Shifting Sands, page 9
‘Yeah, I heard.’
‘They sold us out, Philip. We were bought out and sold on. I suspect our newspaper is now a minor part of a subsidiary of Logrum Research and its parent company. No, that is incorrect. I don’t suspect; I know. Have you heard of Mark Van-Doren?’
‘No, should I have?’
She turns one of her stares on me. ‘Sometimes, Mr Tyler, I despair for the new generation of journalists. Do you actually read any newspapers? No, don’t answer me. I feel bad enough already. Mr Van-Doren is an American businessman who runs a multi-billion-dollar internet marketing empire. I know little about these things, but I know he made his money during those early silicon-rush years when fortunes were there for the taking — or losing. I always think of it like the Wild West with its frontier settlements, but I doubt it was that civilised, and I doubt the simile is supported by reality. Most of Mr Van-Doren’s riches were obtained by backing young, enthusiastic entrepreneurs, tying them into cast-iron contracts, forcing them to sell cheaply when the market was about to turn in their favour, and leaving them with nothing. He’s a real charmer. He made his money, bought himself several big houses, a couple of private islands, a few large boats, and an aircraft, and then disappeared from sight. He’s a very reclusive individual nowadays. I’ve tried in vain to locate him or even to find recent press coverage. He does no interviews, he’s never seen in public, and there hasn’t been a decent photograph taken of him for twenty years or more.’
‘And this Van-Doren guy is an investor in Logrum?’
‘He owns the parent company which owns the parent company. Mr Van-Doren owns Logrum.’
‘And he’s the rich shit who got me sacked?’
‘I doubt he was personally involved. He deals with bigger fish. You and I aren’t even minnows in his particular ocean.’
‘Plankton,’ I mutter, ‘that’s me — plankton. And this man is responsible for what happened to Wendy?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Indeed.’
‘So, what are we going to do? We’ve no paper, no jobs, and we’ve agreed we’re just plankton to these whales.’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘Go home, lock myself in my bedroom, lie down in a foetal position, and suck my thumb.’
‘Not an option.’
‘Then I’d like to find some secret place where I’m safe from acts of violence, and I’d like to hunt these people down, find out what they’re doing, and tell the world all about them. I want to ruin them.’
‘Well said — a bit melodramatic and rather tabloid for my tastes, especially the last bit — but well said. The reality, of course, is that we’re doomed to failure. They’re too big, and we’re too small — like you said, we’re plankton.’
‘Okay, wrong metaphor,’ I say. ‘Let’s think of ourselves as bacteria.’
‘I like that better. Let’s be a contagious and potentially fatal bacteria, immune to antibiotics. Very good, Philip. I feel better already.’
‘But first, I want somewhere to hide,’ I add, and she gives me a disappointed look.
Then,
‘I know just the place,’ she says, and she presses her foot on the accelerator and hits the outside lane. I close my eyes. I think we’ve entered a time warp.
When we reach Sefton, she drives down to the promenade and takes a left towards the quiet end of town, over the river bridge. A mile further on, she turns right into a holiday caravan park and weaves between vans until she pulls up outside a particularly large chalet, which is tucked behind some dunes and close to a long beach. It’s got a veranda and flower tubs and a barbecue.
‘It’s my sister’s,’ Liz says.
‘Funny,’ I say before I’ve taken full control of my mouth, ‘I never thought of you having a family.’
She gives me one of those looks.
‘Did you think I’d been beamed down here solely to edit a newspaper?’
I’m not sure how to read her. Is she making light of my remark or is this a trap she’s about to spring?
‘Well,’ I say after a moment’s lack of thought. ‘Yeah, I suppose I did really.’
I’m relieved when she laughs.
‘This is our new control centre, the hub of our operations — our press room. It’s also where I live at the moment since I don’t like people watching me. Let me show you to your room.’
‘My room?’
‘You didn’t think it was safe to go home, did you? Don’t be silly.’
‘I did imagine I’d be sleeping in my own bed tonight.’
‘Think of it as a holiday. It’ll make you feel better.’
It doesn’t. I don’t want to go on holiday with Liz. I certainly don’t want to share a chalet with her. I mean, she terrifies me. I won’t be able to sleep — not in there, separated from her by a flimsy partition wall. What if she gets hungry? What if she wanders round in a nightdress? Liz is my boss. I don’t want that level of intimacy. I want to think of her as this ogre who controls my days. My nights are a kind of sanctuary.
Shit, I’d rather stay with Winston.
‘We’ve got to accept they’re probably watching our homes,’ she says. ‘Believe me when I tell you that the thought of spending my days under the same roof as you doesn’t fill me with unbridled joy. You look like the sort of person who watches sport on the television and snores. Both of those habits are banned, by the way, as are smoking and drinking unless I initiate it.’
‘Can I bring my girlfriend back?’
‘You haven’t got a girlfriend.’
‘How do you know?’
‘A woman knows,’ she says with an irritating smile.
I hate it when people say things like that. What makes her think I haven’t got a girlfriend? Is there something about me? Do I give off strange, ‘single man’ vibes? Do I transmit the word ‘loser’ over and over? What the hell...?
‘Don’t think about it too much,’ she says.
Which doesn’t help.
She opens the door and I follow her inside. The chalet is huge; it has a king-sized lounge, a kitchen with all the facilities, a shower room, and two substantial bedrooms.
Next to each other.
Shit.
I don’t snore, not ever, but I’m certain to now, aren’t I? Either that or I’ll lie awake all night, just in case I wake Liz.
‘What does your sister do?’ I ask.
‘She’s an accountant; my brother-in-law is a banker.’
‘Oh dear. Ah well, never mind — rich, no doubt?’
‘Very. You disapprove of money?’
‘I don’t trust it. It goes against my instincts. I was brought up in a well-off family with strong socialist leanings. I spent my teens feeling guilty about it. Besides, I distrust the modern preoccupation with ‘stuff’ and the relentless anticipation of the next sensation. Money encourages both.’
‘You’d rather not have any?’
‘I like having enough, but I don’t want to spend my life touring the world taking selfies just to show what a great time I’m having.’
‘My, I can see we’re going to have some interesting conversations during the long evenings ahead. I can hardly wait.’
Long evenings ahead? A dark cloud descends, bringing with it a feeling of doom.
I focus on the lounge to dispel grim forebodings. There’s a table with two computers and a printer on it, and there are recording devices and all the usual tools of our trade, even paper and pens. There’s some other gear too — stuff I don’t recognise, and there are cameras and lenses.
‘What are we going to do?’ I ask. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘We’re going to create our own newspaper, Philip. We’re going to open an online news site, and we’re going to devote it in the first instance to exposing Logrum and Marc Van-Doren. I have plenty of links in the media and a number of contacts that I have built up over the years; I know people with just the expertise we’ll need. When we’re ready, we’ll have the means to tell the world. I plan to go viral.’
‘They’ll try to stop us.’
‘They won’t know what’s hit them. By the time they try to close us down, it’ll be too late. It’ll be out there in every newspaper, on every news channel, and on every outlet I can think of — and I can think of plenty.’
For a moment, I’m carried along by her enthusiasm. There’s not much self-doubt in Liz. She sees what she wants to do, and she does it. That’s Liz’s way. I’m more the wavering, fearful, paranoid type who sees problems at every turn. Between me and what I want to do, I see swamps, wild animals, minefields, and no footpaths. I have this permanent feeling of dread, as if something awful is about to happen.
It usually is.
‘Can we keep something like this secret?’
‘We have to.’
‘Maybe they’ll be looking for us, if they think we’re investigating them.’
‘Let them look.’
‘We’ll have to work quickly. Sooner or later, they’ll trace us back here.’
‘Then there’s no time to waste. Now, Philip, what are we going to do?’
It sounds like another one of those teacher questions where she knows the answer and I don’t.
‘I’ll find Winston and talk to Benny. I want to see whether this is just the usual Winston bullshit or if something really has happened to Benny. And I want to check out Tim. I want to dig a bit and see what I can find out about him. And if I can’t go back to my apartment, I need to buy some underwear. What are you going to do?’
There’s a gleam in her eyes like I’m a fly, and I’ve just flown needlessly into her web.
‘No, Philip, the question is: what are we going to do right now, before I let you go out to play?’
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘As fully signed up members of the journalist profession, what is our immediate course of action?’
‘I thought I just said... Winston... Benny...’
‘Sometimes, I’m driven to despair. That’s for tomorrow. This evening — nay, most of the night — we have more pressing matters.’
‘I’m sorry... I don’t...’
She sighs a long, deep sigh like her disappointment is about to overflow, swim around the room, and drag her down into a swamp of despondency.
‘Firstly, we’re going to sit at our respective computers, and we’re going to write. Do you remember that — writing? We’re going to write down every damned thing that has happened — everything we know, everything we think, everything we want to know, and everything we ought to know but don’t, and then we’ll top it all by writing down all the things we’re going to find out.’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course.’
God, she does a good line in withering, and I’m just too tired to be withered. Time for a diversionary question.
‘What are you going to do tomorrow while I search out Winston and Benny?’
‘I’ll take a closer look at our Mr Van-Doren. I’ll phone some people — discrete people — fellow professionals who might have information or the means to acquire it, and I’ll start to prepare our news outlet. But first...’
‘We write.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘What?’
‘Coffee,’ she says, ‘the journalist’s best friend. I can’t work without it.’
It’s past two when I finally drag myself to my bed, and I don’t care if I snore. I don’t care if I wake screaming after some nightmare about clinics and security guards. I don’t even care if I spend my night making love to Wendy right next door to Liz. I just want to close my eyes and slip away to somewhere which isn’t here.
When I wake, it’s morning, and I can hear Liz beating a pan to death in the kitchen. I throw on some clothes and stumble through.
‘Scrambled eggs,’ she says.
‘To match my brain,’ I mumble.
‘Get a coffee; it’ll be ready in five minutes. And in case you think I’m one of those old-fashioned women who do the catering, be assured I’m not.’
‘It never crossed my mind, Liz, not for a single second.’
‘Good. You can make dinner.’
‘Pizza, then?’
‘Perfect.’
Chapter 17
I’m actually looking forward to seeing Winston. That’s not something I’d normally admit. It’s not a feeling I’m familiar with, but after the last few days, Winston is the closest thing to normality I can think of. I know where I stand with Winston — even if it’s on the edge of a precipice. I know I can trust him as far as I can lob a camel, but I can read him too, and I know how to ferret out the grain of truth in the whole heap of bullshit he shovels.
Besides, in a stupid sort of way that I can’t explain, I like Winston.
Not many people can say that.
He’s just heading out of his house when I see him. He lives with his mum. She’s got MS or something, and she can’t get around as much as she wants to, so Winston lives in and looks after her. It’s been like that for years — since school days. He arrived late nearly every morning. No one knew, not even the teachers; I doubt they cared back in the day.
He stops in the doorway and shouts, ‘Bye, Mum! I’ll be back for lunch.’ Then he closes the door. When he sees me, he walks across, grabs my arm, and leads me back to my car.
‘They can’t stop me,’ he mutters. ‘Come on.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To see Benny. I’ll break the door down if I have to. Let’s see what the bleeding do-gooders do about that!’
‘We need a better plan,’ I say once we’re in the car. ‘They’ll call the police.’
‘Not if I break their fingers,’ he says. ‘Let’s see them press the numbers with their fingers broken.’
He pauses for a moment, and then he throws back his head and laughs.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘You’re the one with brains. How do we see him?’
I start the engine while I’m thinking.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Let’s break their fingers.’
We set off down the street, and we’re both laughing and saying stupid things. Then Winston directs me down a particularly grimy terraced street and tells me to pull up. He points towards a double-fronted terraced house which has been converted into something that looks like a shop or an office — or some dodgy business which keeps its transactions hidden behind smeared glass and curtains. There’s a board hanging above the door like a sign for a medieval tavern. It says “Marsh Street Mission” in lettering that must’ve been gold once. There are two hands drawn above it that are reaching towards each other as if in friendship. They look like they need a good wash. You could catch something shaking hands like those.
‘Ready?’ Winston says.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ I tell him.
We get out of the car like we’re the good guys in some film and walk across. I beat on the door. It’s not a timid beat either; I give it a heavy thump like I mean business. Like I said, I get all my courage by proxy. With Winston next to me, I feel almost brave.
Then I brace myself and prepare for trouble.
The guy who opens the door is wearing a suit and tie and, for no identifiable reason, I find myself wondering if he sleeps like that. Then I see the neat creases, the clean haircut, and the newly shaved cheeks, and I know he doesn’t. He stands with his hands clasped in front of him and this sickly-sweet smile on his face.
‘Welcome to our mission,’ he says. ‘How can I help you?’
When he sees Winston, a flicker of recognition passes across his face, the eyes glaze just a little, and the smile freezes.
I flash a press card.
‘I’m here to see Benny,’ I tell him with a really lovely smile of my own.
‘I’m afraid Benny can’t see you at the moment.’
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
‘He’s at prayer.’
Winston snorts, but the battle of the smiles continues.
‘Could you ask him?’ I say.
‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘He doesn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Then perhaps you can help me.’
My smile slips away as if I’ve wiped it with a cloth. I can see his anxieties fluttering round his head like moths. He even raises his hand as if to brush them away.
‘I’m really not sure I...’
‘Who brought Benny here?’
‘I really can’t...’
Do the names “Logrum” or “Westleigh” mean anything to you? What about “Wigmore” — “Clive Wigmore?”’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Was Benny brought here willingly or did he have people in white coats holding his arms?’
‘This is a mission. People choose to come here.’
‘Tell me about Benny’s conversion. I mean, it must’ve been a rapid process — very road to Damascus because he had no interest in religion a week ago.’
‘I’m sorry, I really can’t...’
He’s trying to close the door now, but I’ve applied the journalist’s foot, and he can’t — not without letting his mask slip and slamming it against me.
‘I don’t know what you’ve done to Benny, but I don’t believe in all this conversion bullshit, and I’d like to bet that a significant amount of money has changed hands. I mean, look around. You need cash, right?’
‘If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police.’
There’s another voice behind him now, and footsteps are approaching.
‘What’s happening, Julian?’
That’s too much for Winston.
‘Julian? The dickhead’s called Julian?’ he snorts. ‘That settles it.’
Suddenly, the door is kicked open, Julian is sent flying, and Winston has brushed aside his brother missionary and is heading towards the back rooms.
‘The other dough-brain is probably called Nigel,’ he says.
There’s no one in the ground-floor rooms, so Winston heads for the stairs. I stay with Julian and Nigel. They’re trying to clamber to their feet.
