| |
Tracy read over what she had written and hit the delete button. Once again she had lain awake all night, listening to the storm and mentally writing and rewriting the story, trying out different intros, various angles. But in the light of day, when the words actually appeared on her computer monitor, the story came out all wrong.
She’d tried to get some momentum to the story by using an old trick her journalism lecturer had suggested: skip the intro paragraph and start from the body of the story where you could simply set out the facts. Once that is done, go back and write the introduction and possibly the next two or three paragraphs. But that wasn’t working either. The story just didn’t gel. She wanted to scream in frustration. This was undoubtedly the biggest story of her career. She’d done appalling things to get it: well, only one appalling thing – badgering a critically injured and emotionally distraught woman for information. That was so disgusting, so beyond her own moral compass and ethical beliefs, that she still could not believe she’d done it. It was not her proudest moment and she sincerely hoped Mr February would not think too badly of her. But, she consoled herself, she was a journalist and journalists—good investigative journalists with initiative—did what they had to in search of the truth.
It couldn’t have been very wrong because if it had been and she didn’t have the confirmation she needed, the story wouldn’t have effectively fallen into her lap – would it? Aviva Silverman had stood there and, cool as a fucking cucumber, had introduced her to her baby – her baby by her own brother, for fuck’s sake. How sick was that? Tracy braced herself for a feeling of outraged indignation to build up inside her. Outrage, indignation, horror – that’s what she needed to spur on her writing efforts, but it just wasn’t happening.
Tracy jumped as lightning split the sky outside the newsroom window – followed, moments later, by a huge crash of thunder that rumbled on and on. There was no rain, but a howling wind had come up fast and furious. Perhaps it would blow the storm away. She turned away from the window and focused on her monitor. A thought that she had forced to the back of her mind wriggled free again. She tried to block it out but it refused to go away: what if Aviva didn’t know that Arno van Zyl was her brother? What if Arno didn’t know that Aviva Silverman was his sister? Mafuta, of course, would insist that she confront them with that question and somehow, she’d have to find the courage to do it. She’d fully intended to do it when she saw them at Genesys, but her courage had failed her. However, it really didn’t matter whether they knew or not, did it? The fact remained that they were siblings and their marriage – if they were actually married – was illegal and their relationship incestuous. End of story.
Except. Except if they didn’t know, and she confronted them with the truth, it meant their relationship would be over. And it could—probably would—destroy them. Not that she cared – Aviva deserved to be brought down a peg or two, or three. She was as snooty as ever. Arno too. He’d always been a superior bastard, from the first time she’d bumped heads with him and he’d tried to convince her that Alan Silverman was a good man. Ha! That was a joke. Strange that he’d ended up with Alan Silverman’s daughter. Even stranger that Aviva had shacked up with a man who was her father’s double – bald head and beard notwithstanding.
Perhaps she should try and find a psychologist who would be prepared to comment on the brother-sister incest issue. It would give her story stronger legs. She wanted to write a more substantial article than the pseudo-psychological crap she’d once read in a women’s gossip magazine about girls wanting to marry their fathers and invariably choosing someone who reminded them of him. That was straight out of Psychology 101. Her first-year psychology course at Rhodes University had included a lecture about the Oedipus-Electra complex thing. She hadn’t bought into that claptrap for a minute. The last thing she desired was a man who resembled her own father in any way, shape or form. Maybe that’s why she was attracted to Yair: tall, athletic-looking, with dark, wavy hair and electric blue eyes; while her father was short, fat, bald and grey. And unlike her father, Yair was sensitive and generous and polite and funny and gentle and honest and... Tracy’s eyes filled and she sniffed.
And what about Mattie? Night after night, as she’d tossed and turned and reworked the story, Tracy kept seeing the sweet, trusting smile of the gorgeous little boy with his huge blue eyes and chubby little hands. She kept hearing the cute way he’d said ‘Hello Aunty Tracy’ and his excitement as he’d clutched his KitKat. A sensational story broadcasting his parents’ illicit relationship would destroy his future. Regardless of what happened to Aviva and Arno, little Mattie would always carry the stigma of being a child of incest. He didn’t deserve that. No child did. But there was no way she could protect him and still write the story. She’d tried, without success. The moment she used Aviva Silverman’s and Arno van Zyl’s names, Mattie would be identified, even if she didn’t name him. And if she didn’t name Aviva and Arno, there was no story.
And then another niggling doubt wormed its way from the furthest recesses of her mind to front and centre of her thoughts. Was there really any merit in this story? And if so, what? Wasn’t quality journalism supposed to be about serving the greater good? What greater good was being served by blasting the lid off Arno and Aviva’s incestuous relationship?
Tracy did as she always did when she was trying to understand an issue or make a decision: she compiled a list setting out the reasons why the story should be published:
Five good reasons. Five strong reasons. But. These reasons were too conventional, too comfortable, too safe. Maxine had always accused her of being argumentative for the sake of being argumentative. Tracy agreed – there was little she enjoyed more than being contrary and taking an opposing stance just to liven up a dull conversation. She went through her list and added commentary and counter-arguments: