Yorrick Hunt swaggered through the door to his office. As the Evening
Herald’s top photo-journalist he merited his own little personal space,
complete with a water cooler in the corner and a top-of-the-range
bean-to-cup espresso machine atop a set of filing cabinets. He felt
quite pleased with his day’s work, and was looking forward to seeing the
spoils of his little escapade in Nenbury. Switching on the coffee
machine, he primed his cup with a little shot of Johnnie Walker from the
top drawer and set his camera down on his desk. His computer was still
on, as it always was, a little wiggle of the mouse being all it took to
bring the screen to life.
“Bollocks,” he muttered as he looked at his email client, scrolling
down the list of emails that had come in whilst he’d been away. “Spam,
spam, spam, spam, spam, baked beans and spam. ‘Make you manhud biggier
jest click’ – well if it could improve your spelling too I might be
interested.” The light on the coffee machine came on, reminding Yorrick
that at least temporarily there were things more important.
A minute later, with fortified coffee in hand, he sat down properly.
Click, click, click, delete, delete, move to spam, delete. “Since when
was I this popular? Ah fuck it.” He dug in his pocket and retrieved the
data cards from the camera. Sorting the cards out, he picked one of them
and slotted it into his computer’s card reader. Click, click, click, he
started going through the pictures, deciding which ones to send to the
editors. Angry face with a headwound? Forward. Copper poised to strike a
lank-haired student? Forward. Then he saw something which made him
pause. It seemed to show a slightly out of focus view of part of a
shopfront. Nothing unusual, except he remembered distinctly there being a
face there when he’d taken the photo. He’d zoomed in close to capture
the expression of rage on the man’s face, but there was nothing there.
Click, next picture. Slightly zoomed out, an empty space in the crowd,
one of the riot coppers swinging his baton at apparently nothing.
Scrolling through the other pictures, they were all the same. The crowd
of protestors seemed to be full of little gaps, each the size of a
person. “What the fucking fuckery fuck?”
Shaking his head and swallowing the last of his coffee, Yorrick set
the cup down and tried to make sense of what he’d just seen. His musings
were cut short by the shrill ring of his phone. Snatching up the
receiver, he put it to his ear.
“Yep?”
“Hunt, get in my office now.” It was Stan, his editor.
The photos quickly drifted into the back of his mind. “You want me to drop off the rest of the shots from the protest today?”
“Nah, it’s all bollocks. Just get in here. Got a little assignment for you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stanley Doverdare was a career man. He was also a tall man, a wide man
and (in the mid-July heat with barely functioning air conditioning) a very
sweaty man. Having joined the Herald at the age of 16 as a type-setter,
he worked his way up the ranks using nothing more than grit, sheer
determinalism and professional blackmail, mixed with a sort of animal
cunning and raw talent. But mostly the professional blackmail. He hefted
his significant bulk to face his door as Yorrick entered.
“Ever heard of Pessingham, Hunt?” That was classic Stan; no messing, straight down to business.
“Can’t say I have.”
“Had a little tip-off this morning while you were out gallivanting
with the bully boys. Quite an interesting little chat regarding some
Satanic death-cult rogering their way through middle-class middle
England. I want you down there, find out what it is they’re up to, and
how you can spin it into a decent story.”
“Satanists? Fuck sakes Stan. That all went out with Dennis fucking Wheatley.”
“Nevertheless, I have a good source says this little band of Satan’s
knobsuckers are up to some pretty nasty shit. I want you in on it. Get
down there and don’t come back without a story. And pics. Ones of naked
birds being done from behind by wankers in white robes preferably.”
“Christ Stan, you’re asking me to go and cover some bunch of sad-arse
bank managers shagging the local blondes in the hopes of raising the
devil?”
“Yes I fucking am. Now go on. Fuck off.”
Yorrick left, stopping off only to collect his camera and the bottle
of Johhnie Walker from the top drawer. He had a feeling he’d need it…
