It was an old habit. In spite of the redundancies, in spite of her resentment, in spite of everything, a part of her was always grudgingly impressed by the urgency and glamour of the fast-moving golden words. Today they told her the French farmers were rioting and that the US President was in Berlin.
She took the marbled steps three at a time, flashed her pass at security and took the lift to the fourth floor. Through the security doors, and the clocks said 07.55 UK, 02.55 New York, 08.55 Paris. Five minutes early. Another habit. The vast, double football pitch-sized newsroom was library-quiet; of the hundreds of black computers barely a third were occupied. The eight o’clock shift change would alter that, the desks filling quickly as London took back control of the global news flow.
In the low-ceilinged, ferociously lit space, the air-con was working hard to deal with the night-shift aromas of sweat, stale perfume and cold, congealing Chinese take-out. Famie took it all in and breathed deeply. The newsroom had always been her home-from-home, her comfort zone. It didn’t matter what battles had to be fought (and there were so many), here Famie knew what she was doing. She might have been a bad wife and poor mother, but this she could do. Here, Famie had always been at ease and in control.
Famie nodded at the EMEA editor, a smiling, tanned man in shorts called Ethan James who, in spite of his senior position – only the best got to be in charge of the Europe, Middle East and America desk – looked the same age as her daughter.
Time to go, old woman, she thought. It really is time to go.
Famie dressed young. Her look had barely changed since university: black bob, black T-shirt, khaki jacket, distressed jeans and black Converse. She had fiercely resisted her daughter’s suggestion she might want to dress like other ‘women of her age’. The thought filled her with horror. She had good skin, wore minimal make-up. Foundation and blusher maybe, lipstick never. A serious face, she was told. Wide, brown eyes. A silver hoop and a stud in each ear. Her running kept her trim and she knew she looked ten years younger than she was, but at forty-one and with a boss who looked twenty-one, Famie was becoming used to feeling ancient. Not to mention the lack of promotion, the salary tightening and the endless, joyless, fathomless restructuring.
‘OK, who’s Slot?’ A balding man in front of two screens was stretching, looking around.
Famie raised her hand. ‘Right here, Lucas.’
‘Oh, hi Famie.’ He raised his hand in salute. ‘Pretty quiet overnight. There was a nasty-looking fire in Paisley but that was sorted. No deaths. That’s it.’ Lucas managed a weary smile. ‘All yours.’
Famie slid into his chair.
‘Horribly warm, Lucas.’
‘The seat or the weather?’
‘Mainly the seat.’
The man laughed as he picked up his bag and walked away.
Famie stared at the computer monitors in front of her: large, widescreen and in need of a serious clean. She used her glasses cloth to remove some of the more recent smears, then scanned the incoming, fast-moving type that rolled in front of her. She enjoyed being Slot more than she admitted. For a few hours she could forget her anger at the way she had been treated, forget her worries about the future, forget even that she missed her daughter. For this shift, the ship was hers. If she snapped a story, it had the International Press Service stamp. It had happened. It was official.
She wiped her glasses clean, tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ears and waited. The TV screens on the wall showed CNN, Sky News, BBC and Al Jazeera (adverts, weather, weather and more adverts). A coffee appeared. She looked up. Sam Carter, another sub-editor, scrawny and dishevelled, waved a small bag of sugar at her, his eyebrows raised.
Famie shook her head. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’
Carter shrugged and ripped the packet, pouring the granules slowly into his own cup. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. Pale skin, white polo shirt, supermarket jeans, brown moccasins. A rugby player’s nose. Rapidly receding hairline.
Famie smiled. ‘I like to at least start the day feeling righteous, Sam. You know that.’
‘I’ll give you till eight thirty, tops,’ he said. ‘How are Charlie’s exams going?’
Famie didn’t reply. The Metropolitan Police had confirmed a stabbing at Euston station and she quickly sifted then snapped their statement.
BRITISH POLICE REPORT A FATAL STABBING IN CENTRAL LONDON DURING MORNING RUSH HOUR
‘Euston is unusual, isn’t it?’ Sam’s mouth was full of pastry but his words were clear enough.
‘Hardly gang territory,’ agreed Famie, ‘unless you count the permanently furious commuters. They can be vicious.’
‘Pictures!’ called a voice, and Famie stood to see a screen running a Twitter video of a woman lying face down in a road. Black hair, red scarf, lots of blood.
‘Do we know that’s her?’ she asked.
‘We don’t,’ came the reply. ‘Posted by an account called Birdie 99. It says, “This just happened. Sure she’s dead. Guy ran off. I literally feel sick.” That’s it.’
Famie looked at the image, a feeling of disquiet settling on her. She wouldn’t snap the picture, she needed it verified, but it looked right to her. She glanced up from her terminals – the UK bureau was now full; desks occupied, computers on. A hand went up by the wall. Tommi Dara glanced at Famie then back to his screen.
‘More film, Famie. Another Twitter account, same shot but further away. It pans from the stalls, it’s definitely Euston.’
That was two sources, but Famie wanted more.
‘Can we get someone there? Police say a statement is possible.’
‘On it,’ called Tommi, his
