The Scoop Read online

  The Scoop

  by

  Gerard O’Keeffe

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright Gerard O’Keeffe 2012

  gerardokeeffe.com

  The Scoop

  In the boutique hotel in London’s Soho, the corridor was filled with a press of people. A young PR checked journalists in and out of the hotel suite, her face a mask of fatigue, though it was only noon. Film equipment and cameras were strewn on the floor, obstacles to hotel guests as media professionals jostled to catch her eye or crept slyly along the walls to be nearer the bedroom door and their star.

  The minder came out to help her, responding to her pleas for the crowd to cooperate and wait their turn. Her high voice stopped in mid-sentence as he touched her arm to ground her. The effect was immediate. He was bald headed and calm, of indeterminate age, dressed in a uniform black. With an easy movement of his arms he moved the chattering people into line, ignoring their resistance. He employed the oasis of a table and chairs at the end of the corridor as a cooling off area where he restrained the noisiest arrivals whose interviews would come later. They fluttered away from his hands. He spoke little, using his shoulders and upper body as a wedge that swept all before it.

  A dozen people spoke at the tops of their voices, the corridor amplifying the sound, before it grew less. Soon, they were dispersed and given clear instructions, divided by their hands. As he regulated them, he prodded their bodies, as if kneading soft dough into bread. He spread them along the entire top floor, designating the free bedroom as a waiting room for the privileged next interviewers while forcing the rest to stand or sit as he directed. Already, they were defying him, drawn back by the magnet of celebrity, inching closer to the Presidential Suite, their feet padding along the carpet, behind his back. He returned to his colleague and took up sentry duty at the bedroom door, scowling at everybody. She emitted a smile.

  “Thanks, angel. Can you stay out here a while? I need to heave the last one out or we’ll run over.” The PR was tall and slim, her face a beautiful disc of fine features. She palmed the security man’s chest as she took pains not to touch any of the media who were making her day seem longer. She studied her watch as the present twenty minute slot had less than sixty seconds to go. Her red lips curled in a worm of displeasure.

  He shrugged. “Go ahead. Keep them moving.”

  She disappeared behind the oak panelled door, reappearing moments later with a flushed journalist in her wake, clutching his notes to his chest. She foisted a press pack on him as the minder propelled him towards the lifts and his voice trailed away.

  “Who’s next?” She composed her face and ticked off a list on her electronic planner. A small man appeared from the bedroom next door, his plump body covered by a long T shirt with the name of a long defunct band as its design.

  “It’s me. I’m number five.”

  The PR warmed to his compliance. At her back she flicked the bedroom door open and let him pass, keeping the minder on her side of the door as a group of foreign journalists rushed her, ignoring the queue. There were shouts of protest and a cry of pain as the door closed in his wake and he found himself in the filtered shade of the grand suite. Inside, it was quiet, the hush that luxury brings.

  Bathed in light and shadow, Stu Langley occupied the main armchair, one leg drooping over the arm. A mass of blonde hair framed his face and its sharp handsomeness. His skinny body was wrapped in a designer shirt with tailored slits in it. His trousers encased thin legs that ended in tanned bare feet. He spoke with a mid-Atlantic accent.

  “Shoot. You have twenty minutes. Where are you from?”

  Settling his flesh into the smaller armchair, the journalist looked up, a neat pile of papers in his hands, his laptop already open on the glass table. “We’re the biggest online forum for rock. We’re Rock CV Inc.”

  Stu yawned and allowed his body to stretch, making a star shape in the chair. “Shoot. Have we met before?”

  The plump man nodded. “Yes. For your first CD.”

  “You’re the nerd!”

  “Sorry?”

  Stu stirred. “You’re the nut who knew everything. I’m right aren’t I?”

  The journalist tapped his keyboard and looked up. His voice was defensive. “I do my research, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I remember now. You told me stuff from the early days. Am I right or am I right?”

  “We’re the wiki of rock. It’s all there. Updated twenty-four hours a day, by fans, from around the world.”

  “Whatever. So what’s my birthday?”

  “The sixth of May.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the name of my first band?”

  “The Street Screamers.”

  Stu laughed to himself. “That’s a good answer. Some say it was Bendy Monkeys.”

  The writer frowned. “They’re wrong. The Street Screamers came a year before. You only had one gig. At a school fete. You were lead singer and had a guitar.”

  “I had a guitar? That’s a funny way of saying it.”

  “Correct though. You wore a guitar but didn’t learn to play it until the lead guitarist quit the Bendy Monkeys.”

  “I taught myself. A natural. I don’t remember seeing your article. They tell me about the good ones. Was yours any good?”

  The man in the seat opposite adjusted his position as the long T shirt gathered around his body caught uncomfortably between his flesh and the chair. “No. You were out of it.”

  “Was I?” Stu didn’t sound surprised.

  The writer continued to tap into his computer as he spoke. “You were pissed and on something. You took a swing at me for no reason.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. You threw me out early because you wanted to screw a woman who turned up.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.” The journalist moved little.

  Stu shrugged his shoulders. “That’s rock and roll. I bet you know her name.”

  “I do. It was Sovrana Loviche. You were with her for three weeks. You dumped her for another model – Bernice MacAlpine. You dropped her for the actress Louise Shepherd.”

  “All so beautiful... I reckon you have ten more minutes. What do you think of the new CD?”

  The journalist was unblinking. “I liked track six.”

  Stu emptied his drink, a pint sized beaker of Jack Daniels and coke. “The only track I didn’t write.”

  “You did ask.” He turned the laptop to face the famous singer opposite him. “Listen to this, will you.”

  “Why?”

  “You might like it.” A female voice filled the air, her voice distinctive and the beat strong.

  “Turn it off. Who’s she?”

  “Cassie Mallory. The new online sensation. Over forty million hits to her website. She’s built herself up from nothing.”

  Stu refilled his glass from a bottle and a can. He fell into his chair heavily, emitting a groan. “So?”

  The writer shrugged. “You came up one way, she came up another.”

  Stu drank the new liquid in large gulps and shrank away from him. “There’s nothing wrong with talent shows. I beat thousands. This is crap.”

  “I agree. Just like last time.”

  Stu made to rise from his chair. As he did so, some papers arrived on his lap. He looked at them as his visitor switched off his computer and packed it away.

  “What’s this, nut job?”

  “The birth certificate of Cassie Mallory and your own.”

  “Out. You’re getting weird.”

  “Quite the opposite. I’m just doing my job. Look at the names and dates. Then look at the adoption papers.”

  “Adoption papers? What’re you pulling?”

  The writer was on his feet as
the rock star turned away. “You were adopted. Your birth mother was a drug addict living in Brighton. You were twins. She kept Cassie but gave you away. It’s all there. I’ve checked and double checked. I don’t make mistakes.”

  “Out!”

  Shuffling to the door, the journalist left before his twenty minutes was up.

  End

  About the Author

  Gerard O’Keeffe was born and brought up in the Midlands and studied Irish and American literature in London before qualifying as a teacher. He switched careers to business and marketing across the charity sector, where he worked with leading social enterprises, cultural and educational providers. He continues to work in consultancy, education and on creative projects with new talent.

  Coming from a family with Irish roots, he has written and painted since his teenage years, as have his siblings. In his writing he often changes genre but is particularly interested in themes of trauma, silence and salvation. Much of his fiction has its basis in fact and he uses research and real events as the springboard for his work. He lives with his family in Cambridge where he enjoys collecting contemporary art, working with other writers and attending arts events.

  For free stories, downloads and to learn about his upcoming novels, visit his website and blog at http://www.gerardokeeffe.com.

  Other works by Gerard O’Keeffe

  The Third Horseman

  Based on a true story: A haunting tale of hope born out of despair...

  At the height of the Irish Famine in the 1840s, a landowner, George Henry Moore, watches helplessly as the cruel policies and wilful ignorance of English overlords result in the deaths of masses and despair for millions.

  As starvation and disease sweep Ireland, a desperate George Henry sells his family possessions to buy food for his tenants until little remains at his disposal, and even the unprepossessing racehorse Coranna is on the point of being sold. There has been no salvation.

  But help comes from an unexpected quarter: the peasants Frank Butler and his sister Caitlin, who bring a new hope of life to the stricken Mayo community...

  The Third Horseman is available for Kindle, Nook, iPad and other e-readers from www.gerardokeeffe.com.

  The Statue and the Stones

  A family quest that spans two generations comes to a dramatic conclusion on the Canary Islands in the present day...

  1975: Jewels belonging to the Virgin of the Pine disappear from the Teror basilica on the Spanish island of Gran Canaria. The perpetrator is never found.

  2011: An innovative young chef Gregory Sheridan is delighted to land himself a new job on Gran Canaria. He loves the climate, the people, the culture and the language. But when he tells his mother back in England the good news, he is shocked to learn that his own unspoken family history may be tied up with that robbery.

  Was his father really a gangster, as Gregory had always been told? Was he responsible for that terrible crime? What really happened on that hot Sunday night in the Canary Islands?

  The Statue and the Stones is available for Kindle, Nook, iPad and other e-readers from www.gerardokeeffe.com.

  For a selection of other writings, including short stories and essays, visit Gerard O’Keeffe’s website:

  www.gerardokeeffe.com

  Contents

  The Scoop

  About the author

  Other works by Gerard O'Keeffe

 

 

  Gerard O'Keeffe, The Scoop

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