“Those things will kill you, Richard,” I say, getting into the passenger seat and closing the door. The car smells of coffee and smoke and him. The scent is familiar, and not altogether unpleasant. My other senses are less impressed. I ignore my instinctive urge to clean away all the mess that I can see—mostly chocolate bar wrappers, old newspapers, empty coffee cups, and crumpled Coke cans—and I try not to touch anything.
I notice that he is wearing one of his trademark retro T-shirts and a pair of ripped jeans, still dressing like a teenager despite turning forty last year. He looks like a skinny but strong surfer, even though I know he has a fear of the sea. His blond hair is long enough to be tied back, but hangs in what we used to call “curtains” when I was at school, haphazardly tucked behind his pierced ears. He is a Peter Pan of a man.
“We all have to die of something,” he says, taking another drag. “You’re looking well.”
“Thanks. You look like shit,” I reply.
He grins and the thick ice is at least cracked, if not broken.
“You know, you don’t always have to tell it like it is. Especially in the morning. You might have a few more friends if you didn’t.”
“I don’t need friends, just a good cameraman. Know any?”
“Cute,” he says, then taps the ash from his cigarette out of the window, before turning to stare at me. “Shall we just get this done?”
There is a slightly menacing look in his eyes, one that I do not remember. But then he gets out of the car, and I realize he just meant the job. I watch while Richard checks his camera—he might not be a perfectionist when it comes to hygiene, but he takes his work seriously—and I feel a wave of gratitude and relief that I’ll be working with him today, for so many reasons. Firstly, he can shoot the shit out of any story, and make me look good even when I feel bad. Secondly, I can be myself with him. Almost.
Richard and I slept together a few times when I was a correspondent. It isn’t something that anyone else knows—we both had good ring-shaped reasons on our fingers to keep it that way—and it isn’t something I’m terribly proud of. I was still married, just, but I was a bit broken. Sometimes I find the only way to ease the worst forms of pain is to damage myself in a different way. Distract my attention from the things that can and will break me. A little hurt to help me heal.
I’d never defend infidelity, but my marriage was over long before I slept with someone I shouldn’t have. Something changed when my husband and I lost our daughter. We both died a little bit when she did. But like ghosts who don’t know they are dead, we carried on haunting ourselves and each other for a long time afterward.
This is a stressful job at the best of times, and in the worst of times we all take comfort where we can. Most news is bad news. There are things I have seen because of my job that have changed me, as well as my view of the world and the people in it. Things I can never unsee. We are a species capable of horrific acts, and incapable of learning from the lessons our own history tries to teach us.
When you witness the horror and inhumanity of human beings close up, every single day, it permanently changes your perspective. Sometimes you just need to look the other way, and that’s all our affair was: a shared need to remember what it is like to feel something. It is not unusual for people in my line of work—half the newsroom seems to have slept with each other—and I sometimes struggle to keep up with the latest staff configurations.
Richard pulls on his coat, and I see a glimpse of a toned stomach as his arms reach for his sleeves. Then he drops his cigarette, extinguishing what is left of it with the sole of his large boot.
“Coming?” he asks.
He leaves the tripod behind and we walk toward the woods, no need for sticks in the mud here. I do my best to avoid all the puddles, not wanting to ruin my shoes. We don’t get far. Aside from a couple of snappers, we are the only press to have arrived, but it’s soon made clear that none of us are welcome.
“Please stay behind the police tape,” says a petite young woman.
Her clothes are too neat, her vowels are too pronounced, and she reminds me of a disillusioned class prefect. She waves her badge—a little self-consciously, I note—when we don’t respond, as though used to being mistaken for a schoolgirl and having to show ID. I manage to read the name “Patel,” but little else before she puts it back in her pocket. I smile, but she doesn’t.
“We’ll be setting up a wider cordon soon. For now, can I please ask that you stay back down in the parking lot. This is a crime scene.”