Dead Air

Nine. BIG GUNS

‘I knew you were up to something.’

‘Fuck off! You did not.’

‘I did! Why do you think I was so nervous earlier in the Pig?’

‘You’re always nervous when I’m doing something you can’t control.’

Phil made a noise you could only call a gasp. ‘Now that’s not true, Ken. That’s unfair.’ He seemed genuinely hurt.

I put a hand on his shoulder. It was still true, mind you, but I said, ‘Sorry.’

‘You didn’t really hit him, did you?’

‘Yup. Biffed the blighter on the phizog.’

‘A proper punch?’

‘A proper punch. Look at them bunch a fives.’ I held my right hand out to show him the grazes on the knuckles. My hand still hurt.

‘You’re really proud of this, aren’t you?’

I thought about it. ‘Yes,’ I said.

We were in the Bough. Phil had said he’d hang about Capital Live! until the recording for Breaking News was finished, expecting a debriefing; he’d been suitably surprised when I’d walked into the office barely ninety minutes after I’d left him for the studio in Clerkenwell.

‘You attacked him?’ Kayla had said, sitting back in her chair in her winter camos and chewing on a pen. I’d nodded, and she’d got up and kissed me. ‘Brilliant, Ken.’

Phil and his assistant Andi had looked aghast at each other. Andi had said, ‘Pub, now, I’d suggest.’

‘But they didn’t call the police.’

‘Not so far. They spent most of their time trying to persuade me to stay and continue with the debate. I don’t know what put them off eventually, me stonewalling or the make-up girls running out of foundation to cover up Lawson’s black eye. Eventually I just walked out and got a taxi.’

‘Do you think Brierley will press charges?’

‘No idea.’ I drank my London Pride and smiled widely at Phil. ‘Don’t fucking care.’

‘You’ve been planning this for weeks, haven’t you?’

‘Months, actually. Since it was first brought up in Debbie’s office, back in September. I had that classic dilemma thing going where you don’t want to give these people a platform, but on the other hand you want to get them in public and grind the grisly fuckers into the dust – and I actually really thought I could do it, because I’m a fucking militant liberal, not the wishy-washy sort that would try to understand the bastard or just be appalled – but then I thought, na, just give the piece of shit a taste of his own medicine.’

Phil was silent for a while, so I looked at him; he was sitting side-on, looking at me.

‘What?’

‘Maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.’

‘Yeah.’ I grinned. ‘Good, eh?’

‘If he does press charges, though, you could be in serious trouble.’

‘First offence? No weapon involved? I don’t think I’ll be going to prison. I did have a doomsday scenario going on in my head about getting carried away once I got my hands on the fuck and beating him to a pulp, leaving him paralysed or dead or something or with a Telefunken UB47 rammed up his arse, but in the end it played out pretty well. I can stand a fine and being bound over to keep the peace, or whatever.’

‘I was thinking more about your job.’

I glanced at him. ‘Yeah. In theory.’

‘Not just in theory.’

‘I thought I was pretty safe there. We haven’t had a dressing down for, shit, weeks.’

‘Ken, for goodness’ sake; we exist on a knife-edge all the time whether or not we get a formal warning or even just a quiet word. I’ve had the ads department on to me about cancellations from American Airlines, the Israeli Tourist Board… and one or two others I’ve managed to repress, obviously. They’re hurting. There are few enough big campaigns going as it is at the moment; losing those that are on offer is giving them sleepless nights, and I’m pretty sure news of the pain is being passed up the corporate structure.’

I frowned. ‘Well, maybe the Israeli Tourist Board will come back now I’ve beaten up a horrible Holocaust denier.’ I glanced at Phil.

He wore a suitably sceptical expression. ‘Or maybe,’ he said, ‘this could be the bale of hay that breaks the camel’s back. I’d check your contract. Never mind vague stuff about bringing the station into disrepute, I’ll bet any criminal proceedings, even pending, threatened ones, means they can pull you off air without pay.’

‘Shit.’ I had a horrible feeling he was right. ‘I’d better phone my agent.’

‘So, Mr McNutt. Would you like to describe what happened in the studio of Winsome Productions, in Clerkenwell, London, on the afternoon of Monday the fourteenth of January, 2002, in your own words?’

Oh shit, it was the same DS who’d interviewed me about the East End trip, when I’d broken the taxi’s windscreen and punched ‘Raine’ in the face. I’d had the choice of coming to my local nick to give a statement, and I’d stupidly taken it. The DS was a young white guy, sharp-faced but a little jowly, with brown hair starting to recede at the temples. He smiled. ‘In your own time, Mr McNutt.’ He patted the big, clunky wooden cassette recorder sitting on the desk in the interview room.

I didn’t like the relish with which he pronounced my name. For about the five hundredth time in my life to date, I cursed my parents for not having changed their name by deed poll before I was born.

‘It never happened,’ I said.

A pause. ‘What, the entire afternoon?’

‘No, whatever I’m being accused of,’ I said.

‘Assault, Mr McNutt.’

‘Yes; that. It didn’t happen. They made it all up.’ I was starting to sweat. This had seemed like such a great plan right up until I had to start following through with it.

‘They made it all up.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, what did happen, sir?’

‘I went along to do an interview, and it was cancelled.’

‘I see.’ The Detective Sergeant thought for a moment. He looked at his notes. ‘At what point was it cancelled?’

‘I never left the Green Room,’ I said, feeling suddenly inspired.

‘The what, sir?’

‘The Green Room, the hospitality suite; it’s where they put you before they need you in the studio.’

‘I see.’

‘I never left it. They came and told me the interview, the discussion, was being cancelled.’

The DS looked at me through narrowed eyes. ‘You are aware, sir, that you will be asked to repeat what you’re saying, under oath, in court?’

Oh shit. Perjury. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I’d been too busy congratulating myself on my own cleverness and blithely assuming that everybody would just play along once they saw what I was up to. I had thought this through a hundred times but somehow it always ended with me modestly accepting Man Of The Year awards, not being sent down for perjury.

I gulped. ‘I may well choose to say nothing under oath.’

Now the DS was looking at me as though I was simply mad.

I cleared my throat. ‘I think I should talk to my lawyer before I say anything else.’

‘So I definitely get to be tried by a jury?’

‘If you insist, Mr Nott, yes. However I’d strongly advise that you take the option of going before a magistrates’ court instead.’ The lawyer was called Maggie Sefton. She worked for the criminal department of my own lawyer’s firm. She had deep brown skin and beautiful eyes behind the tiniest, most low-profile glasses I’d ever seen.

‘But I need to plead Not Guilty!’ I protested. ‘I’m trying to make a political point here! This could make the news, dammit. Won’t that mean it has to go to a higher court?’

‘Not really, no. And it is usually best to avoid going before a judge.’

‘But why?’

‘Because magistrates can’t impose custodial sentences.’

I frowned. Ms Sefton smiled the sympathetic, worldly-wise smile adults lay on children sometimes when the poor darlings just totally fail to understand the way things actually happen in the big bad world. ‘They can’t send you to jail, Kenneth. Whereas a High Court judge can.’

‘Shit,’ I said.

I’d sent Amy some flowers at her office, but she sent them back. After our rather unsatisfactory bout of going through the motions on the Sunday night she’d said she’d call me, but she hadn’t, so after two days I’d headed for the nearest florist. I’d thought a dozen red roses would be just the right gesture for the sort of retro good-time semi-posh girl I’d had her characterised as – it certainly wasn’t something I’d normally do – but obviously I’d got it completely wrong.

The dozen roses arrived back before I set off for work on the Thursday, three days after the Breaking News fracas. The note accompanying them said, ‘Ken; interesting but hardly worth commemorating. See you sometime. A.’

‘Bitch,’ I said to myself, even though I had to admit she was right. I took the wrapping off the flowers and threw them into the river. It was a flood tide, so as they drifted slowly upstream, sped on their way by a stiff north-easterly, I reflected ruefully that if I came back at the right/wrong time this afternoon, I could watch them all come sailing back down again. Come to think of it, a timely combination of tides and winds could conceivably keep their bedraggled, distributed sorriness within sight of the Temple Belle for days; even weeks.

I shrugged, stuffed the wrapping paper into the bin and headed for the car park and the car Capital Live! had sent for me. The Landy was still in the garage; it had been fitted with its two new tyres – three, in fact, as the spare on the back door had been stabbed as well – but they hadn’t replaced its headlights yet.

My phone went as soon as I turned it on, walking up the pontoon towards the car park.

‘Debbie; you’re up and running very early. How are you?’

‘Come straight to my office when you get in, all right?’

I took a couple of steps. ‘I’m fine too, Debs. Thanks for asking.’

‘Just be there, okay?’

‘Ah, okay,’ I said. Oh-oh, I thought. ‘Why? What’s happening? ’

‘See you soon.’ She hung up.

The Motorola vibrated again as I got to the Lexus waiting at the kerb. A Lexus; it had been a Mondeo yesterday. Good job something was looking up. I waved to the driver, who was reading the Telegraph. ‘Nott?’ I asked, unfolding the buzzing phone as he folded the paper. I thought it was best to ask; I’d once jumped into another houseboat dweller’s limo waiting to take them to Heathrow. ‘For Capital Live!’

‘That’s me, boss,’ the driver said.

I got in, belted up and into the phone said, ‘Yes, Phil?’

‘The papers have got it.’

‘What?’ I asked as the car pulled smoothly away.

‘Lawson Brierley’s Institute for Fascist Studies, or whatever it’s called, released a press statement this morning. Basically saying they can see what you’re trying to do here, but… blah blah blah… the full majesty of English law, and common Anglo-Saxon justice, must take precedence over arrogant and theatrical pseudo-intellectual cosmopolitan political machinations. ’

‘You’re not paraphrasing there, I hope.’

‘No. We’ve just had the Mail on the phone. Followed by the Sun, followed by the Standard and then ITN, the Eye and the Guardian. I’m expecting to collect the rest of the set before the hour is out. Why is your land-line down?’

‘I pulled it out last night; some fucker rang about one in the morning and kept ringing but not leaving a message on the machine, plus their identity was withheld, so I got annoyed and wheeched it.’

‘Probably a journo favoured by Mr Brierley getting wind of it early. You weren’t door-stepped this morning, were you?’

‘No.’

‘You were lucky. You in the car?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well, if you want to avoid questions at this end, have the driver take you down into the car park here and take the lift, okay?’

‘Yeah. Shit. Okay,’ I sighed. ‘Oh, fuck, here we go…’

‘Courage, mon brave.’

‘Yeah. Right.’

‘See you soon.’

‘Yeah, in Debbie’s office.’

‘Damn, she’s heard, has she?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘That’ll be who’s jamming my internal line here. Better talk to you when you get here; meet you down in the car park?’

‘See you there.’ I put the phone away.

The driver looked at me in the mirror, but didn’t say anything.

I sat and watched the traffic go past. Shit. What if they were going to fire me? I’d taken heart, bizarrely, from the profoundly noxious Nina’s remarks about publicity. I’d thought that no matter how messy everything got with the assault in the studio, at least it would be great publicity for me and the show and the station and that because of that everybody would be happy. Good grief, had I actually been insufficiently cynical? Maybe Amy was right. Maybe I was naïve. I thought back to the night in Soho during the summer with Ed and Craig, and me not dipping far enough down into the cess of human motivation with my imagination, being so innocent as to think that the worst reaction towards somebody who was helpless and vulnerable was indifference, not something worse.

How personally and professionally embarrassing.

I got lost in the traffic for a while, submerged in memories. A dispatch rider swept past on his panniered Bandit. Oh well, I thought, if I did get fired and I couldn’t get in anywhere else, I could always get a job being a bike courier again. Or maybe Ed would take me seriously if I said I finally really really wanted to be a proper club-type DJ. Fuck, yeah; the money was good, and just because I’d been dismissive about it in the past and gone along for the fun, drugs and women didn’t mean I couldn’t try to make a go of it as a career now. Boy George could do it; why couldn’t I?

We were drawing to a stop in the Mall, pulling in to the side near the ICA.

‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

The driver glanced in the mirror, pressed the hazard warning lights, killed the engine and turned round, handing the keys to me. I looked at them lying in my hand, wondering what the hell was going on. ‘I’d like a word, Mr Nott,’ he said (this was itself enough to have me tense up and check that the door-lock buttons were in the unlocked position), ‘but I don’t want to alarm you.’ He nodded at the keys in my hand. ‘That’s why I’ve given you them. If you want to get out, you can.’

He was about fifty; a balding, slightly overweight guy with the sort of large-framed glasses last fashionable in the early nineties and a pinched, concerned-looking face; sad-looking eyes. Otherwise fairly nondescript. His accent sounded vaguely Midlands, like a Brummie born and raised who’d lived in London most of his life. He was neatly dressed in a light-grey suit that only now was starting to look a little too well cut to be that of your standard limo driver.

‘Uh-huh?’ I said. ‘I’ll just test the door, right?’

‘Be my guest.’

The door opened easily enough and the sound of traffic and the chatter of a passing gaggle of Japanese tourists entered the cabin. I closed it again. ‘I’ll just keep my phone open here, too,’ I said warily. The driver nodded.

He offered his hand. ‘Chris. Chris Glatz.’ We shook hands.

‘So what’s going on, Chris?’ I asked him.

‘Like I say, Mr Nott, I’d like a word.’

‘About what?’

‘A matter that has, umm, fallen to me to try to resolve.’

I screwed up my eyes. ‘I’m kind of looking for specifics, here.’

He looked around. On the broad pavement under trees in front of the colonnaded white splendour of the ICA, a couple of cops were walking slowly along, eyeing us. ‘Here isn’t perfect, frankly,’ he said apologetically. ‘You suggest somewhere.’

I looked at my watch. An hour and ten before the last possible time I could get to the studio for the start of the show. ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll drive.’

If he’d taken too long, or said no, I’d have walked, but he just looked a little surprised, nodded and opened his door. I made sure the two cops got a really good look at us, waving at them and saying, ‘Morning, officers!’ They nodded, professionally.

I rang the office en route but the lines were busy. Instead I left a message with Debbie’s secretary to say I’d be late.

I parked the Lexus behind the Imperial War Museum. We got some coffees from a mobile stall and walked round to the front, under the barrels of two colossal Naval guns. Mr Glatz pulled some gloves from his coat pocket and put them on. The air had an easterly tang to it and the clouds were grey as the paint on the giant artillery pieces above us.

‘Nice car,’ I said. ‘Yours?’

‘Yes, it is. Thanks.’

‘Should have known I wouldn’t rate a Lexus from the radio station.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘So, Mr Glatz; Chris.’

‘Well, Mr Nott-’

‘Call me Ken, please.’

‘Right. Ken. Well, I’ll come straight to the point. Oh; well, first, I’d better say, this is all off the record, right?’

‘I’m not a journalist, Mr Glatz, but yes, all right.’

‘Right. Good. Now then. You’ll remember you witnessed a road traffic accident a few months back.’

‘Mm-hmm. Guy in a blue Beemer Compact, talking on his mobile, came out-’

‘That’s the one, that’s the one.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘See,’ he said, ‘Mark – the gentleman involved, Mr Southorne – is a, an occasional business partner of mine.’

‘I see.’

‘You haven’t heard of him?’

‘No, should I have?’

Glatz teeter-tottered one hand. ‘He’s fairly well known in the City. One of these flamboyant types, you know?’

Well, no, I thought, but I could imagine. He hadn’t looked very fucking flamboyant standing holding his mobile in the rain looking down at a still stunned biker lying in the gutter, but maybe that had just been shock.

‘Thing is, you see,’ Glatz said, looking pained. ‘He’s sitting on ten points. On his licence.’

I nodded. ‘The poor soul.’

‘Twelve, and he’s banned. Sure you know how it is.’

‘Of course.’

‘And, well, the thing is, Mark really needs his car. He loves his car; loves his cars. But he does a lot of driving, which he enjoys, and-’

I’d held up one hand. ‘Hold on, Chris. That was a bog-standard two-year-old Compact he was driving. If he loves cars so much-’

‘Yeah, that was just a courtesy car. His M5 was being serviced. ’

‘Ah-hah,’ I said. Ah-hah, indeed. Served me right, I thought. There I’d gone, making assumptions about the man just because he’d been driving the sort of car people bought because they wanted to say they’d got a BMW rather than because of what it actually did. In fact he had an M5. That was different. I’d test driven an M5 about a year ago; a sleek brute with four hundred horse-power. A brilliant motor, but wasted in London.

‘Look, ah, Ken,’ Glatz said, smiling awkwardly at me. ‘Frankly, I think this has been mishandled. I think that the whole way this has been approached was pretty fucking stupid.’ Another stilted smile. ‘Excuse my vernacular.’

‘Well, obviously I am shocked, but all right.’

He smiled. ‘I’m going to level with you, Ken. Thing is, you see, we’d like you to retract your witness statement, especially the bit about Mark using the mobile at the time of the accident. ’

‘Oh?’ I said. I sipped my coffee. Actually I hated this new coffee culture; people wandering around with these pint-sized cartons full of a mild, warm, watery drug it takes about twenty words and five questions just to fucking order, turning some streets in London into nothing but a procession of Starbuck’s, Aromas, Coffee Republics, Costas and… but enough. Mr Glatz was making his point. ‘We’ll get a good brief, we’ll suggest that the biker guy was going too fast, and with a bit of luck and a following wind, like they say, we’ll get Mark off. But we do need you to retract that statement, you see, Ken, because that’s the really damning bit. Without that there we might be able to swing it; with it the prosecution can walk all over us.’

I nodded. ‘Right,’ I said. A very strange, disturbing but oddly relieving idea had occurred to me. It seemed grotesquely unlikely, but then when had that ever proved a problem for reality when it was determined to serve up a squid in your custard? ‘This occasional business relationship you have with this guy Mark…’

‘Yes, Ken?’

‘In terms of above-boardness, whereabouts would we be talking here?’

Chris Glatz chuckled. ‘You’re catching on here, Ken. Frankly, pretty well below the waterline.’

‘Right, and when you say,’ I started slowly, ‘that this has been mishandled, what exactly are you referring too?’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well. When – and I hasten to add here, Ken, that I was not personally involved at this point,’ he said, holding up one hand. ‘When it was decided that my colleagues might be able to help Mark with this problem, a – how’s best to put this? – a rather extreme plan was formulated to, well, to attempt to impress upon you the fact we were serious in our commitment to aid our friend and colleague.’

We’d been strolling round the big circular path in front of the museum. Now I stepped round and stopped in front of him and said, ‘Is this about my trip to the East End in a certain taxi, to fucking Haggersley Street?’ I almost shouted the last bit.

My new pal Chris looked around and patted the air with one hand. ‘Now, I can see why you might be upset about that, Ken, but-’

‘You fuckers were trying to drug me and kidnap me because of a fucking traffic violation?’ Again, I had trouble keeping my voice modulated for maximum mellifluousness.

Glatz did the air-patting thing again. He sighed and put a hand to one side of his face, then nodded forward and we set off again, walking slowly round the big circle. ‘Ken, I’m not going to lie to you,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘That was an overreaction. But,’ he said, holding up one hand, before I could respond to this, ‘the need was felt to impress on you that we are serious people, and that we have the necessary resources, and the will, to follow through with any – what’s the best way to put this? – incentivisation framework we might wish to implement.’

‘You can back up threats because you’re crims.’

Chris actually laughed quite loudly at this. ‘Well, basically, yes, if we’re being frank with each other.’

‘I see. And the threatening phone call? And the tyres on my Land Rover? And the headlights?’

He nodded. ‘All a bit messy, a bit unrequired, frankly, Ken. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m approaching you as one reasonable man to another.’

I gave a small laugh. ‘You obviously don’t listen to my show.’

He smiled, sipped some more coffee. ‘Ken, we’d like to compensate you for the damage and distress you’ve suffered.’

‘I see. You mean bribe me.’

‘Frankly, yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Two grand. And we’ll settle the bill with the garage.’

‘And what if I say no?’

He looked round at me. ‘Frankly?’

‘Frankly.’

‘Then I go back to Mark and say that we’ve done our best; gone out on a limb for him, even, and it hasn’t worked. We’ve tried money and that hasn’t worked either, and unless he wants to raise the offer to something you’d accept-’

‘I’m not poor, or greedy enough, Chris. And I am easily proud enough not to.’ I smiled.

‘Fair enough,’ he said, dumping his coffee in a bin. I’d have followed his example except I’d remained just worried enough to be keeping the still-just-about-scaldingly-hot coffee to use as a weapon if things suddenly turned nasty again. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’d tell Mark that maybe he should just take his punishment like a man and take more care driving in future, and get a chauffeur for however long his ban lasts. And unless he does something very stupid, which I shall try to persuade him not to do, that’ll be the end of the matter.’

‘Really?’ I looked into the man’s eyes. I formed the distinct impression that actually Mr Glatz wouldn’t be at all averse to his business associate having to swallow his pride and accept his punishment.

He shrugged. ‘You have to have a sense of proportion about these things, Ken,’ he said reasonably, ‘otherwise people end up getting hurt. Which is messy. And messy, generally, is not good for business.’

‘So,’ I said. ‘If I say I’m not going to retract my witness statement, that’ll be that.’

‘It should be.’

‘I know it should be, but will it?’

‘Ken,’ Glatz sighed heavily. ‘I am not here to threaten you. I am here to make you an offer, which I’ve done. You seem to be rejecting it. That’s the end of the matter as far as I’m concerned and as far as my colleagues are concerned, in so far as you’re concerned… if you see what I mean.’

‘I think so. Go on.’

‘I can’t speak for Mark, who may wish to approach you himself. ’

‘And what the fuck does that mean?’

‘Ken, Ken,’ he said, holding up both hands. ‘Don’t get upset. It means just what it says. It’s not a threat.’ He gave what was probably meant to be an encouraging smile. ‘Mark is not… he’s not the physical sort, know what I mean? That’s why we make a good team. He’s very good with money, and contacts, and charm, and… Well. But with us washing our hands of the case, the direct action side of things is pretty much off the agenda.’

‘Good,’ I said. I thought. I pointed a finger at Glatz. ‘Just in case he does get any ideas, you tell him there’s a man called John Merrial who owes me a favour, all right?’

Glatz looked very surprised for a vanishingly brief interval of time. Then he looked slightly surprised. ‘Mr Merrial?’ he asked. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ I said. ‘And if he doesn’t know who John is, I think maybe you ought to enlighten him. Don’t you?’

Glatz was looking away from me, nodding. We were back almost under the big guns again, which felt like a shiveringly appropriate place to be when invoking the name of Mr M to another, palpably lesser, villain. ‘I see, Ken,’ he said, still nodding, glancing at me. ‘Well, that is interesting. I’d no idea. A favour, eh?’

‘That’s what he said, last time I saw him,’ I told Glatz.

He looked at me and nodded. ‘I can rely on your discretion here, can’t I, Ken? Off the record, as we agreed. Obviously all of this is strictly between you and me.’

‘Obviously. Providing your friend Mark doesn’t do anything stupid.’

‘I’ll have a word.’

‘That’d be nice.’

He smiled. ‘Right. Well, I think we’re finished here, Ken, would you agree?’

I grinned. ‘I think I would, Chris.’

‘Okay.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Let’s get you back to your radio station. Do you want to drive, or shall I?’

‘Allow me,’ I said. We started walking back to the car.

Mr Glatz nodded at my left wrist. ‘By the way; nice watch.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

Oh, the sheer bliss of it; when we arrived at Capital Live! I got to do the old Ronnie Reagan thing, cupping my hand to my ear, pretending I couldn’t make out what the press were saying. Of course, rather than doing this across the White House lawn on the way to my helicopter with the press fifty metres away behind a rope, guarded by marines, I was about ten centimetres away from the journos, separated from them only by the thickness of a window I could have lowered with a single click of a button. This made it all the more fun.

‘Ken! Ken! Is it true you kicked this guy?’

‘Ken! What’s the truth? Tell us what happened.’

‘Ken, is it true he hit you first?’

‘Ken! These pliers; did you throw them intending to hit him?’

It was great seeing so many journos here; I’d expected one or two, but this was real celeb stuff. Must be a quiet news day in the capital. I did the hand-ear thing, shook my head, smiled broadly and mouthed, I-can’t-hear-you as I nudged the car slowly forward and angled it towards the car park ramp. They were trying the door handles but I’d locked all the doors somewhere round Trafalgar Square. Two snappers were standing right in front of the car, aiming straight through the windscreen; I let the car trickle forward in Drive, brakes creaking, slowly forcing the photographers backwards.

In the passenger seat, Mr Glatz had looked puzzled when he’d seen the small crowd of reporters gathered round the office entrance. When they’d spotted me driving the car through the traffic towards the underground car park, and come running over to hammer on the windows, tape recorders aimed, flashes flashing – heck, there was even a TV crew there – he’d been horrified, but by then it was too late. He’d picked up his newspaper and hid behind it. This was, of course, entirely the wrong thing to do, because now the ladies and gents of the press were starting to think, Hold on, who’s Mr Shy in the passenger seat? A couple of the snapperistas took photos of Mr G’s hands and the Torygraph they were clutching.

‘Sorry about this, Chris,’ I said.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What the fuck’s all this about?’

‘Oh, I was on a telly programme with this guy who deserved a good slap, so I duly whacked him one. Bit of a fuss about it for some reason.’

‘Did I not need this,’ Glatz breathed as I nodded at the security guy in the booth at the top of the ramp; the striped pole rose and we roared away down the slope. I stamped on the brakes and got a very satisfying squeal out of the tyres at the bottom.

Mr Glatz left looking unhappy, resigned to facing down the crowd of muttering rotters still milling at the top of the car park ramp.

I bumped into Timmy Mann in the lift.

‘Timmy,’ I said cheerfully. ‘You’re in early.’

‘Uh, yeah, ah, hi, ah, Ken,’ Timmy said, displaying the incisive wit that has made him such a hit on the lunchtime show. He looked down as the lift doors closed. Timmy was something of a throwback; older than me, an ex-Radio One Breakfast Show presenter, dark hair worn in a style dangerously close to being a mullet. He was short, even for a radio DJ.

I felt my good mood evaporate as the lift whined into action and my stomach seemed to drop. ‘Oh, yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘You’re here to do my show, aren’t you?’

‘Ah, just half,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’

‘Well, don’t forget to apply for overtime.’

‘Um, yeah.’

‘Where the fuck have you been?’

‘Talking to a man about a fucking death threat,’ I told Station Manager Debbie, throwing myself into a couch. The couch was on the far side of Debbie’s redecorated office, a pale mauve oval carpet away from her new ash and chrome desk, where Producer Phil and Guy Boulen, Mouth Corp’s legal geezer, were sitting. ‘Hi, Phil, Guy.’

‘I didn’t say you could sit over there.’

‘Good, Debbie, because I didn’t fucking ask to.’ The sofa was big and plump and cerise without actually looking like a pair of lips. It smelled very new.

‘What’s this about a death threat?’ Phil asked quickly, while Debbie was still opening her mouth to say something.

‘It’s been resolved. It was all a hideous mistake; an overreaction. I know what it was all about and it’s almost certainly been taken care of.’

Phil and Boulen looked at each other. Boulen cleared his throat. ‘You met whoever it was who’s been behind all this?’

‘It was an organisational thing, Guy; I met the guy whose desk this landed on after people below him didn’t get the results they’d wanted. And arguably took it all too far.’

‘Who was it? Who is it?’ Phil asked.

‘Can’t tell you,’ I said. ‘Sworn to secrecy.’

‘Is this-?’ Boulen began.

‘Can I just point out that we’ve a decision to make about a radio show due to start in twenty minutes?’ Debbie said loudly, swinging our attention back to her.

‘Debs,’ I said. ‘The Breaking News, Lawson Brierley thing; I’m denying everything. It didn’t happen. It’s all a lie. They made it up.’ I looked at Boulen and smiled. ‘That’s the line I’m taking.’ He nodded, then smiled too, uncertainly.

‘But you’ve been charged,’ Debbie said.

‘Yup.’

‘We can take you off air.’

‘I know. So; going to?’

Debbie looked at me as though I’d just crapped on her new couch. Her desk phone warbled. She glared at it, grabbed it. ‘Don’t you fucking understand English? I said no-’ Her eyes closed and she put a hand to her brow, making her glasses slip down her nose. She took them off and stared at the ceiling with tired eyes. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, Lena. Put him on.’

Each of us chaps looked at the other two.

Debbie drew herself up in her seat. ‘Sir Jamie…’

‘Chumbawumba and “Tubthumping”. Good to hear the old signature tune all the way through there, bit of comfort music in these trying times, don’t you think, Phil?’

‘Knock people down and they just jolly well get back up again,’ Phil agreed.

‘Ms Nutter, Mr Prescott and I would all agree. But what makes you mention knocking people down, Phil?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Phil waved one hand airily. ‘Just the lyrics of the song.’

‘Splendid. Time for some vitally important advertisements. Back in a mo if we haven’t been removed in the meantime for gross moral turpitude. Back, in fact, with Ian Dury and The Blockheads and “Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick”. Just kidding. It’s actually Cornershop and “Lessons Learned From Rocky One to Rocky Three”. Stop that, Phil.’ I FX’d the squeaky noise for Phil’s head shaking.

‘What are you like?’ he sighed.

‘Just keeping things topical, Phil.’

‘I despair.’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, I know. It sounds pretty crap now but just you wait till later. It won’t even be pretty.’

‘Hit the ad cart, Ken.’

‘It are hitted.’

We both sat back and put our cans round our necks as the ads played.

‘So far so good,’ Phil said.

‘Getting away with it,’ I agreed.

‘All my life.’ Phil glanced up at the portrait of Sir Jamie on the wall. ‘Wonder if himself’s listening in on the Internet feed.’

Sir Jamie had called Station Manager Debbie from the archipelago he owned in the Caribbean. He’d just heard about the press getting hold of the Breaking News story and called to say he thought it was vitally important that I should do my show unless the station had no legal choice but to pull it. I did believe it was the first time I’d actually felt a mild glow of affection for the man. He’d even had Debbie pass me the phone and spoken a few words to me. He told me he was right behind me, right behind me, hundred and ten per cent.

‘I can only hope and trust,’ I told Phil, ‘that I am living up to the faith placed in me by our Dear Owner.’

‘Are we really going to take calls?’

‘I think we must, Philip. We owe it to our public.’

‘Yeah, right. Ken, what’s this about you hitting some bloke on the telly then?’

‘Sir, you have been grievously misinformed.’

‘So it’s not true then?’

‘Actually I was just talking in general, Stan; you have the sound of a man who takes the tabloids, so you have undoubtably been grievously misinformed for, well, years, I imagine.’

‘Come on, Ken. Did ya hit him or not?’

‘At this point I have to resort to the old diplomatic service thing of saying that I can neither confirm nor deny whatever it is you may have heard.’

‘But is it true?’

‘What is truth, Stanley? One person’s truth is another person’s lie, one person’s faith is another’s heresy, one person’s certainty is another’s doubt, one person’s boot-legs are another’s flares, know what I’m saying?’

‘You ain’t gonna tell nobody, are ya?’

‘Stan, I’m like the Egyptian fresh-water carp; I’m in denial.’

‘What?’

‘The matter I believe you might be referring to is sub judice, Stan, or soon will be; the exact technical legal status it holds at the moment is not entirely clear, but let’s just say it’s better to treat it as definitely not to be talked about.’

‘All right. So, how’s that rubbish football team of yours up there in Jockland going to do then?’

I laughed. ‘Now we’re talking, Stan. Which aspect of the profound awfulness of the Bankies did you wish me to elaborate upon, Stanley? The choice is wide and the show is long.’

‘Don’t really give a toss, mate.’

‘Ah; indifference. Good choice. Now… Stan? Stanley? Hello?’ I’d cut him off. ‘Ah, how oddly pointed was Stanley’s casual but cutting dismissal just there. Though in fact I have to point out that actually the Bankies are currently doing remarkably well in the league and are strong promotion contenders. However, I’m sure normal service will be resumed in due course.’

I glanced at the callers’ screen. The girls were doing their best to weed out journalists – the system was flagging numbers of newspapers and if Kayla or Andi were suspicious, they asterisked the name (though in Kayla’s case, as well as * it could equally well be &, [, 7, 8, 9, U or I). One name and subject snagged my gaze instantly. Oh-oh.

Name: Ed. Subject: Robe.

‘Ah… Toby; you’ve a beef about airport security.’

‘Yeah. Hi, Ken. It’s about glasses.’

‘Glasses?’

‘You can’t take nail clippers onto a plane nowadays, not even little ones, but people wearing glasses; no probs.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Glass-lensed glasses, right? Not plastic, right? Break a glass lens and you’ve got two perfect blades, right? Really sharp. Take them on? No probs. But nail clippers? I mean, nail clippers? No way. What’s all that about then?’

I saw Ed’s entry on the screen disappear; he’d rung off. Point made, I guessed.

‘What a fine point, Tobias,’ I said. ‘There should be a sin-bin for spectacles and a choice of soft contact lenses for these astigmatic miscreants at every airport security scanner.’

‘Ed.’

‘Wot. The fuck. Were you doin. Tryin to get old of Robe?’

‘Oh, come on. Guess.’

‘I told you not to. I told you to leave it.’

‘I was desperate. But, listen; it’s all right now.’

‘It’s not all right.’

‘It is; he wouldn’t sell me a… you know. Wouldn’t even meet up. And-’

‘Fot you were a cop, didn’t he? Fot you was filf tryin to set im up.’

‘I did kind of get that impression. But-’

‘Now he’s givin me grief cos you got is number froo me. Froo me mum, Kennif; froo me mum. I am not amused.’

‘Ed, I’m sorry.’ I was trying to hold off from saying something like, Come on, Ed it’s not as bad as fucking your pal’s girl. ‘I was scared and I panicked, but I really am sorry.’

‘So you should be.’

‘But I don’t need the… article in question any more. That’s the good news.’

‘You don’t? Why not?’

‘It turns out it was something of a misunderstanding. I met with somebody who’s in the process of resolving the matter.’

‘You’re soundin like an accountant. As somebody got a gun to your ead now?’

‘I think it’s going to be all right. Almost certainly.’

‘Right. So now you only got to worry about fascist boot boys comin round in the middle of the night an kickin your ead in in retaliation for fumpin this Holocaust geezer on telly.’

‘Oh, you’ve heard.’

It had taken me most of the afternoon to get hold of Ed; his phone had been either off or engaged, and I hadn’t wanted to leave a message. I’d started trying as soon as the show ended. We’d had yet another meeting with Debbie and Guy Boulen, got some sandwiches sent down from the canteen for lunch in the office and then got round to some routine but necessary work for the middle part of the afternoon.

When we were ready to leave Phil had walked round to a corridor with the appropriate view and seen that there were still some press waiting outside, so we’d called a taxi and a mini-cab to the underground car park; Phil, Kayla and Andi took the cab; they piled their coats and bags on the floor in a big mound that might just about have been big enough to hide a person and were duly followed. I left in the mini-cab’s boot ten minutes later. I’d already cleared it with Craig to stay with him for a day or two until all the worst of the fuss died down. The mini-cab stopped as arranged on Park Road and I got out of the boot and into the front seat.

I finally got through to Ed after I’d settled in at Craig’s.

‘Course I’ve eard. You’re in the Standard, mate.’

‘Really, which page?’

‘Wot, you aven’t got one?’

‘Not yet. I’ll get one, I’ll get one. Which page? Which page?’

‘Um, five.’

‘Above the fold or below?’

‘The what?’

‘The middle of the page. It doesn’t matter so much on a tabloid, but-’

‘You’ve got the whole page, mate. Well, part from a advert for cheap flights.’

‘The whole page? Wow.’

‘Says they reckon you did it cos you was under such stress from avin a def fret made against you an bein kidnapped an stuff.’

‘What?’

Well, yuh.

I shook my head. ‘Ridley Scott has a lot to answer for.’

‘What?’ asked Craig. ‘Making Black Hawk Down?’

‘Hell’s teeth, yeah, but no; I was thinking more of introducing the concept of Gratuitous Steam.’

Craig glanced over at me. We were a bit drunk and a bit stoned, watching Alien on DVD after an early meal of a home-delivered pizza. We’d eaten it while watching the London local news programmes on the TV, in case I was mentioned, but I wasn’t. I wondered who the camera team had been this morning outside the office in that case, then decided that probably they had been from one of the TV stations but they hadn’t got enough good footage (maybe I should have got out, said something), or the story just hadn’t been judged important enough by the TV news editors.

Craig was significantly less drunk and stoned than I was, plus he’d only eaten one slice of the pizza; he had a mystery date he wouldn’t tell me about, at nine. In the meantime: Alien. Craig was exactly the sort of guy who would gradually replace all his treasured videos with DVDs. He was also exactly the sort of guy who’d ration himself, buying one old film on DVD whenever he bought a new one being released for the first time. Alien was the latest oldie.

Craig looked at me. ‘Gratuitous Steam?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, gesturing at the screen. ‘Look how fucking steamy it is in the old Nostromo there. Who the hell decreed space-ships dozens of generations after the shuttle – the Model-T of spacefaring craft as it will doubtless prove to be and not itself notoriously water-vapour-prone – would be so full of steam? I mean, why? And it’s been grotesquely over-used in practically every SF film and no-brain thriller ever since.’

Craig sat and watched the film for a while. ‘Designer.’

‘What?’

‘Set designer,’ he said authoritatively. ‘Because it looks good. Makes the place look lived in and industrial. And hides stuff, menacingly. Which is what you want in a horror movie, or a thriller. Plus it gives people like you something to complain about, which is patently an added bonus.’

‘Do I complain a lot?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Yeah, but, come on; that’s the implication. Do I?’

‘You have all these problems with films, Ken.’

‘I do?’

‘Take Science Fiction. What, according to you, is the only technically credible SF film?’

‘2001.’

Craig sighed. ‘Why?’

‘Because Kubrick doesn’t allow noises in space. And because he was a genius, he knew how to use the no-sound thing, so you get the brilliant bit where what’s-his-name blows himself out of the wee excursion pod thing and into the airlock and bounces around inside the open airlock until he hits the door-close and air-in controls and it’s only then you get the sound feeding in; magnificent.’

‘And every other space movie-’

‘Is that bit less credible because you see an explosion in space and next thing you know there’s a fucking teeth-rattling sound effect.’

‘So-’

‘Though it has to be said, virtually every movie with an explosion in it gets the time-delay thing wrong, anyway. Not only do film directors seem not to understand that sound doesn’t travel in a vacuum, they also seem not to understand how it does travel in an atmosphere. You see an explosion half a fucking klick away, but the sound always happens at exactly the same time, not a second and a bit later, when you should hear it.’

‘But-’

‘Though there are signs of improvement. Band of Brothers had proper explosions. I mean, that was the least of its brilliance, but it was a sign they were taking the whole thing seriously, that the special effects people were making the explosions look like real high-explosive explosions look, with just maybe a single flash and stuff flying everywhere, rather than all this vaporised petrol or whatever it is; these great big rolling fiery clouds of burning gas, that’s so bullshit.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Yeah. Why does all this matter? It’s only the goddamn movies, Ken.’

‘Because it isn’t fucking true, that’s why,’ I said, waving my arms for emphasis.

‘So,’ Craig said, ‘what happened in that TV studio?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘Yeah, you have told me, and you’ve told me that what you told me is the truth. But it isn’t what you’ve told other people, it isn’t what you’re putting in your sworn statement, is it?’

I turned on the couch to face him, ignoring Sigourney and her doomed chums. ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

‘Ken, you’re always banging on about truth and just sticking to the facts, but here you are telling lies in public.’

‘But there’s a point to all this! Haven’t you understood anything?’

‘I understand exactly what you’re doing, Ken,’ Craig said reasonably. ‘I even applaud it. I think.’ He stretched back in the couch, hands behind his neck. ‘I mean, it’s resorting to violence, which is more your bad person’s stock-in-trade reaction, but I see what you’re doing. All I’m saying is that in trying to make this point you’re having to compromise this thing about telling the truth even when it hurts.’

‘Craig, shit, come on; I’m no better than anybody else; I tell lies all the time. Mostly in the context of relationships. God, I’d love to be a dear, sweet, faithful, one-woman man, but I’m not. I’ve lied to… most of the women I’ve known. I’ve lied to my employers, to the press, to-’

‘And me?’

That drew me up short. I sat back, thinking. ‘Well, there are… well, they used to be called white lies, didn’t they? Relatively unimportant untruths necessary to… spare people’s feelings, or to prevent people becoming complicit in… well, either complicit or-’

‘I do kind of know what a white lie is, thanks, Ken.’

‘Yeah; stuff that you need to tell people, even friends, if you’re being untruthful to somebody else.’ The on-board, on-line, on-message censor that was usually employed looking a few words or phrases ahead to make sure I didn’t swear on air was here doing something similar so that I didn’t actively lie to Craig, even as I was carefully not telling him the whole truth, which would have involved admitting I’d lied to him a lot about the night I’d spent with his wife. ‘I wouldn’t tell you the truth when I was off fucking somebody else if I thought that Jo might ask you if you knew where I was. Come on, man. You do it too; you’re doing it now. Where are you going later? Who are you meeting?’

‘That’s not the same. I’m just not telling you. You can’t compare refusing to tell at all with deliberately telling a lie.’

‘Yeah, but it’s still not being open, is it?’

‘So fucking what? You don’t have a right to know everything about my private life.’

‘But I’m your best friend!’ I looked at him. ‘Amn’t I?’

‘Best male friend, definitely.’

‘Who’s your best female friend?’

‘Well, what about Nikki?’

‘Nikki?’

‘Yeah; hey, I’ve known her all her life, for one thing.’

‘Yeah, but-’

‘We’ve had too many great times together to count, been through tough things too, plus she’s great fun to be with, she’s caring, funny, a great listener, understanding… What?’

I was shaking my head. ‘You have to let the girl go, Craig. Okay, she’s a great pal and all that, but-’

‘I’ve let her go!’ Craig protested. ‘She’s at Oxford. She’s loving it; she hardly comes home any more, she’s got more friends than she knows what to do with. For all I know she’s already had more sexual partners than I’ve had in my fucking life. Ken, believe me, I’m pleased for her about all this and I don’t want to smother her in affection or anything. But she’ll always be a best friend.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay. But you have to be a bit funny about the sex thing.’

‘Ken, I had umpteen years to prepare myself for the fact my child would have an independent sexual existence. Credit me with some forethought. And some… understanding. We’ve talked about this stuff, Ken; the three of us. Nikki takes precautions. We didn’t raise her to be an idiot.’ He prodded me on the knee with one finger. ‘Anyway. That’s all beside the point. The point being that I’m being truthful in telling you I’m not going to tell you something, I’m not-’

‘All right already!’ I said. ‘Distinction taken.’ And conversational direction subtly changed, you lying hypocritical dissembling louse, I told myself.

‘Anyway, it’s not just stuff like that,’ I said, wanting to move swiftly on and away from all this lying and relationship stuff. ‘Or stuff like using a parsec as a unit of time like they did in the original Star Wars and didn’t even take it out in the new edition. It’s the whole way movies, Hollywood movies, are put together. I’ve been thinking about this; imagine if paintings were produced the way Hollywood films are.’

Craig sighed, and I suspected he suspected there was a proto-rant coming up, which was true.

‘The Mona Lisa as we know it would be just the first draft; in the second she’d be blond, in the third smiling happily and showing some cleavage, by the fourth there’d be her and her equally attractive and feisty sisters and the landscape behind would be a jolly seaside scene; the fifth draft would get rid of her and keep the sisters, lose the seaside for a misty mountain and make the girls both red-headed and a bit more, like, ethnic looking, and by the sixth or seventh the mountain would be replaced by a dark and mysterious jungle and there’d just be the one girl again, but she’d be a dusky maiden wearing a low-cut wrap and with a smouldering, alluring look and an exotic bloom in her long black tresses… Bingo – La Giaconda would look like something you were embarrassed your elderly uncle bought in Woolworths in the early seventies and never had the wit to get rid of in subsequent redecorations.’

‘So what?’ Craig asked. ‘If films were all made the way paintings are every one would look like an Andy Warhol movie.’ He gave a sort of stage shiver. ‘Which, whatever it does for you, surely scares the hell out of me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway. I’d better get ready.’ He stood up.

‘You’ve nearly an hour,’ I said.

‘Yeah, but I need a shower and everything.’ He headed for the door. ‘Help yourself to stuff, okay?’

‘Thanks,’ I said. I tipped my head to one side in a way that I knew looked cute – and hard to resist – when Ceel did it. ‘Who is she, Craig? Anyone I know?’

‘Not telling you.’

‘It is somebody I know. It’s not Emma, is it?’

He just laughed.

‘So it’s somebody new?’

‘Ken, this isn’t any of your business.’

‘Yeah, I know. But it is somebody new, isn’t it?’

‘Could be,’ he said, the (in retrospect) bastard, with a small smile.

‘Is she our age? Younger? Older? Children? How’d you meet?’

He shook his head as he opened the door. ‘You’re like a fucking journalist yourself, so you are.’

‘Hope she’s worth it!’ I called as he left the living-room and headed upstairs.

I will freely confess that what I helped myself to while he was out – after a lonesome J and a bottle of Rioja – were the 1471 and last-number redial functions on his phone, but all I got was fucking Pronto Pizza.

Come on, now; I could have started rifling through his itemised telephone bill or something. The 1471/last-number thing was small beer… even if I did feel just the tiniest bit of guilt at abusing my host and Official Best Friend (Scottish)’s trust.

Like he was going to care; he still hadn’t reappeared next morning when I left for work.

‘Ms Boysert is working from home today.’

‘Fine. Can you give me her home number?’

‘I’m sorry. She doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Not really work, then, is it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Look, can I have her home number or not?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Nott. May I take a message?’

‘Yes; tell her she’s a bitch.’

‘I see. Do you really want me to pass that on, Mr Nott? I shall if you insist, but…’

‘Ah, forget it.’

Noon on the Friday of the week Celia was due back in town came and went, but there was no package and no phone call. I’d never felt so crushed at knowing I would have to wait longer to see her. I started to wish I’d done something a bit sad during one of our earlier afternoons, and asked her for a pair of her knickers or something. At least then I’d have something. I wondered if there was some Internet newsgroup or some website that would steer me to the old magazines and catalogues she’d appeared in as a model. There probably were, of course (I had long since hit the realisation, which comes to most users sometime, that there was almost nothing you could imagine that was not on the Internet, somewhere), but almost as soon as I thought of this I decided that, on second and third thoughts, I really didn’t want to know.

Craig spent the weekend away with his mystery woman. Ed was away, Emma was engaged all the time, Amy I’d given up on and Phil was busy decorating. I watched a lot of DVDs.

‘Ken! What’s your side of the story? Are you really claiming that none of it happened?’

‘Ken! Ken! Did you send those death threats to yourself?’

‘Would you say Lawson Brierley got what he deserved, Ken?’

‘Ken, is it true them def frets were from someone wif a Muslim accent?’

‘Ken, is this all about publicity? Is it true the show’s being cancelled?’

‘Ken! Straight to the point, straight to the point; we’ll pay you for an exclusive. And you get approval. Pictures too!’

‘Ken, is it true you punched and kicked two security guards and a girl production assistant as well?’

‘Ken; they might get you for contempt of court; any thoughts?’

‘Kenneth, would you say your actions last Monday and your position since constitute more of a context-challenging, metagenristic art work rather than a simple act of political media violence?’

‘Oy! Ken; didya biff the cant or not?’

‘Hi, chaps! Chapesses! Fine morning, isn’t it?’

(That was me.)

‘Ken. Is your stance on this anything to do with your renowned antipathy towards Israel? Could you be said to be over-compensating?’

‘Ken! Come on, Ken. You’re one of us. Play ball for fuck’s sake. Answer a fucking question, can’t you? You know what’ll happen if you don’t. Did you thump this bloke or not?’

‘Ken; is it true you have a conviction for assault already? In Scotland.’

‘Mr Nott, you’ve frequently criticised politicians for refusing to answer straight questions from the media; don’t you feel in any way or sense hypocritical here?’

‘Love to answer all your questions, really would; just flippin well dying to, as a matter of fact, and you can quote me on that. But I can’t. Ain’t life a pain sometimes?’

(That would be me again.)

‘Ken! Ken! Ere, Ken! Over ere! Come on, mate; give us a smoile.’

‘Na, mate,’ I said. ‘That’s not my best side.’

‘Then wot the fuck is?’

‘Whatever it was, I’ve put it behind me. See you, guys.’

Kenneth has entered the building.

I waved my pass at reception and the security guard and had the lift to myself to the second floor. In the lift, I let out a whoop, then relaxed, slumping briefly against the wall.

I’d decided to brave the press on the one-week anniversary of my now near-mythical tussle with the beastly fascist Holocaust denier and all-round rotten egg, Lawson Brierley. I’d walked, tubed and walked from Craig’s to the Capital Live! offices and seen the waiting press pack ahead, on the broad pavement outside the main Soho Square entrance. I’d squared my shoulders, reviewed one or two pre-prepared responses I’d thought might come in handy, and gone sailing in amongst the fuckers.

If they knew they weren’t going to get anything out of you even when they could confront you face-to-face, they might give up a bit earlier than they would if you just plain avoided them, because if you just plain avoided them they could still hope that if they ever did get you alone you’d crumble and blab and basically come up with the goods they wanted. Not, of course, that that would stop them just making stuff up, including supposedly direct quotes – what the guy meant who’d said, You know what’ll happen if you don’t – but at least your own conscience would be clear.

The trick had nothing to do with not answering the sensible, reasonable questions; the trick was all about not responding to the ridiculous ones, the over-the-top ones: had I sent death threats to myself? Had I hit some girl assistant? Had I a conviction for assault already? (If I had, they’d have known all about it; they’d have had a photocopy of the fucking charge sheet.) These probably weren’t even rumours the press had heard from anybody else; these would be questions the journos had made up themselves hoping that I’d react to at least one of them, saying, Of course not!… But the trouble was that answering one question would be like opening a vein while treading water in a pool full of sharks; it’d be a fucking feeding frenzy after that. Start answering – start denying – and it was very hard to stop.

But it had been very hard.

A Muslim accent, indeed. And, Was the show being cancelled? The devious, unprincipled fucks. (What the bampot who thought it was a work of art was on about, I had no fucking idea. Did the Philosophical Review have door-stepping rat-packers in these post-post-modern days? I had to suppose that there was every chance they did.)

Still, in a bizarre, leaving-morality-aside-for-a-moment sort of way, you couldn’t help but be impressed by their ingenuity and dedication. I felt privileged to have been verbally roughed-up by such consummate experts. And I was doing well; those had to be the premier league newshounds out there, not cub reporters cutting their teeth.

Life and the show went on. Craig announced he would be out on the Monday night as well, so I thought I might as well move back to the Temple Belle. I did, and nothing bad happened. The Landy came back from the garage and spent a night outside in the car park without being attacked or set on fire or kidnapped or anything.

Having braved the journos once, it became easier and easier to keep on doing so. The trick was to respond to nothing at all. ‘Ken; your dad says he’s ashamed of you; what’s your response?’ (My response was to phone my mum and dad, who’d been door-stepped by the fucking Mail on Sunday. Of course they hadn’t said they were ashamed of me at all; they’d responded to some hypothetical question the journalist had put to them about people hitting defenceless other people and this had somehow – spookily – been extrapolated into a direct quote.)

On the other hand, the Guardian had done some digging on Lawson Brierley and found that he did have convictions for assault; two, in fact, one with a racial element. Not to mention having done time for fraud and embezzlement. Some of the other papers were sounding just a little more sympathetic to me, though the Telegraph and the Mail still thought I ought to be hung up by the thumbs, and the Mail made a big thing about withdrawing its advertising from Capital Live!. Meanwhile I turned down a couple of TV appearances and several exclusive interviews; I think the offers topped out at eleven grand, which was mildly flattering without amounting to so much that I’d ever entertain actually succumbing.

‘I suppose it must be a bit weird having to defend somebody you know is guilty,’ I said to my lawyer.

Maggie Sefton looked at me with what looked like an, Are you serious? expression. I looked back at her and she obviously decided I was just as naïve as I appeared. ‘Ken,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Ask any defence lawyer; most of our clients are guilty.’ She gave a soundless laugh. ‘Civilians always seem to think it must be really hard defending somebody you know is guilty. It isn’t; that’s what you do practically all the time. Defending somebody you know is innocent; that is weird.’ She hoisted one eyebrow and opened an already fairly stuffed box file. ‘That can cause you sleepless nights.’

‘So, tell me straight, Maggie,’ I said. ‘Am I being really stupid here?’

She looked up sharply. ‘You want my professional or personal opinion?’

‘Both.’

‘Professionally, you’re entering a minefield. Riverdancing.’

I had to smile at that. She smiled too, then the smile went.

‘Ken, you’re risking charges of perjury and being in contempt of court. Happily – if it comes to it – your employers are able to afford a good brief, but I suspect he or she is going to spend a lot of their preparation time impressing upon you the fact that you’ll have to be very, very controlled and careful in what you say. If you go shooting your mouth off – in court or out of it – you could be in serious trouble. The judge can send you down for contempt right there and then, without any extra procedure, and perjury is, rightly, regarded by judges as being a lot more serious an offence than simple unaggravated assault.’

‘What about your personal opinion?’

Maggie smiled. ‘Personally, Ken, I’d say, Bully for you. But then what I think personally doesn’t matter a damn.’

‘And the good news?’

She looked away for a while.

‘… In your own time,’ I said.

She clapped her hands. ‘Let’s crack on, shall we?’

Fending off journalists and ordinary callers interested in the matter during the phone-ins became a game for that week. The crowd of journos shrank rapidly until by the Thursday I got to work completely unmolested. I got it into my head that Ceel would be listening that day, and that there would be a package and a phone call from her when I finished the show, but – again – nothing.

That left Friday; there had to be something from Ceel on the Friday. Otherwise it would just be too long an interval. She’d forget what I looked like. She’d fall in love with her husband again. She’d find somebody else – Jeez, suppose she already had? Oh my God; suppose she was some sort of series-serial sexual adventurer and I was just one of a dozen or so guys she met up with for sex every couple of weeks? What if she was fucking a whole male harem of guys, one a day, even two a day! One in the morning, before me! Maybe she was never out of those five star hotels, maybe she practically lived in them, serviced by a steady stream of sadly deluded lovers. Maybe…

Shit, I was going crazy. I had to see her again, I had to talk to her.

‘Hey; that’s your old girlfriend, isn’t it?’

We were in the office after the Thursday show. Kayla had grabbed our copy of the February edition of Q as soon as it had arrived. She was holding it up across the desk from me. Phil looked up from his computer screen.

I frowned. ‘What? Who?’

‘Jo,’ Kayla said. ‘Look.’ She passed the magazine over.

It was in the News section. A small colour photograph and a couple of paragraphs. Brad Baker of Addicta pictured post-gig in Montreux with current squeeze Jo LePage. La LePage, part of Addicta’s management team, has been spotted on stage helping to provide backing vocals for the band; definitely a better voice than Yoko Ono or Linda McCartney. Comparisons to Courtney Love not invited. Hate mail from female teenage Brad Baker fans probably in post already.

‘She’s fucking that bastard?’ I said. ‘She told me she hated him!’

‘That old trick,’ Kayla muttered. She was holding her hand out towards me. She clicked her fingers. ‘Back, please.’

‘And she was doing PR for Ice House,’ I said. ‘Not helping manage Addicta. Fucking useless fucking journalists. Bastards.’

‘Ahem.’ Kayla clicked her fingers again.

‘Have it,’ I said, shoving it into her hand.

‘You’re blushing!’ Kayla said.

‘Who’s blushing?’ Andi said, coming through the door with a tray of coffee and cakes.

‘Ken is; look,’ said Kayla. ‘His old girlfriend’s shagging Brad Baker.’

‘What? The Addicta guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Lucky cow!’

‘Yeah. It’s in Q; see?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Andi tutted, looking at the magazine as she put the tray down. She glanced at me. ‘That’s a shame.’

I looked at Phil. ‘Am I really blushing?’ I felt that I could have been. I certainly felt embarrassed. To still be so affected just because Jo was pictured with somebody else; pathetic.

Phil looked at me carefully. ‘Ta,’ he said absently as Andi handed him his cup and a doughnut. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses and he nodded. ‘Maybe a little.’

‘I think that’s sweet,’ Andi said, looking at me with a rueful, sympathetic smile. In return I managed a mouth-twitch that might, from a distance with the light behind it, have been interpretable as a smile by somebody partially sighted.

‘Reminds me,’ Phil said, clattering at his keyboard. ‘Bit of gossip on the office e-mail.’ He clattered some more. ‘Yeah,’ he said, nodding at the screen. ‘Mouth Corp might be buying Ice House.’

‘Ice Mouth!’ Kayla said.

‘Mouth House,’ Andi suggested.

‘Oh, fuck,’ I said, eloquently.

The Friday show ended. No package. I felt utterly depressed. I was walking along the corridor to the office when my newly switched-on phone vibrated. Yes! I pulled the Motorola from its holster.

Shit; my lawyer, again.

‘Maggie,’ I said, sighing.

‘Good news.’

I perked instantly; lawyers don’t go bandying about phrases like that without very good reason. ‘What? Lawson’s been found in a child abuse ring?’

‘Better. He’s dropped the charges.’

‘You’re kidding!’ I stopped in the corridor.

‘No. He had some backers who were going to bankroll him in any resulting civil action and I think they decided if they saw it through they’d just give you a platform and let you make the point you’re so obviously trying to make. So, they’ve pulled the plug. Mr Brierley has come to the same conclusion.’

That was rich; Lawson and his right-wing pals concerned about giving me a platform. ‘So, is that it?’

‘There’s the matter of costs. We could go after them.’

‘Right, well, you’d better talk to the money or the legal people here about that, but what about any sort of court case? I mean, is that it… for that?’

‘As I say, a civil action appears to have been ruled out, and, given that the police didn’t choose to suggest a prosecution themselves, yes. I think it’s highly unlikely they’ll change their minds now. Looks like you’re in the clear.’

‘Ya fucking beauty!’ I said loudly. ‘So we’ve won!’

‘Well, you could put it that way, but technically we never fought, did we? Let’s say they’ve withdrawn from the field and left it to your good self.’

‘Brilliant. Maggie; thanks for everything you’ve done. I appreciate it. I really do. That’s incredible.’

‘Yes, well, the bill will be in the post, but for what it’s worth, congratulations. It was nice to meet you, Ken.’

‘Likewise, Mags. Superb job. Thanks again.’

‘Okay. Enjoy the champagne.’

‘Damn right! Hey; we’re off soon, here. Do you want to come round for a drink?’

‘Thank you, but I’m very busy. Some other time, maybe. Okay?’

‘Yeah, okay. Thanks again. Cheers now. Bye.’

‘Bye, Ken.’

I walked the last few steps and threw the office door open on a surprised-looking Phil, Kayla and Andi.

I threw my arms wide. ‘Ta-fucking-RA!’

‘Craig! Brilliant! I’ve been trying to get you!’

‘Ken.’

I was standing outside the Bough, looking down the street. Behind me, the pub’s CD box was playing Outkast’s ‘Ms. Jackson’. It was moderately loud in there; we’d persuaded Landlady Clara to turn the volume up to levels commensurate with serious celebration. It was about half six and the sky was as dark as it ever gets in London; the dark of a cloudless night after a clear day. An unseasonal smell of drains wafted in from some grating, briefly faecal before the light breeze flushed it away.

‘I got off!’ I yelled into the mobile. ‘There isn’t going to be a court case! Lawson Fucking Brierley caved in! Isn’t that fucking brilliant?’

‘Yeah. I’m very happy for you.’

His voice chilled me. ‘Craig? What’s wrong?’ I asked, moving further out of the pub’s doorway, further into the street, away from the noise and cheery, beery smell of the pub.

‘Well,’ Craig said. ‘There’s some good news and some bad news, Ken.’

‘What? What is it? Is Nikki okay?’

‘Nikki’s fine. This is not about Nikki.’

That at least, was some sort of relief. ‘Well, what, then?’

‘The good news is that Emma and I are getting back together.’

‘You are?’ I stopped and thought. ‘Well, that is fucking superb! Well done! That’s great. I am so pleased for you. I am really so happy for the two of you. Honestly.’

‘Yeah,’ Craig said, and I could hear him take a deep breath.

‘The bad news is that when we decided we were going to get back together we thought we ought to have a sort of clearing of the decks about other relationships.’

Oh-oh, I thought. ‘Uh-huh,’ I said.

‘I had one or two… episodes to report.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, feeling suddenly cold. ‘Good for you; glad to hear it.’ I leaned back against the stonework by the side of one of the pub’s windows.

‘Emma had one or two little dalliances to put on the table too. And one – just a one-night thing – she didn’t want to tell me about. We were supposed to tell each other everything, but she still didn’t want to name names, or name the name. In fact, she never did tell me directly. But after a bit… well, eventually I just realised who it had to be, Ken.’

There was a long pause. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck oh fuck.

‘… You still there, Ken?’

‘I’m still here, man.’

‘So it was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Craig, I-’

‘It was you.’

‘Look, man, I-’

‘It was you.’

‘… Yes, it was me.’

Another long pause. I cleared my throat, shifted my position against the wall, smiled briefly, thinly at a guy walking past who glanced at me and seemed to recognise me.

‘Well, come on, Ken,’ Craig said softly. ‘How do you think that makes me feel?’

I took a deep breath and released it. ‘I love both you guys. I love Nikki, too.’ I had to clear my throat again. ‘It was just something that happened, Craig, not something we planned or, or meant in advance or anything. It was one of those comforting things, just got a bit, ah, just went on a bit beyond, well, you know…?’

‘No, I don’t know, Ken,’ Craig said. ‘The only time I was in a remotely similar situation, like a mug I agreed with Jo that it wasn’t worth jeopardising our relationships with you for a quick shag. I have to say I kind of regret that now. You must have been laughing your head off, inside, when I told you that, mustn’t you?’

‘Of course I wasn’t, Craig; for fuck’s sake, I was cringing. Look, for God’s sake, man, I am sorry. I never wanted you to get hurt. I so did not want you or Emma to get hurt. It just happened, it was one of those things.’ Oh Jesus, I thought. Listen to me. One of those things. Was that really the best I could do? ‘I just thought we could…’

‘Get away with it?’

‘If you like. Just… just have it be a no-loss thing. God, man, it wasn’t me getting one over on you or anything or any sort of macho shit, it was just, trying to be a friend to Em, to help her through what she was going through. It was all tears and, well, you know; drink had been taken, and, and so there were, like I say, a lot of… a lot of tears, and hugs, and, and-’

‘And you fucked my wife, Ken.’

I closed my eyes, turned in towards the stonework of the pub. ‘No,’ I said.

‘No?’

‘No, that’s not what happened. That just isn’t what it was all about. Two people who’d known each other and been friends, and had somebody in common that they loved, or had loved and still loved, two people like that were together and one was very lonely and vulnerable and needed a shoulder to cry on and the other was a bit lonely too, and weak the way most men are, and was so glad to be able to offer some support and flattered that the other person felt comforted being held and hugged and shushed by him, and… neither of them could stop just a sort of natural response happening when they held each other. And they both felt guilty, but they both felt… reassured, validated; no, not validated, that’s such a crap word. They both had clung to another human being and though there was another person involved, another person they both loved, in the background, it was just that; it was not about-’

‘Not about fucking my wife, Ken.’

I kept my eyes closed. ‘No. It wasn’t. That just wasn’t it. If that’s the way it feels, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry, Craig. I did not want to hurt you, or her. I am so sorry I have.’ I paused. ‘I mean it.’

He was silent for a while. ‘The sad thing is, Ken, you probably do mean it.’

‘You are still getting back together? What I mean is, this isn’t going to-’

‘We’re still getting back together, Ken,’ Craig said. ‘It’s you who’s the problem. Not me or Em.’

‘Look, man, I-’

‘Ken, Ken; Ken…’

‘What?’

‘Could you just leave us for a bit? Just the two of us. We need time to… to settle in together. Know what I mean?’

I wanted to be sick. I opened my mouth very wide. I swallowed. ‘Sure. Yes. Of course. I… yeah, of course.’

‘We’ll maybe be… we’ll need… we’ll need time to think.’

‘Yeah. Of course you will.’ I found I’d bitten my lip. I could taste blood. ‘I, ah, I hope you’re both really happy. I hope it all works out. I really do.’

‘Yeah. Well. Ah… thanks for being honest, at least. I’m glad your court thing came out well.’

‘Yeah. Thanks. Yeah.’

‘Goodbye, Ken.’

And, oh, Christ, just the way he said that. I felt tears on my cheeks as I said, ‘Bye, Craig.’

The phone clicked off. I folded it, holstered it. I stood looking at the gutter for a while, listening to the sound of the music coming from the pub.

Eventually I pulled myself upright, wiped my nose and dabbed my cheeks, squared my shoulders and went back to the door of the Bough. I half thought of just walking away then, going home and crying into my pillow or something, but I still had a legal let-off to celebrate, and what better way to drown the pain of having hurt – and maybe lost for ever – my best pal than by getting disgustingly drunk?

Pints, whiskies, a cigar. Much pointed nattering and nonsense with Phil and Kayla and Andi, then the girls went and Phil and I were left alone for the last hour before chucking-out time. We talked about going to Clout or some other club, then settled on the Groucho. I bumped into an ad creative I knew usually carried excess gear and scored some reasonable quality coke off him, to sober myself up a little (mainly so I could get drunk all over again), but then I spilled most of it on the toilet floor just because I was so fucked on booze.

I didn’t remember getting a taxi, or saying goodbye to Phil, or leaving the Groucho; all I remembered was getting home to the Temple Belle and standing on the deck looking out at the waters and having to close one eye so as not to see double and then deciding that it was absolutely necessary that I phoned Ceel. I hadn’t seen her for far too long. I’d just escaped a court case and I might have lost one of my two best friends and I needed to talk to her, badly. I even considered, very briefly, going round to the Merrials’ house and staring up at each window in turn, hoping she was in, hoping she was there, just so that I could feel I was close to her; maybe I could even ring the bell, and… No.

I’d phone her.

I had to use both hands on the phone and keep one eye closed but I found my way to Location 96 on the menu and immediately hit OK when it said Call Number? and then heard her voice. I heard her voice! It was recorded, but it was her! I found my eyes filling with tears.

A message. I could leave a message.

Ha; dirty, why not? Maybe she’d like that.

‘Oh, lady, I want to fuck you sooo much,’ I said, slurring. ‘It’s been far too long, Ceel… and that’s not just my cock I’m talking about… Ha ha. Please get in touch. I need you. I miss you so much. I need to lick that lightning, yeah. Let’s get together again, soon. Real soon. Love you. Night. Night, Ceel. Oh, oh, it’s me; me, Ken. Ken the Naughty. Ha. Night night. Night night, Ceel. Love you. Want to fuck you. Night night. Love you. Night night.’

I got indoors and to bed somehow.

Some bit of my brain must still have been working, though, because when I woke to the light of morning it was not just to a total bastard of a hangover but to the full, awful, blood-draining, bowel-loosening, heart-constricting realisation of what I’d done.