Victory is finally mine

It was one of those days again. Mr. Thompson commanded me to bring him his coffee and Danish. When I came back with the order, he blamed me for forgetting to bring sugar, and it was the wrong type of Danish. I said “I am so sorry, Mr. Thompson. Let me make up for that mistake. I will pay for the Danish myself and bring you the one you desire”. Mr. Thompson threw the Danish in the bin, not giving it one thought that I might like to have that Danish which I now would pay for. But I didn’t say anything. It would not make any change if I did.

After having brought the correct coffee tray, I could finally get to my own desk and begin the work for today. The editor Mrs. Quincy had put a stack of telegrams besides the keyboard, and I began editing them. Some of them required that I phoned an expert or a politician to give a little more meat to the short news telegram. Mrs. Quincy had scribbled notes with a red pencil on the telegrams which I in one way or the other should enhance. Orders, orders, orders. When would I get to write something which was a little more challenging? Some of the writing jobs I was also educated to do. I sighed. 30 telegrams with 7 enhancements. I should also choose images for the news articles. The news agencies often had mailed a bunch of press photos which I could choose from.

A peculiarity by Mrs. Quincy’s editorship was that she herself wanted to go through the news telegrams, and not the editorial secretary Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones was a very capable journalist. He was leading the editorial morning meetings with great authority and a remarkable overview. If he had not been so good at his job, I am certain Mrs. Quincy would have taken the lead herself at the morning meetings. As the matters stood, I don’t think she dared do it. Even she could recognize the absolute talent of Mr. Jones in this matter. But this didn’t mean that Mrs. Quincy would not be very bossy and could not lose her temper with Mr. Jones. She occasionally did, as she did with all of us.

It happened just 15 minutes ago. She came rushing in through the office where we seven journalists were in deep concentration on each our assignment. Mrs. Quincy shouted, “Who used the Xerox the last time? There is no paper and no toner. Haven’t I told you that you must change both when it runs dry?” I thought that she could easily have done it herself, or just have written up a mail reminding us of doing it. But she was a drama queen. “Yes ma’am” each of us mumbled without looking up. Emma whispered to me “She never gets tired of treating us as immature school kids”. We both giggled and I nodded to her. But I never got as bold as Emma. But well, she also happened the most experienced journalist, and the one less respectful of Mrs. Quincy.

Mrs. Quincy came up to me and said in a most unfriendly tone “When can I expect you to have finished your telegrams? Don’t let me wait as long as you did yesterday!” I glued a smile on my face and looked up at her. With a slight trembling in my voice which annoyed me, I said “Yes Mrs. Quincy. I have just these seven left”. Mrs. Quincy took the telegrams and browsed through them. “OK, that should be 10 minute’s worth of editing. When you are finished, please come to my office”. “Yes, Mrs. Quincy”, I said. Mrs. Quincy marched out again.

I was anxious what “the dragon” wanted to present me to. I was not expecting much good from her. “Please close the door behind you”, she said as I entered her office. I could see she was almost furious. “Lately I have had the thought of giving you another kind of job now and then. Of course, I thank you for the article you have submitted. I am always on the outlook after new and quality articles for our readers. But this article. I am not sure I can express how much I loathe it. It is without talent and nerve. There is too much repetition. And the subject, do I need to say once again that this paper is not a place for expressing sympathy for outcasts like refugees and migrants? So, on this background I am not in the mood to give you other kinds of jobs”. I trembled more and more inside, and at her last words I could not hold back my tears. I broke down, ran out of the office and into the bathroom. Linda and Emma, those my dearest colleagues came when only one minute had passed, and Linda said with the most loving and soft voice “Dear Deirdre, what happened?” I sniffed “She told me she loathes my article and had only negative words about it”. “But it was so good! Please come out and let’s give you a big hug”, Emma said. I went out to my friends. “I was naïve, I thought that I could appeal to her sense of righteousness and fairness, but she has an almost fascist opinion on weak people, refugees and migrants”. “Yes, we were guilty of it all three of us. Even though we have known the dragon for years now, we still think there must be something good in her, that she might have an empathy somewhere. But let’s learn from this that Mrs. Quincy is a dragon and will stay a dragon.” Linda and I nodded to Emma’s words. They both gave me a big hug, Emma handed me a tissue and Linda said “Don’t cry. She is not worth it.” “But I feel so embarrassed”. “We all do. I must admit that I sometimes doubt my own ability to read other people when I can be as wrong as in this instance”, Emma said. “Yes, but it is also because she claims to be a Christian. Then it is difficult to not get into confusion of what she really stands for. But then again, it’s no new thing that there are hypocrites”. Linda’s wrinkles on her forehead disappeared “But now cheer up, we must appreciate that it is only she who is a dragon. Daily News still is one of the most serious and respectable papers despite of everything”. Linda smiled, Emma smiled, and I smiled. “You do a really good job, Deirdre. You have no reason to bow your head.” Emma gave me an extra hug, and we went back to each our desks.

The next morning, I headed out early so that I did not need to hurry to the office. The weather was excellent for a bike ride, so I let the car stay in the garage. It was a 20-minute ride. When I was approximately one kilometer from the office, I saw a sight which made me freeze. Something terrible must have happened I thought. On the pavement lay three bodies covered by white sheets signifying they had diseased. On the scene were five police cars with blue/red lights, a fire engine and three ambulances. I remembered that on my way I heard a big explosion-like bang and shortly after several sirens. Not far from the bodies was a car wreck, totally burned out which had run across the pavement and into a house whose outer wall was heavily damaged. The firefighters still sprayed water on it. The police were rolling out tape to mark the crime scene, and the ambulance folks arrived with stretchers and carried the dead people away. I was now close to the place and thought that as a journalist I had a unique chance of reporting the crime or accident.

I quickly called Emma who was the journalist on duty out of work hours and told her that I would be late because I was to be questioned by the police regarding an accident I had witnessed. Emma asked me if I wouldn’t make a report from the accident, and I said of course I will. I know it was not “quite” true that I was about to be questioned, and that I had witnessed the accident. But it was an explanation which did its job, giving me an excuse for being late. And now that Emma had suggested that I reported from the accident it was a perfect situation. I placed my bicycle a bit away and went up to the police officer directing the traffic, showing my press ID. He said that they could not give much information at this early time. I told him that I would write a notice in my paper no matter what, so if he would please tell me what they knew he would prevent that I wrote it on mere speculation.

The police officer gave in and told me to wait for his superior to arrive. He could answer my questions. He gave a call on his walkie talkie, and shortly after his boss came over to me. The superior presented himself as Sgt. Robertsson. He told me it seemed that a suicide bomber had run into eight people on the pavement. Five of them had serious injuries, and they were already on their way to the hospital, and three of them were dead on the spot. “We naturally don’t know the identity of the bomber, since we still have not got him out of the car.” “Do you investigate this as an act of terror?” I asked. “The thought is close at hand, but in this phase of the investigation it is only one among other theories. I don’t think I have more to tell about it for the moment, thank you”. I thanked him and asked if I might take a picture of the scene. He allowed me if I would make sure to blur the police officers. I gave him my card, took a series of pictures, and headed on for the office. On my way I prayed intensively for the victims, both the injured and the ones who had died.

When I arrived, I was surrounded by curious colleagues, and I told them in short terms what I had seen. I hurried to write up an article, and a news telegram which I intended to send to Reuters and AP. Now was the hour of judgement close at hand. Mrs. Quincy of course! She, not Mr. Jones, should evaluate my article. At first, I showed it to Emma, who said that it was magnificent. “Good that you were at the scene”.

I was now getting ready to go to Mrs. Quincy’s office as my desk phone rang. It was Sgt. Robertsson. He told me he had very unusual news regarding the diseased victims. He hesitated, I answered “Yes?”, and he continued “Two of them have come back to life – after 15 minutes. This has never happened before. The doctors are flabbergasted as is the whole police force.” I remembered that I had prayed for them. Could it be that God had heard my prayer and sent them back to earth, to their bodies in the caskets which may already be in the morgue? I had heard some near-death experience stories on YouTube, so it wouldn’t surprise me if that would be the explanation. I told Mr. Jones and Emma that I had to go to the hospital to do some follow up on my story.

I found the nurse in charge of the accident and asked her if I might talk to the two men who had come back to life. It would just be a short interview I told her. She allowed me to do so, and I went to a room where they both sat – in hospital clothes fully alive and awake. “Oh, it’s you” one of them exclaimed joyfully. “I saw you arriving while my body lay on the pavement.” They both told me vivid details about their encounter in Heaven with Jesus and with diseased relatives. They wanted nothing but staying up there, but suddenly Jesus said that their time was not yet, they had to go back to life. They told me everything had been so beautiful, and they felt much more alive than ever before. I asked if they knew while they were up there what happened to the third diseased? They were very sorrowful when they answered that the man was very angry and said that it could not be true that he should leave his good life now. He was swearing and shouting, and was drawn away from them by some ugly, horrifying demons, and they were certain he had ended up in Hell. I was extremely sad by hearing that, but of course I could not write of his fate in my article. After all it should not be a Christian testimony or sermon. But if my article could contribute to someone finding Jesus in their life, it should please me very much.

Just as I was to leave, they said that they had also seen the suicide bomber being dragged away by demons. He was very angry and shouted “Allah promised me 70 virgins. Where are they? I am on my way to paradise! I don’t go with you ugly people!” But the demons just laughed, pierced him with large spears and dragged him away even harder.

After I had added the latest part to my article I went to the office of Mrs. Quincy. Upon entering she told me she had read the article, and she didn’t like it. It was too sensationalistic, and besides I should have called her or Mr. Smith, and they would have sent out Mr. Thompson to report on the accident. Suddenly a righteous anger arose in me together with an unknown boldness, and I said “Why are you always so critical of me, Mrs. Quincy? I remember that one week ago Linda ... Mrs. Andersson made a similar report because she stumbled into a newsworthy incident. And you did not complain then! I expect you to treat me with respect!” Mrs. Quincy looked at me a little frightened, and she answered “Oh, you look at it that way? I’ll see what I can do about it.”

I went out of her door, and over to the other colleagues, asking them to defend me when they had read my article. Lastly, I also talked to Mr. Jones. They all agreed that it was a splendid article. Emma, whom I had briefed about Mrs. Quincy’s reaction to my article, went to her office and defended me with force. The end of it was that I was allowed to send the article to Reuters and AP, and it was placed on the front page of The Daily News.

The next morning it was reported by Reuters that ISIS had declared they were responsible for the attack, and the suicide bomber had been identified as a radicalized citizen of this country who had put up several posts on Twitter about his sympathy for ISIS.

Now the sky had begun to clear up over me. I had finally stood up for myself and felt immensely good about it as did the whole staff on The Daily News. Things began to rapidly change. Mrs. Quincy was finally treating me with respect, and over time she even gave me several jobs of a more challenging kind.