Hadley, page 16
The penny dropped. The onion story. I tried to remember my intro.
“Well, you’re not far wrong there, Susan. It appears a ship carrying a load of red onions was barred entry from one of the islands and the skipper decided to dump his load overboard and look for trade elsewhere.”
“Oh no. What happened?”
“Oh yes. Well, put it this way, Susan, the British tourists are not the only things lying on the beaches turning red and peeling.”
“Ha, ha, ha. Wow, what a story. You mean the onions are being washed up on the beaches?”
“That’s right, Susan. In their hundreds. What a load of… onions. All along the golden beaches of this tropical paradise.”
“And they’re peeling?”
“Well, I expect so.”
“You said they were.”
“They are.”
“So you saw them. And I hear that the locals are showing some pretty amazing entrepreneurial spirit?”
“That’s right, Susan. They’ve been gathering up the onions and selling them at roadside stores, and making a hefty profit into the bargain.”
“And it’s onion soup on all the hotel menus tonight, right?”
“I expect so, but I’d plump for the melon for starters. The soup could be a tad salty.”
“Ha ha ha. Okay, that sounds like good advice from the tropics. But swap me some of that equatorial sunshine for some salty soup any time.”
“Yes.” I didn’t know what he was talking about. “But the onions are really ‘Macho ado about nothing’ as there has been a war raging on the mainland and only last night…”
“I also see, Hadley, from a piece of paper just handed to me, that you’re the Hadley Arnold who saved Chris Torment’s life in Hong Kong a few weeks back.”
“Well, that’s not strictly…”
“And now we are hearing rumours he’s been kidnapped near you?”
Where did they get that from? “Kidnapped? I haven’t heard that. But I am here. I mean, I will find out what’s going on.”
“Our man in deep doo-doo and he hasn’t got a clue. Extraordinary. But there we have to leave the tropics and return to grimy old London where we hear a coal truck has shed its load at the north end of Tottenham Court Road…”
“Hadley?”
“Yes?”
“It’s all over. You’re back with Eric. Thanks for that onion bollocks.”
“Thanks for what?”
“For that bollocks about the onions.”
“You mean that’s it?”
“Bugger off.”
The line went dead, Confused and angry, I hung up and dialled my office.
“Rodney?”
“Hadley? What the hell are you doing and how come we haven’t had a word on Torment? It’s all over the internet.”
“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.”
“What?”
“What’s all over the internet?”
“That Torment has been kidnapped. He is being held in a cell by the same people who tried to kill him.”
“Who’s saying it? What’s the source?”
“A rebel source who didn’t want to be identified.”
“I bet he didn’t.”
“What? Hadley, can you match this?” To match a story in agency journalese is to get your own version and draw a veil over the fact that the opposition got there before you. “Hadley, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Can you get a matcher?” Silly agency journalese again. Like a phoner, which was similar to what my boss and I were having right now. The habit dated back to the days of telegrams which were paid for by the word and the idea was to save money. “I have finished my story and am off to the pub” would become “barwards”.
“I can do better. I can knock it down.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Well, what have you got?”
“What do you mean, what have I got? In terms of hard currency? Tropical diseases?”
“Don’t be a prat. What have you got to give us?”
“I’ve just been talking to the bastard. He’s here with me. Can Fagin take copy?”
“I’ll put him on.”
The adrenalin was running now. Fuck Baxter. And Joe. Just watch your foreign correspondent in full flight. Bollocks to all of you.
“Hadley, it’s Fagin.”
“Bollocks.”
“What?”
“Fagin, I’m sorry. I was thinking aloud. Baxter questioning whether or not I am serious. Fuck him.”
“Are you okay out there?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“So what have you got?”
“Okay. First tell me what the word is about what happened to Torment.”
“I can read it to you. This is from the Hong Kong Express website. Their own story. I haven’t seen the agencies or anyone else with it yet.”
“Baxter said it was all over the internet!”
“Well he’s exaggerating. But London are calling for a matcher. A Sri Lankan rebel group holding British movie actor Chris Torment hostage said on Tuesday it would kill him unless he renounces all ambition to play James Bond.”
“Oh boy. Go on.”
“Second paragraph. The Democratic Association for the Liberation of Jaffna Chinese, a left-wing youth group based on the war-torn island of Macho, took Torment hostage on Friday, just days after the same group tried to kill the actor in Hong Kong.”
“It’s all lies. Any more?”
“Open quotes. Torment is well and will not be harmed on the condition that he gives up his 007 aspirations, comma close quotes, the rebels said in the statement released at their jungle hideout off the main island of Macho.
“New paragraph, open quotes. Without the assurance, most specifically that he never plays the part of James Bond in any movies, the actor will die at the end of seven days, point, close quotes.
“The DALJC is one of two groups seeking either autonomy or independence from Sri Lanka. It said Torment’s movies promoted western imperialism, defamed minorities and his international exposure had to be, open quotes, terminated, close quotes.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay, I’ll give you a story. He’s here with me. He hasn’t been kidnapped. Suggest we play it straight, no urgents or bulletins. A simple, non-shouting story which knocks down that report and says he is on an island preparing…” I paused.
“Preparing what?”
Bloody good question. I only had Joe’s word on any of this and Joe was from Planet Hula-hoop.
“…preparing for his next movie before visiting the monsoon beaches.”
“Okay. Let’s have it.”
“Fagin. I’ll call you back. I have to check a few things first.”
I found Joe walking down to the beach with a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder. I explained my call to the office and the newspaper report that Torment had been kidnapped.
“They said the Chinese group had taken him.”
Joe poured a dozen balls on to a grassy area under a palm tree and looked out to sea, deciding which club to use. He chose an iron.
“Joe? Did you hear what I said?”
Joe mistimed his shot and sliced the ball thirty yards along the sand.
“My bad,” he said.
It was an Americanism I found hugely annoying. “Bad my” would be no less ungrammatical. What was wrong with “whoops”? Joe teed up another ball and hit it gracefully a hundred yards into the waves.
“It would seem that we have a bit of a contradiction on our hands.”
“Did you tell the Express he had been taken hostage?”
“That was the original plan. I was going to capture him and knock some sense into him. Maybe subject him to practices of testicular torture that have been neglected since the Middle Ages.” He teed up another ball. “But now we are embarking on a more touchy-feely enterprise which may take more time.”
Four speed boats spewing out black smoke appeared from the rocky south end of the bay, heading north. I could make out the crew in striped uniforms, about four in each boat, and could hear helicopters.
“Sea Tigers,” I said. They were the naval wing of the main rebel group which, unlike the DALJC, some people had actually heard of. The boats had crossed half the bay when two Sri Lankan army helicopters appeared from behind the main house a hundred yards inland, flying low over the beach. No shots were fired. The boats slapped across the waves and out of sight around the peninsula, the helicopters in pursuit.
“Sometimes it’s easy to forget we are in a war zone,” Joe said, manoeuvring another ball into place with the end of his club. “These parts have known nothing but violence for decades.”
“I am going to write a story now. I am going to say that Chris is taking some R&R after his work in Hong Kong and preparing for his next movie.”
“What movie might that be?”
“I’ll talk to him. See what he wants to say.”
“See what he says and then write your story?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t want to see what I’m saying?”
“No.”
“Because you don’t really know who I am or what powers I bring to bear.” Joe hit another ball out to sea. “Is that it?”
“I know you work for a company that no one knows about and that you are rich and powerful. That’s not really enough. I can’t really quote you, can I, Joe? I have no way of describing you.”
“So write what you see, except pretend you don’t see me.”
“Until you do something newsworthy. At the moment you have just made a lot of accusations and threats with nothing to back you up. I could write ‘a man with a ponytail who doesn’t want Chris Torment to become the next James Bond is toughening up Chris Torment on a beach in the middle of nowhere for his next role as James Bond’, but I don’t think it would make it through the subs. They would excise the line. They would probably excise me. But before they did that, they would question me and I would have to say ‘that’s what the man said’. And they would say…”
“What would they say?”
“They would ask me who you were. Except in much more colourful language. And I would say that you know Panda really well and that you live in a nice house on the Peak and that you’re involved in the movie business and have lots of money and can make explosions at will. But…”
“But?”
“I wouldn’t really be able to answer them.”
There were two quick explosions from beyond the peninsula and two air force jets screamed overhead from nowhere. Joe lined up another ball.
“You do what you have to do, Hadley,” he said. “It’ll all work out in the end.”
“Can I speak to Torment?”
Joe shrugged his shoulders. I found Torment sitting on his bed chatting up one of the house staff who was about thirty and had swinging hips. She had brought him a gin and tonic.
“Hadley, this is lovely Linda.”
The room was big and short on furniture with a wooden beam across the ceiling. A gecko ran up the wall behind the bed. I said hello to Linda, who was lovely and probably had about ten minutes of her lovely life left before being assailed by a flailing white actor with nothing but visions of totty in the grey matter between his ears.
“Chris, I am going to write a story.”
“Good stuff. See you later then.”
“Hold on, I don’t mean to disturb you, but there is a story out there that you have been taken hostage.”
“Hostage?”
“I have no idea who came up with it, but yes. Hostage. Kidnapped by the Chinese rebel group.”
Torment turned back to Linda. “Not that I would mind being taken hostage right now and tied up and…”
“Please try to pay attention. Just for a minute. I will write a story saying you haven’t been taken hostage. Are you with me so far?”
“Okay.”
“Well can you give me a quote?”
“Hadley, this really isn’t a good time. Can’t you make one up?”
“I’d rather not. Tell me that you’re happy, relaxed, enjoying quality time after the hardships of the movie with Adolf Lee and the assassination attempt. And that you plan to meet the Chinese rebel group. If it exists.”
“Tell them about what Joe is doing. Tell them I’m going to be the next James Bond! Man, you have a scoop on your hands.”
“Well, I would rather firm that up with the film people first. Chris? Chris?”
Torment had buried his face in Linda’s sarong just below her breasts. I didn’t want to see any more. Linda was looking at me with a knowing smile.
“Please give me a quote, Chris, and I’ll leave you alone.”
There came an unintelligible, muffled noise from Linda’s sarong. Nothing usable. Chris lifted his head back for air.
“Say this: I am very happy.”
“That’s it?”
“Hadley, not now.”
“You have to say something about the attempted shooting.”
“Do I?”
“The idea I’ve been taken hostage is preposterous. I am very happy to be taking time off after the rigours of Hong Kong and the attempt on my life. I want to meet the group that is suspected of wanting to kill me. This island is beautiful, though the explosions are really scary. How about that?”
“All fine except the last part. You don’t want to make me out to be a coward. Not the next James Bond. I am very happy etc etc… and at last I’ve found some crumpet!”
“Oh lord.”
“No, don’t say that. How about… and at last some crumpet’s found me!”
Back in my room, with little appetite right then for bright, colourful prose, I called up Fagin and gave him my story.
British actor Chris Torment denied a report he had been kidnapped in war-torn north Sri Lanka on Wednesday, saying he was at last enjoying some time off after the attempt on his life in Hong Kong.
A Hong Kong newspaper, quoting an unidentified rebel source, said Torment had been taken hostage by the same group that had tried to kill him and that he had been given just a week to live unless he gave up any ambition to play James Bond.
“The idea I’ve been taken hostage is preposterous,” Torment, always an outside dark horse in the race to become the next James Bond, told Shrubs on Macho Island where he is relaxing before a scheduled visit to communities damaged by disastrous monsoon rains.
Torment was speaking as Sri Lanka Air Force jets battled rebel boats offshore in a war that has lasted two decades.
There was no immediate sign of the Democratic Association for the Liberation of Jaffna Chinese which some say may be a fictitious group, raising questions about the “attempt” on Torment’s life.
Torment stars in Adolf Lee’s new movie, ‘I Love Hong Kong’, which has been filming on location in the former British colony in recent weeks. The release date has yet to be released.
“The release date has yet to be released?” said Fagin.
“Can you fix it up? Date of release is unknown. Something like that.”
“Okay. Baxter wants a word. Hold on.”
“Hadley?”
“Yes, Rodney.”
“Look, this is terrific stuff.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’re calling him an outside dark horse. I’m not sure what that is?”
“Say he has an outside chance, then.”
“But isn’t he a dark horse? Meaning he has a good chance?”
I considered this. “I hope not.”
“What?”
“I honestly don’t know, Rodney.”
“Well, it’s good stuff and we look forward to more of the same. Are you safe?”
“I’m fine.”
“It sounds like this Chinese group is a put-up job.”
“It does.”
“We have people on it. Nothing so far. Mentions on the internet are just dodgy blogs. I don’t want to touch dodgy blogs.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHRIS TORMENT WAS subjected to a rigorous exercise regime while I wrote stories about the island, about the Sea Tigers, about the local mining industry, the war damage, about Torment’s passion for bird watching.
“What’s this about birds?” Joe said on the third day on the island.
“Took me by surprise too. He knows everything there is to know about tropical flora and fauna.”
“You think that’s going to help us achieve our purpose? The fact that he knows a lesser-spotted tree warbler from a tit is going to make one goddam bit of difference? Your stories are not hitting the mark. I want to move more quickly.”
The next day at breakfast, while Torment was being marched along the beach to a cross-island assault course which meandered through caves at the next bay, Joe threw down some pictures on the table.
“Your friend has some pretty strange habits,” Joe said.
The eight-by-ten black-and-white prints showed Chris hanging upside down by his ankles from the beam above his bed wearing nothing but a loin cloth, sunglasses and a leather belt around his neck. His body was covered in oil.
“My god.”
“Pretty damning, right?”
“What is he doing?”
“Some depraved asphyxiation sex thing. The man disgusts me.”
“But those dark glasses hide his face a bit. Maybe it’s not him.”
“Hey, I’ve got a camera in that cell, all right? Who do you think it is? Errol Flynn?”
I flicked through the prints. In one he was holding the belt tight at a right-angle to his torso, in another he had his hand on his crotch and a big smile on his face.
“Wow.”
“Anyway, Shrubs have them.”
“How?”
“We’re back online. There’s a laptop in your room, by the way.”
It was all too convenient. I called Baxter.
“Rodney, I hope we haven’t used these pictures.”
“Not yet. We were waiting for you.”
“I don’t think they are real. Torment is still here with me. But I am now worried about his safety. For the first time.”
“You’re worried about the rebels?”
