Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time (32 page)

Harry the Dog put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, smooth as butter. ‘I won’t let them arrest you.’

‘But what if—’

‘Nobody’s going to arrest a fucking trainee, darls,’ put in Bombshell. ‘I mean, seriously, why bother? You’ll be fine, serious.’ And she clinked Wee Tim’rous Trainee’s glass. ‘Anyway, so I was in this totes lush bar last night and… where are you going?’

And that was that. Wee Tim’rous Trainee just got up and walked off, right in the middle of a Bombshell anecdote, without saying goodbye, without finishing her drink. Harry and I stared open-mouthed – and then he burst out laughing.

Bombshell fixed her retreating figure with a withering look and then drained the rest of her glass. ‘Whatevs,’ she said.

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, March 17. Amount of my day wasted: 14 minutes. Fellow sufferers: No regulars (Saturday).

Hey you. It’s date night!

Actually, I lie. Or at least, exaggerate. It’s not date night yet. It’s the morning before date night. It’s Saturday morning, I’m sitting at my desk at the worst place in the world; I’m fresh off one of your terrible trains; I’ve got a whole bunch of stuff to write on deadline; and instead I’m writing to you.

I didn’t see Train Girl on my way in this morning, of course – it’s Saturday, and ordinary people don’t work on Saturdays. But I’ll be seeing her tonight. That’s the plan. She was very excited about it yesterday – said she had an outfit planned especially. Something knockout, she said. Something to knock me out.

Do I want to be knocked out, Martin? Is that what I need right now? I’ve got to confess: a big part of me says yes. But another part of me… I don’t know. I kind of think all I want to do is go home and sleep. Maybe call my wife. Maybe not. I’m exhausted.

Anyway. Date night it is. And yes, I did have a shave especially, since you asked.

But first, I’ve got the whole day to get through. Deadline day. What we do this for, the thrill and the adrenaline of getting the paper out. The energy, the enthusiasm, the white-knuckle ride of writing for the world’s most-read English-language newspaper. That’s why we’re here, right?

Except, like I said in my last letter, the office isn’t such a thrilling place any more. Nobody’s talking to each other. Nobody trusts each other. All that gossip, the whispers and rumours, the conspiracy theories, black humour, daily sweepstakes and healthy cynicism… that’s all gone. We each sit at our desks, in front of our computers and our phones, letting every call go to voicemail where once we’d snatch the headset up on first ring – and nobody speaks. Every time anyone leaves their seat they log off; everyone carries their mobiles and laptops everywhere with them. Everyone’s paranoid.

And every time anyone’s asked to do anything, to chase a particular lead, to look into a particular story, their first reaction is not the usual (excitement, keenness, anticipation of the breaking story) but suspicion. Why me? Why not him? Or her? What’s this really about? Am I being set up?

As for the bosses… since Goebbels left we’ve been kind of rudderless. The deputy is acting up in his place, but he’s as nervy and untrusting as the rest of us. And then there are the big bosses. And they really are freaking everyone out.

For three hours yesterday, Martin, we had no access to our own emails. A (printed) memo was distributed, claiming that ‘in accordance with requests from the police’, editorial staff were being locked out of all email accounts ‘for the foreseeable future and at least until their investigations have been concluded’.

There was nearly a riot. You want to try putting out a newspaper with no email access? People got up and walked out. People threatened to resign on the spot. In the end the acting news ed and all the foreign desk went upstairs themselves to sort it out. And finally, after three hours, the email system came back online. Unbelievable.

And since we’re on the subject of incompetence: how about the latest insider knowledge from the fair streets of North Africa? Or rather, not from there (they’re anything but incompetent in North Africa right now. Quite the opposite. They’re frighteningly competent. Ruthlessly, terrifyingly competent. They know what they’re doing, all right. Cleansing the place. The trials, the executions, the public floggings and stonings and hangings. Incompetence is not the word, not by any stretch). No, not from the blood-soaked streets of North Africa. But from the marbled halls and lofty atriums of the United Nations, where the business of North Africa is currently toppermost on the agenda. That’s where the incompetence lies.

All the speeches. All those words. Debating back and forth the merits or otherwise of the North African delegation. Discussing just what the official view on the events of the last year over there is. What line they should be taking. Whose side is the right side. The original regime? The brief, inglorious revolution and its ramshackle attempt at order? Or the new regime, the all-too-competent one? All have blood on their hands. No one is innocent.

Why aren’t we up in arms about it? Where have all the protesters gone? When the original rebels stood up in the streets, when they unfurled their flags and raised their fists and stormed the citadels, they were hailed as saviours. Speeches were made, bandwagons were jumped upon – they were an example to us all. And now?

Where are the protests? Whither the rioters? It wasn’t so long ago they were showing solidarity all across Europe. Maybe they’re all exhausted too.

Or is it cowardice? Apathy? Either way it doesn’t reflect well on anyone concerned. And you know what: I’m not even talking about North Africa any more. I’m not even talking about the
Globe
. I’m talking about my confusion over tonight’s date with Train Girl. I’m talking about my life. When I get worked up about North Africa, when I act like a dick over work, I’m really getting worked up about my life.

Hey, we’ve got a few minutes left. Do you want some more from Beth’s Gmail account? Here’s a choice one, from ages ago, from Christmas, from when I first told her about Train Girl.

The thing is, I know he wouldn’t do anything and that’s what makes it worse. And it’s like I’m punishing him for my stupid mistake. But what can I do? I almost wish he had done something and then we’d be quits, and then I could feel better about being so horrible to him.

I’ve been horrible twice, Kaz, once for doing what I did and now again for acting like I am over this girl on his train, and I know you keep saying that I need to tell him, but how can I now? Now that I know he wouldn’t do to me what I did to him? I’m trapped. All I want to do is say sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got myself into a massive tangle.

And yes, you are right about Dan. I know he wouldn’t have done anything with the girl on the train. He’s not the cheating kind. He’s just not. Even if he wanted to, he’s not. I know him better than anyone, and I know that he’d never do it. But is it weird that something so good as that makes me feel terrible?

Remember that, Martin. I’m not the cheating kind. I’m just not. And wish me luck on my date tonight.

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, March 20. Amount of my day wasted: seven minutes. Fellow sufferers: Guilty New (Spymaster) Mum, Universal Grandpa. (Where is Lego Head? He’s not been on the train for ages.)

Good morning, Martin. How was your weekend? Enjoy your sneaky tabloid fix this week? Was it worth the potential approbation of your neighbours? What’s that? No? No. You’re right. It was not a vintage edition. It was poor. It was pitiful. It had nothing worth the cover price in it. Even my stuff was rubbish.

Sorry about that. Try again next week, eh? That’s the great thing about news, about newspapers – there’s always the next issue, the next edition, the next story.

Tomorrow, for example, is the budget. Tomorrow everything will be more expensive than it is today. Tomorrow, after the price of booze and petrol has gone up yet again, after the NHS and the DSS have been slashed yet again, after the squeezed middle find themselves squeezed further still and the grindingly poor ground further down… tomorrow, amidst all the misery, it will still at least be tomorrow. And there will be something to report in next week’s paper. There will at least be case studies to find (the single parent, the middle-class-two-kids couple, the first-time homebuyer, the nurse, the policeman, the stockbroker, the war veteran) and we’ll be able to put out an edition with at least something to read in it.

So, you know, like I say: the sun also rises, right?

Talking of which, Train Girl’s not on the train this morning, which I’m actually rather relieved about, so I can give you the full Date Night story without fear of interruption.

OK. Here it is. The whole story. Everything that happened. Get ready, Martin…

Nothing happened.

I didn’t go. I stood her up. Well, I didn’t stand her up, exactly, I sent her a text to tell her I wasn’t going. I said I didn’t feel well (true enough, but that wasn’t the reason). I cancelled and I went home and I drank a bottle of wine by myself and I went to bed until Monday.

Why did I do that? Why did I choose to drink sad cheap plonk by myself instead of painting the town red with a beautiful, funny, sexy girl who’s so obviously (inexplicably) got the hots for me? Well, maybe because she’s so obviously (inexplicably) got the hots for me. I got cold feet. I got scared. Because I wanted to… because, when it came down to it, I wanted to. And I know that, despite it all, despite what Beth did, I know I shouldn’t want to. Or if I can’t help wanting to, I shouldn’t do anything about it. I shouldn’t be going out painting the town red with beautiful, funny, sexy girls who so obviously (inexplicably) have the hots for me. Because I’m still married. Because my wife is right. I’m not the cheating kind.

Jesus, Martin, I’ve just re-read that. I’m an idiot, aren’t I? What was I thinking of? Going home alone because of my marriage, of all things? I’ve not even spoken to Beth in God knows how long. I’ve not even spoken to Sylvie.

Do you think I should try to speak to Sylvie? You’re right. I should. If I can’t speak to Beth, I should speak to Sylvie. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll speak to my baby daughter. Maybe that will stop me crying every night.

Au revoir
!

Dan

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London Paddington, March 20.

Dear Dan

Thank you for your recent correspondence. I can tell you that your train on March 13 was delayed thanks to a driver failing to turn up to work on the Tuesday morning. As it was so early, his absence wasn’t noticed for some time, and so the knock-on effect continued for some hours. On the morning of March 17, a mix-up in essential engineering schedules meant that a section of track on the Oxford–London line was wrongly improved, resulting in delays across the whole network.

In addition, I would like to add a personal note. Although I understand the temptations of a night out with Train Girl must be manifold, I would still urge you to try to make amends with your wife before you do anything you might later regret. I am not an especially religious man (although I often pray for less trouble from the Network Rail infrastructure!) but nevertheless, I do hold that two wrongs do not often make a right.

I am also sorry that you feel your own situation at work has parallels with the recent war in North Africa. I feel that you may be allowing yourself a little ‘poetic licence’, however! Although I of course appreciate it is your place of work, it is just a newspaper, and as I’m sure you hardly need reminding, a newspaper that has always been very quick to judge others. And it seems from what I’ve read that the weight of evidence against some of your newspaper’s practices is considerable.

Having said that, of course, I’m sure you have never been involved in any of the illegal activities alleged. I rather think, Daniel, and I hope you don’t mind me saying this, that despite your occasional tendency to bluster, you are at heart a rather moral young man. I’m sure you will do the right thing in the end, both personally and professionally.

With warmest regards

Martin

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Re:
20.20 Premier Westward Railways train from London Paddington to Oxford, March 21. Amount of my day wasted: 19 minutes. Fellow sufferer: Sauron Flesh Harrower.

Well, it’s been a mixed day. A mixed day – and I’m relatively sober. Look at the time! I’m on the 20.20! For once I didn’t go for a drink after work, with the only two people who are still up for any kind of office socialising, Harry the Dog and Bombshell. Even Wee Tim’rous Trainee, the most junior reporter on the whole newspaper, the girl who got me the Narcotics Anonymous scoop, won’t drink with us any more; she spends most of the day in a state of permanent terror that she’s about to be arrested.

And tonight, I didn’t fancy it either. Tonight I came home. Tonight I’m on the train with Sauron Flesh Harrower, for the first time in ages and, from what I can tell, I’ve missed out on some very important developments. For a start, his hacking and slashing and dragon-slaying days would appear to be over. He’s nowhere near a dungeon, or a murky forest, or a barren wasteland or any of the usual haunts. He’s not even in the Tavern of the Slaughtered Magi.

He’s relaxing in a palace. His palace. He’s supine on a
chaise longue
being fed grapes by a suddenly demure-looking Elvira Clunge… and six other women, variously dressed in chainmail bikinis, floaty veils, catsuits and, in at least one instance, absolutely nothing at all. They all seem very attentive, too.