Okay, so, the Leitrim Gazette is a small, unassuming, grass-roots Press operation in Blackross. Just a touch unorganized, I might add, at first impression. It occupies a small storefront space on Chester Street. The front half of the building holds the office and newsroom area consisting of three desks, two computers, two telephones and what looks like all the papers, notes, stationary and office bric-a-brac you could possibly imagine. Of course, there's an obligatory small bell above the door that jangled when I walked in. The one thing that looked just a little too big-town for this place was a glassed-in office for the editor at the back.
I had phoned ahead to arrange a meeting with the editor and he met me at the reception counter that streched the entire width of the room, blocking off the public from the busy staff -one man and two women- seated at their desks typing and talking at the same time. Upon seeing me, the editor extended his hand and his face exploded with a bright smile.
'You must be John, I'm the editor. How are you?' he said.
'Fine, thanks. Nice to meet you.'
'Good! Good! Now, how can we at the Leitrim Gazette help you?'
'I'm researching what happened to the Kilmatogh that disappeared in 1982 and I was wondering if you could tell me anything you might know about it.'
'W-what's this for, if you don't mind me asking?'
'It's for a book I'm writing.'
He seemed to force a smile. 'I'm sorry I don't know much about that. You see it all took place just a few months before I started working at the paper...but we all know it's just one of those things for which there'll never be an answer.'
I didn't buy that. 'I'm sure there had to be some kind of foul play,' I said.
I could tell right away that I overstepped my bounds; his face looked amazed and irritated at the same time.
'John, let's talk about you and your story,' the editor stood back from the counter a little and studied my face. 'I'm sure we're all really glad to have you write something about our local history, but you must understand it takes the right person to keep that kind of thing guided in the right direction, for the common good. All of us in the media are here to serve the public's interest, the human race when you get right down to it. But so are you, John, you're here doing your piece for the interest of the people, just like the rest of us. Do you get me?'
I wasn't sure I did. I wasn't even sure I'd heard him right. I suddenly felt tired, though I couldn't figure out why? I knew I didn't buy everything this guy said to me -or did I? I knew he was hiding something -or was I all wrong? I think I was too tired to focus.
'I hope you understand. You do understand me, don't you?'
I had to force myself to think clearly and I found it helped to not look at him in the eyes.
I shrugged unconsciously and he continued speaking.
'We're a small town and that means that one little problem, even from a blow in such as yourself, is going to be felt and worried about by almost everyone else. Now, the last snoop didn't realize that and really caused some problems that affected the whole town. He was an aggresssive investigator. He destroyed the good faith of the people in their local government, their public servants, each other, and ultimately himself. That hurt. It was a wound in our side, and it has taken time for all of us to heal up from that. I'll cap this off by telling you, for your own information, that he finally had to leave town, he had no choice. He's gone, but I'll never forget the impact he made and I doubt that the town has ever forgotten it.
'This brings me to you, and us, the media, and also the residents of this town. I really want a good relationship between us personally, which I'd hate to see anything ruin. We need unity around here, a comradeship, good community spirit.' He paused for effect. 'John, I'd like to know that you're on board with this and working toward that goal.'
He shifted his gaze on me and I instantly felt uncomfortable. Maybe this guy was on the up and up, like for councilor, or maybe this whole little speech was some sort of sly ploy to shy him away from whatever I had stumbled upon with my topic of research.
But I couldn't think straight, or even feel straight. My instincts had been arrested and I didn't seem to care anymore. I just felt so tired. Contrary to my initial instinct, I knew there was nothing to enquire about. There was no story here.
But the editor was still waiting for an answer, still giving me that numbing gaze.
'I.....I, don't want to stir up any trouble, okay.'
'Well, that's a relief!'
The editor was estatic and came forward and shot out his hand to shake on it. As I took the proffered hand I almost felt that I had somehow sold part of my soul. Before I knew it, I was standing outside the press office front door. My meeting with the editor was apparently over. Now I'm wondering if there's a 30 year cover-up going on. If so, why?
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