Broadchurch: The Letter: A Series Two Original Short Story Read Free Page B

sudden flashback: her father’s hands, fingers like knots in string, screaming in the night because of the pain. The situation turns a half-circle.
    ‘Arthritis,’ says Maggie. How could she have missed the signs? She nursed her father through a hip replacement operation and later, when it had spread to his hands, the indignity of watching her once-strong father ask for her help opening his childproof medicine bottle. She’s got a standing order to Arthritis UK, for goodness’ sake. She worries about it herself, diagnosing rheumatism at the slightest twinge. The disease is her Achilles heel. She can’t crucify Jan over this.
    ‘I used to think that the best thing about this house was the view,’ says Jan, nodding to the big picture window. ‘Now I’m only grateful that I have no neighbours.’ Maggie raises her eyebrows. ‘Because it means I can scream when I have to,’ Jan says.
    Maggie’s father’s moans echo in her mind. How has Jan hidden suffering on that scale from public life? She is made of even stronger stuff than Maggie suspected. She presses on with her prepared speech, but she’s lost her sense of attack.
    ‘You are aware of the staggering hypocrisy of you smoking this illegal drug while publicly denouncing those who have addictions?’
    ‘It is for medicinal use,’ bleats Jan. ‘I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t desperate. I don’t enjoy consuming it and I certainly don’t enjoy the process of obtaining it.’
    That’s a good point, thinks Maggie. ‘How did you know where to get it?’
    Jan’s blush mottles her whole face. ‘He waits outside Cliffside, looking for people to sell to,’ she says. ‘I followed him home.’
    The calculated premeditation of it takes the edge off Maggie’s compassion. ‘I could hang you out to dry,’ she says.
    She’s expecting crocodile tears, but what she gets is far humbler.
    ‘I know,’ says Jan simply. She tries to shrug but the gesture clearly pains her too much and it turns into a grimace. Maggie swings back towards sympathy. This is an old woman, on the edge of retirement, in terrible pain. ‘I’ve known since the first day I went there. But I’ve got a standing here. People have put their faith in me. I can’t just go back on my word.’
    The idea – a third way of dealing with this story – comes to Maggie so clearly she can almost hear the light bulb pop over her head.
    ‘Actually, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.’ Jan blinks twice. ‘You’re going to save Cliffside. You could do it with a phone call. You can do it this afternoon.’
    ‘But I …’ Jan’s left leg begins to twitch. Maggie recognises the tell as panic, not arthritis, and briefly considers the ethics of pressurising someone who’s high as a kite. But only briefly.
    ‘Or you could be on the front page of the Echo for all the wrong reasons.’
    ‘Are you blackmailing me, Maggie Radcliffe?’
    Maggie snaps a custard cream in half. ‘You bet your arse I am.’
    But behind the outward triumph, Maggie only feels hollow. Time was when she would’ve taken pleasure in dropping Jan Barnsley in the shit. Now she’s let her off the hook. Maybe it’s not just the industry that’s going soft. Maybe it’s her.
    Back in the office, Lucy’s in full flow, using an impressive telephone voice that Maggie hasn’t heard before. ‘Yeah, but listen, we’re about to be covering the biggest story Broadchurch has ever seen, the print run’s gone up, you’d be mad not to advertise with us.’ Lucy nods through a pause. ‘If you take out an eight-week option, I can give a discount.’ She’s gone off-script and it’s working. Olly looks up from his smartphone with what can only be described as pride. ‘Yes, I am Ellie Miller’s sister. Obviously there’s loads I could tell you but, you know, obviously I can’t at the moment. ’ Lucy is exhibiting uncharacteristic subtlety, treading the fine line between exploiting her connection with Ellie and crossing into