People in Season (4 page)

‘Who’s representing him?’

‘Tracy and Co.’ Barry smiles sourly, as though the fact is a lemon he’s bitten into.

‘Tracy and Co.’ Ava repeats, the sound of triumph clear in her voice.

‘I am tired of only publishing what their PR give us. What did we lead with yesterday? Some scandalised minister defending taxi drivers rights to nap on the job?’

‘You want something interesting, this is it.’

‘I’m parched for a drink and you’ve just teased me with water before spilling it down the drain.’

Sensing her editor’s headache, Ava throws a bottle of painkillers that she keeps on hand, watches Joanne dry swallow one, and catches them as they’re thrown back. ‘There’s an electric fence around this guy. Anything you say about him that isn’t good publicity is libel. That’s why nobody else has picked it up. The best we can hope for is for it to go viral, let the community break it and report on the reporting.’

‘Ah, just have some balls for once, Joanne,’ Barry says, petulant. ‘We’re supposed to be journalists.’

The editor buries her head in her arms, lamenting, ‘He was so beautiful.’

‘Give me the homepage,’ Ava grins.

‘Honey, your flash riot is barely a story.’

Replacing the image of the doctor, Ava flicks a photo from her phone to the screen. It’s a picture of a featureless young girl standing under a pillar of smoke which billows from a destroyed car.

‘Picture of the year?’

Barry squints an eye, ‘It’s alright.’

‘Give me the homepage and I will write a story so steeped in personal experience that it will wake everybody up to the fact that flash riots aren’t going away until we deal with them. That it’s our responsibility to do as much.’

‘Why’d this riot spark up anyway? You’re a bit short on details.’

‘Why?’ Ava grins and types on the table panel so the words appear over the photo. ‘Why did this happen? A little girl’s question to you.’

Joanne is tonguing the side of her cheek. ‘That could work. Do we know who she is?’ Neither Barry or Ava fill the gap she leaves at the end of this question. ‘Do we need to find out?’

‘Don’t be silly, that’s not our job. Worst comes to worst, people will lose interest in two weeks and the cop’s rep will be tarnished for a day. The little girl? She’s our daughter – everybody’s daughter – faceless. Nameless.’

Joanne lets this sink in. ‘It’d be nice if we had something to direct the outrage at, put it into context... but the public. They can pin it on anyone really. It’s universal. Everyone has somebody they want to blame for something, right? Let them choose and then we can run with it.’ Looking to her writers to confirm the reasoning, Barry is only able to offer her a noncommittal shrug while Ava, straight-faced, is quiet with confidence. ‘Type it up. Get that photo over to the fixers, I want her coat at least twice as bright. Is that oil leaking from the car? Make it look like blood. Have it all online in the next twenty minutes.’

Barry groans in protest and Ava allows herself a victory yelp, but as they notice Joanne’s face overcome with a sudden frost, they turn to see where the cold snap has come from.

Social Agent Mullen is standing at the door.

‘So that’s how the news is made at ChatterFive.’

They thought they’d locked him out of their transactions. Seeing him stand there is like finding out an adult has discovered them indulging in a game they’re far too young to be playing. Having weighed the merit of each story by the emotional content and initial impact against possible libel, only now, under the gaze of the social agent do they notice how untouched it could all seem. Their reactions to the realisation are noted one by one in the mind of Francis.

Joanne, feathers ruffled, removes her glasses. ‘That’s how the news is made everywhere, Agent Mullen. I thought we’d closed that door.’

‘It was, eh, left open a little.’

She stiffens at his explanation, Ava smiles, somewhat titillated, and Barry winks to him knowingly.

‘There you have it, ladies and gentleman,’ Joanne sours. ‘If you leave a crack open, anybody can work their way in. Even the unassuming Agent Mullen.’

‘It’s not like that,’ he says, flustered.

‘Don’t worry about it mate,’ Barry pats him on the shoulder as he leaves the room. ‘I look forward to the interview. Got a few suspects myself.’

Ava follows her colleague, but stops as she passes the social agent to reach out and adjust his crooked tie. ‘Keep up the good work, Francis. Let me know if you need anything.’ As he gulps to find an answer for her, she’s already dashed away. Having performed one sleight of hand, she’s intent on executing her next.

For his part, the social agent only finds himself wondering how she knew his name. He’s chastising himself for it when, like a punch to the chest, he realises that he can’t remember if he told her and scrambles to retrace his steps back to the car pack. There’s no mistaking it, Francis Mullen has been dazzled. Left with the man, Joanne Victoria keels forward to touch her forehead against the cool of the table.

‘Agent Mullen, can you turn the light off on your way out?’ And as Francis obliges the request, she says, ‘Thank you, Agent Mullen.’

In a window on the second to top floor of her building, Ava, framed by a set of undrawn curtains, reclines, half naked as music rolls over her to pump faintly against the glass. At a still point in time the window is a painting, then, as though Ava’s forgotten to check something, she hunches toward her laptop, face a vacant cast as she taps at the keyboard to bring up the details of the night ahead. Seemingly pleased, she sits back, crosses her leg and watches it bounce, then stands and closes over the glowing screen. Draped on the couch is a knee length stretch satin dress. Gathering it, she guides a foot through the slip and pours herself into the material for it to hug her curves. As she leaves the window, it becomes a landscape without reference – her apartment is empty but for the necessities of life and a few pictures strategically placed to cover bare walls. Ava is of the type who searches for entertainment outside her home rather than in it. Sometimes she feels like she only exists if other people’s attentions are on her. When she returns a minute later, heels and a silver necklace have been added to her outfit. Stood at the glass, it’s as though she’s struck with wonder by the web of people who populate the city sprawl, but as she fixes the necklace against her chest, pulls down the dress a little on one side and flicks back her neck length hair, it’s apparent that she’s only looking at her own reflection. Turning now, she bunches a scarf and handbag under her arm, stops at the door, looks in another mirror and sprays a mist of perfume to walk through as she exits the apartment. The music continues to play and the lights remain on when she’s gone, but as they’re set to do, turn off after five minutes of her absence.

Ava is on her way to meet Doctor Alistair Evans.

When she left the conference room earlier that day you might have set a timer to count down. She had a mission in mind, and her article on the riot, satisfied as she was to get her way, became something to be dealt with rather than indulged. What she wanted was to track down the intern who had brought the doctor’s story to Barry Danger, so once her piece was typed up she went about her business of compiling a list of those currently employed. Finding the one who helped Barry had been as easy as finding a soup stain on the boorish man’s suit. She’d first divided the interns into two categories, the few names she knew and the many she didn’t, then on learning them, the many Barry would like to sleep with and the few he wouldn’t. Of nine interns, five were female, and of those, three were overweight. Between the remaining suspects, one was well out of Barry’s league and, so far as Ava could tell, completely unaware of the English mug’s existence. The other was pretty enough to get his attention and just timid enough for him to feel like he might have a chance. Once she found the girl’s name she decided to talk to her privately. Email is a medium for cutting ties rather than creating them. Conversation, where buttons are revealed in expression, tone and body language, was the mode Ava chose. And besides, Agent Mullen was about. Even though he seemed set on avoiding her for the rest of the afternoon, he was stuck in the corner of her vision like an eyelash she couldn’t rub away. When she found the girl she decided she had to talk to her somewhere out of the social agent’s sight. With that, she leaned back to get an angle on the intern’s desk and staked it out until she saw her heading for the bathroom. Like the kickback from a sniper rifle, Ava’s chair was left spinning as she chased the girl into the stalls.

‘Nice shoes, Susan.’

The intern Susan Ward had stood a heartbeat, surprised that the glamorous assistant editor was not just talking to her, but giving her a compliment too. Ava noticed the girl’s suppressed giddiness and realised she had a better shot at getting into her pants than Barry did.

‘These things? They were on sale,’ she said, and not wanting the talk with Ava to end at that, added, ‘I love your blouse.’

Lipstick uncapped to spread across her mouth, Ava allowed a silence for the girl to fill.

‘Your articles got me through college.’ Her voice bounced off the bathroom walls as she routed nervously through her handbag. ‘I was such a tomboy before I found your stuff.’

Turning to review Susan, Ava noted the skirt the intern was wearing – past her knees but a long way short of her ankles – the frumpy cardigan, faux pearl necklace and finally, the thinly framed glasses that made her face seem rounder than it was. And that hair. Was that supposed to be red? She decided not to take it as a fault of her writing, but as the girls inability to learn, that she was dressed so badly.

‘Please Susan, you’ll make me feel old. Next thing you know I’ll be puffing on an e-smoke all day and screaming that I have a headache at anybody who coughs.’

Susan, startled by the jab at their boss, laughed, and without thinking about it sensed the invitation to create a bond. ‘She is a bit scary. Some days I’m glad she can’t remember my name. Usually if she grabs onto me for something she’s forgotten what she asked by the time she’s stormed off. Less pressure on me that way at least.’

It was a kiss on the cheek, the shared joke, all the more powerful for how close the intern knew Ava was to Joanne. With the link created, Ava felt free to move around the girl, sniffing for information and eventually, poking for it. She passed comments about the complications of office politics, the little respect Joanne had for Barry, and how if you wanted a story out there, it was best to find another route. As they walked back to their desks Susan turned to look at Ava, who wrinkled her nose and smirked in response. By lunch she’d received an email from the girl detailing everything she had learned about the doctor, including the formalwear auction he would be attending that night. She explained that she knew Ava was busy with the torrent of replies on her riot article, but she felt the story of the doctor really needed to see the light of day and that maybe Ava could push it where Barry Danger had failed. It was everything Ava needed and more. She responded with two dots and a curve and let her awareness of Susan recede to the back of her mind as Alistair came to the front – she was zoning in, observing him in a wide circle that was shrinking as evening approached. The fact of the matter, so far as she saw it, was that the man belonged to her. She need only collect the prize.

Behind Ava now, on a knot of roads at the edge of Dublin, her apartment building disappears into the orange night sky. In a taxi heading for the auction, its driver is asleep at the wheel. The car is navigating its own way. Usually this would bother Ava, but tonight she’s focused in one direction. The roads are trails and buildings at either side sweep by in a blur. The doctor spends the twenty minute drive stuck like a splinter in her mind. When they arrive, she inserts her card and pin, deciding to tip the driver generously as a reward for not bothering her on the trip, and leaves a note in the comment box, thanking him for not snoring.

As she exits the cab, bulbous lights drape toward her. They’re hanging on wires between the steeples and pillars. The building itself, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, is a fortress scooped of its innards and stuffed with well dressed drunks, sauced up to pay more money at auction. Climbing the courtly steps, Ava the invader trots at a steady pace, passing women who hold their heels in hands and have their husbands lift the trains of their dresses. Into a crowd of well dressed biddies, she goes unnoticed until the clammy palm of an usher closes around her arm.

‘Sorry, Miss...?’

‘That’s ok,’ she smiles and walks away from his sticky grip.

‘Your ticket?’ the usher cringes.

‘My husband has it inside.’

The excuse offered is a painful one for the usher to accept. She isn’t even wearing a wedding ring. As he searches around for help, he finds his colleague is busy with a crowd. Left to decide for himself, Ava, of all people, is the one to reassure him.

‘It’s alright, I’m supposed to be here.’

Stealing a glance at her tight skirt he finds it hard to disagree. She walks and dresses and talks and holds herself like she’s never had to question a choice in her life. The usher is still taking her measurements when she nonchalantly plucks a glass of wine from a passing waiters tray to complete the picture of expected guest. Sniffing at it contentedly, she takes a sip, ‘Mm, you should sneak yourself a glass of this.’

Charmed, the usher bows in begrudged acceptance. ‘Alright,’ he says, embarrassed to be letting her away with it. ‘Not like there’s anything in there worth stealing.’

And without correcting him, she takes her leave.

The church hall is empty of pews and fitted with round tables laid out in a checker board pattern. It had been bought and desanctified in the hopes of establishing it as five star restaurant. Tonight the art it held, it’s spiritual worth all but gone, is being sold for its kitsch to help fund it. A crush of voices wash over Ava as she enters the room and become a murmuring wall as they echo off the arched ceiling. Stationed between two pillars overlooking floor, she’s surrounded by tables decorated with candles and littered with gaudy handbags. Everyone in the room is golden, bathing in the light of a newly fitted chandelier that smoothes their faces like water over stone. At the front, on an altar where the absent auctioneers stand is set, an elderly gentleman has been dusted off to eke out a stilted dribble of piano notes. Ava allows a group of revellers to pass by, find their tables and clink glasses together when they do. In search of Alistair, she walks the length of the hall, clicking her heels loudly to be noticed. He’s hidden in this sea of black suits somewhere. Biting her lower lip, she wonders if she should fake fit of choking – Is there a doctor in the house? – and briefly considers doing so before deciding it would cause too much of a scene.

It doesn’t take much effort to find him anyway.

The women about, classless phonies that they are, do their best to hide the glances his direction, but they betray enough desire for Ava to spot the object of their affection before long. It’s the man from the picture alright. Sat at a table by the confession box-come-bar, brought to life and no less attractive, he’s as striking in the soft lighting as he is in any other. Heart quickened in expectation, Ava is about to cross the hall to take her seat with him until she sees the arm of his date, presumably, wrapped around his as she gushes over whatever he said. The young woman is wearing a long Gucci dress and has it mismatched with an Armani handbag. Noticing her overbite, Ava is somewhat disappointed that the doctor didn’t select a better companion for himself and doesn’t blame him when he fidgets away from her grip. Like a badly chosen tie, the woman is making him look cheap. Ava only means to mask her pity for her as she comes between the two, but in a blink they catch each other, Alistair and Ava, and like magnets drawn close neither can look away.

The doctor has been waiting impatiently for something interesting to happen and seeing Ava now, he realises he’s found it. Their dark eyes sink into one another’s and Ava nods. Granting him a smile, she tips her glass of wine before making a show of leaving it on the table at her side. Slinking toward the bar, her invitation is clear.

Alistair, catlike in his observation, savours her with a deep breath as she walks by. She can feel his desire. Replaying the image of the woman holding his arm she decides that they haven’t been together long and that if they’re a new couple, he won’t be interested in her anymore – not that it would matter. He had, after all, been squirming restlessly in his seat when she found him.

At the bar, she orders another glass of wine, and when the barman stands waiting for payment, she informs him that the man she’s with will take care of it. Spoken like a spell, these words summon Doctor Alistair Evans to her side.

‘Jameson, ice.’

He lays his wallet on the bar, but it drops to ground, seemingly without his notice.

Ava doesn’t tilt her head and so far as she can tell, he hasn’t done so himself, but when the wallet hits the ground, she grins, teeth bared, knowing the gambit well. Bending at the knees, she picks it up, and slowly rising, hands it to him in ritualistic calm. He doesn’t pass comment as he pockets the wallet once more.

‘I’d like a cigarette,’ she informs him.

‘I’ll join you,’ he says, leaving money on the bar.

Somewhere behind them, the woman Alistair was with is trembling, nervous as a rabbit who all of a sudden realises how far away she is from her hutch. His hand fitted into the small of Ava’s back, heads turn when they walk through the mill of people, the strangers admiring this enchanting sparkle that doesn’t often pass them by.

Under the shivering bulbs outside, Ava lights a cigarette and waits for Alistair to say something.

He obliges with, ‘Those things will kill you.’

‘I’m sure something far more interesting than that will get me in the end.’

They each take the time to evaluate the other. Ava approves of his choice of tux but reads from it that he’s compensating for something, working class roots perhaps. She begins to plan how she’d like him to dress and how she’d go about applying it. Her throat tingles as she does so and she swallows, feeling him circle her as she had circled him. She knows what they’re doing and so does he, the only question is, who will take the first bite?

Afraid that it won’t be the doctor, Ava is about to open her mouth when he takes a step forward. Looking down, coquettish, she exhales a cloud of smoke that he leans through to speak in her ear. With a shiver sent down her spine, she feels the words more than she hears them.

‘Let’s pretend we’re untouched.’