“Oh my goodness, did they call you in because of me? I’m so sorry again—you could have had a nice morning off for a change, stayed at home with your family.”
I hold on to the news anchor’s chair for balance.
“It’s fine, honestly,” I say, and manage a smile that hurts my face. “I’m looking forward to being a correspondent again to be honest, so I’m delighted you’re back. I actually miss getting out of the studio and covering real stories, meeting real people, you know?”
Her expression remains neutral. I interpret her silence as a way of saying that either she doesn’t agree, or doesn’t believe me.
“If you’re so excited to get out and about again, maybe you should take a look at that murder that broke overnight? The body in the woods?” Cat replies.
“That’s not a bad idea,” says the Thin Controller, appearing by her side and smiling like a monkey with a new banana.
I feel myself start to shrink.
“I haven’t seen the story,” I lie.
I think now might be a good time to pretend I’m sick. I could go home, lock myself away from the world, and drink myself happy—or at least less sad—but Cat Jones continues to speak, the whole team appearing to hang on her every word.
“A woman’s body was found overnight in a place called Blackdown, a sleepy Surrey village according to the wires. It might turn out to be nothing, but you could go check it out maybe? In fact, I insist we find you a camera crew. I’m sure you don’t want to just … hang around here.”
She glances over at what we call the taxi rank—the corner of the newsroom where the general correspondents sit, waiting to be deployed on a story, often not getting on-air at all.
Journalists with specialist subjects—like business, health, entertainment, crime—all sit in offices upstairs. Their days tend to be busy and satisfying, their jobs relatively safe. But things are very different for a humble general correspondent. Some had quite promising careers at one time, but probably pissed off the wrong person, and have been gathering unaired stories like dust ever since.
There is a lot of deadwood in this newsroom, but the tough varnish of media unions can make it tricky to carve out. It is hard to imagine a more humiliating seat in the newsroom for a former news anchor than correspondent corner. I’ve worked too hard for too long to disappear. I am going to find a way to get myself back on-air again, but this is the one story I don’t want to cover.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
My voice sounds strange, as though the words got strangled.
The Thin Controller shrugs and shakes his head. I notice the light dusting of dandruff on the shoulders of his ill-fitting suit, and he sees me staring at it. I force a final smile to dispel the latest awkward silence.
“Then I guess I’m on my way to Blackdown.”
We all have cracks, the little dents and blemishes that life makes in our hearts and minds, cemented by fear and anxiety, sometimes plastered over with fragile hope. I choose to hide the vulnerable sides of myself as well as I’m able at all times. I choose to hide a lot of things.
The only people with no regrets are liars.
The truth is, even though I’d rather be anywhere but here right now, Blackdown is the one place I don’t ever want to go back to. Especially not after last night. Some things are too difficult to explain, even to ourselves.
Killing the first one was easy.
She looked as though she didn’t want to be there when she stepped off the train at Blackdown Station. I could relate to that. I didn’t really want to be there either, but at least I was properly dressed for the cold in an old black sweater. Not like her. It was the last service from Waterloo, so she’d already had a late night, but clearly still had plans for the evening with her red lips, blond hair, and black leather skirt. It looked like the real deal, not fake like the woman wearing it. Her career choice always seemed so selfless and compassionate to others—running a homeless charity—but I knew she was far from being a saint. More like a sinner trying to make up for her wickedness.
Sometimes we all do good things because we feel bad.
Blackdown was deserted, just as it always is at that time of night, so she was the only passenger to get off and walk down the lonely little platform. It’s a sleepy variety of town, where people go home and go to bed early on weeknights, shrouded in a cloak of middle-class manners and conformity. A place where if something bad does happen, people remember how to forget surprisingly quickly.