Victory is finally mine

It was one of those days again. Mr. Thompson commanded me to bring him his coffee and Danish. When I returned with the order, he blamed me for forgetting the sugar and for bringing the wrong type of Danish. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Thompson. Let me make it up to you. I’ll pay for the Danish myself and bring you the one you prefer.” He threw the Danish in the bin without a second thought, oblivious to the fact that I would have enjoyed having it myself. But I didn’t say anything; it wouldn’t have made a difference.

After delivering the correct coffee tray, I finally made my way to my desk to start the day’s work. Mrs. Quincy, the editor, had left a stack of telegrams next to my keyboard, so I began editing them. Some required me to call an expert or a politician to add substance to the short news updates. Mrs. Quincy had scribbled notes in red pencil, outlining how I should enhance each telegram. Orders, orders, orders. When would I get to write something a little more challenging? I sighed at the sight of thirty telegrams needing seven enhancements. I also had to choose images for the news articles from a selection of press photos that news agencies often sent.

A peculiarity of Mrs. Quincy’s editorship was that she preferred to go through the news telegrams herself rather than letting Mr. Jones, the editorial secretary, handle them.

Mr. Jones was a very capable journalist, leading the editorial morning meetings with great authority and remarkable insight. If he weren’t so good at his job, I was sure Mrs. Quincy would have taken the lead herself. As it stood, she didn’t dare challenge him; even she recognized his talent. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be bossy or lose her temper with him—she occasionally did, as she did with all of us.

Just fifteen minutes ago, she had stormed into the office where the seven of us journalists were deeply concentrated on our assignments. “Who used the Xerox last? There’s no paper and no toner! Haven’t I told you to change both when they run dry?” I thought she could easily have done it herself or sent out an email reminding us. But she loved the drama. “Yes, ma’am,” we all mumbled without looking up. Emma whispered to me, “She never gets tired of treating us like immature school kids.” We both giggled, and I nodded, though I could never muster Emma’s boldness. She was the most experienced journalist among us and less intimidated by Mrs. Quincy.

Mrs. Quincy approached me, her tone unfriendly. “When can I expect you to finish your telegrams? Don’t make me wait as long as you did yesterday!” I plastered a smile on my face and looked up at her. With a slight tremor in my voice, which annoyed me, I replied, “Yes, Mrs. Quincy. I only have these seven left.” She took the telegrams and flipped through them. “Okay, that should take about ten minutes. When you’re done, please come to my office.” “Yes, Mrs. Quincy,” I said as she marched out.

I was anxious about what “the dragon” wanted to discuss. I didn’t expect anything good. “Please close the door behind you,” she said as I entered her office. I could see she was nearly furious. “Lately, I’ve been considering giving you a different type of assignment now and then. I appreciate the article you submitted, as I’m always on the lookout for new, quality pieces for our readers. However, this article—I cannot express how much I loathe it. It lacks talent and nerve. There’s too much repetition, and do I need to remind you that this paper is not a platform for sympathy towards outcasts like refugees and migrants? Given this, I’m not inclined to give you other assignments.”

I felt myself trembling more and more inside, and by the time she finished, I couldn’t hold back my tears. I broke down and ran out of her office, heading straight to the bathroom. Linda and Emma, my dearest colleagues, arrived within a minute. Linda said softly, “Dear Deirdre, what happened?” I sniffed, “She told me she loathes my article and had only negative things to say.” “But it was so good! Come out and let’s give you a big hug,” Emma said. I emerged to join my friends. “I was naïve; I thought I could appeal to her sense of righteousness and fairness. But she has an almost fascist view of weak people, refugees, and migrants.”

“Yes, we’ve all been guilty of it. Even after knowing the dragon for years, we still hope there’s something good in her, some empathy. But let’s learn from this: Mrs. Quincy is a dragon, and she will remain a dragon.” Linda and I nodded at Emma’s words. They both hugged me tightly, and Emma handed me a tissue. “Don’t cry. She’s not worth it.” “But I feel so embarrassed.”

“We all do. I sometimes doubt my ability to read others, especially when I can be as wrong as I was this time,” Emma admitted. “Yes, but it’s also because she claims to be a Christian. It’s hard not to get confused about what she truly stands for. Yet, it’s not surprising to find hypocrites.” Linda’s forehead relaxed. “But cheer up! It’s only she who is a dragon. Daily News remains one of the most serious and respectable papers despite everything.”

Linda smiled, Emma smiled, and I smiled. “You do a great job, Deirdre. You have no reason to bow your head.” Emma gave me an extra hug, and we returned to our desks.

The next morning, I left early so I wouldn’t have to rush to the office. The weather was perfect for a bike ride, so I left my car in the garage. It was a twenty-minute ride. As I approached the office, I froze at a shocking sight. On the pavement lay three bodies covered by white sheets, indicating they had died. Five police cars with flashing blue and red lights, a fire engine, and three ambulances crowded the scene. I remembered hearing a loud explosion-like bang earlier, followed by several sirens. Not far from the bodies was a burned-out car wreck that had crashed into a house, damaging the outer wall. Firefighters were still spraying water on it, while police officers rolled out tape to mark the crime scene. Ambulance personnel arrived with stretchers, carrying the deceased away.

As a journalist, I felt I had a unique opportunity to report on this incident. I quickly called Emma, who was on duty, and told her I’d be late because I was about to be questioned by the police regarding the accident. Emma asked if I’d be making a report, and I said, “Of course.” It wasn’t entirely true, but it served as a good excuse for my delay. With Emma’s suggestion, I was determined to cover the story.

I parked my bicycle a little way off and approached a police officer directing traffic, showing my press ID. He told me they couldn’t provide much information at that early stage. I informed him I planned to write an article regardless, so if he could share what they knew, he would help me avoid speculation.

The officer agreed to let me wait for his superior, who could answer my questions. He called in, and shortly after, a sergeant arrived. He introduced himself as Sgt. Robertsson. “It seems a suicide bomber drove into eight people on the pavement. Five of them have serious injuries and are already en route to the hospital, while three are dead on the spot. We don’t know the bomber’s identity yet, as we haven’t extracted him from the car.” “Are you investigating this as an act of terror?” I asked. “It’s a possibility, but at this stage, it’s just one of several theories. I don’t have anything more to share at the moment, thank you.”

I thanked him and asked if I could take pictures of the scene. He allowed me, provided I blurred any police officers’ faces. After taking a series of photos, I headed back to the office, praying intensely for the victims—both the injured and the deceased.

Upon my arrival, I was surrounded by curious colleagues, and I quickly briefed them on what I had witnessed. I rushed to write an article and a news telegram to send to Reuters and AP. Now came the moment of truth: Mrs. Quincy would evaluate my article. First, I showed it to Emma, who said it was magnificent. “Good thing you were on the scene.”

As I prepared to go to Mrs. Quincy’s office, my desk phone rang. It was Sgt. Robertsson with unusual news about the deceased victims. He hesitated, and I prompted, “Yes?” He continued, “Two of them have come back to life—after fifteen minutes. This has never happened before. The doctors are flabbergasted, as is the entire police force.” I remembered my prayers for them. Could it be that God had heard me and returned them to their bodies, which might already be in the morgue? I had seen near-death experience stories on YouTube, so it wouldn’t surprise me if that were the explanation. I told Mr. Jones and Emma that I needed to go to the hospital to follow up on my story.

At the hospital, I found the nurse in charge of the accident and asked if I could speak to the two men who had come back to life. She permitted me, and I entered a room where they were awake and in hospital gowns. “Oh, it’s you!” one exclaimed joyfully. “I saw you arrive while my body lay on the pavement.” They recounted their vivid encounter in Heaven where they met Jesus and deceased relatives. They described the beauty of the experience, saying they felt more alive than ever before. They shared how they wanted nothing more than to stay up there, but Jesus had told them their time was not yet over; they had to return to life. 

I asked if they knew what had happened to the third deceased man. Their faces turned sorrowful as they explained that he had been very angry, insisting it couldn't be true that he had to leave his good life. He was shouting and swearing, drawn away by horrifying demons, and they were certain he had ended up in Hell. I felt a deep sadness hearing that but knew I couldn't include his fate in my article. I wanted my writing to resonate, not to serve as a Christian sermon. Yet, if my article could lead someone to find Jesus, that would mean a lot to me.

As I prepared to leave, they added that they had seen the suicide bomber being dragged away by demons. He was furious, shouting, “Allah promised me 70 virgins! Where are they? I’m on my way to paradise! I won’t go with you ugly people!” The demons merely laughed, piercing him with large spears as they dragged him away.

After incorporating this latest revelation into my article, I made my way to Mrs. Quincy’s office. Upon entering, she told me she had read the article and didn’t like it. It was too sensationalistic and had a Christian viewpoint which was not acceptable in her newspaper. Moreover, she insisted I should have called her or Mr. Smith, and they would have sent Mr. Thompson to report on the accident.

Suddenly, a righteous anger surged within me, and an unfamiliar boldness took hold. “Why are you always so critical of me, Mrs. Quincy? Just last week, Linda—Mrs. Andersson—made a similar report because she stumbled upon a newsworthy incident, and you didn’t complain then! I expect you to treat me with respect!”

Mrs. Quincy looked at me, a bit frightened. “Oh, you see it that way? I’ll see what I can do about it.”

I exited her office and approached my colleagues, asking them to support me once they had read my article. Mr. Jones and the others unanimously agreed it was a splendid piece. Emma, informed of Mrs. Quincy’s reaction, marched into her office to defend me fiercely. Ultimately, I was allowed to send my article to Reuters and AP, and it was featured on the front page of The Daily News.

The next morning, Reuters reported that ISIS had claimed responsibility for the attack, identifying the suicide bomber as a radicalized citizen who had posted sympathetic messages about ISIS on Twitter.

At last, the sky began to clear for me. I had stood up for myself, and it felt immensely rewarding. The entire staff at The Daily News shared in my triumph. Changes came swiftly; Mrs. Quincy began treating me with respect, and over time, she entrusted me with several more challenging assignments.