Uncharted Thoughts.

Which book’s world would be the absolute worst to live in?

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Hey readers, I hope you are well, warm and ready for the winter period (Those of you in the Northern Hemisphere). I am a writer, journalist, and aspiring novelist. I am new to fictional writing, having spent most my life writing academically, and for news articles. I was hoping that the community would help me? 

See, I’ve moved to the other side of the world, have very little connections here and am looking for someone, or some people, to help gage if I have any chance actually writing a fictional book, or if I need to take a look in the mirror and realise that perhaps I should stick to what I know. 

So below, is the first three pages of a book I am working on. Please feel free to review it, and let me know what you think. Enjoy. The book is called SCUM. 

Scum.

The ascending limestone steps to the court house were reflective of the camera flashes that burst like canons in the dark winter morning. The stone, which resembled a sand beige in summer months, had been morphed into waved slops by years of foot tread, was now darkened by the wettest month in London’s recorded history. It was a Friday, sometime in mid January, the date did not matter, but for the first time in several years the eyes of Briton were once again on this historic court. For this was the last day of a long, and excruciating trial.

 Beyond the iconic black iron-barred fencing that lined the streets of almost all Victorian structures across the city, black, grey, and red umbrellas, patched with the letter abbreviations of news outlets, created a shelter for the hundreds of photographers and reporters that waited impatiently for the three black Rolls-Royces that had pulled up to this curb every morning for the last seventeen working days. 

The court house, addressed at 3334 Church Street, EC4T 1AS, London, was a spectacle of British imperial justice, and vision. Eight tall pillars mark the entrance, their reach expanding up into the upper third floor, separated only by the width of two abreast. Above, balanced on the pillars capital in greek fashion, sits a stone triangular visage of justice. A cluster of robed men, and famous philosophers argue over tablets and scrolls, as they flank the architect’s center point, the blindfolded righteous balance of Lady Justice. Her arms welcomed those into her holding as she held golden scales over them, in the other a blued sword.

Small arched windows were indented into the structure, as though the building itself was growing, leaving the windows in their original placements. From them, faces peered out into the dreary morning sky, plastered against them, in hopes of seeing the drama unfold in real time. So they can boast to their peers and friends that they were there when the Hamiltons were brought to justice. 

Among the chaotic gathering of journalists and their camera crew, was veteran broadcaster Amanda Carhart. She, and her camera crew had been here since the break of dawn, offering live updates to an empty street. Her Parker jacket, which she had bought three years ago to the day for a story about whaletracking in the North Sea, was zipped to its summit. The fur hood, vegan friendly to stop the onslaught of public shaming from animal rescue groups and environmentalists, was up, and dampened by the morning rain. 

Drips ran down from it, and into her morning coffee, her third morning coffee, bought for her by Dan Shepard, her PA for the week. A young man, early twenties, there was something Oxford, or Cambridge about him she thought. Perhaps it’s the handsome haircut, the white Burberry shirt that hugged at his gym refined body, and the way he said ‘Mrs’ instead of ‘dear’, or ‘darling’ like most of the other men she was surrounded by. He was hard working, ran for everything, and always acted with pure enthusiasm. Another sign of his high higher education standards, was his ability to purchase coffees at the average London price of £7.20 without hesitation, and the fact he never looked like he had a sleepless night. 

She recalled her own days at university, how her time as a PA was spent balancing meals, and the wants and needs of her anchors. She’d go hungry, just so they could drink countless amounts of the stuff, while also requesting her to run for cigarettes. She had to fight tooth and nail, every day to make the cut, and when the weekend came, and the following call sheet was announced by her professor, she always came out on top. She got what she wanted, no matter the cost, no matter how many meals missed, no matter how many sleepless nights took her into the straining possibilities of her mind.

Three nights, four days was her longest run without, sometime in the summer of 1987, her final year. She was laying in her room, a scuffed white coffin apartment that cost her the entirety of her part time bar job wages. The radio was on, she scribed shorthand in practice to her final exam, serenaded by the voice of Jannet Callback on 91.55 FM. Her voice was perfect for practicing, the speed sat at ninety six words per a minute, according to her short hand coach, and exhaled a soothing, steadiness. It was a bonus that Amanda looked to her as a heroine, a powerful woman who conveyed both power, and sensitivity in her tone. She wanted to be her, to wear her clothes, to hold her power. Fame was a secondary thought, she was smart enough even then to know that fame was a force of resistance, not acceleration.

News broke mid afternoon, Jannets voice changed from a passive background noise to a urgent call for the listeners attention. 

‘Breaking News’ she began, a sigh carefully placed behind an urgent, yet stoic tone ‘Palestinian cartoonist, Naji al-Ali has been shot on Ives Street, London. It is currently unclear who attacked the controversial artist, and the motive behind it is speculated. Mr al-Ali, is said to be in critical condition’.

That was the beginning of Amanda’s sleepless record. She rushed across London to the scene of the shooting on pure instinct. She lingered by the camera men, who shooed her, quite literally, as she approached. The game was on, and the rules were fiercely primitive, unlike today. While Dan and his Burberry shirt had only to request a PA unpaid position by sending his CV and cover letter to his fathers university friend who now worked as chief editor. Amanda had to play the game. 

Rule one of the game, pick your target. This was the most crucial part of the game. You had to find an anchor whose PA was either absent, or useless. Pushing your way into a filled position was possible, and if their PA was off getting coffee, you could push your way into their role. It was unfair, but this is the news, and it waits for no one. Amanda found herself victim to a PA pushing into her role several times. Sometimes, by her own peers. It was the nature of the game. 

Rule two, tread carefully, and with force. Although the position is an active one, and your responsibilities vary from security, and barista. Never get under the feet of an anchor, and be both distant and present. Most people fail at this stage. While getting a PA job is difficult, once acquired, it is a quick and cut throat learning curb that holds no prisoners. 

Amanda, found her target, anchor man William Bailey for NIRNTV, an Northern Irish News station that leaned heavily on the financial backing of The Orange Order. He was alone, and fresh for hunting. His camera man had gone on an all day drinking session with his PA after a dispute regarding micromanagement and a lack of cigarette breaks. He was a stout man, bearded and scruffy compared to the likes of most anchors. A thick Northern Irish accent that no doubt frustrated his loyalists viewers. He stood, alone, and in desperation as she approached. 

“You know how to work a camera?” he asked, before she could even open her mouth. 

“Yes” She said with a fake assertion that poorly asked the truth. 

“Well, that’s comforting.” He laughed desperately.

It was harder back then for sure, there were no short cuts, and if you didn’t speak up, announce your own glory, no one would recognize it, and being a woman meant you had to fight three times as hard. 

She had more married anchor men knocking at her apartment door at two AM for late night chats, than she did boys her own age. They’d promise her promotions, extra leads, payment for her work, and access to the likes of BBC veteran John Hemmingshore. Almost non of them followed through, and she learnt the hard way. So much so, she was never hired by the BBC due to a ‘reputation’ she had acquired. She laughed at the thought now, how there was always a reputation for the young girl trying to make her mark in a male dominated career, but never for the old men sharing her bed. 

She thought then, as she stood shivering from the morning cold, what would happen now? If she called Dan in the early hours of the morning, requesting his presence at her accommodation for some late night fun. Would there be approval from her fellow colleagues? Would they laugh, and joke about her being a cradle snatcher? No, she knew that once again the blame would fall on her, that she’d be seen as some slut, or predator. There is no doubt that it would help his career, push him into locker room talks on golf fields with men who had also slept their way to the top. He’d be drinking latte’s in cafe’s with editors by the end of the year, drinking cold beers on golf courses with executives, and no doubt PAing for Lindsey Deen, the ‘man eater’ within the fortnight, and her husband would be glad of it. 

“They’re pulling out now” whispered Henry, her camera operator. 

Like clockwork, every reporter pulled out their cell phone and received the same news. Two miles away, along the river Themes, paid private ‘associates’, usually the runners up for the PA position, are lingering outside the Royal William Hotel with cell-phone in hand. 

“Let’s set up” Amanda commanded “Dan, mic check me, and then call the station and let them know we need to go Live in the next four minutes” 

The frantic pushing and shoving was an experience she never grew tired of. There were no rules, the best shot was taken by those who stood their ground, and those that held their nerve. Amanda held a reputation, one that made others avoid the confrontation, even from the most veteran reporters. 

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