I

January 1920 - London England

The world was still recovering from the aftershock of World War One, Britain had kept its ever tightening grip on its colonies and status, and for many people the nightmare was beginning to be over. Those who had been conscripted came home, the country began to rebuild itself and I, well I got hired as a journalist and photographer for the Evening News. I had just turned twenty-two, and in my mind that made me just about as grown-up as I thought it was possible to be. My father had returned from the war a few years prior and had helped me get the job through a family friend. Looking back on it I can't believe how naïve I was of the whole situation. Most journalists have a partner working with them but not me. No, I was dropped in face first and told to pick up my camera and get on with it. 

I'm not complaining, well I was at the time, but now I truly understand how lucky I was to have a job that paid well enough and that I truly enjoyed. My name is Edward Dawson – Eddie – and I like to interfere. My mother used to joke that I could talk the hind legs off a donkey to get what I wanted and she was right. I mean look at me now, I professionally stick my nose in where it's not supposed to be. I lived in a tiny flat in London's West End, a few blocks from headquarters. As I lived alone it was perfect. For my birthday a few years prior my family had given me a Kodak camera, where they got one from in the midst of a world war I'll never know but I think it may have belonged to my uncle. I carried it everywhere. It came in a funky little brown leather case and the lens folded out from the body of the camera like a swan's neck. It even had its own little flash bulb so you could take pictures in low light. It became my most dangerous tool of trade as a reporter – if there was evidence you could be sure it would either be stored on my camera ready to processed back at headquarters or it would vanish into my pocket if the item in question was small enough to fit. 

 Although my father was technically still responsible for my actions; a term of contract when I'd been hired, I got to do my own thing a lot of the time. My main stories focusing around portraying London for what is was supposed to be to the rest of the world: the centre of victory, and with that peace and prosperity. A roaring night life where young aristocrats went out to socialise and of course every now and then, every reporters dream, do something scandalous. 

I spent my evenings perusing the new joints and more often than not being distracted by motorcars and pretty women. I was not, as my boss liked to say, the most arduous worker. Then again, when I did pull a story it was generally a big one, something I'd overheard during drinks or down at the docks. They were always worth waiting for and even back then I knew that seeing my name in print on the front cover of a newspaper was the best feeling ever. Of course, not everyone was a fan of reporters sticking their noses in everywhere there was a scuffle or a sign of upset and Scotland Yard were some of those people. They knew my face, my name, and even my finger prints by the end of my first month on the job and although I got off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist most occasions there was always a feeling of dislike that floated in the air whenever an officer and I were in the same room. 

My most famous, if you can call it that - I would never proclaim to be a celebrity, case with them was actually over a stolen necklace of some aristocrat. She claimed it had been stolen at a nightclub which I found hard to believe as if it had been on her neck how would someone had taken it. Anyway, I'd headed down to do what I did best, get in the way of Scotland Yard. I spoke to some officers and took a few snaps when I saw someone else on the other side of the crime scene. This person caught my eye for one reason and one reason only, and all other eyes seemed to pass over them, you see this person was doing exactly what I was doing: lurking, sneaking, ducking under police barriers. My immediate thought was that this was another reporter and I was not happy, after all this was my story and I wasn't about to let a rival paper gain all the credit for it. I weaved my way through the crowd and as the other reporter saw me coming they ducked out from under the barrier and vanished into the crowd. In case you interested the jewel case almost went cold before it was solved a few weeks later by an anonymous tip dropped off at Scotland Yard. This information was not released to the public as I was paid a decent bit to keep mum. I got to keep my story and all was right with the world. 

It was a mild winter, the sort that didn't get real snow just depressing puddles of icy water just waiting for you to step in them, or for a cart or car to go past and splash it all over your best suit on the way to court. The same air that had decided to not bless us with snow that year was still irritatingly cold enough to cause discomfort to the fingers as I fiddled with my camera cap and unrelentingly steamed up my glasses as I stood in the rain more often that not taking notes on sodden leaves of my notebook. I wandered my way in and out of several more stories, a couple of robberies, assault, the usual fun things you see on the job, even a stabbing which causes quite the stir. However, every time there was a big case the other reporter was lurking on the edge of the crowd silently watching. At the beginning it bothered me but as I never saw the stories appearing in any other papers I relaxed and curiosity took over. Whenever I tried to get near them they seemed to vanish into the London smoke and I never saw their face. I took many photos of them but never got more than their coat and hat, always the same set I realised after the third time or so. It was turning into a drive for me to take on bigger and bigger stories to try and catch them off guard, but I never did. The only outcome of my apparent ambition was that the articles I wrote made bigger and bigger headlines and my boss began to praise me genuinely. I got myself into positions other reporters feared to go due to the backlash from police and what was better was that my pieces were talked about. The stories I wrote were never inaccurate but they did hold some, shall we say, embellishment. I wanted to make them read like the epic tales they were, after all no one wants to read just the plain boring facts, add a little bit of spice to that and you have the public's interest.