Breaking News

Breaking News

The stench of rotting kelp carpeting the shoreline masked another a short distance along the beach. Three officers, hands on hips, watched without emotion a fruitless attempt to administer first aid to the victim. Inside a cordon of flimsy blue tape paramedics, police and a forensics team in paper white suits played out their pre-defined roles. It took the first responder less time than putting on latex gloves to tell the bloated remains were beyond the need for CPR. Most likely the deceased had been in the water for days, maybe a week. Going through the motions and filing the paperwork was the inevitable outcome for this callout.

On a road parallel to the shore curious bystanders watched the gruesome theatre. The activity down at the waterside made an ideal backdrop for Clifford Dean, an eager Channel One TV reporter out on assignment. His philosophy to outshine all others at the station was simple. Get there before the opposition, create good visuals, project believability and be front and centre in shot. He always wore his signature short-sleeved white shirt, loosely knotted tie and studiously avoided any clothing that might portray him as laid-back. No showy gaiety of logo-embossed polo necks or patterned shirts with images of boats, fish or Bob Marley, so ubiquitous on his Caribbean island. He never wore shades; he wanted the viewers to see his face and remember it. Clifford Dean, clean-shaven with the image of an impish son, boyfriend, brother, got the attention of the viewing public. He looked younger than his thirty-four years and never missed an opportunity for self-promotion.

With recognition came tipoffs on where to find the next news story. On an island on the make from a burgeoning tourism industry, a few dollars in the hands of a doorman or a couple of bar drinks for a limousine driver helped to liberate tongues. He had his regulars too, three types: the ‘reformers’ who railed against the excesses of officialdom, the ‘grudge-holders’ with a bitterness towards someone important or big business, and the ‘conspirators’ who were suspicious of everything did not control. Then, for the last two months, there was the one with a sixth sense to foresee where the trouble of the moment was happening. His top tipster, a confident, quietly spoken female voice.

Dean never let accuracy or discretion get in the way of generating the essentials for a knockout story: maximise the impact; weave in criticism and doubt; insinuate who is to blame. He was up for the award of Best Reporter of the Year in two weeks at the island’s Correspondents Ball. Pressure to keep the stories coming was relentless and he was feeling the strain. Against the odds, it took him five years to elbow his way through the rivals to become the channel’s heir apparent as lead reporter, so maximum effort was needed now to build an impressive back catalogue to prove he’s the best. His hands gripping tightly around the award was his goal for very personal reasons. Dean could predict the competition. Many deliberately side-lined him when he first arrived on the island. Others, including some at Channel One, conspired to keep him out of the news team. Outsmarting them all was an obsession.

Back in a television station in the main town, a veteran presenter, recently consigned to a desk job as the studio anchor, showed no visible sign of displeasure at being away from the action. She introduced the young journalist’s piece to camera, measuring her words to convey the seriousness of the discovery on the beach. At the other end of the line Dean alone could detect the resentment in the veiled sharpness of her pronunciation of his name.

‘We go now to our reporter Clifford Dean at Deepwater Cove with this breaking news.’

Standing ready in front of the lens, a brief face exercise, then Dean eyed his cue from the camera’s on-air light. It turned red and he began.

‘This afternoon a body was recovered from the sea at Deepwater Bay. Local fishermen spotted something in the water and called it in. Around two pm, police confirmed a man was pronounced dead at the beachside. It is speculated the victim may be the missing journalist. On July seventh, I reported on Channel One a press delegate attending the international tourism conference disappeared. A desperate search at the time on land and sea found no trace…'

Bystanders of local fishermen and frequenters of Joe’s bar on the other side of the shore road crowded in closer to hear what the ace reporter had to say. Dean was in his stride.

‘… Authorities here confirmed no further details will be released today even though many questions remain unanswered. What investigations are underway? Is foul play suspected? What are we not being told? Above all else, are the public at risk? There’s clearly more to this story but the police are being tight-lipped. Watch for future updates on this channel. This is Clifford Dean for Channel One News at Deepwater Bay… Now back to Roxanne Tate in the studio.’

Moments after the camera light disappeared his phone buzzed. His next tip? He was always ready to do one more report and more broadcast face time. Dean recognised the soft, melodic voice immediately. Her words flowed effortlessly as notes flow from a harp. They drew him in, like always, to listen to his far-off mentor.

‘Watched your report.’ Said the voice at the end of the line.

‘Like it?’

‘Satisfactory, I suppose. So-so. Conjured plausible uncertainty with just enough baffled police imagery.’

Dean huffed. He’d prefer his ego was puffed. Sensing his disappointment the woman caller added.

‘A decent cliffhanger at the end, though.’

‘Thought that would get attention.’ Dean triumphed. ‘Thanks for setting it up. No other reporters made it to the beach in time.’

‘And now?’

‘Premier’s press conference at five. No scoops there with the rest of the island hacks in attendance.’ Dean lamented.

‘Must do better than that.’

The distant caller departed before a response, so Dean busied himself packing away the camera and its paraphernalia. A short while later the woman called again. He hoped she would, just as she had over the last two months with nearly three dozen real-time tipoffs. She wanted no publicity for herself but her efforts had given him a growing following of viewers across the island. He consoled his ego by accepting the biggest benefit from the current arrangement was to his prospects. They maybe irreparably damaged if it was discovered who she was.

‘I believe there’s something about to happen at the shopping centre in the Cruise Terminal. The woman offered. ‘Better get your skates on.’

Dean covered the distance to the terminal in a quarter of an hour, travelling well over the speed limit and in another three ready at its entrance to report, camera in hand. It was four in the afternoon. His mission was vague but he needn’t have worried. Ear-piercing decibels echoed around a cavernous hall at a volume sufficient to get the attention of every cruiser, young, old and infirm, ambling through the tourist shops. Dean followed the sound, camera rolling, to a jewellery shop. A plate glass window had shattered very recently into vicious edges, and security staff scurried around unsure whether to guard the exposed jewels or search for the miscreant. The reporter was in his element, in the middle of the chaos, ready to fill in any inconvenient missing pieces.

‘Breaking news with live coverage at the Cruise Terminal. Moments ago, a masked gang raided Hendersons Jewellers. Here, amidst chaotic scenes, it is likely the thieves escaped with thousands of dollars of jewellery and watches. Island police and security staff are attempting to contain the situation. Who’s responsible and what’s been taken remain a mystery. Questions should be asked of the government why such a brazen attack was allowed to happen in this critically important tourist destination. This is Clifford Dean reporting… Now back to the studio.’

He held himself in a serious pose to the camera for a full five seconds before passing control back to the anchor. Roxanne Tate was livid at having her programme interrupted for a second time by the upstart. She would sell her soul to know how Clifford Dean, whose surname she pronounced with a gritted-teeth hard D, got his information. His news reports took away her limelight but she fought the urge to vent her frustrations. A red “live studio” light dictated she had to maintain an outward calm and manufactured interest for another thirty minutes of her show. There were still two slots remaining in the running order: an author of a children’s book featuring a jovial worm; and a chef demonstrating ten ways to prepare mangoes. She asked herself whether a vapid daytime magazine programme was really the only job an experienced news journalist with crow’s feet and puffy cheeks was going to be given.

At the Cruise Terminal, Dean congratulated himself on another scoop, privately acknowledging he made up most of the material in the report. He seriously doubted much was stolen or if a gang was involved. The chaos of the event gave him the satisfaction of three positives. The public saw him again at the heart of the action, Roxanne Tate was in no position to diminish his prominence, and who cares if the facts don’t fit the reality; it will be days, maybe weeks, before the police finish their work. All forgotten by the public by then.

Dean had history with Tate, not that she would remember. Ten years ago, when working for the Island Enquirer newspaper, she co-wrote a series of dubious stories that intimated his father was guilty of fraud at a fishing cooperative. Long before he was exonerated years later, his father, who felt the shame intensely, went out one evening in his boat and never returned. His mother and her children moved away and she reverted to her maiden name to escape the misplaced ridicule. Soon after Dean decided to go to Florida and train as a journalist. Ending Roxanne Tate’s career, and retribution over the others who followed her lead, would be a sweet revenge.

After the tedium of the Premier’s address in the early evening, Dean called it a day. Time to knock off, though his trusty phone remained close by. He could not risk missing something juicy if he switched it off. He felt weary too. Revenge and retribution demand constant effort. No days off and the relentless expectation since the move to the main island to perform was making him question if it was all worthwhile.

It was gone ten when the phone rang. He had just finished admiring reruns of his filed reports on the evening news. First and third slots in the running order. Not bad but not ideal to his thinking. He would have to keep an eye on the economics correspondent muscling into the news agenda. The familiar melodic female voice commanded his attention. Dean spoke with a modicum of irritation but how could he refuse to listen? This was the one person driving him to stay ahead of the game.

‘It’s late.’

‘I know. Good coverage on the newscast.’ The voice congratulated.

Dean exhaled loudly. ‘Yeah, but got to do it all over again tomorrow.’

‘You’re not tiring, I hope. How much longer now? The woman replied. More sharply than normal.

‘Just two weeks before the awards.’ The journalist schemed. ‘The shortlist is announced next Friday and the ceremony is the following Thursday.

‘So, maximum impact in the closing stages.’ The silky voice dictated. ‘Probably only need three more high-impact stories before the shortlisting, and maybe another before the big day.’

Dean’s outward bravado masked his inner self-doubt. So much was riding on building his future success, to prove himself, to dominate. He was beginning to wonder if it was going to happen. The caller had taken a personal interest in ensuring he demolished the opposition. He was trapped. He could not let her down.

‘Is all this right? I’m running on empty.’ Dean admitted with an honesty he had not said before.

‘You’re not welching now. Not after all I’ve done for you.’ The silky voice transformed into a sharp rebuke.

Dean lamented. ’You’re my strongest supporter but stories have to be predictable. The drowning? An Island Enquirer reporter? Being there for the discovery could not be anticipated. It was too random. The risks of getting it wrong increase.’

‘Ok, so let’s say it was luck, opportunity and fate are one and the same. Remember, that Enquirer reporter encouraged the lie alongside Tate.’ The voice switched from justifying to encouragement. ‘Clifford, you’re so close to winning the award and finally humiliating those second-raters that destroyed your family…’

To fail to shine in the closing days would be unthinkable. A gift to Roxanne Tate and every other journo on the island who wanted him to crash and burn. His family came from a poorer outlying island, not the main one where the well connected bloodlines fought to control the best jobs in everything influential. Fighting with his dubious morality was something he would have to live with for life but letting his family down would be worse.

‘…Get a grip! I’ve not spent the last two months helping you for the opportunity to be thrown away.’ The distant voice chastised.

Dean opened his wallet and took out a fading picture of his father. The trace of a tear formed in unison with an adoring smile. He replied to the caller with renewed resolve.

‘Mom, I remember the promise we made when we started. What’s the point of simply reporting the news, when we can make it ourselves. Just four more scoops to manufacture to right a wrong in the only way we can.’