“It’s going to be a huge scoop,” he says. “It’s big. It’s really big. Especially if establishment figures are involved. It’s like the President’s Club but way, way darker. It’s the sort of thing that wins awards . . .”
I stop dead. “Are you taking the piss?” I can feel anger pulsing through me. “Do you even care about Ben at all?” I stare at him. “You don’t, do you?” Theo opens his mouth to say something but I don’t want to hear another word. “Ugh. You know what? Fuck you.”
I march away from him, as fast as I can in these ridiculous heels. I’m not completely sure where I’m going, and of course my stupid phone ran out of data, but I’ll work it out. Far better than having to spend literally another second in his company.
“Jess!” Theo calls.
I’m half jogging now. I turn left onto another street. I can’t hear him anymore, thank God. I think this is the way. But the problem is that all the crappy phone shops look exactly the same, especially with their lights off and grilles down, no one about. There’s an odd smell coming from somewhere, acrid, like burning plastic.
What a bastard. I seem to be crying. Why the hell am I crying? I always knew I couldn’t trust him, really; I suspected he’d had some angle the first time we met. So it’s not like it’s a big surprise. It must be everything, the stress of the last few days. Or Irina: the horror of everything she just told us. Or simply the fact that, even though I half saw it coming, I’d kind of hoped I was wrong, just this once.
And now here I am alone, again. Like always.
I turn onto a new street. Hesitate. I don’t think I recognize this. But there seem to be Metro stops everywhere in this city. If I walk for another couple of blocks I’m sure I’ll find one. Over the churn of angry thoughts in my head I’m vaguely aware of some sort of commotion nearby. Yelling and shouting: a street party? Maybe I should head in that direction. Because I’ve just realized there’s a lone guy walking in my direction from the other end of the street, hands in his pockets, and I’m sure he’s fine, but I don’t really want to test it.
I turn off, head toward the noise. And way, way too late I realize this is no street party. I see a mass of people surging in my direction, some of them wearing balaclavas and swim goggles and ski masks. Huge plumes of black smoke are mushrooming into the air. I can hear screaming, shouting, the sound of metal being struck.
Heat roars toward me in a powerful wave and I see the fire in the middle of the street: the flames as high as the second-floor windows of the buildings opposite. In the middle you can just make out the blackened skeleton of a police van that has been turned on its side and lit ablaze.
Now I can make out the police approaching the protestors in riot gear, helmets and plastic visors, waving batons in the air. I hear the whiplash crack of the batons as they make contact. And mixing with the black smoke is another kind of vapor: grayish, spilling in all directions—coming toward me. For a moment I stand, frozen, watching. People are running in this direction, slaloming around me. Pushing, yelling, desperate, holding scarves and T-shirts over their mouths. A guy next to me turns and lobs something—a bottle?—back in the direction of the police.
I turn and follow, trying to run. But there are too many bodies and the gray vapor is catching up with me, swirling all around. I start coughing and can’t stop; I feel like I’m choking. My eyes are stinging, watering so much I can hardly see. Then I collide—smack!—into another body, someone who’s just standing still in the middle of the stampede. I ricochet back, winded by the impact. Then look up, squinting through the tears.
“Theo!”
He grabs hold of the arm of my jacket and I cling onto him. Together we turn and half-run, half-stumble, coughing and wheezing. Somehow we find a side street, manage to break free from the torrent of people.
A few minutes later we shove through the door of a nearby bar. My eyes are still streaming: I look at Theo and see his are red-rimmed too.
“Tear gas,” he says, putting his forearm up to rub at them. “Fuck.”
People are turning on their bar stools to stare at us.
“We need to wash this stuff out of our eyes,” Theo says. “Straightaway.”
The barman points us wordlessly in the right direction.
It’s a single, largish bathroom. We get the tap running and splash water onto our faces, leaning together over the small sink. I can hear ragged breathing. I’m not sure if it’s mine or his.
I blink. The water has helped to ease the stinging a little. It’s now, as my pulse returns to normal, that I remember: I don’t want to be in this guy’s company at all. I grope for the door.
“Jess,” Theo says. “About before . . .”
“No. Nope. Fuck off.”
“Please, hear me out.” He does, at least, look a little ashamed. He puts up a hand, mops his eyes. The fact that the tear gas makes him look like he’s been crying is an odd addition. He starts speaking, quickly, like he’s trying to get it all out before I can cut him off: “Please let me explain. Look. This job is a total pain in the arse, it pays absolutely nothing, it broke up my last relationship—but every so often something like this comes along and you get to expose the bad guys and suddenly it all seems worthwhile. Yeah—I realize that’s no excuse. I got carried away. I’m sorry.”
I look down at the floor, my arms crossed.
“And if I’m truthful, no, I didn’t really care about your brother. One key skill as a journalist is being able to read people. And can I be really, brutally honest now? Ben always seemed totally self-interested. Always out for numero uno.”
I hate him for saying it, not least because there’s a part of me that suspects he may be right. “How dare—”
“No, no. Let me speak. When he initially told me about his big scoop, I was skeptical. He’s also a bit of a bullshit merchant, no? But when you played me that voicemail, I thought: yeah, actually there might be a story here. Maybe he did get tangled up in something nasty. It might be worth seeing where this all leads after all. So no, I didn’t care about your brother. But you know what, Jess? I want to help you.”
“Oh f—”
“No, listen. I want to help you because I think you deserve a break and I think you’re pretty bloody brave and I also think you don’t have a bad bone in your body.”
“Ha! Then you really don’t know me at all.”
“Christ, does anyone really know anyone? But I’m not a bad guy, Jess. To be fair, I’m not an entirely good one, either. But—” He coughs, looks down at the floor.
I glance at him. Is he bullshitting me? My eyes have started streaming again: I really don’t want him to think they’re tears.
“Ow. Jesus,” I wince as I rub at them.
He steps toward me. “Hey. Can I take a look?”
I shrug.