The Sprouts of Wrath

9

The editor of the Brentford Mercury peered up from the dog-eared reporter’s note-book towards the dog-eared reporter who stood panting breathlessly before his desk, one Seamus Molloy. “Scoop” to his friends. “And this is actually true?” he asked.

Scoop nodded vigorously. “I interviewed the councillors who were at the meeting. Those that were still able to stand, that is. It all ended in a bit of a punch-up. The garda and all. I ran all the way back.”

The editor scratched at his head with the wrong end of his magic marker. Scoop watched in silent fascination as royal blue zig-zags appeared across his employer’s polished cranium.

“You are not pulling my wire, Molloy?” The aforementioned employer squinted towards the desk calendar. Even allowing for a day or two unturned, it was well starboard of April the first.

“I swear not.” Molloy crossed his heart. “See this wet, see this dry …”

“Quite so, but I should take an extremely poor view of this if it turned out to be another Brentford Griffin story.”

Molloy hung his head. “It’s as true as I am standing here, sir,” said he. “Been following the story for weeks now,” he lied.

“Then, it’s … wonderful!” The editor’s voice rose an entire octave. “Wonderful!” He thrust aside his chair and clasped Molloy’s sweaty mitt, wringing it between his own. “Do you realize what this means, Molloy?” he asked.

Scoop’s head bounced up and down; he did indeed. “It cost me an arm and a leg,” he said guardedly.

“We have it.” The editor clenched a fist towards a damp patch on the ceiling. “I have it! The story! The exclusive!” He turned upon the broth of a boy who stood smiling modestly. “The exclusive! And it’s all mine!” He flung out a hand towards the internal telephone. “All mine!” Suddenly he froze. His eyes flashed towards the reporter. His hand hovered over the handset. “Molloy,” he said slowly, “Molloy, you have not given this story to anybody else, have you?”

“Anybody else, sir?”

“You know … them …” The hated words stuck in his throat.

“You mean Fleet Street, sir?”

The editor flinched and made the sign of the cross. Molloy genuflected subconsciously.

“You haven’t, Molloy?”

“Certainly not, sir!”

“Good man! Good man!” Snatching up the receiver the editor dialled six. As his finger described the mystical arc he whispered to himself, as one reciting a catechism, “Twenty years in this game. Twenty long years of flower shows and boy scout jamborees and now, and now …” He paused a moment, a hand across the mouthpiece and stared towards the unspeakable ceiling beyond which, somewhere distant, sat the great proprietor in the sky. “Thank you, God,” he said. “Amen.”

“Amen,” echoed Molloy pushing across the desk a petty cash slip which was in its way as great a work of fiction as any that Harold Robbins had ever come up with. “If I might just have your signature, sir.”

Without even looking, the editor signed away a sizeable chunk of the paper’s financial resources. “All these years,” he continued, “I’ve prayed for an opportunity to do this.”

“Sir?” said Molloy.

“Listen,” said the editor.

“Hello,” said a sleepy voice at the other end of the line, “Print Room.”

“Williams?” said the editor. “Williams, is that you?”

“Of course it is, who’s that speaking?”

“Williams.” The editor took a deep breath and said, “Williams, hold the front page!”

“Oh, not again, Molloy, said the voice, “just piss off, will you!” The receiver fell and the line went prrrrrrrr …