light of morning I wanted to see him. He was all the family I had left. And I thought I had found a way of doing it.
I walked along the Poplar High Street, bright and deserted. There were green spaces, tree-lined pavements, small parks, and quaint English pubs with window boxes and murky interiors.
But it didn’t feel quaint. It felt inner-city, with the street filled with local teenagers heading for the Tower Hamlets College, bouncing down an empty street. They were mainly black and Asian, all working hard for a better life. But it was the England flags I saw, hanging over balconies of crumbling flats like a last stand, scared, defiant, seeing a threat that wasn’t there, fighting the wrong fight. As I walked along, all the time I could see the towers of Canary Wharf, a glass island, the real threat, the real fight, swamping the skyline.
I was looking for Harry English, newsdesk editor of my old paper, the London Star. Even though his paper was based in Canary Wharf, I knew Harry hated it, from the shopping malls underneath the towers to the buzz of suits and smugness. Harry hated seeing neighbourhoods replaced by workplaces, saw it as a modernist scam, Metropolis with added latté.
I knew what he meant. It didn’t peter out, like most centres of commerce. It stopped abruptly as soon as it crossed into West India Quay, like it was scared of going into the real East End.
I turned quickly into a small back street just off the Poplar High Street and went into the Poplar Diner, a formica cafe serving full English all day, grease and fat at no extra cost. Dirty windows and a faded sign kept tourists away, although not many ventured into Tower Hamlets anyway.
As soon as I walked in, I saw Harry English. He was hard to miss. Six feet tall and twenty stone, the cafe slipped into darkness for a second whenever he came in through the door. He had been in London all his life, and I could see the pace and the fumes etched into his sallow skin. He ate in the Poplar Diner to avoid the chrome tables near his office. The Poplar Diner kept him in touch, or so he thought, and to edit the London Star he had to stay in touch.
I sat down next to him. There were newspapers spread all over the table, Harry checking how the previous day had gone. Every paper led with the Dumas shooting. Before I could say anything, he said, ‘We’ve got a full paper this week, so it will have to be good.’
I ordered a coffee to let him know I was there for a while. I only got one choice: milk or no milk.
‘How are you, Harry?’ I looked at his plate. Full English. I could guess the answer. ‘Didn’t fancy a croissant and Americano?’
He looked at me. His eyes were yellow, nicotine and dark clubs reflected back. ‘You’re not here for my health.’
I thought I heard a cough. I looked around Harry and groaned. It was Dan Jones, a small man with a big attitude from the sports desk. I hoped he heard the groan. I smiled at him, but it wasn’t meant to reach the eyes.
‘Still writing nil–nil every Saturday, Dan?’
Dan looked shocked so Harry stepped into the pause.
‘What do you want, Jack?’ he said tersely. I knew what it meant: he liked me but don’t annoy his staff.
‘I fancy a slow down for a few days,’ I said, nonplussed, ‘and so I wondered whether you’d want a feature from me.’
Harry wiped his mouth on a napkin. ‘What have you got?’
‘An angle on the Dumas shooting.’
Harry coughed. ‘Everyone’s got an angle. Have you seen today’s paper? There isn’t a page left for regular news. One shooting, and the people want it, bullet by bullet.’
‘And you give it to them, Harry. C’mon, it’s a big story, the biggest human drama since Jill Dando.’
‘Don’t I know it. I’ve had all the C-listers on the phone, trying to get their remorse onto the pages.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not just another shooting.’ It was Dan, his voice back. ‘I knew Henri Dumas. He was a good man.’
‘Yeah, you knew him,’ I interrupted, ‘but I’ll put ten quid on the table now that you won’t get a funeral invite.’
Harry tried not to smile, the corners of his mouth taking a small flick upwards. ‘What’s the feature, Jack?’ he asked.
I turned to Harry and said, ‘I just got to thinking last night how this shooting might be playing on a few players’ minds, you know, like it could have been them. It has made them vulnerable. Fame is an exposed and lonely place.’
Harry nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Which sports star in England sells the most magazines?’ ‘You know who it is: David Watts.’
I nodded. ‘Just like I thought. And a feature in your Sunday magazine about David Watts and the shooting will shift some units. The private effect on a public man. It will humanise the shooting and the footballers, make it more of a personal tragedy than a shock story.’
I heard Dan laugh. ‘What makes you think you can get under David’s skin?’ he said. ‘I’ve met him a few times. You’ve got to get to know him first.’
‘So the feature is worth a shot?’
Dan stopped laughing.
Harry lit a cigarette and then said, ‘Dan’s got a point. You don’t know him.’
‘I know him better than you might think,’ I said. ‘David Watts, the private man, I mean.’
‘How so?’
I took a breath. This was it. The final pitch.
‘We’re from the same small town in Lancashire,’ I said, and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know David Watts, but I know people who knew him really well. And these are real people, not football groupies.’ My eyes glanced at Dan when I said it.
‘What, Turners Fold?’ said Dan dismissively. ‘A dead-end mill town full of cousin-fuckers.’
‘Turners Fold, Lancashire,’ I continued, ignoring Dan. ‘He was the local football star who went to a World Cup. He’s a local hero. Anything he does makes the local front pages. I don’t know David Watts, I’ll admit that. We’re no blood brothers or secret cousins or anything. But his family are well-known around town, and he’s only a few years younger than me. We learnt to smoke in the same places, rode across the same fields, went to school discos in the same school hall. Even played football in the same school strip. If you want the real David Watts, you’ll need to go to Turners Fold.’
Harry let smoke trickle over his lip. ‘Do you think you can get enough on him in the next couple of days to go into an interview with him?’
I nodded, trying not to smile.
‘Exclusive?’
I nodded again. ‘If you’ll run it, it’s all yours.’
Harry smoked some more. ‘Okay, Jack. Get under his skin. Let’s have the hometown David Watts. Let him know where you’re coming from and see if he’ll open up.’ He turned to Dan. ‘And you lend Jack your biographies and
