A Big Circle of Friends. Erica Bentel

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СКАЧАТЬ For the worse. One more piece of bad news. Another murder. Another rape.

      — Listen to me, mate …

      — No. Listen to me. You always say ‘readers buy what they want to read.’ Crap! I’m telling you, they’re as sick of it as I am. So sure, stick with your Grahams story. I can knock it out in ten minutes, and nothing will change. Or we can try to make a difference. It may not even cause a ripple. But at least, at least this has a ‘what if’ factor. You never know. Everyone sends it to four people. You know how fast that spreads? You do the maths. You could actually do something good for this sorry world of ours. Just consider that for three seconds …

      Years of disappointment have erupted in these three minutes and he is only starting to warm up. Gary takes a deep breath…

      — Stop.

      His editor is chuckling.

      — You know what Gary? When I first read it I liked it too. It’s so simple it feels like it could actually work. It’s ridiculous. Totally ridiculous …

      His editor pauses.

      — … I actually phoned to fire you.

      Gary feels all the blood drain from his face, all his energy seep out of his body. He did not expect this.

      — You still there?

      — Yup.

      There is a full 40 second silence …

      — Tell you what … I’m probably losing it or going soft or something … but what the heck, let’s run with it. Let’s give it a go. We’ll go with it Wednesday. I’ll give Gavin the Grahams story. We’ll go front page. Second section. I need 1000 words by first thing tomorrow. Get Dino to set up a website where people can log in and add their names to the list. See if you can trace the message back to its source - that can be a follow on story if you can’t trace it in time. I reckon if we’re going to give it a go, let’s give it a real go.

      Pause …

      — Who knows?

      The editor hangs up. Gary sits there stunned.

      After a few minutes he remembers something.

      Shit … He’s going to have to cancel Sam again.

      This time though, he knows she won’t mind.

       PERTH, AUSTRALIA. WEDNESDAY, 07:10

      “Sasha! SASHA! Come upstairs now!”

      “Mum? What’s wrong?!”

      “Nothing’s wrong! Look at this!”

      Her mother shows her the article in The Daily.

      “No way!”

      She reads it three times.

      Her father walks out of the bathroom.

      “What’s going on out here?”

      “Dad, read this …”

      “I didn’t know that you sent it to the papers.”

      “I didn’t.”

      “So how did it get there?”

      “I don’t know. But it’s there. Read it! How awesome is that!”

      Thrilled that her idea has gained wings, she jumps onto her parents’ bed and talks and talks until her father says he can’t handle the noise any longer and goes back into the bathroom.

      Sasha and her mother carry on:

      “You must phone them and tell them it was your idea.”

      “Not a chance.”

      “Why not?”

      “I don’t want to. It’s not about me.”

      Sasha looks at the clock and sees the time.

      “Muuumm … I’m gonna be late for school!”

      She runs to her room and dresses in four minutes flat, then spends the next five minutes trying to find her second shoe. She looks in her wardrobe (three times), under the bed (twice), in the laundry, in the sitting room, where eventually she finds it under the couch. Pulling it on, she scrambles up and starts looking around.

      “Has anybody seen my USB?!”

      She frantically packs her books into her bag, finds her USB still plugged into the computer, pulls it out and races to the car. Her Dad is there waiting, ignition on.

      They are caught by every traffic light on the drive to school.

      By the time she makes it to class, her stomach is in knots.

      None of her friends has seen the article. But by lunchtime it is all they are talking about. Sasha’s head is reeling with the excitement of it all.

       This can work. This can work. This can work.

       THAT NIGHT. SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA. 20:25

       Meanwhile … in another suburban home. It starts with raised voices. Another argument. A door slams.

      Storming down the driveway, K. hears his father calling out after him.

      He spins around.

       “Why can’t you just leave me alone? I hate this place! Why did you have to move here in the first place?”

       “For you children!!”

       “For us. Yeah right. They all treat me like I’m a bloody alien. I’ll never be like them. Never.”

      He sends a text to his cousin, then mutters to himself:

      … Not that Iraq is any better. Those family holidays are a bloody nightmare.

      Looking back up the driveway he sees his mother, then his father at the window, searching for him. He takes two steps to get out of their view. He climbs on his scooter, pulls on his helmet and drives off.

      His cousin lives only 20 minutes away. He parks his scooter and, using both hands, pushes open the glass doors.

      Only after he’s pressed the lift button does he read the OUT OF ORDER sign. He grunts. Then starts up the three flights of stairs, grumbling under his breath.

       At least it’s better than being nagged day in, day out.

      He holds his breath up the last flight.

       What’s that disgusting smell? It’s like cat piss.

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