Strangled Silence Read Online Free PDF Page A

military.
Believe me, I've been there. So has your mother –
ask her to tell you about the Harding story some
day. Without concrete proof we'd just be setting
ourselves up to be sued for libel. Even if McMorris
had offered something , some kind of documentary
evidence, other witnesses . . . but he's got
nothing.
    'No, it's got no legs. Leave the text with me –
I'll have to cut it down a bit, take out the most
contentious bits. It's too long anyway.'
    Seeing her disappointment, he gave her an
encouraging smile.
    'You did a good job, Amina. It's well written
and there's no harm in pushing a bit sometimes, but
you'll have to let this one go. And don't worry, we'll
find you something else to work on. In the meantime,
get me a coffee, will you? You know how I
take it.'
    Amina left the office feeling utterly deflated.
Too long? The article was barely two hundred
words – there was no room to cut anything out.
Making her way over to the newsroom's canteen,
she yanked the jug out of the coffee machine
reserved for the senior staff. Pouring out the stale
brown remains at the bottom, she rinsed it and
put it back in the machine. She took a new pack
of filters and some freshly ground coffee from a
cupboard, slamming the door closed. Then she set
about making a fresh brew. Her anger percolated
along with the gurgling machine.
    'Too bloody long, my arse !' she shouted at the
top of her voice to the empty canteen. 'If I can't fit
the whole goddamned story in, what's the point of
writing the bloody thing at all?'
    'That's the spirit!' a woman's laughing voice
called from somewhere outside. 'We'll make a
reporter out of you yet!'

4

    She should have left it until later before taking
the train home. There were hundreds of
thousands more people than usual on the Underground
system that Friday afternoon because of the
peace marches and she had to jostle for a place on
the train when it pulled up to the overcrowded
platform. The doors beeped as they slid shut, people
pressing up against the windows as if they had been
vacuum-packed.
    Amina heaved a sigh and opened her book in
the cramped space, trying to read it without leaning
it against the back of the business-suited man in
front of her. Her station was near the end of the line
and she'd probably be standing for most of the halfhour
journey.
    By all accounts, the marches around the
country had been uneventful. There had been a few
anarchists – she hated the perversion of that term –
breaking windows, throwing things and trying their
luck with the police, but the crowds had been
pretty docile for the most part. The police had
blocked off any access to streets with government
buildings and channelled the protestors along
smaller streets so that they could be dissected into
manageable groups.
    Some of the people on the train had been on
the marches; there were crudely designed placards
banging against the ceiling, silly costumes and
painted faces. A good-natured chatter filtered down
the carriage and at the far end, a few hoarse voices
were chanting protest songs with more beat than
melody.
    The train rocked slightly, vibrating with the
movement of the wheels on the rails. There was
the occasional screech audible from beneath the
floor where the fit of metal against metal wasn't
perfect on the turns. The darkness outside in the
tunnel meant that the lighted interior was reflected
in the windows, showing people how they looked
on their way home.
    Amina could smell body odour and half a
dozen different perfumes and aftershaves. She tried
to keep her attention on the page in front of her –
a chick-lit paperback, the kind she could read in a
day or two and dump in a second-hand bookshop
– but her mind kept coming back to Ivor
McMorris. She felt sorry that she couldn't make
more of his story. He seemed so desperate to get it
out in the open. It wasn't her fault he was going to
get such a brief airing, but she felt responsible anyway.
She supposed it was like this all the time:
striking