Page 28 of Not That Impossible

Ah! Ducks. Okay. People feeding bread to ducks. It was bad for them. I saw a woman and her kids doing that in the park yesterday during my morning run.

Was there a law against it? Should there be?

Would that make a good article? Stir up some debate?

Cut to the warlord’s chamber. Crackling fire, fur blankets, me facedown and buttocks quivering, moaning as the warlord slides his—

No.Ducks, goddammit! Ducks, not dicks.

Why is bread bad for them? Did Chipping Fairford need a duck warden? A duck patrol? Community volunteers? Something?

“Shit,” I said softly, and pushed away from the desk.

I stood up and decided to get the blood flowing. That always helped. Dropping to the floor, I did some pushups, some burpees, then rolled onto my back and worked my way through some sit-ups.

Physical stuff I could do without a problem. I was one of those insufferable people who liked feeling the burn, and being out of breath, and sweating. The kind of things my clients usually yelled at me for making them do.

Writing sensible non-fiction was a lot harder than I’d ever thought it would be when I announced to my parents that this was myrealchosen career, since me being a personal trainer had left them unimpressed.

I ambled off to the kitchen to grab myself a cup of coffee. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I picked up my phone, and blinked when I saw the number of missed calls and voicemail notifications.

Feeling lightheaded with panic—what? What had happened, what was wrong, was Adam okay? Were my parents?What?—I input the wrong code twice before I got it unlocked and went straight to the texts.

I nearly oozed to the floor with relief when a quick scan told me they were nearly all from Ralph.

And one from my dentist, reminding me about an overdue checkup. I guiltily ignored that one.

I decided to listen to the latest voicemail first. It was Ralph. “Jasper for fuck’s sake yousaidyou wanted a chance, and this is it, right? Get your arse over there. I want the scoop!”

What scoop?

I played the voicemail before that.

Ralph again. “Listen, a proper journo is available 24/7, not filming themselves playing computer games on TikTok or whatever the fuck you’re doing. You’re pissing me off.Answeryourfuckingphone!”

Wow. I stared at the phone. He screamed that last bit.

Clearly something big and newsworthy was going down.

My hands shook with adrenaline, both because I really didn’t like being screamed at and because I was excited to finally be getting the chance to write a proper news article.

I fumbled the screen, accidentally started calling my dentist, hung up, and pulled up the first of the many voicemails Ralph had sent. I put it on speaker as I darted out of the kitchen into the hall and dropped to the floor, yanking on my trainers.

“…first time a dead body’s been found in Chipping Fairford the whole time I’ve been running the paper! Apart from, you know, the usual kind, people dying of old age and shit. I want you to get your arse over there, right now. This is it, Jasper. This is your chance. Get up in people’s faces and don’t take no for an answer. I want to knoweverything, d’you hear me? Call me as soon as you’ve got anything good.”

Dead body? That was terrible. Who died?

“Address is number fifty-two, Sycamore Close.” Ralph ended the message without saying goodbye.

I finished lacing up my trainers and snagged a hoodie from the coat pegs. I ran into the sitting room and over to my desk to grab my fancy Moleskine reporter’s notebook and a pen before rushing out the house and down the drive. I pulled on the car door handle a couple of times and the alarm went off.

“Shit.” I ran back up to the front door, got the keys in somehow—my hands were really shaking now—leaned in, and snagged the car keys from the hall table.

I ran back to the car, beeping off the alarm and unlocking it en route, and flung myself into the driver’s seat.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Okay. Calm down. You’re fine, you’ve got this.”

I set my phone, notebook and pen on the passenger seat, and buckled myself in.

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