Water's Edge

Chapter XXXVII

Romeo y Julieta

The Spectator is testament to forgetting. In an England that passively supports the terrorism on Scotland and her borders, for such a magazine – the oldest in the world – to be so anti-Europe is laughable. I am not one for politics – I vote Labour, for I am a masochist – but for a paper founded by a Scot, opposed to illegal wars, to end up being this now—and for the children of that very founder to now rule from the roost, emulating Frasers and Neils as one might copy a cubist: just as ugly, without any of the finesse.

London always made me wax verbose. I hated myself for it. It was a city built on crumbling words, so it felt apt to attack it with the same. But I didn't say anything. I just left my cigarette smouldering on the steps of 22 Old Queen Street. The yuppies stared at me like I'd taken a shit at the door.

Don't worry about it, I said to myself, pushing open the doors: this is Tory Town.

A prim secretary visibly flinched when I approached, putting my badge on the counter. I hated to do it. I preferred asking for permission than just brandishing my rank. But London was a city for quick decisions.

"Are you here—" She began.

"I want to talk to your editor about an Andrew Berg."

Although all 'reputable' magazines & newspapers despised working with 'Runners', they had to follow the theatre of it all. It was law to help a private detective nowadays, especially with their police-connections. The thin blue line was a border no editor in their ivory towers could just elect to ignore. It was why I had slammed the badge on the table; I'd end all the puff-chested weaselling faster than a ferret hunting in the barns. This was why the prim secretary had to take me upstairs, and although she protested about booking appropriately and other such matters, it appeared Addyes Rintoul – lead editor of The Spectator – had time for me after all.

Offices this high up only have big windows so their occupants can be silhouetted before them. Addyes Rintoul was no different, facing away from the door after a strained "enter!", his black shadow before the windows as he watched the boats tugging along the Thames.

"Are you sure?" The secretary questioned.

"I'd have preferred warning but," He shooed her out of the room and came over to me to shake my hand, "Needs must and all that."

He was a thin chap with that common styling of hair, thick and like a hedgehog. Black rimmed glasses perched on his face, and he seemed like quite a pleasant media studies graduate if not for the suit with the gold thread in the pocket handkerchief. The Spectator had been awarded quite a bit of dough after the collapse of the Union, for still supporting The Conservatives as the United Kingdom ended. Keep friends closer and enemies can go do one, and all that.

"You're that Runner boy, aren't you." He was younger than me, but had already taken the affectation of cocaine addled aristocracy. Scottish lilt was kept like a trinket, and not a heritage. The rest was pure bumbling King's English, "Very exciting stuff. We've been trying to get an interview with you for... yonks!" He snort-laughed and sat on the desk, kicking off his brogues, "How can I help you!" He squeaked, excitedly.

I reached into my pocket, retrieved the address, "Your address was found on a body." I handed it over to him, and he reached behind him for a pen, only to shove the expensive engraved scribbler between his teeth. I sighed, I didn't bother hiding it. Addyes didn't notice, "I want to know everything about a client journalist by the name of Andrew Berg."

"Freelancer?" He looked up, removing his spectacles. He did all these movements as if he thought he were in a film and wanted to impress the audience, "I mean, old boy, we have so many come through here." He handed the paper back. It felt soiled.

"Records. You must keep them." I retrieved my tin of cigarettes and offered one. I was too tired for politeness. But this just excited the kid more.

"Oh, no no, one second." He sprawled out across the desk, knocking a paperweight to the floor, and came back with some Romeo y Julieta cigarillos in his own tin, "Let's just go get a drink."

I hate London.