Irmgard . How come she was getting all hot and heavy when he had only rung her once from Townsville. Tread carefully, Peter Clancy .
‘What on earth?’ Shazza rolled her eyes. ‘Someone thinks he’s a big lover boy?’
‘Some men have it,’ Peter grinned. ‘Some don’t. I don’t.’
A huge bouquet of carnations greeted him when he reached his desk. He read the card.
My darling Peter. Thanks for the story you did on Ted. He was so happy, though I think you’ve created a monster. Crowds are up. He wants to do a whole revue. Sorry I doubted your sincerity. Hope to see you soon. Lots of love. Concheetah and Teddles.
Peter should have been embarrassed, but instead he felt pleased. Pleased that he hadn’t lost a friend and especially relieved he hadn’t lost a source of information. He picked up the flowers, cradled them in his arms and moved stealthily down the corridor. He would have made it back to his desk unnoticed, except for Tom Crocker.
Old Tom Crocker, was the journo who took up the slack, who did the stories no one else could be bothered with, including the sex advice column. He had a work ethic that belied his advanced years. And apparently a more than passing interest in horticulture. How old was Tom? When was journalism invented? Tom was here before everyone else had started at The Truth and would probably still be here when everyone else has left.
‘Beautiful flowers,’ said Tom. ‘From someone special?’
‘Not really.’ Peter felt himself blush and kept walking. He put the flowers on the floor next to his desk.
‘Don’t do that,’ Mad Dog snarled from somewhere. ‘You need to put them in water,’ he instructed as he approached.
‘I don’t have a vase,’ Peter replied, a little bewildered.
‘You’ll probably find one in the storeroom.’
‘Thanks, I’ll get onto it soon.’
Mad Dog smiled uncomfortably at Peter, who was now sitting in his chair pretending to look at papers on his desk. Peter slowly pickedup the flowers from the floor and held them uneasily between his legs.
‘I love flowers, especially carnations.’ Mad Dog fingered the petals. ‘They’re a symbol of beauty. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose.’ What the…?
‘But so short-lived. Alive for a briefest moment in time then…’ He took a sip of his coffee and leaned in towards Peter, who shifted in his chair. ‘Crime writer now, I see. I hope you’re up to it. Won’t be pleasant.’
‘I should be right. I’ve seen my share,’ Peter replied, a little defensively.
‘I hope so.’ Mad Dog took another sip of his coffee. ‘Because you and I are going to be working fairly closely. More than normal.’
‘You and me?’
‘Bob wants good pictures, see. What’s the saying?’ he paused. ‘If it doesn’t bleed, it doesn’t lead.’ He chuckled for a moment then his face turned sombre. ‘So I don’t want anyone falling apart on me.’
‘No worries about that,’ Peter bit back. ‘I hope you’re up to it, too.’ He placed the flowers back on the desk.
‘Funny,’ Mad Dog shook his head. ‘I’ve seen stuff that would make you go insane. You’ve never been in a war.’
‘Well, then it looks like we’ll make a good team,’ Peter returned.
Mad Dog took a long time to reply. ‘Bob says you have a scanner. You better start listening to it.’
‘It’ll be on all the time.’
‘Only do the hard stuff. Nothing else. I don’t want to be woken up for car accidents and domestics.’
‘I get it—if it isn’t bleeding, it won’t be leading. I know the brief. I am the journalist, after all,’ he called after him, as Mad Dog sauntered back to his cubicle. Peter was still shoving flowers into the glass vase on the last piece of space on his desk, just as the door to Bob’s office swung wide.
‘Doing a bit of flower arranging,’ he sniggered, barely catching his breath as he approached Peter. A cigarette dangled from Bob’s lips, glued there with spit; it bobbed up and down
‘What on earth?’ Shazza rolled her eyes. ‘Someone thinks he’s a big lover boy?’
‘Some men have it,’ Peter grinned. ‘Some don’t. I don’t.’
A huge bouquet of carnations greeted him when he reached his desk. He read the card.
My darling Peter. Thanks for the story you did on Ted. He was so happy, though I think you’ve created a monster. Crowds are up. He wants to do a whole revue. Sorry I doubted your sincerity. Hope to see you soon. Lots of love. Concheetah and Teddles.
Peter should have been embarrassed, but instead he felt pleased. Pleased that he hadn’t lost a friend and especially relieved he hadn’t lost a source of information. He picked up the flowers, cradled them in his arms and moved stealthily down the corridor. He would have made it back to his desk unnoticed, except for Tom Crocker.
Old Tom Crocker, was the journo who took up the slack, who did the stories no one else could be bothered with, including the sex advice column. He had a work ethic that belied his advanced years. And apparently a more than passing interest in horticulture. How old was Tom? When was journalism invented? Tom was here before everyone else had started at The Truth and would probably still be here when everyone else has left.
‘Beautiful flowers,’ said Tom. ‘From someone special?’
‘Not really.’ Peter felt himself blush and kept walking. He put the flowers on the floor next to his desk.
‘Don’t do that,’ Mad Dog snarled from somewhere. ‘You need to put them in water,’ he instructed as he approached.
‘I don’t have a vase,’ Peter replied, a little bewildered.
‘You’ll probably find one in the storeroom.’
‘Thanks, I’ll get onto it soon.’
Mad Dog smiled uncomfortably at Peter, who was now sitting in his chair pretending to look at papers on his desk. Peter slowly pickedup the flowers from the floor and held them uneasily between his legs.
‘I love flowers, especially carnations.’ Mad Dog fingered the petals. ‘They’re a symbol of beauty. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose.’ What the…?
‘But so short-lived. Alive for a briefest moment in time then…’ He took a sip of his coffee and leaned in towards Peter, who shifted in his chair. ‘Crime writer now, I see. I hope you’re up to it. Won’t be pleasant.’
‘I should be right. I’ve seen my share,’ Peter replied, a little defensively.
‘I hope so.’ Mad Dog took another sip of his coffee. ‘Because you and I are going to be working fairly closely. More than normal.’
‘You and me?’
‘Bob wants good pictures, see. What’s the saying?’ he paused. ‘If it doesn’t bleed, it doesn’t lead.’ He chuckled for a moment then his face turned sombre. ‘So I don’t want anyone falling apart on me.’
‘No worries about that,’ Peter bit back. ‘I hope you’re up to it, too.’ He placed the flowers back on the desk.
‘Funny,’ Mad Dog shook his head. ‘I’ve seen stuff that would make you go insane. You’ve never been in a war.’
‘Well, then it looks like we’ll make a good team,’ Peter returned.
Mad Dog took a long time to reply. ‘Bob says you have a scanner. You better start listening to it.’
‘It’ll be on all the time.’
‘Only do the hard stuff. Nothing else. I don’t want to be woken up for car accidents and domestics.’
‘I get it—if it isn’t bleeding, it won’t be leading. I know the brief. I am the journalist, after all,’ he called after him, as Mad Dog sauntered back to his cubicle. Peter was still shoving flowers into the glass vase on the last piece of space on his desk, just as the door to Bob’s office swung wide.
‘Doing a bit of flower arranging,’ he sniggered, barely catching his breath as he approached Peter. A cigarette dangled from Bob’s lips, glued there with spit; it bobbed up and down
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