Chaos Intrepid: In Her Shoes

Prompt the Ninth: Chaos Was the Law of Nature

Chaos Was The Law of Nature, Order was the Dream of Man

Before the Blog of the Dead, before the attempted murder of Mathilda Lythwaite, before the shadow beneath a man’s feet became synonymous with headlines and the name Chaos Intrepid became associated with the most violent murders in recent history:  London was London. And a young man called Doran Bingham packed his satchel for a day’s reporting at Westminster with vague disillusionment.

Doran wasn’t much of a yes man, but he wasn’t a no-man. He was a ‘if luck is with me’ man, an ‘if the shoe fits’ man, a ‘there’s a story in everything’ man. Yeki bood. Yeki nabood. He was the kind of guy that wrote an article from the front and the back, investigating the possible worlds where uncertain agreements were made and not made, where politicians won and lost, where wars were fought and peace was kept. Editors loved him, he’d write what they wanted, when they wanted and he did it well. The Telegraph wanted to give him a column but he said he preferred freelancing. After all, he wasn’t a Tory and whilst he could see any argument a thousand different lights, he didn’t want to be pigeon-holed into a manifesto or a movement. Certainly not a permanent contract. Someone once called him Spider Man because it was like his pen could capture a dozen different perspectives all at once and no one knew how he did it.

His peers, of course, hated him. The fellow freelancers thought of him as public enemy number one, the ultimate competition – the Rival to their Ash Ketcham. Maybe even the Elite Four. Definitely the Sephiroth to their Cloud Strife. Or the Tybolt to their Mercutio. He caused havoc in the ranks. Up-ending the favoured seats on almost every outlet, making everyone second choice.

“It’s the damnable leg. Means he’s a cripple. Disabled. They don’t want to be accused of discrimination,” argued half of the Fleet Street drinkers.

“He’s good, gotta give a man credit where it’s due…” admitted the other half. “But he could give some of it back to us. He’s not an expert in everything but he never turns anything down.”

“He’s probably shagging that red head commissioning editor, ye know who I mean?”

“Nah, the man was blown up in Iraq right? It’s pity. Bet they can’t say no to the man whose leg got blown off.”

“Och hello Scuttle, ye come bearing drinks I see. Top man."

“Wish he’d lost his arm not his leg."

“Lost his head more like.”

“Too far, Scuttle, ye see what they did to those guys last week?”

“Of course I did. Bloody Bingham covered it, tied it into the beheadings five years ago and everything. Next round’s on you.”

“Aye, sure. Cheer up there Reeves, its not like you didn’t get the phone call about that intellectual property case.”

“Bloody PRs. Hate them as much as I hate Doran.”

“Aye, irksome creatures. But at least they give you a job.”

“I don’t mind them.”

“You cover sport and leisure, of course you don’t mind. Taking you to all those matches.”

Doran was not one of the Fleet Street drinkers but he knew them and he knew what they thought of him. It wasn’t something he took too seriously anymore. The people who mattered let him write what he wanted, and what he wanted to write wasn’t given to the people who didn’t matter.

Instead of Fleet Street, he was a frequenter of Farringdon’s bars. He liked the students that crawled out from LSE, liked the chat of the creative industry professionals that wound down there, the ease of the barmen who would talk when he talked but never when he didn’t. It was the kind of easy relationship he needed, no pressure, no requirements.

Life was good for Doran Bingham, he respected it the way that only those who have battled for it can truly understand. And he had battled. Each day when he fitted his prosthesis a glimmer of that initial agony and the months of learning how to live again surged. The voices of the men he was with, all soldiers, reminded him that it was worth it. He knew he was lucky, and that was probably why he never took anything for granted.

Or he thought he never took anything for granted. There was one thing more precious to him than his other leg: his voice.

It was his right to free speech that disrupted the peace of Doran’s stabilised world.

He was called into the office at The Times first. They told him that a story he covered required, “Some fine tuning, Bingham. That’s all.”

Surprised but not yet sceptical, he enquired after why. What did they need that he hadn’t given them? Clean, opinionated, showing every side, it took the story apart and put it back together again in a way that made sense of the dozen different threads running through it.

“It’s just this business,” they pointed at the headline. “We can see what you’re saying but perhaps you can take a look at our suggested edits.”

Doran agreed, flicking through the pages. With each change his stomach felt colder, heavier.

“You want to avoid suggesting that they might be guilty.”

“The accusations are only alleged… we just think…”

“No, you want to paint that this company is innocent regardless of whevver those accusations have been made. You want to cut the mere mention of the nature of those accusations,” he gaped at the red ink cutting across his work, “A man is dead and you…”

“Bingham, you’re a good writer, but blaming them for –”

“Blaming, mate? I point out that they’re being accused of three fucking serious crimes and that they’re going through litigation.”

“Alleged.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alleged or not, it’s not right –”

“Look, we just don’t want to cause any chaos when there’s no need for it.”

“I’m talking about the law. I’m talking about what’s legal and what’s not. What chaos is there in law? It’s the goddamn law and it’s our bloody job to let people know about cases like this.”

“That is not our opinion in this case.”

Doran raised his eyebrows and stood up. He placed the papers back on the desk. “I’m sorry but no,” he said, “This isn’t right.”

“Then I’m afraid we may not be accepting anymore articles from you.”

“Because of one piece?” Now he was shocked.

“Because right now we need writers who can follow the briefs we sent them.”

After a minute, heart pounding, ears ringing, Doran slipped out of the office. His hands were still empty.

Yet when The Mail called with the same request, then the Guardian, and the Independent, Doran began to wonder what else lurked out there, what or even who was trying undermine him so overtly.

Finally it was The Telegraph’s turn. They ushered him in, sat him down, gave him a tea – black two sugars, the way he liked it – and gave him the same spiel.

He let out a long sigh when he heard it.

“Can any of you simply tell me why? Everyone single one of you is involved in protecting something about these people.”

“I’m afraid it’s just a matter of principle.”

“You’re giving me a brief, then..”

The silence ticked on, each motion of the clock on the wall ringing in the small room.

“I can understand your frustration Bingham but… it’s simply a matter of  interest. We can’t be see to be promoting –”

“Chaos. Right. I get it.” He balled his fists, eyes flashing with that dangerous will that no one saw these days, “Tell me there’s a superinjuction you’re not telling me about. Come on? You can’t be-“

“Mr Bingham, we think you’re very talented and we really do see your point but there’s no injunction. It’s just that there’s no story here for you. Not on this.”

It hit him then. Each one had slapped him with a gagging order, silencing him on certain topics when it came to certain stories. His public voice, the one that wove the driest subjects into the most intricate narrative, was being forced away from the public.

And it burned. He burned at the unfairness, the injustice of having his voice stolen, of having the stories taken from him and stripped down to a single stance. He burned at the injustice that he was being penalised for telling the truth. He burned as he watched the case grow against The Company That No One Would Name.  He blazed when radio silence met one of the foulest cases since he’d started his career. Fraud, sexual harassment, embezzlement, and the second suicide in barely three months… and yet no one was talking about it. No one was writing about it.

He started up a blog, publishing all the articles that landed on the scrap heap in their original form. Weeks went by and the requests kept coming but each came accompanied by thinly veiled threats regarding the legal side of journalism. Whenever the subject came up, no one said their name, no one knew it because no body talked to him.

Gaining a foothold on twitter, he began to channel his rage into his prose. He sent out messages specified for the writers reading, the thinkers who were ignoring it. He was sure someone had targeted him. He was sure something bigger was going on and that he just needed to figure out what. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

On a blustery night in December, he went into his favourite bar in Farringdon, the new girl was behind the taps. Her name was Taz. Blond, gap-toothed, pretty in a way that mainly relied on her breasts. Scowling into his pint, into the silence, into the glare of the ipad resting on his table, his mind whirred and splintered. Desperate to figure out what he was missing.

The puzzle was at his fingertips, and no matter who it pissed off, no matter what corporation wished to muzzle him. He would not be silent. He would cause the chaos, become the chaos, that everyone else used as an excuse.

As Taz arrived with another pint, offered with a smile and a flick of her blond hair, Doran let his face split into a grin.

Before him, the puzzle was beginning to take shape. He knew where to start.

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