their ideas stolen by a famous Hollywood director, and theyâd open their plastic bags to show their own versions. Sometimes they were written in crayon. Not a good sign.
âHow can I help you?â asked Woody, his heart heavy.
âMy name is Nguyen Ngoc Minh,â the man said, and Woody scribbled in his notebook, just a random motion because he didnât reckon there was going to be a story in this and he didnât want to go through the hassle of asking the guy to spell his name.
The old man thrust his hand into the carrier bag and took out a colour photograph and handed it to Woody. It was a family portrait of the man, an old woman and a pretty young girl. Woody raised his eyebrows inquisitively.
âMy wife,â said Nguyen. âMy wife and my daughter. They were killed this year.â
âIâm sorry to hear that,â said Woody, his pen scratching on the notebook. He wasnât using shorthand, he just wanted to be seen to be doing something so that he didnât have to look the man in the eye. The brown eyes were like magnets that threatened to pull him into the old manâs soul and several times Woody had found himself having to drag himself back. They were sorrowful eyes, those of a dog that had been kicked many times but which still hoped one day to have its loyalty rewarded.
âThey were killed by IRA bombers in January,â continued Nguyen. He delved into the bag once more and pulled out a sheaf of newspaper cuttings and spread them out on the low table in front of Woody. Among them he saw the Sunday World front-page story on the Knightsbridge bombing and the pictures theyâd used inside. Strapped along the bottom was a list of the reporters and photographers whoâd worked on the story. The intro and a good deal of the copy was Woodyâs but his name wasnât there, Simpson had insisted that it stay off. Another punishment.
âI remember,â he said.
âThere have been many bombs since,â said Nguyen, and he pointed to the various cuttings. The judge blown up outside the house of his mistress, the bomb at Bank Tube station, the police van that had been hit in Fulham, the Woolwich football bombing. Good stories, thought Woody. He waited for the old man to continue.
Nguyen told him about the visit by the police, of their promise that the men would be caught. He told him about what heâd later been told at the police station, and by the Anti-Terrorist Branch and finally of his conversation with his MP, Sir John Brownlow. âThey all tell me the same thing,â he said. âThey tell me to wait. To let the police do their job.â
Woody nodded, not sure what to say. Heâd stopped writing in the notebook and studied the cuttings while the old man talked.
âI want to do something,â Nguyen said. âI want to offer money for the names of the men who did the bombs. A reward.â
Woody looked up. âI donât think the newspaper would be prepared to offer a reward,â he said. Too true, he thought. A right bloody can of worms that would open up. It was OK to offer money for the return of a stolen baby, or to pay some amateur model for details of her affair with a trendy businessman or a minor pop star, but he could imagine the response to a request for a reward in the hunt for IRA killers. Put the paper right in the firing line, that would.
Nguyen waved his hands and shook his head.
âNo, no, you not understand,â he said. âReward not from newspaper. From me. I have money.â He picked up the carrier bag by the bottom and tipped the rest of its contents on the table. It was money, bundles and bundles of it, neatly sorted into five-, ten- and twenty-pound notes, each stack held together with thick rubber bands. Woody ran his hands through the pile and picked up one of the bundles and flicked the notes. They looked real enough.
Nguyen read his thoughts. âThey are real,â he said.
âHow can I help you?â asked Woody, his heart heavy.
âMy name is Nguyen Ngoc Minh,â the man said, and Woody scribbled in his notebook, just a random motion because he didnât reckon there was going to be a story in this and he didnât want to go through the hassle of asking the guy to spell his name.
The old man thrust his hand into the carrier bag and took out a colour photograph and handed it to Woody. It was a family portrait of the man, an old woman and a pretty young girl. Woody raised his eyebrows inquisitively.
âMy wife,â said Nguyen. âMy wife and my daughter. They were killed this year.â
âIâm sorry to hear that,â said Woody, his pen scratching on the notebook. He wasnât using shorthand, he just wanted to be seen to be doing something so that he didnât have to look the man in the eye. The brown eyes were like magnets that threatened to pull him into the old manâs soul and several times Woody had found himself having to drag himself back. They were sorrowful eyes, those of a dog that had been kicked many times but which still hoped one day to have its loyalty rewarded.
âThey were killed by IRA bombers in January,â continued Nguyen. He delved into the bag once more and pulled out a sheaf of newspaper cuttings and spread them out on the low table in front of Woody. Among them he saw the Sunday World front-page story on the Knightsbridge bombing and the pictures theyâd used inside. Strapped along the bottom was a list of the reporters and photographers whoâd worked on the story. The intro and a good deal of the copy was Woodyâs but his name wasnât there, Simpson had insisted that it stay off. Another punishment.
âI remember,â he said.
âThere have been many bombs since,â said Nguyen, and he pointed to the various cuttings. The judge blown up outside the house of his mistress, the bomb at Bank Tube station, the police van that had been hit in Fulham, the Woolwich football bombing. Good stories, thought Woody. He waited for the old man to continue.
Nguyen told him about the visit by the police, of their promise that the men would be caught. He told him about what heâd later been told at the police station, and by the Anti-Terrorist Branch and finally of his conversation with his MP, Sir John Brownlow. âThey all tell me the same thing,â he said. âThey tell me to wait. To let the police do their job.â
Woody nodded, not sure what to say. Heâd stopped writing in the notebook and studied the cuttings while the old man talked.
âI want to do something,â Nguyen said. âI want to offer money for the names of the men who did the bombs. A reward.â
Woody looked up. âI donât think the newspaper would be prepared to offer a reward,â he said. Too true, he thought. A right bloody can of worms that would open up. It was OK to offer money for the return of a stolen baby, or to pay some amateur model for details of her affair with a trendy businessman or a minor pop star, but he could imagine the response to a request for a reward in the hunt for IRA killers. Put the paper right in the firing line, that would.
Nguyen waved his hands and shook his head.
âNo, no, you not understand,â he said. âReward not from newspaper. From me. I have money.â He picked up the carrier bag by the bottom and tipped the rest of its contents on the table. It was money, bundles and bundles of it, neatly sorted into five-, ten- and twenty-pound notes, each stack held together with thick rubber bands. Woody ran his hands through the pile and picked up one of the bundles and flicked the notes. They looked real enough.
Nguyen read his thoughts. âThey are real,â he said.
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