'It's no good, Jimmy,' said Claire, 'he won't change his mind.'
Jimmy nodded, but still held his hand out for the phone. Claire sighed and passed it across. She slumped down at her desk and buried her head in her hands. Jimmy raised the phone to his ear.
'Captain, it's Jimmy.' Captain Smith mmm-hmmed. 'Is there nothing we can do?'
'No, son. Leave it now, all right?'
Jimmy took a deep breath. 'OK. That's your decision.' Claire looked up, fury freshly etched on her tear-stained face. 'But I have to ask your permission to allow a reporter to attend the execution. We've covered the story up until now and it's only right that we should be represented at the end.'
There was a moment's hesitation. Then Captain Smith said, 'Very well. You may send a representative. But I warn you — no funny business.'
'You have my word.'
Jimmy put the receiver down.
Claire looked at him in disbelief. 'You . . . just — gave in! You didn't put up any kind of a fight at all!'
'Claire, there's no point. He's made his mind up.'
Everyone was looking at him now.
Ty punched him lightly on the shoulder. 'You have a plan — don't you . . . ?'
Jimmy shook his head. 'No, Ty. No plan. Now who wants to go?'
There were no volunteers.
'OK then.' Jimmy lifted a camera and pushed his way back through to the door. He knocked on it, and a few moments later it was opened by First Officer Jeffers. He looked warily at the little group. Jimmy glanced back at Claire, gave a little shrug, and stepped into the gap.
The door was locked behind him. The imprisoned campaigners talked quietly or busied themselves with small tasks, trying to block out thoughts of what might be happening in the fake farmyard. But as the hands on the clock moved inexorably towards nine p.m. all work ceased.
Nine o'clock came.
Tears were shed.
Claire stared at her computer.
Nine-thirty arrived without any news. Nobody wanted to phone the bridge because nobody wanted to be the first to hear the bad news.
Finally, at a few minutes before ten a key was turned and the door opened. Jimmy stood there. Claire forced herself to look up from her screen. Jimmy's face was pale, the set of his mouth grim.
'Well?' Ty asked.
Jimmy took a deep breath. 'I have bad news, and I have good news.' He nodded around the news team. 'Which do you want to hear first?'
'The bad.' That was Claire. She was wringing her hands together.
'The bad news is that Babe was slaughtered at five past nine.' There was a communal groan. 'It was over quickly. She made no sound.'
'And the good news?' Claire falteringly asked.
Jimmy hesitated for a moment before producing a brown paper bag from behind his back.
'Fresh sausages!'
It was, he later acknowledged, a spectacular misjudgement. He had thought a joke might lighten the mood. There weren't actually sausages in the bag, he didn't actually walk in with bits of Babe minced up into pork bangers, but there might as well have been, given the instant, revolted reaction from his captive audience. If he hadn't had the presence of mind to realise the extent of his mistake and throw himself back out into the corridor and slam the door shut and lock it, they would have turned him into sausage meat.
Jimmy stood breathing heavily while the door was battered hard by the angry mob inside.
He rubbed at his brow, suddenly aware that his moment of stupidity had quite probably robbed him of all the respect he'd worked so hard to achieve.
Jimmy cautiously approached the door. 'Listen, folks, I'm really sorry — I was only trying to—'
'JIMMY ARMSTRONG.' It was Claire, her voice as cold and hard as he had ever heard it. 'I WILL NEVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN AS LONG AS I LIVE.'
5
The Old Man
Claire meant it. She hated Jimmy Armstrong. She would never speak to him again. He tried to apologise to her in half a dozen different ways, but she heard none of it — he might as well have been whispering in a force ten gale. She gave no indication that she was even aware of his existence.
Which made running the newspaper rather difficult.
In fact, nobody was speaking to him. Claire had a secret meeting with the news team early the next morning to decide what to do if he did turn up for work — he was, after all, still their boss. It was suggested that they quit their jobs, but they enjoyed working there too much to go along with that. If anyone was to quit it should be Jimmy — and if he wouldn't do it voluntarily they would force him out by sending him to Coventry. This was an old expression meaning to give someone the silent treatment.
If he was bold enough to come to work.
Nobody wanted to see him, but everyone was there to see if he turned up.
The working day usually started at nine a.m. Jimmy was always late. At ten-past nine there was no sign of him. At half-past he had still not turned up. They were just beginning to relax by ten when the door opened and Jimmy sauntered in, cup of tea in hand and smiling widely.
'Morning all,' he said, crossing to his desk.
Silence.
'Beautiful out there — never seen the sea so calm.'
Silence.
'OK then, let's see what we have on today.' Jimmy took out the diary, a large red book which showed the various assignments he had to give to the reporters and photographers each day. Ninety-nine per cent of the time these were stories which needed to be covered on board ship, but occasionally, like today, there was something more exciting — overnight the Titanic had dropped anchor off another new settlement, this one called Tucker's Hole. They had requested medical assistance. Captain Smith was sending Dr Hill and a team of nurses ashore to help treat an outbreak of chicken pox — a disease that would once have been routinely dealt with, but since medicines were no longer readily available was now much more dangerous — in fact, potentially lethal. Places had been set aside on the speedboat for a reporter and photographer from the Times. Normally Jimmy's team would have been fighting to get ashore — but this morning when he asked for volunteers, not a single hand was raised.
Jimmy shrugged. 'OK then, I'll go myself.' Everyone kept their eyes down. 'But I still need a photographer.'
Still nobody volunteered.
'OK. Claire, as chief photographer, I'm selecting you to go ashore. See you up top in fifteen minutes. And seeing as how you've all lost the power of speech, I'll email you all your assignments before I go.'
Jimmy switched on his computer and set to work.
Tucker's Hole was set near the mouth of a small river and had been entirely constructed from panels of wood looted from a Home Depot about half a mile away. It was, essentially, a town constructed from garden sheds.
As the inflatable approached the shore, Dr Hill shouted out what had become a familiar list of orders. 'Don't get separated from the group! Stick together! Be pleasant, be respectful, but don't trust anyone! Do not wander off! If you see anything suspicious report it to me immediately! If you do get separated from the group and cannot make it back, the alternative pick-up point is two clicks to the east of the river — you've seen it on the map, so don't forget it!'
Jimmy always felt excited on these trips — because the unknown lay ahead. Everything had changed since the plague. They might be speeding towards a happy community full of jolly optimists — or into a violent ambush. The reality usually lay somewhere in the middle. The Titanic brought hope, and it also brought jealousy over the relatively good standard of living on board. It brought relief, but it also reinforced the knowledge that life could never be the same again. Usually he shared this excitement with Claire, but she sat stiff and remote. She would normally be snapping away by now, but the camera lay neglected in her lap. He smiled at her. She ignored him.