Christopher Brookmyre - Parlabane 04 (5 page)

'Mr Parlabane has struck us as precisely the kind of glib and opinionated hack who turns a profit denigrating things that he knows little about and which secretly pique his numerous insecurities. For that reason, we would like to challenge his prejudices and expectations by throwing down the gauntlet and telling him to smell the glove.'

'Aye, very good. You were doing well until the glove remark. I saw
Spinal
Tap
on the telly at the weekend too. What does it really say?'

26

' "Glib and opinionated prick." Nah. It's a formal press release apart from a header paragraph which does request you specifically and exclusively. I couldn't think why, so I phoned the PR company up, and they
did
have the right guy. They know you're the resident hatchet-man and they know you've been through a few scrapes in your time, so they thought you'd have an interesting perspective.'

'Interesting sounds too gentle a word.'

'Oh, they're aware you're likely to slag them off. The girl was a bit coy here and there, as if they're quietly confident you could be in for a pleasant surprise, but they're ready for a kicking.'

'So why waste the freebie on me? Can't they get some chinless wank from the
Daily Mail
?'

This was Parlabane's revenge for the 'glib and opinionated prick' remark. Maria's ex bidey-in now worked at the
Daily Mail
. He'd have referred to the guy as her ex-lover, but it was impossible to imagine anyone on that paper being in possession of a functioning penis.

'If some chinless wank from the
Daily Mail
trashed the new Tarantino movie, would it put you off seeing it?'

'No, it would be the best recommendation I could think of.'

'Well, it cuts both ways. Presumably a thorough panelling from you would be just the thing to convince those high-end macho types you were talking about that this is the kind of experience that would blow their hair back. And in the unlikely event that you write something positive, they can say look, even a complete prick like Jack Parlabane thinks we've something to offer.'

'Was it the
Daily Mail
remark?'

'Yes.'

'Good. So either way, they get what they want. What do you get?'

'Good copy, I would hope. Come on, Jack, it'll be fun.'

'It will not be fucking fun.'

'Well, at least you'll be able to have fun saying how little fun it was.'

Parlabane thought about it, or at least pretended to. He was sold way back, on the flimsy and admittedly pathetic basis of the offer's implicit egostroking, for even backhanded compliments were compliments nonetheless. There was also the element of challenge being less intentionally presented by a company negligently deluded into believing there really was no such thing as bad publicity.

The downside was actually having to go on the fucking thing, to say nothing of the prospective company of the kind of twats who would sign up for this crap voluntarily. It was for this reason that he told Maria he'd do it on the condition that he could bring his own photographer. There was no way he 27

was putting himself through something like this without an ally, and he had just the man in mind.

'Who?'

'A friend of mine.'

'Does he have much experience taking pictures? Maybe a CV or a portfolio I could take a look at?'

Parlabane thought about Tim Vale's CV, at least the little he believed he knew for sure about it, and his photographic 'portfolio'. It would have been a dream to see how coquettish Maria's face looked across the light-table as he laid some of Tim's work down upon it for her evaluation. 'This is an extremerange telescopic-lens study of two middle-ranking Politburo members engaged with a Finnish call-girl in what is technically referred to as the spit-roast position. What do you think of the composition? Do you think there's too much glare off this subject's arse-cheeks? And here we have an earlier work, an infrared sequence of a dissident being tortured by Stasi agents in a lock-up in Leipzig. Yes, those are wire-cutters. Oh, and mustn't forget his more minimalist period, as typified by this microfilm of documents pertaining to the true extent of the Chernobyl disaster and its projected economic and infrastructural ramifications.'

He settled for: 'He knows what he's doing.'

And lo, it came to pass, that the pair of them were chugging up the A9

in Vale's well-weathered ancient Land Rover, the unrepentantly shoogly and rugged pre-Freelander type that was seldom seen without at least two sheep or four squaddies hanging out of the back.

'So how come you're bored? I thought you were doing rather well these days. Didn't you win an award or something like that?'

'Oh, Christ, everybody wins an award these days in Scottish journalism. I was right up there in the pantheon alongside Best Fixed Odds Prediction Compiler.'

'I think Story of the Year or whatever it was probably carries a little more weight than you're allowing.'

'More weight than I was comfortable with. Blowing the lid off Moundgate turned out to be something of a mixed blessing in terms of career moves.'

'I take it, getting you out of jail and off a murder rap appears in the credit column here.'

'Granted. When I got out of jail the first time, I was practically unemployable, despite what I had to offer in terms of the things I do best. Then the second time, after the big story broke, everybody wanted to hire me, and now I'm practically unfireable despite no longer
offering
the things I do best. That story made me famous; famous enough, anyway, in circles where I was most effective only if I was anonymous.'

28

'But didn't you do that big undercover thing last year about the Big Firm or whatever you call them?'

'The Old Firm,' Parlabane corrected. Vale was referring to his throughthe-looking-glass discovery of how either side of the Glaswegian footballing fault-line perceived the other. They didn't consider themselves extreme - they each hated the extremists on the other side. Each had painted a picture of the other lot's intolerance and extremism in beliefs and attitudes, but Parlabane had failed to find much evidence of these beliefs or attitudes actually being held. In effect, he found a lot of angry folk who thought the world would be a better place without people like
them
, but
them
, the people as described, didn't exist, and the tragedy was that their world wouldn't be better if you could make them see that. They needed an enemy to project their anger and loathing on to.

'It was hardly undercover,' he went on. 'I just went to a few games, drank in a few pubs and earwigged a few conversations. It's easy to be anonymous among football supporters, especially the loud-mouthed numpties who want to believe the world is full of folk who agree with them. But these days there isn't a PR office or ministerial advisor who doesn't know exactly who I am.'

'You made yourself the story, that was your mistake. Same as the spy game, Jack: when you make it about you, you end up exposed.'

'To be fair, there were other parties scheming pretty hard to make it about me too. Beadie, for one.'

'And you played right into his hands.'

'Guilty. The consensus is that I subsequently redeemed myself, but in practical terms much of the damage was irreversible. I've got a bigger salary, lots of clout around the paper and more editorial freedom than I could once have dreamed of, but I can't help feeling like the pipe and slippers are upon me. Ratified respectable status. Ach, I don't know. Mid-life crisis shite, complaining about nothing, ain't I?'

'Sounds like it, old chap.'

'I mean, nobody's tried to kill me for more than three years. I should be pretty pleased about that. But part of me takes that as a sign of slipping standards.'

They both laughed, Vale bending forward over the steering wheel, his eyes narrowing as they did in moments of the greatest mirth and sincerity. Some people looked younger when they smiled, but when Vale did, his age simply seemed frustratingly indeterminate in a different, sunnier way.

'Seriously though, old chap, you've batted an impressive innings in that particular field. But there's glory also in having the judgement to know when it's time to declare.'

29

'I know you're trying to annoy me when you start using analogies pertaining to that bloody awful game.'

'To quote your fellow Scottish journalist, Bob Crampsey, I consider it a day wasted on which one passes up the opportunity to mention cricket. However, my point remains sincere. How many people have tried to kill you, Jack?'

'I don't know. I've never felt like counting them up.'

'Perhaps it's time you did, as an exercise in perspective. What you have to bear in mind is that the scoreline someone in your profession would -

and should - normally be looking at is zero, apart from psycho ex-lovers and the like, which don't strictly count as we're only looking at attempts caused directly by your work. Let me start you off with a big one: the then Secretary of State for Scotland, Alastair Dalgleish.'

'Nah, strictly speaking, Dalgleish didn't personally try to have me killed. It was Roland Voss he had killed, and I got in the way of the mopping-up operation. I'm not sure how much Dalgleish even knew about my involvement until it was too late. It was his ex-security-services hired thug, George Knight, who tried to have me killed; Sarah too, and Nicole who was holed up with us at the time, ironically for her own safety. Ah, yes, George Knight. Charming individual. Would have been a shoe-in for Home Secretary if Thatcher had been aware of his gifts.'

'So that's one: and oh dear, see? We've exceeded that "normal journalist"

baseline already and we've only just begun. Who else?'

'Okay, let's see. Stephen Lime. He really did personally try to kill me. Sarah too, again. Sad how intemperately some people can react when you burgle their office, haxor their PC and derail their murderous plan to score a swift few mill.'

'Quite. That's two. And then there was the PR guru type, Mr Beadie, which makes--'

'No, we have to go back before we can go forward. Someone tried to kill me in LA, but that one'll have to remain anonymous: the prick with no name.'

'You didn't even know his name and he wanted you dead? That should tell you something: sounds like the homicidal equivalent of casual sex.'

'No, I meant it was a hitman but I never knew who sent him. Could have been one of. . . let's say I pissed off a lot of people over there, so it wasn't exactly a narrow field.'

'Thus you further my promiscuity analogy.'

'They didn't all want me dead, Tim. I hope. Just one of them. So him, or maybe even her, then Lime, then Knight.'

'And I'm assuming - nay hoping - Beadie was the last?'

'Yes and no.'

'Ye-- How can he be yes and no: he either was or. . . '

30

'Lime tried to kill me again while I was in prison. I wasn't sure whether he counts twice.'

'For the purposes of what I'm trying to demonstrate, then yes. It's attempts we're counting.'

'In that case, you'll have to notch up another for Beadie, then. He only put up one contract, but there were two attempts to scoop the pot. I'm pretty sure he was also planning to kill Sarah, if you're keeping a tally of subsidiary murder attempts.'

'You bloody well should be. That's three times your wife's life has been in jeopardy because of your activities; few of which, I should add, would be recognised under even the most liberal definition of the word journalism.'

'Nah, only twice. The first time was as much her own fault as mine. And she was only my wife for the last one.'

'Oh, you're clutching at straws now. And no amount of pedantry changes the fact that there have been repeated attempts on your life and Sarah's, all because of things you've done for the sake of a byline.'

'That's a bit trite, Tim. There was a sight more at stake and you know it. I could as easily say you did as much - and a lot more - for the sake of a pay cheque and a pension. Neither of us was doing it merely because it was our job.'

'True, but only one of those jobs was
supposed
to involve covert surveillance, burglary, computer hacking and butting heads with professional assassins. Granted, you got away with it - even saved a few more lives than just your own, and hats off to you for that. But as I said, there's a wisdom in knowing when it's time to declare.'

'I have declared, Tim. Why do you think I'm reduced to looking for my kicks on this pitiful excursion?'

'But I'm sure I heard the good doctor Sarah say you received a death threat only last month from some of those lovely Countryside Alliance types.'

'More like six months ago, maybe a year. All I did was suggest that the Kite mark should be temporarily withdrawn from Barbour clothing until it had been investigated whether there was a link between wearing it and certain, em, shall we say, neurological symptoms. Anyway, death threats don't count. You should see how many the sports editor gets. It doesn't take much to have the monobrows reaching for the green-ink biro and their double-spaced scribble-pad. You need to pose a lot more of a threat before someone genuinely attempts to rub you out.'

'I can understand your perverse pride in that, Jack, but I hope you appreciate that pride is all it's worth. I think you should be grateful to have snagged a spot in the comfort zone and survived to enjoy it, given the number of enemies you've made and the ways in which you made them. Don't worry that 31

the grass is growing under your feet just because you're not collecting any new ones. And if it's bothering your ego that nobody's taken a punt at you recently, I'd recommend you find an alternative source of self-esteem pretty damn pronto.'

'It's cool, Tim. You can spare me the counselling. I've already had that particular dark night of the soul. The reasons for my past behaviour have been long since laid bare and dissected. Insecurities projected into isolationism, ego-driven desires to humble those who make me feel small, id-driven thirst for visceral thrill-seeking, to say nothing of a self-loathing manifested in a conditioned and channelled but nonetheless dangerous self-destructive streak. I'm down with the self-analytical shit, daddy-o. I am well aware of how insane some of my past deeds were, and of my less altruistic reasons for doing them, but that doesn't stop me missing it all now and again.'