the top or bottom thing? You’re forward after a few glasses, aren’t you? I’ll have you know I’m strictly—”
“No, not that. This is an ethical question.”
I wondered where this was going, as I wondered where we were going. We’d barely reached M&S, and we were being passed by drunk kids bouncing off each other and heading to a club. A couple of hi-vis types in caps — cops or pretend cops — promenaded just ahead of us.
I looked at Seb. “I’m not sure how ethical I am after a night of mojitos, but try me. I might surprise myself.”
A short pause. He was inspecting the pavement as we walked. “How do you feel about your editor?”
“Geoff? He’s too old. Never met a pie he didn’t like. And I can’t stand Londoners.”
“I mean professionally.”
“Oh.” It was going to be one of those deep-and-meaningfuls setting the world to rights, was it? “Is this a trap? Is this all a big ruse to root out disloyal staff? I’ll proudly sing the corporate song if I have to, I think it’s about dustmen and trousers.”
“I do not work for him. I want to know what you think.”
I wasn’t sure the alcohol had affected him at all. He was a little more talkative, perhaps, but he wasn’t mulleted. Neither of us was walking in a zig-zag.
We crossed the road by a packed taxi rank, turning down an unidentifiable offer from a taxi driver and avoiding a couple of beery cyclists taking the scenic route home.
I used the time to consider what to say. “He’s a shithead, I guess. A greasy fart in a lift. All the empathy of a blocked drain. Does that help?” I looked for Seb’s reaction: nothing. “I’m not really doing the job for his benefit, if that’s any better. I need the money and the experience, and I’m getting a trickle of both. First sniff of a better offer and I’m all sayonara, suckers .”
He nodded and said nothing for a while. We turned between Christ’s and St Paul’s, onto Christ’s Lane: a narrow old passage paved with cobbles, with high stone walls on either side cast into sharp relief by balls of yellow light inset along its length. I could hear music and laughter from a first-floor window on the St Paul’s side, and there was a sweet smell wafting down that might have gotten someone into trouble.
“They sometimes call this little alley Romans,” I said to break the silence. “It’s a Cambridge theological joke. If it helps, I don’t think they’re meant to be funny. It’s something about epistles. Not entirely sure what, I haven’t been a good Catholic boy for several years now. These days it’s usually called St Paul’s Back Passage, what with the college’s reputation and all. Well deserved, too.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did you go there?” Bam! with the journalism.
“No.” Woohoo , a negative fact.
There were another few seconds of quiet, which I was beginning to recognise meant another question bubbling up.
“Has your editor ever asked you to… embellish a story?”
I made a kind of hissing sound. “You’re asking the wrong guy. No point trying to embellish what I’m allowed to do. Yesterday a pussycat with a history of drug-dealing and prostitution was run over by person or persons unknown but believed to be linked to the Mafia and on a bicycle .”
“But would you?” asked Seb, voice raised a little. “Are you loyal to him — or loyal to the truth?”
“Jesus, this is getting heavy. Ask me again when I’m sober.”
I could see him becoming agitated, a little more expressive in the gestures. It might have been the alcohol finally kicking in, I guessed.
“What about phone hacking, email hacking, dirty tricks? Does he get you to do those?”
I shook my head as we passed the bus terminal. The trees along both edges of the path through Christ’s Pieces were lit by strings of bulbs bobbing into the distance, thick constellations between the branches. I kept my eyes open for bikes without lights, the little shits.
“Hacking? That’s all
“No, not that. This is an ethical question.”
I wondered where this was going, as I wondered where we were going. We’d barely reached M&S, and we were being passed by drunk kids bouncing off each other and heading to a club. A couple of hi-vis types in caps — cops or pretend cops — promenaded just ahead of us.
I looked at Seb. “I’m not sure how ethical I am after a night of mojitos, but try me. I might surprise myself.”
A short pause. He was inspecting the pavement as we walked. “How do you feel about your editor?”
“Geoff? He’s too old. Never met a pie he didn’t like. And I can’t stand Londoners.”
“I mean professionally.”
“Oh.” It was going to be one of those deep-and-meaningfuls setting the world to rights, was it? “Is this a trap? Is this all a big ruse to root out disloyal staff? I’ll proudly sing the corporate song if I have to, I think it’s about dustmen and trousers.”
“I do not work for him. I want to know what you think.”
I wasn’t sure the alcohol had affected him at all. He was a little more talkative, perhaps, but he wasn’t mulleted. Neither of us was walking in a zig-zag.
We crossed the road by a packed taxi rank, turning down an unidentifiable offer from a taxi driver and avoiding a couple of beery cyclists taking the scenic route home.
I used the time to consider what to say. “He’s a shithead, I guess. A greasy fart in a lift. All the empathy of a blocked drain. Does that help?” I looked for Seb’s reaction: nothing. “I’m not really doing the job for his benefit, if that’s any better. I need the money and the experience, and I’m getting a trickle of both. First sniff of a better offer and I’m all sayonara, suckers .”
He nodded and said nothing for a while. We turned between Christ’s and St Paul’s, onto Christ’s Lane: a narrow old passage paved with cobbles, with high stone walls on either side cast into sharp relief by balls of yellow light inset along its length. I could hear music and laughter from a first-floor window on the St Paul’s side, and there was a sweet smell wafting down that might have gotten someone into trouble.
“They sometimes call this little alley Romans,” I said to break the silence. “It’s a Cambridge theological joke. If it helps, I don’t think they’re meant to be funny. It’s something about epistles. Not entirely sure what, I haven’t been a good Catholic boy for several years now. These days it’s usually called St Paul’s Back Passage, what with the college’s reputation and all. Well deserved, too.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did you go there?” Bam! with the journalism.
“No.” Woohoo , a negative fact.
There were another few seconds of quiet, which I was beginning to recognise meant another question bubbling up.
“Has your editor ever asked you to… embellish a story?”
I made a kind of hissing sound. “You’re asking the wrong guy. No point trying to embellish what I’m allowed to do. Yesterday a pussycat with a history of drug-dealing and prostitution was run over by person or persons unknown but believed to be linked to the Mafia and on a bicycle .”
“But would you?” asked Seb, voice raised a little. “Are you loyal to him — or loyal to the truth?”
“Jesus, this is getting heavy. Ask me again when I’m sober.”
I could see him becoming agitated, a little more expressive in the gestures. It might have been the alcohol finally kicking in, I guessed.
“What about phone hacking, email hacking, dirty tricks? Does he get you to do those?”
I shook my head as we passed the bus terminal. The trees along both edges of the path through Christ’s Pieces were lit by strings of bulbs bobbing into the distance, thick constellations between the branches. I kept my eyes open for bikes without lights, the little shits.
“Hacking? That’s all
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