One Hundred Names Page 3

  ‘Stories to use people.’

  ‘Steve!’

  ‘They used to be good stories, Kitty. Positive. A story for the sake of telling a good story. Not about exposing people, or setting people up.’

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t aware that your story about Victoria Beckham’s new line was going to change the world,’ she said cattily.

  ‘What I’m saying is, I used to like reading them, hearing about them. Now you’re just …’

  ‘Now I’m what?’ Her eyes filled.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, please, please tell me what I am because I’ve only been hearing it on every single news station, reading it on internet sites and graffitied on my own front door for the last week, and I’d really like to know what my best friend thinks of me because that would just be the icing on the cake,’ she yelled.

  He sighed and looked away.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘How am I supposed to fix this, Steve?’ she finally asked. ‘What do I do to make you and the rest of the world not hate me?’

  ‘Have you spoken to the guy?’

  ‘Colin Maguire? No way. We’re about to begin a court case. If I go anywhere near him I’ll get into even more trouble. We made an apology to him at the start of Thirty Minutes, when it was discovered he wasn’t the father. We gave it priority to the show.’

  ‘Do you think that will make him feel better?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Kitty, if you did to me what you did to him, I would do a lot worse than they’ve done to your door. I would want to kill you,’ he said sternly.

  Kitty’s eyes widened. ‘Steve, don’t scare me like that.’

  ‘This is what you’re not understanding, Kitty. This is not about your career. Or your good name. This is not about you. This is about him.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, struggling. ‘Maybe if I can explain what happened … The two women were so credible, Steve. Their stories matched up, the dates, the times, everything was so … real. Believe me, I followed it up over and over. I didn’t just run with it straight off. It took me six months. The producer was behind me, the editor, I wasn’t the only person who did this. And it wasn’t just about him. Did you even see it? It was about the number of paedophiles and sex offenders in Ireland who occupy roles in schools and other jobs with direct contact to children who have been reported and who have been charged with the crime of abusing students in their care.’

  ‘Apart from him. He was completely innocent.’

  ‘Okay! Apart from him,’ she said, frustrated. ‘All the other stuff I covered was perfectly accurate! Nobody ever says anything about that!’

  ‘Because that’s your job, to be accurate. You shouldn’t be congratulated for it.’

  ‘Any other journalist in that room would have done the same thing, but the letter came to me.’

  ‘It went to you for a reason. Those women set you up and they used you to set him up. You were covering bullshit stories so they knew you’d want to jump on this straight away, have your moment of glory.’

  ‘It wasn’t about me having my moment of glory.’

  ‘Wasn’t it? All I know is I’ve never seen you as excited as the day you got the job on the show. And you were doing a story about tea, Kitty. If Constance asked you to do a story about tea, you’d tell her to go and jump. Television made you excited.’

  She tried to pretend it wasn’t true but she couldn’t. He was right. Thirty Minutes was made up of one large investigative story – the big one, the story everybody wanted to work on – and the remainder of the show was padded with smaller, local, not so ground-breaking pieces. Her first story had been to look into why consumers chose the brand of tea they bought. Numerous trips to tea factories, sweeping shots of supermarket tea aisles, and visits to morning community tea events led her to find that people simply followed the same brand their parents drank. It was a generational thing. It had been four minutes and fifty seconds long and Kitty believed she had a cutting-edge piece of art on her hands. Four months along in the job, when she received the letter, addressed to her, from the two women making claims against Colin Maguire, she had instantly, vehemently believed them, and she had worked with them and helped build a case against him. She had got lost in the drama, the excitement, the atmosphere of the TV studio offices, her opportunity to move from sweet harmless stories to the big time, and in her search for the truth had told a lie, a dangerous lie, and had ruined a man’s life.

  Steve was looking around the flat.

  ‘What now?’ she asked, completely drained.

  ‘Where’s Glen?’

  ‘At work.’

  ‘Does he usually take his coffee machine to work?’

  She turned round to look at the counter, confused, but her phone interrupted them.

  ‘My mum. Shit.’

  ‘Have you spoken to them lately?’

  Kitty swallowed and shook her head.

  ‘Answer it,’ he said, refusing to leave until she had answered.

  ‘Hello?’ She exaggerated the word for effect and then Steve was gone.

  ‘Katherine, is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, Katherine …’ Her mother broke down in tears. ‘Katherine, you’ve no idea …’ She could barely get the words out.

  ‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ Kitty sat up, panicked. ‘Is it Dad? Is everyone okay?’

  ‘Oh, Katherine,’ Mrs Logan sobbed. ‘I can’t take it any more. We are just so embarrassed down here. How could you do it? How could you do that to that poor man?’

  Kitty sat back and prepared for the onslaught. It was then she noticed Glen’s plasma TV had disappeared too and, on further inspection, so had the clothes in his wardrobe.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A week later, after what felt like the longest seven days of her life, Kitty awoke in a sweat from a nightmare. She lay with the bedcovers in a tangled mess around her, and her heart beating wildly. She was afraid to look around the room, but as the nightmare faded from her memory she gained courage and sat up. She couldn’t breathe. She pushed open her bedroom window and drank in deep breaths of air, but the steam pouring from the vents of the twenty-four-hour dry-cleaners was inhaled directly into her lungs. She coughed, slammed the window shut and made her way to the fridge where she stood naked before the open door in an effort to cool down. She was not ready for tomorrow. She was nowhere near equipped for tomorrow at all.

  ‘Colin Maguire suffered irreparable damage to his reputation, his life was utterly altered and he was removed from his home and community as a result of the January tenth episode of Thirty Minutes. Katherine Logan confronted Mr Maguire outside his place of work and accused him of sexually abusing two teenage girls and fathering one child. Despite his repeated denials and an offer to take a paternity test, the programme was broadcast. Katherine Logan, Donal Smith and Paul Montgomery’s careless actions and unprofessional behaviour had a devastating impact on Mr Maguire’s life.’

  Kitty sat in court alongside Thirty Minutes producer, Paul, and editor, Donal, as they listened to the lengthy terms of the four hundred thousand euro settlement for compensatory damage and aggravated damage. It took exactly seventeen minutes to read. With each word, each accusation, Kitty hated herself a little more. Near her, Colin Maguire and his family – his wife, his parents, his brothers and sisters – and everyone in his community who had come out to support him were staring at her, their eyes searing into her back. She felt their hatred, she felt their anger, but more than anything she felt Colin’s hurt. He would barely lift his head, his eyes cast downward, his chin firmly lodged on his chest. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a year.

  The Thirty Minutes team and their legal advisors left the courthouse, swiftly pushing through the mill of photographers and cameras, some from their own network, which were shoved in Kitty’s face as though she were one of the criminals she regularly saw leaving this very building on the news. The men walked so quick
ly she could barely keep up but she didn’t want to run. Her sanity depended on surviving that moment. She did not want to put a foot wrong now after making so many mistakes to get them there. She kept her head down and then, thinking it made her look guilty, she lifted it again. Chin up, take your punishment, and walk, she repeated to herself, trying to keep her tears at bay. The flash bulbs dizzied her and she was forced to look down at the pavement again. The act of walking suddenly felt unnatural, like a mechanical movement that took great effort. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to swing her left arm with her right foot and not the other way around. She focused on not smiling, but didn’t want to look upset. She knew these photos would be around for ever, she knew this footage would be played over and over, then would sit in the archives for reporters to root through. She knew because she did it every day. She didn’t want to look cold, but she didn’t want people to think immediately that she was guilty. People didn’t always listen to the narrative, they just looked at the pictures. She wanted to look innocent but sorry. That was it, contrite. She tried to maintain her pride and dignity when inside she felt she had neither left, and all the while people were shouting at her. Mr Maguire’s supporters had quickly exited the courtroom and spilled onto the street to give interviews to the press, and to heckle the Thirty Minutes team. She could hear them behind her hurling abuse and insults, and the journalists who were looking for a comment were trying to raise their voices above the tirades. The cars going by on Inns Quay slowed to watch the commotion, to see who was being surrounded by the media, literally being pressed by the press. Squashed and squeezed, drained and demoralised, everything being taken out of her, Kitty reflected that this was what she had done to Colin Maguire, as the reporters bumped against her, trying to keep up with her pace. Kitty kept on walking, one foot in front of the other; it was all she could do. Chin up, don’t smile, don’t cry, don’t fall, walk.

  Once they’d entered their solicitor’s nearby offices and had escaped the reporters, Kitty dropped her bag to the floor, leaned her forehead against the cold wall and took deep breaths.

  ‘Jesus,’ she gasped, feeling her entire body flush with heat.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Donal asked gently.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry about this.’

  She felt a light pat on her back and was grateful for his support. She had caused this and he was perfectly entitled to have a go at her.

  ‘This is absolutely ridiculous,’ Paul raged to the solicitor in the next room, pacing before his desk. ‘Four hundred thousand euro, plus his legal fees. This is nothing like you said it would be.’

  ‘I said it might—’

  ‘Don’t you dare backtrack now,’ he yelled. ‘This is appalling. How could they do this to us? We’ve already apologised. Publicly. At the start of our show on February the eighth. Four hundred and fifty thousand people saw that we apologised, that we acknowledged he was not guilty, millions more saw it on the internet and God knows how many more after today. You know, I bet we were set up from the start. Those two women, I bet they and Colin Maguire are in on it together, and they’re getting a cut of that money. I wouldn’t be surprised. Nothing would surprise me now. Jesus. Four hundred thousand. How am I supposed to explain this to the Director-General?’

  Kitty removed her forehead from where it was resting against the cool wall of the corridor and stood at the door of the solicitor’s office. ‘We deserved it, Paul.’

  There was a silence and she heard Donal’s intake of breath behind her. Paul spun round and stared at her as if she was nothing, which was a certain amount more than she felt right then.

  ‘We ruined Colin Maguire’s life. We deserved to hear every single word they said in there. We shouldn’t have made such an enormous mistake and now we have to take responsibility for our actions.’

  ‘Our actions? No. Your actions. You ruined his life, I was just the idiot who assumed you had done your job properly and had actually done your research. I knew we never should have given you this story. Mark my words, the network will never hire you again, do you hear me, Kitty? You don’t know the first thing about covering a bloody story,’ he yelled.

  Kitty nodded and backed away. ‘’Bye, Donal,’ she said quietly.

  He nodded, and she left the building through the back exit.

  She was afraid to return to her flat for two reasons. She wasn’t sure if the court’s decision would fuel the attacks on her home or if they would die down now that Colin had been further vindicated and financially awarded. The other reason was that she was afraid to be alone. She didn’t know what to do; she couldn’t spend another moment thinking about this, beating herself up about it, but she didn’t feel it was right not to either. She deserved to be punished, she needed to wait out this feeling of absolute shame. She retrieved her bicycle from the backstreets of the Four Courts and headed in the direction of Constance’s home. Paul may have accused her of not having the first clue how to cover a story but she knew someone who did know, and perhaps it was time to start learning again.

  Constance and Bob’s home was a basement apartment in a three-storey Edwardian house in Ballsbridge, the rest of which housed the magazine. The basement flat had over the years become an extended office, which they shared and lived in together and had done so for twenty-five years. The kitchen, never used as they ate out almost every night, was hidden beneath the clutter of memorabilia and items they had collected on their extensive travels. Every surface was littered with an eclectic mix of art: ebony carvings next to happy Buddhas and Venetian glass naked ladies, African and Venetian masks placed on old teddy bears’ heads, and on the wall Chinese etchings and landscape paintings hung beside Bob’s favourite satirical comic strips. The entire place felt like them. It had personality, it was fun, it was alive. Teresa, the housekeeper, had worked for Constance and Bob for twenty-five years and was now into her seventies. She didn’t appear to do anything more than light dusting and watch The Jeremy Kyle Show, but Constance, who wasn’t one for caring about a tidy home anyway, couldn’t find it in her heart to let her go. Teresa was more than familiar with Kitty and so immediately welcomed her into the flat without question and returned to her armchair with a cup of tea to watch a man and a woman screaming at each other over a lie detector test that hadn’t gone in anybody’s favour. Kitty was thankful Teresa never watched the news and was completely unaware of the week’s drama, sparing her an inquisition. She went into Constance and Bob’s office.

  Their desks were directly opposite one another and equally piled high with what appeared to be rubbish, but which was probably vital paperwork. Above Constance’s desk were nude photographs of women in 1930s France, draped in provocative poses. She had put them there for Bob’s viewing pleasure and in return he had placed African art of naked men above his desk for her. The floors were as cluttered as the surfaces, with rug after Persian rug of busy patterns overlapping one another, so that it was difficult not to trip on the lumps and bumps. As well as the continuation of art from the rest of the flat, there were dozens of porcelain cats in various positions on the floor all along the room. Kitty knew that Constance hated them, real ones and the porcelain kind, but they had been her mother’s and when she passed away Constance had insisted on giving them a home. The room was so busy Kitty wondered how on earth they could concentrate at all, but they could and they were mighty successful at it. Constance had moved from Paris to Dublin to annoy her wealthy father and study English Literature in Trinity College. There she edited the college paper and her first job was writing for the Society section of the Irish Times, where she met Robert McDonald. Bob was ten years older than she, and was the Times’s business affairs correspondent. When she eventually tired of being told what to do, which never took long, Constance decided to frustrate her father furthermore by leaving her respectable job with Ireland’s major broadsheet and instead start her own publication. Bob came along with her, and after cutting their teeth o
n various magazines, they set up Etcetera twelve years ago, their most successful venture yet. It wasn’t the highest selling magazine in Ireland, as it failed to divulge tips on how to remove cellulite or how to get the perfect bikini body, but it was widely respected in the industry. To write for Etcetera was considered an honour, a great step on the ladder to success. Constance was a straight-talking no-nonsense editor with an impeccable eye for a story and for talent; Etcetera was where many of the country’s successful writers had started out.

  Kitty went to the filing cabinet and was immediately impressed by the neat system that Constance had developed. It was nothing like the rest of her home: every single article that had been written for Etcetera or any other magazine Constance had run, articles she had written for other publications and all ideas she’d had in the past and for the future were neatly filed on cards in alphabetical order. Kitty was unable to ignore her inherent nosiness and so read as many as she could before getting to N. And there it was, a simple brown manila envelope filed under ‘Names’. It was sealed, and though she knew she shouldn’t break the deal she had made with Constance, she couldn’t contain her impatience and so sat down at Constance’s desk to open it. Teresa appeared at the door and Kitty jumped like a naughty schoolgirl caught smoking. She dropped the envelope on the desk and then laughed at herself.

  ‘Have you seen her yet?’ Teresa asked.

  ‘Yes, last week. I couldn’t see her this week because I had this thing to attend,’ she said, feeling guilty that the court case had once again kept her from seeing Constance. She knew she should have made the effort but the daily grind at the Four Courts left her feeling drained, self-pitiful, introspective and, quite frankly, rather defensive and snappy. She didn’t think it was fair to bring that energy to Constance’s bedside.

  ‘I imagine she looks desperate. My Frank died from cancer. He had it in his lungs. He smoked forty a day but still, no one deserves what he went through. He was the same age as Constance. Fifty-four,’ Teresa tutted. ‘Would you believe I’ve spent almost as many years without him as I had with him?’ She shook her head again. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? It tastes a bit metallic. I found coins in the teapot. They used it as their piggy bank. Bob told me to take them to the bank. Seventy-six euro and twenty-five cent they had in there.’