Your Correspondent, Page 3

Your Correspondent ... Page 3

She rose late, around nine. He had been awake for nearly six hours by then, getting the facts straihgt, absolutely straight, because they couldn' t be anything but. He started in the barn, watching the sunrise, and ended in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Finally she emerged, not dishevelled as he had somehow hoped (it was confirmed, then - she simply did not hevel), but wearing peach silk pyjamas like a teenage girl at a slumber party. He closed his eyes, willing ice water towards his crotch. "Morning Clive. How's things? I was just going to get a cab back to the apartment to take my bags -" "You don't need to," he said. "I'll take care of it. Listen, we have to talk. Do you want a cup of tea?" "Sure, whatever. Can I just use the phone to tell Daddy -" "No. Not yet. Tell him - tell him you're staying with a girlfriend. The countryside or something. Don't mention your job." She took a Golden Delicious from the fruit bowl and inspected it matter-of-factly. "You know," she said, padding around the room, "If this is a kidnap, I am going to let you get out now, and get out gracefullly. It's not like it's the first time it's happened, it was a big crapshoot and Daddy didn't cough up a bean ..." He placed the tea at her elbow and sat down. "I'm not kidnapping you. I'm not blackmailing you, nothing like that. You want to be a newsreader, don't you? I am simply offering you a chance to become one of the best-known journalists in the state, if not the country." "I'm listening," she said. "Shit! This iced tea is all hot!" He began at the start and ended at the end. As her eyes grew wider, her smile more wondrous, he felt energy gushing through him - even his hayfever seemed to subside. "Curt ... you are a fucking genius. When do we start? Today?" "Patience," he said sagely. "All first steps must be taken one at a time." He had no idea what that meant, and neither did she. The following Monday an item appeared in the crime column outranking all lost dogs, burst water mains, and incidents of senior citizen harrassment.
	MYSTERIOUS STRANGER SAVES LOCAL BOY Late last Thursday, I witnessed an act of extraordinary bravery. A local youth was snatched from certain death by a mysterious vigilante who fled the scene without leaving his name or begging any recognition for his miraculous deed. The young man, who has a mild mental disability, was retrieving a toy he had accidentally thrown onto the railway tracks not far from High St. Witnesses say the man, described only as `dark' and `tall', seemed to appear out of nowhere, dashing to the youth's aid with astonishing speed before disappearing eithout a trace. Who was he? A guardian angel? A valourous vigilante? Our town is abuzz. If you know this man, or if you are this man, please come forward. We wish to give you the reward that is your due!
The town were indeed soon abuzz, but nowhere more than in the newspaper offices. "Well ..." said New Girl to an admiring throng, "What did he look like? Hard to say, really. I mean, he was literally there and gone in a flash. He didn't co-ordinate well, I remember that - navy blue and bottle green - but anyway, after witnessing this, this - this miracle, I'd have to call it - I knew it was my duty to come back here and tell the world!" They were soon assigned to keep the story alive with a series of thought pieces (`Angels in Everyday Life', `Could He Be An Escaped Inmate?', `Poll: What Would You Do If You Saw a Mentally Retarded Youth In Danger?') but in the nick of time, the Mystery Man struck again.
	FARMER SAVED BY MYSTERY MAN No sooner had Mr Borrows fallen into his silo - which might have meant suffocation in a matter of minutes - when he felt the grain subside from under him. Someone had released the spill. A strong arm reached into the silo, plucking Mr Borrows from danger. "A minute more and you would have been having Soy, Linseed, and Borrows on your cereal!' joked the relieved man, who was not able to gain a good look at his saviour. "[a] sort of big man," he said. "A Twinkle in his eye. Maybe if I saw him on the street I'd recognise him, maybe not." It seems that our Good Samaritan has struck again. We continue to be dedicated to discovering the identity of our town's angel.
By the next week the Man had plucked a young couple from a burning car wreck, he and New Girl had been exclusively assigned to the case, New Girl had a penthouse apartment in the town and Cueball had traded his Porsche in for two Porsches. Human interest stories at the end of the TV news became feature stories at the beginning, padded out with artist's impressions and computer generated diagrams. The metropolitan newspapers began their invasion. Much to Cueball's delight, they emerged with nothing, because witnesses were curiously thin on the ground. Your Correspondent stared out the window, chewing one of the new bagels, which came with lox and was shipped from Zabar's of New York, so fresh they were still warm. A notepad sat before him. Attempted kidnap ... no, too many witnesses. Small store holdup (outskirts of town - anonymous) V. GOOD. New Girl's idea about the prowler outside the nursery school had worked a treat. After he had subedited her thirteenth `definiately' and seventh `your' in place of `you're', he had taken over her side of the actual reportage, leaving her to deal with the creative side. Even Cueball was agreeable in his own way."We got a scoop here, we all know it. I don't care where you're getting your informantion. I don't care if it's all bullshit." He must have perceived the moment-long glance. "Is it all bullshit? Another glance. "Mr ... I mean, Sir. How long has this man been on your staff?" said New Girl suddenly. "I don't have a clue. I'm not sure I even know what your name is, buddy." "Well, it's - " "And I couldn't really give a shit." "Seven years, sir." said New Girl. "Seven years. I don't think you realise, sir, how trusted his voice is in our community. Look at him. Would this man lie to you?" Cueball took him under his magnifying glass and proceeded to burn. "What's your source? "What?" "Your source? This mystery asshole - he your mother, what?" "He's ... he's speaking to me under strict conditions of complete anonymoty. He's trusting us." Cueball leaned over the desk. "So you've seen him? You know him?" He swallowed. "Again, I - " "I want an interview." He paled. She reddened. "I don't care about anonomyty, I want it by the end of this week." At first, she had feigned indifference as he read her his laboriously planned scenaria. But gradually, she began to add things, delightful little human details. "No, no. no." she'd say. "That's too obvious. And why would jewel thieves do anything in this crummy little town anyway? They'll be grifters, you know? Confidence tricksters - around the Old Folk's Home." "And he'll interrupt Grandma as she's handing over the family heirloom?" "Hell no. They'll take out a crowbar ready to whack Grandma into sleepyland - then our friend comes onto the scene." He would nod, her hair would fall over her face as she jotted down the details. "That's great, though." He wiped the whiteboard, and sneezed. "What?" "Your idea. It was clever." He blushed. "What's the matter with you? You'd think I just whipped your towel off or something!" "I don't often get compliments," he stammered, wondering if he'd ever got one. She walked over and tipped him on the nose. "You are extremely clever. Once I get my newsreader job happening, I am definitiely going to mention you in my speech when I get the Emmy." Sorrowfully, he heard the door open and close at Cueball's office. She returned three quarters of an hour later. "Whew!" she said, re-varnishing as usual. "What can I say? The guy oughta be buying three shoes!" He let her the old granny flat on the farm - it had been the media room once - only metres from his window, though they saw very little of one another. She never ate breakfast, and pushed whatever sugared this or cheese-flavoured that she could find into her plump little face for the remainder of meals. Eight minutes a day, she would watch the foil-covered vessel in the microwave do its tidy pirhouette, clean her nails with the junk mail, which she read with fascination, and retire to her room to watch loud shows with garrulous laughter. She had bought the television herself. He only owned a black and white set, which he never saw and which she never saw, because his mother was parked in its soft glow almost permanently, and she never saw his mother. As far as New Girl could understand, a farm was just a suburban bungalow with a big garden and bigger pets. The garrulous laughter became garrulous cheers, or boos, depending on what time it was, until late evening when a Wagneresque fanfare would announce the coming of the newsreaders to recite their staccato poetry. He would sometimes hear her talking along with them. Around 2am this would finally cease, and he would creep to his window from his bed, staring at her bedroom, yearning to see through it to her motionless, spreadeagled body. Email me for the rest ....