Spike It

1

I hadn’t planned to go to work drunk. It was just the way things worked out.

It was Monday night. I was at my local, can’t remember with whom. Some guy a lot like me.

Know what? my friend said to me as we huddled over our Scotch glasses. The pub was full, and clogged with smoke and smokers. The jukebox played some lovelorn ballad by Dire Straits. We were hoarse from the shouting and the smoking. And we were drunk. Quite drunk.

I love this town . . . love this town. Lodda people godda lodda bad things to say about London. But not me, mate. He paused, picked up his drink and gulped from it. I love this town.

I nodded. He was right, of course. Why had I never seen it quite this clearly?

Yurright, I said. London. Less drink to London.

We drank to London.

I mean, people talk about Paris, Rome. Livable ciddies they say to me. Livable ciddies, but I’m asking you. He held a whisky glass and a cigarette in his hand, but he was still able to release one finger to stab at me. ". . . Nah. Nah, I’m telling you . . . What have they got that London hasn’t?" He paused. A reply was expected. I thought carefully before I gave it.

Nothing, I said. Not a goddamn thing.

Exactly, he said triumphantly. He paused again and looked around, as if what he were about to reveal was not for general consumption. He leaned closer. Lived in Birmingham once, he said.

Izzatrigh?

He nodded, lips pinched. Evidently the memory was still painful. Longest three months of my life, I don’t mind tellin’ you. Longest three months of me bleedin’ life.

I can imagine, I said solemnly. Only too well.

He regarded me through squinting eyes. You lived anywhere else?

I waved my non-drinking hand insouciantly. All over.

Really? His face filled with pity.

All over. A stranger in a strange land, that’s me.

Stranger in a strange land. Yeah, that’s good. Like sorda poetry. Godda remember that one. Tell the wife. He looked at his watch, pushing his sleeve back laboriously. The watch confirmed his worst fears.

Godda go, said my friend. Or the wife’ll be waiting with the cleaver.

Right, I said. Godda go.

He stood up unsteadily, pawing his pockets for keys and wallet. Whadiya say your name was again? he asked me when he’d located both.

Sam Ridley.

Well, Sam Ridley. It’s been a privilege to talk with such a cul . . . cullivated gennilman, he said before lurching out the door.

I collected my belongings but not my wits. The keys I found easily enough on the table top. My overcoat, draped over the back of the chair, took a little longer to extricate and transfer to my person. My wallet, thankfully, was still in my back pocket. The drinking had been vigorous, and conducted on an empty stomach. It was shaping up into one of those nights I would wake to regret.

It’s a short walk from the pub to my flat. I took it slowly: partly because there wasn’t any particular hurry, but mostly because I didn’t seem capable of walking in a straight line. The cold air had had an accelerating effect on my inebriation: unseen hands jostled me from one side of the pavement to the other.

I found my flat after a couple of embarrassing attempts to let myself in on neighbours. In the dark all the houses on my street look alike.

The phone rang as I inserted the key in the front door to my flat. I wrenched the door open and sprang for it. Fumbled the receiver, caught it again.

Simon?

Sam? It’s Ted. From work. Were you expecting a call?

Oh, no. Not especially.

Sorry to bother you. I know you’re probably doing something, but I’ve been listening to the police radio. Some woman’s been killed near you. It was nasty by the sounds of things. Wondered if you could check it out. That is, if you’re not doing anything.

I was too drunk to tell Ted that I was too drunk to do anything. I, uh. Sure, I said, trying to sound like my usual sharp self.

Ted sounded relieved. Great. You know, if we don’t check it’ll turn out she was playing sexy bondage games with a gerbil and a Cabinet minister.

If she was then I’ll be sure to get the gerbil on tape.

As long as he doesn’t want too much money. Our gerbil budget is low.

I’ll apply my famous powers of persuasion, I said.

Luckily I hadn’t taken my coat off.

The ten-minute walk did little to sober me up, but I was able to put one foot in front of the other in a satisfactory manner. The address that Ted had given was on Mulberry Avenue, which runs parallel and north of Ladbroke Grove. It was half of a nice neighbourhood; the mid-Victorian terraces on the south side of the street were forced to look on to a poured concrete housing estate on the north. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that they didn’t like what they saw. The estate was ugly, no other word for it.

Detective Inspector Charlie Hobbs was on the case. He was just getting out of his car as I arrived.

Hobbs and I go back a long way.

Have you been drinking? he asked suspiciously.

Just a nightcap, I said. I held the gate open for him and we walked down the side path to the basement flat. I was getting the hang of my pretend sobriety. This walking business was no trouble whatsoever.

We reached the door of the flat. Hobbs was just about to tell me to hoof it when a young woman rushed out. She was sobbing. She went to push past Charlie, but he’s a large man, and the way was narrow. She crashed into him, they danced together briefly, unsteadily, and then collapsed, as if in slow motion, on the floor. The woman landed on top. Flapping like a landed fish.

I looked through the door. There was a cop inside the flat, another three outside. None of them had ever seen their superior officer in such a position. Hands reached out to help them both up. The woman was still crying, but confused now, knowing that it somehow wasn’t such an appropriate response anymore.

I saw my chance. I stepped deftly round and into the hallway.

The body lay in the middle of the living room floor. A blonde woman wearing a black dress and make-up. One patent leather high-heeled shoe was on her foot, the other lay some distance away. She was tall and slender and someone had tried to hack her head from her body with a blunt instrument. Her neck was a pulpy mess, bones and tissue spread out on the floor. There was a lot of blood and the room smelled of it—metallic and salty. She looked young—late twenties at the most. I looked at her and her deathly beauty and felt instantly sober and quite sick.

Looking around the flat, it seemed as if there had been a struggle. Books lay scattered on the floor, knocked off shelves. Lamps had been knocked over and a small portable filing cabinet ransacked. The video recorder was unplugged but sitting on the arm of a chair. In contrast to the mess, a stack of children’s toys stood neatly in the corner. A tube of Chanel lipstick lay beside a plastic dump truck.

I didn’t want to stay there with her. In an effort to quiet my protesting stomach, I went into the kitchen. It was small—a table took up most of the space and a bench along two walls. It was extremely tidy. Even the notices on the board—reminders of sales, business cards from local tradesmen, bring-and-buy sale fliers—were pinned neatly on two corners. Nothing appeared to have been touched, except that the tea caddy was open. All it contained was tea.

Ridley!

Charlie was back on his feet, trying to pretend that he’d been like that all the time. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Had he come all the way in, there wouldn’t have been room for anyone else.

Where’s the baby, Charlie?

Ridley, do I look like the bloody fount of knowledge to you? Now get out, I’ve got work to do.

I didn’t need much persuading. I went. Outside, I looked around for the woman who’d brought the respectable Detective Inspector Hobbs to his knees. She’d gone, probably spirited away in one of the many police cars that stood to attention. The cold night air reminded me that I had a hangover in the making, but I ignored my throbbing head, and phoned in a story.

I rescued a limp cigarette from my top pocket and smoked it. More reporters and TV crews arrived. Well-dressed female reporters with heavy make-up conferred with sloppily attired urban cowboys in boots and Puffa jackets. We stood in the chill making idle chat. A large crowd of neighbours gathered, pressing in along the police lines. An officer made half-hearted attempts to disperse them, but they weren’t budging. A cop came out of the flat looking like he might have something to say, so several strong television lights were immediately turned on him. Blinking in the whiteness, he told us that Detective Inspector Charlie Hobbs would be with us soon. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought when the young officer mentioned Charlie’s name he suppressed the ghost of a smile.

Charlie came out with two officers.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the press. We have a body, as you know. A white woman, mid to late twenties, who was killed during the course of what appears to have been a break-in.

The reporters shouted questions in unison, but Charlie continued without heeding them. A neighbour found the body. We’re not releasing any names yet. The next of kin haven’t been notified. We’ll let you know as soon as that happens. That’s all we know for the moment. Now, if you’ll excuse me. He knew that none of the reporters would be waiting for the morning press conference; they had deadlines to meet tonight, but that wasn’t his problem.

More cops arrived. Forensics, fingerprints. The people who would seek out the how, when and where. More time passed. Then Charlie came out again, got into a car. Some reporters started to follow him, asking more questions, but then somebody noticed that the body was being taken out of the house on a stretcher. The TV crews and newspaper photographers scrambled to get the shot. I stood back. Radio doesn’t depend on pictures, which is one of the reasons why I like it. The eye can be a deceitful organ.

I went after Charlie, who was fastening his seatbelt like the good citizen he is. I leaned in the window.

You sure you don’t have anything on the baby, Charlie?

Press conference. Ten o’clock tomorrow. He pushed a button. The window slid up.

Did someone take the baby, Charlie? The window closed. Charlie made what looked like an obscene gesture as the car drove off.

I was home at one thirty.

I live on Ladbroke Grove. Grove is too flash a term for it. It’s a busy road that explores the great social variety to be found in London. At the southern end it’s spruce, smart and expensive. At the northern end it’s sleazy, noisy, dirty. I live at the northern end. On the weekends it’s jammed with tourists who come in search of high-priced bargains at the Portobello Market. Week days are quieter but what with the crack dealers, prostitutes and inter-gang squabbles, it’s inner-city living at its most challenging.

I found my flat, stumbled over two bicycles in the entrance, walked up one flight of steps and let myself in.

My place is small—two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, that sort of thing. There’s a narrow balcony overlooking one of the city’s more vital thoroughfares. I rarely sit out on it, but I like to know it’s there if ever I feel the urge to take in brain-numbing amounts of carbon monoxide.

I surveyed my domain. It didn’t take long. My furniture is post-divorce minimal; a fold-out sofabed of indeterminate colour, a stereo system that only plays records, a rented TV set.

There was one message on my answer machine. I hit the button. A young voice, sounding a bit uncertain.

Hi, it’s me. Just calling to say that I . . . that I miss you . . . and, I’ll call back.

I had been starting to sober up, but it wasn’t too late to do something about it. I went in search of the bottle of Black Label that I keep in the kitchen, strictly for emergencies. I grabbed some ice cubes from the freezer and poured myself a drink. Then another. And after I’d got into the swing of things, a few more just for the sake of it. I suppose I should have stopped after that first one. Read a book, relaxed in front of the telly, called a friend for a chat. But with what’s been happening to me lately, there doesn’t seem any point in living a rich and varied life.

I drank some more. My problems started to fade. Alcohol really does do that.

Some time later I heard a ringing that didn’t appear to be coming from my brain. It sounded like the phone. I sat up, which was almost certainly a mistake. The room swooped and swirled and my stomach did a few arabesques to accompany it.

I grabbed the phone. Hello?

Nothing. The ringing continued. I noted that I was still wearing the clothes I had put on the day before.

My brain plodded through a mental checklist of things in the flat that were capable of sound. Eventually it came to rest upon the entryphone.

I edged forward on to the seat, bracing myself for the wave of nausea that would follow when I stood up. I pushed myself up to standing and stumbled to the entryphone, tripping over the nearly-empty bottle of Scotch. It spilt on the carpet. I leaned my head against the wall as I picked up the phone. It seemed easier that way.

Hello?

Yeah, it’s the cab company. You’re supposed to be at work, remember?

I buttoned up last night’s shirt and grabbed the jacket from where I’d hurled it. I scrabbled round on the floor looking for my tie and shoes and found them under a pile of magazines. I dashed down the stairs of my flat and on to the street, shoes in hand. The taxi driver stood opposite, leaning nonchalantly against the passenger door. He opened the door and I hurled myself inside. It was five thirty-five. I had to be sitting in a studio in Tottenham Court Road, three miles away, in twenty-five minutes. I had an appointment to read the news.

2

I’ve been leaning on that buzzer for a bleeding ’alf hour, said my driver.

I ignored him. London cabbies, they love a good whinge.

I know you can make it.

The cabbie, chewing on a matchstick, shrugged modestly. He spat the matchstick out, got into the driver’s seat, cracked his knuckles and pulled out on to Ladbroke Grove.

I prayed to the god of traffic as that humble black cab hurtled through the dark and deserted streets. Down Westbourne Park Road we went and on to the A40, a short hop across that and on to Harrow Road and then Marylebone Road, me praying all the while. Thanks to my intercession, and an impressive turn of speed, I arrived at work with five minutes to go before the six o’clock bulletin. I dashed into the building, waved at the security guards, who buzzed me in, and made for the lift. It was out of order. Cursing, I turned to the stairs. The newsroom was on the second floor. Three minutes to go. Ignoring my rebellious stomach, I ran up the stairs.

Breathless and giddy, I sat down gingerly in front of the sub-editor Lyall Williams’ desk. A tall, thin man with a monk’s ration of hair, he sat calmly at his computer terminal. Lyall is a calm person. He doesn’t need to tell me that punctuality is prized among newsreaders.

Sam, so good of you to take time out of your busy schedule. He pointed at a pile of pink scripts and about four cartridges sitting on the corner of his desk.

I picked up the scripts. I breathed deeply, trying to quiet my pounding pulse. I stared at the page. The words, I’m fairly sure, were written in English, my first and only language, but they were in a playful mood. They danced. They skipped. All that dancing and skipping made me feel quite ill. A walk is what I need, I thought. I’ll walk to the studio and then I’ll feel better. I took the scripts down the corridor to the studio.

Carts! Lyall said. He came after me with the stack of cartridges, the single-loop tapes that have the snappy, ten-second soundbites electromagnetically encoded on them.

You’re going to need these, he said. Feeling OK?

Fine, I said. I felt like shit.

I handed the cartridges to Gary, the engineer in the control room.

You look like death, he said.

I’m fine, I said. I felt like death. I went next door to the newsreading booth.

I tried not to think about how much like death I felt as I seated myself in the studio. I carefully put on the headphones. The station news sting throbbed in my ears. I hadn’t realized until then how much it sounded like The Ride of the Valkyries.

The music stopped suddenly. I looked at the engineer through the thick glass window that separated my studio from his. He held his left hand up, and waved his fingers and thumb, as though he were playing shadow puppets. The cogs in my brain turned slowly, but when they did eventually fit into place I recognized the gesture. He wanted me to say something. I put hangovers out of my mind. I launched into professional mode.

Good morning. Samuel Ridley for City Radio morning news. Top stories this hour are . . .

The god that had got the taxi to work on time was still with me, because I got through the first two stories no trouble whatsoever.

So far so good, I thought.

Then the cartridges started to play up.

I read a story about a pile-up on the motorway. The cart was supposed to have a soundbite with an eyewitness. It didn’t fire. I paused, waiting for it to come up. It left an uncomfortable gap in the bulletin. Dead air, we call it. It’s not every broadcaster’s dream but it’s not the end of the world, either.

I plunged into the next story, which was about last night’s murder. The cart for that one didn’t fire either. More dead air. I looked through the glass. Gary, the engineer, had his hands around his throat. I was starting to wonder if the taxi god was in fact an autocratic petty-minded avenger, getting me back for not really believing in him. But I could handle it. There were other stories in the bulletin that appeared not to harbour a personal grudge against me. Then I was nearly at the end. And, after all, I am a professional.

I passed smoothly to the last story. The and finally, which is usually a lighthearted laugh at someone else’s expense. The sort of story that sends you out into the world with a spring in your step, a song in your heart. This morning’s tale was something to do with a parrot. He’d been a pretty clever Polly and had won a community service award. The enterprising reporter, obviously his first day on the job, had interviewed the bird, who was supposed to say something cute like Aw shucks, it was nothing or Get me Spielberg on the phone, when the first cart that had failed came up instead, describing in graphic detail what happens when five speeding cars collide.

It’s strange, but when I thought about it later even I wondered what came over me. I mean, I’m not exactly a raw recruit. I’ve been in the broadcast news business for nearly twenty years. And the first thing they impress upon raw recruits, or at least they did in my day, is to never ever say anything near an open mike that you wouldn’t want your grandmother to hear.

I switched the mike off, switched on the intercom to Gary and said, Now I know what it’s like to be fucked by a bird.

Only the mike wasn’t off.

I’d flicked the switch upwards to the off position all right, but it hadn’t disconnected the circuit.

Gary had removed his hands from around his throat and was now holding his head in them, rocking it from side to side.

I finished the weather and traffic reports with as much dignity as I could muster.

Oh well, I thought as I closed the studio door. There’s always PR.

I went to the bathroom and threw up. I felt better, but not much.

3

The City Radio newsroom is a dynamic combination of high-tech and squalor. Imagine a space ship that has crashed in a rubbish dump and you’ll get the general idea. A shiny computer terminal stands on every desk and banks of television monitors are set into one wall. But every surface is covered. There are coffee cups, old newspapers, scripts, tape recorders. The carpet bears a complex pattern of stains of indeterminate origin.

This morning, as always, the room smelt of old, overbrewed coffee. I made straight for the machine and poured a cup, poured another and made my way to the desk in the centre of the room where the balding head of Lyall could just be seen over a mountain of files, polystyrene coffee cups and an eclectic collection of portable radios. He was calm. If anything he was calmer than when I’d last seen him.

Career hara-kiri. Interesting concept. He logged off on his computer monitor. It was a sign that I had his full attention.

I cleared a space for the cup on Lyall’s desk. I need a holiday.

As soon as Delaney gets in, you’re going to get one. He’s just got off the phone. It’s still scorching. The board chairman rang Marlowe, Marlowe rang him, he rang me. Had to get it off his chest. Thanks for the coffee.

I took a sip. Think they’re trying to poison us?

Why bother? You’re digging your own grave.

Lyall and I have been friends a long time. Words aren’t always necessary in mature relationships. I sipped my coffee and said nothing.

I hardly need tell you that you won’t be going back into the studio this morning, or in fact any time soon. I’ll put in a word for you—again—but you’ll be lucky to keep your job after this. Lyall, who was a Zen master in a former life, looked the closest he would ever be to angry.

I nodded. Thanks. If you want me I’ll be at the morning presser.

I wouldn’t. Delaney will be here at eight. He’s come in extra early to have a meaningful interface with you. I think I’m right in saying he’s in touch with his anger here, and he’ll be frustrated if he can’t share that.

I nodded. Then if you want me I’ll be cowering under my desk.

That’s the spirit. Lyall turned his attention back to his computer.

I picked up my coffee cup, a large ceramic bowl with I play to win written on the side, a relic from a time when I was younger. Come to think of it, my whole life was a relic from a time when I was younger.

I went back to my desk, sat down and stared at my terminal. I read through the wires, checked for messages, all of which took up a full twenty-five minutes. Then there was nothing to do except sit around like a chump. I looked at my watch. It read quarter to seven. I indulged in a