.”
“The metros wrote at the time a deal had been stitched up,” he protested, “and I even checked with the rank and file. I know a couple now. They all say the same thing.”
His reward was another pitying smile. “If they’ve got their stories consistent, it just means they’ve all been to the same briefings.”
“So how do you know any different?”
“Got my own sources, mate,” said Towers, tapping the side of his nose.
“About this story? You’ve only just found out about it.”
Towers did not break stride. “What you need is some really good pics of the two guys.”
“We’ve got pics of the event.”
“No, that’s no good. I mean of the two guys.”
“We’ve got pics of the two guys at the actual incident; the event; the dustup.” Miles was past the irritation stage. Now he disliked this consultant, who did not listen.
“Of these two guys going at each other?”
“The confrontation. I was there, like it says in the story. So was the photographer. It’s there in the story.” In his irritation, Miles prodded the paper with his forefinger.
“I’ll have a look,” said Towers grudgingly, although without really listening, and see if they’re any good. “We can always reshoot with professionals.”
“With prof.,” Miles spluttered over the word professional, thinking of Emma’s reaction. “What ignore our own photographers when they get pics of the actual event?”
“So where are the pics now?”
“South Forest I guess. Sometimes I see proofs but I haven’t seen any this week. Not much time. You’ve gotta rely on the subs to set it out.”
“Right, right! Listen Miles, I’m willing to help you a bit ‘o help on this one, just to sex it up you understand.”
“I don’t need any help,” said Miles, indignantly, “and I don’t want you sexing it up. You go and find your own stories, with pictures.”
Besides being accurate as it stood, the story did not need any “sexing up” or “beating up” to get on the front page of the Koala Bay Bugle. The consultant, on the other hand, and through long habit, was thinking about getting the story up near the front of a daily. To a certain school of journalists that meant dragging factions and further controversy into the mix, whether they were meant to be there or not.
“I just need to check on some stuff,” said Towers, without seeming to hear a word Miles said, “then I’ll get down to this South Forest place. Thanks for that Miles.”
He dashed out, clutching the printout of the declaration of the poll story, leaving the other stories for that week untouched on Angela’s old desk. Alarmed, Miles rang Eve, who said the story had already gone through subs onto the front page and they weren’t changing it for anybody. He sent a message to Emma warning her that there was a total lunatic on the loose and then called Justin, only to get Bronwyn who confirmed that the group had hired a consultant called Martin Towers to help. She did not see any point in passing on a message from Miles. After the distraction caused by the consultant, Miles went back to grinding out the last two stories, without the help of any highly paid consultant, or anyone else.
Towers had come and gone so quickly that Miles had almost forgotten about the consultant by the time he came in the next morning.
Kelly looked at him curiously. “You haven’t been causing trouble, have you, Miles.”
“Me? No! Good as gold; clean as a whistle, at least until the paper hits the mailboxes this afternoon. Why what’s up?”
In the absence of a readily accessible email system, Kelly had taken to writing his messages on note paper which she left at the front of her desk. Miles then thought to check his mobile which he had accidentally turned to silent. Several of the people he had spoken to about the declaration of the poll story, including Bashaw, had left messages concerning the “story in the Telegraph”. His heart sank. The Bugle group’s one effort at any sort of perk for its journalists was a copy of the Telegraph which Kate looked at in the morning, and Miles looked through for local stories in the afternoon. He grabbed that day’s copy which was still on Kelly’s desk and flicked through to the page five lead.
Bylined ‘Martin Towers’ and headlined, ‘Factions battle in Koala Bay’ it read,
‘Labor party factions in NSW are shaping up for savage infighting following a fist fight between members of rival factions at a declaration of the poll in Koala Bay.’
Newly elected MP Geoffrey Bashaw of the right and left-winger and former pre-selection rival for the seat of Eastern Hawkesbury Barry McKinnon, tussled in front of the electoral office before a startled crowd on Friday.
The two men fought as Australia Electoral Commission officer, Bernard Crossman, called vainly for police assistance.
There were several paragraphs about how the left and right factions were at each other’s throats with the center faction ready to stab the victors in the back. After that nonsense the tussle at the electoral office was as he had written it, except that Bashaw and McKinnon were described as “trading blows”. Miles stood there stunned. He simply could not believe it. He had been scooped on the best story he had had, ever, having it stolen off his own desk by the a consultant hired by the company. He sat down in the empty news room simply staring at the paper and still only starting to comprehend that he had been “hornswoggled” as the Americans might say, when Towers himself came bounding up the stairs. In an evident good mood, he swept into the news room and perched himself on the edge of Angela’s old desk. For a few moments, Miles could do nothing but stare at the idiot, opened mouthed.
“I see you’ve seen the story in the Tele. Good, good! See that’s what Justin and I want to do with these good local stories is get the metros interested in them and then cross promote. I got a freelance gig at the Terror to bring in more stories like those. Now this week, I’m gunna really do the blitz on this story..”
“WHAT!” Miles had found his voice at last. “You mean, steal stories from me, add a couple of pars of bullshit at the top and scoop my own paper with it? Then call it cross-promotion?” Martin, you’re a fucking lunatic! You don’t cross promote the paper by scooping it! And you stole it, outright!”
“But you came out today,” he protested, “so the stories came out together. They wouldn’t let me change it at South Forest, so I wrote it up right for the Tele guys....”
“We didn’t come out this morning, you LUNATIC!”
“Huh! But you were on deadline yesterday?”
“For the paper to be printed last night to get into mailboxes by today arvo.”
“Oh!” Towers puzzled for a moment then shrugged. “Didn’t get the timing right on that one but, anyway, you can see how the system should work, when it does.” He smiled ingratiatingly, just to show that he could be human and make mistakes like the next man.
“And you didn’t even give me a joint byline, bastard!” This was the really sore point for Miles. “No mention of the paper, nothing!”
“Oh yeah, well,” Towers shrugged again. It had not occurred to him that suburban journalists might have feelings about stories. “I had to do a lot of work to that story Miles..”
“Bullshit! You added crap about factions in a new top, changed a couple of references to the fight and the rest is the same. You stole it, slapped your byline on it and gave it to another paper.”
These allegations were so serious that even Towers paid attention, at least to the extent of explaining his position patiently, as if speaking to a rank beginner.
“Miles, I had to do a lot to the story…”
“Bullshit! Even so, so what. The story is still mostly mine and you weren’t there, I was. I didn’t get a joint byline, its plain STEALING.”
Miles was on his feet by this time standing right beside Towers. He weighed less than the consultant, but he was a lot fitter and a whole lot madder. Finally, realising, dimly, that he might have gone too far Towers abandoned his perch on Angela’s old desk and edged towards the door, still trying to explain the unexplainable. It would all be alright if Miles would sit down and listen to the explanation from his journalist superior. Miles did not feel like listening. Kelly was watching, fascinated. Kate had also emerged from her office to stare. It was another piece of exciting office theatre at the Bugle Group.
“Look Miles, this is just a shitty suburban rag. Who’s going to care about the story in this thing. I gave it some space, some air.”
“You shit! If the paper’s small then it’s okay to steal from it? Is that it?” By then they were out of the office proper and almost at the stairwell. “I’m a suburban hack, so it’s okay to steal from me? Is that it.”
“It’s not like that, Miles. I was giving it real coverage. I didn’t know it takes ‘em so long to produce one of these things.”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“It all happened in a rush Miles. I had to write the story. Look, I’m right against the stair well here. I need to move forwa…”
A mistake.
In order to move away from the stairs, Towers pushed Miles. He did not mean it as an aggressive move, but Miles was not in the mood to be pushed. He pushed back – hard. Caught by surprise the consultant stumbled and fell backwards, arms flailing. Kelly and Kate, who could both see what was happening, gasped. Fortunately for both the reporter and the consultant, one of Towers’ arms caught the stair rail and only slipped down several steps before he stopped, feet higher than his head.
Miles gained some slight satisfaction from seeing the consultant sprawled against the stair wall, hanging onto the rail, mouth opening and shutting like a gold fish.
“Miles, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Towers said finally.
“Getting you to BUGGER OFF! THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING.”
“Miles, phone.”
“Huh!”
He turned to see Kelly waving the receiver of the phone on her desk.
“Its Justin.”
Miles turned away from the consultant and took the phone.
“You’ve seen the Telegraph?” said Justin cheerfully.
Miles did not trust himself to do anything more than grunt.
“Have to speak to Martin about this cross-promotion thing. If he’s going to work for us he can’t just go out there and get his own stories and run ‘em in the Tele.”
“I’ve just thrown that lunatic of a consultant you hired out of here for stealing stories,” snapped Miles. Justin was silent. “I made the mistake of showing him some of my stories yesterday, including the one about the declaration of the poll. I was at it, not him. He stole it, slapped some made up bullshit about factions on the top and sold it under his own name to the Tele, scooping me by about 12 hours. Then he had the hide to come back here and say it was cross promotion. No byline for me, no mention of the paper – nothing. Just a straight steal.”
“Look.. he’s a good journo..”
“That justifies him stealing?”
“But he said he got stuff about factions. new material.” The charges were so serious that, for once, Justin had to pay attention to one of his own reporters.
“Look at the version that’s in the paper being printed, then look at the Tele. He’s got no other sources, the stuff about factions is just crap he made up. I checked out the factions angle and didn’t put it in because none of it is true. There was a deal, not a dispute. If I see this guy here again; I’ll throw him out again.”
Miles slammed the phone down, before Justin could answer and walked out, watched by Kelly and Kate. Ros had gone out. He glanced briefly at the front stairs to see that Towers had wisely decamped and went down the back stairs. At the peeling doorframe he paused for a minute, thinking that this time he really should not bang his head against it in frustration, but he had to do something. So he stood with his back to the frame, as he always did when the Bugle group particularly annoyed him and banged the back of his head against it.
THUMP!
That felt good.
THUMP!
Better still. Perhaps if he tried harder...
THUMP!
OUCH!
Miles staggered, holding the back of his head, clutching at the frame for support, then sat down heavily on the back step.
“Are you alright?” It was Anne, standing a little way up the stairs. She must have just come in the front stairs, just missing Towers and asked Kelly where he was. “What were you doing that for?”
“You know - normal day at the office,” gasped Miles holding the back of his head in agony.
“Huh! Well, I hope it hurts bad.” She pushed passed him to stand at the bottom of the steps, outside the building, folding her arms. “I have a bone to pick with you.”
Someone else who wanted to cause him grief, thought Miles. Well it was the day for it. He had not spoken to her since the bushfire.
“But what have I done?” he protested weakly, still holding his head. He felt sick.
“You think I’m a rich bitch!” she snapped.
Not for the first time in his troubled dealings with women, Miles was mystified. He tried to focus through the pain
“When did I ever say that?” he moaned.
“Thinking I’d be worried about a guy having money or not. Or about his car. You’re a bastard Miles Black!”
“..A guy having money?..” Miles searched his pain racked mind for several seconds before realising where this accusation must have come from. “This is something I said to Tomasina.”
“Yes, this is something you said to Tomasina,” she said, glaring at him in a way that, Miles guessed, was meant to wilt him. He thought she looked very pretty. “You said I was only interested in rich guys.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did too!”
“I did not. I said I was intimidated by rich girls with red cars.”
“You did not! You didn’t say intimidated.”
“It’s a lot closer than your version,” he retorted. He tried to remember what he had said. “I said you seemed beyond me.”
“Ha! So you think I’m a rich bitch.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“I did not!” Warming to the argument, Miles was beginning to forget about his head.
“Anyway I’m not rich.”
“Excuse me! Poor people do not drive a Red BMW sports. And guys who drive clapped out Ford utes with dodgy panel jobs, don’t ask out girls driving red BMWs without hesitating.”
“The car’s a lease thing through my dad. It doesn’t mean I’m rich. Anyway, guys are shameless. It wouldn’t matter if they rode bicycles, if they thought they had a chance.”
“I’m from the bush. We are honest, straight forward, trustworthy and true. Like boy scouts.”
“Ha! What rot. Guys are guys. Always out for what they can get.”
Seeing that Anne was starting to soften, Miles switched his line of attack.
“Anyway, I tried to ring you last week.”
“Rubbish!”
“It’s not!”
“’tis.”
“I called!”
“I know you never called.”
“All I got was a ‘this number is no longer in service’ message.”
That stopped her cold. She had opened her mouth to snap at him but instead said, “When did you call.”
“Think it was Thursday.”
“Well, you take your time about calling - I changed my numbers, after I gave you a big chance to call and you blew it because you think I’m a rich bitch.”
Miles had become very interested in the conversation. “I’m from the bush – we have to think about these things.”
“Hah!”
“Anyway, what was wrong with the number?”
“Allen – he sued me and my aunt, and Jake and Tomasina, and you. It was all just sooo embarrassing, after you all helped me. Then he still wanted to go out with me. I couldn’t believe it.”
“He wanted half a million dollars from dirt poor me. I asked some lawyers I know and, when they stopped laughing, told me to throw it away. They said, he’d be after the insurance coverage on the house.”
She nodded. “Tomasina told me that.”
“As part of that grossly misrepresented conversation?”
“Hah!” she said, but smiled slightly. The storm had passed and Miles thought he could see sunny weather ahead.
“What did you do?”
“Gave it to dad’s lawyers. They said to forget about it.”
“Well..,” he stood up still rubbing his head.
“Are you okay?”
“Planning a walk along the beach to recover. Does the super-rich city girl want to walk along the beach with the dirt-poor country guy? There is a kiosk at the end of the beach. I probably have a few coins for ice creams.” The ex-schoolies had gone on to university or jobs and it was morning; the beach would be quiet.
She smiled again: “I don’t know any super rich girls, and I should get back to the office.”
“They won’t miss you for half an hour. How long were you going to spend yelling at me, anyway?”
“Not long, I guess. I don‘t know how long it takes to yell at people who deserve it.”
“Add twenty minutes onto that time and tell ‘em at work you stopped to help a couple of homeless people on the streets.”
“I’m not rich and horrible.”
“Okay, condescend to walk with me for half an hour and we can point out super rich, horrible people. Then we’ll see how they’re different.”
She raised one eyebrow, considering the proposition. “How will we know if they’re rich?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me - maybe they’ll be driving Porsches.”
When Miles returned to the office later that morning, by the front stairs, with Anne’s new phone number on a scrap of paper in his pocket, he was a very different man from the furious reporter that had left by the back. He even nodded cheerily at Kelly, who was momentarily surprised at the change in mood. Then she remembered the girl she had directed down the back stairs just after Miles had gone, and thought that it was about time.