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1. The Oh My God Particle
“Ignorance is the night of the mind, but a night without moon and star.” — Confucius
Darcy Campbell sat on her hands. The posture wasn’t pretty outside primary school but it was effective. A better alternative to violence. It was the bodily equivalent of biting her tongue. She did that too. After the screaming match she’d had with Gerry in the corridor, she knew Mark didn’t need any excuse to regret his decision.
Mark Mason was a study in cool angry. He channelled plugged volcano, but his eyebrows had knitted. A hint the eruption, if it came, would be devastating.
It was business as usual to see Gerry frothing at the mouth. Mostly his lather was theatrical. It was designed to remind everyone he was the paper’s most senior correspondent. But right now it was downright rabid. Gerry Ives was a man whose banner headline-sized ego had been stroked the wrong way and his fur prickled.
Gerry propped his ‘years of long lunches’ bulk on Mark’s desk, wafts of cigarette smoke easing from the creases in his crinkled blue shirt. “She knows nothing about reporting business at this level.”
Mark kept his frown steady on the Richter scale and his voice level. “Is that right, Gerry?”
“Want to know anything about the ‘Oh my God’ particle, Darcy is your girl, but this isn’t special interest reporting.”
“I’d hardly call science special interest.”
“Don’t fuck with me. What’s she got I haven’t, apart from legs to her hairy armpits and good tits?”
“I’m not going to respond to that, Gerry and neither is Darce. It’s beneath you.” Mark’s warning look was the kind you gave a dog about to steal a shoe to chew, right before you thwacked him on the nose with it to make sure he didn’t. Mark knew how much Darcy wanted to knee Gerry where it would hurt more than his 48pt-sized ego.
“Why not? They asked for me. Me, our senior business correspondent, ex-Asia desk chief, twenty-five years in the business.”
“They did and they expect you, so we’re not going to give them what they expect. The day it’s dial-a-reporter-of-choice is the day I retire.”
“This paper used to be about in-depth, intelligent, investigative reporting. She’ll write about his flamin’ hairstyle, and what he has for fucking breakfast.”
“Darcy will write about Parker Corporation and if what Will Parker has for breakfast is part of his extraordinary success, she’ll write about that too.”
“Fuck. You’d be the worst managing editor I’ve ever worked with.”
“I bet you say that to all the boys.”
Darcy would’ve laughed but Mark hairy-eyeballed her.
Gerry made a growl sound; part wet ashtray, part undigested sweet and sour pork, and threw his bulk into a chair. “I’m not being precious. I don’t understand why you want Darcy to do this instead of me. There aren’t too many genuine scoops left in this business. Not too many genuine opportunities to bring the world a story it’s not heard before. This Will Parker is a fair dinkum mystery man. He’s built a multibillion dollar business out of thin air, and no one knows who the fuck he is, where he’s come from or what he’s going to do next.”
“That’s right. So it’s not like you have a head start knowing how to write the story.”
“But I know how to ask the right questions. This is my turf and much as Darce is a gun, she’s not up to it.”
