Soul-crushing, reverberating, the sharp thwack of a human head against a pavement at a speed at which they were never meant to meet. Outside a coffee shop, sipping a cappuccino, that sound will echo in my head setting off a chain of chemical terror that leaves me wanting to flee down the street. At the movie theatre, beginning, middle, or end, a noise in the film will bring it cascading back to the front of my mind where it will play over and again until I have no choice but to leave the cinema.
In bed at night, I say my prayers in quiet desperation β in thrall to the repetitiveness of the words more than the god to whom I call. And still that sound breaks through. The dull crack. It echoes relentlessly, as if trapped in a cave, desperate to escape. It will be me the cameras are chasing β in a way I could never have imagined. All my life, I wanted to be an investigative journalist, in hot pursuit of the bad guys, asking them hard questions, exposing their misdeeds to the public.
But I remember, and my awe for those reporters, who seemed to have conquered all fear, never wavered. They would take on anyone. They were just as much at home hunting a dictator or a dodgy salesman, a government minister or a narcissistic conman, as if there was any difference between them.
Spotting him, we began our chase as he walked towards his BMW. He almost tripped over his robes as he tried to make an escape. I turned to the audience as his car moved away, my little moment, a well-rehearsed line to further ingratiate myself with the viewers. It had to be the option of last resort, after every other alternative box had been ticked. A phone call to arrange an interview.
An email with a list of questions. A typed letter through the front door. A letter to their legal advisers. More Blah. Another phone call, this time with a voice recorder at the ready. Blah and more blah. A sit-down face-to-face interview would be great, no doubt. But who would ever agree to that, except for the truly sociopathic?
