Page 56 of The Trap by Catherine
THE TRAP
The red light above the camera blinked off.
Lucy’s blood felt like pure adrenaline, fizzing and electric in her veins, but it was quickly draining away. She was still wired and also completely exhausted; all she wanted to do was crawl into bed in a dark room but she knew that if she did, she’d only lie awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her body to calm down.
But it was over.
She’d done what she needed to do.
There were only two other people in the studio: the anchor, Rachel, sitting opposite her, and an older woman who’d introduced herself as the stage manager, still hanging back in the shadowy wings.
They’d explained to Lucy when she’d arrived that this was a brand-new, state-of-the-art set-up. The large cameras she’d expected to see in front of her moved as if by magic, controlled by some unseen operators hidden away in another room. The nearest one pivoted smoothly away from her now.
Rachel was ignoring her. Her head was bowed and she had an index finger pressed to the device in her ear while she nodded furiously. Lucy looked to the stage manager for guidance instead, but the woman just stared blankly back. Then she nodded her head once, twice, before stepping forward into the light and saying, “And we’re out.”
The large TV screen which was showing them the live feed—the one that Lucy had had to concentrate on not looking into while she was on air, because it was showing her own face slightly out of sync with the words she was speaking—was now playing a commercial for breakfast cereal.
Under her breath, Rachel muttered, “Tell him I’m going to fucking castrate him.” Then she turned to Lucy, flashed a tight smile and said, “Thanks for coming in.” She threw her iPad on the couch, got up, and stalked off. Beyond the carpeted floor of the set, her high heels seemed to clack angrily across the studio’s floor.
The stage manager was coming toward her.
“Am I done?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, you’re done, love,” she said. “Yeah, we’ll go straight to that VT after the break... Yeah. I know. We’ll have to switch it out.”
Lucy had no idea what that meant.
Seeing her confusion, the stage manager tapped her headset with her free hand. “I’m talking to the gallery, love.” The woman was smiling, but her smile was strained. “They can see and hear everything, like God.” She plucked the little microphone clip off Lucy’s lapel and then motioned for her to stand up so she could take the battery pack off her too. “Reception can help you out with a taxi if you need one.” The woman frowned. “Yeah, I know. No, I know... I’ll come up now; we have a couple of minutes.” Then, to Lucy, with another strained smile, “Thanks again.”
She turned and disappeared behind the lights, leaving Lucy completely alone in the studio—she thought. Because a moment later Jack Keane came storming out of the dark, his face red, his expression furious.
“What thefuckwas that?” He grabbed her by the elbow, pulled her off the set, and started to steer her across the studio floor. “What the hell were youthinking?”
He pushed them both through a heavy swinging door that led them into a dim, curtained passageway, and then another door which dumped them into an overly lit, carpeted corridor.
Lucy squinted at the change in the light.
“I mean, Jesus fuckingChrist,” Jack spat. He turned to glare at her, his hands on his hips. “That wasnotwhat we agreed. This is why you wanted it live, isn’t it? You knew exactly what you were going to do. And you wanted to make sure you did it in time for it to be all over the papers tomorrow, and repeated on the later bulletins tonight, and all over fucking social media while everyone is at home on the couch...” He shook his head, disbelieving. “Well,Iprobably just got fired. Thanks a fuckinglotfor that.”
“My sister is missing,” she said, firmly but calmly. “And you wanted me to come on here and open a vein because you wanted good TV. Well, sorry if I’m not sorry that I took advantage of that. You used me and I used you. We’re even. And, honestly, I don’t know what you’re so upset about. You got what you wanted, your Operation Tide exposé. And I said everything you told me to.”
“Yes,” Jack said. “Yes, you did. But then, youspectacularlyfailed to shut the fuck up.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“But don’t you realize what you’ve done? You’re going to have every crazy in the land lining up to... to...” Jack’s voice changed, became quieter. “Is there someone at home? Is Chris there? You should ask him to come get you. And maybe go away somewhere for a few nights, stay at a friend’s house or in a hotel. Because, trust me, after this, you’re going to have no problem getting attention from the media. And after what you said about Jennifer Gold...” He shook his head, still disbelieving. “I think you’ve got a couple of hours before this is absolutely everywhere. Go get what you need from home and get somewhere else. My advice is, put out some sort of statement saying you’ve been under enormous amounts of stress and you really shouldn’t have gone on live TV in the state you were in, that you didn’t know what you were saying, that your sister’s disappearance has pushed you into a nervous breakdown, or claim you were on new medication, whatever, but post it online and then turn off your phone. With any luck, this will create a few days of absolute mania and then someone else will do something and everyone will move on to them. I hope so, for your sake.” He exhaled hard. “And whatever you do, donotread the comments.”
Lucy folded her arms, defiant. “I knew exactly what I was saying.”
“Maybe,” Jack said, quieter now. “Maybe you did. But I don’t think you’ve any idea what you’ve just done.” He reached behind and plucked her handbag from a row of hooks mounted on the wall. She hadn’t been allowed to bring it into the studio. “Here,” he said, handing it over. “Good luck, Lucy. And seriously, stay safe.”
And then he pushed through the door on the right, leaving her alone in the corridor.
With an incessant buzzing noise.
It was coming from her bag.
Her phone.
