Dialogues of the Dead

“Who are the guests?” asked John Wingate, the station manager. He was a middling aged plump man with a lean and hungry face, as if his chronic anxiety about everything had done a deal with his body and drawn a demarcation line around his neck. Below this, the soft folds of pink flesh glowed with health, and, warmed by sun or sex, gave off an odour which reminded Jax of her childhood bed beneath which her provident mother laid out rows of apples to see them through the North Yorkshire winter. Screwing Wingate had been a pleasure as well as a career move.

“No guests …Just me.”

“So, couple of minutes,” he said doubtfully. “That leaves us well short, Jax.”

“No, I need the time.”

“Why? How the hell can you spin something as boring as a short story competition trail out beyond ninety seconds?”

“Trust me,” she said.

“You up to something, Jax?” he said suspiciously. “I hate it when you say ‘trust me.’”

She finally made up her mind, reached out a hand to rest on his thigh and smiled.

“It’ll be all right, John,” she said.

In a life of bad career moves, John Wingate wasn’t certain where he placed screwing Jax Ripley. She’d been a journalist on the Gazette when they first met and the chance of a one-night stand after a media party which Moira, his wife, hadn’t attended because she was over in Belfast visiting her sick mother had seemed too good to pass by. And it had been good. He grew warm now just recalling it and the other encounters that followed, one in particular which had taken place in his office a couple of weeks later when she presented herself for interview. “I’ve come about the position,” she said, climbing on to his desk and spreading herself before him. “How about this one for starters?”

And under the doubtless approving gaze of the members of Unthank College old boys rugby fifteen whose photo, holding the Mid-Yorkshire Cup which they’d won some years ago under his captaincy, hung on the wall behind his chair, he accepted the invitation, after which she accepted the job.

She’d learned quick and her rapid advancement was easily justifiable in terms of sheer talent, or so he reassured himself whenever, as now, he gave way to her wishes. There’d never been any hint of menace from Jax and she’d always behaved with the utmost discretion, but this didn’t stop him from feeling that he had less control over his life, both professional and personal, than before her arrival. At least, thank God, he knew he didn’t have to worry she was after his job. She had set her sights over the hills and faraway, in the greener pastures of Wood Lane, and if golden opinions from himself could speed her on her way, all the better.

Maybe that was the explanation of her distraction today.

He said, “Big day next Monday, then. Getting nervous? No need. You’ll piss it.”

She said, “What? Oh, the interview. No, I’ll wait till I’m on the train before I get nervous.”

He believed her. She was, he reckoned, that controlled. She might let herself get nervous as she drew near to her interview for the job with the national news service because taut nerves made you sharper, pitched you higher. But she’d know exactly how far to go.

Yet, though Wingate didn’t know it, he’d hit pretty close to the mark.

Jax Ripley had a decision to make. Wingate’s assurances that with her record and his recommendation she’d walk into the job were very comforting and she had no false modesty about her abilities. Sex she might use as a shortcut but only to get where she felt she deserved to be. Yet though she rated her talents high, she was not so arrogant as to rate them unique. It hadn’t been difficult to come to the fore in the small show ring of Mid-Yorkshire, but the provinces are full of thrusting talents and it would take something extra to stand out among the ranks of competing clones nationwide, all desperate to march on the Big Time.

And now she felt she might have the something extra.

But there were risks.

It would be burning boats, that’s for sure. She was sworn to secrecy. Her revelations would this time be tracked unrelentingly to their source, and such a public act of betrayal would ensure that no one in Mid-Yorkshire would ever again open their mouths to her, not even with the promise that she would open her legs to them.

Plus, if it all went wrong and just came out as a bit of journalistic scaremongering, then she could even end up being dumped by BBC MY.

On the other hand, it was a good story. A couple of phone calls would alert some friends in London. National air coverage over the weekend plus the Sunday tabloids descending on Mid-Yorkshire to dig up-or make up-something really sensational could raise a news tsunami to sweep her into her interview on Monday. Once she got that job, it didn’t matter what happened back here in Sleepy Hollow. In the real world down there, no one minded if today’s scoop was tomorrow’s poop. It happened all the time. It wasn’t the apologies and retractions that stayed in people’s minds, it was the banner headlines.