The morning started like any other for Pamela Hambleton. Since she worked as a radio DJ, she had gotten up at 3am to head over to the radio station at 4am and be there by 4:30am to start the show at 5am.

She once had dreamt of being an intrepid reporter, a broadcast journalist whose voice was recognized by the nation. But instead, she worked as a talk show radio host and DJ. She shouldn’t complain. For many, her day job was a dream job. And it wasn’t like it was boringly easy either. She had to put a lot of work into both her work roles. It was a lot more than just playing music and chatting as she pleased.

It didn’t change that this wasn’t her childhood dream. Or grown-up dream, for that matter.

She had wanted to be in a newsroom team, researching story ideas, chasing leads… Not being DJ Pamham in the morning radio and hosting ‘Pammy’s Whammy Potshots!’ in the afternoon.

But this was what others would call a dream job. And it was unquestionable that she was successful, that she had made it. So, she really shouldn’t complain about her lot in life. But something about being up this early in the morning always made her a little regretful of past choices.

She could indulge herself this much. By the time the on-air light flickered on, the rueful thoughts subsided anyway, so she never considered it a big deal.

However, this ordinary morning would mark the last time she allowed herself to harbour remorse.

When she entered her workspace, she was bewildered to find a stack of red vinyls on her desk. There was a sticky note attached.

The Beast and the Bellboy: Unreleased Witness Statements and Accounts of the MYCG Scandal.

While this did look like something legitimate… Who had put this here? She was always the first to arrive at the station for the morning shift, so it must have been someone from last night. But who? The late night shift ended at 1am, so it was feasible- but she had little to do with those working during that time frame. It was almost an entirely different team working the late night shift, one she rarely ever crossed paths with.

And why vinyls? If she was lucky, she could dig up a CD-player, but no one worked with physical media at the radio station anymore. This was bizarre, to say the least.

She went through the red vinyls and found they had strange titles by people she had, for the most part, never heard of. A few stuck out. One was notably Archie Tunstall, the hotel manager of MYCG.

When her morning co-host arrived at the station, Pamela ignored the standard pleasantries and held up a vinyl to him, asking, “Chester, do you know where these came from?”

Chester took a sip of his coffee before replying.

“Not even a ‘morning’ today?” he drily asked.

“Oh, hello, good morning Chester, how are you today, great weather we’re having, the vinyls, Chester.”

He looked them up and down. “How old-school,” was all he said.

“Really? Is that all you can say? Not even that they’re red?”

“You brought red vinyls to the station?” Chester asked without any enthusiasm.

“No, I- Chester, they were already here. Did you leave them here? Did someone else?”

Apparently now taking her seriously, Chester walked over to her desk and looked at the rest of the collection, including the sticky note. “How strange.”

“It’s about the MYCG scandal. Apparently there’s more to the story than a blue collar getting violent.”

“Have you listened to them?” Chester asked.

“I just walked into the office and found them. Do I look like I have a vinyl player just lying around?”

“Ok. What do you want to do with them? They’re clearly meant for you,” Chester replied, spinning one vinyl on his finger. Which, under different circumstances, would have impressed her.

Pamela tapped her feet, thinking. Weird bundle of information in an old data format, just dumped on her desk? By an unknown third party?

She should report it and forget about it. But Pamela had always been curious. To the point that she had once been called explorer.

“Looks like I’m buying a vinyl player,” she decided.

— 📀 —

“It’s almost 2pm on a wonderful, sunny Saturday afternoon and you are listening to Radio Pop. Now’s time for Pammy’s Whammy Potshots, and I hear this one’s gonna be a doozy! Let’s see what Pamham’s got prepped for us. Enjoy the show.”

Aubrie and Alarie were at the Toy Library, when Pamham’s radio program came on air. They were playing a word game on the storey dedicated to teenagers and since most teenagers had not cottoned on to the fact that the Toy Library wasn’t just for families and children, they mostly had the space to themselves.

“Aubrie?” Alarie asked.

“Hm?”

“You cut yourself off,” he told her.

“Oh. Right. My last word is Oriflamme.”

“No. That is most certainly not a real word,” Alarie argued. She just smiled and opened the dictionary.

“Oriflamme. Three meanings. Personally, I like the literary meaning best – a principle or ideal that serves as a rallying point in a struggle.”

“How do you know so many obscure words…” Alarie complained, throwing the pencil on the table.

“It’s a gift,” she answered.

“You win. Again,” Alarie reluctantly admitted. She smiled at him.

“Shall we take a break then?” she asked.

“Why? I could do with another rematch.”

“Well, I like listening to Pammy’s Whammy Potshots and it’s on right now.”

“You like it?” Alarie questioned. “I think it’s rather childish and infantile at the best of times.”

“Oh, that’s ok Alarie,” Aubrie replied in a chipper voice, “I know you don’t like anything that’s fun and silly, since you’re a very serious and important man with very serious and important opinions.”

“Ouch. Did I really deserve that?” he lightly asked.

“You have to ask?”

The opening theme ended and Pamham’s voice spoke through the radio.

“Let’s go to the sofas,” Aubrie suggested, picking up the snack and drink she’d bought downstairs. Alarie agreed and tidied the game way, before grabbing his own food and drink.

They headed over to the sofas and sat down. Alarie picked up a magazine and started flicking through it, while Aubrie took off her shoes and brought her knees up to her chin, her drink cupped in her hands, resting near her chest.

They’d settled down, just as Pamham had finished explaining that instead of covering multiple stories as she usually did, she would be covering just one big one.

Aubrie felt her heart beat faster. This was what she had spent days waiting for. Geno had been insisting the plan had failed, but Aubrie had insisted Pamham just needed time to listen to the records, verify the facts and then convince her bosses to let her play it on her show.

If anything, now that it was actually happening, it was a surprise that it had only taken a few days. The woman must be a workaholic. Or just couldn’t let the story go until she’d got it out there and broadcasted. Or was just as passionate about fixing injustices as Aubrie.

For a moment, Aubrie worried perhaps people wouldn’t take the report too seriously, since it was airing on a program better known for celebrity interviews and gossip. Alarie was still disinterested, flicking through his teens magazine.

But Aubrie wouldn’t have known who else to take it to.

“We hear it over and over,” spoke Pamham. “Criminals are bred by poverty. Blue collar workers are more likely to assault than white collar workers, more likely to commit criminal acts than someone with a nice, cosy office job. The most well-known case in recent memory is that of Alvin Sanders, a former bellhop of MYCG. It confirms our beliefs, doesn’t it? There’s nothing to question here… But… what if there is?”

“I can’t believe they fired Al. He’s a good man,” said a teenage boy.

“It’s always the same. They can do whatever they want, and we are the ones that suffer,” said a woman.

“He doesn’t deserve this. Alvin Sanders doesn’t deserve this,” spoke Archie Tunstall. “I shouldn’t have abandoned him.”

“That twerp is done for. Dare to get between me and a woman? Ha!” said Bishop.

“I should have said something. Alvin was protecting me,” said a teenage girl. “Mr Bishop’s the uncontrollable beast, not Alvin.”

Pamham’s voice resumed, “Sunday, the 12^th of September. 12 is an innocuous number, some consider it lucky. It certainly was not lucky for bellhop Alvin Sanders and maid Maisie Ethans.”

“I just wanted to clean- Mr Bishop suddenly grabbed me…” the maid, the teenage girl Maisie spoke. “… If Alvin hadn’t been there, hadn’t been passing by Mr Bishop would have…”

“Due to the nature of Mr Bishop’s behaviour, we cannot broadcast what Mr Bishop would have done. But one thing is clear. Mr Bishop, the man accusing Alvin Sanders of assault. Himself. Assaulted a young woman. A minor. A child.”

Aubrie smiled, relieved. Pamham had arranged the recordings to make Alvin look as sympathetic as possible – not that it was hard to make him sympathetic, since he was innocent.

What had actually been difficult was finding the right vinyls. When she and the others had entered Soporifick, they’d been unable to find vinyls in the obvious places. It was almost like someone had removed key data from the scenes.

As a result, they’d been forced to get creative. Al losing his job caused waves of upset among the staff, especially since Al was considered a great guy. So, digging up opinions on Alvin would at least attest to his good character and correct the misrepresentation in the media. Furthermore, Maisie the maid had been twisting herself in knots over what had happened, feeling guilty of not speaking up, not defending Al when he’d needed help from anyone. So, her account had been located in her locker in the changing rooms, all brand new, generated by the aftermath of Alvin’s sacking.

To really sell it though, the teenagers had not only collected Mr Bishop’s putrid thoughts, but had also gathered up all the twisted admissions from the other men and women that had spoken up against Al.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be this smug, but Aubrie couldn’t help but feel gleeful as Pamham reported the crimes of all the people that had framed her brother, every act of evil revealed in a well-spun yarn, filled with sound bites from an improbable number of witnesses and observers, twisted confessions coming from the mouths of the very perpetrators themselves.

She could imagine how the false accusers must be wetting themselves, right about now.

Alarie, for some reason, had become pale. He’d been listening intently ever since the report had started properly. She would have been surprised if the report hadn’t caught the interest of the self-proclaimed teen detective. His expressions had shifted several times. First there had been surprise, then interest. Now, at the conclusion, his expression was unreadable. But he was pale.

“It’s… resolved?” Alarie asked, almost disbelievingly.

“I knew my brother was innocent!” Aubrie claimed, elated, jumping off the sofa. It was only the start of changing Al’s fortune, but it was still a start – something they hadn’t even had before.

“Did you suspect something like this would happen?” Alarie asked, some colour returning to him, now that the report was over. “I thought you invited me out today because you wanted me to investigate.”

“I… I was tempted…” Aubrie admitted, “but I really just wanted to spend time with you.”

“Oh.” Alarie looked away. “I wonder how they got all those people to agree to being recorded and broadcasted.”

“What do you mean?”

“Data privacy,” Alarie explained. “It’s an ever-growing legal area. It used to refer to simple things like home addresses, telephone numbers, things you don’t want the world knowing. Now it includes things like not having yourself recorded without permission. It makes life for private investigators a bit more difficult than before.”

“Oh. I- I didn’t know. Will Pamham face charges or something?” Aubrie asked.

“Well, I’d need to know more about how Pamham was able to put together such an intriguing story, with so many different accounts and witness statements. It seems overwhelming, impossible to do alone. The work of countless hours.” Aubrie couldn’t help but beam at that. Sure, she hadn’t worked alone, but to have her hard work acknowledged still pleased her. “Some of those recordings must have been attained illegally… So perhaps she’ll be protected by the Whistleblower Protection Act.” He waved his hand. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be musing about something I lack knowledge of. There’s too much room for error.”

“No, it’s fine,” Aubrie insisted. It was a relief. Since Aubrie had dumped the vinyls anonymously, perhaps Pamham would be protected.

“Shall we end our afternoon here?” Alarie asked. “It’s just been announced to the whole city that your brother is innocent. I’m sure you’d like to celebrate with him.”

“Right! I’ll call him right now,” Aubrie said, whipping out her phone. When Aubrie called, Al had not yet heard the news.

“Are you home?” she asked.

“Yeah? You know that the warehouse didn’t work out…”

“Great! Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming over!” Aubrie told him.

“Wait-” She hung up, before Al could protest. She turned to Alarie, who looked a little dejected. “Let’s go,” she said.

“We?” he asked, surprised. He really thought she was just going to jet off without him?

“Sure! Are you coming?”

“Uh… Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.”