Chapters (46)
The Editor, having reached the edge of the room, turned on his heel with ceremonial self-consciousness, as if for a duel. He lifted the revolver in the steady, two-handed grip his own father had taught him and, without hesitating, shot the framed photograph through the face.
Of the artificial thunderclap that leapt from the barrel, nothing was heard above ground. On the broad, night-time street of white-fronted houses and under the artificial shadows of the trees, all was still.
*
In the newsroom, too, everything was quiet. Rosie was the last sub there. She was on the late shift and had just finished proofreading the third edition. As the newsroom emptied, the ceiling lights, which were activated by motion sensors, had clicked off, the darkness settling at the newsroom’s edge and then closing in.
After edition, she’d been hoping for a word from Max on the Blind Bulgarian story – to the effect that even though things had gone close to the brink she’d been right to be meticulous. But nothing. And, as nothing came and came, she’d had to turn her eyes to the truth: she’d frozen up; the story had been taken from her. Getting the story right in the right amount of time was why she was there, and she’d failed to do it. She cried at her desk, glancing around to make sure no one could see. Then rubbed her face and ran her fingers through her thin hair; she’d developed a little dandruff with the stress.
She told herself to toughen up. She’d known before she started that the Beast was going to be hard; that was why everyone said it was good training. Really she wanted to write elegant, thoughtful features for a Sunday magazine, perhaps the Stentorian’s, stories that would make the readers cry. But lots of the best people started out on the Beast. Toughness must be part of what they learnt here. She told herself to be more like Will. He didn’t let things touch him. When things became pressured he became not less but more accurate; faster, surer. That was the sort of person who made a success of it.
Her phone rang. The taxi was outside. Still worrying about whether she’d missed something in the proofread, she gathered her bag and coat and went downstairs. The subs’ empty desks and chairs sat illuminated a while longer. Then, but for the single lamp burning eternally at Newsdesk and the pallid glow of the screens manned overnight at BeastOnline, the lights went out.