The Story That Never Was

The Story That Never Was

When I was a young, rookie news hound, I’d bound up these steps. Not any more. I’m sure these steps have got steeper. I can bound up the first dozen or so, taking them two at a time. But then I slow. Anyway, there’s no rush. I’m a little early, so climbing the steps one at a time is fine. Allows me to catch my breath too. And mull over strategy.

My Editor had lowered her voice, even though there was no one within earshot. “My source is good,” she’d said earlier. “Very strong. I’m told the police are looking at him. They think he’s taking kickbacks – has been for years. Put that to him and see how he responds.”

I enter the offices through the swing doors and into the busy lobby where trendy, multi-coloured signage points the way. Council chamber to the left. Finance first floor. Housing second. Mayor’s office fifth floor. I’ll take the lift - no more stairs today. But first it’s to reception to get the obligatory visitors’ pass and rainbow-coloured lanyard.

Young Cheryl is behind reception and welcomes me with her customary perma-smile, an essential quality for those in customer-facing roles within these walls. I know it’s as false as her bright pink nails.

I explain I’ve an appointment with the Mayor. She shows no interest and hands me my visitor’s pass along with instructions to wear it at all times when in the building.

“The Mayor’s Office is on the fifth floor. The lifts are round to the right. Have a good day,” she says, already looking over my shoulder at the next in line to whom she’ll flash that trademark wide-eyed smile.

Mayor Joseph P Swinfield – or Swinney to those who know him well – is granting me an audience. It’s a dubious honour. It’ll be the first interview he’s given since being elected to what he regards as very high office.

He’s probably agreed to my request for an interview because he expects I won’t throw him too many curve ball questions. He sees me as dull. A cliched local hack, unambitious, complete with shabby shoes and crumpled corduroy jacket.

Like all bloated egos, Swinney thinks I’ll write a glowing tribute to him. A glorious puff piece full of praise for how he’s helped rebuild the town and put it on the map.

There’ll be a bit of that of course. But I’ve got other ideas. What he can’t see is that I do have ambition. And that’s to write the story that exposes the man for what he is. And get a front-page zinger in the process. Perhaps even national news exposure.

Swinney’s an acquired taste. He’s a colourful figure with, shall we say, a chequered past. And that’s being polite. He has fingers in many pies, from scrap metal to construction and nightclubs, and everything in between.

Some say he’s a narcissist. I just think he’s a dodgy dude, obnoxious and self-opinionated. Apart from that, he’s fine.

My Editor got a tip and tasked me with investigating his business affairs some months ago, particularly his relationship to a couple of construction companies recently awarded big council contracts.

It’s taken a while, but people have been talking to me - always off the record – and I’ve been piecing things together. Frankly, it stinks. Now I’ve got questions that need answers.

“Lead him into dark corners and see what develops,” my Editor said. “Give him enough rope and let’s see if he hangs himself.

“And remember,” she added. “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.” We laughed at the old newsroom cliché. Well let’s see how Swinney responds when I confront him with a few hard facts today.

I look up at the numbers illuminating the lift’s descent to the ground floor. There’s a muffled ding as it lands back on earth and, when the doors finally open, four people file out. I nod in recognition at Jane and Debbie from finance. As for the other two, no idea. Young men in jeans and hoodies. Scruffy buggers, with their hoods! And where are their visitor passes? I watch them scuttle away, not towards reception, but in the other direction towards the stairs leading to the bowels of the building.

I enter the lift and press the button that says simply “Mayor’s Office”. The doors take an age to respond, and as they close, a thought flashes into my mind – the memory of a silly but salutary tale I was told many years ago.

As the doors close and the lift very slowly begins to haul me up through the building, I recount the tale to myself, partly as a reminder to be ready for all eventualities. This lift is the slowest on earth. There’s time, so I’ll share it with you too. It’s apocryphal, obviously. It goes something like this.

A young cub reporter – not me by the way - turns up for his or her first day at the local paper and is sent off by the Editor to cover that evening’s county council meeting.

Nothing exceptional about that. Council meetings – be they county, district or parish – are the lifeblood of local papers. A continual source of relatively dull stories to do with housing, planning disputes and budget arguments.

His brief is simple. Listen closely, focus on the main issues, home in on the protagonists and – if possible - grab them after the meeting and get them to vent their spleen.

Job done? No, not quite. Listening to the arguments and getting the waring councilors to talk is only half the job. The next bit is writing up the stories to a strict deadline, always with an accurate but sensational intro that will grab the reader and make every local issue seem more important than Watergate. Eat your hearts out Woodward and Bernstein.

And our cub reporter is given one, particularly important instruction by his gruff, hard-bitten Editor (if it helps, think Jason Robards as Washington Post Editor Ben Bradlee in the film, All the President’s Men)!

“I want four stories,” he growled. “And I want them all on my desk by 9 o’clock tomorrow morning. Now scram.”

So, our young and eager reporter sets off full of determination, pencils sharpened, and shiny new notebook clutched tightly in sweaty hands (the tale is set in the days before laptops and iPhones).

We’ve just passed the third floor, so I’ll keep going.

Anyway, the following morning, the Editor is at his desk bright and early. But there’s no sign of any copy from the young reporter, who ambles into the newsroom shortly after nine o’clock, seemingly without a care in the world.

The Editor stares at them long and hard before asking, in uncharacteristically subdued tones, why there are no stories on his desk from the previous evening’s council meeting?

“There weren’t any stories,” says the cub reporter.

“What do you mean, there weren’t any stories?” says the Editor, raising his voice to the extent that the newsroom falls quiet. “There are always stories from a council meeting. So where are they. I want them on my desk … now.”

“There were no stories,” repeats the youngster. “Nothing happened. The meeting was cancelled.”

“What do you mean, cancelled?”

“There were no stories,” repeats the cub reporter again. “The council meeting was cancelled. Because the mayor got shot!”

The lift shudders to a halt and, after a lengthy wait, the doors part. I step out into the corridor, turn right and head off in the direction of the Mayor’s Office, which is some way from the lift.

So … do you get it? Do you see the point of the story? It’s about the kid reporter’s news judgement – or rather lack of it. He – or she – is so fixated on the council meeting that they can’t see the major story that develops out of nowhere. They just think, no council meeting, so no story. They can’t see the wood for the trees and all that.

It’s a silly story and a highly unlikely scenario that would never happen in real life. But it’s supposed to illustrate a serious journalistic point – to always be prepared for the unexpected and be ready to pivot to an even bigger story, I remind myself as I walk along the corridor and eventually come to the door marked “Mayor’s Office”. I knock, and when there’s no answer, push it open.

Sylvia, the eccentric PA who guards access to every Mayor like a Yeoman Guard keeping watch over the Crown Jewels, is not at her desk. In fact, she’s nowhere to be seen. I’m relieved. Tangling with Syliva is not wise. She possesses a chest the size of a small country. But a razor-sharp tongue and withering glare provide ample defence against any man who dares to flirt.

Sylvia must be in with the Mayor, I reckon. I glance at my watch. I’m on time. Best crack on. I stride across the office to the inner door marked “Mayor Joseph P Swinfield”.

Again, there’s no answer when I knock, so I throw open the door and enter the inner sanctum.

“Congratulations Swinney!” I proclaim as I march in, thinking it best to hail my arrival with a show of confidence and bonhomie that’ll put him at ease.

There’s no sign of Sylvia. But Mayor Swinfield is there in the room as expected. He’s sitting back in his huge leather chair, behind his expansive desk and, apparently, waiting for me. His giant hands are resting in his lap beneath his bulging gut. The man looks calm and at peace with the world.

It’s then that I notice the thin line of blood trickling down Swinney’s face and dripping from the end of his nose onto his sunshine yellow tie.

My first thought is Swinney’s suffering a nosebleed. Followed by … blood … that’ll be difficult to get out. It’ll leave a nasty stain on his tie.

Two seconds later, the penny drops. It’s not a nosebleed. It’s blood trickling from a small hole in Swinney’s forehead. Which, to my uninitiated eye, looks very much like a bullet wound.

Instantly, the smile falls from my face. I realise not only has Swinney failed to respond to my entrance, in fact he hasn’t moved at all. Indeed, his expression hasn’t changed one bit. It’s deadpan – literally. Swinney’s staring straight ahead but seeing nothing.

In that moment, I stand alone in the office doorway, open mouthed, fixated on Swinney frozen in time at his desk. A bullet apparently lodged in his brain, that silly tale of journalistic naivety still bouncing around mine.

Stark truth and ridiculous fiction entwined like two creeping vines.

Shocked and petrified, I back out of the room, stumbling backwards into Sylvia’s unoccupied desk before falling through the outer office door into the corridor.

Gripped by panic, I slump against the wall and reach into my jacket pocket for my mobile phone. I fumble for my Editor’s direct line and, when she answers, utter the words that have been reverberating around my head since I left the lift. A sequence of words that make no journalistic sense. Words from the story that never was.

“Interview’s cancelled,” I mumble. “There’s no story. The mayor’s been shot!”