The Power of the Press

Norbert

Chapter 48

The Power of the Press

It is amazing how quickly flood water disperses once it stops raining, especially when it has less than a mile to reach the sea. The earlier fury had abated like a raving lunatic after a lobotomy, leaving the bay calm and listless. By noon we have a reporter from the Macarbrough Late Afternoon News (not to be confused with its rival, the Macarbrough Early Evening Tattle) knocking on our door, followed by the local radio station, who apologise profusely for taking so long due to staff shortages. As a result, I am also late for the late shift. Because of the floods, virtually all the staff have come in late and stayed on.

GT brings a copy of the Macarbrough Early Evening Tattle into the tearoom later that evening and slaps it down in front of me. “Delinquent dog pulls dead man from flood” is the front page headline. How they got hold of the story without visiting us is a mystery.

‘You can have this with my compliments,’ he says. ‘I’ve already photocopied it and pinned it on every noticeboard in the lab. You’re a hero and deserve every bit of the praise that is coming your way.’

There are two photos. One of the drooling, wild-eyed, ferocious-fanged maniac Weggie was six months ago (probably a police mug shot) and one of Nunky juggling at the Bring and Buy sale. I remember it was covered by the press. The article reads:

“Laying aside the acts of heroism and bravery which have emerged in the aftermath of the worst flood to strike Macarbrough in 40 years, we felt it only right and proper to lead with the sickening story of violent canine warlord, Reggie, aged 5, who brought terror to our streets until being caught two years ago and locked up in The Unloved Dog’s Home for Rejects.

The “Hardfist Estate Killer” was broken out of confinement several months ago by Norbert Winstanley Rockhampton-Smythe, a self-professed smuggler of body parts at the city hospital. Though 25 he looks like a wretched street urchin from a Charlie Watthe-Dickens novel. Publishing his photograph, we felt, would be offensive to our readers.

After freeing the beast in a daring raid, Rockhampton-Smythe and his elderly accomplice, roughly 50, attempted to escape on a 16-year-old bus, during which an elderly woman of 74 was injured badly enough to require hospital treatment. The driver, 41, and passengers of various ages were subjected to a foul tirade of abuse before the strange uncle and nephew partnership escaped.

A spokesperson for the Dog’s Home, 33, said: ‘Weggie is not his real name. They changed it to hide his true identity. Despite my repeated warnings of the brute’s vicious nature, Rockhampton-Smythe stole my keys, released the beast and entrusted it to the care of his mentally unstable uncle.’

To substantiate this accusation, we have unearthed CCTV images that show the man pictured, Mr Tobias Rockhampton-Smythe, still aged about 50 and a former solicitor at Norfolk & Good, dispensing petrol in his pyjamas at various 24-hour filling stations in the region.

Since coming into the so called “care” of Rockhampton-Smythe and his mad uncle, Weggie has been reported on no less then fifteen occasions for stealing and mangling the headwear of public officials and other unsuspecting members of the public. The beast also has a history of menacing boats and stealing oars, and it is therefore little wonder that a hired pleasure cruiser, built 14 years ago, panicked at seeing Weggie swimming towards them with an already drownded man in his mouth. Ripping his head to shreds with the propeller was purely incidental.

Mr Alphonse Ebygum-Bartat, a retired ferret wrangler, 67 and that’s it for him, moved from Accrington to civilization five years ago. He leaves a widow, 64, three children and a half-eaten Eccles cake, now 17 hours beyond its sell by date.   

Fellow dog walkers in the vicinity of the strange couple say that Weggie is frequently seen carrying the remains of large kills around the estate. One neighbour, aged 56, said that her tiny Chihuahua, 7, which wouldn’t hurt a fly, was attacked and knocked unconscious by Weggie using a dead cow as a weapon.

Hardfist estate resident, Jumbo Gutbucket-Bellywobbler, who was too addled by drink to remember his age, told the Evening Tattle from his trailer home: ‘That Reggie, right, he snatched my Rottweiler bitch, Fluffy, right, aged 3, right from under my nose, right. Bit her ruddy head right off, right. Left me holding an empty collar and lead, right, then he walked off and turned left, right, or right, I can’t remember which, I was so shocked.’

Weggie also stands accused of using intimidation to put off his opponent at the recent Macarbrough Flyball Championships, which his team, the Huckleberry Hounds, won in controversial fashion last month. Having heard about this story, a formal complaint has been lodged by the incredibly handsome Manuel Forth-Gere, 24, Senior Technician-elect in the Haematology department at the city hospital, where Rockhampton-Smythe is a minionshit underling, despised by his colleagues and the lifts.

A Senior Sister at a cottage hospital close to the city, who refused to give her age and wished to remain anonymous, rang to say that people should not be deceived by Rockhampton-Smythe’s childish appearance. ‘He is a grotesque sexual predator with a predilection for attacking underage girls, fiddling with himself in public, thieving and voyeurism. He, his mad uncle and that horrible dog deserve all they get.’

Wastrels at The Fisherman’s Friend public house said that Rockhampton-Smythe openly admitted to sleeping with the dog. Weggie is often left unsupervised in the pub whilst the mad uncle, a renowned gigolo, breaks the hearts of vulnerable old widows at the Palais. ‘He’ll tango with any old black widow,’ said the dowager Mrs Violet Sniffling Onions, 38 and then some. ‘A bunch of flowers and he thinks he can have any woman he wants. It’s enough to drive anyone over a cliff.’ Meanwhile, terrified customers in the pub, in fear of being sexually assaulted with a beer mat, are forced into sharing their noggins with Weggie. The landlord, also too drunk to recall his age, confirmed that in the last month alone nineteen customers named Thomas have been brutalized in this manner.

An eye witness to the rescue, 17, who also wished to remain anonymous, said that after dragging the body of Mr Ebygum-Bartat out of the water, Weggie was in such a hurry to devour the poor man’s exposed brain he gobbled down his sou’wester in his haste to get at it. Only the arrival of the police prevented the wild beast from consuming the entire corpse.

These are the facts. Don’t believe a word of what that fascist right wing Late Afternoon rag printed, which is all proper berdollox.”

I am outraged. ‘This is the berdollox.’

‘Who cares, drone?’ says GT. ‘The public will see it as a true account of the facts, a worthwhile exposé in the public interest and an exemplary example of unbiased reporting from a newspaper they love and trust.’

I put my head in my hands. ‘We’ll have to emigrate.’

  ‘Technically, it’s immigrate,’ says Ruben. ‘You emigrate from a country, you immigrate in.’

‘Either way, we’ll have to go into hiding to avoid persecution.’

‘And prosecution,’ says GT.

‘You do realize that this puts management in an embarrassing position,’ says Rube. ‘Not to mention the insult to me, having someone vilified in the press being interviewed for my job’.

‘Not really much point in turning up now is there?’ says GT. ‘I’d hate for you to make a fool of yourself.’

Though I burst into sobs, no one pats me on the shoulder. No one says any words of encouragement, no words of sympathy, or any words at all. They all just finish their tea and go back to work.

I feel heat on the backs of my hands, uncover my face and open my eyes. Potty Dotty is holding a steaming mug of tea in front of my face. ‘Dance. Nice shiver. Knee trembler,’ she says.

The cleaners are sitting opposite.

I take the tea. ‘Thank you, Dotty. What time is it?’

‘Ten to ten,’ says Mandy.

I can’t believe I’ve been sitting here for over an hour without being summoned back to work.

‘You could sue the paper,’ says Foultongue.

‘It isn’t exactly lies, more a distortion of the facts. Weggie has raised thousands of pounds for intoxicated wastrels. They didn’t mention that.’

‘It’s defecation of character,’ says Mandy.

‘You’re right. I’m in deep do-do.’

Dotty touches my hand. She has tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ I say again.

‘You know what they say,’ says Vera, jocularly. ‘Today’s headlines, tomorrow’s bog paper on the Hardfist.’

‘I don’t know why I’m getting so upset,’ I snivel. ‘My world fell apart fifteen years ago when my beloved Mummy and Daddy died in a train crash. I’ve been bullied, used, abused, laughed at and humiliated every day since. I should be used to it.’

Vera also touches my hand. ‘You’ve got a wonderful, beautiful, loving relationship with Nunky and Weggie. As individuals you might be broken in some ways, but together you are whole, complete and strong. A lot of people would give anything for a relationship like that.’

‘Especially incestuous, cricket-loving petophiles,’ says Mandy.

‘Shut up,’ says Vera.

‘I’m only saying. He’s still a pathetic shortbottomed loser.’

‘I know. I know. But in cases like this, you do, at least, have to make an effort at faking sincerity.’