A Friend in Deed Read online

  ‘I already worked freelance. It’s like with your contracting work. But instead of being paid the same every month, now I get paid when they take an article. I promised you’d get paid if they took an article, so for you, nothing’s changed.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ As Nigel became more agitated, the chair swinging got more frantic. ‘You promised I’d get paid, because you get paid. Because you work there. Now you don’t work there and only get paid if they want to pay you. So, I only get paid if they want to. That’s not what you promised. I want what you promised.’

  The swinging was starting to unnerve me.

  ‘Look, Nigel, calm down. I can’t stop things from changing. But our deal stays the same. When we get a story published, we split the fee. That’s what I promised.’

  ‘You promised me I’d get paid. You promised me I’d get paid.’

  He was starting to annoy me. ‘Nigel, you will get fucking paid, all right? When we have a story. Now stop swinging in that chair.’

  ‘Promise me. Promise me I’ll get paid. Just like if you were still at the Chronicle. Promise me.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Look, my retainer was for was sixty grand a year, and for that I did a short weekly column and a major article once a month. Forget about the weekly column for a minute, and let’s say that half the articles would be based on stuff you gave me. We’d be splitting thirty grand fifty-fifty on these six articles. Let’s agree that if you get me data on six projects, I pay you your share, fifteen grand, even if the Chronicle doesn’t publish them. If they pay more than thirty grand, I keep the extra. That way we both get what we want.’

  Nigel stopped rocking his chair and looked confused. ‘So you are promising I get paid?’

  ‘Yes, I am promising you get paid.’

  ‘Okay.’ It was like a switch had been flicked in his brain; suddenly he was calm again. ‘But if you break your promise, I’ll be annoyed again. I don’t like being annoyed.’

  ‘You don’t have to be annoyed, Nigel. You won’t be annoyed because I promise you’ll be paid. And I don’t break my promises.’

  ‘You almost did.’

  ‘We misunderstood each other. I’ll make sure I’m clearer next time we talk.’ My anger had dissipated now, and I was feeling a little sorry for him. I started to say each sentence slowly, pausing between them. ‘Now we’ve straightened everything out, I need to go. I’ll call you next week with what I need you to work on, and you can get started. Is that okay?’

  ‘That’s okay. Goodbye.’

  Nigel turned around and started typing. I presumed I had been dismissed.

  I stepped out onto the street and closed the door behind me. I took a few deep breaths to calm down and reflected on what had just happened. Nigel was seriously bizarre, that much was certain, and I’d agreed to give him fifteen grand I didn’t have. I hesitated for a second, wondering if I should pull the plug on the whole thing, go back and tell him it’s over and then run like hell. Sod it. I didn’t have a Plan C. If working with someone who was a bit weird was what it took to keep going as a journalist, then so be it.

  * * *

  The fish restaurant was busier than usual, and I was glad I’d booked a table. I knocked back a glass of the house white before Tanya arrived, helping to settle my nerves after the Nigel contretemps. Tanya spotted me from the host station and greeted me with a cheery wave.

  The banter picked up where we had left off – some light-hearted exchanges re-established the mood. But if she’d googled my author name, she would know all about 1995. No avoiding it anymore.

  ‘So, you checked out Mark Jackson? Then I guess you found out why I don’t write novels now.’

  I could feel my skin prickle. I hoped I wasn’t flushed.

  Tanya looked bemused. ‘I saw your last book was published in 1995, the same time as that court case. Is that what you mean?’

  I gave the faintest of nods. My links to Michael Mitchell are permanently embedded in who I am, thanks to Wikipedia and a few real-crime websites. But I’m lucky. The internet wasn’t around much in 1995, otherwise typing my name would launch page after page of the recriminations and controversy that raged about one of the highest-profile miscarriages of justice in the late twentieth century, swamping everything else I’d done in my life. It still meant people found out, like Tanya, and I’d have to spend the rest of my life justifying what I wrote and what I said. But that’s a small price compared to what Michael Mitchell went through. Fifteen years for a crime he didn’t commit.

  ‘Yes.’ I launched into my confession. ‘Michael Mitchell was a Glasgow gangster in the 1970s, big into money laundering and loan sharking. He was the boyfriend of my best friend at the time, Bobbie, and he ruined her life. Used her to blackmail a police officer and when that police officer turned up dead, she fled to London and tried to start a new life. I’d just had my first book published, based on a true story. I was struggling to think of an idea for my second novel, and so I loosely based the plot on what happened to her.’

  Tanya gave me a look of barely concealed astonishment.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I stammered. ‘But this was two years after it all happened. That seems like a long time when you’re in your twenties. And it was only the germ of the idea for the story, the plot itself was completely different. I went ahead and wrote it, stupidly thinking there would be no repercussions. And there were.’

  ‘What happened?’ Tanya pushed her plate to one side.

  ‘A journalist started sniffing around, tracked Bobbie down and she freaked out. She finally went to the police, which she probably should have done in the first place. Mitchell and his accomplice were arrested, given life imprisonment for the murder of the cop. My book became a bestseller because of all the publicity.’

  ‘And it turned out he didn’t do it? That’s what it said on the internet.’

  ‘Right. Ten years later they found that another gangster killed the policeman. He was trying to set up Mitchell for the murder. This guy also ended up dead, and the rumour was that Mitchell killed him in self-defence, but nothing was ever proven. There was a retrial and Mitchell was acquitted.’

  ‘And you blame yourself. Why?’

  There was the slightest beginning of a tear forming in my eye, so I spoke quickly to chase it away.

  ‘Because it was my stupid book that caused it all. That’s what led to Bobbie going to the police and testifying against him. But we were both convinced he was guilty. There didn’t seem to be the shadow of a doubt. That guy was evil, Tanya. Believe me.’

  ‘I believe you. But Mitchell got what he had coming to him, no? He was a gangster, you tell me.’ She ran her fingers through her hair, like my angst was being transmitted to her. ‘Doesn’t that mean he should go to jail?’

  I had my emotions back under control now.

  ‘It was never proven he murdered the other gangster; he was never even charged with it. Mitchell was certainly a crook, but he was in jail for fifteen years. That’s a lot more than he would have got for money laundering.’

  I dropped my voice to a whisper, as if even after all these years, my words might have repercussions. ‘The authorities were under a lot of pressure, having a cop killing unsolved. When Bobbie came forward, they saw they had a case against Mitchell and arrested him, kept quiet about the other evidence so they could get a conviction. When he was finally acquitted and walked out of court a free man, the recriminations started.’

  ‘Against you?’

  ‘And Bobbie. She was an actress then and had starred in a movie adaptation of my book.’ Tanya’s wavering smile couldn’t hide her incredulity. ‘I know. We were both pilloried for being responsible for sending an innocent man to prison and shamelessly benefitting from it.’

  ‘Why? He was hardly baby sleeping in the wood. In my country, the police arrest who they want first, find the evidence second. Sometimes justice ne
eds a little help.’

  ‘That’s not how we do things here, Tanya. Or so I thought. The cover-up came to light during a public enquiry into another miscarriage of justice case in the early 1990s. Bobbie took it worse than me, gave up acting, got divorced. We took out our anguish on each other, both said things we shouldn’t have and didn’t speak for years. I discovered, when I tried to start writing, I’d lost all my confidence and couldn’t write with any commitment. I packed it all in, did lecturing and ran training courses for a while and finally got into journalism and blogging for a living a few years ago.’

  ‘I not understand,’ Tanya said. ‘Bad man gets what he deserves. Maybe not best way, but you say, “That guy was evil, Tanya. Believe me.” I believe you. You are hero, not villain.’

  ‘That’s not how the world saw it. And it’s not how I see it myself. Bobbie and I both gave evidence at the trial; like it or not, we were both part of the plot to get someone – anyone – arrested for a cop killing. I would have said anything to put Mitchell behind bars. I didn’t tell any lies, but I still feel as if I was part of the whole shitty witch hunt.’

  ‘Then you are stupid Scottish guy, and your Bobbie friend is not much smarter. You tell me this story, I’m proud of you, not ashamed. If man does bad things, he deserve bad things happening to him. This was long time ago. There is old Russian proverb, “Don’t wake up trouble, let it sleep quietly.” You need to let it sleep.’

  ‘I’ve tried. I kept telling myself I had done nothing wrong, but every time I see Mitchell on TV the past comes back to haunt me. He became a human rights campaigner on his release, specialising in criminal injustice. A bit of a celebrity, ironically enough. I’ve never written another book since. Now I’m—’

  I could feel a bone stuck in my throat, and tried hard not to choke. I looked down at the grilled brill on my plate. The rib bones were shaped like talons, almost a centimetre long. Vicious-looking things.

  I popped a piece of bread in my mouth to try to dislodge it, sipped a glass of water. Nothing.

  ‘I think I’ve swallowed a bone.’

  Tanya gave me a worried frown.

  ‘Excuse me a minute,’ I croaked. Without waiting for a response, I picked up the rest of the bread and headed for the loo.

  I tried everything; no use. Spat out some saliva, full of blood. Nothing else for it – if it wasn’t going to move, I had to go to A & E. Bloody embarrassing.

  I went back to the table to explain my predicament. I suggested finishing our meal, see if the bone would come loose, but Tanya was having none of it. ‘People die from choking on fish bones,’ she said. ‘Go to hospital.’

  We paid the bill and went outside to hail a taxi.

  ‘I’ll say my goodbyes now,’ I said. I was starting to be able to talk normally, but I could still feel the bone lodged in my throat. ‘Sorry to finish dinner so abruptly. I’ll tell you the rest of the story next time.’ I leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘I’m coming to hospital with you. Check you’re okay.’ As Tanya spoke a taxi appeared and she hailed it. ‘To the nearest hospital, please,’ she said to the driver.

  ‘That’ll be Charing Cross, love. Jump in.’

  I hesitated. ‘You really don’t need to come,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there for hours; there’s nothing for you to do. Thanks very much, but I’ll be fine.’

  She jumped into the taxi. ‘Da, you will be fine. But you will need company while you wait, and I want to make sure you okay. Come on.’

  I relented and climbed in. The taxi dropped us at the hospital and I got myself checked in. When the triage nurse came through from the back and I explained what had happened, she said they’d get to me in an hour or so and told me to take a seat. I had to assume that if I ended up writhing on the floor and gasping for breath, that time frame would be brought forward. Back in the waiting area, Tanya had nabbed two of the few comfy seats.

  ‘Well done getting these,’ I said, every word causing the bone in my throat to vibrate, reminding me of its existence.

  ‘I win race to get them. I tell losers other seat needed for my poor sick grandfather.’ She winked. ‘So, dedushka, what can I do to cheer you up? Is bone still painful?’

  ‘Only when I talk. Sorry.’

  Realising I wasn’t up for conversation, Tanya played with her mobile phone and then burst out laughing.

  ‘It say here choking on fish bone is number three in list of dumbest ways to die,’ she told me. ‘You want to know number one?’

  I gave a weak nod.

  ‘Strangled by pet python. Good news, Duncan. There are even more stupid people than you.’

  It was three hours before I saw a doctor, and it took him two minutes to get some long tweezers and extract the bone. He offered it to me as a souvenir, but I declined. Sheepishly, I returned to where Tanya was waiting.

  ‘All done, we can go now,’ I said. ‘Well, you can’t say I don’t know how to show a girl a good time. Thanks for waiting with me. You were right; it did help a lot you being here. Sorry I wasn’t much of a conversationalist.’

  She shrugged as if spending three hours in an uncomfortable waiting room was no big deal. But my brush with the Grim Reaper had given me a new perspective on things. Tanya was right. Maybe it was time to stop waking up my past. Let it sleep soundly.

  chapter five

  My plan was floundering.

  Nigel had come up with a load of stuff on Act Now!’s fracking ban, purporting to show that they’d wilfully ignored scientific data saying there were no safety issues when they pushed ahead with a total ban in England and Wales. But I’d struggled to turn it into much of a scoop. What Nigel had uncovered was massively technical, and difficult to make much sense of. In the end, all I could do to squeeze a story out of it was to extract a few quotes that did seem to imply that the experts thought the government was acting irresponsibly in making the decision for populist reasons. But hardly anyone cared, and those that did mainly agreed with Act Now! that the experts shouldn’t be trusted. The Chronicle bought the story for the equivalent of my monthly retainer and I still had to pay Nigel. No one else wanted to cough up any syndication fees. I started looking at house prices in Scotland.

  The only positive thing was that after the meltdown when I told Nigel that things had changed at the Chronicle, I had worked out how best to interact with him. I’d already seen how stressed he got with an unexpected turn of events, and I saw the same reaction when things were physically changed from how they had been before. I made sure I started off by saying the same things to him every time we met, and even wore the same clothes if I was organised enough, so that he stayed calm and was not distracted by anything other than what was important to talk about. He took in every last detail of the things that were around him, and I could imagine his mind being bombarded with stimuli, all fighting to overwhelm him, all being lodged in his brain, never to be forgotten. He took everything literally, and at face value, and so we developed a code where, if I only promised to do something, it meant I would try but might not succeed. If I solemnly promised, it meant it would definitely happen. I might promise him that I’d try to get a story published, but I could solemnly promise I’d pay his retainer every month.

  I also had to force myself to endure endless discussions, or rather monologues, about conspiracy theories. Who killed JFK? Were the moon landings faked? Did an alien spacecraft land at Roswell? You name it, Nigel was into all of them. Intrigues and collusion were his daily obsession, and almost every meeting with him got to a point where, when my eyes started to glaze over, I would have to politely but firmly tell him this was all very interesting, but we had to get back to talking about what pays the bills.

  Other than that, however, he was able to function well. Socially inept, but I soon learned to understand that as eccentricity, not malice. And forget any attempt at sarcasm or irony. But as long as I was careful with my w
ords, gave him time to assimilate what I was saying, he could be an invaluable asset in the new role I was trying to carve out for myself. Point him in the right direction and he delivered. The only problem was, I didn’t know which direction that was.

  * * *

  If I wanted a conversation with a normal human being, there was always Tanya. We were seeing each other every other week and I started to get to know more about her past, as she opened my eyes to the realities of growing up in eastern Ukraine, living out her teenage years against a backcloth of hostilities between Russia and Ukraine.

  ‘When I was young girl, I was super-excited that Ukraine decide to look west for our future, not to stay country cousin of Russia,’ she told me one evening. ‘We enter Eurovision Song Contest for first time, then win it the following year. I remember thinking we were now most super-trendy country in Europe.’ She laughed. ‘Russia tell us to start behaving, or they switch off gas pipeline to Kiev, but we not care. Too busy dancing in the street singing Ruslana’s song, thinking one day we join the West.’

  Her face darkened. ‘But no way was Russia going to risk Ukraine going over to NATO while there was big naval base in Crimea. Then people in Crimea suddenly decide they want to hide under Mother Russia’s apron again, Russian troops are sent in and in five minutes they are having referendum there to say goodbye to Ukraine, become patriotic Russians instead.’

  She shook her head, her lips pressed into a fine line. ‘So, bam! Vote is taken, people there say yes to deal, Kremlin goes “Thank you very much”, and before Western governments wake up to what goes on, we lose our historic Crimea.’

  As she spoke, there was real passion in her voice, with a cynical edge I had never heard from her before.

  ‘I remember that,’ I replied. ‘The first time a country had forcibly taken back territory in Europe since the end of the Second World War. Without a shot being fired. New way to invade, I guess.’