Thousands of miles away from the Titanic a small earthquake shook the city of San Diego in California. One person was killed, twenty-seven injured, and a dozen buildings collapsed.
'You see,' said Scoop, 'that isn't particularly massive news — but if you were to check with our passenger list, you might find that dozens of them come from San Diego, and you can be sure it'll be big news for them. They'll be worried about relatives, their businesses — do you know what I mean?'
Jimmy had found the story on a newspaper website. Now he proceeded to copy it into the cruise ship newspaper they'd begun to put together that morning. Scoop stopped him. 'No, Jimmy you can't just copy it. You have to make up your own story, based upon what you've read here.'
'Why?'
'Because those words, in that order, belong to that website. You have to take the facts that are there, and rewrite them.'
'So I can steal their facts?'
Scoop sighed. 'Up to a point. You should look at this story on perhaps a dozen different news sites, because each one is going to have their own version of it. One will know the name of the man who died, another will have an interview with the leading expert on earthquakes, yet another might know how long it will take to repair the damaged buildings. Do you see what I'm getting at?'
He did, kind of.
'Any story you write has to answer the five basic rules of journalism, and they're quite simple: you ask who, what, where, when, how. All right?'
'Who, what, where, when, how,' Jimmy repeated.
'That's it — who is who was killed, what is what caused him to die, where is obviously San Diego, when is clearly when did it happen, and how is what caused the earthquake.'
'Who, what, where, when and how,' Jimmy repeated again.
'Exactly.'
'So who is going to get me my lunch? Is that what you mean?' Jimmy asked.
'Well I . . .'
' What are you going to get me? And where are you going to get it from?'
'Jimmy, it's only eleven . . .'
' When are you going to get it then? And how are you going to get it before I starve to death?'
'That's very funny, Jimmy,' Scoop commented dryly.
'It's not funny. I'm starving. Being a journalist is hard work.'
Scoop took a deep breath. 'All right Jimmy, even though we've hardly started, I'll go and get you something.' He turned his wheelchair towards the door. 'Although if you weren't a wanted criminal it would most certainly be the other way around.'
***
Jimmy was a bit concerned about the design end of things, but Scoop quickly reassured him:
'Don't worry, Jimmy — there's software for that. A monkey could do it!'
'Are you calling me a monkey?'
Scoop gave him a long look. And then: 'There's some very bright monkeys around, you know.'
***
In the late afternoon Scoop said: 'I'm just going to stretch my legs, as it were.'
When he'd gone Jimmy returned to surfing the Internet for the latest news, and it was while doing this that his thoughts returned to home. His parents would be tearing their hair out (and his dad didn't have much to spare). He had the opportunity now to send them an e-mail — if only they had an e-mail address, access to the Internet, or, indeed, a computer. Well, they could just wait a few days. Maybe it would teach them to appreciate him a little more. There was nothing to stop him sending a message to them via his school, of course. It had a website.
School — he was actually missing it, a tiny little bit. Not the work, obviously, but his friends. Messing around. If he could have changed anything about the past few days it would have been to bring Gary Higgins with him on this adventure. They would have had a cracking time together.
Thinking about Gary reminded him of his expulsion. What choice had his headmaster had? None at all. He'd been reckless and disruptive and had almost destroyed a school bus. He should e-mail Mr McCartney and apologize for his actions.
Jimmy logged on to the school website, and clicked on Mr McCartney's e-mail address. He wrote, Dear Mr McCartney. Then he hesitated. He knew what he should write. He knew what he ought to write. But he was Jimmy Armstrong, and there was really very little doubt about what he would write.
Dear Mr McCartney. How're you doing you scabby-faced baldy-headed vulture? Do you know that your secretary looks like a hamster? Does she keep nuts in her cheeks? Does she have an exercise wheel? Are you having an affair with her? If you are your children will be scabby-faced baldy-headed vultures too, but with the added attraction of big teeth and cheeks for nuts. Yours sincerely, Jimmy Armstrong.
Jimmy's finger hesitated over the 'send' button — but only for a couple of seconds. He was finished with school. He was on the high seas now, he had a job and he was getting paid for it. So stuff you, McCartney!
He sent it.
***
Jimmy was a journalist now. He typed a headline: Small Earthquake in San Diego — Not Many Dead.
It was true, there weren't many dead. But what he couldn't know, not yet anyway, was that the earthquake would set off a chain of events that would lead to the end of civilization as we know it.
Really.