RADIO SIGNALS

A LONDON NOVEL

JOHN BARKER©2020

It’s London  the early 1990s, a fearful woman close to retirement rings a late night radio station with a jokey phone-in if “Who do you fear coming to the door?”

She is fobbed off as a ‘mumbler’ by radio jock Steve but is murdered the very same night by a distinctly unromantic and boring serial killer.

He then sets his sights on Marjorie the  60+ photogenic mistress of a 1960s high-profile villain long dead. She herself is fending off renewed media interest in herself instigated by old time associates and hangers-on. Mean while Steve builds a media career out of his guilt over the killing and is joined by another careerist one of those who has been pursuing Marjorie.

Marjorie’s own love life is in sharp contrast to the repetitive fetish of the killer.

ONE

I’ll give you this Marge, you’re still around.

Marjorie was her name. Some madness on behalf of the parents, the one parent likely as not, whimsy, dated posh, or whatever other selfishness went at the time, but Marjorie she was.

She told him, the gobshite she did not know, who had bought her another double. I was not, she said, putting it on, the hoity-toity, just for the hell of it, I was not named after ersatz butter.

Ersatz, he said, delighted upstairs like it was really exotic and way beyond her station. Wow, he said.

Filthy stuff, Marjorie said, just mark my words. Stay clear and eat butter. There’s worse things than cholesterol in this world.

Wartime childhood, ah now I understand, the feller said. Late forties he’d have said looking at her but he knew for a fact she’d turned sixty. Therefore, very well preserved even if the shoulders were a little bent, meaning, from what one knew, that both serious consumption and health regimes had been involved. Or surgery. Of the cosmetic variety. From what one knew. There had been enough money in the old milieu, a fair old slice of it for the times. And in those days she’d Queen Bee’d it, so they said.

And what is it mister, that you understand?

Ouch ouch, he said like he was suddenly too camp to be true. You and your ersatz, he said, what and as a result you developed a taste for the good things in life.

The tonic on the gin was still sparkling, bubbles crowded on the lemon slice. She’d just come in for the one drink, six’ish, in the quiet.

I just don’t believe everything I’m told, she said.

Sound advice. See, that’s what I’m saying, that’s why you’re still around.

So what’s that supposed to mean pipsqueak, that I look old?

Who was he anyway, calling her Marge on the strength of two or three G&Ts.

That’s your paranoia, he said, so pleased with himself he could burst with it and could only be saved, it appeared, by arse-walking his bar-stool that much closer to hers.

Marjorie stared across the bar fittings. JJ’s nephew with a rake of glasses under the pumps, staring at the froth and in his upstairs, counting the shillings. Above the upside-down spirits she was a face that was fed up, which made the whole thing pointless, drink G&Ts so as to become fed up. What a waste, like the feller said in the song.

You know what I mean, he said, his face close up.

To be fair, he did know how to shave. Elsewhere the bubbles were going down, sunk with the lemon slice, all hands on board. On his face, give him his due, no stand-out rashes of whisker on the neck or cheek that could so easily take up all a person’s attention, all a person’s irritation. But she was tired and the feller, whoever the hell he was, his enthusiasm for a chat didn’t take much encouragement. And in fact, facts on the table, he’d come in with a small crowd around Gerry Mac who’d cornered the rest of them, telling his old time stories with Mo's Ian as local colour. She could see it in the mirror, Gerry holding forth from behind a line of lagers and shorts in a row like they were the top of a castle wall.

No offence, the feller said.

What? She said. Whether to call a cab, or just get up and walk out was on her mind. Lift up thy bed and walk. No problem for him in the bible. No choice for her, not when the cab was a wait and the feller gent enough or keen, that he might want to help, take her home.

You’re something else Marjorie, he said, grinning like a cat. Or a tiger. Thirty if he was a day. She stood up, touched a patch of his smooth with her lips, and legged it to the door. Out of the corner of her eye, her ear, Gerry was on the way to his feet. Margie, the night is young, she heard, it’s just begun.

On the street it was cold. It might sober you up: on the other hand, it might flower the drunk. Marjorie scarpered round the corner, the Harrow Road in her sights. For safety, she hunched her shoulders into old dear style. No one was shouting after her in the open air, not Gerry, nor Ian, nor the feller at the bar who’d been so interested. Gerry had said something, that’s what had happened, put her up as an exhibit on the guided tour. Doing his furtive routine, Know Who She Is out of the corner of his mouth. How he knew the real story, the inside stuff that no one else knew. All a long time ago, and therefore bollox. Most of it as old as who killed Kennedy though that had been a shock at the time, a Friday night and the taxi full of it no sooner than she was relaxed on the cab seat and off of the Wardour Street pavement, ready for fifteen comfortable minutes of  nothing to think about.

Looks like he’s a goner, the cabbie'd said. Hard to take on board.

She’d said who, thinking of possible bad, bad things close to home in London town. As it happened, the President, the one they said was a fresh face which was now all mashed up, dead in Jackie’s arms, the taxi’d said like he didn’t ought to need telling her, like she ought to have known. Thirty years ago and she could still hear the tone to his voice.

And Jackie was due some credit. Your man’s brain all over your pink suit and the bullets flying, it could have been fast train to the loony bin for her. Easily could have been. If it had been her, Marjorie, her and her own Jack, there was no saying.

Yeah well it hadn’t.

So none of that. Natural causes in his case. Natural, like that’s the way it went and therefore no grounds for complaint. Even if you were still young.

Still, look on the bright side girl, memory’s still in working order.

On the Harrow Road she slowed down under the sodium lamps. If you were a smart person, and she’d had plenty of chance to be smart, there’d be an alarm clock, a bleeper that’d tell you fifteen minutes in advance, Call a cab. Yes, she was talking of a bleeper that read your mind, knew that in 15 minutes you’d be needing a cab there and then.

No. Fantasy today probably, but tomorrow, who knew.

A hundred yards ahead a black feller, young and swaying, he was giving it to the street; Motherfucker, telling the street how it should be.

Marjorie crossed the road from by the fish shop.

The crack they called it. She couldn’t see it, the crack was having a laugh not this  poor boy, trousers and trainers as one nasty, cheap, a fiver all-in off of Shepherds Bush market. Poor boy, dressed worse than a tramp, shoulders jerking, finger stabbing out, just to tell the score to an empty street.

In a perfect world she’d have had the cab ordered as and when; in the meanwhile she’d got the Alk-Y-Hol just right, her legs on easy automatic. She re-crossed the road for her turning. Course you learned things, there’d be nothing to say for being her age if it weren’t the case, nothing at all. For years she’d phoned the cab first, to the bar, or to the flat. But that was when you knew in advance when it was you’d be wanting to leave. The bleeper, that would be for all the other times: the grey areas; the fifty-fifties; comme-ci comme-ca, like Jimmy the Greek said each time till you'd got fed up with asking how the bloody heck he was.

He was all right, the poor boy, had stayed on his side of the road, bobbing and weaving up the edge of the pavement. Swaying, then up on his toes, rapping the finger. See what I’m saying, Motherfucker.

The big red bus was friendly, HAMMERSMITH in soft lights. Life went on. But it was shifting, the bus. She shuddered inside, that boy nearly in the road. Then it was gone, VICTORIA on the back and him still there, chest out, not afraid of nothing or no one.

You could take it too far, that way of thinking and she’d done enough shuddering for one night. Quite enough when you could do without it, all the morbid stuff. She was fast round the corner into her own street, then down the stone stairs to her basement front door, looking out for the envious eyes you could not rule out, not even when there was nothing to envy; not unless you were African, homeless, or just a miserable prick.

The flat comprised basement and a ground floor. The front room, window out on to the street, had a fireplace in wrought iron and tiles. Very fashionable, someone had said, as if she hadn’t known from the very first time, on a tour of the flat with a junior from the Estate Agents that it was what she wanted. The area was on the up-and-up, he’d said, a surprise to some people but instinct told him, the junior with the spots and the bum-fluff on his lip, his instinct. Years ago that had been, but she’d looked at the fireplace and was already scrubbing and polishing it, while Jack had shrugged as if it might just be true, and the area favourable when it came to property prices, or it was just the young bloke giving his spiel. More right than he knew, the young feller, as it turned out.

He had checked it himself, Jack said later, a sound prospect from the property point of view also, and on the basis of that had done the decent thing. About time Marjorie, he said, to do the decent thing by you. And fair play to him, the old rascal, she was all right. More than all right if it ever came to cashing in.

Mustn’t grumble, she said out loud. Did the voice for it, Mustn’t Grumble. She thought of gin neat, but poured herself a cognac. What’s the Use of Grumbling, she said, singing it out loud, like she really had been in the tube stations doing sing-songs when the bombs fell, the way Jack’s auntie Hannah said it was, who’d called her dearie because the sun shone out of Jack’s arsehole. Which sometimes it had.

She took her drink downstairs to the bedroom. What happened was, you got older and you knew more, you did, but that was no guarantee of anything. Maybe you just got more moody. Or it was her, just her, how one minute you were happy, leastways time was drifting by, and then, just like that, she’d had enough, whatever it was. Not the time for a joint of grass either. No, not in a moody mood. A moody, moody, moody mood. One last taste of the cognac why not. Horse for course. A cognac, you could depend on it, a good slug a warm tum, then you could look anything in the face. The blues, they happened, sometimes they happened. Not the end of the world, Jack said, and besides, he said, he was way too superficial to get depressed. Yes? And? All right for him, dead and gone, but with her these days, it could happen any time, one minute OK and then, boredom or something, whatever it was, you’d had enough.

She turned on the bedside radio, something else she’d learned, better than a sleeper in some circumstances, the radio and a bit of talk. Who were you afraid of coming to the door was what he wanted to know, Steve, the young feller who was on late nights these days.

Obvious wasn’t it, the law or the bore. Either or both.

The bloke at the other end, calling from Walthamstow, he had a thing about encyclopedia salesman, that even though he knew the score, he could just see himself falling for the patter.

She didn’t believe a word of it.

*

After the ad break the strings swung in gentle percussion; precision personified, Steve called it. Not so long ago and he’d have called it mushy, muzak if in full-strength pissed-off mode. Not long at all. In fact they were real Pros these session musicians and if they were in the mood, sure, they could jam with as much fire as the guys in the cellar clubs. He edged up the volume with a sure touch. No point in being modest, he was good at the job. With a good team behind him needless to say, whoever you were, had to have a good team. Saxophone and trumpet joined in, gave a kick to the number. Real pros.

We’ve got Donna followed by Charlotte on the line, that order, Geoff’s voice through the phones. A real pro, Geoff, knew his stuff which is all you asked for in a producer. Didn’t mean you were always going to get it. They’d had their run-in early on, Geoff calling him the Graduate. Funny the first time perhaps, not the third. He’d told him straight and then it was fine between them, a good team so he could relax and do his stuff.

He was almost tapping his foot. Saw Geoff grinning behind the glass, behind him the girls on the phones. Saw Geoff’s hand jive and eased down the volume. Eased in his own voice.

We’ve got Donna on the line, hello Donna, and where are you now in the early hours.

Just for tonight Steve I’m in Enfield, came up specially.

I’m flattered. Very. So what is it I don’t know about Enfield?  Reception especially good up there? I should coco.

Well if you don’t know I’m not sure I should tell Steve, not with everyone listening.

A VP and no mistake: very pert.

I’m not sure either, why not drop me a line but in the meanwhile, since you have rung, tell me who is it you really dread ringing your doorbell, the ring that has you cringing?

The milkman.

The poor old milkman, you’re kidding, you’re lucky to have one at all.

Not when he comes round on a Thursday with his bill I’m not, not when I’m not paid till the Friday. Not when he tries to catch me before I go to work.

I see. Nas-tee. So what do you do then, you know, when it’s him, the dreaded milkman.

To tell you the truth…

I wouldn’t have it any other way Donna.

Well there’s been times I’ve hidden behind the sofa. One time I even got in the wardrobe.

That’s a bit drastic, in the wardrobe for the milkman, I don’t know. Do you think he knows?

Who, the milkman?

On the phones Geoff said Charlotte would be up when he fancied it, Charlotte from Streatham.

Well I wasn’t thinking of your boyfriend Donna. Yes, the milkman.

I don’t know, but the way I see it, as long as he can’t see me there’s nothing he can say is there?

Yes, can’t argue with that. Thanks for calling and one bit of advice, avoid the freezer. That was Donna, like I said, a lucky girl, there’s no milkmen round my way, not for love nor money. And now we’ve got Charlotte from Streatham, at least I think we have. You don’t go in for milkman phobia do you?

Oh no Steve, actually I just buy cartons from the Seven to Eleven, you know when I need one. No with me, it’s when I’m not ready, you know, no make-up on or I’m washing my hair and there’s a man I’ve met and he’s at the door.

Fascinating! What was it with insomnia these days, a bloody epidemic?! However, The Show Must Go On!

A man you’ve met, what, do all the men you meet end up ringing your doorbell, is that you or Streatham?

No, not all of them of course, I mean a man you might have met at a party and quite liked.

I see, that kind of party, yes and so what do you do when this man you’ve met at a party does turn up and you’re half in the all-together.

Well, you won’t laugh will you, but I creep up to the window and have a peep and if it’s someone I really liked, and say I was washing my hair, well then I’d turban up a towel…

I don’t know wardrobes, turbans, what’s the world coming to? But you ladies out there sure are a determined lot, that’s all I can say. OK, thanks for ringing, and my tip is, wash your hair first thing, Steve said, and cut her off. He eased back on the volume, said it was time for Barry White, a little early-hours soul, lovers soul. Back up went the volume till the man’s deep voice was an embrace.

He gave Geoff  the raised eyebrows. Geoff grinned, did his some-you-win-some-you-lose shrug. On the graveyard slot, that’s how it was. Or the semi-graveyard slot if you were to be pedantic. Whichever way, an apprenticeship which to Steve was No Problem. How else to learn a craft, Shakespeare at The Globe and all that, on the job. The one prof at Uni who could fill a lecture hall, his take on the Bard.

He looked down the chart, another number then a news bulletin. As if you hadn’t heard it all before: Serbs, Croats and Bosnians; Bosnians, Croats and Serbs. Next segment, time for a chat with Alfie Turner, one of Geoff’s old standbys, plus a couple of tracks from bands his guest had played in.

F list celeb he might be, guesting just a little too often with an advert voice-over here and there, but to be fair, Alfie was a real old pro, knew the ropes.

He did the intro, his guest, musician, broadcaster and a man who’d seen it all on the road.

And on the road meant on the road Steve. A Commer van we had the one year, never quite sure if we’d make the gig or not in that old thing. Course we moved on to higher things, a Dormobile, which had seats for the band.  Seats! That’s when we knew we’d made it.

Tough guys, Steve said, timing his laugh. Goodfellas.

I don’t know about that, had to have your wits about you, that I can tell you. There was this one occasion, early sixties I guess, and we were doing this gig, Nottingham it was and Phil our drummer, he lost his shirt. Literally. Course we were all squares in those days the way you’d think it now, had to wear a shirt. Well we were due on and there’s Phil in his vest cussing and blinding, no time to find him one, so we sent him on with his jacket buttoned up and a serviette stuffed down his front.

A serviette, Steve said, like it was ‘A Handbag’.

I kid you not, and let me tell you it’s no joke drumming with your jacket buttoned up, not if you ain’t Max Roach, but Phil, a real pro and a great musician God rest his soul, he still went out and did the business.

But I bet you blew some fine music for the punters Alfie, no hype, letting the music do the talking.

Well as it happens Steve, that very same gig, Ronnie played an absolute blinder, our trumpet player, chorus after chorus of brilliant improvisation. Words don’t do it justice but I’ll have a stab, 'gutsy inventiveness' are the ones that come to mind.

Bit of a mouthful but not bad, he’d bet Alfie’d worked on that one. Anyway he was in his stride now, sentence after sentence.

So Harry our pianist, he was the leader of the band at that time, he had to get our money for the night, cash in a brown paper bag it was in those days, and the promoter says to him, never seen a drummer in a cravat son, that’s a first.

A cravat? For those of you who don't know, it's half way between a scarf and a hankie round the neck. Smooth villain-wear. Anyway Alfie, talking about money, shameless as I am, what do you think of the money some musicians are making now, the millions?

Through the phones Geoff said, another track, soon-ish, what did he think.

One would do me Steve, just the one million, but to be honest I’m not complaining, they were great days and at the end of the day, we loved the music, that’s what kept us going.

Now there’s an attitude that stands out in these cynical times. Naïve the cynics of today might say. Tell you what Alfie how about a break so we can hear you and the band, yes you Mr Modesty, blowing that sax.

You read the brief, had a good team there behind you, and you had what it took, then not so very hard this gig of his, but come the wrap at Two, Steve was all in, knackerood. Geoff said nice things, like how Steve was a natural all-rounder: interview, music, phone-in, he’d got what it took.

Wow! From Geoff! He could only mumble embarrassed stuff and then, when Geoff had started in on how next night’s show might look, said he wasn’t as good as Geoff made out. Didn’t have the stamina. Couldn’t cope till the morrow, early evening.

*

The nonsense these people came out with. Graham switched off the trannie. Had only switched on for some relief when by rights he should have been asleep. Some hope! Who were they afraid of at the door?! Not a clue most people, the 99% of them. Only thing him with the gab had got right was the milk, these days it was the Paki on the corner or nothing. Who were they afraid of at the door? What, they were trying to tell him something?!  All he wanted was to be left in peace to sleep!

Easier said than done when this was, sleep was, it was bloody hard. You could savour for just so long, but the restraint it took!  It was like, and he’d thought about it seriously, it was like your tyres when some twat had left his handbrake on and driven off.

Graham shook his head. People did it, drove off with the handbrake engaged.

And when it came to sleep, he was not getting anywhere. Ridiculous! It was pathetic!

He spoke to himself, spoke seriously. Tomorrow is a day off. No Dave and the other morons. Free to do as you please. To see her, or not to see her. Do you want to be knackered all day? Is that what you want? To be knackered, when seeing her was on the cards. Just that, seeing her, and the restraint that was going to involve.

Graham sat up, switched on the bedside lamp. Take a break, then start again. It was what you did, you took a break so as to come at it again fresh. A hot drink? Across the room to the kitchenette he could see only a jar of Nescafe. A lot of good that would do him! He turned on the trannie. Atrocities in Bosnia, some village they said. So what did they expect. Didn’t need him to tell them, Lord whatsit and the other one, both been Foreign Secretaries in their time, knew what they were talking about and they’d said it, the Balkans, at the end of the day it’s tribal, nothing we can do about it, simple as that. Right, so why go on about it?!

Graham turned off the trannie. So why go on about it?! Dave at work, exactly the same, talking for the sake of it while all the time you knew what he was going to say. Dave, who thought he was flash with it. He turned off the bedside lamp. Flash? Dave with the dull life, it was bloody obvious, so of course just the type to be flash with words. Words and more words.

Sometimes it was hard not to laugh, more often it was torture, the nonsense they came out with.

But the reality was, you had to keep it to yourself. He was not stupid. Couldn’t afford it. And unless you were stupid you learned it early on, Keep-It-To-Yourself!

And then If… Deny Everything!

Graham felt his face doing a smile. Deny everything and then what? No, I was not, I have not, I did not. Who?

Who? He heard himself say it, and felt the smile stretch his face skin.

She came, shoulders hunched, Miss Who in the cheap coat, just the touch of a limp in the left leg, walking straight into the Mind’s Eye. Inevitable no doubt, but how could he now not be annoyed when he might as well have not bothered with resistance at all, not when she could walk in just like that, regardless.  He could have been long asleep. Unfortunately, regrettable possibly, it was a sign, that now she could walk in just like that.

Just like that, he said out loud.

Yes, hold it just there.

His cock was half-flaccid, half-alive, he could feel it through the cock-flap of his boxer’s.

Just waiting for it, excitement like she’d never experienced..

He said it again, excitement like she’d never experienced; except he hadn’t known the words then to tell one stroppy granny, the old witch, the old know-all. A wrong’un, my own grandson you may be Graham, but I know a wrong’un when I see one, she'd said. Like somehow she’d guessed it had been him with little Beverly White in old Mr Pegg’s house. Mr Pegg who’d pegged it months before. Pegged it, he liked it; a smile stretched his face skin. And what was Beverly now, an old scrubber likely as not. Had anything else happened in her life to match it for excitement?! Had the grandmother ever thought of that?! Had she buggery! The old cow, staring at him over her specs, the neck stretched out like a wrinkly chicken. He’d stood at her funeral pleased as Punch, one less pain-in-the-arse in the world, down in the ground with the earth piled on top. Hadn’t let on of course, no, poor gran he’d said and stuck to it. Poor gran, how he'd miss her.

His knob had gone soft. Typical of the old cow to be sticking her nose in when it was not wanted. Well, he wasn’t having it! No sir!

It took a while, it took discipline, emptying the head of all the crap that swirled around in the world. Only then did the Mind’s Eye switch itself on, focused, waited.

And alighted on the thin shoulders so tired under the tatty old coat. Hovered there in close-up, played around the fragility of the bones that showed themselves through the crappy cloth. Then pulled back, the picture shuddering till it settled on her stood there, full figure, in her own street. His cock stiffened, ready to take the whole of her in one go, his own strength unstoppable and exactly, just exactly what she had been waiting for all the wasted years.

No no no, something was wrong, he was losing it, slackening and why, because the hair was wrong, he’d got the bloody hair wrong! The shape of it, the curls on Miss Who’s head, all wrong.

He tried to hold on, tried, but with the hair went the face.

Wait. Focus.

No, it was useless his head said, while his chest screamed, mouth open and silent.

Get a grip. It was a sign, that’s what it was, and he had to be realistic, your Mind’s Eye, even the best of them, they needed a freshen-up view now and then. Even when it was little Miss Who who was special, perfect, the best ever. So that was it then, that was tomorrow taken care of, it had to be done even if a refresher was the moment of real test, always the possibility that it might be the moment when you just might go all the way.

Any questions Corporal? No? Right then, sleep and no more messing about.

He had managed some shut-eye, must have done in order for it to be the murky light of a morning, and himself wide awake. Raw and ready to go. A studio flat, the tart in the agency called it. Well, you’ll be looking for a studio flat then, she’d said, staring at her fingernails after he’d said no, he had no intention of paying a hundred quid a week thank you very much! A bedsit more like with en suite toilet and shower for a dwarf. Chipboard, formica and net curtains OK, what else could you expect, didn’t bother him, he kept it ship-shape, but the smallness of the place, that was another thing. A box, a cage, like a cage it felt half the time and him the lion. Lion and lion-tamer rolled into one.

You could laugh at that, think old Graham was getting a bit carried away, but sometimes that was exactly how it did feel. Like it did feel right now, even after an impatient boiled egg. The tamer on top: for the time being.

For the time being. In blue slacks and the suede and wool zip-up he made himself do the hatchback by the book. Checked the oil, brake-fluid, and windscreen-wash levels. Then the tires. And why not stretch it just a little further, test himself to the limit just for the hell of it. Besides, who knew how the day might turn out. Be prepared. He returned to the bedsit and plugged in the electric kettle. He watched it, looking for a wisp of steam, listening for the first rattle of the lid. He could feel the blood itching in his face-skin, the cheekbones playing ping pong. He continued to watch, he could take it, his face all over the shop, because at the end of the day, even if the most of them just didn’t see it, a watched kettle did boil.

In the end.

As it did. Relaxed, he made a Thermos of Nescafe with milk from the mini-fridge to taste. Picked up too, the clipboard and ball-pen which by rights, he should have taken first time round.

The tamer on top; for the time being. Who did not get wound-up by the traffic on the Holloway Road. Nor, heading west, on the Camden Road. Coming over the crest of the hill he laughed at a madwoman stood on the pavement urging on the traffic. Not me Frieda, I’m in no hurry, he said out loud. Frieda? An old nutter, looked like some mechanical toy in the museum didn’t she, in layers of tat and a squashed hat. Nutter, like the bloody traffic would come to a halt if she wasn’t on the job.

Tiredness at night, you weren’t giving yourself a chance. Negative thoughts is what you got, what else! But then you woke up in the morning a different person, a shitty old morning but you were ready for anything. Yes, go on then, cut me up! See if I care! A BMW, black, as if he didn’t know.

Graham drove on westwards, stared down the next traffic lights. At some point they would turn green, time switches, they had no choice. Crummy area, it had got worse, but that was their problem. There, just like he’d said, the lights had changed. He edged forwards into the traffic. Miss Who’s street was to the right. He gave it a miss, would circle back. Ignore the one-way system and circle back the long way. And why not, when sheer calm control was in place, why not pretend he had forgotten her altogether and stop at a greasy spoon for a bacon sarnie. Like the one there on the corner, THE TITANIC, it looked halfway clean.

But no bloody place to park, not without the chance of a fine and your name in the records with number plates attached. Who were they kidding?! What, they were dealing with someone wet behind the ears?!

OK, no problem, the bacon sandwich was just an idea. Whatever way things turned out, and you just never knew, there was plenty of time, he could always catch a bite later. No problem indeed because there she was, just like that, half way up her own crummy street as he crossed the end of it. Just past the T-Junction, he braked, reversed into a tight spot. Could easily have come a cropper in the process, the way the Mind’s Eye on Miss Who was lit up, lit-up like she’d never been away. His knob was on alert, the hatchback’s rear a hairsbreadth from the front plates of a silver Audi as she crossed by the front windscreen, yards away at most.

Too much. Much too much, when the Mind’s Eye had got nothing wrong, when what you saw was what you got. Some kind of empty shopping basket in the hand and the shoulders weighed down in advance, waiting for it to happen. The penis was buzzing in his pants, the old ticker beating away like there was no tomorrow.

Till she had passed out of view. He took deep breaths, took a grip. Follow her? What, he was a mug?! Who were you kidding?! He knew her routine, had known it for weeks and weeks. Knew her place too, had already had a good sniff around its back door which was a joke. In her shoes he’d have complained, no insurance company would have stood for it. She’d be back and had, in the meanwhile, been perfect, had restored the Mind’s Eye in an instant. Poor dear, just to look at her and you ought to be sorry, but his knob was a handful under the zip of his blue slacks. He poured Nescafe into the green beaker of the Thermos and reviewed the situation in calm fashion. No CCTV in this neck of the woods true, but no point in hanging around either, he’d seen what he wanted to see and who knew, with the Mind’s Eye restored, Miss Who might be around for some time to come. Or not as the case might be.

*

No one liked being summed up, some lot thinking they had you taped, and Marjorie was no exception. She was putting on a plaid coat bought at the Oxfam shop, another damp day and autumn kicking in. Facts on the table, there was more to it than that, she enjoyed it upstairs, got a kick out of putting a spanner in the summing-up. So, the woman in Jack Box’s life, chic Marjorie as was, as could be today when required, looked pleased with herself looking back from the hallway full-mirror in the plain coat of dull blue and grey like she was a step or two up from a bag lady.

If all facts were on the table, it did also help to have a few bob for a person that half enjoyed being perverse. Why give a damn about what anyone thought of you when the bills were paid and you had a home to go to. Besides, it was a snug coat, did the job and therefore a bargain. As was the Liberty’s carrier bag folded to sit inside her wicker basket. The long-strapped handbag she wore diagonally across her chest like she was a conductor on the bus, that too. Not that you saw many of them, clippies, not now. One-man efforts these days, took five minutes just to get on if the driver believed he had to do his job strictly.

One man buses? They're having a laugh. What's happening to this city? Bring back the clippie. Steward's Inquiry, and so say all of us. Jack's voice suddenly in her upstairs, rat-a-tat-tat. Never been on a bus in his life, not when she knew him. Jack Box. His mother must have known what she was doing when it came to the christening or whatever they called it in the synagogue, Jack-in-the-box more like and he was still doing it, when he was already 12 years dead, still popping up in her upstairs when least expected. Jack in the box for good he was supposed to be, the way it looked at the time. And what a performance, the funeral, like they all knew, and she should be wearing scarlet among the black. And if he was watching, if it happened that way, which was something you never knew, what a laugh. She could hear him: What, it’s me they are speaking of? Would have laughed like he did, what else when he was afraid of nothing and no one, despite the parents he was born with. The wartime, they said, it made people reckless. Most people, with them, when it was over, they soon put a stop to that. Not Jack, Jack in his box.

Yes, well.

Life goes on, and before you knew where you were it would be dark again, and before that there'd be fireworks, the bangers, to make a person jump, like it was Guy Fawkes for two whole months of the year. Timefor her to get a move on. A late squirrel, odds-on, was a hungry squirrel.

She passed Mr Prevost in the wet fish shop, you wondered how he stood it in the winter time, those red and blue fingers. You wondered also how long he’d last, what with the giant supermarket that had its own roundabout made specially, the new road system down by Kensal Green. You wondered and you waved. A good man, Mr Prevost, so she said nothing about how it said F ESH FIS on the signboard above, and waved again, hoped he had a few bob tucked away and would not give a damn, supermarket or not. You did, it was what you hoped for good people.

The crack fellers, the crackheads, too early for them thank the lord. In the churchyard, no bench either, none of the outdoor drinkers with the cans of super-strengths or flagons of cider. Maybe some compensation had come through and they were splashing out, treating themselves to a pub. Or they were down by the canal. Not that she minded when they were in residence, she gave as good as she got, was quite capable when they tried it, taking the mick as she picked up sticks for her fire. She walked through the wrought-iron gates and passed the black signboard with the gold writing. Any more rain and the grass would be mud. Could be anytime, and just as well to be prepared; stock up while the going was good. The branches felt half-damp as she broke them under her feet but these days she was an old hand, knew it was just surface. There were longer pieces, too big for the basket, these she stood upright in the carrier. Too long for the fire some of them and too tough to break, so she’d feed them into the flames bit by bit.

There was a man giving her the eye from the other side of the wall. Not one of the drinkers from the bench, not the cocky one from the pub either. There was enough wood to carry, it wasn’t an endurance test, she’d done enough, and still the feller was staring at her as if he had every right to give her a scowl. Ignore; say nothing; no eye contact; the basics. She let herself out through the gate, did not look back, just felt it in the back of her neck like his face muscles couldn’t do anything but. Frozen in meanness like some men’s cocks, the ones who’d got uptight with her, like it was all her fault. She’d packed that game in soon enough and got lucky, caught the tail end of the Forty Thieves and not been nicked and then caught Jack’s eye. Jack again. The box had never been made that could hold him in.

So, she was somebody, was not having her afternoon spoiled not by any creep.

Or maybe the poor sod had had some shock, a shocking shock so his face got stuck. Like some of the fellers back from the war when she was a teenager and been a coward herself, crossed the road when she’d seen the one coming her way, the one with the trilby pulled down over his hole of a nose and hole of a mouth walking his little white dog with the coat belted up in all weathers like there was something to hide there too.

No, this one now was just the standard creep, and here she was back in the to-and-fro of the Harrow Road, so bugger him and his stare. She looked sideways over the humped- back bridge that crossed the canal, and breathed in the muffled bustle round the fruit stalls. Good to be alive, singing Cockles and Mussels Alive Alive-O.

Singing Cockles and Mussels.

She turned into her own street happy enough not to have bumped into any of the old faces. Instead there were youths in the second house along, had made a bench on their own staircase around a flagon of cider. Three men and a woman all in black sat there like it wasn't damp at all and the sun was blazing. Or they were on a film shoot. Palefaces. Or they just were bored and fancied being aliens.

Her shoulders were aching, she could feel them bent like she was an old dear for real, and had put in the one last stick that would break the old dear’s back, just as she passed the young black feller a few doors down, the one with the BMW that never got scratches on the black paintwork. He nodded politely all the same, like someone had told him, and Jack Box still a name remembered. Or, more like, it was his character to be polite

In the flat she put the basket next to the fireplace and took the carrier-bag into the kitchen. On the table she emptied her handbag as the quick way to find the key for the coal house, the shed thing. She supposed she ought to put it on her house key ring, but who wanted to be walking around like a jailer. Turnkeys, Jack had called them. Out of the bag came the lipstick, scrunched up receipts, compact. Then the knife she always carried, a flick knife they’d called it at the time, which Jack had said every woman ought to have, and, being Jack, had gone and bought her one the very next day: a tin of Vaseline: half a small pack of Kleenex: her little address book, too many folk dead or scarpered for it to be any bigger; and her bonus for five, five one pound coins. At the bottom finally the shed key wrapped in two old bus tickets that she threw in to the swing-bin with the receipts.

The key in the lock was a hassle but there inside, because she hadn’t imagined it, was not senile, half a yellow plastic sack of coal nuggets. She emptied the Liberty’s bag of its wood and was tempted. Temptation was there to be given in to, and besides, early though it was, the chimney would have to be tested some time. Facts on the table, she was perverse, and put a few nuggets of the coal into the empty bag. Perverse too that she would not use firelighters, even when the churchyard wood was damp. Jack had laughed, one time had called her my luverly pyromaniac, and laughed some more, but he’d sat by her fires enough times. She rolled up four sheets of full size newspaper and knotted each of them, then placed a pyramid of the churchyard kindling on top.

No problem, she’d said to him. You want more praise, he’d said, OK, you’re the bestest pyromaniac in the land. No wonder, when it was all central heating in that big family flat of his in Baker Street. No wonder, with Marjorie he’d got the full package. One time he’d said it, tender in bed, the bed in this flat, the full parcel.

Yes, all a long time ago.

A long time, but the flames catching at the start of a fire, that was as good as ever. She made tea and poured in a Jamesons, felt quiet in the armchair. Later she turned on the telly and caught the News. Bosnia. Skeletal people on the screen. Muslims it said, who'd survived a prison camp. Didn't look like Muslims whatever they were supposed to look like. Didn't look like anyone except skin and bones. One of them spoke. In English someone said he'd said two thousand had died there. Someone else who did not look like a skeleton said it was a lie, vicious propaganda.

A mistake, she’d made a mistake to turn the thing on at all. Nasty people, there are nasty people in the world, it was not something she did not know. So instead, look at the flames and the glow below and a person could make their own stories, and if they had happy endings, why not, a girl was entitled. You got to a certain age and in your own company with nothing and no one to be wary for, you could be as sentimental as you liked; when you were properly warmed up.

She was warmed up, Jameson’s inside and heat on the skin, enough to move away from the fire and lay down on the sofa, leaving just the light from a shaded table lamp. The shadows on the walls and ceiling were a silent crackling, the darting of the flames projected up into a fluttering pattern. Luxury: you’d taken a few knocks on the way and you were entitled. She undid the button at the top of her skirt and gently pushed her hand under her knickers, let her middle finger hover over the clitoris, waiting till the moment was right, then the slightest touch on the tip till it was swimming and pulsing like a star.  The finger slid down to lie flat on the full stretch of it. She lay still, not concerned with coming or not coming, the quietness of the touch radiating warmth up into her belly.

*

Graham had driven back, thought about a burger, chips and peas in the Turk’s, but opted for a Pot Noodle and the Mind’s Eye back in the bedsit.

Only something was up. He knew the signs, wasn’t the first time. She was clear enough, the whole length of her, but the knob stayed soft. He tried, tried his very best. Only when he had his hands on her, till she was his completely, then it livened up. He’d held it in his fingers, held it steady, the blood thumping inside, gone to the limit, then let it go. Whatever way things turned out, ejaculation would only screw it up.

He’d fallen asleep and awoken at three. Gave the Mind’s Eye another go which was only fair from everybody’s point of view, only fair, to give it another chance. Still laid out on the bed in the half-light, he waited for her to walk in, little Miss Who. After a while had had to give up the attempt otherwise he would have wound up being very angry which would not do at all. You could get angry at work, but not now.

He re-filled the Thermos with fresh Nescafe, then shifted across town in the hatchback. Driving within the rules and laws of the Highway, he had taken no prisoners on a direct route.

When the time had come, things just fell into place. That seemed to be the way of it; a handy parking spot made itself available just like that, some tart in a sporty Jap thing pulling out of the space as he’d arrived. Like she owned the bloody road, the way she’d roared off.

The nights would soon be drawing in; the granny used to say that, like she was a real old wise woman. Some people were like that, Dave at work for one, whatever he said, always the wiseguy. Yes, would be dark soon. Even so, in the meanwhile, just as well to have the clipboard on the knee, ballpoint in the hand. Couldn’t go wrong the way the most of them went through life, the 99%. Bloke with a clipboard? An official or some other job he was at. At work most of them didn’t want it, didn’t bother, but he’d insisted on the peaked cap. Was all the punters saw wasn’t it, the cap. You could disappear into yourself, and, if he felt like it, the bigger the shock those times when the real man under the uniform did show himself.

Wasn’t helping him now, nor the beaker of piping hot Nescafe. In the hatchback he was getting stiff and no mistake. He’d given up on the clipboard too, funny that would have looked in the dark, not clever at all. No getting away from it, she was bloody late! Had a routine and couldn’t stick to it!

That was some people, but he would not get angry, not even if his own position was becoming untenable. Only one thing for it. He got out of the vehicle and walked down the road, her road, just so as to be sure she hadn’t cheated and sneaked home early. No, no lights in the place.

Hard, hard not to be furious, and then not sure what was best for the next. Best for the next not sure, and so taken up with it that it was the very last moment when the sensors felt it, someone else on the pavement about to collide. He braked hard with the legs and glared.

Sorry, Miss Who said, taking the long way round his bulk.

*

Jack Lemmon was in town. You could only hope. Famous Murder Trials, author thereof, is what you got. Prompting? You jest jester, Geoff said, that’s the last thing he needs. But for you, all good practice in the art, the essential art, of gobstopping the gusher, he’d said. And while they were at it, they’d give the Who Do You Hate Knocking On The Door phone-in the one more night. Give it a run for its money he’d said. As for tonight’s session band, like Basie in the Herschel Evans era, Kansas City, they were that good. Geoff in jazz buff mode. It could be tiresome.

The chart seemed OK, only it wasn’t; Tina Turner that late?! No way José!

A great singer, Steve said, greater than ever, but even her slow numbers, not exactly mellow.

Mellow man.

I mean who wants a jolt at quarter to two.

It was sloppy, that was the truth of it, plain sloppy.

OK OK Billie Holliday, trust me on this Steve, Billie Holliday.

Sure, Steve said, I trust you.

So.

So, you did your job.

Carol, there you are in Isleworth, and the doorbell rings. I can hear it now, a chimer, a ding-dong like it’s a sitcom, and who is it you’re dreading?

The religious nuts Steve, you know what I mean, come at all hours of the day and night.

Believe me Carol, I’m on your side on this one, if there’s one thing really gets on my nelly, it’s people trying to ram their ideas down my throat. But tell us Carol, give us a clue. Give us a tip, how do you recognise them, these nuts.

Crewcuts and blazers.

Carol, wow, the nuts in a nutshell, no seriously, thanks for that, how do you say, succinct tip of yours, that succinct tip. I’ll be on my guard. And not a bad time for our ten-piece, in session tonight and, my producer Geoff assures me, not a crewcut amongst them. Take it away guys.

Yes, good stuff, knew their stuff these guys and if it was old-fashioned, well then he could be old-fashioned. And if what you got was a murder trials anorak, that’s what you got, had to handle it, deal with the most unpromising material.

Of course the post-war period was a special time Steve. The war itself had loosened the restraints, the fabric of society and the city itself of course. Bomb sites, missing persons, the black market.

So what you’re saying Eric, is that it was what one might call murder’s classic period.

I don’t know if I’d go that far, but of the murder trials I’d say that’s about right, Christie and Heath being the ones that spring immediately to mind.

I’d like to come back to that Eric but just in case you out there have forgotten or have nodded off…Yes I’ve caught you, napping out there on the night shift…OY OY Wakey Wakey. Yes indeed the phone lines are still open and I guess I’d better repeat the number 071 279 9393. OK I know there’s not always a pen to hand so I’ll give it again in a moment. Now there’s a thing, the disappearing pen, never there when you want it. Are there pen hoarders out there? Mountains of ball-point? Own up! In the meanwhile the ladies on the switchboard, that’s Lorna and Debs, they’re dead to keen to hear from you, from the men and the ladies, we’re all for sex equality here, who is it you dread coming to your door. Once again 071 279 9393 is our number. 071 279 9393. Time to write it down because here it comes, here comes the break.

Which for Steve was time out, up from the chair to stretch the legs.

One two, the mortgage loans: three four, emergency electrician; five six, the furniture sale. Seven eight…Brr Brr 'Oh George, thank God I’ve caught you, can you get home as soon as possible.’

‘But darling, I’ve got that really important meeting with the Head of Sales in an hour.’

‘George we’ve been burgled, the house is in a terrible mess and there’s a lot missing.’

‘Oh Lord, Richard, what am I going to do, it’s my wife, our house has been burgled.’

Do yourself a favour George, ‘Get a SleepSecure alarm system. It’s a trembler system, you just switch it on when the house is going to be empty or when you’re asleep. It will pick-up even the most light-footed of intruders. And with free installation it’s still only two hundred and ninetynine pounds and ninetynine pence'

Steve had drunk his water; done his walk; done his stretches, neck, shoulders and pelvis, and was ready again for pasty-faced Eric stuck in his chair.

So Eric, you actually covered some of those trials yourself I believe.

Yes indeed, if nothing else, it was the golden age of the Old Bailey reporter. Of course television was nothing like it is today, newspapers were the thing, and then a trial in those days it was more solemn and dramatic, or that’s how it seemed to us. For one thing there was the Death sentence, the black cap, the accused’s own life hanging in the balance…

Let him do his stuff, that’s what he was there for, the anorak. He thought of saying, what about Timothy Evans then, what about him, but who wanted controversy at 2 in the am, not the ghouls listening to this lot.

And then of course there was the sheer oratory of the advocates of that time. Some people will tell you that juries these days are more sophisticated but I tell you, some of those KCs, they were spellbinding.

Really?

Another ten minutes Steve had had enough, and that’s what the chart said too. He didn’t need Geoff telling him, a fact which did not prevent his producer doing just that.

So how would you sum up Eric, looking back from the time we live in now.

At the end of the day Steve, justice has got to be seen to be done, and I get the sense that these days, it’s under-reported.

Uh-huh, food for thought there but in the meanwhile to aid your digestion, the final set from the band, the no-crewcut band.

Geoff grinned through the glass. Eric the murder, he suddenly looked really old as he got up to go. There was a copy of the book for Steve who said he was honoured. Through the phones Geoff said coming up on the line, there was Roger from Barnet and Theresa from Camden Town.

He quite fancied himself did Roger. The plumber he dreaded and did Steve know why? Did he? Because I know it’s going to cost me and arm and a leg, plumbers these days, they’re taking the mickey.

Anyone else out there had trouble with plumbers, but that’s for another phone-in.

You know yourself Steve, there’s others, I’m just saying plumbers, they’re the worst, think they’re God’s gift to the bleedin planet.

What can I say Roger, except keep your pipes clean. And now it’s Theresa from still-swinging after-all these-years-Camden-Town. Fair comment Theresa.

Oh I wouldn’t know about that.

Elderly, hard work for a tired jock.

OK then Theresa who is it you dread coming to the door.

Well, you know, I don’t know how to put this, it’s the first time I’ve ever in my whole life done such a thing.

There’s a first time for everything Theresa, so don’t worry, just take your time and tell us who it is you dread ringing your chirpy doorbell.

Well that’s the problem, I mean, well, it’s no one in particular, I don’t know how to put it…

A mumbler, it was all he needed and what were Lorna and Debs doing on those damned phones. Couldn’t they hear a mumbler when they heard one. No, so busy making the point that they were real Londoners that they had to come on like Essex girls all the while and not bloody listen to what they heard.

It’s well, you know, the intruder, sick minds. It’s hard to believe I know, I mean I don’t imagine things, really I don’t but all evening I’ve had this terrible feeling someone out there that someone wants to come to my home and do something terrible.

Theresa believe me, I know what you mean, there are some crazy people out there, and given half a chance there’s a fair few wouldn’t mind paying me a visit, but tell you what, let me ask you a question, have you had a real hard day, tiring but not sleepy tired?

Well yes, tiring but it’s not…

It’s just I know from my own experience, that tiredness can make things seem a lot, lot worse than they are.

But I know, it’s just today…

So what I’m saying is, take it easy love, try and put your worries in a box and then put that box in a hole and have a really good sleep. You owe it to yourself. Hey, and here’s some kind of sign, next track on the turntable, it’s Help Me Make It Through The Night. What is this coincidence, a good omen or if you want to be posh about it, synchronicity, is that the right word Geoff? All five syllables? Anyway, here we go, for Theresa, Help Me Make It Through the Night.

Jesus Christ! Wasn’t that much to ask, to weed out the mumblers. What were those mockney girls getting paid for! No mumblers, no perverts, simple as that! Memo to Geoff, Sort it out! Pronto!

But after the show was over it was Geoff got in first. There were big style congratulations coming their way, he’d heard it on the grapevine. From the top, from James himself, what they’d achieved with one of the hardest slots in the business.

Steve waited for more and raised his eyebrows.

My bet is we’ll get shifted to an earlier slot.

Excite me further, Steve said, higher profile, promotion on results.

No, can’t get too popular, our shift, the punters have got to get up and go to work early and bright. Can’t have them up half the night listening in.

So?

So, taking into account limited night shift worker numbers, half of whom are Africans cleaning offices anyway; plus the insomnia statistics as known, the numbers are finite, I’d say we’re in for a move.

Steve nodded point by point.

Only kidding, Geoff said, promotion on merit it will be, maybe not next week or next month but soon. And on that I am not kidding.

*

It was as if she’d known this was to be her night, what she’d put him through. Out for the evening for a start. And now, up well past her bedtime. Earlier he’d thought about packing in for the night, back to the bedsit to give the Mind’s Eye another chance but this, the way she’d dragged it out, the waiting, it had become exquisite, could not be wasted. He’d nursed a pint for half the night two or three miles away in West Hampstead; driven lengths of the North Circular under the sodium lights; and finally circuited her street at twenty minute intervals. Got through some gas in the process but there was still a quarter tank.

Well past her bedtime, the lights still clearly visible. After all this carry-on, he demanded satisfaction. It was what they said for a duel, silly sods. A duel, odds at fifty-fifty? You had to be kidding! The Yanks had had it right in Iraq, overwhelming fire-power, you didn’t want to go in when it was fifty-fifty. And if for some reason, for some reason that was beyond reason, he was stopped by the police, he was on his way home and would indeed go home. Had not been born yesterday! No sir! But not now, he was bursting, the whole of him was bursting inside the seat-belt. He’d been patient, no one could have been more so, no one.

The circuit had become automatic: straight ahead; left turn; give way; left again.

When her lights did go out Graham parked up two streets away, undid the seat-belt, extinguished his lights, got out, and locked the hatchback. He walked the rest, calm as he would ever be.

The back door lock was indeed flimsy. As anticipated.

TWO

Sleep was for wimps? Slogans were not for Steve, whether fashionable or not, not this Steve. Half eleven he was up, in his own time. At the gym, nearly had the place to himself. A light circuit, then twenty lengths of the pool taken at leisure. Ditto le breakfast anglais, a weekly event, a humdrum reward for the otherwise mostly-virtuous. Humdrum? Not when cooked by the man himself: Here He Comes, Stee-eeve Bryant. The full breakfast anglais no less for one radio jock so entitled if Geoff were to be believed, and Geoff, whatever else, he’d been around, had his ear to the ground. The programme taken note of by James and the honchos upstairs.

Over bacon, eggs and the rest, he speed-read the papers. Bosnia prominent. Again. Only now it was the Muslims and the Croats at each others throats, so what did they expect?! And what was this, a fellow jock of the household-name variety? In line for a move from Radios One to Two, it said. On the BBC. A public announcement of mid-life crisis, or what!

Or perhaps not. Knock if you will, but do not mock, James had said. Rare for him to be expansive with one humble Steve of a jock and impart his words of wisdom. Radio Two, he’d said, just think of all those baby-boomers swallowing their pride. Think of it, that target group on a plate and the silly sods don’t do advertising.

Maybe. Whatever way, the trick was to keep control and make the switch, hang up your boots when the time was right, that was his motto. Who wanted to be like one of those footballers, top-flight, who’d gone a season or three too far, ended up in front of a thousand or two at Aldershot or Stockport and even then, left for dead by some kid straight out of school. The smart ones, they’d be in management or the media.

And in fact why not, for the prog as Mr Radio Two called it, why not a footballer for the interview slot. Would have to be top-flight, mature, Spurs or Chelsea, nothing less. This Premier League thing and the TV money, a game-changer they said. A big future. And why not, when there'd be bit of the old quid pro quo with such a player, one who did fancy the media for the future when the boots were hung up.

In the meanwhile, one radio jock in a graveyard slot was to be interviewed himself by one Angie from In the Smoke magazine. Want a minder, Geoff had asked. No he didn’t, was a big boy now, he’d said, but thanks for the offer. He’d suggested Valerie’s in Old Compton Street. A favourite of her own she’d said, but not so hot when it came to recording levels and background noise. Instead she’d suggested a quiet place off Portland Place at Three.

He took a cab and arrived late. Over espressos and mineral water, she’d told him straight, straightening out an error somewhere along the line that she was not Ange or Angie, she was Angela.  The error his, or someone at the station he assumed, or she was a mite touchy. Either way the tone was there to be lightened; for himself he’d given up Steven at an early age, he said, despite his mum.

Either one syllable or three, but not the in-between, he said.

She smiled, said that she sympathized with all the mums of the world, her own included.

What a case of mis-spent youth, he asked.

Yes and no, she said. I did however learn how to switch on a tape recorder, is that OK with you?

We jocks expect no less, expect every word to be recorded. So, what does trendy In the Smoke want with an old ham from the graveyard slot?

No paranoia please Steve.

Paranoid? Really? Not Steve, not him at all, but he liked her style touchy or not, liked the look of her too, from the quizzical eyes to the black-stockinged crossed legs. Potentially in fact, very pert.

And we are not trendy OK, which is also what we and your audience like about you.

This time, hard not to feel conceited. Where was the match, he asked, her readership, his audience, and she’d been effusive, how he seemed to have a feel for ordinary Londoners and how they expressed themselves. Real ordinary Londoners, she said.

He emphasized the teamwork involved. Explained how it worked. How they had no pretensions. Who wants those in the quee quee hours.

I’ll not quibble with that.

Quizzical though you are.

Quotable yourself.

Questionably.

OK, qualifiably.

Quexactly.

They were laughing, unexpected, happy. It proved her point, she said, or was it his, it was not a crime to entertain. Even if some people, you know, those on a higher plane than the rest of us, would have it so.

Send them off to see Sullivan’s Way.

Wow, she said, As in the Preston Sturges’ flick.

Quexactly so. That moment when our worthy film maker is actually a jailbird himself.

And he sees how happy they are watching the daft cartoons that he’d been so snotty about. If it weren’t immodest I’d say Great Minds do think alike.

Be immodest for five minutes, it won’t kill you.

Queasily, she said.

OK, he said, like I was saying before we minded our q’s, and this isn’t smarmy bullshit, it’s been a team thing, the show. The ladies on the phones, Geoff my producer, we all do our own job.

It’s the only way, she said, and I better be doing mine which here and now is questions of the quizzical variety.

He told her how he’d started out at Uni, done some Community radio stuff, got his break at the station.

And the future?

Obviously I’d like a better slot, a man gets tired of the quee quee hours, never mind the limited audience, it takes stamina.

Stamina?

The people out there, probably think I've got an easy ride but to be on the ball at weird hours, you've got to be fit. At the same time I do want to stay with radio and with the station.

Really, just radio?

It’s going to get bigger, bigger than TV. That’s Steve Bryant’s bold but risky prediction for the week. People are working longer hours; hard to work and watch TV unless you run an all-hours corner shop. Plus more people drive more of the time. Hard to watch TV and drive.

I'm glad to hear it. We are responsible citizens, in the smoke.

As a radio-listening driver, I second that emotion. And on which note of harmony I must depart. I’ve enjoyed it, lets meet socially some time.

Me also, she said. They exchanged home phone numbers. She said he would be the first to see, and have right of comment on her draft piece. Feeling good, he took the tube home. A two-bedroom flat on the wrong side of Maida Vale was his description, a toe-hold on the bottom rung of the property ladder. A one-person two-bedroomed flat as of recently. The answerphone flashed twice, Geoff twice, could he phone soon as, something weird had come up.

Weird, that was a Geoff word. His generation.

*

If he’d had it his way, Graham would have phoned in sick. Had not done well at all in the sleep stakes, could indeed have slept the whole day through. Besides it wasn’t his style. Graham? Mr Reliable wasn’t he, despite the sticks and stones that had come his way from those who, at one time or another, had depended on him,and should have known better. A day off when not agreed beforehand, it was not in character, something out of the ordinary remembered, possible co-incidence. He wasn’t born yesterday. With co-incidence all too easy to make four out of two plus three or whatever else suited them. He’d seen it for himself, if they had it in for you, they could make four out of whatever was in their hand.

On the tube it was a close thing, all the faces breathing at you, the swaying, the jerks that could pull your shoulders out good and proper, another man might well have passed out. If the bloody thing had got stuck in a tunnel, which was more than likely the way things were these days, he might not have made it himself. Graham, fainting on the underground, now that would have been remembered. Graham Farley? Fainting? He could hear it, every boss and every officer i/c that had known him, not able to believe it, And then all the rest, incident books on the underground, records in hospitals, and some busy making four out of nothing plus one.

But he’d made it, and in a situation like this the peaked cap was a godsend. As long as you didn’t burst out snoring or fall out of the chair, you could be as you were behind it, 100% knackered and the Mind’s Eye switched off.

His room, his responsibility, was late 19th century eclectic. That’s what the ponce of a curator called it, 19th century eclectic, giggling like a schoolgirl. OK, so that’s what it was. Yes sir, no sir, eclectic it is sir. What it amounted to was a rag bag: furnishings; fabrics; games; jewelry and all sorts. In the center however was one of the first-ever toy railways stretching over many square feet. For the museum, they’d fixed up some gadget to have the trains running at set intervals. Next to it a DO NOT TOUCH notice. The lettering was large, bold and black. For half the little hooligans it was irresistible. Today he couldn’t give a damn, short of smashing up the whole place, let them do as they pleased. Miss Who, who had been with him here in this room for many, many weeks was no more, her time had come and she’d gone out in a blaze of glory. He felt, empty, of course he did, it was only natural.

What you could do is to thank your lucky stars that the destined moment had not come during half-term holidays, that was next week. Never had done as a matter of fact. Accidental co-incidence he supposed you’d call it, because when the moment came, it came, that’s the way it was. There was no diary or calendar involved, it just so happened that it had never been during the half-term. Of course with the school parties too there was scope. Here was one now, you could hear the babble on its way. He shifted his bulk on the chair, tipped the peak of the cap forward a half inch. The teachers weren’t up too much, he had an eye for it. The young one, another stupid blonde off the production line and the old boy with the soft face, school outings a nightmare for him. He hadn’t the energy to do anything didn’t need to, they were scared of him already, the peaked-cap that could see just how paper-thin their control of the thirty twelve year olds.. Giving him glances the two of them, he might be tired but he wasn't blind, when it should be the kids they were looking at, the hooligans under their so-called control. Not his problem however. Go on then, touch it, the points lever. Go on.

Not his problem, simple as that.

All right Graham? It was Simon, one of the older blokes, come to relieve him for the lunch break. All right Graham, it was as far as it went, and that was just fine by him, except when a smartarse like Dave got it into his head to start some nonsense. Coincidence, you couldn’t win them all, Dave unmistakably bored and restless and on the prowl, eyes on Graham as he picked up his sausage and mash at the canteen counter. Picked up a lying-about newspaper on his way. There were only five tables. A man, a tired man who’d been to the ultimate and come back did not need Dave-style conversation if that’s what you could call it. Did not need conversation of any sort!

Night on the tiles Graham?

A few pints, Graham said. In one large hand the fork stabbing at a sausage, bent newspaper in the other.

Really, Dave said.

He was close up, on his feet but the bum sat on the facing table.

And the crack was good?

What?

In the pub, we presume it was a pub, wouldn’t like to think of you can after can at home.

Dave, he could be taken out in seconds, could be had for breakfast, instead, no choice in the matter, Graham said it had been all right. In the pub.

Ah, so forthcoming, Dave said, sighed and turned away.

Looking for some other poor bugger to torture no doubt.

Some hope!

Don’t you find it, I don’t know, stale, day before yesterday’s news, Dave said, pointing at the paper.

He was tired, he was eating his lunch, and say anything it would only encourage more smart-alec nonsense. He shrugged, kept his eyes on the plate and his mouth full.

Ah well, I suppose you save a few bob, reading yesterday's. You’ve got to pay for the up-to-date stuff and you do wonder sometimes if it’s worth it, Dave said.

Till finally he’d wound down, and moved on to Joe, one of the older attendants. Joe was welcome to it!

It was hell, the afternoon, the mind bruised by a headache from the neck up and when that ordeal was finally over there was the rush-hour tube to face. It was out of the question. He was not a weak man, far from it, but some things, no! The old self-preservation instinct took over, he would take the lesser of the two evils and sit it out. If an ordinary bloke could find somewhere to wait when it was too cold to be sitting on a bench. Not a café, not in this neck of the woods, poncey the lot of them, like you had to speak French to get yourself a coffee.

He picked out what looked like a proper pub inside, one outside of any possible Dave radius. He bought an Evening Standard from the kiosk outside

Over a half pint of Carling he found her on page five, little Miss Who. Theresa Dwyer, aged 57. In his head he spoke to her, ignored the suits with loud voices, called her Theresa, said it had been quite a night! And what did they give her? Five bloody lines, five! Whereas the nine-year old found strangled down towards Kent, front page and then some. Kids, that was all they were bothered about! Kids, as if they could appreciate anything.

*

What with one thing and another, she’d been on the go all day, Marjorie had. Walking back from the Portobello had thought of ringing Mo, oldest friend Mo, who was Maureen by rights but didn’t care. Or had chosen it herself. Thought of making the call to suggest meeting up. Then she’d seen the warm lights of the pub just-opened, when the bar was fresh, the voices quiet and a sparkle to the glass. No one could say Mo’s voice was quiet, not unless they were properly deaf.

Behind the bar the old feller himself, JJ Fahey, licensed to sell beers and spirits. Rare event, himself on duty, enough to make the choice for her.

Pint of Guinness and one for yourself Jacko.

A serious business, the pouring of it and him having to think about it, the time it took for the old feller to say he would take a glass, himself thanking herself.

A terrible thing Marjorie, but these days anything above a pint and I’ll be pissing all night long, up and down.

Sorry to hear it Jacko but it will be saving me a few shillings.

Ah, you’re a hard woman Marjorie, he said as they touched the pint to the half.

Hard? If only. On occasions perhaps.

He was enjoying it like it really was the cream, you could see it, the slowness of the swallow while she had pictured the bladder thing shrinking every year, less elastic, and not wanted to see it. Remembered that men had the prostate business and what that did.

That was enough. No medicals if you don’t mind.

Instead she said, Hard not to be.

What?

Hard was the word you used I believe Jacko. Hard not to be hard is what I’m saying, in this day and age.

He was thinking about it, had put down his half-full half-pint in slow motion, pulling a face. Then said that she was right.

Five, ten years ago, around that time, things changed then, people changed, he said.

Said it with the face of a walrus, as Marjorie saw it. Which one could have enough of. Which fact had perhaps been noticed by others, by Fahey family members for instance. No need for you to being working the bar every night dad, said as a consequence.

Ah the old feller, as if all walruses were wise when she’d only wanted a bit of banter. Anyway he was off, up the far end of the bar, still had a business to run, drinkers to serve. Left her with his thoughts.

In fact what a person did, anyone with a bit of nous upstairs, you kept your softness to yourself unless you were sure. Twelve years of age and she’d worked that one out, hadn’t needed the too-many years since then.. Still, fair play to the old feller, it was a good pint of the Guinness, solid inside and lively upstairs. She could easily get chatty. One more, she would finish this one at the bar, and then one more for the table next to the gas thing that aimed to look like it was a proper fire.

Marjorie, where’ve you been, let me get you another, Gerry Mac said.

If you’re buying, I will have another. Are we celebrating?

It was possible, this was Gerry very dapper, a new zip-up jacket, grey slacks, the shirt obviously ironed.

We will be, play our cards right and we will be, Gerry said. He spoke in a whisper.

Always had a secret on the go, Gerry did. She would drink her drink and if he wanted to tell her something, he could do it with his mouth open.

Anyway, you were off a bit sharpish the other night. There one minute and you were gone the next, Gerry said. Service Jacko, service.

He wasn’t going to be rushed, the old feller. And then he wasn’t going to rush the Guinness. Gerry stopped drumming his fingers on the bar and took up whistling. If there was a tune to it, it was one not known to Marjorie who drained her pint till only creamy foam lay at the bottom of the glass.

Slumming it landlord, Gerry said after a big swig of lager, not often you grace the bar.

Jacko took his money, turned away with a scowl, the pint of fresh stout stood two-thirds full under the tap. The way Marjorie saw it, something was up, Gerry full of himself like he was. She said she'd take a table by the window, she liked the way the light fell. She watched its zones, content. Listened to the buses and the cars till a police car and its nee-nor went mad in the traffic, the blue flashing murky through the frosted lower window. And where was her drink? A good pint and you got the taste for another because you were high and wanted to continue in similar style

So what was it with you the other night, Gerry said, drinks on the table. That was a really interesting crowd I brought in and you’d think Jacko might show a bit of appreciation. Or is that too much to ask for in this day and age? You know what I mean.

Appreciation, what were you thinking of, a round of applause? Drinks on the house?

You’re getting very sarcastic Marjorie in your, you know, recently. I’m just saying I’m entitled to a bit of civility, know what I’m saying, from a landlord whose pub ain’t exactly going to figure in the good pub guide, and when I’m bringing in a good class of people.

Tell him.

What?

Tell Jacko what you’ve been doing, Marjorie said.

He wasn’t sure. These days you couldn’t always be sure with Marjorie.

I mean I’m talking television people, the media, he said.

A penny might have dropped, leastways she wanted to know, the young feller chatting her up like he’d known her all his life, was that the crowd.

Wasn’t disrespectful was he Marjorie?

She laughed, the Guinness going down a treat.

Like being rained on by aftershave, she said. Without an umbrella. And are you going to be my minder then Gerry?

Has been known, he said, smiling like he was young again. It was my privilege once or twice as I remember. A privilege, I said to Jack when he gave me the job.

Sweet-talker, Marjorie said. She felt good.

Well you was some looker, Gerry said, and you’ve still got it, something special..

She was happy inside, thought she might be on for another pint. I just told you, she said, chatted up by a thirty-year old, one of your new pals. It must have been that something.

Name of Matt, a very talented young man, Gerry said. And you’re right in one, he, no all of them, young Angela, all of them, they were impressed, and they’re people who know what they’re looking for, and see it when they see it, if you get my meaning.

What, we’re to have our own show? You and me? You did say the TV if I heard you right.

I’ve a feeling, you know, an instinct that it could lead in that direction. I mean look at the competition, bollox half the time.

Comedy or drama? What about a soap, call it WestEnders, you know, for old time’s sake.

He wasn’t sure. You couldn’t always be sure with Marje, not now, not even when she was just the tart Jack had taken a shine to.

Don’t knock it before it’s even off the ground, he said.

I wasn’t knocking anything, I just asked a question and since there’s nothing wrong with my bladder, I will have the one more pint thankyou.

Bladder? What you on about? There’s nothing wrong with mine either so why bring it up, Gerry said, up on his feet.

There’s other people less fortunate than yourself, Marjorie said. She was whispering. Waiting on their bladder transplants.

Gerry frowned. Then he relaxed, these days anything was possible. Anyway, he said, I had a bit of breakfast TV in mind. You think about it, where’s the bulk of your daytime audience? Pensioners. Am I right or am I right?!

No need to rub it in even if I am a junior in the OAP department.

I’m not talking birth certificates Margie, I’m just saying the possibility’s there, generational targeting.

If we haven’t died of thirst beforehand.

All right, all right, he said.

Poor Gerry, face like he was the most misunderstood man in the world. Maybe it was her and she’d missed a step on the way, how they were already in the studio on the sofa. Like it was the magic sofa and they’d flown in. OK, they had flown in and how would that be, banter demanded every day. Every day? Facts on the table, it was every crack-of-dawn, crack-of-dawn banter on a daily basis. Besides, real facts on the table, it was all moonshine. A direction that might be lead to, the old rogue had said. All to do with the cocky young man who’d bought her a g&t. Led up the garden path more like.

Jacko’s getting worse, Gerry said, back with the Guinness and lager. I mean he was never the life and soul of any party but these days he wants to change his trade. Funeral director more like. Still that’s his funeral.

Gerry was laughing. Marjorie laughed. The mood was cheerful and all the better for it.

See what I mean Margie, we could do it. If this first one goes well, and no reason why not, well, we’re in clover. Here, remember that time with Jack and the busy’s car keys. A Detective Sergeant he was then, always nosing around, and Jack’s only hoisted the keys while the copper was threatening him with this and that. You remember, unnamed witnesses and a trail of paper.

She could, she could see it clearly, a warm afternoon, the office in Mortimer Street and how Jack had shown the busy all polite down to the pavement. Shown him his own keys and then dropped them down a drain.

Lane, Detective Sergeant Lane. Effing and blinding while Jack told him everyone needed a laugh. You remember?

Good for your health.

What?

A laugh is good for your health, Jack said some doctor had proved it, he’d read it somewhere.

He did like a bit of proof, Jack did, so long as it wasn’t in his direction, Gerry said.

Marjorie couldn’t help but smile. Not such a bad old world. Not such bad old memories.

Tell you who I did see on the telly the other day Margie, Martin whatisname, you remember, the actor. Used to knock around with us when he was making his way, he’s done well for himself, I’ve seen him in a few things.

Martin Seymour.

That’s right, Seymour. A tearaway when he was starting out. This thing I saw, you’d hardly know it was him, doctor with a secret he was playing, with whiskers. Now him, he’d be handy for our little thing.

*

Weird? It was awful; it was sick; it was bloody monstrous. Geoff had seen the name in the Standard, a small para, Theresa Dwyer, Camden Town, it had rung a bell. She’d been murdered. He’d checked it with Debs, checked it with Laura. Theresa Dwyer, last of the phone-ins to go on air.

The mumbler, Steve knew who it was, and to be ruthlessly honest, she’d been hard work. Vague but afraid, and then some fucking maniac had gone and killed her.

Geoff had done all the right things: the switchboard checked again; police informed; station management informed, in triplicate; phone calls to Steve himself calling him to the station building; and a meeting with all concerned set up for the following day.

How about tonight partner, can you do it?

I’m a pro Geoff, it’s my job. Course I’m shaken up, I mean spooky or what, but I'll tell you what, that makes me all the more determined to carry on.

The show must go on, Geoff said, flicking a polystyrene cup across the room and into the metal basket.

No Geoff, this is serious.

I know it’s serious partner believe me, that’s why I spent my time making phone calls.

Steve didn’t need this, could have done without it, Geoff splitting hairs in the face of such a horrendous situation.

OK, I’m sorry, he said. But sure I’m going on tonight, lets talk about it, make a statement to the maniacs out there who’d like it to be the law of the jungle.

Sure Steve, but not about this case, I don’t know all the legal shit, sub judice and all that but we’ll get the advice tomorrow. Just doing the programme, that’s a statement in itself.

OK, right then, lets have a look at the chart, lets do it properly. Jesus Christ. Do you think this nutter, this psycho might have heard her actually make the call, had a radio on himself.

What, and that’s why he did it, that’s how he got his jollies? A bit far-fetched Steve. Anyway, I know as much as you, there’s been no time of death established and half the time it’s within the family all that stuff, unless it’s youths carving each other up. So don’t go morbid on me, there's work to be done.

And they had done it. A long chat with the lady who’d done a life of  queen Mary, wife of George V and mother of many more. Her story. Then a phone-in on the M25, its problems, gridlock and bad planning, played strictly without laughs.

Followed the next day with Congratulations from James Tyrell, director of programmes, as they shuffled about in grim fashion waiting for the top brass. They’d pitched it just about right, not taxing but serious, he said.

You’ve become a regular listener, Geoff said, we’re flattered.

Something in the same vein tonight would get my vote, James said.

Like a period of mourning, our equivalent of a black armband, Geoff said.

James frowned. Steve frowned. And Brian Feltham, chairman of the group plc, came into the room with a man introduced as Mike, a group legal advisor with special responsibility for the station.

No time was wasted.

This meeting has been arranged in response to what is, mercifully, an unprecedented event, Brian said. Our common purpose is to make sure that our response is right for the station, our listening public and the dead woman herself. I’d just like Mike to run through the facts as we know them.

As we know them. Let me emphasize that first. Theresa Dwyer, aged 57, unmarried, and originally from County Mayo in the Republic of Ireland, a local authority canteen worker, telephoned this station at approximately 1.10am on Thursday the 14th. At a time now estimated to be between 1.15am and 4am she was strangled to death after having been sexually assaulted.

Sexually assaulted? Steve said.

I’m afraid so. To put it plainly as the police forensic report baldly puts it, strangulation took during or soon after a penetrative sexual assault. Traces of semen were detected in the vagina of a woman who was a virgin.

Geoff turned away ready to retch, saw slabs, scalpels, and naked skin with goose pimples. An old dear who absolutely did not deserve it.

The lawyer continued. Told them how in this day and age such terrible things happened; that such crimes were not always solved but that in this case there was possibly a common modus operandi. He went on to say that the police attitude as regards the station was neutral. They are of course pleased that our assistance, he said with a nod towards white-faced Geoff, has helped them pin down the time of death. Otherwise it is left to our judgment as to whether we publicize the event and/or its connection to this station.

James, how do you see things? Brian Feltham said.

Do we or do we not, that’s the question for the station. Either we make reference to the phone call which as I understand it, the police are not publicizing, or we don’t. But first, and perhaps Mike can help us here, what is the likelihood of this event emerging during any legal proceedings?

It would of course emerge initially at the inquest as being material to time of death. Whether a local newspaper or one of the nationals took this up or not, Mike could not say.

It argues then for not ducking the issue, Brian said, when there is also the possibility of leaks. That being so it is then a question of presentation which is your bailiwick James.

Off the top of his head, James said, it was really a matter of Steve’s involvement, and how one could marry the wonderful lightness of tone of his programme with the seriousness of the matter. Whether he should simply be interviewed in a straight news format and then take a wholly understandable holiday break; or his personal involvement should make for a larger role, the latter option demanding, if a pun be allowed at such a time, fine tuning of the tone.

Brian asked how Steve saw it himself.

Ducking an issue, that was for wimps, and this was serious. This might well be a defining moment.

Our programme, he said, giving a nod to Geoff, well it’s not high culture and it’s not heavyweight but I think we have an audience of fair-minded Londoners that looks to us. It would be a cop-out, a cop-out to them if I dodged this with a holiday break.

Geoff was asked his opinion. He spoke for the whole team, he said, they were shocked and would do their level best to do what was necessary once a decision had been made.

Anodyne stuff. James lifted his forehead. He sighed.

Steve’s courage was spoken of.

James could see one option that might fit the bill, a Special, early or mid-evening. An in-depth piece on the unfortunate victim herself that she pass not unmourned, followed by some no-fudge experts. Fancy grilling some politicos Steve?

A defining moment indeed, no time to be just a pretty voice.

Sure, he said, but I’d suggest that whatever programming decision is made, we make room for a phone-in, so that ordinary people can have their say on what’s happened.

There were nods round the table. It made sense.

Could I ask a question, Mike the lawyer said. My idea of presentation doesn’t go beyond the preparing of a brief, but what was actually said when Miss Dwyer phoned in?

They looked at Geoff. There’s no actual record of the programme, we’re honest enough to know that we’re not the material posterity’s made of, he said. All I know is what Debs who took the original call, what she has told me. Theresa Dwyer, she said, shy and hesitant, but she was determined to get through.

I see, Brian Feltham said. Steve?

Steve took a deep breath, he took two. She was very vague, he said. The phone-in theme had been who do you hate to see coming to the door, light hearted stuff. Incredible what people were coming out with.

Yes?

So she had this vague thing about intruders and crazy people, and to be perfectly honest, my response wasn’t exactly brilliant. I was trying to reassure, you know because it was so vague, take it easy and so on, look at things differently in the morning. Sounds pathetic in retrospect.

Don’t start blaming yourself Steve, Brian said. If she had real fears then 999 was the appropriate number to ring.

I just feel I should have done more.

I don’t see any problem there, James said. Steve can actually say something to that effect. That is of course if we go ahead and publicize the link. So far, and what a comment that is on our society, it has only merited six lines in the papers.

They would sleep on it, Brian Feltham said. There were tedious realities like the attitude of advertisers to be considered, but these would not, he could guarantee it, influence any final decision.

After he’d left with the lawyer Geoff said that either the Sleep Secure alarm ad would be off for the duration, or the Sleep Secure people would want every available slot.

James frowned. Steve frowned. That was Geoff, his generation, wiseguys to the last, even when inappropriate.

No offence Geoff, but if we go ahead with the Special, I’d like to produce myself, James said.

Offensive but no offence. Geoff nodded. He felt sick.

*

Sometimes there was almost too much on a working girl’s plate, but Angela would not have it any other way. Otherwise why not teaching, or a secretarial job. Other stuff she could do without, like, for example, the classic paranoid-aggression crap she’d had to put up with for half the day. Which, irony of ironies, came from when a working girl followed her feminist conscience, stroke consciousness, and the radical heritage of In the Smoke itself, to out into the middle of suburban nowhere. Perivale, a battered woman’s refuge in need of publicity when a crippling cut in funding was on the cards. Discreet publicity with no hint as to its location. Not so easy to pull off, yet what had she got for her pains? Single mother Jean full of self-righteousness. If she’d said she was a single mother once, she’d said it a hundred times, as if this were an achievement. Or rather, a victimized achievement, and they the only victims in the world. All this followed by the non-stop snidey remarks to the effect that she, Angela, was just slumming it, another tourist dropping by just long enough to see the victims in their cages. All said in that don’t-give-me-any-of-that-sisterhood-shit-lady tone of voice that one thought had gone out years ago. Tedious and unpleasant, while all she would get would be three paras in the next edition, and then only if she fought for it and was lucky. Irony? It was perverse, single-mother Jean’s tone in fact a mimic version of macho, none the less so because it romanticized, mythologized the front line. As if the front line wasn’t everywhere.

OK, she’d been around and that’s how it was, some you won, some you lost. The voice of editors everywhere. Back at the In the Smoke office she made a copy of the Steve Bryant interview tape and left it to be transcribed. Outside it was quiet hour in busy Clerkenwell, dark and cold. She treated herself to a black cab and listened to the original with the Walkman. Interesting stuff.  Smart, a really smart guy. She liked him. Fit too, he'd talked stamina and she’d believed him. Interesting stuff indeed, she was on to something. As she’d said to the sceptics when she’d made the proposal, here is someone who is really communicating outside our rather precious ghetto, that tiny bit of London which spends all its time analyzing the latest flick at the Camden Plaza. Not that she didn’t appreciate a good movie herself, but it was the automatic sneer against what was popular that she couldn’t stand. Qui quy quo qum. Better still the interview had reflected his, or, she would be bold enough to say, their lightness of touch.

Home was a two-bedroom’d flat with high ceilings on the edge of Highbury. Right in the middle of the back-doubles, someone had said. Just outside the pissing-in-doorways range of Gooners, had been Matt’s take. Gooners? Arsenal hooligans, he'd said, like she ought to have known. Matt in masculine mode so that she also had to understand that he was Chelsea blue, through and through.

Indoors lay the basket of dirty clothes that had not gone into the washing machine that morning. They had not gone into the washing machine because she had been foolish enough to show some solidarity, and made an early start into the Perivale wastes. Tomorrow, she would do it tomorrow. Instead, lying in the bath, the scars of the day washed away, she did a progress report on each of her current projects. She’d seen the flash of messages on the answering machine and some slithery sheets of fax as she came in the door, but before that a call to Matt was in order. The Jack Box thing, her idea, someone who for a change, was not the Krays or the Richardsons, and from whose crowd there were chatty survivors. It was time to move things on, get some commitment from the moll with the mostest as she once had been. A production credit, a well-earned production credit was there to be taken.

Work revolved around a pine table that had come from an amazing little shop in Leyton. She and Katie B had agreed to keep it out of In the Smoke, leaving all the trendies to pay through the nose in Camden. But we are trendies, Katie B had said. Speak for yourself, she’d said tartly. That was before Katie had left the magazine and become very serious with her missions in life. Currently Bosnia. The new-look, impossibly high-minded Katie B.

She made her first call. In his Mafia voice, Matt told her not to worry.

Congratulations should never be premature, he said, but it looks like our Marje, the little star in the Box firmament, looks like she’s up for it.

Of course, she’s a star, and a star needs a stage, that what I said from the beginning. You can see it in the old photos.

Naturally you should be around for the consummation. I’ve a few days in the cutting room but then we’ll meet up with her and her OAP minder, our Gerry.

Now then, she said, no need to be cutting outside of that room of yours. Besides, he's not just a minder, he's a raconteur.

Really?

That's what he said, and went on to prove it, at length, you know, in that pub while you were chatting up our starlet.

Old gangsters never die.

They only fade away.

Before their star rises again. As it will, with careful cutting, raconteur he will be.

As it is, I kind of always knew this one would work out, Angela said.

Yep, it's looking good, but for now, no rest for the Matt, back to the cutting room.

That was Matt, the cutting room his version of the garden shed that all men wanted in their heart of hearts.

It had not taken Katie B’s move on, if that’s what it was, to know that she could not stay with In the Smoke indefinitely. Eventually it would look to be a soft option and ridiculous with it. So one stayed on the payroll, did one’s job, but looked for other things, spread one’s wings.

Inevitably it was Katie, the fax paper. All of it. From Sarajevo. Terrible things were happening no doubt, but Kate had a veritable bee in the bonnet on the subject. It was as if terrible things weren’t happening in many places. She speed-read the fax. Siege conditions. Yes, they knew that. Artillery shells but the snipers were worse, having the power of life and death over individuals seen through the cross-hairs of their telescopic sights, the old man or the young woman. Or vice versa according to whim. Terrible indeed and there was nothing wrong with being partisan but life wasn’t all black and white. Believe Katie, and you'd think all the people of Sarajevo were saints.

*

Making himself a weak Nescafe, Graham flicked on the trannie. It was all he was up for. Nothing to worry about health-wise, but for the time being, just the way it was. He knew his own body rhythms, had worked on it, learned to listen to them. It took discipline, but your body deserved it. He would be tired for days, weeks even. A time to clock up some shut-eye.

More Bosnia. More Northern Ireland of course. A government spokesman saying something. He wondered why they bothered.

Three days ago a 57 year old canteen worker, Theresa Dwyer was raped and strangled to death in Camden.

What was this? Six lines in the paper was it, par for the course. The reality was, it was a story could never be told. That’s the way it was, and he’d come to accept it, just like he accepted post-event burn-out.

Just before her death she phoned the Steve Bryant show on this station. This afternoon I talked to Steve about what happened and his reaction to it.

Bloody heck. She’d phoned a radio station? What, her, little Miss Who? No mistaking it, the heart-beat had quickened. He took five, placed the coffee mug on the mini-draining board as gently as could be. Held out his hands. Looked at them, a steely glare, ready to detect the slightest tremor.

Steady as a rock.

When my producer Geoff Castle told me the next day what had happened, I just couldn’t believe it. I guess I didn’t want to believe it because somehow it felt like I had let her down.

Yes yes yes. Blah blah blah. Get to the point. Why, why had she phoned?

Because, the Steve bloke said, she was worried about intruders. A phone-in about who you didn’t want coming to the door. Graham remembered it, a load of nonsense. But get the facts straight man, for goodness sake. The time, what time had she phoned. But no, they wanted to know what the Steve bloke had said, as if that made any difference.

To be perfectly honest it sounds feeble, inadequate, you know, in retrospect, but I just tried to reassure her, said how easy it is to get nervy about things. Of course I wish I’d done more. If it had been just a fraction more specific I would have thought NineNineNine.

So he hadn’t, the radio smoothie, he’d done bugger all.

But what if he had. What if he had rung 999? Or if she’d rung it herself? He put his hands out again. Steady as a rock, even with the old ticker booming away like nobody's business.

The Steve bloke was talking about a murdering swine, how he’d kept up his normal show for a couple of nights so as not to give the murdering swine any satisfaction, but that deep down he was angry. It was personal. He owed Theresa.

Blah blah blah. The point was, there was no getting away from it, that if she’d made that call, Theresa Who, then the chances were that he, Graham Farley, had made a mistake. Because it wasn't any old call, she'd been afraid, intruders she'd said. There was of course always co-incidence. It was a bastard that might trip up the most careful of men. It was to be avoided. He took pains to avoid it, he took lengths, it was a proven fact. But.

So I won’t be doing my regular programme next week. Instead, with the backing and support of this station with its tradition of backing Londoners, I will be presenting an in-depth report on this sad and terrible business.

He owed it to her he said. Yes, he’d said that already, the smoothie. What he was also doing was bringing attention to what had been just the normal six lines in the paper. People with specialist knowledge; a profile of Theresa Who; a phone in. Stirring up a hornet’s nest. And all this because she’d taken it into her head to phone this mickey-mouse programme on this mickey-mouse radio station which was now going to make a meal of it.

In the meanwhile, the police would like to hear from anyone who thinks they might have information relevant to this terrible crime and specifically anyone in the Camden area between midnight and 5am on Wednesday night and Thursday morning.

Followed by a phone number, and that little Miss Who would be buried in her native Ireland.

This was new territory, this level of publicity. That was a fact, no use pretending otherwise. And that in addition to certain What Ifs.

Graham sipped at his coffee that was semi-warm. There was no panic, just he was in new territory. Therefore?

Therefore a full debriefing corporal. All the facts as you know them. She’d been late, that was a fact which stood out, had not behaved to pattern, her routine.

And yet Corporal, despite the fact that at least one thing was out of the ordinary, you went ahead.

He paused. Took stock. Sipped at the Nescafe. It was cold. There was a new kind of mortgage, it was very friendly. He turned off the trannie.

And yet he had gone ahead. OK. OK, he’d never said he was superhuman had he, and there were times when what had to be, had to be. History showed it. Nature showed it. That little Dutch boy, how long had he held his finger in the dyke. Weeks on end? Who were they kidding?! Half a day at most, five minutes most likely and then, because he must have had help, the aggregate and cement lorries had turned up just in the nick of time before little Master Hero had been swept away.

She was late, and then? He’d been sensible of course. Hadn’t hung around, had filled in the time away from the area. But he had passed her in the street. Exceptional circumstance number Two. A recce on foot just in case lateness was not in fact the case, and she’d sneaked back home. He could hardly be blamed for that, it was a normal enough procedure. And when it had happened, out of the blue as it did, he’d been polite, had braked with the feet. So what had she seen, a normal bloke going about his business. Right?

He stood up and moved out of the kitchenette area. In the wardrobe mirror at the bottom of the bed, he was a big bloke. Like lots of blokes. And the face? So, he didn’t go around grinning all the time. So what, was that obligatory? Who knew, the way things were these days he wouldn't put it past them, not enough smiling and it was instant dismissal.

He made a fresh Nescafe, watched the granules sink, swim, and dissolve.

Two facts stood out about this recent episode. But he couldn’t see them amounting to much. They’d nearly bumped into each other in the street. Perhaps he looked serious. Why not, life was a serious business. Co-incidence, it looked like co-incidence had reared its ugly head and been close to tripping him up. A rash of burglaries in the area that he had been unaware of, that was a possibility. So. He’d worn gloves. Had been unobserved, of that he was sure. Yes and the entry method different to anything that had gone before.

Therefore, relax. Stick to the good sleep pattern and, as precaution, keep an eye out for this radio nonsense. Make an effort at work he supposed, talk hot air and rubbish like the rest of them. What they called normal, which at the end of the day was precisely that, talking hot air and rubbish.

*

Geoff Castle was reported as having said that combat gear was all that was missing for James to complete the picture. Up in his office, Steve found the boss with a coffee machine on the go, three phones and a fax, memos in loose piles, basic recording gear and an open bottle of whisky. Plus his PA, Hayley, who was doing overtime, which, James said, showed just how seriously this was being taken, being as Hayley was strictly 8.30 to 4.30. It felt good. Mission control with a perfectionist in charge. If they’d done Steve’s interview once, they’d done it twenty times, till it was right.

On board so far we’ve got Theresa’s workmate and friend, name of Betty. She’s going to be perfect. Then the Bingo Hall manager, they’d been there together that very evening. Also two neighbours who knew her to talk to, though she wasn’t exactly gregarious.

Watch your language James, Steve said. Keep the words shorter or you’ll ruin my style.

Touché! On the other hand, don’t slum it too far. Theresa was not, as they say, the life and soul of the party. Anyway, two neighbours, Mary, a black single mother, and an elderly Polish gent who is straight out of Le Carré. All that to be done tomorrow. We get an evening flight to Shannon for the funeral and wake on Wednesday, aiming to be back that night with transmission on the Thursday evening.

Busy busy

Would you have it any other way?

No sir.

Stand at ease sergeant.. Thursday evening with experts, no, sorry, false note as you so rightly pointed out, not experts, ‘people with specialist knowledge'. Weeding them out is my job. Then they’re on live, and that’s yours.

Thanks for the job description.

No thanks are needed. I’ve got Johnny Bright filling in for you on your show, it was the best I could do.

Ouch Ouch and a gasp, Steve, like he’d been stabbed. Poor Geoff, he said, must have done some terrible things in a past life.

Your Mr Castle will pull him through, I won’t say that’s his level, lets say that’s his forte.

Mr Kolimowski turned out to be more William Faulkner than Le Carré.

The quotidian beauty of our street, what I had felt to be if not paradise, a blasphemous notion for any spot on earth, then an oasis in an urban landscape, The Wasteland as it has been called, is, or rather was, something  which both I, and I believe poor Miss Dwyer, took refreshment,. Now, while it is unchanged at the level of appearances, the everyday beauty of slow-changing leaf and ever-changing sky, the refreshment it offered is tainted perhaps irrevocably. As if the very leaves themselves were subject to the unwinding of the mosaic virus.

Steve struggled on. James shrugged, some you win, some you lose. On the run from publishers’ rejection letters in Lzodz or Cracow, he said afterwards.

What do you think should be done to stop this from happening again Mr Kolimowski? Steve said, pronunciation perfect, not tempted to struggle with it for light relief.

My boy I am not God but human, all too human, thus am afraid that my wisdom such as it is is all too finite…

And so it continued.

More down to earth, the manager. Women having a night out, they were entitled, to have a laugh, weren’t they, enjoy themselves.

Steve nodded with vigour.

With these evil bastards around, soon as you know it, it’ll be a bloody curfew before you know where you are.

Steve nodded vigorously.

Single mother Mary, she had things to say, how she lived opposite the lady who was nice to her kids, a boy and a girl, Ben and Natasha, and how that lady did skivvy work in some canteen and never minded. But how one time she’d told her there were some bad people out there and why did she think she took her kids to school every day.

Take them right inside the playground you know I’m saying, and right in there till that bell goes and I see them going in the building.

That’s a terrible state of affairs isn’t it Mary, that it should be like that for you and the children, for Ben and Natasha.

That’s what the lady say, how she went to school on her own and children needing their freedom. In some country place that was Ireland and I told her, I had to tell her, this isn’t there and it isn’t then when she was doing school. I told her straight, better I make damn sure they’re in that school building, than what might happen if I didn’t, you know what I’m saying, worrying all day long.

But isn’t it a terrible thing that you have to worry.

There’s a lot of terrible things where I’m coming from, that’s how it is.. So you don’t play no games with it, none of that mullarky, no thankyou.

But surely we’ve got to make a start in changing things, it doesn’t have to be like that.

Like? What I like don’t count for much.

That’s exactly why we’re doing this programme, so that everyone’s got a voice.

So you come and tell me when things have changed, Mary said.

And so it continued. For a while.

You did well Steve, sticking with it, she got a bit sullen at the end but we can cut that.

It’s that passivity, that fatalism,that gets you down, Steve said.

Watch those long words.

That was James the wiseguy, his generation. And the phone call didn’t help. It’s for you, James said.

Julie, Steve’s cavalier ex. Are you OK, what a terrible thing, creepy, like you’d been talking to a ghost.

That was one way of putting it and you could depend on Julie to come up with that one way.

Anyway I’ve had this real eager type on my case, demanding to know where you are as if it’s the most important thing in the world. So I looked him up and down and said, No Comment. Then he tried grilling me on whether I’d seen you recently, our relationship, so I told him to piss off.

He could hear her saying it.

I’m sure you said it with style Julie, he said. In the meanwhile work to be done. Later.

He told James. Some hack doorstepping an ex, he said.

The lower end of Wapping. Say nothing to them and put them on to me.

Betty was a tonic. She’d been a goer in her time, it was obvious, and gave the afternoon a lift. She was upset, she was angry, guilty too, the whole gamut, but nothing was going to keep her down for long. She was right up Steve’s street.

It wasn’t that often she’d come out, but she loved it when she did, Theresa, but I don’t know, that evening when some selfish bastard done her in, there was something on her mind. And I said to her then, in this world I said, you’ve got to speak out love, no good holding it in, it’s what friends are for. What it was, what she said was, she’d seen one of them bag ladies, one of them on the pavement directing the traffic and how it was a miracle that she didn’t lose her balance and go down under a juggernaut, and then what was it going on in her head that she could do such a thing. And I said, Theresa I said, she’s just got some bee in her bonnet.

Yes I’ve seen them, poor souls like that, but it sounds like you got it right, a bee in the bonnet.

Only she didn’t like that at all, like she could see a bee trapped by her face, she thought that was horrible. See, I said the wrong thing.

Don’t be hard on yourself Betty, I was worse than you when it comes to saying the wrong thing, far worse. So can you give us a picture of her.

She was a lovely woman, Theresa was, do anything for you. A quiet person but some people are like that and surely they’re entitled to a quiet life, you know what I mean, it’s not a crime to be quiet is it?

Steve could not have agreed more. More he could not agree. Just how much morely could he agree?

What kind of a world was it, she wanted to know, where someone who’d never had a malicious thought in her life could just be wiped out like that by some writhing bastard who was eating, drinking or whatever at this very moment, enjoying his rotten life. How could anyone expect the world to go on being the same, when Theresa would not be at work tomorrow, the next week, never.

He could not agree more. Morely he could not agree.

She was crying. Steve was patient, gentle, helped her through the sorrow, then the guilt feelings because he knew what they were. Helped her through to the anger she felt when he asked what could be done about it.

Well for one thing, where’s the coppers I’d like to know. You go up somewhere like Hampstead and they’re patrolling night and day.

James was frowning, shaking his head. She was in her stride, no perverts wandering about killing people up there. Steve nipped in sharpish.

So what you’re saying Betty is an increase in manpower and a return to the good old-fashioned bobby on the beat. That makes a lot of sense.

*

Not her style, but Marjorie was lying low. She had not sinned, there had been no hangover, instead she had broken her own rules, specifically the one of recent years which discouraged both Good Old Days talk, and Jack Box reminiscence. Maudlin stuff. Mo’s feller Ian had been the worst, and Gerry a close second, until she’d had enough and tumbled on a general law in the process: the least important of Jack’s team were the keenest on a bit of Do-You-Remember-When. Harry, who was dead and gone as of last year, he’d never done it. Not him nor Arthur who’d been in Spain for years. She’d never fancied Spain herself even if by all accounts the booze was cheap. Maybe because it was cheap when it was easy done, the one drink too many; or because, she supposed, they never had to bother with an open fire down there. Or she was just plain lazy, become a stick-in-the-mud in her old age. Either way, Arthur wasn't one for the good old days, and Arthur was one who’d do the business when it had to be done. No whys and wherefores.

So a rule had  been made, and what happened, she’d been happy on the Guinness and then Gerry had started splashing out, and she’d had a pint too many and let him get started. Poor Gerry, always shuffling on the edge while Jack had grabbed it all by the scruff of the neck and made it happen. But he’d got her going, a slippery Gerry with a scheme in mind that she’d threequarters gone along with.

She’d been off the drink since, pulled out the phone, watched TV, lit fires, cleaned the flat top to bottom with the radio on, then done it again till there was nothing for it but to sleep. Was awoken by someone leant on the doorbell. Hadn’t used her upstairs, should have taken out its battery when it was right in her face as she took the duster to it. Had not used it and, facts on the table, was incapable of doing so more times than not. It was a fact she had begun to notice, the old brainbox not what it was.

And the bell rang on.

She pulled on the tartan dressing gown and was down the hallway when her upstairs did come to life, and she stopped, stepped into the front spare bedroom and skirted the walls for a view through the net curtains. Crafty Marjorie.

It was Mo, looking good in trousers, furry sweater and a jaunty beret.

Still alive, Mo said. I was worried for you. Well come on, invite me in, I’m not dressed for standing around.

Go and put the kettle on, then you can tell me why you were worried. Don’t you bother with sleeping yourself?

Margie, it’s nearly eleven. But go on, make yourself decent and I’ll make your tea.

Marjorie went for loose trousers, and a chocolate brown V-neck over a denim shirt .

In the kitchen Mo said she wasn’t being morbid, but they were women of a certain age even if they did have figures better than half the thirty year olds. And when I don’t get nowhere on the phone for days, well you know, I worry, course I do.

You’ll miss me when I’m gone.

Don’t say that Margie, you know me, anything for a laugh, but that’s not for joking. Did you see that in the paper, the woman who rings up that radio station, the London one, the late night thing, says she’s afraid, says it out loud on the radio and a couple of hours later she’s only been done in. Besides, I would miss you, more than I can say darling.

Marjorie gave her a hug. Sometimes your friends said just the right thing. I’m fully intending to stay around, so I’ve been resting up, you know what I mean, to give myself a better chance. And keep what’s left of my looks.

I believe you. And Ian was asking after you, sends his regards. He’s got some business on.

Marjorie made no comment, said nothing to the effect that Ian always had a bit of biz on the go and what was there to show for it. No, not when Mo had come at just the right time, the right person at the right time. Instead she offered a slug of Irish in the tea. To keep out the autumn she said.

Anyway, nothing wrong with your looks Margie, never has been you lucky girl. Going to waste though these days ain’t they?

Mind your own business.

Oh, I see. So that’s why. All that bollox you’ve been giving me about resting up. Who is he?

Mo, if there was such a man I’d say the same, mind your own business. Besides you old flirt, you’d be in there like a shot.

Me? What chance would I stand? But don’t you worry, I shall be making my inquiries, Mo said.

Me also, I’m making them now. So what do you know about this television business that's going to make our fortunes?

Mo got up to plug the kettle on for another cup, turned her back to Marjorie. What TV thing, she said.

Come on Mo, it’s me, Marjorie. This thing Gerry’s got half a promise out of me for. Ian’s in on it, or leastways he was there in Jacko’s bar when Gerry was in with them. Only of  course I don’t know then he’s the television, the young feller who’s chatting me up. Chatting me up on the strength of a couple of g-and-t's by the way. . Come on then, so what do you know?

Oh that thing, Mo said, speaking to the kettle.

You know what they say about watched kettles Mo. Yes, that thing. Poor Jack dragged back to life on the box.

Box on the box, come on Margie, Jack would have had a laugh with them people, given them a slap on the back, gee’d them up, and they’d have been eating out of his hand.

He’s dead, in case you’ve forgotten, been dead a long time..

So, can’t do anyone any harm, it’s not like anyone’s going to get nicked for anything they never did get nicked for, you know what I mean. And who knows where it might lead. Breakfast TV, who knows. Could do with a bit of pep. Who wants sofas and afternoon tea for breakfast

So who’s that then, you or Gerry with the bright ideas. Or was it Ian? Breakfast TV which, if it isn’t just some nonsense the one of youse has dreamed up, would be right up your street, the gob you’ve got on you.

I ain’t got your style though Margie, never did, Mo said, flicking soggy tea-bags into the swing-lid.

You’re my friend Mo, and I’ll miss you enough to not want to think about it you old tart, if you went first, but I’m telling you straight I don’t like it. Only now I’ve said to Gerry, and that was when I’d had a few, that I’d meet up with these TV people of his. For one thing I could see him bursting into tears if I’d said no, and we can’t have that in Jacko’s bar. And for another, I’ll go because I don’t want them making a fool out of him. Yes, and that way I can see them for myself.

When they put up those old photos of you on the screen Margie, I’m telling you, people will be asking what they’ve been missing.

You couldn’t help it, just couldn’t help feeling a glow when your oldest pal said those things. Even if it was your own ghost was being admired.

Flattery will not get you everywhere, Marjorie said.

If it did Margie, and don't tell me you weren't a dab hand yourself, we'd all be millionaires, I'm just saying.

What?

Think about it, even the young kids now, they're going to say Cool Man, Wicked, or whatever they say, you know, when they see those pictures, you in your prime. Greek Street 1963, you remember that one?

No, she didn't remember, felt confused. Thirty odd years ago, it was a long time.

'63, that Cuba business, and we said lets die having a good time, Mo said.

No she didn't remember. The missiles yes, but Jack had said if there was anything to be worrying about, he would be worrying himself and, as it happened, he wasn't. Been right hadn't he, that's why she'd believed him.

We'll see, she said.

What?

The TV, Gerry's thing, Marjorie said. Isn’t that what we’re talking about.

*

At the airport Steve managed a phone call. On his answer machine had been sympathy from Angela, she was shocked; of course she would hold the interview piece; of course they should meet up. And then another message, warmly sympathetic.

Good to hear you in real time this time around, too many phone messages and you’re an urban cliché. So, how do I say it, how are you, she said.

To use an old-fashioned expression, spaced-out.

It’s hard to take on board, what is it, co-incidence gone mad?

Gone psychotic, he said. It’s not as if she was being strangled as she spoke, or there was a deranged ex lurking in the background.

James was waving at him underneath the departure screen, pointing at his watch.

I’m just off to Ireland for the funeral, and then flat out with some tribute programmes I'd guess you call them.

I heard, she said, right on you.

Lets meet up when it’s over.

Love to, she said.

With James was the sound-recordist for the trip, introduced as Phil. No older than Steve but with the look of a hippy from yesteryear. Driving to a hotel in Westport from the airport at Knock, James said the local priest would be waiting for them and was prepared to be interviewed. It was he who would conduct the funeral service. He went on, with no-let up, to outline the specific knowledge specialists he had in mind for the programme, the live roundtable after the pre-recorded stuff.

Steve cringed, said why didn’t James stick to ‘expert’.

All right, whatever they, are. There’s McAllin, an unsentimental psychologist; Fiona McTaggart, who wrote that book on Rape and Pornography; Mackie on the breakdown of the community and its values…

What is this, a Scottish mafia, Phil said.

And I was going to say, thank you Philip, Speeling QC for the liberals with a small l.

An endangered species, Philip said, holding on tight to his duty-free Jamesons.

What?

Liberals are. Anyway are you seriously telling me there’s a barrister called Speeling?

I’m not trying to tell you anything.

I get it, the poor man to his gate, the technician to his place.

Phil, shut it, a woman’s been raped and murdered, Steve said.

Yes boss.

And what I’d like James, is a hardnosed columnist, someone who’ll help me keep it down to earth from the other side so to speak.

Mmmm. Interesting. One of those ex-lefties who’ve seen the light, one of them. Why not.

Well find one, Steve said. This was his deal.

The priest was waiting in the hotel lounge, dressed in black yes but not pie in the sky sat there with a whisky in his hand. He was to be called Father, James said, as if Steve were some urban bumpkin or hard line Presbyterian, Father Conroy.

The rather obvious mysteries of modern technology, the priest said. He was watching Philip adjust the sound levels. James ordered drinks all round.

Steve held back the smile and Philip gave the OK.

They established the facts, that Father Conroy was not Theresa’s own parish priest who was obviously in London, but did hold this position with her family. His reaction? It was a sinful world but he was deeply shocked. Theresa had come every summer for her holidays, he knew her well, she had planned her retirement in this place of her childhood. He felt especially for her family who were devastated.

Steve felt for them, of course he could not put himself in their shoes, but he felt for them. Did Father Conroy want to comment on what had happened from his own perspective as family friend and spiritual leader.

It stands, does it not, as a terrible indictment of our times when the devil and all his works are feeding off the looseness and laxness of all morals. I know that in London and other big cities it is very unfashionable to talk of the devil as a live force…

Father, believe me, we are not concerned with whether something is fashionable or not, but to try and get at the truth and change things, and in my case to try and make amends to Theresa.

A double-hit, James was delighted: Steve proving fast on his feet on the big occasion; and the priest’s voice and accent, how fresh that would sound in jaded London ears.

Lust, the priest was talking about lust, it was one of the deadly sins. How the separation of sex from the wonders, joys and responsibilities of procreation, how that could only make a fetish of sex and lend a trendy respectability to lust.

All Steve’s exes had used varieties of contraceptive, hadn’t made him a rapist killer; still, the fire and brimstone stuff, it would make for great radio, for real debate.

Are you saying then that the use of contraception creates the conditions, if you like for violent sex crime?

Is that a smart London question then? the priest said. There was no anger, he seemed to be enjoying himself. What I’m saying is that lust of itself, can lead to many perversions up to, and including, that which breaks the Commandment, Thou Shalt Not Kill.

And you are saying that it is this general state of affairs which is responsible for poor Theresa’s death. If that is the case Father Conroy, what can be done to stop such terrible things happening again.

He had no immediate solution. It was a time for society to look at itself in the mirror, to ask if liberalism really liberated, or did it rather enslave.

Steve thanked him. James thanked him.

Naturally we do not wish to impose on personal grief and sorrow, Steve was saying.

Absolutely not, James said, there are far too many instances of merciless cameras and microphones being thrust into the faces of those in pain…

You would like to speak with the relatives, Father Conroy said.

No flies on the priest, while James, a little heavy-handed. Time for Steve.

Father, he said, I’m in a situation that quite frankly I’ve never been in before, a little out of my depth perhaps, coming from a world which can perhaps be a bit too concerned with being cool. I do believe that if the voice of personal grief, what this brutal murder has done to Theresa’s friends and relatives, is put out into the world, it might shock that world into a realization of what has really happened, so that Theresa is not just another statistic.

This young man was going far, James was convinced of it.

Well now, I’ll see what I can do for you which may be very little. The old people, it would be too much for them, and then you have her nephew Declan and his wife Bernadette. They were very close, living themselves in London. Declan now, he’s full of anger and self-blame. Why did she not phone him, why phone strangers, that is what he’s asking, and I think he might unloose some of that anger on yourselves. Without justification no doubt. Bernadette will be your best chance. I will talk with her.

It was as good as they were going to get. They were most grateful.

Before they turned in for the night Steve said they’d been sloppy, the parish priest in London, hadn’t done their homework.

It was being dealt with James said.

*

Graham bought a morning newspaper and saved it for work. Just as well, when his morning tea-break came around and who was there in the canteen, but mouthy Dave. Him, Simon, old Joe and young Eric.

That Bosnia, he said, at the end of the day what are our lads there for, they should just let them fight it out among themselves.

Hello, did I hear words coming from your mouth Graham, several words all at once, hang on fellows, my ears may have deceived me.

What, did I say something, Graham said. That’s how it was with the Daves of this world, at the end of the day, you just could not win.

That indeed was the very question I was asking myself. Were there other witnesses?

Graham saw a matador taking on the wrong bull, a tough and crafty bull, and flick, sailing in the air with a stab in his arse. But his throat was dry and the words would not come.

He’s got a point, Joe said, How do we know those Muslims aren’t butchering a few of their own for the sympathy, so as they can get more guns.

I was merely commenting on the uniqueness of the occasion, having previously been of the opinion that our colleague here was a philosopher or practitioner of Transcendental Meditation. Was I wrong?

Me? It was a mistake, he should have known better, trying a bit of intelligent conversation with twerps like Dave. But desperation bred invention and the right words came. A case of mistaken identity, he said.

Oh nice one Cyril. Instead we find we have amongst ourselves a wit who has just been too modest all these years, kept his light under the bushel. Or perhaps you thought we just weren’t up to it.

Modesty? No one could accuse you of that Dave. How come you’re not on the telly with your own chat show, Simon said. Or the radio at least. Here did you see that, this woman gets herself bumped off right after she’s rung this phone-in programme to say that’s exactly what she’s afraid of.

Graham was back behind his paper. To no avail.

So what do you think of that Graham, Dave said. Not an opportunity to be wasted now that you’re in such a talkative mood. What would you have done?

It was obvious for anyone with half a brain.

Reckon I’d have dialed 999, he said.

Oh very prosaic. Definitely not the philosopher, our Graham.

Raped first and then murdered, Simon said.

Bloody sex-cases, the nonces, they should string them up, Eric said

Yes but you’ve got to find the bastards first, old Joe said. Look at that Nielsen, it was only the blocked drains got him in the death. Blocked bloody drains.

On his chair in his own room with his Victorian eclectic, Graham’s face was a blank under the peaked cap. If they knew, the berks he had to work with, if they had the slightest inkling who he was, their mouths would be opening and closing like goldfish. Half the time, and this was a considered opinion, he’d have said they were better off as goldfish. Instead he had to sit in the tea room with them and make out he was just another someone who knew nothing.

A family had come into the room. Graham watched, made a bet with himself, saw a good chance with the boy, a carroty-haired little hooligan bored to death. Could just see him making the point to his studious sister in specs and the desperate parents that he at least was jack-the-lad. The mother rabbiting away, making out like she knew all about Victoriana and how terribly interesting it was if only you knew and made a little effort. The weedy father nodding, a classic, an absolute classic. Graham held it in, went into full-on neutral mode. A bloke in a bland uniform and a peaked cap is all he was: for the time being.

Carroty-top had stopped listening, scanned the exhibits till he saw the model railway with the train doing its elliptical circuit, changing its course as points  changed, hurrying past ornate platforms with chocolate-coated stationmasters and above in bold black letters DO NOT TOUCH. Irresistible. Graham tamped himself down as far as he could go, watched the boy looking him over and checking the angles. His own stillness was the art, offering the moment of hope to carroty-top that he would get away with it. An art, Zen or whatever the trendies called it, waiting till the last moment. The mother, it was obvious, she feared the worst but was  inspired into more words by the daughter’s show of interest while the father, he was  paralyzed, like he knew, hoping for the best and not believing in it. Graham sat still. He saw, he knew, he understood.

The boy had sidled up to stand above the station adjacent to the signals. He stood as if not interested. He looked up to check the sign was there. Then he looked away as if he had lost interest altogether and moved towards some period furniture. Gave Graham a crafty glance, moved back and switched the signals. Graham was out of his chair in a smooth movement. The father winced before the words came, Graham with the gravitas of Big Ben: the notice says Do Not Touch and that’s exactly what it means, he said. And they cringed, father, mother and daughter too, fairly scuttled out of the room whispering angry words at the boy. And what did the boy do, the hooligan, he shrugged his shoulders.

***

The church was not as expected, it was large and modern red-brick in the spread of fields and hedges. Not exactly photogenic to Steve’s eye.

Therein lies another advantage of radio, James said. He had tried to get Phil and the recording gear installed in the organ loft, quickly saw that this might be an obtrusive faux pas, and dismissed the idea as if he had never thought it at all. Steve was impressed, this was someone he could work with, someone who would cut their losses without hesitation when anything else would have been wishful thinking.

There was a large crowd, most had the look of farming people amongst the press and the cameras. A giant of a man, the front pall-bearer stood out. The words stony misery came to mind.

The London nephew, James said. Declan.

The black coffin stood on a trestle in front of the altar. Just the one bouquet on top. Steve followed the congregation and knelt. It really had happened. Really really really. The hesitant voice in his earphones ‘I’ve never done anything like this before’, the all-round virgin, that was her in the black box.

Soon, in the adjacent cemetery, it was her in a black box lowered into a clean cut hole in the ground. Steve felt a chill across his chest, heard the gasp of his breath. It had really really happened and now there was no going back as the big man, shrunk on the instant, dropped clods of earth down on to the shiny black. Then he turned back to support an elderly lady, her shoulders bent as if she really were crushed.

His mother, Theresa’s sister-in-law, James said.

The nephew shielded her out through the crowd, pushing cameramen out of their path. Angry, he was formidable. Steve pictured him, the big man face to face with the faceless shape of the unknown killer. He knew who he’d back. Oh yes indeed, this man against a killer of poor defenceless old ladies.

I know who it is, what do you take me for James?.

Great stuff, Philip said, at last the men at the mike join us technicians in alliance against the managerial class.

Shut it, Steve said.

Ah, performers, too unstable to be serious allies, a sudden glimpse of their real interests and they freak out.

James could see it, Steve rigid with rage. You know Philip, he said, I can well see a time when there will be no broadcasters wanting to work with you.

What’s that, the yellow, or is it a red card?

Cheeking the ref, that was definitely red, but James stayed cool. All Philip was required to do was to do his job properly, he said, and in the circumstances, heaven help him if he screwed up.

Steve calmed himself, breathing deeply. Out of the bungalow’s front door came the priest with a dark-haired woman. In his eyes, early thirties, sober dress, a modern woman even in black. The wincing of his stomach eased off, the big man that would have been too raw, the anger and sorrow overpowering, and not what the listeners wanted.

The priest made the introductions. I’m so sorry that we should meet in such circumstances, Steve said, and thanks very much for agreeing to talk to us. We genuinely believe that your voice, the voice of someone close to Theresa will help prevent her becoming just one more anonymous victim.

The woman nodded, head down, picking at her gold wedding ring.

Blanking out Philip’s face he said to mike, I’m standing here with Bernadette Dwyer, wife of Theresa’s nephew Declan. We’re standing outside the family house in Mayo where Theresa had planned to retire. It feels as though we are in another world from London. Bernadette, I know we are both in different ways shattered from the funeral and I don’t wish to intrude but can you give us any idea of how the family is feeling.

We are grieving a terrible grief, more than I can describe.

Steve was sorrowful, his face was sorrowful, he asked if she could ever have imagined something like this happening to someone close.

It is very hard to imagine anyone so sick and so arrogant as could do such a thing.

I know you were very close to Theresa in London, has this made you think twice about living there.

Neither I nor my husband has had the time or inclination to think of such things.

Steve shook his head, it had been a foolish question on his part. Instead he teased out information on Theresa’s retirement plans. Finally he asked what she had felt like when she first heard that Theresa had phoned a radio station just before this brutal attack.

We were shocked to think, she said, the poise of her face cracking open, we were shocked and upset that at such a time Theresa should have phoned strangers.

She was crying now. Steve backed off. But I know why, she said, because poor dear Theresa, always so considerate, would not have wanted to disturb us after midnight. I only wish she had. I only wish she had not been such a gentle woman.

THREE

Direct transmission of the broadcast, the opening segment, was played into the hospitality room that had been set up next to the studio. The four panelists looking attentive, Steve and James both at full stretch. The bulk of it finally lashed together at three in the morning, the final interviews done in the course of the day and spliced on minutes before the deadline. Pure stamina and then some, putting their foot down over Sleep Secure’s request for blanket slot placement, packed in among the helter-skelter of last minute interviews. This was their baby, they were not having it buried in accusations of cynicism or gross commercialism.

No Robert, he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my mortgage-broker.

Well what’s his phone number, sounds like a man well worth knowing.

From the original shortlist for the panel, Mackie the hip sociologist had been dropped. Steve had looked at the options and plumped for Paul Sherwood, bluff no-nonsense columnist. Bit of a rebel in his youth, James said, you know the story. Also overweight, had obviously given up on exercise. Not so different to crumpled Speeling the lawyer. A good foil to Sherwood, James said, representing the reasonable, civilized and ultimately flabby viewpoint.

Ever had that niggling pain, you know what I mean, the one you don’t think your doctor is taking seriously but you don’t want to make a fuss about…

McAllin the psychologist, he was a guy that worked out, squash three says a week, it was obvious, clear-eyed, mid-forties and firm under his suit. Unprejudiced but no bleeding heart, as James put it. And finally, Fiona MacTaggart, more tense than the others as if assuming in advance that she would have to look after herself. Not however in dungarees or Doc Martens. If anything, more like Angela in style.

Hi, I’m Steve Bryant. Maybe you know me from my own late night show on this station. But whether you do or not, I guess you’ll all know that a truly terrible thing happened last week. A woman was raped and murdered. She was just an ordinary person like you or me and I want you to try and get to know her just as I have done in this last week. Theresa Dwyer is her name and as you may also know, she was murdered perhaps only minutes after she had phoned this station. Phoned me in fact. Now I’m nothing special, I just do a Radio show that I hope some of you have enjoyed at some time or another, but I want to try and make amends…

I’ve heard all too much of my own voice just lately. Steve said. Out in the corridor he found an empty room next to Studio 3 and riffed through the cards he had prepared, key lines and key questions that would keep some shape to the debate. He owed it to Theresa, to keep it to the point. Capital punishment and pornography, he could see these issues taking over. They must be given an airing of course, but not to the exclusion of all else. Gobstop the gushers, he’d been trained for it, and for the rest, with his cards, they would be like the chord charts the jazz guys had, a skeleton on which to improvise. His forte.

Whereas the official interviews, on these he had deferred to James’s guidance: no flim-flam from the politicos, but with the police not obsequious but go easy, they are, so to speak, above the fray; technicians in effect but with the difference that they need, and are entitled to, public support.

He’d enjoyed himself with the Junior Minister. Shocked, horrified, words failed him. Words were not enough Steve said in reply, no question, but we couldn’t have them failing us, could we. Yes, and while he was about it, what about police numbers, where were the bobbies on the beat? And the minister had spluttered. No previous government had done so much, had spent so much on the police budget but in the end there were real economic constraints blah blah. Economic constraints?! Steve was incredulous, wasn’t the protection of innocent citizens the most basic requirement of government and the state.

Back to the matter in hand. Keep the panelists to the point yes, but let the sparks fly.

Time to go back, watch the panelists’ reactions to the different voices of the first segment. In the corridor he came face to face with Geoff. Glad I found you, the producer said. Just wanted to wish you all the best, you know, tonight and tomorrow.

Geoff mate, you’re a pal, Steve said, giving him a light touch on the shoulders. And how goes it with Johnny?

Like you always say, we’re pros, do your best with what you're given. Silk purse out of a pig’s ear? No, but the switchboard ain’t been jammed with complaints. That at least. Anyway, all the best.

In the hospitality room they were listening to Betty, wonderful, big-hearted Betty. How they’d been out together that very night. How she’d said to Theresa, not wanting to bother people would be the death of her. She couldn’t believe she’d said those very words. And then her tears and the panelists sober with the sound of her voice and then the voice of Bernadette.

Where would Angela be listening in. At home? And how would that be? Cooking? On a sofa? In the bath?  An attractive proposition, it had to be said. In the meanwhile, This Is Your Life. This is Your life, so, focus Steve my man, focus. Theresa was owed, focus was the minimum requirement, the minimum.

*

Graham tamped down what he felt, reconciled himself to listening to the boy crusader’s Programme. It was a job to be done, a waste of time most likely, but if you were going to do it, do it properly. He settled down for the evening with a doner kebab take-in, and three cans of lager. The old foreign bloke, he could picture him, remembered him, the bloke with the proper hat on his head, had seen him sniffing about the area. What a nutter he was turning out to be, you couldn’t help but laugh, and then the bird going on about her kids as if there were no one else in the world but kids. As for getting to know Theresa Who, they were missing the point altogether. Of course she wasn’t just anyone but there was no one mentioning, probably hadn’t even noticed, those bent shoulders, the cheap coat, the tiredness of the woman that was just waiting to be brought to life. All that just-waiting stuffed into the one body.

More stuff, more blah blah. Now they were in Ireland. He chewed the last of the doner then screwed up the greaseproof wrapper and threw it in the flip-top. In the flat, not room to swing a bloody cat.

He opened the first can of lager and listened to a police spokesman. Impressed he said, the bobby, with the number of calls from members of the public to the Special Inquiry phone number which the station had done much to publicize. Graham was all ears. Special numbers and all because this ponce on the radio, this Steve, had got them steamed up.

But surely you can give us some indication as to how your inquiries are progressing?

The boy crusader.

I’m sure you will appreciate that we don’t want to give anything away but I can say that one or two lines of inquiry are being vigorously pursued. I’d also like to say to your listeners, Someone Knows This Man. Some one out there knows him and I urge them to come forward.

Know him? Graham made a smile. His cheeks wrapped around that smile. Some people had known him, past tense. Or had thought they did. The lines of inquiry on the other hand, it might just be hot air but he was an adult, a trained man and could not simply discount them. He had reviewed the whole night frame by frame. No CCTV in the area. Not probably, fact, there were no CCTV cameras period. The tart in the JapCrap sports thing, the one who’d pulled out, remember him? Not a chance, too pleased with herself to be noticing anything or anyone else. Identification, he couldn’t see it, but they did have the forensics, clever stuff. Of course he’d worn gloves, he wasn’t a mug, but there was all kinds of other things at their disposal  these days, things they said they had at their disposal. Might be clever enough to make thirteen out of 2 plus two.

The lager was going flat. He finished the can in one go, burped, and pardoned himself.

So what you’re saying is, more good old-fashioned bobbies on the beat.

And the copper was off, limited budget, limited resources, what could they do!              Well for one thing they could do everyone a favour and not re-open files that were closed. Graham opened a fresh can, took a proper swig, wiped froth from his face. Links, big deal. They could make links till kingdom come. At the end of the day, none of it any use. Only the crusader had stirred things up, on what should have been a closed file. Files on previous incidents could be re-opened, that was the point. Might be a bloody waste of time and resources, but with this twerp making waves, it might happen all the same.

The abolition of the death penalty has removed the criminal’s real fear of death by hanging, this may be an…

Perhaps, if he was ruthlessly honest with himself, if he put himself under the spotlight and did not flinch, then it was perhaps the case that, he had rushed it. Fact was it was the night of one of his days off, and this when coincidence was a bit of a loose cannon. And then she’d been late, out of her usual routine, but he’d gone for it anyway.

So a flexi-account gives you all the advantages of a deposit and a current account. You’ll probably find it’s just what your financial advisor would suggest. Ring him tomorrow and ask him what he thinks of a flexi-account.

Hello again, this is Steve Bryant back again for the second half of the programme.

Perhaps, perhaps he had rushed it, but there was no point being hard on himself, there were times, there were times it was just destined to happen. Destined, simple as that. Bloody fool going on about the death sentence. They weren’t going to catch him, crusader or no crusader. And if, if the craziest coincidence were to trip him up, they wouldn’t take him alive. Who were they kidding?! No way José!

Before I introduce our panel I’d like to say this to whoever did kill Theresa, and this is personal, never mind the loathing, what I really feel for you is contempt. Got that! Sorry for the personal note but my feelings are running high on this one.

Contempt! This wanker! Graham squeezed the empty can. It buckled. It split. He tossed it in the flip-top. Five more minutes he would give and then it was off, and it would be sleep or the TV

Neil McAllin, trained and practicing psychologist who has done profiling of rapists and killers for the police, if I can come to you first, what kind of person are we dealing with here.

A poncey Scottish voice.

Psychopath is one of the looser definitions of clinical psychology. But in this particular instance there is something additional which suggests itself, the psychopathic personality of a man between 35 and 55 who still lives with his mother, a probably domineering mother with whom he has a love-hate relationship.

Graham loved it, he was tickled pink, thought it a great hoot. Mother, he said out loud, mother you can come out now.

He was down on his knees looking under the fold-down bed. It’s all right mum.

Behind the mini-fridge he looked. Behind the curtains. He scratched his head. Where could she be, silly girl. He went down on his knees again. He was laughing. Come on mum. Oh you are a sly one but I know you’re there.

He had the voice for it, Graham could hear it.

But where are you mother, you minx.

Oh. Well that was a turn-up for the books, it would seem to be the case that there was no mother on the premises, not a one, not a single mother.

There were moments when you couldn’t  help but laugh. It was amazing, it was hard to believe, but could it be that the clever man on the radio was wrong. Surely there must be some mistake.

Mother, he called out, his voice gentle. If she was there this would bring her out. Come on, it’s all right, you can come out now.

No, oh dear, no mother oh well.

You see officer, he said, there must be some mistake.

*

I’d like to ask you all now in turn, is Theresa’s rape and murder part of an epidemic? Neil McAllin.

Steve had relaxed, found his footing.

Speaking clinically, I’d say not. An epidemic implies the spreading of disease by some kind of physical contact. I suppose however that if we took it to its logical conclusion, or rather used the concept of epidemic metaphorically then perhaps we might say Theresa’s murder should not be publicized at all, in that it might encourage potential killers simply by their knowing that such murders did occur. That however would be absurd. On the other hand if by epidemic you mean…

Pedantic in that prim Edinburgh voice, needed to be kept a little in check or it could be a turn-off. Definitely not a mumbler however. And had just about finished.

Well Neil, I have to admit I wasn’t using epidemic with quite your precision but Tom Speeling, what’s your take on that.

My turn for an admission Steve, I haven’t looked at the statistics that closely and I’m not sure I’d make that much sense of them if I did, but to give it some historical perspective, when I was very young and just starting out not long after the war there were some very nasty cases, Heath, Christie and so on, psycho-sexual in nature whether there was money involved or not. What does rather horrify me now…

His barrister voice, deep and soft but that Heath and Christie stuff, wasn’t it the very same stuff the Great Trials anorak had been going on about that very night, Theresa’s night? It bloody was too. So what was this, had Speeling been listening that night, an insomniac QC. Far-fetched perhaps but if so, was he getting at him, reminding him that as regards Theresa he had not been at his brilliant best. Surely not, no paranoia please Steve, but it was word for word more or less, the same kind of line as the Great Trials anorak, how there was nothing new under the sun when it came to sex crime.

There was a pause, the lawyer looking at him. Was more required?

Steve got his act together, turned to Fiona MacTaggart and asked what she thought, epidemic or not.

Yes, we are. Within the context of violence against women, which is what we are really talking about here, yes, an epidemic. And it’s not just murder…

Was he being paranoid? Speeling’s bland, avuncular face said yes. The improbability of him listening to the Steve Bryant late night show said yes. But who knew? Might be an insomniac for real; Mr Speeling finds background radio helpful background when reading a brief, and was now having a dig at him. Why? Because in his bloody opinion, Steve had not done enough for Theresa. Yes, well. Rough up Mr Speeling up if the opportunity arose. See how he liked it.

And to satisfy Dr McAllin’s, metaphorical  I think you said, definition of epidemic, I would say that there is such a transmission as he describes, a means of transmission, and I am not riding a hobby-horse when I say this, which is the billion dollar global business of pornography in which women are constantly objectified.

Yes, OK, but it was her hobby horse, and if every man who’d dipped into porn went out killing women, why, there’d be none left. Steve’s voice was brisk. Paul Sherwood, an epidemic?

I’m not at all sure I understand all this objectified business but yes, there is an epidemic and for goodness sake lets not get pedantic about it. And let me say right away Steve how glad I am that you’re bringing this issue out into the open when there’s been far too much official complacency with governments of whatever hue still dominated by an unelected liberal dictatorship. Objectified, too big a word for me, but the flood of filth that is now being served up, and for which people like you, Tom Speeling, should take a good look in the mirror…

Come off it Paul, are you saying that because I have defended works of art under legal attack for the most dubious reasons, that this has to do with the case of Theresa Dwyer. Besides the newspaper for which you write hardly has it hands clean when it comes to what my father used to call smut.

Tom, please, we’re not here to settle old scores, Steve said.

Spot on.

James gave him a grin, a wink and thumbs-up all in the one move.

***

Not here to settle old scores, well said Steve. Paul Sherwood really was a terrible old hack, dreadful, but him and Speeling together were like a pair of old dinosaurs, a rumble in the jungle. Lumbering style. Angela wrote it down in her notebook, sat at the table, the radio at the far end. ‘A lumbering rumble in the jungle.’ She liked it. Said it out loud. Drew a box around the words. It was a novel experience, the whole thing, listening in when there were two people she knew, Fiona and Steve, speaking in her kitchen. She’d interviewed Fiona when her book had come out. She was a tad fanatical true, like pornography was the be all and end all of the world’s problems, and perhaps a prude at heart, but she had important things to say and, rather against type could be rather witty. What was it she’d said that time, it was after the interview and they were having a drink somewhere, how men she’d interviewed always said they’d read porn magazines. She wrote it down in her notebook, how men always talked of reading porn magazines.

And here was Fiona again standing up for herself. One could only applaud. The arrogance that the niece Bernadette had mentioned, the arrogance of the killer, she had put her finger on it.

And this arrogance is implicit in a male dominated society in which women are constantly being objectified.

Lets not dress it up in this objectification jargon Fiona. We’re in danger of losing sight of  the fact that what we’re dealing with here is not this patriarchy you keep talking about, what we’re dealing with here is evil. I don’t subscribe to the particular brand of Christianity as Theresa’s priest but surely he hit the nail on the head when he talked of the dangers of scoffing at the Ten Commandments.

The question with those Commandments Paul is whether we should put Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery on a par with Thou Shalt Not Kill. And I have to say Fiona, that I worry how anti-pornography laws might well be used for more diffuse censorship…

But Tom, you’re talking of these things as if there was an equality between men and women in this society, and could I remind you that we are not talking about killing in general, we’re talking about a woman who was murdered after being raped.

Paul, Tom, Fiona has a point, that is exactly what we’re talking about. Lets keep that in mind. We’re going to take a short break now and afterwards we’re going to ask for some practical proposals.

Oh well done Steve. Supporting the only woman on the panel and sticking to the point. And after what he’d been through. All to easy to have succumbed to guilt and done nothing. It was the curse of her kind of people, this useless, perpetual guilt about everything. Instead Steve had responded to the challenge, and what’s more, changed himself and his style to meet what was required. And what was more, this kind of programme was only possible on radio. What was it he’d said in the interview, something about radio being on the up and up vis-à-vis TV. She would check her notes and in the meanwhile would tease TV-wedded Matt with the thought.

But darling, I’ve got that really important meeting with the head of sales in an hour.

Tease him this very minute, a call was overdue. A project left alone for too long, could easily get put on the back-burner. He was not at home but she caught up with him at the editing suite.

You’re running behind schedule, she said, with your editing. Are you sure that suite isn’t your equivalent of the garden shed which every man is supposed to want.

Angela sweetheart, this is a windowless concrete box full of stale air. I simply love it.

Pervert. Someone in the know told me television’s becoming passé, radio is returning as the medium of the future.

Thanks for the encouragement. And why is this so?

The modern world, busy lives, you can be doing something else while listening.

But I don’t want people to be doing anything else if they’re watching something of mine. Anyway, as you say I am behind schedule, therefore time is more precious than usual. So, next Monday, 8.30pm we meet up with the Queen Bee and her minders. I suggested Henekey’s Portobello Road and it was accepted. Chief minder Gerry was tickled, that bar’s seen a few things in its time, he said. Whispered in fact, like it was a state secret. Also hinted at bringing one or two other well-known faces as he put it.

Great, she said. See you then.

She did wonder if she should not have been taking a more hands-on approach, it had after all been her idea, but there were so many other things to be getting on with. Like Steve Bryant, who was now announcing a phone-in the following night, the phone number given and then repeated.

Because we can’t just leave this to the police or the experts, we want to hear from you, the people of London in whose city this shocking crime took place. We all have a responsibility. OK, I’d like to come back to the panel and ask what can be done. Neil McAllin.

It had been an inspired move to do a feature on Steve. He did have a touch, the way he’d interviewed the workmate whose name she had noted down, and then the versatility to give a grilling to waffling politicians. But she’d also been right in the interview to concentrate on how he did phone-ins.

Dry-as-dust McAllin was not talking about guaranteed cures. What a surprise! As if he would ever stick his neck out on anything. But of course that didn’t stop him thinking, oh no, that they must continue with the chemical-behavioural programmes which had shown promising developments.

Neil, to put it crudely that is locking the proverbial stable door after the equally proverbial horse has bolted. Lets save the treatment of offenders for another time, we’re talking about what can be done now, to stop such things happening.

Nice one Steve. Getting so-called experts to stick to the point, it was like, it was like pasting up wallpaper in a gale. She wrote it out longhand in her notebook as Tom Speeling waffled on about a sense of community, its existence or not, and the potential for anonymity in all cities. And then Fiona, deftly admitting it might appear to be her hobby-horse, but.

A woman was murdered after being raped. I believe these two horrors are linked because the combination of titillation and repetition that are inherent in pornography mean that male palates become jaded and then will look for the more bizarre which very often involves violence.

Very good. Spot on. In fact the whole gist of her book in one sentence. Which was a talent.

Which didn’t stop Paul Sherwood and the death penalty, the real deterrent. And then of course Tom Speeling weighing in on the other side. Dinosaurs in the trenches only this time she was clear where she stood. As was Fiona who thought it irrelevant, the whole question, but who knew that the statistics showed no evidence of deterrence. Paul Sherwood said there damned lies and statistics, and once again Steve stepped in neatly. They were not, he said, there to pursue anyone’s agenda, whatever it was.

Not bad, not bad at all, but it was the phone-in she looked to. It was Steve’s forte, or perhaps one of them, but more to the point, the phone-in, no matter how people sneered, was an opportunity for a unique rapport, unique, she wrote, because of the possibility of direct communication between the people of London.

*

Facts on the table, Gerry had taken a liberty. The meet was on, he’d told her on the phone, next Monday, had presented her with an accomplished fact which, Jack Box had told her one time, was how you said it in English. The whole thing, it might be all right or it might not, but if there wasn’t to be drama, Gerry throwing a wobbler, she was now going to have to turn up. Would have to be sharp upstairs and count the drinks in Henekeys. Which by rights was a question she should put to the old rogue, whose choice it had been, that particular watering hole. Tomorrow, she would ring Gerry tomorrow, because if it wasn’t him who’d done the choosing, someone had been doing research, and if it that’s how it was, then it was one more accomplished fact to be chalked on his board.

Tomorrow was tomorrow. Here and now she had lit a fire, run a hot bath. After the goose pimples had come and gone, the water’s warmth came stronger. Slowly she let her shoulders down under the surface. For a while she did nothing, till she let out a little water gingered up the bath with some fresh from the hot tap, and soaped her chest. Let her hands slide in the lather, was kind to her tits which had never lost their pleasure, then lay still again dancing her finger tips on the surface. The reflection there went elastic. She looked through it to her body. Old friend, she said out loud. Her skin would never be as it had been but she did not dislike it. What a nightmare if what had disgusted her at twenty, disgusted her now. No, not bad at all, she was still trim, the waist still visible and the stomach, rounded yes; fat, no. Just the shoulders a little bowed she saw in the mirror as she dried herself in front of the fire. Had thought about massage or physio. Had thought about it but something, her skin in the hands of strangers, no, she didn’t fancy it. She dressed slowly, chose a silky black slip for the pleasure of it, smooth and slippery on her refreshed skin, the fit still as it should be. On top of it a dark grey, lightweight wool dress that moulded itself to her shape and her pearl necklace. Henekeys, over-dressed? She felt good, looked good so the old place would just have to take her as she was.

And it was a laugh, putting on the apron over the dress to make the dinner. Pasta, that was as easy as pie; one of her jokes enjoyed by Mo with a laugh that could bring down buildings. And these days you couldn’t get enough of it, the pasta, a must for all athletes they said. In the kitchen she put on the radio. Mo had rung yesterday to tell her to listen to the thing about the woman who’d been raped and murdered. Had done so because it seemed like she ought to. And ended up nearly smashing her Roberts listening to that priest. Sounded like a bit of a dry old stick Theresa, not a bundle of laughs, but then that ought not to be a death sentence. A very nasty piece of work, the one who’d done it, someone who didn’t have a friend in the world because there was no friendliness in him, not a scrap of it. One of those cold people that was always watching but giving nothing. Like the creep who’d put her off being on the game for life. Which had been well before she met Jack if anyone got nosey and wanted to know. And no one was going to know, no TV people for one thing.

A waste of time the programme had been, but this evening it was a phone-in. Might get some more sense. She sat the radio on the kitchen table, cut some bacon into scraps and into the frying pan.

Alan believe me, I understand your feelings, all I’m asking is, would it have any effect?

Now don’t get me wrong Steve, I’m not the sort of person who’s bloodthirsty for revenge, but it stands to reason if you know it’s the rope that’s…

She chopped a chunky onion on the board, eyes watering. The kind of feller who could take over a Saloon bar, this Alan, and send you running to the Public.

Alan, I think you’ve made your point very clearly. Thanks for calling and now we’ve got Leonie from Woodford, so what do you reckon can be done.

What I can’t understand Steve, is how no one knows this man, you know even if he hasn’t got a family, someone must know him and can see something’s up.

Do you think someone out there is shielding him?

I don’t know but if there is, well I just don’t know how they can live with themselves.

Spot on Leonie. Absolutely. Hang on just a minute, don’t go away. If there’s anybody out there shielding Theresa’s killer for God’s sake listen to your conscience and come forward. Sorry about that Leonie, I just thought what you said was so important. So…

She took the bacon bits out of the pan and on to a plate. The onions went into the bacon fat plus a little oil. Alison from Edgware, she was telling the Steve feller what was what. The 1960s. Living for kicks. So what did they expect.

She decided against garlic, put the bacon back in with the onions and added half a tin of chopped tomatos.

Mark from Canning Town.

What you were saying about hanging and life imprisonment. The first bit’s easy, Timothy Evans, they had some front carrying on with it after what they did to him. But then life sentences, my point is that no one should have to be a screw, a prison officer.

The voice was right, it was Harry’s boy Mark. Little Mark who was now big Mark and rang her up once in a blue moon.

Come on Mark, be serious, where would we be without them, just because we don’t see them doesn’t mean we shouldn’t value their work.

You’re not getting my point, what I say is put all the nonces away on some island, Alcatraz style so they can’t escape, give them enough to make them self-sufficient and let them get on with it.

The Steve feller didn’t like it, said it would be the law of the jungle just as she turned the stove down to simmer.

They’d soon be killing each other, the strong killing the weaker.

Right, that’s your deterrent for you, that’s their look-out, and it means people don’t have to be power-corrupted by being a screw, a prison officer.

Mark ,that  sounds way off-beam, we’re looking for something practical. Hettie from Muswell Hill, what’s your point?

Marjorie turned off the radio and went into the front room for her address book. It was in her handbag. Jack had banned them, burned them even; Mo’s Ian in fact, his. But that was then when they were on active service the way Jack said it. These days she lived a quiet life. There were two numbers for Mark, public and private.

On the private line he said, All right Marjorie?

Just heard you on the radio so I thought I’d say hello.

Didn’t like it did they, only want to hear what they want to hear. But great to hear from you. How’s it going. We should meet up for a drink.

Hang on a sec, I’ll just turn the stove down. Right. As it happens Mark, it’s good I did hear you otherwise I’d have forgotten to ask you.

Ask me what pin-up of my teenage years?

I hope you’ve moved on since then. It’s Gerry, you remember Gerry.

Sure, what is he now, geriatric Gerry?

You’re a hard man Mark, just like your poor father. What it is, he’s trying to drag me into this TV thing, you know when I was young and your father was active. I don’t know but then hearing your voice made me think, you’re entitled to an opinion.

Don’t bother me Margie. I’m almost semi-legal these days and it’s not going to be bothering dad in his grave. Mind you, have your wits about. I mean I know honour among thieves is a load of bollox half the time, but them people are worse, rip the coat off of your back and tell you it was for your own good. But then if you don’t like it you can always walk away and then where are they? Holding an expenses bill with nothing to show for it is where.              Thank you Mark, I see what you’re saying. I’ll keep you posted when we have that drink.

Don’t leave it too long.

*

At home alone, as things had panned out, Angela listened in for a second night. Short notice, but she had hoped Fiona MacTaggart would come round for supper while they listened in together to the phone-in follow-up. Already a couple of women had put the boot in to the Page 3 merchants, evidence in itself of Fiona’s impact. A major feature was starting to come together organically: the interview with Steve; the situation he had found himself in; the fact that a friend, Fiona, had acquitted herself so well on his tribute programme; and now the phone–in. As it was Fiona had a prior engagement, but had the time for a chat on the phone about what had happened and how it had been for her with Steve and the panel.

On her own was second best, but listening-in, as an integral part of what she wanted to say, it was not just off-beat, but a pulling together of the fragments. It had been clear to her for some time that Gonzo journalism did not have to be a thing of incessant, and ultimately forced, insanity-in-motion. That was just the macho, childish version. No, it could be a kaleidoscope of the multi-layered subjective experience of real events, in which the writer was present in real time as listener, observer and participant, and with access to the subjective experience of those participating in those real events.

Well it’s obvious isn’t it, when getting kicks as it’s called, is seen as the whole point of living and with so much modern so-called culture ramming it down our throats.

Me Alison, I take exception to anything being rammed down my throat, it’s a time when heels must be dug in, but I do think we have to be clear here and not let our justified concern stop people from having a bit of fun which would, lets face it, be counter-productive.

Quite, Angela said sharply to the trannie on the table. That was Steve’s most interesting quality, he let people have their say as he should, but wasn’t then some wishy-washy yes man. True, Fiona had said that if she had one criticism it had been that he had been too keen on balance, but then that was a panel situation and she’d also said that she had not been patronized, a surprise in itself.

I mean just try and imagine what it’s like, it’s like prison even though we’ve done nothing except be born as women. I mean when you have to think twice about going out at night.

I’m a man so I can only try and imagine what it’s like, which is a bloody disgrace. Any practical suggestions Shirley?

Shirley talked of improved street lighting and karate classes for women. Interesting and possible but, Angela suspected, the awful reality was, Buy Yourself A Car. She’d struggled against the idea, but at the end of the day what other realistic options were there. Improved public transport yes, but on this issue In the Smoke had been banging its head against the proverbial for years. Now here was Gareth from Willesden Green with the voice of a computer nerd. What about legalized, official brothels he said. Not for him of course, oh no, not him personally, but to regulate and improve the situation in general.

Not being a brothel creeper myself Gareth I wouldn’t know, but it sounds a bit Brave New World. What you go in and say I’ll have number 27c tonight please.

Nice one Steve. What was it Fiona had said about McAllin the psychologist, not absolutely promising the bio-chemical fix, the quick fix, but believing things could be changed without addressing cultural attitudes, sexist attitudes. A technocrat of the human soul, Angela had said in response. Fiona thought the phrase a wee bit over the top but Angela was keeping it, for the Gareths of the world if nothing else.

Opinions of all sorts, from all directions, but wasn’t that what it was all about.

Banning pornography, Steve was wondering out loud, but wouldn’t that just drive it underground? And almost immediately an African woman Ubay, from West Ken and southern Africa.

No its Ubia.

Sorry Ubia, maybe you have a clearer view with your experience of two cultures.

See we don’t have this kind of thing happening back home. I think these kind of men can’t be getting enough off their wives in the bed.

Just how bloody irresponsible could you get.

Hey Ubia, come on. Lets get real here. What is this, blame the wives?

I’m only saying what I think. Sex is sex, so if everyone is getting pleasure there isn’t going to be all this mad stuff from the head. Too much sex in the head.

OK, there maybe you have a point, but blaming the wives, what you’re saying is, blame the victims.

At that moment, as far as Angela was concerned, Steve had, however macho and hackneyed the phrase, won his spurs.

I hope most of all you have felt this to be worthwhile. And here I’d like to congratulate you, the people of London for your serious interest, concern and suggestions. Lets hope the politicians and lawmakers have listened as carefully. There have been one or two wild things said that are just way out of court, but I’m glad to say that not once have we had to use the secret weapon of the phone-in, the ten-second button. Lets not get carried away about what a radio programme can achieve but I believe together we have made a start to bring belated justice to Theresa Dwyer. Goodnight.

Angela switched off the trannie. She got up, stretched her arms, walked round the kitchen. Her notebook was a mass of arrows, boxes and circles. It was not going to be easy. Another coincidence hit her in the eye, another thread. Betty, the workmate, that last terrible day and something had got under poor Theresa’s skin. She checked her notes. Yes, the bag lady directing the traffic. Camden right. Must have been the same one, she and Matt had seen driving down Camden Road towards Holloway. In a hat laden down with phoney fruit. Or perhaps it was a bonnet. Either way, there she’d been, waving on the traffic. Like a superfluous green light, Matt had said.  Angela wrote it down, like a superfluous green light.

She would weave it in, give it the sharp edge In the Smoke readers wanted from a major feature. It involved re-reading all her notes and she was nearly through them when the phone rang and went on to answer message. This is Angela. I know these things are awful, modern urban life etc, so I won’t even try and be jokey, please leave a message after the tone.

Hi Angela, Steve Bryant here, just winding down…

Steve hi, what is this telepathy.

Tele-phone, I think you’ll find.

Touché, but really I have been thinking of you, which is not surprising given that I’ve listened to every word, last night and just now.

Really? Flattering.

No come on Steve, like you said, this concerns all of us.

You’re right. Forgive the flippancy, it’s just the last however many days, they’ve been at such a pitch of emotion and focus and I don’t feel like getting drunk, so…

Anyway congratulations. Both nights. And, I have it on good authority, you were a proper gent.

Oh ho. May I quote you, to my mum. Now she will be flattered.

It’s only hearsay, does that count. From Fiona MacTaggart, you did not patronize her, she said.

Small world ladies. So how about lunch?

That is telepathy. Look I’m flat out till Wednesday, so how about Thursday. My treat.

If it’s telepathy, we’d better go Dutch. I’m back on my old show for the time being, that’s why I’m saying lunch.

You’re on. My choice however. Primrose Hill, a place I discovered on a restaurant guide gig for the magazine.

When she’d put down the phone, there was no choice but to see the fax on the floor. Katie B of course. She would read it, Katie was a friend and when she’d got the subject right, a damn fine writer but to be brutally frank, people had had a little too much of the poor Bosnians, as if they were the only victims in the world. Besides if the punters wanted it, they could get it from the guys and gals in flak jackets at the start of the six o’clock news.

She would read it, but after she’d at least got down and sketched an opening to her own piece. And for the opening, it was the ordinariness she was after, the sheer ordinariness.

‘You know how all stories begin,’ she wrote, ‘not with a bang but a whimper.’ She liked it, liked it a lot, the neat twist of the old TS Eliot line about the end. ‘I was doing the bloody ironing as it happened. Sisyphus had that damn stone, women have the ironing.’

She might well have been doing the ironing when she’d switched on the radio, why not, it was possible. May be she had.

‘The pile of washing staring at me as…’

As creased as a crisp packet. She liked the juxtaposition, but no.

As mournful as a supplicant dog. No, no zing.

And then it came, ‘The pile of washing staring at me as innocent and insistent as a child. An autumn night in London. Returning its stare and seeing the sheer bulk of jeans, undies and tops, I switched on the radio. One of those wonderful whorled and twirled wireless sets of the 40s would have been perfect, their solidity so suited to those times when radio was king. As it was…’

A tiny trannie? No, dumb-bell, a tinny trannie.

‘As it was, a tinny trannie. The check-out girls at the cash-and-carry had been talking of  the Steve Bryant show. A right laugh they said when you were tucked up in bed. For me, bed was the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Maybe Steve would help me get there.’

Yes, good. She’d set up the location from the writer’s POV, overcome all that subjective-objective nonsense in which so often the writer was just an observer. Which could, looked at under a harsh light, be the one real problem with Matt, that tendency to flippancy, because he was only ever just that, the observer. In the process of setting up her position in the story, she had also begun to convey something of the position of the radio in the modern world, past its original heyday perhaps, but now with different functions. What was it Matt had once said, something apposite, but he talked so much, most of the important stuff got lost. The radio in history. Got it. Goebbels, Goebbels had distributed free radios to the German speakers in some disputed area. She would pencil in Sudetenland and then check in the reference library at the magazine office. That had been radio as a monologue, whereas now there was the dialogue, the democracy of the phone-in.

Angela got up, walked the length of the kitchen and put on the kettle. In a trance, she was in a trance, going through the well-honed motions: filter paper in filter-paper holder; coffee beans ground; coffee grounds placed in the filter paper; boiling water poured.

It would come, the Goebbels bit, it would take shape. She sipped her coffee wondering if that wasn’t the trap Katie B had fallen into, propaganda. She put down the coffee and scooped up the fax stuff and put it in order on the table. In for a penny in for a pound, she started on the first para.

Angela, I guess I’m starting to bore you to which I can only say, ‘Wish you were here’, you would feel differently then. Since I’ve had little response from you and nothing in the form of you placing any of my dispatches, let me try you with this, might be more up your street since it involves sex, of a sort, and the media.

So, that was clear enough, she was being patronized. Katie B gone macho on the front line and patronizing her when in fact sex, of a sort, and the media was not Her Thing. Not at all. Out of old-time loyalty, or penance for her comfortable bloody lifestyle as she supposed Katie B viewed it, she read on at speed. Rape yes, it’s strategic use by Serbian aggressors, Katie B’s emphasis, in the war. Most well known example, the Foca rape camp. And no, it was not uncommon, never had been except this was Europe near the end of the 20th century. Awful stuff, it was truly awful, but Angela had read it before, several times.

Except ah, Katie B’s own angle, the sexual assault of men. She had heard, she said, of many instances, both of castration and rape, and yet nothing appeared in the local media even when it might be at the expense of the other side. Except for one example in a Croatian paper she said. Serbian perpetrators of course but here was the rub, she said, they were Muslims who had been raped, and raped, the paper implied because they had not been tough enough, not real men.

Interesting, there was something there, but it was all hearsay and a flimsy bit of media analysis. Worse, the prose style was dull. It was, no point in beating about the bush, it was leaden. She folded up the five pages of fax and placed them dutifully in her Katie B file. Would dutifully show it to one or two people who might be interested. In the meanwhile, back to the grindstone, she simply must not lose momentum with her own piece.

‘My little trannie was loud and clear,’ she wrote ‘and Steve was there doing a phone-in. The phone-in, sneered at by Reithian elitists as broadcasting on the cheap but with its emphasis on dialogue, a very different story to…’

***

Put the twerp out of your mind. Graham was shaking his head. That’s all he had to do. Shouldn’t be hard. Silly buggers with their fancy words, meditation they called it, transcendental, according to mouthy Dave. There was nothing to it, Graham had sorted it out years ago, you cleared the space for your Mind’s Eye, simple as that. Bloody hell, if you didn’t the rubbish and nonsense that would stick to your brain, Dave crap, his head would be full of Dave crap. So, put the twerp out of your mind, him and his phone-in. Give yourself a break.

He turned the TV on for the snooker. The old master made a lovely long red pot to set himself up. Commentators, the know-alls, always going on about how safe he was, not a man for taking risks. And got paid for it, half the time they got paid for being wrong. Anyone who knew anything about anything could tell them what it meant, to be a master, at the end of the day you took risks When They Were Necessary and When They Were Worth It, simple as that. It amazed him, how did they get away with it, not knowing even the basics of what it took to be a champion. There, see, it had paid off, beautifully positioned now to finish off the reds with a black each time. Red, Black. Red, Black. Like clockwork. To make the clearance he might have a problem with the brown, the commentator said. Brilliant, he could see that for himself. And count the three reds left on the table.

Face to face, the twerp had said, he would say just how much contempt he felt.  Oh yes?! Was that so?! Face to face, he’d be taken apart. What was he hoping for, Graham in handcuffs, Graham behind bars! Dream on sunshine! Dream on! He’d do better looking at the old master, see how things should be done, the twat should, nothing left to chance, the brown nudged off the cush by the cue ball after potting the last black. The colours were a formality, the commentator said. Thanks for the information, he could see it for himself.

He was up on his feet to make a Nescafe. Nothing to worry about, just a berk saying how much he despised him, and how he’d say it face to face.

Not worth bothering about. Hot air and half-baked nonsense. So put him out your mind. Go on.

Easy. You emptied your mind and watched the kettle boil. Poured the water on the granules. And settled down for the next frame. The old master against the young pretender, it was building up to be a classic. Not old as such, because as of late, it was becoming a young man’s game, but a bloke who’d won enough championships to know how to take the heat in the kitchen. The pretender? Knew all the shots, but did he have what it took. Like this Steve, the jumped-up DJ, did he have what it took? Did he buggery!

A cagey game this one, safety shots that would sort out the men from the boys. And then, what a cock-up, the old master had over-hit and left the reds there for the taking. He’s left himself wide open, the commentator said. Graham could see it for himself thank you very much. And the young feller, he was going to make the most of it. Red black. Red black. Red, and missed a sitter. The black, it had shuddered in the pocket’s hallway and bounced out. Cometh the moment, cometh the master, the table set up for a clearance.

Graham relaxed, sat back and sipped his Nescafe. The old head was empty. Like hibernation, him going through the motions. Only then, silly bollox missed a sitter of a blue in the center pocket. A sitter, he could have done it with his eyes shut. And what was the commentator saying? That it just showed how the big occasion can get even to the coolest and most seasoned of players. Excuses, that’s all that was, excuses and a lot of good they would be if the twerp had his way, had his little fantasy come true, and he, Graham in person, was captured. No excuses for him. Instead the jumped-up DJ crowing.

Face to face, contempt.

That’s what he’d said, the twat.

‘The big occasion could get to even the most seasoned of players’? Graham turned off the TV. You had to wonder if these people believed themselves half the time, the rubbish they talked. Like the boy crusader himself.

OK, just as an exercise, just that and nothing more’; just to keep his hand in, why not a bit of surveillance on the twerp himself. Why not! Wouldn’t have to do anything just knowing the twat was there in his grasp, so to speak, that would be enough.. Then he could forget him altogether. Which is what he should have done in the first place. Maybe he would, maybe he would just get him out his mind, empty it with his sheer mental discipline, but if not, well it was logical, there always had to be a fallback, Plan B. At the end of the day anyone worth his salt carried a Plan B.

FOUR

Gerry came for her in a car. Since Jack, she had lost interest and knew only that it was not a Jag. On the other hand the paint work was all the one blue. Marjorie herself had stuck with the dark grey dress in wool over the silk slip and gone for the half-high heels in black.

You'll knock them out, Gerry said.

You couldn’t be looking your best all the time, not if you weren’t Jackie Kennedy you couldn’t, but she’d given it a go.

You will Margie, just be yourself, Gerry said, turning smoothly into Chepstow Road. The street lights were soft in the misty dark.

It'll be bonfire night before you know where you are, she said. Another year gone.

Don't say it like that Margie. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

The today of todays, Marjorie said. She smiled in the dark, touched his hand on the steering wheel. He parked up close by on Westbourne Grove, the big pub on the corner, the place it had always been. They'd brightened the place up since her day, got more clever with the lighting.

The young feller, Matt the one who’d bought a couple of rounds at JJs, him with the cheeky chat, he fairly, bounced out from the bar, behind him a girl in black who was too young to look like she did, like she'd seen it all before. And Mo's Ian looking good in a suit with a wiry feller in denim who did the camerawork.

Marjorie, Matt said, I thought you'd never speak to me again. We were getting along so well and then a faux pas on my part obviously. This is Angela who's been dying to meet you and will meanwhile watch my manners for me, keep me in check. What can I get you?

I'll have a brandy, a double, Marjorie said.

Let me get them, Gerry said.

Not your round Gerry, the gentleman has already spoken.

The lady has spoken, Matt said, and is not for turning.

Gerry laughed. Angela smiled and said not to mind Matt, he had Mrs T on the brain gawd bless her.

Mrs Thatcher, she said to blank faces.

A bony lady as I remember, Marjorie said. And even if the rest of you like standing around like Christians, my legs enjoy their rest.

See what I'm saying, speaks her mind our Margie, Ian said spreading himself round a shadowed table and making the space their own.

I know it's an overused word, Angela said, bordering on cliché, and God knows this place pops up all over the place, but it does have ambience. Which does kind of fit.

Fit?

I'm not known for flattery, Angela said, at least not of the shameless kind, but those pictures of you from the late fifties right through the sixties, you know Soho and round these parts. Ambience, that's what you see, like the best of film noir.

A little flattery, it could go a long way. Marjorie liked it as much as the next person but film noir, wasn’t that all double-dealing. She was on her guard.              Matt, back with Gerry, her brandy and a round of drinks, it was like he'd read her mind. I can't give you cast-iron guarantees, he was saying, I'm not a lawyer.

And all the better for it, Gerry said.

But what I can say is, and this is my business, you're going to look good. Sensational in fact. Tell her Angela.

We think, to put it bluntly, that the time is right for a re-evaluation of Jack Box, his time, his milieu, the London of that time, because in many ways, in terms of clubs and entertainment he was one of the originators of what is modern London.

In addition to which, Matt said, you were a stylish lot and we have footage and stills from the time to prove it. For the footage you could come into the office tomorrow.

Stylish? Was this flattery? No, it was true.

Lets have the photos out on the table, Gerry said, so as Margie can have a butchers'.

If it's the past I'll need another brandy, Marjorie said.

The camera feller and Ian were up as one, and Marjorie watched the girl put a photo down on the table like it was a card and the game was poker. She picked it up like she was in the same game. Of course, herself and Jack. It was a photograph she had never seen, herself in a plain coloured sleeveless dress, the hem just a little above the knee.

Bow Street Magistrates, Gerry said. A lack of evidence had, as I remember, just been discovered.

He laughed. Matt slapped him on the back, called him an old rogue.

It must have been, she looked so happy and Jack, he was a sober Jack shrugging at the whole world, shrugging it off one more time.

Nineteen SixtyTwo if my memory is correct, Gerry said.

The girl, Angela, turned the picture over slowly, like now it was a card trick.

Nineteen SixtyTwo, it was, Angela said. And by coincidence, the year of my birth.

Co-incidence or what, Gerry said.

Where's that brandy?

Coming Margie, coming, Ian said. You always was a terror.

Fair comment Marjorie? Matt leant back in his chair, he was stroking his chin. Are you, or have you ever been, a terror?

So what's our role to be in this film of yours?

Answer in the affirmative I think Marjorie. No, to be serious there is in the industry an awful phrase, the talking head. That is, you just sit there like a dummy and we ask you questions. We want something different, we'd like to follow you around the locations of your past and let you talk us through it.

Psycho-geography sounds pretentious, Angela said, but we think you are uniquely placed to talk us through how it was, and how it is.

Bow Street Magistrates, Marjorie said, downing half the glass, the shivers waiting round the corner, you want to start there? It was a stinky hole and I've no doubt it still is a stinky hole. You could smell the dirt and the carbolic. Yes, start there, see all those sad people. All those working girls in bare legs. No stockings. No tights even.

Matt, the smooth feller Matt, he was nodding like he was a pipe smoker holding his pipe. Without a pipe.

For sure, Bow Street, Dickensian, Bow Street Runners, lets fit it in, but start there, I think not. What say you Gerry?

We don't want to start sordid do we Margie, Gerry said. That was not our style. Jack wouldn't have it.

Exactly my point, Matt said. Exactly. That's why you were, and are, so different. Besides, a court, far too predictable, a veritable cliché. Angela, what's next from the lucky dip.

Impossible not to notice the woman in the jeans with the dirt shine on her puffa giving it to the management behind the bar: she had her rights, she knew her rights, the woman who was thirty going on OAP.

Another photograph was on the table.

Remember that Margie, you were a stunner, no two-ways about it, Gerry said. That was Dean Street, whatisname's club.

She took it in with the one glance, her in the suit that was pencil black skirt, high-waisted, and check jacket, with Jack, finger to his temple and laughing.

Iconic, Angela said, shaking her head like it was too good to be true.

The management was out from behind the bar, the woman edging backwards. She would start shouting, Marjorie knew it, when she was right back at the door she would start shouting for the whole world to hear.

Ian was insisting on a point of fact. No, it was Greek Street.

No look, that's whatisname, the Dean Street Deli, his frontage, Gerry said.

The woman would be right at the door and know it wouldn't make a sod's worth of difference, but she'd shout all the same. Make an exhibition and be the exhibit.

Greek Street, right next to the alki womens’ hostel.

I'm not a clothes person myself Marjorie, Angela said, all too obvious I'm afraid, but the cut of that suit, Wow!

My fucking rights! Shouting as she cringed, the woman, as they hustled her out the door. You long thin streak of piss!

Marjorie flipped inside, shivered, swallowed the rest of the brandy. Came back to herself with the burst of warmth in the belly.

Guys, guys, Matt said. Greek or Dean Street, as of this moment, a moot point. Which is your first job of work because this is work believe me, there's no glamour in TV, though in this instance Marjorie will save the day in that department. No, a walk down memory lane in the present, like day after tomorrow, and Angela will sort out any historical stuff where doubts or arguments remain.

An umpire, Angela said, but only as a temp, I don't want to make a career of it.

It'll be a laugh Margie, doing the rounds down the West End, watering holes at regular intervals.

But it's a job don't forget, Matt said, waving his ballpoint like suddenly he was sixty and stern, stern with a twinkle in the eye.

Another brandy, Marjorie said, just the one more. She supposed yes, it could be fun, expenses paid. Facts on the table, couldn't not be lively, Soho nor the other side come to that, north of Oxford Street.

The cameraman in denim was up on his feet. It was his round he said. Ian was up too. A phone call. For him. At the bar.

Sometimes I think the viewer thinks we've got millions to play with and it's all a laugh, but it's work as you'll see, hard work.

Excuse me ladies and gents, a bit of business to attend to, Ian said. He gave Angela a full-on wink. She looked to Matt.

Ho ho, he said.

Angela grinned.

The format, Gerry said, as I understand the format you have in mind, yes, I like it. Reminds me of that thing last month, you know where they took blokes back to where they'd been in the war, only we'll have more laughs.

Oh I never watch the box myself, Matt said, not me. He was laughing, gave Gerry a slap on the back.

Is that right? Marjorie said, her upstairs on full alert.

Angela got in first, said it was a matter of time, how Matt was so busy himself, with his own work, he just didn't have the time. She dropped another photo on to the table. Look at this, she said. Wow, chic or what!

Herself in a black polo neck. A long time ago. The brandy was in her hand. It was all a long, long time ago. She took a steady drink and felt no warmth, the sadness was seeping in, if she stayed like this she would soon be full of it, full up.

And then if I’ve got it right, we’ll get on to the music, the clubs, how they was and how they are, Gerry said.

Fashion changing but the continuity from what started in the early 60s, Angela said.

Entertainment and information, perfect TV, Gerry said.

How would he know, he doesn’t watch it, he’s just told us.

Hey Margie, Matt said

Marjorie, Marjorie said.

Ooops my night for faux pas, a serial offender, however I do know my job, check out my credits by all means.

She was sour, something had happened. The woman in the greasy jacket who’d been barred, her maybe. There were her own cold times living down memory lane and she didn’t want those out naked in the world. Gerry was all eyes on her, like he was waiting for her to go into a number. The bird with a temper on her.

So what’s in it for us, she said.

Do I hear the sound of pound notes, Matt said. Or should I say twenties, a score or two.

Are we? I didn’t hear it.

Marjorie was thinking contracts and small print, how for Jack a contract made everything clean.

I mean the budget’s tight but I’m sure we could put you down as Assistant Producers say and attach a fee to that. What do you think Angela, we could get away with that couldn’t we.

Why not, why bloody not, she said.

We’re not looking to make anything out of it ourselves are we Margie, Gerry said. Just expenses.

What I want is a contract, and the first thing it says is anything we don’t like, it doesn’t get shown.

Marjorie, documentary, what we’re doing, it just doesn’t work like that, Matt said. There’s got to be some trust, and it’s my head’s on the block with the commissioning editors. Of course we’ll be consulting you at every stage but in the end, you tell her Angela, Gerry a word with you.

Marjorie saw Gerry on his feet in slow motion, his hands out towards her slowly up and down, like he was the band leader closing down the tune. Then he turned, followed Matt to the bar.

The thing is, Angela said, with documentary, with a shoot you’ve got to have flexibility, go with the flow. If we’re looking over our shoulder all the time, it’ll just be stilted.

The cameraman Simon, he was off too, mooching round the place, making frames with his fingers.

Honestly Marjorie, we're hearing what you say, Angela said, closer across the table, but it is different making these sound and picture jigsaws so that we do justice to you and the viewer. There's no hard and fast rules. And Matt’s right, it’s his head on the block.

Time to ring for the cab? Time not to upset poor Gerry, leave him in the lurch? Talking thirteen to the dozen at the bar while the Matt feller his pose, elbow on the bar, cheek rested in the hand, it was like he'd heard it all before.

Jack, Jack Box, you're making this film around him, I have got that right yes? Marjorie said.

Angela moved her head left and right. It was a moot point. It took a moment for the words to come.

It's also you, your story, a love story, and it’s London, its story, and how you were part of that, she said.

In her glass, half a double; Marjorie looked at it, put it back down on the table.

And you're in love with Matt, is that your story, and why not, a bright feller, I go for the bigger shoulders myself but he's a good looking boy.

Matt? Me and Matt? No it's not like that at all, we like working together, you know, it's a sort of professional respect I suppose and being on the same wavelength.

Is that right, Marjorie said. Anyway, you said there's no rules in your game, now Jack, he said you have to have rules, and what's more you had to follow them. No short cuts. Otherwise you ended up cheating yourself and then you were in line to get nicked.

Of course, I understand, a code of honour, but making a documentary, I mean that's very different. We’re not out to shaft anyone least of all you, and there are rules of a sort, or templates at least in the shooting and cutting, but if you want to get at how it really is, well then you've got to go with your instinct, kind of not knowing in advance what the camera is going to see, do you know what I mean, not with any kind of censor in your head, not yours nor anyone’s.

I appreciate what you're saying, that's why I'm saying nothing more to you dear, Marjorie said and stood up. She turned towards the bar. Now there were three of them and Gerry was smiling right across his face.

Margie, look who's here, he said.

A big handsome guy in a leather jacket, his  spiky silvered hair cut short.

You remember Martin, used to knock around with us till he got famous, but he's a trouper ain't you Martin, come along to give our project a hand, Gerry said. Not a bad line-up eh Matt.

Could be, Matt said.

Marjorie, he said and gave her a hug.

Get me out of here, she said. Please.

*

Today is the first day of the rest of your life. In this instance very possibly so. Meeting for lunch with James scheduled for one thirty, mutual agreement reached after mutual jousting that his talents were being wasted in the wee wee hours. Opportunity having arisen with perfect timing, Phil Bishop's imminent departure stateside. Little ponds and big ponds, Steve was no friend to lack of ambition, but he did wonder if Phil knew just how big it was over there, how easy to disappear off the map. But that was Phil's problem.

It was, if nothing else, to be his first night back on his own show. He would see it through till he made the seemingly destined move. It would give time to find a replacement for Johnny Bright. What a dickhead! What was it with him, misplaced sincerity? Misplaced enthusiasm? In Steve's book, loud American bands were ten a penny, but for Johnny, this was one was great, that one fantastic, and the next one nothing but the cat's whiskers. In the interests of untroubled sleep he hadn't listened in, but taped Johnny's most recent effort.

Over coffee, meusli, yoghurt and honey, he fast forwarded and played at random. He heard the final chords of something too loud. Had Geoff given up the struggle or what!

Now there's a band we're going to hear a lot more from in the future, A mega-future. They call themselves Plastic Pasta, they're big on the West Coast and there's rumours of a forthcoming UK tour all you lovely people out there. Now here's one to slow down with, Motown lives, and if your partner's to hand

Over the top or what! Who wanted bonhomie shoved down their throat. Stop. Fast Forward.

For me Johnny, it was that Rolling Stones Hyde Park concert, the best event ever I'd say.

The fabulous summer of 1969, Remember it well Sue. The Rolling Stones, still going strong, the fathers of rock, hope you don't mind that Mick and Keith if you're listening, playing as strong as ever. Yes and lets say a prayer they never end. What do you say Sue?

Well yes, of course, definitely…

Steve could hear her drying up. You could hardly go wrong with a bit of nostalgia; unless you were Johnny Bright. There was Sue trying to recover that lost youth and getting mown down by a Johnny who sounded like he was operating in the days of interviewer shoving mike into the punter's gob.

And that day, Mick read this lovely poem for Brian…

That's Brian Jones ladies and gentlemen, a great musician, a great man, tragic…

Steve switched off. A touch as light as a sack of cement, no getting away from it. He would have to raise it with James. Assuming for the moment that Geoff did not come with him to the proposed new slot, and perhaps Geoff was too wedded to the music for that, at the very least he shouldn't be lumbered with Johnny. Nor should the audience he'd built up. He took cup and plates through to the kitchen, washed them and put them back on the rack. And what did that say about gender roles, the flat being that much tidier since Julie had upped and left. Anyway, that was the past. Today is the first day of the rest of your life and for the next episode, the gym. Stay trim, at the gym.

Where he worked up a sweat, weights, rowing machine and weights again before the hot shower.

That was some turn up Steve-o, I told Brian you wouldn't be in for a while.

Barry the taxi driver, from inside steam in the next cubicle.

I mean her ringing you up like that. As it happens I didn't have you switched on the time it happened or more likely I had it on low and there was some fare rabbiting away.

A good guy Barry, a true voice of London and had come up with a couple of good ideas and some good lines of patter in his time.

It's sobered me up. Feels like the male menopause prematurely. I mean, you know, if there is such a thing it's come early to me. Anyway, don't look like you're pausing to me my old mate. So when are you back on the old nights, that other feller ain't a patch on you.

As if he needed telling. But the spontaneous compliments, hard to beat and he was a good sort, Barry, the kind of person London depended on to keep moving.

This very night Barry but just for a few days looks like, the station wants me on days.

Fucking hell Steve-o what am I going to do without you, cos there's no way I'm going back to days, traffic jams, blood pressure, aggravation, and a premature coronary, who wants it?

I'll give you the best traffic reports ever, personal guarantee.

No, sorry my old mate even the best info in the world ain't going to make it less grief. You should see the Green at Shepherds Bush or the Euston Road or the top of Grays Inn Road of a daytime, you aint going to change that.

As they toweled he was asked about the case, what Barry called the case, were there any developments.

Well I'm not going to let it drop that's for sure, but tell you the truth, I need a break from it right now, it's been round and round my head feels like forever.

With James it was just a matter of dotting the i's and crossing the t's over whitebait followed by Chasseur de Veau de Paris with a green salad and washed down by sparkling spring water. The swap was going to be a straight one, straight into Phil Bishop's Nine to Twelve morning slot. Not prime time, more than that, positively primo.

Replacing Phil and giving proper rein to your talents, James said A case of killing two birds with one stone as the old cliché has it, really old one hopes, were we once ever that primitive? And how come hunter-gatherers are getting such a good press these days? But to stick to the point, I want the programme to be serious where it should be, perhaps more so than Phil has been able to achieve, so that the leader of Her Majesty's Opposition for example might be well advised to appear if asked. I'm serious, London will be a key battleground come the next election, take it from me. And then on other days I’ll be looking for that lightness of tone you've found in the present slot, that’s become your trademark there. It's a mix of the two I'm after, that's what the psychographics are telling me. Now, the matter of salary. Obviously an increase is in order but I do suggest you get yourself an agent. I don't want to be working with you and at the same time haggling over money.

Working with him? Right, that was how the land lay. Should he bring up the question of Geoff, his position? He would finish the whitebait first. No way was he going to sell Geoff short, no, they were colleagues, had been through the late night wars together. On the other hand there was this cynical levity that Geoff seemed to depend on, and cynicism so often disguised a lack of honest straightforward ambition. A case of the English Disease writ large.

As their starters were cleared, James beat him to it. What about Geoff, Geoff Castle, he said, do you want to bring him across with you?

To be honest I hadn't really thought about it.

Thing is, I really aim to make this our flagship programme, in the context of making this station, a station to be reckoned with. Plus I suppose the last few days and our two programmes they've brought back to me exactly what I've been missing stuck upstairs. So I'd be aiming to do two days a week hands-on production and say leave Geoff, if he chooses, the other three. With the news, chat and phone-in format, it doesn't leave much space for the music and music, if you'll excuse the awful pun, is rather Geoff's forte.

Geoff, Steve said, arms out, his admiration unbounded, is Mr Music himself, encyclopedic knowledge, encyclopedic.

Quite, not a talent to be wasted, James said, toying with his veal under the mushroom and cream sauce. And I know the success of your programme has been a joint effort, but as I think we both agree, the new programme is going to be rather different.

Steve forked a leaf of lettuce, looked at the glisten of vinaigrette. He laid down his fork, picked up his glass and sipped at his sparkling water. He put down the glass.

If things pan out, you know, if for example Geoff decides that he wants to stay with the late night slot, he said, you have really got to get someone in for Johnny B, you can't expect Geoff to work miracles especially when Johnny's got his own musical agenda which isn't, to be frank, to everyone's taste.

Get rid of him, you think so?

I know so, Steve said. It was the very least he could do for his mate, the bare minimum. What, and leave him on his own to cope with an over-the-top has-been. No way José. Johnny’s style was well summed up by my ex, he said, even if she isn’t your average listener.

I should hope not, James said. He was laughing. Even if she is an ex. And she said?

As a woman, with Johnny you felt you were in danger of getting your bum pinched at any moment.

Oh no, we can’t have that, James said. Are you sitting comfortably, then we’ll begin; that’s what radio’s all about. Or it was when I was a kid.

Over espressos his tone changed, said their meeting would remain confidential. I'll call Geoff in tomorrow, tell him that I've only just made the decision and am about to inform you that I've made the choice. I can see you might be in a difficult situation otherwise, then we'll see what he says.

Steve said, he respected the fact that some decisions were managerial.

James grinned. You’ll go far, he said, I’ve known it for some time.

Driving homewards, the Euston Road was intractable. Barry taxi-driver was right. In stops and starts, Steve whiled away his spare time clawing his way to the lights by Regents Park. It was ridiculous, universal clutch wear on the cards. It was something he would get stuck into; could already hear the phone-in, those responsible for London's traffic situation would be squirming.

*

You can't tell these days with the snooker, there's so many of the young one's coming up, it's wide open, Graham said, making the effort. But you can’t beat experience. The staff canteen, lunchtime, Jack, Eric and a quiet Dave in attendance.

He could see the headline TRAGIC DJ VOWS JUSTICE and a picture underneath. A young-faced smoothie. He wasn't stupid, it was the boy crusader himself. And there, it said it, STEVE BRYANT.

But what happens if you lose the hunger, the drive? Jack’s voice.

Tragic was about right, there was nothing to him. You wondered they'd let him out of nappies, the twerp. He would read it later; when the time was right, he would read the whole article, and when he'd finished the odds were, he'd laugh. That's what he would do, in an appropriate environment, he would laugh.

Oy, Graham!

What? Jack looking at him, shaking his head like he was a hopeless case.

One of our colleague's trances, Dave said. Perhaps it's that toy train is responsible, round and round, round and round, like overdoing it on ping-pong viewing.

Ping-pong? Eric said.

What us pensioners call table-tennis, Dave said.

Don't be cheeky, I'll be long gone by the time you get any pension, Jack said.

Graham had lost the plot, take your eye of the ball for a second with this lot and you could be anywhere. You made a bloody effort to talk their nonsense and what happened! That being said however, he should not lose the plot, no sir! Pensions. Stay fit and you'll enjoy it for years, he said.

I'll drink to that, Jack said, raising his tea cup.

Ah, I see our colleague has returned to the land of the living. Welcome back to spaceship earth Graham, museum section, with your sound advice. It's not you is it, the bloke in the paper?

What bloke in the paper? Graham said. He was frowning.

Ah, I see I have your attention, stay with us. The old boy who does the health column for senior citizens, meusli, dietary supplements and spend half your day running five miles, him. Marathon man in baggy shorts.

CONTEMPT! He could see it on the page,  the boy crusader: put a sword in his hand and he'd faint.

How come you're reading health tips for pensioners? Eric said.

By the end of the working day young Eric, I have read every single word, front page to back: my stars are favourable; Bosnia's a hell-hole; ratatouille in three easy steps; Princess Di is too thin; your return on government bonds; and the current production at Covent Garden, marks out of ten. Every word. This enables me to talk a great deal and thus make up for Graham's silences. We're a team, me and Graham, isn't that right?

What?

I said we make a team, don't we Graham?

If you say so.

Said without conviction but never mind, Dave said. Maybe it did sound like new management-speak. Or old management-speak come to that, all part of the same team.

The old self-control, it was there when it was needed. In perfect nick. Dave buzzing around like a fly, and boy crusaders mouthing off, and yet he'd said nothing and made no attempt to pick up the paper. Just returned to his room for the afternoon stint. After a while the noise level rose, a school party with too much lip. His scanner picked out a girl in a leather jacket. Twelve years old and they were wearing leather jackets. What were the parents thinking of?! Didn't think at all, the half of them. He eyed up the teachers, two of them. At least he assumed they were teachers, the two adults with the group, the young bloke, hand through his hair every ten seconds as if he was God's gift, and the woman that looked like a sack in a sandals.

Leader of the gang, the girl; the rest of them, girls and boys all wanting to be in her group, waiting for her to do something, while the sack spoke to them about the 19th century house and its interior, and the man stood there as if the twelve-year olds had nothing to do with him. If it wasn't that he'd give the game away there and then, Graham would have laughed, but no, he wasn't really there at all. Leather-jacket had given him a glance, and written him off. She'd eyed up the notice and eyed up the railway, signal box, points, the platform, the station-master in his chocolate uniform, half the class watching her. Then it looked like the sack had singled her out. Heads turned and the girl shrugged, turned her eyes up to the ceiling. She turned away towards the room's exit and the class followed.

OK, no skin off his nose.

After work, he took Jack's paper from the canteen and tucked it inside the suede zip-up. Not that there was a chance of reading it on the tube, no elbow room. So? Would that upset him? Would it buggery. He would read it when he was good and ready. Safe indoors, he took off his boots and opted for a tin of spaghetti rings with mini-sausages washed down with a steaming mug of Nescafe. Only then did he unfold the paper, straighten it out and smooth the creases with his forearm. TRAGIC DJ VOWS JUSTICE. There was nothing new, no information, just him, he wasn't going to give it up, he said, the battle for justice. What, on his late night nonsense? Who wanted that!

When the man responsible is caught, which I hope and believe he will be, I'd like to tell him to his face, just how much contempt I have, how much I despise him. He's pathetic.

So, he'd put it down in black and white, the brave crusader. Sticks and stones may break my bones twerp, but names will never hurt me, and he'd been called a few names in his time, Graham had. A CO one time that had called him a sullen bastard and a dumb bastard; water off a duck's back as far as Graham was concerned. He detached the double page from the rest of the paper, scrunched it up, threw it in the flip-top waste bin.

He turned the TV back on. The adverts. He did not need dog biscuits. He glanced at the flip-top, a smile wrapped around his cheeks. Let sleeping dogs lie, he said out loud. He liked it, said it again: let sleeping dogs lie.

The adverts over, an emergency was on the go, the patient, what you could see of them, on the trolley and full of tubes. Express down a corridor, which was no time for him and her in their uniforms to be having a barney.

At which point he'd nodded off, must have done. The TV shone in the room, three people sat in a studio. He switched it off

Contempt. Pathetic. The words came up, they just came, were in his mouth. He heard them. The twerp, his words.

He moved carefully to the divan and stretched out.

Had those words really been said? They had, they were in black and white with a photo of the crusader himself. Just to make sure, he pushed himself off the divan and switched on the light. Did not hesitate to plunge his hand into the flip-top. The whole paper was smeared in spaghetti ring sauce, the balled-up page had stayed clean. Sat down on the edge of the divan, he unraveled it into a cross-creased double page. There was no getting away from it, there they were, the words, with a photo of the twat himself. A man who could be taken for an hors d'ouevre.

So. So, stop thinking about it.

Carry on corporal, decision taken. Prime time for a bit of shut-eye.

*

You win some, you lose some, oh and didn't a working girl know it. Easy enough for Matt to say it, easy enough to be smug when he had other fish to fry, pleased as punch to be telling her. Some Essex girls, he'd said, authentic, and playing in a ladies' football team. Ladies they call themselves, when it comes to football, he’d said making something of the pause. We'll follow them with the camera, the games on the pitch, then the discos and clubs. Commissioning editors like it, and the girls, sorry, the ladies, they’re keen.

Thank you very much.

Sharon, Chloe, Janine, Victoria and Sharon2, personalities all of them, according to Matt. And sexy as hell, he'd said, as if trying to provoke her. In which case, he'd been disappointed. The disappointment however was mutual, there you were, on the same wavelength as someone else, and then you weren't. Oh the prima donna queen bee-ing it, a setback yes, but Matt had been all too keen to make that terminal. As if, as if. And him saying oh he personally didn't watch the box, well maybe it didn't take much for a queen bee to get on her high horse, but that's what had started her off. She did have eyes, and some times Matt the visual artist could be as blind as a bloody statue. On a horse. Nothing was ever his fault, some you win, some you lose, he'd said. And then dismissed Katie B’s male rape thing in the Yugoslav war out of hand. Prisons in the US of A, he’d said, it’s so common it’s a cliche. At least she’d done her best, not that Katie would believe it.

But this was pointless, you picked yourself up, rubbed yourself down and started all over again. Lunch with Steve in fact. Extraordinary, it seemed like half a lifetime since she'd interviewed him, that innocent, light-hearted interview. Since when, he'd been through the mill, and she had tried to get to grips with that in her slowly evolving feature piece. No better place to be than London town, but it was wishful thinking that it was somehow immune from violence and brutality. Not that she hadn't always known. Now though, it felt as if she, they, the both of them, they had been visited by it personally.

For lunch she chose her black trousers, a grey polo neck, her leather jacket, and the  bistro in Primrose Hill.

From my days doing Eating Out columns for the magazine, then it was my bread and butter, she said.

Steve laughed, wondered how often she'd used the line.

Now of course, it's a bonus, to be asked at all, and editors, having memories that elephants only have by repute, it means I'll never get to do this place at all. But I'm just being the chatterbox, how are you Steve, it must have been terrible. And then all over the papers

She reached across the starched white tablecloth and touched his cheek lightly, saw the leanness to his face.

Ah the tabloids, where would we be without their sticky little fingers, he said. But seriously what’s happened has sobered me up, metaphorically that is because I'm strictly a white wine man myself, but that's the only way I can describe it. For example, I'm not a woman obviously, and to be honest I'm not much out on the streets at night, but at least I've started to imagine what it must be like.

If you don't have a car, very inhibiting, Angela said. Believe me.

I do. And how about you?

Oh I'm OK.

Is that so?

All right then, I'm pissed off but it's seriously trivial compared to what you've been through. So, sobered up I think you said. I can imagine. By the way, I'm not taping this but I do have a notebook, just because I'm a notebook junkie.

No tape recorder? Conduct unbecoming a professional, he said. Anyway, what’s happened, what it does is make you think about your own life, perspective and all that, what's really worth doing, you know, when death makes its presence felt and you become aware of your responsibilities. In my case, with a vengeance..

I know what you mean, it's made me think too, and write some more. When we first met neither of us can have had the slightest inkling of what was to come.

If only. And what do you want to be when you grow up Steven? A clairvoyant, that's what I'd say.

Don't be hard on yourself, the two programmes, the panel and the phone-in, you did justice to Theresa.

There's more to be done, I'm not going to let it drop, believe me. So you listened in.

Of course, a radio junkie with her notebook open.

And?

For me it's becoming a big piece of writing, I feel involved, what with knowing Fiona as well, but I thought you were great. The only mistake in my eyes was Paul Sherwood, he's such an old fart, almost a caricature. Dinosaur I would say, but it turns out they're a much-maligned genus.

Genus, right, must make a note of it, stretch the vocabulary, Steve said. Paul Sherwood, that was my boss James, his choice, though at least, give him his due Mr psychographic James, he took it seriously enough to produce personally. Must have a columnist he said, to speak up for common sense. And has now earmarked me to be a heavyweight while, this is how he talks, retaining my lightness of touch at the mike. A lightweight with a punch in a sea of mixed metaphor.

All right Steve, spit it out, what does it mean practically?

He was not going to be rushed. He took his time, looked her up and down.

It means Angela, the nine till twelve morning slot which, according to James and the psychographics, is when a Steve can be a heavyweight with a lightness of touch. It's when audiences are most receptive to that mix.

And he's right. Wow, congratulations. Sincerely.

Are they called for? At least it gives me the chance to do my best by Theresa. Anyway that's enough of me. So Miss Sinclair, this is role reversal, me asking the questions, what exactly is it that pissed you orf?

Sure you want to hear, it's very trivial.

No self-deprecation please.

Ouch ouch. Touché. All right then, a modest little project of your truly torpedoed by a small-time queen bee of the sixties.

Ah, the sixties, Steve said. He looked over imagined spectacles like he was a doctor of the old school. A most over-sold decade, he said.

Absolutely. Wow, a kindred spirit. Heresy to say it, but Maggie Thatcher did have a point.

The sixties mafia, determined it keep its status as a golden era. It's one of the things I've thought about since Theresa was murdered, how they never wanted to look at the dark sides of life. Peace and love man! Living in a never-never land where there are no evil people. Only messed up people who just needed love, acid or therapy and they'd be as right as rain. All that wishful thinking. Ooops, better get off my soap box.

I'm impressed with the rant, Angela said. So what you're saying is, rose-coloured specs. In granny-frames.

Self-indulgence was what I had in mind. Anyway, your small-time Queen Bee.

Over grilled fish, Angela outlined the story; her original idea; why and how the Jack Box crowd were different, emphasizing that early sixties was their heyday; Matt and how they had worked together before and had a small success.

He'd seen it, her previous; downfall of a seventies star. Cruel, but very funny, he said. You are, I see, a woman of many parts.

I just work hard, Angela said. And went on to describe the meeting in Henekey's. It should have been just a formality. That was before our Marjorie had got stuck into her third brandy.. Really she was being awful but technically she was OK, not falling about, but I wouldn't like to spend time in a room with her, do you know what I mean? Her minions were embarrassed too, but without her there's not enough there. Not for a documentary.

Steve nodded. He understood, he said, though he was not an expert on TV or documentaries. He asked how she fitted it all in, what with the In the Smoke number.

I did a free-lance deal with them recently, better for my tax, I'm more or less veteran status there so it's acceptable. Advantageous to them too I think. Plus I can arrange my own time to fit in other things. Can't stand still or one goes stale.

Veteran status, I’m impressed, but where are the wrinkles, the furrowed brow.

I leave them behind at the office.

Do you now? Dessert? I'm not bothering myself but…

Espresso, she said.

Snap.

Crackle.

And ditto. Just occurs to me, since you've now confessed to a double addiction, radio and the notebook, I mean maybe I shouldn't be saying this off the top of my head but perhaps you'd do something similar for me, I don't know how the contracts work, but have some input for a couple of programmes a week. Bring in some of the people you know for live stuff.

Co-incidence, good timing? Whichever way, was almost too good to be true when it would demand, positively demand, that she expand her feature piece. Book-length, she could see book-length on the horizon.

I'm very flattered, really, she said. I'd like to sleep on it, and perhaps you could be a bit more specific when we talk next.

Job specification, it's the phrase of the month. OK, but in general terms I'm talking about people and ideas for the programme, your finger on the zeitgeist.

I hope I haven’t oversold myself, it hasn’t been my intention.

So why should you think it?

A very slippery item the zeitgeist, she said.

You’ll handle it. I mean one thing I’d be looking for is not-run-of-the-mill people to have in the studio. People who can be irreverent and reflect today’s London.

She thought about it. Thought yes, she could be a help there.

And any serious things. People, themes, investigations, as and when you come up with them.

It sounds more than fair to me, let me sleep on it and then I guess look through the small print.

Get an agent for that, Steve said. Recent advice from my station head and likely part-time producer. That way he says, we don’t have to argue about money personally, so that we can instead argue about the things that really matter.

I hear what you say Steve. It sounds like a step to adulthood, having an agent.

In which case I’m all for it, you’ve convinced me, Steve said and called for the bill.

Half and half, she said.

Half and half, I remember, it was in the small print.

*

On the phone Marjorie said, No Gerry, I don’t want you coming round, and I don’t want a drink at JJ’s

Margie this is serious

I am being serious, I did not like those people, she said.

Oh I know they can come on a bit poncey, Gerry said, but that’s just prejudice what you’re saying. You’ve got to give it time, build up some rapport.

Rapport? It was like she could see his hands while she heard his voice, the diagonal boxes they were making. She was on her guard, used her upstairs and was cunning with it.

You know what Jack said, she said.

What, what did he say?

With first impressions, trust your instincts, he said, and he wasn’t talking women’s intuition neither.

And stood the test himself as far as she was concerned, until he’d gone and died on her.

Hard for Gerry when it was Jack had spoken but he gave it a go.

And what if you’re wrong, he said, with your first impressions?

Then if, once in a blue moon, and that’s an if Gerry, you sort it out later.

Margie if we’re not careful there ain’t going to be any later.

Like a dog with his bone he was.

Then I’ll stay with the instinct, she said and put down the phone.

As it was, she was on a promise, an open fire and an Irish stew for Martin; both accomplished, the stew only to be heated. Sly Marjorie, like she'd set her own test and passed. It was possible, she had considered it, that he was a cunt-teaser the way he’d said it when he’d driven her home the other night from Henekey’s, how he’d fancied her like crazy all those years ago. Scared to death of Jack at the time, he’d said, which was reasonable for anyone with just an ounce of nous. No, if she’d thought it at all, cunt-teaser, it was more because she’d felt herself oiling up with her knight in shiny armour as he got her out of the mess at Henekey’s and brought her home like she was still special. It was her, it had been a long time since there’d been a man. Her and the way he’d done it, no questions asked. Get me out of here, she’d said, and that’s what he’d done and no messing.

Que sera and all that. The phone rang, it went on ringing as the door bell chimed, his bell at her door. At his feet a wine box.  Inside he said, Aren’t you going to answer it.

No, she said. Let me take your coat.

The phone rang on.

Would it be bold of me if I pulled the damn thing out of its socket, she said.

Bold? We haven’t even had a drink yet. Anyway, it’s your home, your phone.

She hung up his coat and lead the way upstairs. The phone stopped, a ring that you didn’t know was the last till there was silence.

I’ll pull it out anyway, she said in the kitchen. You choose a bottle from that handsome box and open it.

That business back in Henekey’s is it that, he asked when she was back and doing her thing, plates on the kitchen table, the pot off the gas stove and served out.

That’s in the past, she said.

Ah, the past. That’s where I’m from

Well that’s a mercy. It’s taken far too long to sink into my poor old upstairs, until yesterday or the day before in fact, all those years, that unless you’re asleep and the dreams happen whether you like it or not, with the past, it doesn't have to be hovering about, haunting you. You can open or close it, your decision.

I shall hope that I am past and present, he said. A series I did once, Past and Present, the lord upstairs or the head butler below, I don’t remember which was me now. I’ve become versatile.

All power to your elbow, we’ll eat here, you can have your fire afterwards and be yourself.

The fire for dessert?

As an extra, we do run to fruit and nuts, coffee if you must.

We?

Me and the house, a person lives on their own and that’s the way we speak. Not your situation obviously.

Mostly it is, he said, but I have the son and daughter now and then, when they feel like it, their London crash pad.

Don’t tell me about them, not this evening. If we do open the past, lets take it slowly.

She watched him, the nod of agreement, and felt her upstairs in tune with what she wanted, that whatever happened it would be all right: a handsome man, happy in his own skin, wrinkles and all.

In by the fire after a pear and compliments to the cook, he opened another bottle, another Medoc.

And compliments to the fire-maker while I’m about it.

I’ve often thought, she said, what a special comfort the fire must have been to early men and women, Neanderthals, hunters or whatever they were, when there cannot have been much else by way of pleasure. Not that they had the coal which you need for the quieter fire like this one. Stands to reason when it's a mature fuel. Took centuries to get how it is. Not like the snap, crackle and pop of fresh timber.

The wine was velvet and the handsome man interested in what she said.

Important too, fire, and recognized as such by the people who wrote it down, he said. The Greeks.

Across the fire he told her the story of Prometheus who’d stolen it from the Gods in a stalk of fennel.

I played him once, on Social Security wages as penance for some well-paid Shocker. A minor penance in comparison. Imaginative sadism I think, to be chained to a rock and have your liver pecked by birds every day, then restored at night so that pecking could re-commence.

A bitchy lot, those Gods, she said.

Indeed, no angels nor pie-in-the-sky for those Greeks.

But the liver business, restored to normal for every morning, you said.

As I remember.

A drinker’s fantasy, she said, wishful thinking they call it. I’m too scared to go for a liver check-up myself.

She stood up from her chair and turned away. Oh Martin, she said, where’ve you been all these years, telling me things and making me laugh.

No talking about the past tonight, your rules, remember.

Quite right, she said.

With the poker she opened out the embers: with the scoop, added coal. She poured more wine into his glass, then her own.

While I’ve got you here, a professional, tell me about film noir. I’m not one for the morbid stuff myself but it came up in conversation, and now I’m curious.

Oh insurance fraud, life insurance that is, that’s how it was in the only role I’ve had in that line; money, betrayal, and desperate sex.

We don’t want any of that, she said.

What?

Was there an expectation of disappointment in his voice, had she heard that?

Desperation, she said, even if it has been a long time. For me that is.

He’d leant forward, his face close to hers across the fire. What a waste, he said.

Don’t say that Martin, I told you I’m not one for the morbid, but I like you, I like you as you are now, she said, her fingers in his spiky white hair, her palm on his warm skull.

That’s lucky for me, he said. He was on his knees, kneading her shoulders. Who knew how lucky she might be, and her shoulders never ache again. Even so her upstairs spoke up.

I’m too old for the floor however, she said, but don’t want to lose the fire, Let me make up the divan here. In the meanwhile, to show you just how much I like you, I’m going to throw the last of my stock of wood on the fire. Give us some flames. The not-wise not-virgin.

Whatever you say, he said. He was laughing. And in my meanwhile I can watch your every graceful move. Giddy expectation whirls me round.

Not until I’m back with the sheets, she said. What would you have thought if they’d been here to hand?

That the stage had been set.

Well it wasn’t, she said.

But downstairs to the airing cupboard she was hurrying. How easy to lose the moment, how stupid, and end up as the spare cunt at the post-mortem.

No, not funny, it had once happened.

Stretching the sheets across the sprung-out divan, she made light of it. That was the cooling off period, she said. Time for second thoughts.

I haven’t had them, he said.

No pressure either, she said. As it comes, we don’t have to do anything.

No rushing, no crushing we’d say when the stalls were half empty. He was taking his clothes off like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Do you do this often, she said, sat on the bed.

Every day before sleep, unless completely rat-arsed. He folded his trousers and lay them over the back of the chair.

She watched, took in the whole length of his back and stood up herself, unzipped her skirt and let it fall. There was no fanfare, he’d dropped his pants in one easy move, left them on the floor. She saw his cock at ease in a nest of black and white hair. She liked it, the way it just sat there, it had been quite a while, and then pulled off her sweater so he could see all of her too, all her curves in the slip.

Oh skin on skin, skin on silky slip. They lay on top of the sheets, warmed by the fire. Its shadows fluttered around the walls while he breathed her in, and she pulled him close till their foreheads touched and their eyes were furry zones of sparkle.

You can’t imagine how often I fantasized this moment when I knew you before, he said.

I’m no fantasy, and no acting mind.

My good and faithful friend my penis, is the one part of me that cannot act, that will not, that goes its own way.

He had lifted the hair away from her neck, twisted over to plunge his face into the back of it. His hand went down, fingers curved to the curve of her pussy through the smooth sheen of her slip. They rested there and she trusted its touch, no desperation and the fingers of another real, warm person fit snug to her body. She turned to half face him, eased down a strap from her shoulder to reveal the curve of her breast. Could feel his cock now, crossing the hem to touch the soft skin of her thigh, his free hand now on the other side, palming her bum. It came naturally, like riding a bike they said, the way she found her nipple with her finger and felt an instant spring along the thigh, his cock and how they locked eyes and her oiling up with the steady calm of his touch that had brought the clitoris out and ready for more loving. A man with happiness inside, she could see it in his eyes that were grey with flecks of colour in that grey, and open to her. And excited by her, soaking her up. She stroked her nipple, she tantalized his, her finger hovering, then the slightest stroke and all the time he had her see-sawed in his hands. His blood was up, his cock was up, she danced on it with her nails and was as young as could be. His hand pushed up her slip scrunched into the small of her back, went round and round.

Round and round and his fingers till there with the quiet touch. She was roused up, she was oiled, she held his prick and helped it into the slippery, felt it soft and strong at the tip till it was her own juice opened up and let him in.

His cock, it had never lied and was happy inside, growing from the very being there, the velvet scrape. They lay side to side, her leg underneath, and did not move. He saw a young woman, he said, and felt at home. She moved cushions for him so that there was no strain to the neck, stroked his cheek, said he was welcome and where had been hiding all these years. He said nothing, Martin, star of stage, screen and TV, said nothing and felt like a king, his free hand, his fingers, feeling out the shape, the weight of her breast that was slippery under the silk. Slid around it till he picked it out, the covered nipple, touched its tip, felt her breathing move on up and her free hand move on down to her pussy. Her move, it surged his cock. Surged it.

She pulled his face close to hers, smelled his foxy smell except her leg now, it was numb. She said it, it was old age and could they change sides.

Wow! It was wow all round how they did it and stayed, his cock proud to stay inside. Wow. And she knew it turned him on, her fingers on her clit, when he knew that he was filling her up, till she was filled and throbbing, filled and throbbing, filled and throbbing and and Whoosh.

Whoosh

Whoosh.

Poosh

Oosh

Ooosh

She was in her own room, it was all she knew and hardly a flicker from the fire but still the shapely shapes playing on the wall.

Oosh.

But you didn’t come, she said.

Next time

But Martin

Margie, he said, his cock still and firm inside, I’ve been in paradise, so, next time. Let me just hold you some more. Smell you some more.

Ah Martin, Martin. You’re much more handsome than you look in those TV things I’ve seen of yours.

Oh you admit it do you, you, you have seen me. Well if the make-up people could hear you now, they’d have hysterics.

Fortunately Martin, they cannot hear me, so I can say what I like. And me, I’m one step ahead, I do the lighting. You think the fire was just for you, ah you poor sap, it was to hide my wrinkles.

She brushed his nose with a finger. Stay with me, sleep with me, she said, even if you are trouble.

Trouble, me?

Actorly Martin but I don’t care, just stay with me and keep me warm this night.

*

The daytime call from Geoff, the suggestion to meet up in the pub behind the studio an hour before work began, it was not unexpected, but no less unappealing for that. It was simply something that had to be faced. A not-over-the-moon Geoff according to an earlier call from James.

Driving east the traffic was light. From the station’s share of a parking lot, he made his way through postal workers, new-wave artisans, and edge-of-the-city gents. Still crowded, The Eagle’s Saloon Bar. Geoff waved him over to a window corner.

All right Steve, I got you a pint in advance you can see what the bar’s like. I’ve just got rid of a rather tight pin-stripe myself.

What, already. What’s the city coming to. And what was his gripe.

No, he wasn’t the one with a gripe, he was giving me a tip, buy stock in Durex.

And why should you be doing that?

Geoff leaned forward. It smelled like he’d had one or two himself. AIDS Steve, AIDS. Nasty primitive old condoms are back in fashion and here, unlike the Gents in autobahn caffs where the machines range from two marks fifty for Parisian Nights to one mark for Anti-Baby, here the name of the game is Durex.

Steve sipped at his beer, relaxed, vindicated. He’d summed Geoff up and he’d got it right. AIDS was a serious issue. Very. And what did you get from him, you got cynicism.

Anyway congratulations are in order I believe. I would have got in champagne but we don’t want to be gross do we, not our style.

You’ve got good ears around the place, I only heard myself a couple of hours ago.

Really, you surprise me. I may or may not be surprising you myself, when I say that I will not be coming with you.

What? Why? Yes, you are surprising me, why ever not?

Geoff gave him a long look, then turned away. Bar noise rose and fell away. When he turned back, he spoke to a square of smoky blue air above Steve’s shoulder.

His nibs, James Barclay himself, he had me in today. Told me of your move and offered me 3 days a week with you plus some weekend rota duty.

Three days?

You really don’t know this, really? What’s happened to man-management these days. Yes, three days, he wants Monday and Friday himself, and could I cope with that, but underneath the flim-flam -- if you listened to everything he said you’d be wanting a translator on hand -- underneath two and two still make four and he doesn’t want me at all. Told me how great I was with the music, if he told me once he told me fifty times and then tells me several times, because I’m just a dumb producer who obviously needs telling the same thing over and over, that on your new slot the music will be taking a very back seat. So I said no thanks, I’ll stick to our slot.

I see, so I’ll be out on my own.

No Steve, you will not be on your own, you’ll have his nibs twice a week and no doubt a very competent producer for the rest of it, maybe Jim Plant will stay on, but whoever it is will know their job.

It’s a lot to take in, Steve said. He was looking with interest at his beer. But what, you’re stuck with Johnny.

No, Johnny, his days are numbered too, Geoff said. Doesn’t piss about our Mr Barclay. No I’m in next week to hear some demo tapes, Yes, just like I heard yours, what, a couple of years back. Good judgment eh, I gave you the thumbs up.

All right, all right then, lay it on.

And for which I’m still grateful, Steve said.

Don’t bother, it’s all part of the job and even though I have had a pint or two and had my ears battered by one pin-stripe, I have come up with a talk and phone-in which I think will suit the present requirement for nothing raucous while in keeping with the particular style of the Steve Bryant show.

Steve’s grin was friendly, asked what was lined up.

Some consumer rights woman on the techniques of Encyclopedia salesmen, they do series of magazines too it seems, try to get you signed up. That to be followed by a phone-in on same, should net some good stories about how to get rid of them. You remember that bloke was on about it that night.

Whatever else, Geoff was a pro, a real old trouper. It was good, Steve had to admit it, a service to the community with a few laughs thrown in.

Great, he said.

I’ll see you in the office then, show you the chart, ten minutes, Geoff said and walked away.

Steve breathed out, decided he was entitled to finish the pint. He felt like laughing out loud.

Only the bloke, what bloke? Encyclopedia salesmen, getting rid of them. Oh! Theresa night! That night, who you would not want at the door, and one caller, it had been them, those salesmen.

Oh! At the end of the day, a penny dropped, did drop. Geoff was having a little dig at him. He was having a dig. Theresa, the same night and that on top of his ‘Thumbs Up’. OK Geoff, you have your fun, it won’t be for long. What did they want from him, a hair shirt?

*

`

Amazing what a state you could get in, even an experienced man kept awake half the night, just when your optimum routine was as much sleep as possible. Amazing how easy the solution to that problem, and how easy it had been to track down the twat. Not so amazing that bit, not really, wonderboy himself, the whole security set-up at the radio station, slack or what?! Hadn't got a clue! Early hours of the morning, out the station he comes, an eight-berth company car park, into a silver Audi, straight line to Maida Vale, block of flats, and turns the light on inside. Bottom floor, left hand side and bob's your uncle. Got him taped and slept like a baby ever since. And he didn't have to do anything except, to wrap it up, get the twerp out of his mind once and for all, give the place a day-time look-see.

Things fell into place as they did, the rota went round, and his day off came up on a bright sunny morning. Cold, but it felt good to be out in the open, sheepskin on, the old mind brisk and alert. He circled the area, St Johns Wood to the north, down through Kilburn and back up from the Harrow Road to the Edgware Road. He drove on, a tighter circle this time, no main roads where possible. One-ways were noted and parking seen to be a potential problem area. Residents Only till 5.30, here-there-and-everywhere noted as he homed in on the objective, the flat in question. CCTV? At a first glance very little. It would be the point of focus on a later recce. Time did not enter the equation: the job, the boy crusader taped, it would take as long as it took.

The street running along the front of the relevant block had Residents Only applied to kerb side parking. There were vacant spaces in the white-lined area where the rules allowed him to park if he stayed in the hatchback. No silver Audi present however. And who wanted a chat with a traffic warden who might have a memory. Who wanted a chat with a traffic warden period. Didn’t matter anyway, he wasn’t going to be doing anything. What, give the twat a slap?! No Thank You!

He drove round the block. By the side wall and windows of the flats, the street had a strip of Pay and Display parking. He would pay for an hour’s worth at the machine which whirred out a ticket to stick in the windscreen. He walked away from the mansion block. He strolled. The canal fairly sparkled under the autumn sun, the paint of the houseboats gleamed. He crossed a hump-backed bridge and turned back on himself. No silver Audi present, no time like the present. He walked up to the front entry of the flats, saw twelve bells numbered. In through the glass of the upper-half entry door, a carpeted vestibule. No desk, no old boy sat there, concierge or whatever they called themselves. The twat’s own door to the left, had to be, a crusader that couldn’t watch his own arse.

Out on the main road he bought a paper and continued in leisurely fashion back to the hatchback. Ten minutes left on his ticket. Sarajevo was under snow. They laid it on thick, old dears that didn't dare go out breaking up their furniture to keep the fire going.  What were they on about when the UN was there wasting everyone’s time and money with handouts. And who was this?! The twerp himself with his soppy grin. What was he up to, taking blankets to Bosnia? No. Oh. He’d moved to a new slot it said, morning times. He key-turned the ignition, switched on the radio and jumped stations with the pre-sets.

Him, his voice.

Dinosaur industries, you know, steel, shipbuilding, heavy but obsolete.

He switched off. When he switched back on, the crusader was still talking.

Come on guys, lets speak one at a time. The point Sir Derek is making is that you don’t have a monopoly on compassion, but that out there in the real world, competition is tough, you can’t argue with that, can you?

Look we understand the market, we’re not dinosaurs, it’s just that we say it is compatible with a full use of human resources. It’s with them that we can compete.

There you are, they are not dinosaurs, it couldn’t be clearer. How do you respond to that?

He would say that, wouldn’t he. Fact of the matter is, you can’t cheat the markets, and if you look at the reality…

He switched off the radio, checked his side mirror and pulled out. Wouldn’t be back for a while, smoothie Steve wouldn’t. He’d look in on him later. Make a final pin-down of the Crusader so that he could say what he liked, and it would all be water off a duck’s back as far as Graham was concerned.

Meandering in the hatchback he drove past houses with pillars, houses with doorsteps and then one freshly painted, a whole front in lemon-yellow and pink. Blacks, had to be blacks, loud like they wanted to live inside an ice-cream. A little further on, tall and straight, a proper old church spire with a proper walled churchyard. Taken advantage of by the alkis, three of them on a bench, clutching their Tennants and Special Brew like it was mammy’s tit and scared to let go. And…

Christ! He’d braked, just like that, nearly stalled. Behind, the Saab in close-up in the mirror working his horn and shaking his fist. All right. All right. He took the first left and stopped in the first kerb side space available. The Saab, window open, the black face with the gold chain round the neck calling him every name under the sun. All right. All right. He would not respond. Waited for it to pass on and then was out of the hatchback in one smooth move. The single yellow was faded, was hardly visible. He would take the risk, argue the toss, whatever it took, and was running back the way he had come.

The corner of the churchyard wall in sight, he slowed to a crafty stroll. The drinkers were still there on the bench, them and the woman, bent shoulders in the cheap coat. His Mind’s Eye, it had been Instamatic from the hatchback, she was just as he had seen her. Only maybe she was one of the drinkers too, and who wanted that, stinking of piss and likely to start ranting and raving at any moment. Picking up sticks is what she was doing, bits of branch off of the churchyard grass. When she stood up she was perfect, was just waiting for it. Well, she would have to wait a little longer. And if she was an alki, she could wait for ever. An alki or a bag lady, no chance.

In fact it was some kind of basket she had. Not that that proved anything, quite possible that there were bag ladies with baskets. And alkis with baskets. Only she looked so perfect and his knob was a handful under the boxers, he could feel it.

He had reached the end of the wall. He hovered; looked at his watch; looked irritated; and turned back. She was leaving, making for the gate, the right shoulder stooped that bit the more with the weight of the basket.

Are you not warm enough at night missus, a drinker shouted, the usual red face under matted hair.

Did she say something back, he could not hear, but she was scurrying now out towards the Harrow Road. The Minds Eye glimpsed Traffic Wardens, a pack of them descending on a defenceless hatchback. So be it, because this, her, this might be destiny, might very well be because she had no other bags, pushed no supermarket trolley. He had kept a distance behind, she might be talking to herself true enough, but his knob said different. It was out through the cock-flap of his boxers, the tip grating on his trousers zip. He pushed at it, felt it through his trousers, and wiggled his thighs to get it back through the flap.

Her scurry was serious now, the shoulders bent with the exhaustion of it all, a life with nothing in it, He was nearly caught out by the speed of her right turn but not him, not Graham, he was not going to be cheated, not this old hand. They were in West Ten the street sign said. He followed at a distance, as was his democratic right. Then she was down steps, he saw the key out as he passed, and into the basement door. The paintwork was decent, this was no bag lady, this was destiny.

FIVE

On air Steve said, So tell me, don’t be coy. We can stand the truth.

You know what it’s like man, Adrian Smith said. He was doing his hippy voice. Like we’ve got to put our egos out to grass man.

Excess baggage.

Right man, or wow, guru should I say, excess baggage, where’d you find a line like that Steve?

Up the junction.

Wait a minute mate, ever heard of upstaging?

No, said Steve. He was laughing.

Well you just did it and I have to say that where I come from, that means some wiseguy’s not content with putting your ego out to grass, he wants to send it into orbit…

The astronomous, the astronautical Adrian Smith.

And let me tell you ladies and gentlemen, there’s not much nutrition out in orbit, not much of an audience either come to think of it.

Sorry Adrian, the stats show different, they do, and I’m as perplexed as the next man, why the Steve Bryant show? Why us?  Answer because we’ve braved the galaxies and brought back the best, for a start we’ve brought back Adrian Smith. What was that planet of yours, dying I believe you say.

Out of range of the Steve Bryant Show is the root of the problem, that’s what they say.

Flattery will get you nowhere, whoops wrong again Adrian, it will get you the traffic news. Delays to be expected on the eastbound M40. And they call that news? Highbury corner. When are they ever going to ditch that zebra. Political correctness gone mad. Or are you all for Pedestrian Power Adrian?

Right now I’m more interested in Adrian power, you know, getting a word in edgeways, that kind of thing.

Behind the glass with the shoulders, with voice in the cans, James was saying, give the guy a break, let him do his stuff.

Adrian, it’s a Friday morning and you are a mind-shaker of mind-shakers, Fridays are just waiting to be that mite more productive. So how was it in the old days of alternative stand-up, if we can talk about the old days to one in his youthful prime?

The wild old days Steve is what I’d call them, a fiver at the end of the night if you were lucky, a fiver marinated in beer lager slop and handed over in a dressing room with all the spaciousness of a phone-box. Stand up comedian? I should coco, more like being the coconut in the old fairground shy. You know, dead witty audiences with lines like, ‘Get your haircut you long-haired pouf’ audiences to which one’s medical advisor did not recommend a comeback like, Dictatorship of the coiffure is it pal. No sir. Now as you got a bit more upmarket…

Upmarket? How far are we going?

To places where you did actually get your packet of three when you’d put your nickel in the nickelodion down there in the Gents.

And the range on offer upmarket from the Anti-Baby brand no doubt, though to be fair, that does get to the point.

The point Steve was, correct me if I’m wrong, the sophistication of my audience you serial upstager you.

Steve had half a mind to go for the jugular, Adrian’s TV ad, very off-beat of course, Mr and Mrs Wheatflake and baby Wheatflake, but an ad was an ad. He held it in check. Adrian was an Angela connection and he didn’t want to be pissing her off, not at this stage when, on a part-time basis, she’d bedded into the team, impressed James and reached her own deal with him, James talking flagship programme and flagship programming.

So now I’d be getting a heckle like, Want to borrow a wit-sharpener mate. Not off the back of your lorry squire, I’d say and they’d pipe down for a bit. A great training ground, survive there and you could survive anywhere. The Sahara? No problem..

You have ambitions in that direction, camels and adventure?

Not much of an audience, the Sahara, I prefer the ones where you get provincial graffiti in the gents like ‘Stuff your angst up your…’ Whoops, never knew there were so many banana skins on a studio floor…sorry Missus P out there in Hendon, sorry, but Stuff your angst up your jumper Adrian, that’s all we ask for, the poor suffering Adrians of this world., the one of us on tour that is, last night it was two men and their dog in Bangor. Two men? The police are investigating. Which didn’t stop the dog, the wiseguy. And who’s been rattling your cage Kierkegaard, it said.

Well just before the switchboards are in gridlock mode lets have a break, don’t know about you but I’m breathless, a rollercoaster of innuendo, indiscretion, and sharp observation what! All that and a cheeky dog. Ladies and gentlemen, as they say on the box, ladies and gentlemen, Adrian Smith! Cue canned applause.

Good for James, he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, there it was, canned laughter on cue. Seemed to get a buzz out of it, being hands-on. Rare for him to be doing what he called ‘the light stuff’, but this week that’s how it had worked out. Serious people, they had diaries, of course they did, couldn’t always be available on a Monday or a Friday just because that’s what James wanted.

And just to get our breath back, no wheezing down the phones please, the King himself, Elvis Presley, Return to Sender.

Middle of the week he had Gerry Plant to work with. Not a natural for the serious stuff, Gerry said it himself, but he kept things moving, gave Steve his head and once in a while would come up with something himself. The off-beat astrologer they’d had on last week, her for one. If your stars don’t look good, stay in bed all day, she’d said, a feisty old dear with huge earrings. Sounds like common sense, he’d said to that, but where does that leave the work ethic, protestant or otherwise? Up the proverbial creek.

And , he’d got his own ace in the locker, Barry the taxi-driver, a radio natural, a gem.

James came through on the earphones. First caller ready and waiting.

A classic. A blimp.

You sir, and the great unwashed, maybe enjoying this disgusting tripe but as a license-payer I can honestly say it is a disgrace.

The great unwashed, listeners, Adrian, what do you say to that?

Wash every day Steve and twice behind the ears. As for you sir, you are insulting the person of my mother who brought me up proper and with impeccable standards of hygiene.

And I second that emotion, Steve said

Back home from work, Graham tucked into fish and chips washed down by a mug of Nescafe. A spur of the moment decision but well timed nevertheless, a hover, and then a quick move into an empty moment to splash out on a large rock salmon, the transaction fast and clean: order given clearly; wrapped, no salt or vinegar; warm package received; pre-sorted correct money handed over; and all the while knowing that if the wop doing the wrap and sizzle tried on any small talk, he would run into a Graham who’d had quite enough small talk for one day.

In the privacy of his own home after a day’s work, he squirted on his own vinegar, sprinkled his own salt. He ate, he sipped and did not, not for a moment, did he think of West Ten. He washed up plate, knife, fork and mug and dried them with a tea towel. A man of leisure. A relaxed man. You had worried when certain things were said, phone-ins, forensics, that kind of thing, even when you knew it was all moonshine. Coincidence too, that possibility could niggle away even when it was fantastical. Worry over nothing as it turned out, as it was bound to turn out when seen in the cold light of day. The boy crusader too, not a squeak out of him on the subject, not since then.

A relaxed man, but he would not think of West Ten: for the time being. Instead he reviewed his options and switched on the television.  What, and they called that news?! He flipped channels. On screen a rabbit thing with big ears, big feet and brown fur. It was hopping about around some trees in the half light. You could hear it, the big feet on the ground. Amazing, you had to hand it to them, the sound quality they could get these days, the close-ups. And you learned something, not like the soaps and all the other rubbish which for   the most of them, it was all they could manage.

Summertime in Alaska and as dusk falls the snowshoe hare emerges among the abundance of woody plants that are its diet.

Spoken in a soft voice which was obvious, had to be when you were that close-up and couldn’t afford to disturb, like the snooker commentators who told you what you could already see for yourself. Greener than you’d think by the looks of it, Alaska, miles and miles of it. Grew up fast the young ones, had no choice did they, the mothers didn’t have much time for them, not with another litter due any day. It was their nature, bred like rabbits.

Up at the kitchenette area to make a Nescafe he kept an eye on the TV. West Ten? She hadn’t even entered his head.

Independent the youngster might be, but it’s the period of a snowshoe hare’s life when it’s at its most vulnerable.

Surprise surprise!

Up in the trees were red squirrels. Now that was something he hadn’t seen for a fair few years, the grey ones had taken over, which at the end of the day was only natural, it was survival of the fittest. The grey ones these days, bold as brass, he’d seen them, walking across the road like they owned the place.

The snowshoe is faced with many a predator but for the youngster, there’s a surprise enemy.

Sat back down with his coffee he watched a red squirrel eyeing up one of the youngsters. Heard its sudden move, the scraping, the leap the teeth in the back of the neck and it was all over. And then, like it was a bag of nuts, took the corpse back up its tree. Stored it away for a rainy day. And there were people out there sorry for the red squirrel. Soft hearts, soft thinking as a consequence

West Ten was hovering, he could sense her there. Well she could wait. Oh yes. Restraint, that was his game. Turned white the snowshoe did, when winter came around. Camouflage, blend with the surroundings. Well of course you did unless you were looking for trouble and wanted to stand out. Nocturnal too half the time. But with that many hungry predators, at the end of the day you did have to wonder just how much good it would do.

This one now, it could sense trouble, you could see it. Stood stock still hoping the big shadow was going to not notice and pass on by. Not for Graham, no sir. Who were they kidding?! Hoping?! No mileage in that..

Got away with it this time OK but it could have easily gone the other way. Now this one, this one was in real trouble.

The bobcat moves silently. It is a solitary hunter that uses ambush tactics. It needs to catch its prey unawares and get in close. But this time the snowshoe’s sense have been awakened, something is amiss and off it goes.

It ran, it jumped, it jumped in a bloody river and swam. Hares that could swim, now that was something you didn’t learn every day, but the bobcat thing had given up anyway.

Stamina is not the bobcat’s strong suit and he must start all over again or it’s gong to be one very hungry animal. For predator and prey alike, Alaska can be a tough life.

The camera-work, it was an eye-opener, what it could see at night, on the ground and up in the sky. Infra-red technology it would be. Always look out for the cameras oh yes, what they were capable of. He did it as a matter of course, looked for the CCTVs, assessed their range of vision when observed. Of course he did, what did they take him for?!

The great horned owl, king of the sky, patrols the Alaskan vastness, scouring its contours for his next meal.

She’d got in, West Ten had, he could see her on the edge of his Mind’s Eye and for now, that was far enough. He would hold her there, her in the manky old coat. She could wait her turn, because this was nature in the raw. The way they filmed it now, it was almost like you were there, and who knew, he might even get a bit of sensible conversation with his so-called colleagues, that is if any of them had been bothered to watch.

Tooth and claw. The old owl up there, night-sights for eyes. It was coming down fast, you could hear its wings. Must have felt the shadow, the hare, you could hear the scuffle and the screech, but by then it was too late. Airpower, you can run but you can’t hide, not even a hare that could zig-zag as fast as it could go, not once you’d been spotted: No chance. At the end of the day, no chance..

He stood up, turned off the television and washed the mug at the sink, put the milk carton back in the mini-fridge. Took his own good time over it, turning off the light and lying down on the divan. There she was, waiting where he’d held her, the Mind’s Eye focus clear and sharp. The coat, the slump of the shoulders, the old sticks of wood. He pulled down the zip of his slacks, took his time over it, undid the clip at the waist. She was walking with tired legs into the center of his vision. His knob was half-flaccid, half alive, he could feel it through the cock-flap of his boxers. Then it was out. He took his time, placed the palm of his hand under its length. Left it there still as could be, left his cock to grow on its own. West Ten, what a life, what a waste.

*

Katie B was in town: a week, two, three -- she wasn’t sure -- and was staying with friends. Angela took the call just as she was putting the final touches to a Docklands piece, regeneration with a difference. Go East Young Man, someone had said and it was perfect, a headline that captured the tone of her feature.

What’s it to be, lunch, dinner, or a walk, she said.

How about lunch and a walk or the other way round, or is that being greedy, Katie B said.

Ah Katie, Katie, you mock, walk first, weather permitting, then lunch, my treat, how’s that?

After they made the arrangements  Angela switched on the Answerphone and got back to her piece, the fine cut. The river was bothering her, old father Thames. It was as wide as…what? As the ocean? Obviously not. As wide as a barrow-boy? It was tempting. It did tempt.

She was thinking freeway, as wide as a freeway, a freight-laden freeway that was, when the phone rang, went into her own message and then it was Matt’s voice. How was she; he was really really sorry about the Jack Box thing but what could he do; incidentally what was she doing; there were some projects in the pipeline which…

Matt, hi, she said.

Filtering your calls?

Trying to get some work done, how else?

In which case I’m flattered, I must be a deserving case.

When you make a pitch Matt it is at least entertaining, usually that is.

I can do without stings in the tail, poor Matt does not want to be in anyone’s doghouse, does not want to be Matt the mutt, is just about skirting said certification. Oh, it’ll just about pass muster, but those Essex girls have been more than a tad tamer than they appeared to be. Tamer than their talk.

Hard for a working girl not to think Hubris, hard not to say, I might have known, hard indeed to repress a little crow, but she was a professional and said nothing.

Seems that football precludes a really decadent lifestyle. Not what one had been lead to believe. It’ll get scheduled, no problem there, but commissioning editors aren’t going to be in desperate pursuit of poor Matt on the strength of it.

She said it anyway. Some you win, some you lose, she said.

Thank you Angela, I shall assume you are being stoical on my behalf. But we rise from the ashes and I thought you might be interested, modern feminist angle. Prostitutes yes, I’ve met up with some who are keen. Either they’re very responsible or they don’t like being undercut. Pros against the amateurs if you’ll excuse the pun, that’s their line. I was thinking of you to front the programme Angela, on screen.

She explained to him just how much there was on her plate, not just the magazine but an almost more than part-time radio gig but yes, she was interested, did not want to spend the rest of her life being an ideas person. A meeting was set for the following week, and she got back to the Thames. But it was stale, you could fine cut just a little too much. On screen? That would take a bit of time to absorb, what that might mean. One thing was sure, she was not going to be just some mouthpiece. In the meanwhile there was Katie B and the truth was, well, kind of edgy she supposed. Lunch? Fine, in a restaurant but she’d been guilt-tripped into a walk as well and on a walk, no protection from one long harangue. OK the chances were it would piss down, and in a restaurant, even with someone like Katie B, only so much haranguing could be done. ‘If I’m not being greedy.’ Sly Katie, and she had allowed it to happen, guilt-tripped yet again.

But when they met on a cold, cloudless morning down at the Kingsland Road end of the Regents Canal it was a quiet Katie who was thin and, not to put too fine a point on it, had, it seemed, turned middle-aged in a very short space of time. What a pleasure it was, she said, just to be walking on a quiet London morning and seeing a garden here, a factory there and then, best of all, Victoria Park.  Would it be all right she asked, if they made a diversion and walked in the park.

They could adjust their plans and if Katie didn’t mind a pub lunch, they could take in most of the park, Angela said, and she could still be on schedule for her late afternoon meetings. It was hard to say if Katie heard, transfixed it seemed by two boys mucking about with a football, and then a mother with pram and a quiet dog in tow. And when the pitch did come over a surprisingly good shepherds pie, a pitch she knew was bound to happen, it was from a humble Katie B.

It was hard, Kate said, she knew that, hard to get any kind of space to convey what she’d seen and what she knew. She was grateful to Angela, and a few other friends, who had, she knew, tried their very best to find some kind of slot for what she’d written.

Angela was nodding. Trivialisation, she said, unfortunately spreading like a weed.

But, Katie said, she was hoping that while she was here, something might be possible.

It was a difficult situation, how could one say anything at all without raising hopes that might then be disappointed. If she hadn’t had so much on her plate, she could perhaps have talked to Steve or James beforehand; as it was, it would depend on their reaction, one which could not be guaranteed. That’s how she put it to Katie, no guarantee, but she was involved with the radio station’s main morning programme and would put it to them.

Katie was grateful, she said it, really grateful because the situation on the ground was desperate. I'm amazed, she said, that the Bosnian army, rag, tag and bobtail as it is, amazed that it has continued to hold out. If we can just get through this winter.

Angela noted the 'we' and stuck to the point, a possible radio programme. The format varies, she said, but I’d guess with something as serious as this there would be someone to balance what you’re saying…

Balance, Katie said, like Angela had said the most stupid thing in the world. Then she was smiling, saying, of course, no of course she understood.

If it does go ahead I think you’ll find that Steve who hosts the show is fair, and in my experience, not sexist.

Katie was nodding.

And he’s very keen on such a discussion being followed by a phone-in, and I have to say, I’ve become quite a fan of the phone-in, Imperfect of course like all the institutions of democracy, but that’s what it is.

*

Just like that, like the very funny funny-man said, the big feller with the fez; her and Martin, just like that. In the morning he’d has his cum, come like a train and taken her along for the ride. All that when her poor pussy had started out sore, the vagina out of practice. Cunning Martin, cunning cunnilingus, his tongue coming up on her till she’d forgotten the pain, all oiled up.

Not a one-off either, and his only known vice, a motorbike for when the car could be avoided. She supposed it was only natural in a relationship, there had to be something to worry about. She supposed too that it was a relationship like they said these days. It had been several weeks, her and Martin; Christmas was coming up and had taken her by surprise.. Since then, the most recent morning when she’d felt his special sleeping warmth, her nose in the curls at the back of his head, herself moulded round his bum, since then they were The Old Irregulars; Marjorie’s words Taken with a pinch of salt, hoping it wasn’t tempting fortune.

Something had happened, to be waking up in the dark mornings when he wasn’t there in the bed thinking these things, whether Old Irregulars, just to say it, was going a step too far. And then the next moment saying: Thanks be, when you knew his cock couldn’t lie to save itself. Because she did know, had once tried to rouse him when he was exhausted and out of sorts.

Outdoors, the December afternoon was bright. She could see her breath like it was a cartoon bubble into which a person could speak Donald Duck and aimed for the Golborne Rd end of the Portobello. Mad to go so far for the basics, toilet paper, mopheads and chlorine but old friend Helen was down there with her shop, and for the time being Marjorie did what she wanted and it all seemed to turn out OK. She passed the house of many colours. She liked it, how it took it the mickey out of  wintertime London. Painted like it was a flag, one of those independent countries. An embassy gone west, who was she to know? Helen tanned as far as the eye could see, and twenty years younger, Helen was doing an extra special discount on the toilet paper.

Further down towards the Westway she bought bananas off a stall. Counting her money she saw Mo close up in fake fur and scarlet leggings.

Eat them all today and you’ll pay the price tomorrow, she said.

Marjorie frowned, caught a glimpse of puritans lurking in her old friend’s underground.

All right, so where’ve you been then? Mo said.

Overground.

All right then, be smart, Mo said, right up in her face. And what’s his name, do I know him?

Who?

I don’t know what’s come over you Margie, the bloke, the feller.

What, it's that cold, my cheeks are glowing?

Your cheeks are glowing and you are getting sly in your old age Margie. And, come to think of it, a long way from home. Live round here does he. Must be rolling in it, cake-o.

Don’t let me stop you enjoying yourself with your fairy story, what do I do next, a honeymoon in the Bahamas, will that do you, Margie said in the gloom under the Westway concrete.

No, take me instead. And seeing as we’re here I’ll treat you to a proper coffee.

Improper Mo dear, being as it’s you.

Ooh, sharp enough to cut yourself. What a waste.

Marjorie said nothing, let Mo find them a table in the coffee shop where house plants fanned out green in the windows. Everything was pine, the floor too, and there were 57 varieties of coffee. Obviously she was out of touch. In which case stick to what you know. She called to Mo at the counter thing for an espresso with hot milk. It took a while. Next time Mo said, she’d stick to the pub.

Don’t say that. Gives me a chance to see how the younger half live. Do they ever take time off, Marjorie said. Look at them, notebooks, folders, pens at the ready.

Art yuppies, Mo said. They need the next project to keep up the mortgage. But don’t change the subject, who is he then?

Marjorie rubbed the side of her nose, made a point of it.

What’s the matter with you, she said, you’ve got sex on the brain.

No, I prefer it in the bed.

Now who’s the sharp one. Ian keeping you happy in that department?

He’s all right for an old feller, Mo said, holds his end up. Now let me guess, it’s that actor isn’t it, the sunshine of your life. No toyboys for our Margie and I bet he’s kotchelled. I’ve seen him on TV, and not just walking on and off neither.

No comment nosey. You go on like this Mo and soon you’ll be looking out from behind your net curtains half the time. Yes, and once that’s known you’ll have the kids playing Knock Down Ginger on your door.

Don’t change the subject, Mo said, besides the kids don’t bother with that kind of childs’ play, not these days. So I’m right, I thought so, you’ve got off with him and poor Gerry left in the lurch.

What, was Gerry planning a honeymoon, him and me.

You know what I’m talking about, that TV thing he’d set up for you, and you just walked out on it. With him, with that Martin.

As it happens Mo, Ian didn’t last too long either. A bit of business came up.

We’ve got to live. Anyway my poor old man wasn’t going to be the star, you were. Everyone knew that.

What is all this, Gerry on the whinge is he? Facts on the table Mo, you wouldn’t have liked them either, the TV lot, not our kind of people. You hear what I’m saying, so pleased with themselves, like they owned the place.

But you still needn’t have left Gerry looking like a lemon.

So now he’s a bitter lemon is he, tell him to put a gin in it.

Mo couldn’t help it, the laughter tumbling up and out from the tummy. She was clutching her sides, roaring with it. They were looking at her now, the youth in the place, like they’d clocked the fake fur and leggings for the first time, and found a definitive judgment hard to make. When she could speak again Mo said, see what I mean, what a waste.

*

He'd a strong feeling she was going to be trouble, Angela's friend, the way she'd frowned through his intro, how complex and intractable the Bosnian situation with its deep historical roots and ancestral hatreds. It had been quite a struggle to get the thing together. In the first place, persuading James. He'd finally agreed on the condition of no phone-in, and some balance in the studio. After the usual back-and-forth phone calls they'd managed to get John with his Serbian family background but now an academic in London and, for the strictly neutral, analytic point of view, Frank from the strategy institute. And that was without all the background stuff he'd had to read, and here was this Katie frowning already and straight in, the tone strident. According to her, the situation was not complex but simple, a Serbian policy of ethnic cleansing and land grab in Bosnia using the most brutal methods, and the solution also simple, lifting the arms embargo on the Bosnian government, and the siege of Sarajevo by use of air strikes.

John, that sounds pretty straightforward, what do you say to that?

What I hear Steve, is that Kate has become one more Muslim propagandist, it seems like it's trendy these days. The fact is that in most instances Bosnian Serbs are having to defend themselves and their heritage against a series of Muslim provocations.

She was going to blow up, he could see it, the way she was clenching her fists, the lips tight. As warned by James, a tight rein required and Frank there to help keep the balance.

Frank, as a long term student of Strategic and specifically Balkan affairs, what we've heard already, for me they sum up just what a difficult situation it is, is that fair comment.

Indeed, the fact is that everybody is to blame for what is happening now and, if she doesn't mind me saying so, Kate is rather of the something-must-be-done brigade cruelly, but probably not unfairly described as armchair critics. Take air-strikes for example, we know not just how inaccurate they can be but how, in the absence of a massive commitment of land forces, they are likely to succeed only in fatally compromising the UN's peacekeeping and humanitarian effort. As to lifting the arms embargo what are we talking about realistically, a level killing field?

Armchair critic Kate? Are you asking for yet more weapons in the equation? And how can it be responsible to compromise the peacekeeping efforts of the UN.

She did not know where to start. That’s what she said, but it did not stop her from a  tirade about peacekeeping and peace talks. Peacekeeping, she seemed to be saying, was an excuse for Western inaction, and was itself a cover for Serbian impunity; and did they realize what it was like to be a modern city under siege where already so many people had been killed. A modern European city.

John, besieging a 20th century city, how can that be justified?

A siege? What an emotional word this is, but it is rather typical I'm afraid to say of Muslim propaganda and its Muhajadeen supporters. Let us be clear what we are talking about here, first in the case of Sarajevo, we are talking about the defence of the otherwise defenceless Serbs of the city and its environs. And when it comes to killings, perhaps this lady is just an innocent abroad, but I ask, how many of these killings are the result of Muslims killing their own people in order to get the sympathy of the world.

It was an absolute lie, she was shouting now. A bread queue, it had been a year ago, it had been a Serbian shell, the evidence was there for all to see.

Frank, help us out here, for a balanced point of view.

I think you'll find there are two sides to the story here…

But she was in again, wouldn't let him get started, said it was a situation where a person had to take sides. Not to, was to take the side of Karadicz, Mladic and Miolsevic.

Time to take control.

Kate, he said, I've got the scars to show for not taking sides, now let Frank speak please.

Well as I've said there are two sides. Of course it is true that Bosnian Serb artillery does surround the town, and atrocities have been committed, but in the case of the bread queue for example, the UNPROFOR commander on the spot, Lewis Mackenzie has always maintained that it was impossible to know which side was responsible.

But of course she knew better than anyone else, said that anyone who'd been in Sarajevo knew that Mackenzie was pro-Serbian as was UNPROFOR as a whole. And so it continued. John wasn't much better, and twice he'd had to tell him the point that Kate was trying to make, though of course, he should have known, she said it wasn't her point, not at all.

He sympathized, he said it again, he did, with all those suffering in this terrible war.

I'm afraid this is what happens in a civil war, John said. People suffer.

Hardly gave him time to finish what he was saying when she was in again, said it was not a civil war.

Behind the glass James rolled his eyes upwards.

OK, Steve said, lets not get into semantics. And let us try and be clear about what exactly it is that you're saying. Don't give peace a chance, is that your message? Surely there are hopeful signs that a fair compromise can be reached.

She was having none of it, accused him of wishful thinking, went on at length about broken cease-fires and proposals that legitimized the territorial fruits of terror. Her phrase, the territorial fruits of terror.

I'm afraid time is starting to run out, he said, so if you'd now be brief. John, the prospects for peace, how do you see them.

The Bosnian Serbs would like nothing more, but the Islamists, the fundamentalists on the Bosnian side are resisting it, and now their former Croat friends have come to their senses and seen their true colours when it comes to territory. Let them fight it out.

She was in again, it was all the fault of Lord Owen and the British government, the carve-up entailed in their peace plan, the so-called peace plan she called it, had caused the trouble and they seem to be enjoying it.

I'm afraid time really is running out, a last word to you Frank, peace, it must have a chance, surely.

For that to happen Steve, people like Kate really must stop encouraging the Bosnians, already divided into factions as the emergence of Fikrat Abdic has shown, into thinking that by prolonging the conflict and all the suffering it entails, they will get the West to intervene on their side in order to get exactly what they want.

It felt like he'd done the full fifteen rounds, he said afterwards.

What can I say, Angela said, put it down to experience. If it's any consolation, I've just had a mouthful that could be in the reckoning for the Guinness Book of Records.

Your friend Kate in self-righteous mode?

In a nutshell. Plus full-on whinging before she finally stormed off. I said it to her, and I'll say it to you, you win some, you lose some. As it was, I did try to tell her, you know that it was a radio programme, not a soap box. Come on, I'll stand you a stiff drink.

The bar round the corner was new. Minimalist in the new jargon, he said, but at least you can hear yourself speak.

He held her to it, a double Jack Daniels. To wind down, he said, he needed it.

Who doesn't, and I'm going to have a whole week of it. Sorted, she said in pure mockney, and gave him an outrageous wink.

My parents, she said then, like she'd been fooling around.

Snap, crackle and pop, he said. I get just two point five days of it.

Christmas, naff but unbeatable, she said, my mother being mum and me enjoying it.

There's a payment involved however, Steve said.

She was frowning. Really? She said.

Yes, my mum will call me Steven. Several times per day.

She smiled, felt it again, Steve's ability, off-the-cuff.

Mine are, she said, boxing her fingers to do them justice, they're terrible old tories but they put up with an awful lot of crap from me.

Crap? Of which variety?

Oh you know, when I was red Angela at Uni.

Red Angela? Wow. This ladies and gentlemen is Confessions, a new series with Steve Bryant. In which…

On which we say, Happy Christmas Steve. In advance.

And a happy Christmas to you too Mickey. Fantasia, you remember, when Walt Disney was avant-garde.

Ooh, we don't want any of that, not for Christmas.

*

Bollocks the most of it, but there was something about Christmas, the way it came round year after year and it turned out the world hadn’t come to an end. The way the old tunes came round for one thing like now, in the supermarket, I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. He felt the crash in his arms, a trolley pile-up in the aisle, some berk in a woolly hat  apologizing thirteen to the dozen. Graham ignored him, and the twat was outraged, you could see it on his face, that there was no one grateful for an apology.

He steered  round another dreamer, a frizzy-haired bint with a kid and a bulging trolley staring at the Christmas cracker display. For a cracker you needed two to tango. Plus, they were a waste of money. He wheeled on down the aisle. They were playing Jingle Bells, it was time to stop messing around. Into the trolley went a frozen chicken; bag of spuds; bag of sprouts; a mini-size Christmas pud; a bottle of blended scotch; a packet of selected nuts; four lots of two liter home-brand bitter, a white-haired farmer and a horse-drawn cart on the label; a pack of sausages; eight premium lagers with big black letters on the cans; and a miniature of dark rum. He’d done his bit, and now this, hefty queues at the check-out, the tills that were staffed. You’d have thought they’d have sorted it out better, an organization of this size, outlets the length and breadth of the country. What could you do?! He made his way to the shortest of them and a bloody operation that was. Excuse me. Smile. Excuse me. Smile. Just waiting for his wheels to get stuck in some other buggers. And who was there when he got there?! Frizzy hair with a trolley that was piled up, overflowing. The kid was eying up the sweets rack by the check-out counter. There were chocolate bars, chocolate balls, chocolate covered nuts, tubes of chocolate buttons, chewing gums, fruit gums.

And in front of frizzy hair, in the trap, another bulging trolley and the husband behind with a basket. He could feel breathing down his neck, could hear the smart-alec behind. How could he not hear him?! ‘Course the Chancellor’s laughing his bollocks off with this lot, enough revenue to last till budget day.’ Graham focused on the fast flow of neon digits on the till display while loudmouth’s pal thought it very very funny.

Mum, mum, just this one.

No Marie, frizzy hair said, the kid pointing at something on the rack.

‘That’s election time, this is Christmas’, smart-alec said.

The digits had stopped on the screen but fuzzy-hair didn’t move forward. Graham could only hold it in, tamp it down, what else could he do. The couple, the husband, he was holding out a card. The girl on the till was calling for the manager. The pal was saying something about the pound in your pocket, and smart-alec started to laugh as if the pal was the greatest comedian of all time.

God Rest You Merry Gentlemen, he heard the tune and remembered the early words.

Mum, just one of these, the kid said, a tube in her hand.

No, you’ll be eating yourself sick over Christmas as it is.

The tube in her hand, Graham was all eyes, it could go either way, depended on how sly the kid. A white-coated supervisor gave the nod to the husband’s card. The kid, the girl, was crying and now here was fuzzy-hair shouting at the cashier and the supervisor who had buggered off like he was a very busy man. They were all busy men, Graham himself was a busy man, had plenty of other things he could be doing, only here and now there was going to be a bloody scene.

It’s a disgrace, the bint was shouting. You put those sweet-racks there deliberately when you know the children get bored in the queue.

The cashier was holding her own, the digits moving again, but what a world it was where you couldn’t go out and do a bit of shopping without some nutcase creating an incident as if their gripe, if they had one at all, their individual gripe, was so bloody important that it simply didn’t matter if innocent shoppers got caught up in it. And right behind, smart-alec was still at it. ‘A Christmas pud off the back of a lorry’, right in his ear. He could feel the blood itching inside, gnawing at him.

‘The chancellor  won’t like it.

‘I rather think the chancellor will not be enjoying his pud at all’.

Tamp it down, that’s all he could do, and focus on the girl. She was scarlet in the face, never said a word which didn’t stop fuzzy-hair screaming at the cashier when, if the kid had been well-trained in the first place, known what self-restraint was all about, none of this would be happening. And now all she was doing was embarrassing the child and making life a misery for everyone else.

I demand to see the manager.

The kid was hopping up and down, probably wanted the ground to open up under her feet. How many times had he said it; I blame the parents.

I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas was playing. He could feel the weight of his own basket. The other queues were all moving steadily. There, he’d made the right decision and what happens he’d got stuck behind this screamer. The cashier was doing well, cashing up the items which just set her off again. I want to see the manager. What, again? The kid was pulling at frizzy hair’s jacket, desperate not to be here, but did the mother care? Did she buggery!

If you’d just step aside for a moment, the cashier said, there are other people waiting in the queue.

Exactly.

I’m not moving till I’ve seen the manager.

Of course, but if you’d just let me check this gentleman’s basket. The manager will be here to see you.

By the time he’d wheeled his trolley across the car-park to the hatchback, Graham was all in. Had an early night, and when the day came around, he made a proper job of his dinner, the chicken roasted in the Belling in the kitchenette. After the ordeal of buying the bird and trimmings he owed it to himself. Later he did the honours with the pud and watched the blue flame flicker on top before putting his feet up. He’d had half a mind to listen to the radio and smoothie Steve, just to see what he was up to these days in the mornings, but the twat was having a Christmas break. He gave up on the TV after an hour of blokes in parkas getting shot in the snow. Besides he had been patient, very patient when it came to West Ten, so far had not allowed her into the Mind’s Eye for the whole holiday period. Without moving from the armchair he opened up and waited for her. He was cool, calm and collected, she would come when she came.

No getting away from it, when she did come, she was definitely on the fuzzy side. He held it, knew from hard-won experience that he must not rush things, how easy to slip into a madhouse film, if the old Mind’s Eye rebelled, would not stand for it, and went on the rampage. Held it. Became so sure of it, he made himself a dare. He opened his eyes. Shapes and shadows stood still. There was a glint to the TV screen, a shine from the sink unit. He waited till back she came, West Ten, as she did, his confidence justified, then closed his eyes again to be with her in comfort. Till there came a point when there was no point in fighting with his knob, it just wouldn’t have it. All he could do was hold it at its peak, hold it till he was aching with the holding of it and there was no more any man could do. Spunk into extra-strong tissue.

*

Christmas Day Martin couldn’t make it. He had the son and daughter round and their mother, his ex. The one time in the year he said. It was all right, she wasn’t expecting, and he was coming for the Boxing Day. All right being on her own, it was only a date on the calendar: twentyfifth, twentysixth, same difference. She’d turned down an invite from Mo, couldn’t have stood for Gerry’s nonsense because at some point, somewhere down the line, he’d have started. Or, facts on the table, she didn’t fancy looking at the burnt spuds and trimmings, half-pissed the lot of them, when the turkey finally hit the table.

Don’t come then, suit yourself, Mo had said. What is it, the Savoy this year?

Catty Mo dear, she’d said, and way off-beam. Fact is I’m not one hundred percent, fifty at the most and you know what I’m like then, a killjoy I believe you said.

`Did I? When?

New Year’s Eve, the Zig-Zag Club many moons ago. I had the flu.

You want to be careful, Mo said, that’s a rozzer’s memory you’ve got, an ambitious rozzer.

You ever been called a killjoy?

No, not that I remember.

Well you would remember if you had, Marjorie said, but thanks for the invite and a Happy Christmas to you.

As it was, the day itself was not a lot of fun. In bed most of it till she was fed up with films she’d seen before. And then back to bed after soup, mince pies and a couple of glasses of port, something she did not drink on any other day of the year. She had in her own eyes, the mince-pies too, made the effort. For her second effort, the second hot-water bottle of the day..

It was after one when Martin came the next day. She was wooden, felt wooden and knew that’s how she was. He was carrying a sack. There were red wines, Remy Martin, chocolates, a box of crackers and something small and soft in Christmas wrapping.

No tree? He said.

What, she said. Her head was heavy.

Ah well, it’s only needles to be swept up in the end.

No Martin, I do not have a tree but I have, if you’ve noticed, made a perfect fire for you. In addition to which I have mussels for you, the stew you asked for, a trifle from my own hand but no, an oversight on my part, I do not have a fucking tree.

I grovel, he said, down on one knee. Insensate clod that I am. What’s in a tree.

A fat pigeon lining up to dump its load on my head, she said.

Oh Margie, Margie, whatever it is can’t have been that bad. Pull a cracker with me just for the crack, he said, up on his feet again.

What?

You know, a Christmas cracker, pull the long end and you get the prize. You of course will inevitably get the short end and no prize at all.

As he spoke he pushed the red crepe cylinder towards her.

You’re laughing at me again.

A spark of life, he detected a spark of life and was encouraged. Not guilty. He said, just humour me and pull.

All right then, to humour you, she said. There was a small bang. From her longer section there tumbled out a piece of paper, and a small piece of shaped plastic.

You fixed that, you didn’t pull hard, she said, sounding dull and stupid in her own ears. But then Martin needed to be out of his fool’s paradise. She could be as dull and stupid as the next person.

I’m no conjuror, just an actor.

A watched kettle does boil…in the end, she read out from her piece of paper.

Martin laughed out loud, looked at the packet. Made in the People’s Republic of China it says.

Very profound, she said, thinking of insomniac tea-making.

Who on earth have they got in China to dream these things up? Some Philby we don’t know about. Or have they got their top English language students on the job with a marijuana allowance. Or it’s a coded message. Wily Chinese.

And just how many kettles have you watched?

How do you like your orgasms?

Trying to get round me with a dirty joke?

Again, not guilty. What was your gift?

Don’t be so impatient, that’s not how I like my orgasms, she said. She could feel whatever it was in her hand. It was small, plastic, moulded into little curves. She held her hand open. It was in a crouching position, green, with a round tummy and bulging eyes.

Kermit, he said.

It’s a frog.

Kermit the frog. You know, on the box.

She shook her head, it was him talking in riddles.

You don’t know what you’ve missed, he said. He’s big all over the world, me, I’ve never rated high enough to co-star. But our frog, what's his message?

Hop it, she said laughing, surprised at herself, leaving the dullness behind, hearing his roar too. A little voice spoke up, said instant happiness, instant, like they were selling it on TV, it won’t last but it was shoved aside by another burst of laughing from Martin and then her own picking up momentum.

Another, another cracker, Martin shouted, pulling one from the box. This one was green. They pulled at the crepe across the fireplace.

Ah you pulled properly this time, she said

He who laughs last may not laugh at all, Martin said with the low-key delivery he’d come to find so easy, and was just what the Director wanted, the ones he’d worked with recently. You see, they are sending messages. Now he was shouting, boyish.

You mean don’t become Marjorie sourpuss even for an hour or your face might…sounds like Jack, she said

Ah, all the boys give you the same spiel do they. I was thinking of something more political, like, I don’t know, the puritan days are over in China.

What did you get?

He showed a small yellow motorcycle. It was spooky, like they had him in mind.

On your bike, she said. And set them both off. Powerful laughter.

Ah Margie, you’re one in a million.

Not so fast, you and your sweet-talking Chinese. I’m sweet and sour myself, just so as you have no illusions. So now lets exchange presents, like adults, without a tree.

Her present for him, it was hard and heavy. Under the wrapping a glazed stone tortoise of mature years. He loved it he said, it was perfect and oh yes, was she dropping a hint.

A hint?

Like don’t be the hare, stop rushing around, that kind of thing.

Martin, the hare won that race unless it was nobbled, believe me, and I mean hobbled nobbled. No, I was thinking more of his prick poor thing, getting scraped by the hem of her shell. It will make you thankful to be a human male.

*

The new year was already well-worn and the Christmas break at her parents’ down in Hampshire, a distant memory. At the magazine office and radio station the optimists were saying the days were getting longer and spring was just around the corner. Her diet was much as it had been, work and more work. All work and no play Angela, her father had said on Boxing Day, as if he had seen something, knew where it led, and because he cared. She did not feel dull, and had had enough of relationships for the time being, but for play she had thought about Steve, did think about him, found it relaxing to be so much on the same wavelength as another person and, if she was naughty, liked the shape of him, the back, the shoulders, the line of his jaw. At the same time she was not going to let anything disturb their professional relationship. The Steve Bryant show was a success, somewhere between success and phenomenon. She hadn’t needed to give it a puff, the old In the Smoke crowd liked it for themselves. Even Matt admitted to listening in. Now and then when I’ve some manual task to hand, he’d said, just in case there’d been enthusiasm in his voice.

That was the radio which alone was taking up half her time these days. Coming up with ideas, there was that for a start, not at all as easy as it sounded. Not at all, lots of people, she could just picture them, thinking it was money for old rope; well it wasn’t. And then she had to find the right people; setting the parameters; and liaising with James and Jim Plant. James, his minder Steve had called him at the beginning, James was easy. Yet another arts graduate clogging up the economy, she’d said of herself at their first meeting and it had been plain sailing ever since. Whereas Jim, now and then he’d still try and give her a hard time of it. She simply ignored it and got in with the job. Besides, she could have done the job herself with what she’d picked up in the last few months.

She did not in fact have any desire to be a radio producer, none whatsoever, but what she’d learned was adding layer upon layer to her original Steve piece. Which was no longer a piece, was of a size way too large for the magazine. It was, she supposed, her own personal project, her very own bit on the side.  Bit on the side, she liked it, a title, a chapter head, a sub-headline? She wrote it down in her notebook. As to where it might lead she did not know, but it was going to be an entirely fresh look at popular culture and what it meant.

That was radio. In the meanwhile, In the Smoke was gearing up for AIDS Re-visited, a month’s worth of issues devoted to the epidemic. All hands on board, everyone expected to contribute something, and that on top of the normal features and titbits required. And then the magazine itself on top of Matt’s TV thing which, so far, had not involved more than a day a week, but was expected to speed up. No problem for Madame Debbie or Shamir at Desires, mostly there was no penetration at all, or it was strictly with sheath. AIDS, as Debbie in leather put it, was for amateurs which was why, she said, she was willing to go on the TV, to wise them up.

A Sunday morning however, however much a working girl had on her piled up plates, was off-limits. She’d more or less finished the papers in the warmth of her bed when Steve rang. No, she was not on for lunch, this was lazy day. Dinner OK. Lets talk again at six, she said.

They slummed it at an Indian of choice: extravagant marination; a dhal that dallied with the dull; and exotic chutneys balanced by the plain chunkiness of the chapatis.

Goddam Jesus he sure made a fool out of Bob Dylan, Steve said once eating had commenced. He spoke with an American accent.

As seen in green felt tip in a Gents on Portobello Road, he said in normal voice.  I liked it but I suspect even James won’t like Goddam Jesus.

A bit off my beaten track, she said, a gents.

Well that’s a relief, he said, of which I am looking for more, of the light variety.

Is this you in macho mode? Demanding?

Is that what turns you on, in which case, yes. No seriously, put me straight, how does it stand, I mean to invite you out in non-professional mode. Or, to put it crudely as the blank said to the blank, are you in a relationship and is such an invite therefore possibly out of order?

Are you or have you ever been? No the first, yes to the second.

Which means, not at present?

She nodded and asked what about him?

No also, ended some time ago when I failed to laugh enough times at Some Like It Hot.

I see, not enough hits on the laugh-o-meter?

My very question at the time, and it was the question in question was the crime.

Steve, this looks like a case of, how can I say, reverse synchronicity.

Really? Reverse synchronicity, would you care to elaborate?

I was accused of laughing too much can you believe it, too much. It was just some news satire thing, and my ex said for what must have been the hundredth time how Tom Lehrer who used to do satirical songs in the 60s, how he’d said satire died the day Kissinger won the Nobel Peace Prize.

Ah the sixties mafia, I can believe it. But did he, did he really, Kissinger?

So I was told many, many times and had agreed, many, many times that it was over the top. On the other hand it wasn’t the end of the world, and I wasn’t having my laughter monitored.

Quite so, victims of the laughter police the both of us. Steve said over the smeared plates. So where does that take us?

We’re both of us damaged goods Steve, lets take it slowly, but enjoy taking it slowly.

He was disappointed? He was not disappointed? He wasn’t showing.

OK, which allows me to be ruthlessly professional, he said, and mention a big hole for the middle of next week. I have Unemployment, again. Housing, new, but I could do with something not just light but different              and, definitely but unequivocally, London.

Click click click went your brain when click, Steve’s response had been perfect. There’d been no male freak-out, no dodgy self-esteem and so, into the data bank, came the Queen Bee’s minder, Terry, or Gerry. Him who’d been so keen.

How about the dreaded sixties, only early part of, dodgy geezers not now residing in maximum security. How does that sound. Instrumental, though I don’t think they were aware of it, in the making of the modern club scene. Forerunners.

Sounds good, on the other hand, I do remember a rather disappointed Angela

with a cast that didn’t sound a million miles way from what is now being suggested.

She grinned. No flies on Steve. She liked it.

I’m not offering you the Queen Bee. In her case, no can do, but I think you’ll find Gerry entertaining enough and, don’t mock, he’s a meeja fan.

We mock not, mockers we are not, knockers we are not, Steve said. And especially where meeja fans are concerned, we know which side our toast is olive oiled.

*

All at once she was in a nowhere where there was nothing to show, nothing to speak of itself. Quiet, easy: not warm, not cold.

She was calm, patient. She waited.

Jack Box was also calm. From the glimpse she knew it was him, that he was dead and she was dreaming.

How’s it going, he said, the voice far away

Either she said nothing or he could not hear. She thought she had said, Yes, she was fine.

I knew you’d be all right Margie because you were the best, he, the shape of him, said. And it was his shape, she knew the shoulders as he turned away just when she’d livened up and had questions to ask. She hurried her step, reaching out at the shoulder, the cloth of something, reached out to nothing.

Awake, up and about, doing the housework in a bubble. The flat, all her familiar things, like it was cellophaned off. He would not be coming back again, popping up in her sleep whenever he felt like it, no, that was finished, there’d been nothing to him, just quiet words from a man who’d spoken in torrents. Even that awful time they’d had him on remand, held him for months in Brixton, even there behind the wire-meshed plate glass and with the kids screaming, even then he’d been reeling off instructions and talking dirty in between.

No, he would not be back, would not suddenly pop up and say, and she could hear the words, spoke them out loud: I’ve been giving this Martin a good looking over. Spoke to his accountant in fact, well his ex-accountant, feller’s up here now, and he rates him kosher. No, in that place which wasn’t a place, he’d sounded tired, like he’d wanted to fade away and be told that she was OK, so that he could fade away without any worrying.

She’d got it right, got him to a Tee, his ex-accountant and the rest, got that right too, and that he wanted to fade away once and for all. Or it was her, same difference and she wanted him faded away without worries. Either way she was still in the bubble. The vacuum cleaner had done its work. She switched it off and turned on the radio to break out, be in touch with rest of the world.

Come on Gerry, lets not beat about the bush, you are, OK lets be careful here, who wants litigation, not I said the radio jock, not you said the station lawyer, hiya Mike, don’t worry, keep your hair on, but you are, no lets be very careful, you were a dodgy geezer.

Steve my old china whatever dues society said I owed them, I paid them. Now my old pal Jack Box, god rest his soul, Jack said the only dues you paid was to the old lags benevolent society.

Marjorie sat down suddenly, duster in her hand like suddenly she was old. Old, because a trick was being played, and it was too clever by half for her to get any grip of. ‘God rest his soul’, what, did Gerry and the radio know her dreams too.

Did he now, and was that while he was terrorizing the West End. Is that how you set up a club scene, terrorizing the clubbers?

Dis-invited Steve, we might have dis-invited a few people, you know what I mean, party-poopers.

And you and your pal Jack, judge and jury were you. Oy you, party-pooper

Want to feel this flick-knife.

She was old, all the rest -- Martin, or going out of an evening -- all the rest was just her trying to prove herself. And Gerry was old too, so there was no excuse to be making a fool of himself.

And the old lags benevolent society Gerry, who were its beneficiaries?

People whose names you’d be surprised to hear.

Is that right? Well come on, don’t be a coy Gerry tell us who they are?

Steve my old china, that’d be grassing.

Ah, grassing. Well that’s handy, the old lags benevolent society will remain an accounting mystery. Inland Revenue, where were you? Asleep? Anyway, joking aside,  because who wants a joke when you can put it aside where the tax man don’t see it, the club scene in the early sixties, tell us about it you old rogue you.

‘God rest his soul’, like they knew within hours, like picking up tomorrows papers at Kings Cross the night before. Jack if he was in the mood, diverting the cab on the way home. Only this time it was her dream they knew, like there was a grass in her upstairs. Or they had the CCTV set up there, a chip thing.

Thing is Steve, hard for you youngsters to understand when you’ve got clubs seven nights a week -- and I aint hung up my dancing shoes yet -- thing is, in our time me and Jack we were pioneers.

Pioneers ladies and gentlemen, or the great unwashed as we have been called, pioneers of the entertainment business they were, the gangsters of yesteryear.

In those days Steve, you wanted music where were you going to go? Drinkers, there were plenty of them but if you wanted a bit of music to shake your leg to, where to? That’s what me and Jackie Box twigged…

Twigged? A quaint old word meaning understood I think Gerry. Comprende?

Jackie Box? It was a conspiracy and she had no intention to be conspired against. She turned off the radio, left the vacuum cleaner where it lay and went into the kitchen to make tea. Rage and thoughts of revenge, she was trembling with it. Boiling water slopped over the teapot, drops of it puddled up on the work surface. She mopped it with a J cloth looking at the wall tiles and went into slow motion, everything more deliberate than it needed, the brewing of the tea, the drop of milk in the cup, the pouring, the cup lifted, the cup back in its saucer. The anger soaked away and she was sober. There was no spy in her upstairs, that was paranoia and you could do without paranoia when there was enough real stuff to scare a sensible person. Gerry was a fool and had overstepped the mark once too often, that was clear, but what had happened was two crows, and she wasn’t going to be waiting for a third. No, not when she’d been so cocksure with Martin that time, how she’d learned that a person could open or close the past. She stayed in slow motion, easy when she’d decided what must be done, and what was needed to do it. Cup and saucer washed, the teapot emptied of the mash of leaves, and then washed itself.

He was on top of the world, the jacket wide open, the tie flying across his broad chest. There was no laugh on the face but something, some coup of his yet undeclared, something had amused him. A man to whom no one had ever asked, Oy, who are you, who do you think you are? But facts on the table, he’d said it himself: I’m dead darling, you know the score. That was the message. She brushed the glass on the photograph with the back of her hand, then turned it to the wall.

*

It was becoming more credible, this Gerry guy in the entertainment business, he sure was keen to get in it. In the meanwhile he was providing it, the entertainment, a punchbag keen not to give offence, and taking a pummeling.

So the forces of law and order Gerry, what you’re saying is that for reasons not comprehensible to you or anyone else, they were prejudiced against you and your partner Mr Box.

The rozzers Steve as we used to call them, the busies, well they’ve always been hard on the entertainment business, especially where live music and alcoholic beverages combined are involved.

And they were particularly hard on you for no reason. Didn’t have anything to do with the reputation of the notorious Mr Box did it.

If Jack, god rest his soul, if Jack ever harmed anyone it was only ever scumbags and lowlife.

Ah, in the good old days, that would be when old ladies were safe out on the streets, when in fact the streets were crime free all because men like Mr Box ruled with an iron fist. OK, this is the Steve Bryant contribution to the law and order debate, bring back the Krays and the rest of them.

Now now Steve, the twins, they were different, besides they were the East End.

By the end Steve was bored. All too easy, and therefore not one of Angela’s best it had to be said. She would plead short notice and he supposed it was true; you won some you lost some.

Leaving through the station lobby he couldn’t help but see Geoff Castle step out from behind one of the giant ferns the designers had gone for.

What do they feed this one on Geoff, he said.

Blood, sweat and tears.

What, he can’t be that bad, your new man, I’d heard he was all right..

Who, Bill? I though you were talking about the greenery. No Bill’s a natural, chose him myself off the demo tapes, you want to listen in Steve.

Great, I will. Overruled James did you, choosing Bill? Poor old James.

No, we agreed, would have been hard not to. The rest of them, well laid-back’s all right but not when it’s barbiturate strength, it was either that or they were Johnny Bright soundalikes.

Steve grinned loudly. He was a character Geoff was. He told him so. As sharp as ever Geoff.

And how’s it going otherwise, life I think they call it.

I’m OK Steve, I just worry now and then about Theresa, remember her, Theresa Dwyer.

The Steve Bryant antenna were on full alert, the edge to the tone.

Yes of course I remember her Geoff, he said. He was waiting. If Geoff wanted to say something, let him say it.

Don’t hear much about her these days. No arrests, no developments, not much media coverage come to that. In fact close to zilch.

OK, OK, Geoff wanted to give him a hard time, let him give him a hard time if that made him feel any better.

Geoff I am not the investigating officer and I wouldn’t know how to go about it. I ring up the guy who is, and he tells me the case file is far from closed.

Is that right Steve, looks like it is at this end, in this building, Geoff said and turned away and started up the main stairs.

So what, what was it he was supposed to be doing. On the strength of their programmes there’d been lots of phone calls the police had said. What, he should be out on the ground with a magnifying glass on the pavements of Camden Town?! Is that what he should be doing?! Resentment is what it was, Geoff’s bottled up and coming out in the weird ways that bottled up stuff did come out.

Driving home in reasonable westbound conditions he did wonder just how far such things might go when it been bottled up as Geoff had done. He did wonder, like if he might try and put this Bill character up to something like, some kind of Theresa slot. No, that was paranoia, that really was paranoia. If they did something like that without consulting James they’d be out on their ears, and Geoff was not, repeat not, hero material. No Geoff was the cynic on the sidelines. Well fuck him. Guilt-tripping, that’s what it was. He cared of course he cared, but you couldn’t ram Theresa down people’s throat.

He changed course and drove straight to the gym. Went to town till the muscles burned, the tissue like a trampoline. That’s when it was doing you good, the old-timers said. He knew it was true when the sweat saturated every inch of skin. Hot showered and cold plunged, he came out ready for anything. For the treat of lounging around at home, pigging out  on leek and potato soup and a bulgar wheat salad with a chilled white wine, and listening to The Eagles because all the wiseguys said they were naff. Fuck the wiseguys, he wasn’t one to be dictated to by fashion, no way Jose. Desperado, he was singing it. You wanted to be a rebel in these days of the musically correct, get a dose of Desperado.

He pulled the curtains so as to leave a segment of bare window to enjoy the magic of London’s twilight. Winter had nearly shot its bolt but there was still a mistiness to the dusk, a fuzzy glow to the slice of lights he looked on from the comfort of the sofa. Great stuff. London, it was the only place to be. Great place and, scoob a doob a do, a great radio station.

He was sat out in green pasture, green meadow, green somewhere. The sky was blue but there was no especial warmth to it, he felt no warmth. Birds, perhaps birds were chirrping in a clear blue sky. He was in the countryside and what you did in the countryside was you relaxed, you enjoyed the peace. It was peaceful. You, the green, the birds and no interference, no sirens. It was what you came for. I’ve never done this kind of thing before Steve, the voice said. It was not from round about, there was a rumble to the frequency. No, it came from under the ground, under the spring green of pasture. OK, it was her, Theresa, OK, he wasn’t going to freak out. It’s not something I’d ever have thought of doing. The voice was closer. It had gone sexy. Seductive, like the virgin was going to make up for lost time and have her way with him. But now you’re here, now it’s what I want. She was going to come out of the ground, put her arms round him. It was just a matter of time, out through the soft green.

He woke in the dark, pulses banging away. He sat up, breathed seriously, in and out. It was OK, he’d had a nightmare. People had nightmares, he was no exception, it was a simple as that. Having nightmares was part of what it was to be a human being. It was normal. It was OK. Geoff, it was Geoff with his guilt tripping. Dreams, nightmares they picked up bits and pieces from the day and mixed them up with memories, and today he’d had a resentful Geoff giving him a hard time. He got up and closed the curtains completely. Eight o’clock. Quite a doze. He phoned Angela. Great, just what he needed, her answer message. OK, no problem, he had half an hour to make it to a movie, something mindless, the blockbuster on at the Edgware Road.

SIX

Madame Debbie and Shamir, they liked her. Not girls for the euphemism, they liked her because she spoke posh, and that’s what they were on about, they had class, they were professionals with standards. So they talked, had talked and filmed on into the night, it felt like they'd really got somewhere. Now, on the southbound M1 of a mid-morning, Angela had no choice but to be philosophical. Her Renault did not allow even the fantasy of flight over the gridlock. Instead traffic moved at the daytime speed of the Euston Road. From Northampton onwards, Luton had the aura of the promised land, London just a dream.

Clutch, forward, brake: clutch, forward, brake. Tedious beyond belief. Not a situation for Steve either, she kind of liked the Steve of the last few days, him in masterful mode, this is what he wanted and this is what he was going to get. Not that she was going to be slavish in response, just professional, doing her bit, like lunch with Tom, In the Smoke’s nominal crime expert who, she suspected, had fancied her for ages in his own boringly diffident manner. The Theresa Dwyer case Steve said, it had been allowed to drift and that was simply not on. He wanted practical stuff, ideas on how they were actually going to catch the killer. It was the way he said it, the way James had responded, Steve had spoken and it would be done.

When Milton Keynes had become an object of desire, she’d had enough of being philosophical. Tried the car radio, wondered if the station’s range reached this far. She supposed it did, as filtered through mad insects and road drills, Steve’s voice presenting his guest and promptly disappearing.

…the passion of the performance and its ambiguous relation to the text, to the centrality, not that sounds a bit blasé, I mean as if the text were the bone structure of the tastiest fish.

Oh yes, the actress, a Steve connection this one, a friend of a friend of a friend, something like that

And put simply Isobel?

Oh sorry, was I getting carried away?

A professional laugh through the crackle and hiss

But as Einstein the physicist said, everything should be put as simply as possible, but no more than that.

Below the belt, come on Steve, lets see how you handle that.

Well you out there, the great unwashed as you have been described by a less than complimentary caller, you can’t say that the Steve Bryant show isn’t educational. All power to your elbow Einstein, hoping you will rest in peace with the knowledge that it is the motto of this show, its ambition, to explain things as simply as possible but no more than that. So Isobel you’ve got the text there and…

Mad, sudden silence but she couldn’t help give the man a little cheer. And then, miracle at Luton, she could see it as a title somewhere, Miracle at Luton, the road cleared and became the motorway it was supposed to be. At the office, she paid through the nose for parking, and caught the tail-end of her colleagues pushing the AIDS issue back and forth. Virus development, the global village, a theory for all the boys and from Tom, the sex industry. Poor Tom, anywhere near the sex industry and he’d be blushing.

Lunch was her treat she said, sushi, because she was a shameless hussy and was wandering about blind in his field of expertise.

Do you think minimalism just means discomfort, he said, looking round the décor.

She laughed like there was no tomorrow, said it was probably common knowledge that she free-lanced on the Steve Bryant show, and asked if he remembered the Theresa Dwyer case.

Yes, it was to be your friend Steve’s mission.

She ignored the tone, that ‘your friend’, put it down to the old-fashioned jealousy of men who thought themselves sophisticated, and said that if mission it was, then now it was even more so. The police did not seem to be getting very far but what about DNA and detection, weren’t there possibilities there.

It’s a dead giveaway your DNA, he said, confident now, bashful Tom; his field, teacher to pupil. Hardly any point in wearing the old gloves not with your DNA scattering itself all over the shop.

He’d put on a funny voice to say it and she laughed, it seemed appropriate. Would he care to elaborate, she said, to a ninny.

Ninny? That doesn’t sound like you Angela, not your style at all, he said.

What, because his fantasy was something else, her in control, that kind of thing?

Me, she said, there’s a few of those, me's that is, but all of them, from what you say,  made up of this same DNA stuff. Double helix and all that, I know that bit, but what’s the relevance?

We all have a unique DNA pattern, one which is forensically identifiable. Important Characteristic One. Important Characteristic Two, you will almost inevitably leave traces of it wherever you have been, a trace of yourself like perfume, the existential, or that one particular brand of Turkish cigarette which fictional detectives were once so hot on.

Wow, she said.

I’d rehearsed it, he said with a smile.

I see, she said, You’re shameless and I’m flattered. And then with mention of brass tacks and some persistence found out that the police had used it in a recent case up north, one of the cases where it was almost certain to be a local man, and got a result by taking DNA samples from two thousand of them. Its wider use? It would be down to computer power which, on the face of it, seemed limitless, but the as a civil liberties issue, it would be a runner. For the next decade at least, was his prediction.

That’s in addition to the immediate practical issue of target groups, their parameters, the criteria for those, he said.

She said thanks, paid for the lunch, and said she had in mind a radio special on AIDS, maybe a week of them. It would be good for the station and good for the magazine, she said, all of you developing your voices, and developing the issue from what we’ve done in the magazine.

He said Sure in a voice calculated to withhold enthusiasm, and then she had to put up with the same kind of crap from Steve on the phone. Oh, oh hi, as if finally locating the voice and attaching it to her. Great, he said, the DNA stuff but he was busy right now, and what other feet-on-the-ground issues was she going to come up with. Off the top of her head, and he would never, ever appreciate the aggro it would involve, she’d come up with something from the battered women angle.

Sure, go ahead, he said, it’s a possible.

Barely a foothold for an unappreciated Angela but she wasn’t going through all this without some quid pro quo.

I’ve been thinking hard, she said. I think the time’s right for a fresh look at AIDS, a re-evaluation, I really do. So easy to get complacent, that’s what I’m arguing at the magazine.

Sure, he said, me and James we’ve been talking about it for a while now, we’ll talk about it when we’ve got this out of the way, but for now, Theresa's all I can think about.

*

West Ten was shaping up. He’d had a refresher early in the new year, popped down to her patch in the hatchback, and waited. Been right about the ice-cream house, jungle music thumping out of it, and that was the morning. An area that in other circumstances you’d steer clear of, full of ponces and poseurs. Poor old West Ten, trapped there by circumstances, it was obvious. A sitting tenant on a fixed rent, something like that, with nowhere else to go.

Tried his patience that day she had the minx, the door shut, curtains drawn, but then what was your patience for if it wasn’t to be tested, there were times when his cock was a handful from the restraint alone. A pension? She was there or thereabouts, that or she was on the sick. Gave him time to see there was an upstairs flat with its own bell, and how it was round the back she did. And then, in the death all worth it or what! He’d doubled back round the block, circulars in a haversack just in case, and seen her step out in her ratty old coat.

That was the thing with a refresher, if you got it right in the first place, you only needed one because the Mind’s Eye, however good it was, however sharp the focus, over time it would go fuzzy round the edges; but when you got it, saw her again, you realized it was exactly like you’d seen it before, which made you wonder why you’d needed the fresh look at all. She’d come out with an old shopping bag. It went with the coat, a matching accessory. He’d laughed at that, a matching accessory like he’d read on a Woman’s Page one lunch break when he’d done the newspaper proud, horoscopes, share prices, and all.

He’d given her a hundred yards and followed. Why not, it was all footage and observation. Like down her road there’d been loudmouths with spiky hair, women half of them, out on some front steps like they owned the place. Further down, West Ten had stopped at a stall to buy a few old spuds and a bit of fruit, the shoulders bent like it was all too much. He sympathized, could see her point of view, it was all too much.

Since when, seeing her there like she’d never gone away, he had, when he’d fancied it, turned on the Mind’s Eye and there’d she’d be, waiting for him. And even then when there’d been some fade on the colour and the face blurred, he’d not made a move, not till the other day when the resolution degradation had got beyond a joke and he’d had a day off with little else on his plate.

This time he’d taken the tube with a haversack full of Safeway circulars, bargains of the week. There was no mistake, not with West Ten. It was obvious, couldn’t lie with the body language, as she’d trudged up towards Maida Vale. Trudged, like she was doing well to put one foot in front of the other.

Back home in the evening, he warmed up an economy-size pizza and ate quickly. Patience? There were times when patience was beyond even a trained man. He switched off the light, found the armchair, undid his zip and let his cock out through the cock-flap of his boxers. Some wobbles to begin with, but then she walked right in, the sad shoulders in the ratty old coat framed by the doorway. He held it. Held it some more. Waited till back she came, West Ten, and then there was no more any man could do.

*

Not one for the morbid stuff, not Margie, but moody moods happened and a person could go wooden, frightened that everything was going stale on them. Moody moods happened even now when there was a Martin in her life, when there had been no Martin for a long time. Perverse, a spanner in her own works. Gerry hadn’t helped. But she’d stayed out of his way because she’d have lost her rag and then had to put up with him talking non-stop for as long as it took to tell her she’d got it wrong. He’d phoned enough times, till she’d joined the modern world and bought an Answerphone, Harry’s boy Mark, his idea when she’d told him the score. Can’t cut yourself off just cos there’s a toerag around, get a machine and filter your calls, he’d said. Gerry’s messages were much of a muchness, Margie, don’t play the hermit one me, like it was her was weird. Of late, they were down to one or two a week. The modern world had helped out but there was nothing to be done about JJs, she avoided it.

And then there was Martin too, always working, theatre runs or TV shoots. They were pals but what could she say when they were of a certain age, when there’d been no Martin at all not so long ago. The moan that would have been in her voice, if she'd said All work and no play and where did that lead, something on those lines, it was not her style. We only live once, even if she’d just said that, it would be lurking there, that tone, because Martin would know what she was on about, didn't need telling.

Out walking for the sake of it, because whatever else her flat, basement, ground floor, kitchen and fireplace, it must not go stale on her, she came by a pub she did not know. She liked it, dark carpet, dark upholstery, no music and a fine pint of Guinness. She supposed there must be pluses to every situation even the moody mood. This might be one; no history, no ghosts, no Gerry on the agenda. Late lunchtime and the place was quiet, time for the young Irish feller behind the bar to tell her he was Tom, a Dub, it was him ran the pub and it wasn’t such a bad oul place and what was her name. She said she’d come back one evening, see how it was then.

When a person had a moody mood upon them the way Marjorie saw it, you had to go to sleep telling yourself you’d wake up on the right side of the bed next morning, it would all look different then. She knew unhappiness to be an arrogant bastard, insisting it was more real than any other feeling. She knew that, how it was, but it was no protection. Instead you had to tell yourself another story, how tomorrow was another day. Next morning she woke up hearing the rain, sensing the greyness around her curtains. Her upstairs said what luxury to be warm and snug in her bed on such a day. Moody mood said snug was smug, would not last and who was she anyway? Who was she?

Her bladder groaned.

She would not move.

Would not move.

The pee piled on the pressure.

She would not move.

Till it was intolerable being in bed at all, and she was up in her dressing gown to have an angry pee, put on the kettle, switch on the radio. An artillery shell had hit the market place in Sarajevo. Many civilians had been killed. Sixtyeight. Some children had died the day before, on toboggans. There you might be, shopping on the Portobello and Bosh, curtains. It didn't bear thinking about.

It hadn’t needed Martin to tell her it was always civilians these days, as if the soldiers couldn’t be arsed to kill each other, or it was too risky, so they had a deal going on between themselves. But then who was she to be in a moody mood when there were people killed trying to get a loaf of bread or water for the day. Except it didn’t work like that: there’s someone having it worse than you, what, and that was supposed to make you feel better? Perverse indeed!

The kettle shook and did its breathy whistle. She swilled the woolly-clad teapot with a shot of the hot. Steve Bryant, he was going to do a follow-up programme on Theresa Dwyer and her murder.

Steve’s not a guy to let an issue drop just because it’s not fashionable and especially not when it’s the murder of an innocent woman. Tomorrow morning’s programme. Don’t miss it.

Steve Bryant, the one who’d made a monkey out of Gerry, him again. That was one busy man. Made a monkey out of him and Gerry had let it happen. She fingered the tuner and stopped on a full sound of classical music. It was all right, an orchestra, a person could get lost in it. She’d poured one cup and made up a tray when the phone rang. No mug she, not any more. Eight times it rang because that’s the way she’d arranged it, proud of herself for having read the manual, followed the instructions and got it right.

This is Marjorie. Leave a message.

Marjorie darling, if the climate in London town is as it is here, I imagine you’re warm in bed, only wish I was with you…

Here I am Martin, but in my serious dressing gown with a cup of tea in my hand.

Your serious dressing gown. I’m excited already.

Pervert.

Self-confessed, Martin said.

Oh that makes it all right does it? And I suppose that’s the role you’re playing now.

No, no. This time I’ve been type-cast, a rebel in an old people’s home.

Flirtatious with it I’ve no doubt, Marjorie said, sipping tea.

Rebelling for the right to be flirtatious is how I read it.

Then you are as you say, type-cast. We’ll only hope you don’t end up in such a home.

I’ll drink to that, Martin said. And will hopefully be doing just that in person, with you. Soon. When this thing’s wrapped up.

He had bothered to ring her up, had cheered her mood, but what could she say now? To this?

Yes, she said.

Back to bed with a book she listened to the steady rain and the one-by-one drops in the basement area, waited for it to stop. At lunchtime she got up to make an omelet. By mid-afternoon she’d finished her book. A fire, that was one possibility. For which some wood would help, but not today, not even with an umbrella. With an umbrella however, one could go out. Cunning Marjorie, sly Marjorie. At the Veg stalls there was no Alive Alive-O, so she turned north and found herself at Tom’s pub soon after opening time.

Up at the bar on a stool, straight off a site, a big feller that had shrunk like woolens in a hot wash, his face too lean and bony for the rest of him

One of your Dub friends Tom? She said.

Tom was grinning like it’s what he ought to be doing. Declan, no he’s just some poor culchie bastard. And what’ll it be now?

The big feller was looking at her. An intent look. What, she was a revelation? She did not think so, not as she was as of late.

Whatever the lady’s drinking, he said, folding a tenner across the bar.

If it’s being offered, she said, just a glass of Guinness and a Jameson’s to warm it up, she said.

Had he seen something she’d never seen, was never likely to see. She wasn’t stupid, her upstairs was still working and the man had had a shock, the way he was wrapped up and somewhere else.

You’ve had a shock, she said, and you certainly do know how to stare.

Now he was startled, back in the here-and-now and apologizing. She laughed, said it was flattering at her age except, she said, he looked like she’d seen a ghost.

She saw him tense, frown, turn away one after the other. Her drinks were on the bar. Slainte, she said raising the half Guinness.

He turned back towards her and lifted his own glass. You are a very clever woman, he said.

I’ve been told it once or twice but I never believed it myself.

We all mistakes, he said, laughing now.

Which is no excuse to keep making them, she said. But I’m glad it was not my ghost you saw, I’ve never fancied the idea myself, I imagine it to be quiet and frustrating.

*

In the middle of it all, the hours of sheer intensity it had taken to make the programme as good as it could be, Steve had, if he was perfectly honest, under the bright lights of an interrogation cell, enjoyed playing cool with Angela, the flash of anger in her cheeks a turn-on. Battered women? Hardly, it's a virgin spinster we're talking about, he'd said. As for the AIDS proposal, for one it was already common knowledge that In The Smoke was going to do a series. No problem there, it could be run in tandem. Cross-media, he was all for it, but he wasn’t having her think she was doing him a favour. Come on lady, please! He had not, unless there was some very weird time and space stuff going on, some seriously crazy quarks, been born yesterday. And then, as icing on the proverbial cake, it had been a great motivational device because she had certainly done her stuff and, fair was fair, he was giving her the opportunity to present her DNA angle on the Theresa case herself.

Are you sure, this is a radio virgin you’re talking too, she said, blushing up. Virgin, the word, he guessed, only she’d used the line before, first time in the studio itself; how for this radio virgin it would never be the same listening to him now that she would be able to picture him here in the studio. And then gone into an Angela style riff, that it would be like telephoning a place one knew when there was no answer; that you could see the desk or table on which it sat, could hear it echoing around the room.

Don’t worry, we’ll see you through it, me and the minder, he said, giving James a heavy wink. James the big pussy cat.

Only now James was frowning. Steve looked round, saw Phil, the sound recordist from the Ireland job.

To what do we owe this pleasure Philip? James said.

Unless I’m here under false pretences, I’m down on the rota for this here programme. Do we still do music Steve? I was thinking Resurrection Shuffle.

Obviously Philip you really are out for that first prize in bad taste, James said.

Steve was raging, pulses doing high tempo all over his head. Close up he said, Get rid of him James, we’re stuck with him for now but I want him sacked, off this station. Understand.

And then, the programme up and running, he ripped into the Home Office minister, had him grilled and roasted.

Is Theresa just another statistic? Eight times in a row, the same question, James anxious behind the glass, but Steve was on a roll, knew, just knew his listeners and what they wanted which was the minister squirming, squirming like he’d been caught behind the bike sheds doing an unmentionable.

After the break he changed tune.

I’m not the police, they are professionals and I don’t have their skills, experience or resources, and would not presume to teach anyone’s granny how to suck eggs, he said. However there are two relatively new techniques for identifying killers of this sort and we’re now going to look at them because the purpose of this programme is twofold. It is to remember Theresa in order that she is not just one more statistic, but also to be practical, to help in whatever way we can, the process of catching Theresa’s killer. The techniques are very different, coming from different areas of scientific expertise, the use of DNA technology, and of psychological profiling. Lets begin with that and I welcome back, if such a word is permissible, Neil McAllin who like this programme has not, how can I say deserted Theresa, and bring in…

OK, the guy was on the police payroll, had helped, so it was said, in previous cases, but Steve did wonder. Wonder he did. Wonder, he could not but do when the bastard concerned might well still live with his mother, have a love-hate relationship with her: or he might not. Might be a loner, or he might not. Had a regular job, very probably. And?

He rounded up, said they were not talking exact science but had been given clues as to where, in what groups they might look, which might in turn give relevance to the use of DNA detection.

I’ve put it second because even though it is the primary building block of life, it seems that it can only be useful when we have narrowed down a possible field of suspects. Anyway I’ve talked too much and for this section, I’m pleased to say we have Angela Sinclair, a good friend to this prog, to present it, Angela.

Hello everybody. Normally I write for a magazine, In the Smoke, which some of you may know, read even. Like all Londoners we’ve been shocked by Theresa Dwyer’s murder and, lets be frank about it, shocked into shock both by the circumstances and Steve’s subsequent campaign. Speaking as a woman, that’s what so horrific isn’t it, that Theresa might so easily have been one more number in the statistics. With DNA, and I’d like to thank my colleague Tom Shirley for his input on this, no one is ‘one more number’. Our individual DNA is unique. Identifiable traces of this unique stuff can be left, dropped if you like, in any place a person has been and by almost any part of the body. As a tool of detection, it makes the good old fingerprint as 19th century as gaslights, sewers and the London Underground.

An Angela-type riff, but Steve had seen it in her script and let it go as balance to the appropriately serious tone. Only then she went and got her knickers in a twist, not understood what the specialist had said and, as a result, been inappropriately a little rough on the guy before realizing the gaffe. James gave him a look. Steve gestured back, it was sink or swim time.

Sorry Professor, treat me as number One ninny, is it a matter of looking at computer power here?

Steve nodded. James nodded. She’d swum. Not bad for a virgin, assuming you could get away with playing the poor little woman. Not so easy for a Steve.

And the Prof was off into his routine, Algorithms, were there limits?

Just the one time did Steve step in himself, and then only because her eyes had asked. The persistent civil-rights mouthpiece doing a stop-sitting-on-the-fence number, why didn’t she get off it, and then not listening when she spoke. What we’re talking about is weighing things up in an adult manner, she’d said. Adults who know we don’t live in a police state, and who also see that here is a possible tool to help find a vicious rapist and killer. There may be long-term implications, but lets look at them as adults.

Apart from that, it was her show, till he came back at the end to say the programme, they hoped, was a small contribution to catching the killer, a killer who would be caught. To him he said, Think you’re clever do you, still on the loose, but the noose is tightening. Think you’re a big man, raping and killing old ladies, you pathetic little creep.

Programme finished, James hailed it a success. A big dipper of a ride, one wouldn’t be wanting it every day, he said, not from behind a producer’s glass, but all the better on this occasion.

On This Occasion. Outside the building and on the way to a Steve and Angela Lunch.  they loved it, ‘On this occasion’, loved it to bits.

’But all the better’, classic James, how about this for an intro, But all the better for the great unwashed, Steve said. On this occasion.

As the headmistress said to a not-contrite Angela, she said.

Cigarette? Joint? Masturbation? he said.

That blush on her cheeks, he wanted it, waited for it, and when it came, said it was time for a wild night out, for the both of them.

OK, she said. And thanks, though I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, not professionally, thanks for the helping hand. That’s adult Angela speaking.

*

They still aint caught the sex case that that Steve Bryant’s on about. Hasn’t let it drop, had a whole programme on it, Joe said.

Aanother man might have jumped, given himself away. Graham waited, said nothing. The boy crusader who’d switched to mornings, how could he keep up with him and whatever he was rabbiting about? How could that be expected when some people had to get up and go to work in the mornings?

Is that how you spend your days off, listening to the radio, Dave said. You tearaway.

If you really want to know big mouth, I had me trannie on up at the allotment. He gave the Minister bloke, gave him a pasting.

And? Dave said.

Well he can only chivvy them along can’t he, like using the DNA stuff.

What’s that when it’s at home, Graham said, the voice bored, the question academic.

Basic building-block of life, Jack said. It's in every cell in your body and everyone’s is different see. You could wear gloves and they’d still know you was there. Off of your skin, off of your hair, same difference, a dead giveaway.

Something came and went, a shiver, a tremor, Graham felt it and kept his trap shut.

But it’s not that different to the old dabs, can’t be, Dave said. I mean the feller, the nonce, he’s got to be in their books for them to have a sample of his, you know, to compare.

Good point, a pain in the arse Dave could be but there was the odd time he could get to the point. So, they didn’t have his, and weren’t likely to. No sir.

You wait till the computers have developed enough, Joe said, they’ll be able to match them up in seconds and then, then everybody’ll have to give a sample.

Sounds like Big Brother, what happens to your civil rights if your face don’t fit; easy to say isn’t it, Oh, your DNA was there at the scene of the crime. How would you know?

Civil Rights? To Graham’s way of thinking, start depending on them and you were a goner anyway.

Well I say if that’s what it takes to catch the bastard, then let the boffins get on with it, Jack said.

So what do you say Graham, now we’ve found you in talkative mood?

Sounds like Science Fiction to me, he said.

Ah Graham, Graham, always the voice of common sense.

Back on duty, the train on its non-stop circuit, Graham reviewed the situation. Premier fact, the boy crusader just couldn’t leave it alone, like he’d found a mission in life. For everyone else, it was ancient history and what was he supposed to do himself, listen to that radio station morning, noon and night, just in case the twerp decided to give it another airing. In an ideal world he would have listened in, no one would look to Jack for a proper account of what had been said, but unless the old boy had missed the point altogether, or fallen asleep halfway, nothing serious had come out.

He registered a school party the teachers, the two of them, laughing like none of it was their responsibility. They were wrong. Might soon find out that they were wrong. He scanned the group from under his peak. The coloured hooligan, the one with the baggy trousers, he was likely, him and the boy with the followers, girls and boys, cocky and some. Like the radio twat, cocky with very little to be cocky about. No, baggy trousers, it was beneath him, making trouble in this place, it was clear, but the other one, twelve, maybe thirteen, looked like the followers expected something even if it was only a toy railway, which they did not know was the finest of its kind, and wouldn’t have cared even if they did.

He was going for it, the way he looked round and clocked the peaked cap, the look at the notice and the grin to the followers. Yes the points, he was changing them, nearly derailed the train and then where would they be.

Oy, you! Graham was up on his feet, stern and pointing. Can’t you read! And as for you sir, he said, a source of amazement that the teacher twat in his casuals could be Sir to anyone, have you no control over this party.

He was going to say something, be clever, the teacher, till he saw Graham and who he was, saw him for the first time, went pale, and had a stab at reprimanding jack-the-lad.

*

Not a great night out, in the club, an E each off of an old mate from Uni, and then, when the rush came, seen only potential disasters, opted not to dance, and grinned when spoken to. They decided it wasn't really their thing, declared it childish. Only for the long run, Angela was a very attractive lady close up, and had, truth be told, depended on him for those disasters - hysterical giggles, dehydration, purse nicked - not to have happened on said evening. Situations to be handled. Which was the measure, to be a pro, could you handle it? Answer, he had got her home safe and sound, Could handle her, as it happened, in not-naff style because -- Here He Comes, Steeeeeve Bryant -- because he was not a naff guy. And it was about time to put some flesh on the mental stuff, to feel some skin, knickers, nipple and roundness.

In the meanwhile, James had some ideas. Wanted to toss them around, he said. James the tosser, how was that? How was it? Tosspot? James?

When the cap fits. On the other hand, bosses were there to be humoured, n’est ce pas. Them, les idiots. Besides, Steve had his own agenda, said it straight out, that sarcastic little shit, the sound recordist, he had to go.

There are procedures Steve, but take my word, Philip’s red card has been shown, action will follow immediately. And I mean, immediately, James said like he hadn’t been believed first time round. Then it was time for his ideas. The listening figures were interesting, he said. Encouraging and interesting, he said, psychographics had come up trumps. What it all amounted to was the need for both difference, but also a degree of unity, in audience composition.

Steve waited. Blah blah, and would Steve like to do the occasional weekend evening slot. Opening the horizons of the faithful to the merits of morning radio and you had your core audience to strengthen the diffuse. Pure James-speak, but why not. He would think about it, he said, but what problems could he see? Problems he could not see.

I need a night to sleep on it, though I take your point, he said. Next?

Next, James’s brilliant idea for the year, a new type of trailer. It was cutting edge, he said.  Then he said, he was smiling, what they call cutting edge.

A third person intro, that is, a voiceover to you and me, James said.

Yes, Steve said, a voiceover and?

And then first person snippets from your shows, your voice in its many tones. I’d like to try it with you and Bill Jarman. Have you heard him yet, our Bill. No mockney about our Bill, a proper cockney, born within the sound of the proverbial.

Steve had no intention of listening to Bill Jarman.  Bored, he played the straight man. Proverbial?

Bow Bells, when last heard of, James said.

Bored, Steve said, So why are we having this discussion. I mean why are you asking me? Are there royalties involved? Yes please. Or do I just give it the old rubber stamp?

I’m talking it over with you Steve is all. What, is that bloody agent I suggested now wanting to shaft me? What you get, because you are a treasured colleague believe me, what you get is the right to veto the mini-segments we use. I’m thinking of starting with, Steve Bryant, The Joy and the Sorrow.

I will ring the agent but I guess he’ll say to you, do whatever. So run it by me when it’s done and don’t let that little fucker Phil anywhere near me in the days before he’s sacked, Steve said. I’m counting.

That was Wednesday, by which time he’d scored some Charlie through obliging old mate's druggie connections, and phoned Angela to suggest dinner at his, Friday night, said the C might be more to her taste.

Yes, she said. A professional relationship with a bit on the side. Which translated meant, she knew she’d played the wet rag at the club. Steve could hear it.

Like HP Sauce.

What?

The bit on the side.

Sau-cy, she said.

Very pert. In the meanwhile, work to be done. Thursday he trashed a rave music spiv, pony-tail and all.

Ecstasy, is that so? Happiness out of a pill. As it happens Jason, this may have passed you by, it also kills people, young people with a life ahead of them.

Friday morning was the big one, James pleased with himself, his catch of the month, he’d said. Eddie Boyd, now Sir Edward, maverick and, more to the point, bloody rich entrepreneur. Here’s a folder of cuttings plus a typed chronology, his career.

The folder was thick. They were professionals.

He drove into the studios just after dawn, tuned into the station. Before the news summary, the new trailer, James’s pride and joy.

Steve Bryant every weekday morning for a bit of everything, the laughs and the raw emotion. The laughs: Why us? Because we’ve braved the galaxies and brought back the best…Flattery will get you nowhere, whoops, wrong again Adrian, it will get you to the traffic news. Delays to be expected on the eastbound M40. And they call that news?

And the anger: To Theresa’s killer I say, Think you’re clever do you, still on the loose, but the noose is tightening. Think you’re a big man, raping and killing old ladies, you pathetic little creep.

Steve switched off. He’d wanted it stronger, saying to the killer, Hey pervert, is that the only way you can get it up?! Had given way to James ‘on this occasion’ but, and James was going to have to learn, such occasions were going to be very rare from now on. Very.

*

With a day off, the first of two, Graham felt entitled to a look at West Ten, a fine-tuning refresher, and why not. After beans on toast washed down by a steaming hot Nescafe, he put a bundle of Supermarket flyers in the hatchback and warmed up the engine. Driving west he chose the Camden Road. Now there was a thing, the old mad woman in her tat, she wasn’t there to direct the traffic only, surprise surprise, the traffic was still moving. Old Frieda Frill, fallen under a bus had she, or found some other blackspot to sort out. He made a smile, his cheeks wrapped round the smile. Not his sort at all, a nutter, jabbering and stinky likely as not.

He turned on the radio, a bit early for the Steve twat, this bloke now though, he was trying to be helpful. Road works at the Blackwell Tunnel, expect delays. Avoid the North Circular clockwise. Not news, but he was trying, and not a problem for Graham, the traffic moving easily as he slipped round the roundabout and headed past Lords cricket ground. Spring, it was official, they were sprucing the place up had put up the old red-lettered posters for the first games of the season. Nice music too, he’d been humming and hadn’t noticed it. He turned right at the Maida Vale junction, then left to head down to the Harrow Road. The music had stopped. Was that a clunk, was it, somewhere in the hatchback?

Steve Bryant every weekday morning for a bit of everything, the laughs and the raw emotion. The laughs…

That took the biscuit, they even advertised the twat these days and here was his voice, him trying to be funny. There was too, a rattle. No getting away from it, there was a bloody rattle. In the hatchback.

To Theresa’s killer I say, Think you’re clever do you, still on the loose, but the noose is tightening. Think you’re a big man, raping and killing old ladies, you pathetic little creep.

What, what did he say, ‘you pathetic little creep’? Who did he think he was? What did he know anyway, they were not old ladies. They were not. What was he on about, the boy crusader, when he had a hatchback to worry about. Carry on and whatever it was, it was going to get worse. There was no time for wishful thinking, it was not going to right itself. It was not, now it was clunk and rattle. He pulled in. There was West Ten down the drain for the day.

You had a day off, time to pursue your own interests and what happened? You waited an hour and half for the AA man to turn up and spend half an hour and more shaking his head and talking mumbo jumbo.

Self-control? When here was a man who did everything to maintain his vehicle to the highest standard now subjected to this. Followed by a tow to a garage where a spade in overalls would do you the big favour of working on it next morning when, if it was what it looked like, it would be three hundred pounds. Three hundred pounds! Self control? The blood was itching in his face-skin, the cheeks playing ping-pong when it got round to him saying he’d ring at midday next morning, before battling across town with London Transport, bus and tube.

It was at such times, dump though it was -- a studio, what, and I’m van Gogh? he’d said to the tart in the agency -- at such times it was worth it just to close the door behind him. He put on the kettle and took off his lace-ups. Refused, for a while he refused to think of anything at all until it all burst through: three hundred quid; his days off more or less down the drain;  the boy crusader, the advert they were running for him. It took all his strength to sort them out, take them one by one. First things first, the hatchback had let him down. It made you wonder if it was worth doing all the checks, getting it serviced and all the rest of it, but at the end of the day what could he do but accept it. Mechanics? Thought they were God’s gift. Like other people he could think of, like a ponce on the radio. The noose is tightening he’d said, but Graham for one, did not believe him. What did he want with the DNA even it was all it was crack’d up to be, to take a sample off of every man in the country? There’d be ructions.

The boy crusader! Contempt, it had been the last time, face to face he’d say it.

He had never allowed any one to speak contempt in his direction, but had laughed at the time because the face-to-face, the twat who did he think he was kidding! Now it was something more, just when you hoped the twerp wouldn’t say something he didn’t mean. Because he could come right into the privacy of your own home and say what he wanted, you’d expect him not to be sloppy and say things he didn’t mean. Only he had.

Stupid, the way he was looking at the trannie, like he was a darkie with his totem. You want to hear his soppy trailer or you don’t?

Why not, there was nothing on TV. Load of rubbish. You only paid the license because you didn’t want trouble. And on the trannie, a good tune you could hum to, keep your mind off smart-alec mechanics taking advantage. He’d had a bad day, and he was going to have to accept it. After the tune was finished there was a woman’s voice. We had to treat all religions with equal respect, she said.

At the end of the day he was going to have accept it, there was nothing could be done. Like Buddhists apparently. For them, the woman said, acceptance was a form of respect.

Maybe he’d dozed off and the antenna’d done its job, but it was still a shock to hear the boy crusader himself, his voice.

Flattery will get you nowhere, whoops, wrong again Adrian, it will get you to the traffic news.

The twerp trying to be funny, and then, you pathetic little creep.

Really! Oh, I see.

He’d been called bad names before, yes, and by people who should have known better. Nobody, but nobody however, had called him a little creep! Congratulations crusader, a first, what did he want, a diploma, signed and framed! Is that what he wanted? If so, he’d be waiting a long, long time. A clip round the earhole more like it! If there was someone pathetic in the situation, the twerp had only to look in a mirror. Arsehole! And not worth wasting time on, not when he was about to say goodbye to 300 quid. Three bloody hundred! For a rattle! It didn’t bear thinking about. He was not going to think about it. No, the day was going to be saved, the old Mind’s Eye was going to be given a run-out, tested to the limit and West Ten brought back to life without the refresher.

He chose the divan, lay down and closed his eyes. She was blurred true, but it was West Ten, and she stepped in to the slide show with tired legs, and took it over. Too much of an outline, but a little patience and suddenly the shoulders, the defeat in them, they were unmistakably hers, bent right over as she gathered a few old sticks…PATHETIC…PATHETIC LITTLE CREEP, the words waltzed across her back, wiped her out. PATHETIC LITTLE CREEP, on and off in pink neon like a thumbs down on a TV show.

He would find her, was looking for her behind the words. The procession of them turned lime green, back and forth, CONTEMPT now at the rear. His knob didn’t want it, shriveled to a cocktail sausage, but he would not have it. The words would be exorcised and West Ten would return. Like there, a glimpse of her, the big carrier bag weighing her down. A glimpse while CONTEMPT, heavy black now, the letters, marched over the Mind’s Eye, leaving muddy footprints everywhere, and West Ten just couldn’t cope with it, had disappeared. His cock looked stupid, flabby and wrinkled. He zipped up his slacks and stood up from the divan. On his feet started his deep breathing routine. There must be no panic, no panicky stuff. The plan after all, had been to pay West Ten a visit this very day and why, exactly because he’d needed a refresher. For that very reason. So. But he would not be disturbed like this, he just would not have it.

Fact was, he was getting flabby. The strongest guy most people had come across and he’d been letting himself go.

*

Sir Edward was granite, an education. Steve had said so, given the compliment with good grace when they’d finished, as James moved in to hover, good managerial timing, or a man out of his depth. And the tycoon had that said should Steve ever consider PR with share options, to get in touch. And PR, he said, was not prostituting yourself, it was a profession. James had given one of his little laughs, said, Ever heard of transfer fees Eddie? To which the great man had given him such a look. Ever heard of the free market squire, he’d said, and James, super-cool James, had squirmed and left it to Steve to come to the rescue, asked if he thought they were a little old-fashioned.

Not for me to say Steve but my Acquisitions Manager, you want him to take a look?

Easy to feel like small fry, but Steve walked out tall. Told Angela the story when she arrived at eight as he put out salads, cheeses, chorizo and Parma ham on a glass-topped table with a stainless steel frame. Did the honours and took her in, the tight skirt that was close to knee-length, the mannish shirt with two top buttons open, a hint of cleavage, and the semi-high heels.

And James? she said, tucking herself into the corner of a white and furry sofa.

Freaked out, called Eddie an ‘awkward customer’ as I recall, but that was after he’d left. Said I’d handled an awkward customer well. A drink? Champagne? I ask only cos there’s some what likes it, and some what don’t.

What, and the cocaine-as-advertised for dessert? 3-D bubbly, lets leave it for then. Just some still water for now thanks.

Champagne? Cocaine? The fluffy living room, it had that 80s ambience, and it suited Steve. Had the courage of his convictions, or there was something about people in their own homes, comfortable and confident. This is me, like it or lump it, that kind of thing. Same with the loose slacks and the white Tee-shirt that said BREEZIN' and made a feature of the muscles and trim.

They ate lightly. For Angela, it was like food itself was the hors d’oeuvre. She had barely dabbled herself, only rarely when offered but this she supposed was a state called Waiting For Charlie. Or perhaps waiting for Mr Charlie

Steve cleared the table as if waiting was part of the ritual. Wiped it with a dry cloth and the put out the champagne in an ice bucket with two glasses.

Wow, she said, like it really was the 80s, and gross was In. And then a cocaine wrap, Steve tilting a small heap of glinty white powder out on to the  glass surface.

Don’t get the wrong idea Angela, jumped up jocks and all that. Personally I hardly ever indulge but On This Occasion…

On This Occasion, oh wonderful, it’s one of those.

Big Dipper, anything goes, license from James as I recall.

Anything?

A figure of speech. The charlie happened to drop in my lap, also a figure of speech, and I wanted to make it a thank you for all the work you’ve done for the prog, all the work you are doing. Yes, and just having a mildly decadent night off. Watch this space, he said while he chopped powder, making four piles and pushing them back and forth till there were four neat lines.

No virgin he, whatever he might say; a lot less than one hard-working Angela. A little detachment would do no harm.

I’ve always been a bit paranoid in this situation, ever since I saw that Woody Allen film. You know where he sneezes over a very large pile of the stuff in the company of some seriously heavy looking people, and it flies all over the place, she said.

Steve laughed. He said, Do me a favour, seriously, if you do feel that sneeze coming, please do it somewhere else..

She laughed back. I wouldn’t dare, besides he’s a bit heavy on the old self-deprecation, our Woody, she said taking the fresh Twenty note from him. For a second she saw it from outside, what a sight, like an anteater, then snorted with confidence. Whoosh. A slight burn in the nose, then it was sweet in the back of the throat, and she was sparkling herself. His line, then hers again. Excitement in the chest, excitement in the head.

You gonna pour me that drink then, she said.

Oh, and who are you, he said, head up from his second line.

That ain’t nice Steve. Only five minutes and you’ve forgot me name.

Tracey.

Ooh you are a tease, you was only kidding.

Bang! She jumped, you knew what was coming and still it was a shock, the cork flying across the room. It fizzed in her glass and then there were bubbles inside the excitement.

Here’s to bubbles.

To bubbles then, here today and gone tomorrow, Steve said.

You are a one, I know all about you, the girls have been telling me, you and that phone-in. Here, I’ll tell you what, another glass, another line and I’ll give you a call.

Well well, cool Angela, it was like she was all up for strip poker. My pleasure, he said, re-filling her glass before chopping a fresh line. Help yourself when you feel like it.

Ooh no, I’m the old-fashioned type me, it’s the gentlemen what pours the drinks. Anyway I’m phoning now. Hello, yes the Steve Bryant phone-in, you know, what are you like in the mornings. Yes, put me through.

OK, if that’s what made her happy. Playtime.

On the line we have Tracey from Beckton. So Tracey, what is it like first thing?

Depends, don’t it, you know whether its weekends or I’m working.

Working?

In the city.

In the city, we like it, the wheels of finance greased and working, we like it.

She missed the beat. He waited. She started again.

Anyway, yeah, who wants to talk about work, If it’s weekends it’s different and of course if my boyfriend’s there, know what I mean?

Too much of a nod and wink, but he’d do his bit.

The same feller is it Tracey, a regular.

Well Steve, we are on the air innit?

Definitely OTT now, never mind, he could handle it.

Say no more Tracey, the Steve Bryant show has never been an outlet for the dirty washing. We’re not a launderette if you get my drift. Get my drift, know what I mean. But lets get this sorted out, lets start with a boring workday weekday, how are you then?

Well, depends on me dreams don’t it.

Your dreams? Now that really is the dirty washing. In the launderette.

Apposite or what, she wanted her notebook. What she wanted was stupid, Tracey with a notebook! Besides, it wasn’t like she was stoned. This was coke, she was bright as a button, and would remember. Launderette. At the same time, Tracey was putting down the phone, she wasn’t having her dirty washing on air.

What, my smalls an all. No thank you.

Delightful though I’m sure they are, we’ll let it pass. Another glass.

Blimey, finishing school was it, I always thought you was at university.

Oh vicious.

I’ll beat with a flower.

Would you? He was playful? He was keen? He didn’t know.

It’ll cost you. It’ll cost you, another line.

My pleasure. And another glass.

You ain’t half a one. You DJs, I’ve heard about you, a bit of smooth talk and a girl don’t know where she is.

Maida Vale.

All right, no need to be sarky.

She was a prick-teaser? She was not a prick-teaser? Only one way to find out. He moved round the table, poured her a fresh glass, watched the froth and sat down close by on the sofa.

The many and varied talents of Angela Sinclair, he said. A big hand ladies and gentlemen.

Angela? Oh I get you, another of your tarts is she, and you trying to kid me butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Yes, and while we're talking about it where’s that line you was talking about.

OK, OK, he’d never been the one to spoil a game. She snorted the next one like a vacuum cleaner. His tasted own like the one before.

Tell you the truth Tracey, you’re there in one. It’s the DJ’s life, spend half the time fighting off the talent.

Ooh, you’re so smooth, I love you.

Steve felt his cock moving, it was filling out. He moved towards her for a kiss, for the next button on her shirt.

And I’ll bet you’ve always got the Durex ready, you naughty boy, she said, holding him with a finger on his nose.

He saw his cock stuffed like a sausage, saw the creamy plastic.

What? he said. Could have sworn she’d be one for the pill, coil or the cap.

Durex, with all this AIDS, know what I mean, spreading like bloody wildfire. But I bet they put it on nice, all them groupies.

He didn’t put it around, wanted to say so but with Angela stuck on this number she was doing, no chance. Second best maybe, but there were condoms somewhere in the bathroom and the best of it, he would have to make.

Wouldn’t have it any other way Tracey.

She faltered. He could hear it. Could see it. He felt good, this was a game for two.

Don’t want to be greedy Steve, but how about one more line. Just for luck, know what I mean.

For you Angela, a pleasure.

Now I’m going to get narked Steve if I hear about this Angela again. I know you’ve got your groupies but I don’t want to hear about them.

Here, he said, get this up your nose and be happy.

See you have got manners, when you try, she said.

You sussed me out from the start, it was finishing school, he said. For boys.

She was a prick-teaser? She was not a prick-teaser? Whatever had happened, whatever it was, he didn’t care. Suddenly felt like his cock didn’t care either.

Well that’s a mercy, she said. I mean I’m broad-minded but all that trans-this and trans-that, all that crossing, half the time a girl don’t where she is with a feller.

Really? You live in a state of confusion do you, he said. There was a spare bedroom, there was that, or he could offer to drive her home even if she did have her own car. Or there was her driving and, all too possible, stopped by the police.

Teasing me again, what is that what they taught you in that school of yours, just when I’d thought you had nice manners and I could take you round my mum’s because she does love a man with manners.

Boring, but for the time being, no stopping her.

A loss all round, mine and your mum's, he said.

Ooh you are sarky.

Hadn't she said it before? Repetition, it was against the rules. Her game and what happens, she breaks the rules. Where was the audience? Where was the collective raspberry. Could do better, he wrote on her report and waited for her to run out of steam.

*

You sound a long way off, she said, hearing the coins drop.

I’m not Marjorie, honest, in fact 3rd motorway caff from the end.

The end?

It’s only Pantry Parlour darling woman, not the funeral variety, and I’m only thinking of a cup of slop.

You’re not on that crazy bike are you Martin? Not in this weather. Age is not just a state of mind.

No, no, I’m so grown-up these days, I know my limits.

Seventy miles per hour in a car with a working heater?

That’s the ticket Margie, a one man concern on the run from the set, speeding towards London  and hoping, if it’s OK with you, even if I feel bad that it always seems to be on my terms, you know, to drop in and understanding absolutely if it’s not.

They were the words she could have said herself, might have said them, how it always seemed to be on his terms, but facts on the table, now she’d heard the voice she wanted him, wanted him to come.

She spoke in neutral mode, that it was OK with her.

You are generous to a fault, he said.

When’s it a fault.

When you don’t have the time.

Which meant what, that he was lucky, and she too lazy to be busy. She laid a fire, half her wood gone at a stroke, but did not light it, He would be taking her out to eat, her upstairs had got that clear, and no shilly-shally when it came to where, as she’d. told him when the last when  he’d offered one choice after another.

When he arrived she clocked him startled as he passed by the stiff brown paper in the frame from which Jack had laughed. She said nothing. He said nothing, till he said they would go to a Thai restaurant he knew. Her first time, and she could see that he enjoyed her delight in the tastes she’d never tasted before, the freshness of it, the lemon grass in the seafood soup, and the Tiger beer. And the people at the other tables, not special, but different to her day-in day-out. Made her happy enough to ask about the part he was playing.

A bit of a lad, you said, they chose you for the twinkle in your eye Martin.

As the casting director said to the director. Gary’s seventy eight years young even if he’s not so fast on his feet.

But what does Gary do in this Old People’s Home? What do you do?

Shamelessly chat up everyone female. Not necessarily expecting a result out of it, you understand…

It’s called flirting.

On the button, Gary is a flirt. Tries it on even with Matron, late fifties repressed.

As opposed to myself. Repressed? It sounds easy to play.

Ah you are clever Margie. On TV it is easy, especially with Joyce Green playing the part. She’s brilliant at that repressed face which nevertheless holds the promise that things could be different.

Another male fantasy. And is she? Joyce?

Make-believe is make-believe. I’ve no idea, not in reality. Which in a way is the problem.

What, you do fancy her?

No, definitively no. It’s reality. Fact is that this is a comedy which, by the way, pays a lot better. But because it’s comedy, Gary gets away with it, but I can’t stop thinking whether he would in reality.

If it was real, you mean they’d crush him somehow, drugs or something, knock the stuffing out of him however much of a card he was.

That is one possibility, tranquilizers and so on. When I read the script all I could see was that it was a great part for me, I could see that straight off, but soon after shooting began…

Yes? Marjorie said, pouring the last beer into their glasses.

It was the third day I think. Oh my lines were great, a pleasure to deliver, but I did start to think whether such rebellion, you know, human sussedness and cussedness, whether it was still possible, when probably it isn’t, not for someone in Gary’s position.

So what would happen to him?

A perpetual shower of cold, judgmental remarks is my guess..

Nasty. You scare me, anything but that, she said.

And in addition, low-level staff cruelty.

I see, she said. Time to go home and say a prayer it never comes our way. But we’ll see your film when it’s ready, and just pretend. A laugh is good for you, it’s official, the doctors say so.

That night they did not bother with the fire or love-making. In each others’ arms were soon asleep and made love late the next morning. She let him push up the comfort nightie and duck down his head. She could feel the weight of it between her thighs, the softness of his tongue through her hair and into the slippery. Slowly it slid up the soft channel to her clit, the pip that had never let her down.

He could feel her body relax, looked upwards to see her face above the nightie prepared to be pleasured. Her smell was rich, refined smells of the sea and its fish. Gastronomic. He kept his tongue to a light touch, its tip skimming up and down the velvet then resting at the mobile base of her clitoris, gently round and round it, then diagonal darts back and forth until he felt her hips moving.

Crafty, crafty Martin, it was him had got her worked up. Crafty, crafty tongue. Twinkle twinkle little star, warm excitement where you are, the tip of his teeth holding it steady for his tongues stronger strokes. Her fingers stroked the hair of his head. They were fierce, digging in. She was riding him now, his head on his solid shoulders his excitement rising with her, till she demanded his cock and came a cat in her own ears and, happy chance, like they had achieved something special, moments later, he came too. They lay still, his cock still warm and firm inside, the breathing still sound and furious, pumped up from the diaphragm and beating their chests. Big gasps. Till the cock had shrunk and popped out. Marjorie rolled away, then turned to run her hand through his hair.

It’s got to be good for you, she said, must eat up that stuff they say is so bad, the cholesterol, though as I said to the gobshite, there’s worse things than cholesterol in this world.

All too true. And the gobshite?

Oh the TV feller that was so pleased with himself. From whose clutches you rescued me my darling man.

Ah yes, so pleased to play the hero at my age. But weren’t you afraid?

Of what? That prat?

No, that I might have a coronary and snuff it while fucking.

Martin, your language is crude and the thought horrible.

Yes but what a way to go, le petit mort becomes le grand..

Are you intent on being vulgar, or is that what you people call black humour? Anyway, before or after?

Before or after what?

Coming of course.

Martin laughed. Oh after, definitely, he said. I mean then you wouldn’t have to mess about looking for your soul. It would be there.

Martin, she said, sat up on the sudden, do you laugh at death, which is a serious business. You know, even when you’re in bed at night on your own and it’s been a terrible day, when no one’s appreciated you, and you’ve appreciated nothing.

She was stroking the white hairs on his chest. He felt he must sit up too, touched her lightly on the shoulders. I dread there ever being such days, he said. No I don’t laugh at it and I apologize for…

Bad timing Martin, but you still do it with charm, she said. He was stroking her shoulder blades. Of charm, there was no lack.

Bad timing? What are you saying? What of my professioinal pride?

Just in the middle there, she said, there’s an itch, give it a little scratch.

He had to be back on set the following morning. He would be daft not to take the train, she said, and be fresh for it. She made him a late afternoon soup and omelet and he read out titbits from the paper. A bigwig in the middle of a sex scandal without the sex; envelopes full of cash changing hands in pub toilets. No class, Marjorie said.

After a day indoors, they decided on a pub drink before the train that would get him in by midnight. JJs was out of the question, an ambush from a Gerry on the whinge all too possible, and Tom’s pub, the new one, no, for the time being she wanted to keep it to herself. Instead they walked west along the Harrow Road to a pub she had drunk in the odd time, and which had a mini-cab office next door.

At the bar he said he’d join her, and ordered two pints of Guinness. I’ll be able to pee when it comes, on the train. Wouldn’t risk it with a seat belt.

Ah, the prostate, they say it’s hard on a man.

Don’t hurry me down that road Margie, I haven’t got that far yet.

I’m glad to hear it, she said. Tedious they tell me.

They were sat down, an L-shaped padded bench in worn tartan with a view of the whole bar area, backs to the wall, and a table to themselves. On the other side from the corner a fire with live flames out of make-believe coals. Two women had followed them in with a man who was not Mr Prevost the fishmonger but had his figure, they took the table round the corner of the bench, waiting for him and their drinks.

Do they now, Martin said. In which case I’ll ask for a postponement.

What? Marjorie said, her upstairs on the two women, like they were a TV she did not want to see. The one, say ten years younger than herself, had Margie thinking of corsets doing a good job; and the other much younger, her face lost in a mass of curly hair, not legless, not falling about, but out of it, drink, drugs, something she was finding hard to handle.

Martin’s gaze had followed hers, felt the irritation steaming out of the older woman, but he liked to think he was an old trouper, and could keep the conversation moving, said he’d ask for a postponement in his prostate case.

Ask who? There will be no one in charge. Or do you say your prayers. In private perhaps, Margie said. I do, please leave my vagina alone, no illness there please. Once or twice a week.

Well after this my girl, don’t think I’m ever coming out with you again.

They couldn’t help but hear the voice, the whisper with legs. Marjorie spoke herself when she saw the distress in Martin’s face.

Ask who,? She said.

Just look at you, the woman said, and Margie could not help but see the man with the drinks helpless, trying for the words that might pour oil on troubled waters, when it looked like there were no such words.

I’m sorry, what did you say Margie, prayers?

The man had excused himself to the Gents. A person with a bit of nous about them, might be ready to do a runner; this feller, in need of a breather, that’s as far as he’d got.

She was relentless, her with the cleavage, impossible not to hear.

Pull yourself together for God’s sake. What’s the matter with you. It’s my night out too you know.

Prayers? Martin said.

He’ll be back in a minute, so you’d bloody well…

Get me out of here Margie, Martin said.

In the cab office, in the cab itself, dropping Marjorie off on the way to the station, he couldn’t get over how awful it had been. She just couldn’t leave it alone, the uptight one, he said. It was relentless, as if that was going to make the other woman better.

Like a person had a headache, and the doctor bashed you over the head, she thought to say but there was no time. It was goodbye and she was back at home on her own. Martin had warmed her up but now he was gone, and gone cold himself from the scene she was not going to think about. Like he couldn’t leave it alone.  Like he’d lived a sheltered life. She poked at what was left of the coal fire, knew that the flare-up would be its last. It had taken time, it took care, the fire, and did it count with him? No, generous to a fault, he’d said, but no it didn’t count because it wasn’t recorded, wasn’t on a film. It burned up, flared and was consumed, a here today and gone tomorrow. Which is what it felt like when the shadow’d passed over you, when you’d only gone out for a quiet drink and weren’t prepared. And now Martin gone too, off to be recorded.

A bottle of rum to warm my tum, well leastways, a cognac. She poured herself a stiff one and sat closer to the last of the fire. Facts on the table, it wasn’t Martin, generous to a fault in his way, all the presents, consumables too, quality consumables, this was Remy Martin and no messing. No, nothing to do with him. Facts on the table dear Marjorie, what have you really done with your life eh, when you’re a fair way through it, and there’s only one of them, one life, which was true because who did want to be a ghost like she’d said to the Irish feller in the pub. Oh she could change the subject when it got hot, she hadn’t been born yesterday, not by a long chalk, only now, just because she’d been in the wrong pub at the wrong time, here it came, the question, what had she achieved in this once-only life? Children? It hadn’t bothered her, but now, what was there to show that she’d ever been here at all, what would there be?

Margie Was Here in big letters. And where would that be, the Ladies loo in JJs? Small big letters in that case. In her upstairs, red lights flashed. Never mind changing the subject, this stuff, what she was thinking, it was for herself only. Word leaked out that she’d ever thought such thoughts, and there’d be Gerry to say, Told you so. I gave you the chance, chance of a lifetime, on TV, remembered by all, star potential. She could hear him

***

Poor old West Ten, depressed or what! By rights, she should be in line for her final night of glory right now, this very night. As it was, driving back home through a damp London, the time simply was not right, his restraint barely stretched where she was concerned. It was like she didn’t know what to do with herself. As a standard refresher however, could hardly have been better, not a tail job, but glimpses as clear as could be. All helped by a purring hatchback, the concentration on the job in hand, even if it had wound up as threehundred and forty pounds worth of purring. What could you do, you were in the mechanic’s hands? At the end of the day, you could only assume it was money well spent, and get on with your life.

Turning north towards Archway, he risked a single yellow for a chicken and chips takeaway neatly boxed up. Back home it was still warm enough to eat up straight off. He thought about the TV, thought about the radio and said no. First things first. It was no time to be playing dare, no time for games, he wanted West Ten secure, ready and available to the Mind’s Eye. This time he drew the heavy brown curtains over the lace ones. Dark darkness behind his closed eyes. He waited, turned back a picture of Dave about to say something; turned back a vision of the chicken skin round the gran’s neck, and a noisy malfunction of the hatchback. He waited.

Into the dark walked West Ten on the wet pavement of the afternoon, so clear that he could have ripped the tatty coat right off of her back to find, no doubt, a sad blouse underneath. X-ray eyes, he could see it, the blouse that had seen better days; was seeing it, his cock starting its swell. The angle switched for him without help, now it was her neck and back in the coat, followed by PATHETIC LITTLE CREEP in pink neon. They winked at him, the words, on and off. Chicken and chips moved in his stomach.

He breathed in, he breathed out. He waited. CONTEMPT trailed behind in fishnet stockings. It laughed. It moved on to let in CREEP, the pink lit up by a border of naked lightbulbs.

He opened his eyes, would not panic. It would pass, his cock could wait. He turned on the light switch, got up to put on the kettle. And could not do it. A tea? A coffee? Oh yes, a thrill they would be. Get real! Which involved opening the drawer with his cheque book, pay-slips, rent book, and one smoothed-out, stained in the corner, newspaper cutting. To tell him face to face, just how much contempt…It was there in black and white with the boy crusader’s face underneath. A soft face that knew nothing of the hard realities. Nothing. It was a joke. He smiled. Wrapped his cheeks around the smile, folded the cutting and put it back underneath his rent book.

On the divan, eyes closed, he waited. A cheeky mechanic grinned. West Ten on the pavement, bent against the weather, took a step, only her back was subtitled with moving words in winking neon. He sighed. It was boring, he’d seen it before. PATHETIC LITTLE CREEP CONTEMPT CREEP. West Ten was gone and there was no end to it. No end until his cock came to life with a rush of rage as the words disappeared and he saw that stupid soft face that said things it didn’t mean, the eyes in that face starting to pop as strong hands squeezed its neck.

No, no no no.

No. His knob retreated back inside the cock-flap.

He got up. Ridiculous, but at the end of the day, and a chore he could well do without, he was going to have to look over the crusader's castle one more time. Another look would do, just a look at him entering his Mansion flat. Watching him as he did it, so he’d know that if - and it was a big If, a very big If - the day ever came that the twat really did matter, he could be taken at any time. Just to know it would get him out of his hair. Himself, he’d made a mistake, simple as that, done things the wrong way round. It was the crusader's castle had needed the fresh look first before the indulgence of West Ten It was one of those things, sometimes you couldn’t tell. Not just him, the chicken and the egg, that had been going on for centuries. Looking the twat over as he entered his own place, just the one time would do. He should have done it before, he would do it now, as soon as was feasible. A test, it would be yet another test of the old self-restraint unless…

No no no no.

No. But just as an exercise, a wholly hypothetical scenario -- and why not, when for tonight at least, and he had accepted this, West Ten was a wash-out, and, as per usual, there was nothing on the telly – what if, and it was strictly an if, you might want to take it a step further with big mouth, how best to go about it. It would be his own refresher, just to keep his hand in; starting with visualisation technique. The block entrance itself, the main door with upper-half glass opened by residents with old-fashioned key, entrance hall carpeted and minus concierge. CCTV? No, only the St John’s Wood Side and the restaurant on the bridge. Road itself? Quiet, tree-lined with the canal in sight.

The target? A twat that thought he was God’s gift.

Method? Once upon a time there’d been a lecture. MO, Modus operandi, the bloke had said, had to say it a few times when there were Medical Orderlies and Medical Officers in the world, and the bloke sounded like he had in-growing teeth. Took him an hour to say, Don’t Do the Same Thing Twice, as if Graham, for one, had been born yesterday. No, in this hypothetical case, B&E of any sort was out of the question, and everything pointed to an off-the street ambush at the door with a shiv in the back for encouragement. Key ring in the berk’s hand, encouragement if needed, a push of blade through cloth and into the skin. Potential noise problem? A fast left forearm jammed into the mouth, the shiv in the right.

No, just watching him, seeing the keys in his hand and knowing, just knowing, what could be done was enough.

Till then he was resigned, wouldn't even try the old Mind's Eye, would not have it smeared and scarred. Till then, Restraint.

What with some hair-of-a-dog toots needed during the past week-there would be no more of that for a while, it was strictly but strictly, a now-and-again thing- that and a Saturday evening show scheduled for this very day, Steve decided the gym was a must. Express purgatory he called it, had said it to an Angela who said it had been great fun the other night, and she’d loved to come over on Sunday and lie around watching a weepie on the telly with him, would ring him around eleven. He supposed he did still fancy her, would tell her straight out if it came to it that yes, he did want to fuck her, but it was Angela he had in mind; the  play-acting,  she just couldn’t handle it. Hesitation, repetition, it did not turn him on.

Express indeed, feeling the poisons expelled by the sweat and pain. He went through his reps to the last set of curls when he said no to macho masochism and shaved off the last three.

Too much of the old J. Arthur Steve, Barry said, like he’d arrived on cue.

No need for that these days, Steve said.

After a shower as hot as he could take, and some half-heard lewd stuff from Barry, followed by a cold plunge, he walked home in the April sunshine. London in 1994 was a wonderful place, hard to beat. It was old, it was new, it was pretty amazing. Back home, he flicked through the new issue of In The Smoke, speed-read the AIDS feature and cut it out, put it in the AIDS file waiting for when he was good and ready to put it to James, and not take no for an answer.

He drove in to work at 4.30 for an eight o’clock kick-off, eight till ten, just the two hours till Bill Jarman came on. At the studios found one laid-back producer, his very own Jim Plant, in a strop. With justification. For their first Saturday evening run-out, who had James himself got in as a guest but Beverly whatsername who’d been a TV and radio personality in the year dot.

She was on the way out when you’d still be in short trousers Steve.

Once upon a time, he’d have been outraged, this kind of crap, when it was James had asked him to do some weekend evenings. What, and he had to prove again, yet again, that he could still get a bright spark out of a wet rag. Now he was amused.

Wrong generation, he said, we didn’t bother with the short pants.

He was amused, had nothing to prove. James and his naff taste, that was something else. An obstacle to the station’s progress is what it was in danger of becoming.

Old personalities never die, they just fade away, he said.

Unless they happen to have an old agent who’s still prepared to do overtime on the phone, And you’ve got a cost-cutting James at the other end. How’s the young public going to relate to this, I said, Jim Plant said.

Cost-cutting James? So what did that mean when it was at home.

And you got some James-speak in return, Steve said.

Bingo. Jim Plant said. Said it was not an exclusively young audience. Fair enough, but then he tells me they like it the kids, nostalgia for the innocence of the times, when the tabloids were respectful and stars were still stars. Mystique safely in the bank.

So go on, tell me, you’ve got your kicks with the music chart, period music.

Of course, flavour of the times. So there’s some Chuck Berry and the first record from The Rolling Stones. The Rolling Stones, only, no doubt, our Beverly was calling it disgusting rubbish at the time. Any Questions circa 1963 likely as not.

Cost-cutting, what did this mean, going cheapskate? Out loud, Steve laughed. How about this for an intro, he said. ’What’s it like Bev, being an ex-personality? A dodo on the gin is it?

Jim shook his head, said it was OK for the Satire sector, but even there he’d be bounced for that one.

I was only joking, Steve said. He thought it had been obvious, only joking, which left Jim as someone slow on the uptake.

Then they got down to it, did their stuff, even while Jim was singing ‘a fat blonde actress…over the hill right now and looking for love’. The Velvet Underground, the producer’d said, while Steve read the Biog then scripted his intro. Which survived the arrival of the lady herself, making an effort to look gracious about the way things had panned out. Didn’t have much choice, did she.

My guest tonight, he said, finally on air, well to be honest this is quite an occasion for me, it’s my first time for a while for an evening airing, an airing of comment and opinion, that’s what we’re looking for. We, in case you don’t know, have just tuned in, we is Steve Bryant and team. My guest tonight, did I forget you there Beverly, Jim my producer is nodding… Beverly, let’s start again, I was going to say this is a special occasion not because of my return to the night air, but more, much more. It maybe that younger listeners won’t understand what I’m talking about but when I was a kid in short pants, Beverly seemed to dominate the screen, so it’s something special to welcome you tonight. So tell me, how was it when TV was still, well I guess you’d say, was still in its youth

Well Steve…

It was like turning on the alarm on your bedside radio.

Got to hand it to you Steve. The old bag: Jim, he was grinning through the glass.

Beverly had known all of them, all of them who were dead. What a pro did, he kept going, so that when it came to Freddy who was not to be confused with Ralph, Steve was still with her, doing his bit. For that alone, James owed him. After hi-fives with Jim, he picked up the Audi. Sang Yellow Brick Road louder than the cassette on Euston Road parallels.

From now on, don’t call us, we’ll call you. The future motto of the show. From now on, the agents of a whole world of has-beens were banned. A blanket ban. Could crank the phone as much as they liked unless there was a re-release in the offing. Goodbye yellow brick; goodbye Alfie Turner, eat your heart out Beverly! He ejected the tape and switched to the radio.

What? Nice one Geoff. That’s Geoff Keyes my producer ladies and gentlemen…gentlemen? Do they really exist in our busy day and age? Meanwhile Geoff, stand-up comedians nothing, he could be the best if it weren’t for being stuck with yours truly, Mr Clothears. What? Sorry, I can’t give you his reply and if that’s an admission, well it’s an admission. Yes, once I too was a stamp collector. Did I hear sad? Did I hear anorak? His reply I cannot give. Contractual obligations are involved. And enough, enough-enough-enough of my rabbit, more to the point is  that he’s back, Bobby Bland is back, though to my way of thinking he never went away, so cop this one, I’m Too Far Gone to Turn Around.

Sheeit, he was good this Bill. Confident, risky, knew where the boundaries were. Him and Geoff, they hadn’t wasted time. Quick and slick.

Bloody hell! He turned off the radio as he made it through the end of a Green light, and into the Euston Road close to where it became the Marylebone. Already, this Bill, a better deal than he’d ever had, night times but Thursday to Sunday only. Looked like specially made for Bill, the Long Weekend only. But no worries. These days one Steve Btyant was a heavyweight who could also still do the lightweight stuff. What, did he have to prove it again? Could do it with one hand tied behind his back is what!

The other side of Baker Street in the gloom, a shapeless shape shuffled along the pavement, eyes down. He could hear the words, they had resonance, a shapeless shape shuffled. But eyes down, that was wishful thinking. No pickings there pal, he said to the driver’s window. At the end of the day, something should be done for such people. It could be a runner, no, it was a definite, for Christmas time. They would have in one of those people he truly admired, people who gave up their own Christmas just so these characters would know that they too belonged, that the world did not just pass them by.  And he’d add his own special bit, splice on a request show for them, the no-hopers, them and them alone.

At the lights under the flyover he waited like a patient man, then put his foot down to slice through the electronics shops and first-floor bureaus on the Edgware Road. In to the turning that lead home, he took in a weirdo on the pavement. No, not weird, a big, stiff-looking bloke who was drunk, just plain drunk. If you can’t hold it, don’t drink it pal, and even then, call a cab, he said to the windscreen. He liked it, he did, would consider it for Steve-ism status, ‘and even then, call a cab’. Harder and harder the parking spot, and that was when you’d paid your Residents Only permit. He was lucky, reverse-parked into the tightest of spaces. Out on the pavement he locked the car and gave himself a pat on the back, it was inches forward and aft, inches! Up above, the moon lurked behind some chimneys. Lurked, he liked it.

Keys in hand, he gave the moon a last look before turning into the block’s entrance hall. WHACK! In the back. What what what what? Earthquake? Beserk car? A bomb?

What? A tickle ran down his throat. Choking? Cho-king? A sharp prick in the back, through the jacket, through the sweat shirt and into the skin. The brain was slow, it was reluctant but there was a possibility it said, that a full blade might sink in. And the choking, it was a clothed arm jammed tight in his mouth.

WHAT!!!

A mugging, it was just a mugging. Stay calm, pay up if needs be. But when the knife wasn’t there, why, he’d take the mugger apart, he’d beat the shit out of him.

At the main block entrance a voice said, Just open it, like the guy did this kind of thing everyday of the week. Which had to be better than rank amateurs who lost their cool.

What? He was being hustled, hustled, bumped and bustled to the solid dark wood of his own door, his apartment. A fresh prick punctured his back. Ridiculous. It was ri-dic-u-lous but OK, if that’s what this joker wanted, why then, he’d go along with it. Burglary of the aggravated variety. Mucho aggravating. Mucho aggravation. The voice said, Open up. It was disgusting, the voice in his ear, the breathing in his ear, the intimacy of it. A scream wanted out. Scream blocked, in a panic, tried to rush back the way it had come only Steve was running in his own flat. Running because this mad mugger had him running.

No noise Steve, the voice said, a voiceover to a fresh skin prick in the back.

Steve? What, conspiracy? Conspiracy flick? Some ex- of Angela’s? OK, OK OK OK, whatever it was, whatever grievance or misunderstanding, it could be sorted. It could, only a scream was rising against the coarse cloth of the arm that choked him, his mouth bruised, jaw stretched. The scream was forced back and then, like the arm knew, he felt his mouth released.

Look I don’t know what this is about, he said to the super strong body that held him tight, just tell me what you want.

The prick in the back, its presence, it was there as he was buckled forwards towards the bed, his own bed, his own bloody bed. A new cloth, a hairy cloth, sealed off his mouth and bulged into his throat. Loose hairy fibres spilled back down his gullet. The fibres and the very thought of them, they made him retch. Bile, a thimbleful was blocked by the stuffing of his mouth. Didn’t the guy understand anything? It could be sorted, whatever it was.

A strong hand had been placed gently on his neck, but No No No, he didn’t want it even soft in its leather. Not there, not his neck. Unless you’re a real self-defence whizzo, don’t do anything, be passive when you’re attacked. From the horse’s mouth, the self-defence woman on the first Theresa phone in.

Passive? Easy to say. An Angela ex? Surely not. But I never did anything anyway. Comprende? Only you must leave my throat alone, he said into the fibrous gag.

You’ve been a silly boy Steve, the voice said.

This was, this was, this was unreal.

You can’t go around calling people pathetic, people that you don’t even know, pathetic little creeps.

The fingers tightened, the hand enormous, pressure on his Adam’s apple. He must fight now, fight back before it was too late. But before that, he must listen, know what this all about so he could deal with it. Pathetic? He didn’t go around calling people pathetic, it wasn’t his style. If the guy would only take the gag off, then he could explain.

You know-all little twerp, the voice said. It was angry, it came with a dig from the gloved fingers. It came from a big man, his breath harsh and close-up.

I gave that Theresa the best time of her life and you know nothing, which doesn’t stop you shooting your mouth off arsehole.

He knew. It had to be, but it was unreal, it was completely fucking mad, and it was worse than knowing nothing, this was a killer. Here, in Maida Vale in 1994. It was incredible and he’d lost his strength, robbed by the anger in the voice and the sheer unfairness of it all. He hadn’t asked Theresa to phone in that night, had he?! So what was this guy mad about?! The chill came with the words, because he was mad. He was a mad killer who now had both hands on his neck. He shook his head as hard as was possible but could not see beyond the blue stripe of the duvet cover.

Going to tell me how much contempt you feel for me? Going to tell me face to face are you?

He would, whatever the consequences, that’s just what he would do if it weren’t for the cloth gag. It would be the death of him as it shed a fibre which lodged itself, hard and dangerous in the tender mucous of his deep throat. His stomach jumped in jerks. You were in the coffin, and that was it, sealed off from the world, because this fucking maniac, he was a killer. Might want to kill him and there’d be no comeback. No second chance and Jesus, that’s all he wanted, he had important things to do, important things to say. Not just Theresa, couldn’t this maniac understand, but on a whole range of issues. A whole lifetime ahead, so much to be done.

The fingers were off his throat. He gulped air, and swung his well-tuned, heaving body against the bulk of the maniac with all his might. Its weight had shifted, an arm passed a corner of his vision. He tried for leverage, digging his knees into the mattress. Only the damn thing had all the firmness of a pudding, and where was his strength when he needed it, all those hours in the gym, those hours when he’d never cheated on his routine. Where the hell was it. He kicked out with a half-free leg and got a new thrust of the blade in reply, felt warm ooze from around the stab and an explosion of hot salty water in his eyes.

Not fair, it was just not fair. The weight of this maniac, how could he be expected to deal with that. The free gloved hand was fiddling about somewhere above his bum, but the disgusting loud breathing stayed the same, as an obscene tickle on the skin. It was unreal. The whole thing, a nightmare. He heard cloth ripped by a blade, his trousers coming apart and felt the monster’s weight shift. He thrust upwards with all his strength but the treacherous mattress swallowed it up. The screams rushed up and down, hammering on the hairy gag. Not fair. Of course he’d meant what he said, but it had been spur of the moment and what the hell could you do with killing madness. This bulk that crushed him killed people. He was going to be killed himself. He was going to be killed.

A rash of goose pimples had sprung up all over. The white expanse of pillow was blurred. He pushed with everything he had, frenzied strength, he simply must get the bulk off of him to stand a chance.

You’ve been a silly boy, the voice said, tickling his ear. Fear robbed his muscles. Cold, slippery stuff slithered on the cheeks, the crack and into his arse. No no no. His strength regrouped  only to be snatched away by a new pain, worse than all the others, the sphincter muscle brutally brushed aside, ripped, a screaming of tissue added to the mad rush hour in his blocked-off throat.

You sniveling little creep.

The thrust was deeper with the anger of the voice, the final invasion of his privacy. He kicked out, swung his shoulder and the fingers, hard and bony back into his neck, right into its softness. They bored, they bruised. The fibres were now in free fall, thwarted retching made a whiplash spasm of his torso and his arse was an agony. What, what had he done to deserve this, said what he felt, tried to bring some justice into the world. If only he could even hear his own screams that pounded helplessly at the stuffing. The waste. The waste. A tremor right along his arsehole, a last feel of his own cock, erect in the duvet and the bulging of his face, his eyes, and the boiling madness in his chest. Not allowed a life. Unfair. Everything inside him turned liquid and pouring out.

SEVEN

Hi, this is Steve, please leave a message after the tone.

She liked it, curt and to the point, what men called manly. But this was 11.30 of a Sunday morning, and it could get boring, the answerphone thing, when all an Angela wanted was confirmation of a date. A lazy Sunday afternoon chez Steve to watch a weepie on the box, and then whatever, if anything, came next. They’d had a good laugh the other night, sexy, and then he’d…no, as a bonus he’d gone all manly and driven her home. While under the influence if the truth be known, but it was his car, his license. Driven her home, been the perfect gent, and driven straight off again.

The Sundays were dull, whole sections lay unopened on the rug and the sofa. One day she would have to come out as a wannabe Tabloid reader. In the broadsheets it was all Eurosceptics and Yugoslavia; why not, just now and then, a nice juicy crime story or a warts and all confessional. The Staying In section of the Leisure pages, at least they were practical, a weepie of weepies scheduled for half past two. Which was the only place you found them, on the telly, because the flicks these days didn’t have it, they didn't make them, not like the old days, and in one’s own life who wanted it? Love, pain and histrionics, no thankyou! She was an adult; Steve was an adult whose adulthood had stood up to reasonably close inspection.

Reasonably close? Euphemisms Angela? Turned-on Tracey in fact, juices flowing from the words she spoke, only to find Steve the gentleman not looking to take advantage. In the meanwhile, virgin Culture pages were there for the reading. She curled up cat-like in her armchair to read the secret life of a poet, the discreet mistress of 20 years now letting rip with stories of cross-dressing and humiliation.

Hi, this is Steve, please leave a message after the tone.

Ten past Twelve. All right, OK, it was, she supposed, for a Sunday, still early. And Steve had done that Saturday night show, she’d left a cassette on to catch half an hour of it, and then another ten minutes on the car radio as he laughed down memory lane, laughed gently with Beverly whatsername who’d had the drink problem not that long ago, and then, old trouper as she was, made a comeback.  So, he’d had a hard time of it, getting her through the interview, so! What, and on the strength of that gone out on a binge. Surely not, but if so, just as well to know, now that they were in the possible, the potential phase of a relationship. And where are you Tracey? In a relationship, know what I’m saying?

She’d succumbed to the Travel pages, was living in a 13th century stone house with all mod cons, was sat there, finishing the writing of the much enlarged Steve feature amongst the olive trees. That was fantasy, reality demanded a change in the whole weight of her piece now that Steve was, now that he was whatever he was at 12.35, someone she had feelings for, however mixed.

Hi, this is Steve, please leave a message after the tone.

OK, be reasonable, it was possible he was still asleep, possible he’d gone out to lay in stores for their lazy day Sunday. Steve the quartermaster, provider of small treats. Or was himself buying an eclectic bulk of Sunday paper. They ought to have synchronized watches on this one, journalistic loyalty had her all for newspaper buying in general, but not duplicate. It was possible, she supposed, that one day it might be habit for them to arrange such things, but it was early days indeed to be thinking such things.

Very early days when at ten past one it was the same story. She left no message. Would allow another half an hour, and that was being generous. For one thing she wanted a slice of his attention on the whole AIDS project as she envisaged it, which, since all-work-and-no-play Angela was to be a thing of the past, meant having most of the day together. There was also the matter of broaching him on doing a second proper interview, the piece that had begun with the first one, pre-Theresa, having grown into something both bigger, and very different. More immediately, the weepie was scheduled for 2.30. She had rather hoped for some time for them to get settled and comfortable. Chocolates had crossed her mind. Now, allowing a comfortable forty minutes drive time, it would inevitably be a rushed affair.

At a quarter to two, she pictured his phone as it rang, a rather lurid red thing in his brash hallway. Could hear it, the echo muffled by all the furry stuff.

Hi, this is Steve, please leave a message after the tone.

Yes she would. Yes she did.

It’s a quarter to two on Sunday, thanks for buggering up my day.

It had been a definite arrangement and this, this was simply not on. The most charitable explanation was that something had come up. She was an adult, realistic enough to know that things did just crop up, but he hadn’t bothered to ring her, selfishly not even thought about her and her day.  Just who did he think he was to stand her up like this. A guy who, if one was ruthlessly honest, had depended on her so much to enlarge the scope and range of his programme, who needed her and her contacts. What, and just because she’d had some fun as Tracey he was now seeing her as just a piece of skirt, or however dinosaur men talked these days. And if she felt irritable it was natural, of course a person would be disappointed if a colleague, a friend and colleague should turn out to be so, so gross. And where did that leave her major piece of writing as she had to admit to herself that perhaps the original sneers at In the Smoke re one Steve Bryant, were justified. Steve with his chrome and fur interior.

And then, to top it all on a miserable Sunday, riffing through the address book everyone, but everyone, was out.

A person could do without the morbid stuff and, facts on the table, there had been too much of it in her upstairs of late. Moody moods for a moody girl. Marjorie was bored with it and thought of maybe giving a party for a small number of friends and acquaintances. A date had passed when certain perks and privileges had come her way courtesy of Her Majesty. She had not celebrated, but if asked, only that she had fancied a party. If pushed, a spring celebration.

It was Martin who decided the thing. Why not, he said, if it was a public declaration, him and her, that was fine by him, probably overdue, he was way past needing protection from her friends, or indeed anyone else.

It’s one of the few advantages of getting older, no one gives a damn any more about your reputation and neither do you yourself, he said. Too late for scandal.

The very few advantages, Margie said. But it got her moving and she went busy. First phone calls back and forth, and then a Sunday afternoon chosen, to end, she said, only when everyone had gone or the booze had run out, which in her experience was the same thing, the same moment. She got busy again with flowers, off-licence deliveries, preparing a buffet herself, and laying a fire in case winter came back just when everyone's skin had relaxed. It had become, she supposed, an event. Had been something of the sort ever since Martin said he’d bring his son, the engineer on leave from a desert, and daughter-in-law.

They’ll be pleased, he said. They will be able to fly off again with a clear conscience, now that they’ve seen with their own eyes that dad isn’t a lonely old man.

First up, on the doorbell, was Mo looking good in wide trousers and a tight Vee-necked sweater.

Where’s Ian, left him behind? Not on the pull are you, you look good enough.

I’ll take that as a compliment Marjorie dear. Now give us a drink, a vodka and something, and feel free with the vodka, takes courage to go on the pull at our age, you know, when most of the toy boys have got toy girls. So I won’t try too hard, besides Ian’ll be along later, he’s just got a bit of business on.

Marjorie couldn’t help it, spoke before she thought. What, on a Sunday afternoon! She said.

Some people don’t have the luck of others, Mo said, turning her head away and putting away half the vodka and cranberry juice.

Not a moment to do anything but change the subject. Or have the doorbell ring. Mr Prevost, hoping he wasn’t early, handing over a bottle of champagne and saying they must call him Lou.

You know Lou don’t you Maureen, Margie said. The best wet fish in town.

You do exaggerate Marjorie, Mr Prevost said, pleased as punch

Course I do, where do you think I’ve been living all these years, Mo said, and all the years to come no doubt.

You could do a lot worse, Mr Prevost said.

Marjorie said they could start on champagne now, or leave it till everyone had arrived, and whatever way, they should help themselves. Which she was going to do for herself, a stiff g and t, because the time had come when it wasn’t just an idea anymore, this party, there were real people coming, half of whom didn’t know each other, along with Martin’s son, and a Mo who could go either way with a few drinks inside her. And here was the doorbell again, Harry’s boy Mark in dark suit with white shirt, the collar open, flowers, a Remy Martin, and a stunning black woman in a red wool dress.

Nuala’s having the day off from her kids and she’s been wise enough to spend it with me, or I’m just lucky, one of the two, he said. Nuala, this is Margie.

The latter, Margie said, believe me. But then there’s a lot to be said for a lucky man. As he obviously is on this occasion Nuala my dear. Now the food is out and about, it’s all self-service but for first drinks, I am here to oblige. Champagne when we’re all here.

In a bunch came old mate Julie who’d started in Jack’s last club, then Tom from Margie’s new pub with his girlfriend Valerie, Helen with the Cash & Carry on the Portobello, and Martin with his two, the son, Philip, handsome of course and with a lovely tan. It didn’t fit so well on the daughter-in-law, that was Margie’s opinion, as if Philip was her son too and she the mother-in-law from hell. But then facts on the table, something told her she would have to watch her with the drink, the wife. Not used to it, and look what happened at office Christmas parties. What they said happened at office Christmas parties. Anyway, never mind her, she should be watching herself, putting away the gin too fast. She needed someone, a Martin someone, just to tell her that everything was going fine, nothing to worry about. Which, really and truly, there wasn’t. Mo for one, civil as you like with Mr Prevost, having the crack. She could hear them.

Merciless with a mackerel I bet you are Lou.

Maureen, Maureen, not business now, no names, not fish or any of its species.

Knock me down with a feather if I say sprat, Mo said.

And now Martin had joined them, the old trouper. Margie put down her glass, poured herself a straight tonic into a fresh one and started out to do her best with Philip and his wife. Did they have drinks, there would be champagne and oysters soon, when the party was complete and in the meanwhile, she said, she’d like to say how much she admired him. Which, just like a man, he laughed off.

Don’t be so modest Phil, the wife said.

No, don’t, I’m sure it would have been easy for you to follow your father, but you’ve done something completely your own.

Not so difficult believe me, Philip said. I loathed school plays, right from the start.

From all around her, she could hear the voices of people getting on with each other. Everything was all right.

Yes, TV probably Mr Prevost, she heard Martin say.

Oh call me Lou, Martin. It must be very exciting your work.

And then at college, Philip was saying, dad was pretty well-known by then, they couldn’t understand it, but like I said then, I’m just an engineering swot.

All right, Margie said, we’ll have to try a new line of admiration. Your father is so proud of you, working in the poor world, that’s what he calls it, like you do.

Oh I’m only in it for the money.

You’re not Phil, you know you’re not.

Jap-crap, no Tom, no one says that these days. It was Mark’s voice. Not unless they’ve bought something else, realized they’ve made a rick but can’t admit it.

Well that’s good to know. A woman’s voice. Me and Tom, we’ve been thinking about a car.

Come on Martin, I’ll bet you’ve worked with all the best people so don’t tell me…

Maureen believe me, you can’t imagine how boring it is, hurry up and wait, that’s how it is.

Have it your own way, Margie said. Even if you’ve no ideals, which I don’t believe, it must still be hard, all that sun and sand but without the sea.

Oh we get to the sea sometimes don’t we Sheila, and the fact is I like my job.

At the end of the day, I blame it on the poufs, the gays they call themselves now. Mo’s voice. It had got louder.

But I couldn’t say that to Walter or his young man could I, Mr Prevost said, they know a good herring when they see one.

Now then Lou, no fish names, it was you that said it, Mo said.

I must go and rescue your father, Marjorie said, conspiratorial, like Philip and Shelia were co-conspirators.

Car dealer, no way Valerie, too much grief. Besides Nuala wouldn’t let me, would you Nu?

It’s the climate of fear, I’ve never liked, Martin said.

We’ll have no climate of fear here, Margie said, slipping her arm into his. You never know where that might end.

So what is this, an engagement party, we need to know, Mo said.

No Maureen dear, we’re celebrating the coming of spring. The winter’s gone on quite long enough, isn’t that right. Now let me get you some food, Marjorie said, ready to lead her away.

The doorbell rang. Marjorie went herself, second glass of tonic in her hand, and welcomed in JJ and Mrs JJ, the mighty Eileen, who was dressed in black but with jewels flashing from her throat, ears, wrist and fingers.

Should have been a punk, Mark said, then she could have done ears, nose and throat. Look at the tom on her.

‘Look at the tom on her', don’t give me none of that gangster talk, Nuala said with an elbow nudge. She sure does sparkle mind.

JJ Fahey, we are honoured, Tom said, he’s a legend in my trade. And as for Eileen, twinkle twinkle what a star.

So will you just forget your prostate for the one day JJ, Margie said. Drink, eat, and if you can’t be merry, keep it to yourself. Here, have a Remy. Eileen? Same for you?

Kids? They drive you up the wall but I couldn’t do without them, Nuala said.

Lou, this is my son Philip and his wife Shelia. Shelia, this is Lou.

Ian coming is he? Marjorie said. I’d like to get the oysters and bubbly started, you know, before we all get legless. I just wanted us all to be here.

It’s your party Margie, spring celebration and all that, save him something.

Corks popped and Marjorie getting silence thanked everyone for coming and wished Good Summer all round. Oysters slid down, inroads made into the buffet to soak up the alcohol.

Margie, quite an achievement, Martin said.

We do our best, she said, giving him a hug. I like your son.

He likes you.

The doorbell rang. From the window she could see Ian. He had Gerry with him. She had not invited Gerry.

It’s your Ian at the door Mo.

I told you he’d be here.

He’s got Gerry with him. I didn’t invite Gerry

What, getting a bit-stuck-up for your old friends are you? Mo said, her whisper walking round the room. She stared at the framed brown-paper in the frame. She was making a point.

No, I just didn’t invite him, Margie said, catching Martin’s anxious look, and Mr Prevost talking too fast. Silly girl. She’d slowed right down with the drink, and still been a silly girl. Not to have got Mo out into the passage. To have made a fuss about Gerry at all. To be her age and still be making mistakes.

But she was in the right, had not invited him as if they cared. It's only Marjorie, she won't mind, she could hear them saying it. But she did mind.

So it’s my business now is it, Mo said.

Yes Mo, Ian and who he brings with him is your business. Go and let them in, and tell Gerry he’s a gatecrasher which entitles him to a couple of drinks and that’s it.

Tell him yourself, Mo said, when I’ve let them in. With my doorman’s velvet and tassels on of course.

Back to the drinks table for a stiff one, a gin, if she had any sense, which she didn’t, it was obvious or how else would this be happening. Mark gave her a nod a person could easily have missed. Then Martin played the hero, soaked up Gerry’s stories, all those times he was supposed to have been around himself.

Don’t you remember Martin, we called you Marty then mind, Gerry said.

He was sure he was there, no doubt at all, but this particular incident, no he could not remember.

Would have been around '69, Gerry said, you know, when the hippies were about, least they were round here, so this Marek, moody them Yugoslavs, always likely top give the pub a kicking when he was miserable…

A blind man could see that. It was Mark’s voice.

A blind man? A blind man can’t see anything at all, Tom said.

But that wasn’t the half of it, Gerry said.

The gin down her throat was strong and tender, Margie sucked it up.

Come on Margie, Gerry said, you’ll remember this one, that time Jack did the business with the brake fluid on Charlie Spratt’s motor, his Jag.

Mr Prevost, Margie said, this is Philip, son of my good friend Martin, Philip and Shelia isn’t that right dear. I’m terrible for names.

We’ve been introduced haven’t we Lou.

And as it’s a story about Jack, don’t you think we should see him, you know, just for those who didn’t know him, Mo said, making a move towards the turned-around picture.

I said make yourself at home Maureen, it didn’t include re-arranging the furniture, Margie said, the fresh gin strong and tender down her gullet.

All old friends here, Ian said, ain’t that right. But where is he, had enough of poor old Jack's kisser? I mean I know he wasn't the most good-looking feller on the planet…

Rest in Peace, Margie said.

Just the one more Marjorie, Mr Prevost said.

So what happened next Gerry? Mo asked.

No, we must be going, Philip said.

Well Charlie’d made Jack real mad, but Charlie’s weakness was he loved that Jag.

Where is he by the by, Ian said. Our Jack?

The voice in her ear was Mark, If these mugs were to give her any kind of trouble, just give him the nod. She turned to give him a smile, said she might hold him to that. The gin in her tum was strong, it’s warmth spread back up the way it had come.

So Jack’s only written Happy Birthday Charlie in brake fluid, you know, all over the bonnet.

Margie could see the half room shocked, Philip and the wife suddenly desperate to leave. Mrs JJ too, who’d done her drinking fast.

Here’s a story Gerry, you know what Jack said about you? Gerry, he said, as plums go he’s half tasty, Margie said.

There was one of those silences. Maybe half of them didn’t understand but they’d heard the tone. Martin too, they were shocked. It’s all right, no one’s farted, it was on the tip of her tongue, but she’d said enough already, said far too much.

That’s not quite how I heard things at the time, Ian said. Those times Jack needed help eh, where did he turn?

Whatever you say, she said, having to rush her goodbyes to the early-leavers who had made their move, what a wonderful time they’d had they said.

Marjorie didn’t believe a word of it.

And terrier Mo, she was all set to make it worse. ‘Whatever you say’, she said, like Margie had insulted them all in hoity-toity fashion. What’s that supposed to mean, that Ian’s a liar?

Mark had moved to Ian’s shoulder. She could hear him.

Excuse me Ian, I’ve got to go soon but if you’ve got a minute, bit of business might interest you.

I’m not saying anything Mo, I’m just trying to have a pleasant time with my friends.

We’re all friends here, ain’t that right Marty, Gerry said.

Now they were whispering, Mark and Ian and Nuala in her red dress came up to say she’d enjoyed herself but they had to go, kids and that, Monday mornings.

Whatever you say Gerry, only I think some old friends are getting frozen out here. New pastures for our Marjorie, Mo said, giving a fresh stare to the turned-around photo.

Jealous are you, well you’ve every right, Marjorie said, regretting the words the moment they were said, only Mo was not listening. She’d clocked Ian going out the room with Mark, was following in a rush. No, not with him, she shouted.

A bit of business, Gerry said, on a Sunday afternoon while there’s a party going on, no, business and pleasure don’t mix, never did. You remember that time at Newmarket Margie, no maybe you weren’t there, before you showed up on the scene. Yes, a long time before you turned up.

Is that right. Fascinating. Just like all those stories you told that smarmy feller on the radio while he made a bloody fool of you. ‘If Jack, God bless his soul, ever harmed anyone’. You, I don’t care about, but you made a fool out of him, and whatever Jack was he wasn’t a fool. And now it’s opening time Gerry, she said, time you were on your way.

Goodness me, it is as well, Mr Prevost said, come on Gerry, we’ll walk together.

And all the rest of them were saying, goodness me, is that the time, and what a wonderful afternoon it had been.

When they were gone, Martin gave her a sympathetic smile from amongst stacks of uneaten food and unopened bottles.

Marjorie sat down and cried.

***

The door closed behind him, it was not a moment too soon. That was the truth of it, it was a miracle he’d got there in one piece. Lunch in the canteen, he could only thank his lucky stars there’d been no Dave present so that an exhausted man could pick at his food without interruption. A man with a lot on his mind. Because he’d lost it, gone right over the top, the old self-control gone like there was no brake-fluid and he’d forgotten to check. There was going to be trouble, the old brainbox had told him that enough times. He’d stirred up a heap of trouble, the berk was media, and they'd look after their own, make a squeal, badger the police to do something, catch someone. Neb neb neb. Outrage. Do something, catch someone. There'd be no end to it.

First things first, he was going to have to get some sleep, he couldn’t go on without some shut eye, but for that, with everything running back and forth round his head, what? How? Sleeping pills he did not have; floor exercise, push-ups, they were out of the question. What he had to do was calm down and look at it rationally, a step by step debriefing. Question one, why had a simple observation operation got out of hand? He’d done the old standby, the drunk in the street to get up close, and that, that had been the objective. Just to know the guy could be taken at any time, and get him out of his hair, him and his words. Because that’s all it had been, words the twerp just hadn’t known the meaning of. A straightforward operation, but something had happened, the way the Steve-bloke had got out of his car, the big, flash German thing, the soppy smile on his chops, like he was the bee’s knees, like he was the best thing since sliced bread, and he’d snapped. Simple as that, something had snapped.

He was tired of sitting down, tired of pacing around. It was a hole, his place, but the other bloke, silly bollocks, his had been like a brothel or a pansy’s boudoir. And who knew what he’d been getting up to, when on the boudoir’s table, right next to the bed, an open tub of Vaseline. If it wasn’t for that, if that hadn’t been there, things might have been different. No getting around it, he’d fucked the bloke, the Steve, given him a right seeing to. The old knob had taken him by surprise, gone hard and burst through the cock-flap in his boxer’s, almost the moment he’d got him through the door, felt the limpness of the twat at close quarters. The twat who’d made the mistake of trampling all over his Minds Eye..

Didn’t mean he had to stick it up him though, buggered him. And in the death, he’d only just got his cock out in time before the Steve  had shat himself. What a stink!

And then? This was a de-briefing, leastways it was supposed to be, only he was so tired it was a wonder he could think at all. Pulses went boomerang. A sandstorm blew behind his eyeballs. He lay down on the divan and closed his eyes, could at least do that, wait for the sand to go away. It was a luxury, closing his eyes he had not been able to afford in the Maida Vale boudoir. No way José, what, and get caught napping. On the other hand he’d needed time to compose himself because things had got out of hand, and by then, there was no way he was going to drive home in the middle of the night, just asking to be pulled over. No sir.

So what had he done?

He was bolt upright on the divan. What had he done? He’d gone haywire and stirred up a right nest of hornets is what he’d done. Stood to reason, the media, that lot, they were going to stick together and make a right stink when the whole idea had been to calm himself down.

This was no good, this wasn’t going to get him to sleep and it should not be forgotten that the old self-control had made a comeback. There were very few people in this world who could have sat quietly in the place till dawn, what with the Steve and his stink in the next room, and that was before arriving for work dead on time, and then sitting through a whole day of it. Had done all the right things, wedged the main door of the flat, making time for a quick window exit through the stink room, just in case.. You never knew, just in case coincidence took it in to its head to come and give him a hard time. Never taken his gloves off the whole time. Never mind what the bint on the radio had said about how the old fingerprints had had their day. What, so you left them all over the shop?! Who was she kidding?!

He lay down again, remembered how he’d made a coffee in the crusader’s kitchen because he hadn’t come prepared himself. Course he hadn’t, had only gone to give the berk a look over. A hassle that had been, the coffee, when there’d been no instant, but never had the gloves off for a second, not even when wiping his cock with the toilet tissue in the bathroom. Nor even when he’d judged the noise an acceptable risk, not jerry-built this block, and vacuumed the place. Yes, done the whole place, faced the mess and the stink in the bedroom, done that too. Hadn’t flinched from the kerfuffle involved, taking the papery bag out of the cleaner  and putting in a fresh one that he’d found in a kitchen cupboard, his fingers spongy clumsy in their gloves.

He had done all the right things. OK, he had gone a bit mental, but from then on he’d done all the right things. Walked out of the place at seven in the morning, walked the few blocks to the hatchback, and not seen a soul. Dumped the full vacuum bag and the gloves a mile away, had a breakfast on the way and arrived at work as usual for a Sunday, in the hatchback, parking no problem. End of debriefing.

He had done the right things.

He would continue to do the right things, find the time and place to get rid of his clothes.

Did he wish to add anything? Just one question sir, impact of operation on the enemy?

Devastating, Farley. Devastating.

***

All right, she said. All right?! No Martin, it was not all right. It was as far from being All right as is possible.

It was like he was deaf and blind. Dog tired with it, otherwise how could he say such stupid things.

And it’s been nice, me and you, it’s been more than that, but it’s not going to work out, surely you can see that, she said.

Calm down, calm down. OK, a couple of people you know have behaved badly and it's you is paying the price.

When don't you pay?

When you get complimentary tickets, he said.

It was a joke evidently, the way he did his little laugh, but as it happened she hadn't seen any complimentary tickets, and he was someone who was bound to be offered them. offered. First nights, the races, that kind of thing, and, facts on the table, he hadn't taken her out at all, bar a couple of meals. On top of which he'd be off again at the crack of dawn on another shoot.

Nothing very terrible has happened, he said.

Nothing very terrible? Well in the first place, I didn’t go to all that trouble for nothing very terrible to happen, and in the second, well you obviously weren’t paying attention to Philip and his wife, they were horrified, and they had every right to be.

The phone rang. Maybe she was wrong, exaggerating, and here was someone to say they really had enjoyed themselves.

You get this straight Margie, when you see that minder of yours, that Mark toerag, you better tell him to stay over east side.

Maureen, what are you talking about now?

Just tell him! Because it’s going to take me all I’ve got to stop Ian going over and beating the shit out of him.

Yes all right Maureen, if I see him, which is once in a blue moon, only you’re not making much sense.

Not making much bloody sense? The little streak of piss. A bit of business? Oh yes, I should have known with him. Drives us out into the middle of nowhere on the Park Royal Industrial estate, him and his woman. Wants to show us a parcel in a unit he’s got there. We get out, and he just drives off, so just tell him he’s pulled a stroke he’s not big enough for.

Maureen I’m sorry but I’m tired. I’ll tell him if I see him

Tired! You’re tired! Couldn’t find a phone to call a cab, walked miles to find a cab office, miles I’m telling you. And I’m trying to tell Ian it’s not your idea, it’s just Harry’s kid showing off. But he's not convinced, plus he's raging mad. You get me?!

I’m tired Mo, I’m going to lie down, Margie said, and put the phone down.

And now I have Maureen breathing fire down the phone, she said.

I did think that might be a possibility, young Mark I think, I could see it across the room, what they used to call a stratagem.

Oh you did, you saw it from across the room as something that might happen, your stratagem, you see it and do bugger all. Well thanks for telling me now.

He seemed to have your interests at heart, Martin said.

What he decided my interests are, she said. Yes, I was grateful he got Ian away, but now, now I want a drink. I drank too much, but now I want a drink. Being that there are large amounts left, enough to organize that piss up in the brewery, this should not be a problem.

Apart from the one glass of the champagne, she was sticking to the gin, was doing something right which was something, when Mark had left trouble behind on her side of town, and Martin was just not taking it in, the impossibility of it. Of them.

Come on, we’ll drink, be merry and clear up at the same time, Martin said.

Who was he kidding? What she saw was a tired looking man, tired out, always working, and for what? He couldn't need the money. He did what he liked doing, and she was what, she was Rest and Recreation is what.

Please sit down and leave me some pride, she said, I will not have you clearing up, unless you want to drop some off the food off at a soup kitchen on your way home. Why not, I don’t like to see waste.

Soup kitchen? What is this, a depression movie?

It will be in a minute. I am not stupid, shelters or whatever they call them, there’s more than enough homeless people in this city, I don’t go around with my eyes closed. And if you are going to take some, sort that out now please. I’m getting tired.

Margie, what is this?

What’s what? Listen Martin, you may be too old for scandal, you know for it to affect you too much, though I think that’s easy to say, but I’ve never embarrassed anyone in my life, myself maybe, but not people I’ve been with, and I don’t intend to start, but it happened, the past comes back and slaps me in the face and I couldn’t keep my big gob shut. I liked Philip, and you said oh, he’ll be so relieved to see his dad is not alone, but what he saw was his dad stuck with a spitting, low, class of person.

All that today, don’t be daft, it wasn’t your fault.

Fault? Who’s talking about fault? My fault, your fault, all that nonsense, I’m talking about what happened. One of which, facts on the table, was that I didn’t keep my mouth shut. And I won’t have it, won’t be out with you somewhere where  people know you, and something goes off. I won’t have it. I’ve enjoyed our time together, but it’s not going to work. Not my fault, not your fault.

Because facts on the table, if it was just Martin turning up as and when at her place, it had been fun, a lot of fun, but if that’s how it was, it was going to go stale on them. If it was more than that, some sad loudmouth was going to spoil it with her help because she knew, knew it afresh, that she was not going to keep her mouth shut when such a person kicked off.

Margie, he said, why did you turn the photo around, Jack’s?

The phone rang. Mark. She said yes, she was fine, hoped he had enjoyed the party.

Those old sorts, he said, the ones giving the grief, they’d have done better sticking to the old nine-to-five.

Ah, they’re just hoping not to fade away, not too fast. And in the meanwhile, while they do, you be good to that Nuala, you’re a lucky boy so don’t mess her about, she said.

How easy to say it to other people, what they should do, how they should be.

Mark, she said, he was doing his best.

The photo, Martin said, why did you turn it around.

Because Jack had had enough of being a ghost. He was never suitable material. And now I think you should be going. Call Philip, spend some time with him.

Margie, what is all this?

All what? I’m tired, I’m not at my best, and most of all I don’t want to argue.

Who, he said, up on his feet, who is arguing.

I am, it’s a one-sided argument, me with me, and it happens to make me irritable and I want to be on my own because for one reason Martin, you’ve switched off your ears or your entire upstairs and not taken it on board, it’s not on, you and me because when we do get to going out like normal couples do, if it’s not Gerry, it’ll be some other ghost popping up with a story, and I’ll answer back because that’s the way I am.

Margie…

Whereas if I loved you, if I really really really loved you, I’d keep my trap shut.

So it is your fault. Fault fault fault.

Martin, don’t be clever, I’m going to have one more gin during the course of which I’m hoping you’ll have gone.

EIGHT

I don’t like Mondays, it was a chorus in his head, a way, James supposed, of dealing with a compound of stress and irritation. I don’t like Mondays. Or, and it could easily become so, it was a ghastly jingle adding to the mix, and all prompted by one Steve Bryant pulling an AWOL stunt. So unprofessional! It involved him working the phone from seven till eight of the am, hearing Steve’s message enough times for it to join the chorus, and getting a heroic Bill Jarman taxi’d in, unshaven and in desperate need of a cup of tea at eight twenty five, with just the half an hour to prepare, grasp the shape of the programme and read James’ own brief on their guest.

Anthropologist of the football terraces, James said.

Oh that’s all right then, a bit of football chat, it’s a doddle. Close to the end of season, post-mortem or celebration.

There was light after all then at the end of the Monday gloom, and then there was Hayley, his prop in ages past, in at her regular eight thirty and straight on the phone. Mission? To track down one irresponsible presenter of radio programmes. There were hiccoughs, of course there were, half an hour preparation, James stretched to the limit with Bill out there on a trapeze wire, but in the circumstances, not bad the pair of them. Not bad at all. With the football stuff, Bill had been in his element, and football, James’ antenna told him, was on the up and up, media-wise. Very much so.

The station owed him on this one, James said, and Steve owed him twice over, short notice had taken on a new meaning. And no, he didn’t know the situation vis-à-vis Steve, he assumed there were very special circumstances. With Bill then packed off home in a cab -next time I’ll come in my ‘jamas, he said- James effectively ruled out any circumstances however special, which precluded a phone call. Sunday lunch on a desert island followed by raft problems? No, this was not a time to be facetious, they were talking a potential red card offence. One possibility, it could not be entirely ruled out, was that Steve was trying to make a point, a protest. If so, a straight red. If so, Steve in a for a rude surprise however good he was, however good he thought he was.

Far-fetched, far-fetched it was, but there had been one or two incidents of late which niggled. As in the case of one Philip, sound engineer, tasteless, tactless and cheeky true, but the way Steve had said Fire him, as if he merely had to flick his fingers and give his command. And then Saturday night, as if he were doing the station a favour just to turn up, on top of which he’d given his backing to Jim Plant bitching about poor Beverly as guest. Beverly was an old trouper. One could do with more old troupers, people who’d rather die than miss a cue, still less a date.

But no, in the final analysis, no. Steve was cocky, this was not in dispute, but he was shrewd enough to know that a prima donna reputation did not go down well in the global village, not this small one, still less when it became downright unprofessional. No, far too shrewd, which left what exactly? A mental crisis, a nervous breakdown? What an awful prospect. There you were, doing your job, normal as can be, and the next morning off your trolley, the naked self, with the shivers. Horrible but Steve, no he couldn’t see it.

Hayley had phoned the parents, no joy there. He hadn’t been in touch with then for several days but this wasn’t at all unusual, they knew how busy he was.

Course they’re worried now too, she said. Then I tried Angela, pally those two I’ve always thought, and it was the same yesterday, they had a date for the afternoon and would ring each other in the morning. She got his answerphone all day.

I see. So where does that take us? You don’t think there’s a chance he’s playing up?

Who, Steve? No, he knows what side his bread’s buttered. But he might be seriously ill, had an accident, in a hospital maybe.

But we would have been contacted surely, us, his parents, someone.

Maybe something happened at home, a seizure, I don’t know. Could be lying there unconscious for all we know.

That’s a bit outlandish Hayley, not to say morbid.

It was you that asked, next time I’ll keep my trap shut.

Sorry sorry, I stand guilty. Fish his address out of the personnel file would you, you’re quite right, we can’t rule out anything. Meanwhile, ring Bill and see if he’s up to being on standby for the morrow. If not, try Nick Stevens.

Driving home, James made a diversion via Maida Vale. And then, 4.30 in the afternoon, what a hassle to park somewhere, even a paying somewhere. Surely it was a topic for the station to start taking seriously. Was the capital’s traffic situation out of control? And if so, who was to blame? The address was what he believed were called mansion blocks. Through the half glass door he saw a vestibule. No porter however, no porter's desk. Outside the door a rack of bells. He leant on bell One and it seemed that he could here its sound in the distance. Whether he did or not, there was no response, not for a long while, long enough. Flat One was obviously front ground floor, either left or right. His head swiveled, face to the glass, and saw a brass1 on the door to the left. From the outside it looked normal enough. Some curtains were drawn, some were not. If it were not for the inevitable restraints, his position and Steve’s position come to that he would have heaved himself up to look through an uncurtained window to the side. He supposed one could put a case to the police to get through the apartment’s front door by one means or another, but then how foolish would they look-and he knew the police force to be a veritable sieve when it came to juicy leaks- if there turned out to be a completely different explanation. He decided then and there that he was entitled to ask  chief exec Brian Feltham for advice.

***

Didn’t know you was in today Graham, Dave said.

Standing in for young Eric, you know how it is, all the germs and viruses around. Viruses, it’s all you hear about these days.

Viruses, a scourge that threatens our very existence, Jack said. I mean they’re not going to be spending all that money, adverts and the rest if it wasn’t serious, Course I’m getting past it myself, Jack said. He got a laugh out before the cough.

What is this, a quiz game? Are we supposed to guess, what exactly is it you are getting past? Dave said.

All right, no need to be cheeky.

Graham hadn’t been born yesterday, AIDS, old Jack was talking about AIDS. Thought about it himself enough times. Had given himself a real talking to. To have stuck his cock up the boy crusader’s arsehole, unplanned, uncatered for, looked at in the cold light of day, it had not been so clever. But then what could you do when your knob was a handful and there’d been an open tub of Vaseline.

Just the one time, just the one act of unprotected sex and you can get it, Jack said. Course it’s the irons get it the most.

Irons? We’re not in the dark ages now you know. Who are you, Rip van Winkle, Dave said.

Do you mind, we’re having a serious discussion here, sorry what did you say Graham?

Just the one time? It’s hard to believe.

That’s what they say and then, thing is, might be years before you know you’ve got it, you know, unless you go and get yourself checked.

Years?

If you ask me, they don’t rightly know.

What they’re doing all these adverts and they don’t know, Graham said. It was an outrage.

Mind you it’s the haemophiliacs I feel sorry for, I mean it’s bad enough having it at all. My godfather, the one who took me to my first match at the Lane, he had it.

Haemophiliacs?

Well how do they know who’s blood they’re getting these days Graham, just needs a dose of the wrong lot. Now I’ve been a donor for years…

Me too, Dave said, though my boy, he says I’m soft, probably some rich bastard getting it for free, he says. And I say Terry, it might be one of your own. Still says giving it away’s a mug’s game.

Trust Dave to change the subject, but Graham wasn’t having it. So is that how it goes, the AIDS, blood to blood.

HIV, Jack said. That’s what you get, but they say it’s sex too, intercourse, used to be just the arsehole bandits cos you bleed easily up your bum, but now well it can be anyone, anyone that’s infected can give it away easy as pie.

What, just like any sex?

You just can’t tell these days, can you? Dave said.

Can’t tell what?

Well who’s got it for a start, I reckon we might be in for surprises on that score. All you can do is watch where you’re putting your dick, that’s what I’ve told my boy Terry. What do you say Graham?

Sounds like good advice, Graham said.

***

It was a sick joke, sympathetic James on the phone to tell her that Steve was dead. Foul play was suspected. Steve. Dead. Dead in his flat, discovered by his part time cleaner, a Polish lady he’d said, as if she gave a damn as to whether she was Polish, Portuguese or Peruvian. Dead, and this was grotesque, dead in his flat, while she had rung him, and him, dead, not hearing the phone. And she, irony piled upon cruel irony, she had thought the worst of him while he was, according to the forensic investigation, James had said, dead and alone in his own home. Badmouthed him in her own mind, she was ashamed of herself, she was, but of course she hadn’t known, how could she have been expected to know, to have imagined even, that something as terrible could have happened to a good friend and colleague. In London 1994, murdered in his own home, it was just incredible.

Foul play was suspected, James doing his pompous official thing, but murdered is what it meant, or manslaughtered, whatever that meant. As if that made any difference. A man who was Steve, her friend Steve, slaughtered. Who she would never hear or see again, who nobody would see or hear again. Her whole self slumped. Somehow she got sat down at the kitchen table, she clung to it, her old faithful table that had seen and done everything. Her own everything. From the darning to the world processing.

The darning while listening to the radio that sat there looking all innocent. Where she’d first heard Steve, heard the first two Theresa programmes. Made notes because she was going to make something, a piece of writing that would do justice to what he was doing with radio. Which was there, on file, on disk, and all marked To Be Continued.

Foul play? What the hell were they talking about, a football game.

She had not, really she had not thought Steve was some macho Neanderthal. It had just been so strange, an afternoon date fixed and then him not phoning or being there himself, when that was how it should have been, and no reason for it not to be. It had thrown her, and there’d been a silly flash of paranoia on her part. In retrospect, just plain silly. It was the last, the very very last thing in the world she would have thought of, that Steve was dead, let alone foul played. Foul played, why couldn’t James come out and say what it really was, because she was a woman, a poor little woman. A woman, a professional woman most of all, she could be excused some flashes of paranoia couldn’t she?! Anybody who couldn’t understand that, didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to understand anything at all in all likelihood.

Circumstances conspiring, and she, being still alive, must ring Matt at least to tell him she would not be able to make Birmingham the next day. She’d thought of several people she might ring, thought it would be too much for her parents, and here now was one call she had to make. From the phone behind her from which, just 48 innocent hours ago, she had phoned Steve. And heard his message. Would it still be there, the message, his voice, if she phoned now.

She was being silly, morbid. Perhaps the police would answer the phone. She should give them a statement, she should, but really, she was not capable of anything just now. Let her have a 24 hours, let her at least have a day to take in what had happened. Give her time for a good old cry. There was just Matt, just him to put off, at least make the phone call. Be professional, it had been Steve’s mantra. Of course he would have phoned her, she should have known, if something had come up, he would have phoned her. And she’d been silly and thought the worst of him, just for a short while she had misjudged him, and now she was going to pay for it. A crash course in guilt was looming up. In the meanwhile, pick up the phone that would be there to remind her every day, pick it up, because it wasn’t Matt’s fault, no reason for him to be messed about.

It was awful, it was terrible, he said after she’d told him, barely able to get the words out.

In his own place, it doesn’t bear thinking about, he said. You know, the one place you go and truly relax, no guard up.

Yes, but I’m not ringing you to, you know, to make you depressed with the thought of it. Really. I’m just saying I can’t do tomorrow night in Brum, I just can’t do it.

Ah, I see. Of course I understand, the girls will too I’m sure, though I’m not sure Madame Debbie would be over the moon about ‘girl’. Not the kind of slip you’d make, that’s why they like you. Poor Steve, poor Angela, murdered and dead, well of course, can’t have one without the other one, so to speak, see I can’t even speak straight, but that’s like two kicks in the belly.

Yes, somehow it’s like we’ve all been invaded, and he was, Steve was just so easy to work with, no ego stuff, we just got on with it. And now some bastard has put an end to it and his life.

It works two ways, you are easy to work with, remember that.

Thanks Matt, sometimes, just now and then, it’s nice to be told.

Thing is, and I don’t want to pressure you, honest injun, cross my heart and hope to die, in my experience work is the only cure for heartbreak, and I guess grief is a kind of heartbreak, thing is, I really need to get the programme wrapped up. I’m being frank about this one and of course with the girls, well it’s the nature of their game isn’t it, time is money.

I can’t do it tomorrow, I really can’t, I haven’t even had time for a good cry.

I do have a shoulder Angela, and I said frank, not insensitive clod. Day after tomorrow?

Let me think about it.

I’ll drive you myself, and I’ll just listen. With hands upon the wheel.

Maybe you’re right, I’ll go mad if I can’t let it all out to someone.

***

Too much déjà vu, there was no way to see it otherwise, the station meeting planned for two o’clock on the dot. Himself, Brian Feltham, and Mike the lawyer just like before. Minus Steve. Unbelievable, but definitely minus Steve.

And then Hayley, I want all presenters and producers bar those on active duty, I’ll be wanting them in at three thirty, can you manage that? I don’t want them knowing anything. For now I want the lid tight down and no leaks. Just tell them there’s a scheduling crisis and that’s all you know. If it comes to it, say, You know what James is like, something like that.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. As a kid he’d said it, but that was before the advent of a rougher trade on Fleet Street, Wapping and all stations east. In this instance however, he could wear it. It was his job to be tough. It was what Hayley expected though he asked her if she was OK, said that he wasn’t an unfeeling bastard really.

Inside I’m boiling and grieving, but  I also know we’ve got to keep the show on the road.

It’s all right James, I don’t need the pep talk.

That was better, a spark of the old Hayley after she’d had a good old cry in the Ladies..

It’s just such a rotten thing, she said, some high-and-mighty pervert who thinks no one else matters.

Pervert? James said, knowing that he must keep to himself the very disturbing possibility hinted at by the police. One which he’d passed on to Brian Feltham when he’d phoned him with the news, only to get shot down in prim tones. Miffed he’d said, Do you think I like it. Brian?

Anyone who kills people has got to be one, stands to reason, Hayley said. Poor Steve, I know he could be a bit full of himself but he was all right. I mean what’s this city coming to?

What’s this city coming to? Yes indeed. In the meanwhile, allowed no outlet for his emotions, he felt as if he was walking across eggshells of exceptional fragility which were, his wife had said, the consequence of battery techniques. Or perhaps it was the other way round and they were tougher, and this was the bad thing. It was terrible what had happened to Steve. It was shocking, an outrage, but the hint that had penetrated through all the police waffle was that Steve might have lived on the wild side, sexually speaking, and that his death might have been a consequence, or indeed a part of such activity. He found it hard to believe, it seemed so un-Steve like, but then these days, who knew what went on behind closed doors.

In the meanwhile, he was faced with a dual problem of presentation and timing on the one hand, and here it was first of all timing that was the joker; and a shuffling of personnel on the other. What could be done was Hayley to get hold of Tommy Bright and have him on standby. Tommy, the old warhorse, he said.

Which was rather how he felt himself, listening to lawyer Mike. An enviable position, the lawyer’s, spelling out the most gruesome facts, including the sexual assault, the buggery, before strangulation, as baldly as he liked.  He did not get Brian jumping down his throat. And in this case, Mike said, a crucial additional fact is that the police report no sign of breaking and entering. They seem rather certain of this, and it does seem to be leading them in one direction, that what began as something consensual, became murderous.

I may be a bit old-fashioned but I cannot for the life of me see…

Brian was flapping, modern life proved too much when the penny did finally drop. Besides, he said, Steve Bryant was an employee of this station and he, or rather his memory, deserves our full support. James, I want this speculation sat on do you understand, and I’m, presuming this can be done.

At this end, I think it’s just us three who know all the details. Obviously his  death will be reported by us first, and then my job will be to re-schedule without drama, to find a fill-in without fall-out so to speak. Bill Jarman to take Steve’s spot for now as he did this, and yesterday morning. But, and this is more Mike’s province, from what one knows, the police are far from being  leak-proof.

Unfortunately true. I will of course use what clout we have in that direction, and in that of one or two tabloid editors. There is one point I would like to mention though, and it is one I did delicately suggest to the officer in charge - very delicately, they like the rest of us do not like being told how to do their job - that the last time we met like this, when Steve was with us himself, we were also discussing a sexual assault coupled with strangulation.

Good God, of course, Brian said. James could hear only wishful thinking, see the original drowning man clutching at the flimsiest of straws.

What an outrage,  Brian said. Mike, I want no stone left unturned in following this up, and if you think my voice might have some clout, I’m here.

It is only a suggestion, but I did feel that certain similarities and the fact that Steve did make something of a personal campaign…

Fearlessly. He and you James, you did so fearlessly. Mike I’m grateful, when do you think we might get some forensic stuff that might help?

In the course of the next few days, but I must emphasise Brian that this is only one alternative hypothesis. I have simply suggested it is something that shouldn’t be ruled out of court.

Very sensible. James could only admire the way the lawyer had covered himself in the face of Brian’s brazen enthusiasm, his need to believe. It also had the merit of pushing Brian into making decisions. They would report Steve’s death as suspected murder and do a preliminary tribute. As to personnel re-scheduling, that was James’ province entirely.

In the event, this went smoothly, was sorted out at the producers and presenters meeting. Having heard the news from him, naturally enough they were in a state of shock. They all were, he said, him included, and though he and Geoff Castle had not always seen eye to eye, he hoped he would let Bill Jarman go for the week if a suitable replacement for his evening show was found, and would he mind putting together a preliminary Steve tribute, a half hour thing. It would be Tommy Bright for the evenings, and Geoff was experienced enough to know that’s how it would be, but he simply murmured an OK to the two suggestions.

Back in his own office, he went through the last knots to be tied with Hayley.

And pinch-your-bum Tommy?

You’re to ring him back.

Ring him back, what for? What’s he need, my personal approval?

I got the idea that he’s not available, but I said you’d want to speak to him first.

Not available? Give me that phone!

And what a bastard! It was unbelievable, it was outrageous, with Steve tragically dead, Tommy’d been quite firm about it, his voice booming down the phone. He’d just started as a full-time regular, his own morning show in Suffolk or Norfolk. Not given him the chance to chivvy him about how it could never be like the London buzz, Tommy’d got there first. I know it’s not London Jim, he said. Can’t kid myself on that score, but the atmosphere here’s great, you wouldn’t believe it, fantastic, incredible, and that’s what it’s all about Jim, when you get down to basics. So thank you, but no thank you.

Patronised by Tommy Bright of all people! Just when you needed everyone to rally round because Steve, ten times the broadcaster Tommy would ever be, was dead. Had been buggered and strangled not in some risqué ghetto, but a decent flat in Maida Vale. In his own home. Unbelievable but it had happened. Crisis management was the order of the day but after he’d done it, Steve would still be buggered and dead.

But the troops didn’t want raw moments with James, crisis management is what they wanted. You win some, you lose some, he said. Get me that woman that we heard, local radio somewhere in the West country and a husky voice, we heard her tape same time we heard Bill’s.

***

You woke one morning, and remembered you’d cut your nose to spite your face, Marjorie the perverse. And that was even before a person was out of her bed, all that glum stuff. There seemed no end to it, you threw a party to get rid of it, and made it worse. Marjorie the Perverse,

The telephone took messages and she did not reply to them. Did not listen to radio, watch TV, or go out unless desperately necessary. What she was doing, was to shut down all systems. It was what animals did for winter time, or so as not to get eaten alive. Some people made a virtue of it, said it was good for you. How a rest was as good as a rest, so that when you switched on again, you were as good as new. She didn’t believe a word of it.

Mid-life crisis? That had passed her by, this was pensioner syndrome, what Mark had called the old sorts. ‘Better off if they’d stuck to the nine to five’. Just like that, just like the funny man in the fez, his punchline, better off if they’d stuck to the nine to five. And what did you do these days, nine to five, what exactly was it he had in mind. Ian, surly Ian stocking shelves? Mo wouldn’t have it. Posting your letters? They’d look at your record. And Marjorie, chic Margie who had done her best and thrown a party, done in close on a month’s money for the privilege, and where, did that leave her!

Only no one liked being summed up, someone thinking they'd got you taped, so what happened was, you said No, I’m not ready for the scrap heap. And it happened, just like that. She cleaned the flat up and down, inside out. Did it again, until she’d had enough, and it happened. She spruced up, looked good, and walked out the door in the direction of Tom’s pub. The plane trees were out, the air was warm and where had she been these last days. Live for the moment, the first and only lesson according to Jack Box, you only live once. Only he’d made a mistake and not lived long enough for the one time. She was taking up the challenge. OK Jack, she said out loud, like she was Ginger Rogers going to war, feeling the sun, the warmth of it under her skin.

Marjorie, what’ll you have, my round, Tom said from the end of the bar. There were navvies on the bar stools, and at the tables in the velvet gloom, a couple, happy and loving, them and a pair of suits.

He came down the back of the bar to her end, the last of the stools.

This is the place to be for a free round, I’ll have the full pint please, she said.

The stout under the tap took its time, Tom had out a round of lagers on the bar before coming back to finish the job.

That was some do you put on, I didn’t know you were a friend to the stars.

A star, past tense, she said.

What, you and JJ have fallen out, and I’d thought him the quiet one at your party. It was a great crack. And Valerie sends her regards.

JJ?

With the mighty Eileen, it wasn’t my imagination was it?

Tease me if you will Tom, I’m as soft as a teabag. Or JJ's bladder. Poor man, he has problems in the pissing department.

Oh my God, Tom said, does it come to us all, the male sex. All right for you, drink up.

Guinness is good for you. Tom, tell me something, she said, and because I like this old bar of yours you can tell me to piss off and there’ll be no offence taken, are you looking for any bar staff.

Meaning yourself?

Yes

Soft you said, as a teabag, but as luck would have it, I don't believe you, saw you in action with gobshites. I'd say you can handle, what do they call them, stroppy people. Not that there's much call for it here but it is a bar, it happens.

Is that a pass then, on the first test question? I've some experience even if it was a long time ago and more a club than a pub.

Could you go through an evening shift on say just the two or three halves of stout? Don't move I'll be back in a minute.

New faces up at the bar, men and women out of an office and talking nineteen to the dozen. Busy people with something to do. If she was busy, if there was a job, a pint would last the night. It would, she might not bother at all. And a drink for you barmaid? You could say yes and stick to the half you already had. Then what happened, you pocketed the price? She would have to ask him, the etiquette, how it worked.

Ask him? Like she'd already got the job, because the prospect of a No when she'd walked the plank, out there on her own on the high diving board at the Lido when she already had a figure and a hundred lookers, the prospect of a No was too bad to think about. When you walked away with your tail between your legs, even when no one knew what it was to have a tail, intolerable. REJECTION in big letters, but something must happen in her upstairs, maybe in everyone's, that allowed you to go out on a limb. Which is where she was, looking at him down the bar doing the pints, talking, adding the fizzy to a short, doing the business at the till, handing out change, all on his own without stress. What would he be needing her for? Well, she'd done it now, and it was ridiculous, Marjorie, at her age, nervous as hell just because he might say no to a part-time bar job. There was no prison involved, nothing serious, though a few bob in the purse would be welcome. Still, poor Tom, when it was her had set him as the judge who could say yes or no, he hadn't asked for it. And here he was again, all punters happy.

Did you hear that now, the feller on the radio that was on a mission after your woman was murdered, he's only been killed himself. Just up the road there in Maida Vale. That was Declan's auntie you know. You remember him?

Who was his aunt?

The woman that was butchered up on Camden, Theresa.

Good God, what a terrible thing. You should have told me at the time, poor man. Really Tom, you could have told me.

Ah go on, there was no chance. Besides it's rare, him coming in or having a drink at all.

The poor man, and there was me talking about ghosts. But in answer to your question, no, I wouldn't need to drink. Not when I'm working, she said.

Well it's good timing or coincidence or something, you talking about work, because Valerie has her own job and I'm asking her too much for a hand down here. So lets give it a go and no hard feelings if it doesn't work out. OK?

No hard feelings, she said.

For a start I'm thinking three lunchtimes and two evenings a week.

You're on, she said.

***

You managed a radio station, in hands-on fashion, that was the brief. Didn’t mean you could read the tea leaves too. Nothing was yet officially confirmed, it was still deniable as Mike put it, but forensic investigations had suggested a distinctly possible connection between the killings of Steve and of Theresa Dwyer.

We owe you a great deal,  Brian Feltham said. For Steve’s memory most of all. What an outrage. I think it’s not too much to call it a modern martyrdom.

I should emphasise that it is still at the stage of being a ‘distinct possibility’, and the police are still thrown by the absence of any sign of break-in, Mike said.

Distinct possibility? It means they’re certain but don’t want it public yet, Brian said. We of course will not do anything they do not want us to do, we have responsibilities, but I think there are other ways. What do you say James?

Brian, I know this sounds callous, and God knows this connection that’s just been made is distinctly spooky, but there‘s still the fact, the fact if we can call it that of the buggery to be dealt with.

Dealt with?

The privileges of being chairman, the luxury of innocence.

Let me put it this way. Mike, will the fact of the sexual assault emerge at the Inquest? Surely Mike could see the obvious fact that being buggered was, to put it at its crudest, being mugged off in the clearest manner known to man, plus a large part of the listening public.

The simple answer is yes, the pathologist can hardly not mention the fact, distasteful though it is. On the other hand, and despite the leaks that must have occurred, there’s been nothing in any kind of media to this effect., Mike said.

Precisely, Brian said. We are not in the business of casting stones. I suggest all news bulletins now refer to the death of Steve Bryant ‘who, as you know has recently been campaigning on the issue of Theresa Donnelly’s murder’.

Dwyer, James said.

Been campaigning to bring justice to the murdered Theresa Dwyer, has been brutally murdered himself’, Brian said.

Had to hand it to Brian, pretty neat and that’s how it would be, the intro to every news bulletin.

And all this because of the brutal demise of a very talented colleague, a protégé, someone with whom he had worked under fire, and who had not cracked, it did not, it really did not bear thinking about. If, and there was still a smidgin of if about it, the incredible connection which lawyer Mike had plucked out of his training and experience, and which the police in their own plodding way appeared to be confirming, if it was true then just what kind of maniac was it out there roaming the city? If it was true, through just what tortuous corridors did this murderous weirdo’s thoughts crash around? He remembered himself, hurtling horizontal on a hospital trolley. He’d been gliding down the left wing for the Try, the roar of the tiny crowd in his ears, past the TwentyFive and Smash! Some cheerful fascist fast with his conciliatory handshake, and him the fractured cheekbone. Next thing, on that trolley, drugged up with something and into the Theatre, masked men staring down at him.

He stopped himself, it was self-indulgence, there was no time for it. The fact was that he, the killer to whom they had devoted effort and airtime with the aim of bringing him to justice, was obviously mad, but not mad like some high-octane dodgem. The words GHOST TRAIN popped up in gothic green. James brushed them aside.  No, here was a madman who planned. Not to beat about the bush, who planned in the service of strangulation. He stroked his neck with both hands, the fingers following the outline of his tonsils and coming together at the Adam’s apple. Tentative pressure, no more than that, and he shudder-swallowed, pulled his fingers off. The hangman and his rope loomed up. He saw men with psychotic gravitas dressed in wigs, swallowed again, and reached for the phone. He picked up the receiver, held it, put it down again. This maniac, obsessed, sweaty and bold, he had obviously heard at least one of the Theresa programmes which he, James, had produced. In fact probably not, more likely to have read a Tabloid version of them, a Paul Sherwood clone upping the ante and adding righteousness to a hangman’s rope he’d never seen. Nevertheless! Memo to all staff, a complete Security review. He made a note on his pad, first job for Hayley in the am.

And now he was in his stride and focused, Memo Two to self, sound out Angela. It had been hard on all of them, perhaps hardest on her most of all. Nevertheless, she was an asset to the morning show, and the morning show was the station's flagship. She seemed to have her finger on the zeitgeist, whatever bowl of blancmange that was, and the contacts book to go with it. The chemistry, her and Bill, that one wouldn't know until it had been tried.

Longer term, the real joker was tone, tone and its transitions. On the one hand the station must not appear unfeeling, they were bloody angry, and the ghastly conjuncture of the two murders would coalesce into a campaign against the dark side of the capital. On the other, it simply could not remain tragic for too long. Life went on; not callously, not a blind army trampling its own dead, but because it had its own normal continuity. Too much tragedy a wet blanket, its drip drip whittling away the loyalty of regular listeners. Besides, who was he or the station to be telling them what they should feel, they would remember Steve in their own way.

Balance and transition, tricky stuff, but it's what they paid him for.

***

So, they'd had their fun, if that it was, trying to give him the willies about AIDS., He had not been born yesterday. There'd been no bleeding from his cock, no thankyou, so, as far as he was concerned, he could put it out of his mind and get on with life. And if the twerp had bled, well it wasn't going to be bothering him now.

What a night that had turned out to be, nothing further from his mind, just a recce, and then, it had just happened and one thing led to another.

And the knife corporal?

The knife? Why sir, to go out without a knife in this day and age, why you're just asking for trouble.

Carry on corporal.  Which he was all ready to do, if and when a train made the great effort of turning up. Lucky to get a seat at this rate, very lucky the way the platform was thickening up. An advertisment stared at him from the yellow-tiled walls. He didn't understand it, what he was supposed to buy.

Just as he'd predicted, they were packed in the tube carriage. He made a base for himself in the space by the middle doors, back to the glass of the seating section. An infant was screaming its head off, just what the doctor ordered when you were going to work. What was the mother thinking about, a kid on the Underground at this hour of day?! Some tart who hadn't a clue. The computerised bird through the loud speaker things said they were approaching the next station. A lot of help that was.

Course there was a right kerfuffle over the crusader, it hadn't surprised him, .he’d predicted it. A headline through the crowd of arms and elbows: STEVE: THE MAN BEHIND THE VOICE. Next thing he'd be a saint, saint and bloody martyr. A bloody mary more like, yes, who'd taken his medicine like a good boy. He yawned, made space with his elbows, enough to breathe. Get stuck in a tunnel, that's all it needed now. He'd seen it coming, the media making a fuss, stirring up the police and them buzzing about, buzzing and getting nowhere. Bees with a faulty guidance system. Because they had no guide.

Still shouldn't have killed the twat though.

Shouldn't have fucked him either. However, I don't think you've any worries on that score Corporal, in and out very quickly I believe you said. That's right sir. Well there you are then. There you were, the mad virus more or less out of the equation, and about time. He couldn't have it messing up the Mind's Eye, though for the time being he wasn't putting it at risk, not even for West Ten. She was special and if he had to wait till the time was right, then so be it.

He sighed, raised his eyes upwards. The train sounded like it was groaning. What did it think it was, a bloody horse in a shaft. A big newspaper was in his face. He shifted his weight, turned his shoulders and gave a glare to the youth in a suit that seemed to think that him reading his paper was the most important thing in the world. A judder ran through the carriage floor. The train squealed. It stopped. He looked out into the darkness of the tunnel, saw pipes along the wall were covered with black furry crud.

He sighed. Something should be said., but what was the point, sheep the most of them. And where was the voice that told you what was the next stop, as if anyone with half a brain needed telling, got nothing to say now had it?!  You paid your fare and got left in the lurch. The infant was at it again.  The young bloke couldn't be bothered with any more of his paper. A man he couldn't see said it was diabolical. He could have told him that himself. Wasn't good for the feet either, stood in the one place for hours in end, he could feel them.

This was ridiculous, when was it going to end. What did they have to do, get down on their knees and ask, Please, could you get this train going. There wasn't the room to kneel down even if some joker had wanted to.

The baby was still at it. Someone should say something.

***

Angela had had her doubts, Grief Counselling, what would that be when it was at home? But Sue, as it turned out was just what she needed,  no pretensions to therapist, because when it came to grief, there was no therapy, grief was a process and all she could do was listen, and perhaps offer some signposts. For one thing, anger directed at the dead person, for a variety of reasons it is a common reaction Angela, she’d said.

A variety of reasons? She had been very silly, short-termist and unfair that Sunday morning, that ghastly morning when she had thought unfair thoughts.

The most important thing is not to beat yourself up over this, the counsellor said.

At last, someone talking sense, because that's what she had been doing, blaming herself, and it didn't do anyone any good. You held it together, yes, even when she’d been giving herself a hard time, she'd done that. Had done the Birmingham gig, doing it for Steve really, thinking of what he would have said, how they weren't kids anymore, they were pros.

And it had helped, but what she couldn't tell Sue, was that in their neck of the global village it was common knowledge, everyone knew, Steve had been buggered. Sexually assaulted? Come on, say what you mean! The English and their euphemisms! Steve had been fucked, some other man had fucked him up the arse on the very bed they might have ended up together, if they hadn't both been adult about it, not quite sure how far they wanted things to go. He had been fucked and the thought-picture smiled back at her, confident. Horrible, it said, but I'm here because I'm here. Because you want to have a peep.

No she did not, and the counsellor was speaking. Fault,  she said across the table, There's no fault involved in death, not in normal life, and it does not apply here either.

But you want a look don't you, the picture said. Go on. Or are you frightened. Go on, you're not a kid, take a look.

Angela shied away, saw the counsellor take note; write a note; saw her horse Lucy, the love of her childhood, felt as Lucy must have done that time at the spiky fence. It was too much. She flipped channels only to find a seductive hunchback with his actor's voice, telling her what she really wanted.

Sue repeated it, not to beat herself up, said that what Angela was experiencing was not unique, that she'd seen it too many times for her own well-being.

Angela said thank you on her way out, only counsellor Sue hadn't looked over the edge and seen a giant penis entering those naked cheeks and finding them full of cocaine desire. Seen Steve lying there, cheeks open, wanting it and the penis pumping like a piston into that round softness, like a peach some wrinkly Arab poet had written. And then when the penis had used him and he had no more use, he'd been thrown away, just thrown away for ever. Her fingers clenched and unclenched as she walked to her car. She was going to have put it out of her mind, because if not, well for one thing she had a meeting with James, or rather a drink and a chat, his invitation, James who'd turned out to be a bear of the cuddly variety. Been concerned and said nothing of buggery. Not what she'd have gone for, a Stoke Newington wine bar, but at least close to home for a quick collapse.

Out of the counsellor's cul de sac, she turned left down Tufnell Park Road in the half-light. Dipped beams came at her from all angles. Her fingers clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel, they frightened her. Repetitive like a tic, as if a part of oneself had gone independent to do its own pointless thing. A huge penis in dildo magnolia winked at her. She turned right on to the Holloway Road and focussed on the road itself, on the slow-moving swish of narrow-fronted shops, the oblique red light reflections in the windows doubled up. Coming up to the lights at the Hornsey Road junction, determined to break the spell, she spoke out loud, told Steve he was a great talent, and that they'd all been robbed. The lights were red,  and she remembered him, heard his voice the night he'd driven her home, red was your reality principle. Defy it and you're dead, only now I am dead, he said, I don’t give a damn. As if it had all been pointless, doing the right things.

She parked close to the bar, turned off the engine and sat still. Experience, will-power, she didn't care what, but she made herself quiet. Watched her hands, dared them to start their clench routine again. Told herself that for the living, one had to do the right things, and breathed deeply till she was ready. Inside James stood up to give her a hug, they were devastated, he said, the whole station.

I feel like hitting the drink, have done for the last few days but here's just the one bottle of Rioja I'd like to share with you. Go on, take a good swig, we can always have another, he said.

It was good, warm and velvet  in her throat. She picked at the small plates on the table, some anchovies, an olive, a piece of salami.

This has been a terrible time for all of us, but as Steve would have said himself, we have a job to do and I'd like to talk things over with you, James said. However first, well some rather shocking news about the murder itself. I'd rather you heard it from me first, and that you keep it under your hat.

So, she had to hear it all again, the buggery. The official announcement. To see if she'd blush? No James.

It is not yet official, but it seems highly likely that Steve was murdered by whoever killed Theresa Dwyer.

She heard the words, tried to fit them to something real.

I'm sorry, I know it must be a terrible shock, and I've just come and said it baldly, straight out, but I wanted you to know and not hear half-baked rumours.

What was he saying, she'd heard rumours enough but now this, the bisexual murderer, is that what he was saying?

And the only conclusion we can draw is that Steve was singled out by this maniac precisely because he made such a campaign out of what happened to Theresa. Anyway, keep it under your hat for now.

Under her hat? Like a lump on the head, a hump on the head where she could store all the poison, dump it. She said it was incredible.

Incredible indeed, it looks as though we are dealing with a very dangerous man, and we are determined to contribute to him being caught which brings me to the future, and if I'm being insensitive to bring it up, I guess that's half of what I'm paid for.

That's a big one, she said.

What?

The future.

Well I hope so even if…

It was OK, she didn't need a pep talk.

And I hope you will stay with the programme. For a start, and this sounds like a ghastly déjà vu, mockery, I want a full tribute to Steve. Geoff Castle's done a brief one, but I want something with substance. We owe it to him. By the way have you met young Bill Jarman?

She'd agreed with him, everything he said, and of course it was true, work was the best cure for devastated people. Only once again reality had tripped her up, poor Steve murdered by the killer who'd killed before. Never before had she been so pleased to be behind her own door and the grim world shut out.

To move on from the alcohol taste she made tea in the kitchen, sat down at her table with her hands round the mug. Poor Steve. This maniac, this psychopath, had they got under his skin with their programme, touched a nerve so powerfully? Did that then make it a success, only if so, it had cost Steve his life and nothing, no programme was worth that. In a rush she was up and checking all the sash windows, screwed the locks that joined the upper and lower frames as tight as tight could be. To the door to lock herself in with the Chubb. To the bathroom to check its frosted window.

Absurd. It was ab-surd. You sought justice, you did the right thing and were murdered for it?!

A giant penis hove into view, confident, swollen with power all because powerful hands and fingers dug into the neck. Dug in like the claws of a remorseless bulldozer, she said out loud. She touched her neck, tried a caress, and swallowed. Swallowed again. Sex and death, the big themes, but she must swallow and swallow again choked by a penis which Steve had, if she was honest with herself, really, really frank, had allowed that member, that organ to penetrate, invade his very being, Steve who'd always seemed so much in control of things, who'd stayed unflustered through all sorts of crises, but when it really mattered…

HYSTERIA in capital letters planted itself, just in time planted itself in her mind's path with all the quiet severity of a policeman placing STOP and DIVERSION signs at the scene of a motorway crash.

Hysteria, no thank you. No. Only that penis, it was lingering, she could sense it and all because, all because coincidence had come and slapped her in the face, Katie B. and one of her interminable faxes, Balkan newspapers and male-on-male rape. As if somehow Katie'd known, no, as if the killer had known and wanted to drive her mad.

She told herself to hold on; told herself this was paranoia; this was paranoia; this was pa-ra-noi-a. She brought back the policeman, he was elderly and solid under his helmet. He did not hurry as he placed the sturdy STOP sign on the black tarmac. Katie the clairvoyant?! She had just been silly.

`***

There you were, pleased to be out and about, with a place in the out-and-about, and yet when the day off came round, the two whole days off in the week, she was as pleased as punch.

Perverse? No Marjorie. It was, she understood, normal once you did have a regular position in the out-and-about. With two whole days she enjoyed herself at home doing nothing in particular, or walked the neighbourhood in unplanned, sly style, somehow not bumping into friends or acquaintances. Easy enough to walk in unplanned style now spring was moving into summer, and an old cardigan was all you needed.

Warm enough but not like the sun was blinding you. The youth down the road were out on their steps, pale faces and wearing sunglasses fit for the desert. Aliens all year round. Or that was her being old. In her day they'd been albinos. She crossed the Harrow Road and down the Golbourne. Old furniture shone out of the windows, new sunglasses flashed in the crowd by the Portuguese cafes. A bit of business, it looked like they all had a bit of business.

Round the tight corners of the Cash & Carry on the Portobello she found Helen among soft cardboard boxes.

Sneaky, you've caught me without my make-up.

That's right, you're a mess, don't know how you get away with it, Margie said.

You're a pal. What this, five washing-up liquids, you opening a restaurant or prepared for a siege. Or has it already started? Mo was asking about you, says you've gone AWOL. You two had a row? Well it did sound spicy at your party.

Mo's her own woman and so am I.

I should hope so, I'd hate to be someone else's.

Thanks for saying it, you sometimes need to hear it. As for the washing-up stuff I'm stocking up so it's one thing less to be thinking about all summer.

The Westway laid down shadows as she walked on. She was her own woman, strolling the manor in the sunshine. Martin had rung enough times, left messages to say he really hoped she was all right, and how this was ridiculous at their age. Which perhaps it was. You could leave things too long, he might find someone else, might just give up bothering. It might happen, not fun, but she was not ready to return the call and whatever that might lead to. Because she didn't know. At the pub she was happy enough. You kidded yourself you were cheerful and that's how you were to all intents and purposes. Who wanted a mournful JJ giving you your drink.

Ah wait till you're a legend, Tom said.

I don't think I'd fancy it.

Have it your own way, he said.

This side of the bar, the bubbles in a g-and-t were always fresh. This side, she liked it even more, the freshness of opening time when the voices were quiet and the glasses were sparkling. Could enjoy it even while she knew how it might be later, the rush, the sweaty money, the slops, stains and half empties to be cleared. Opening time when everything had promise and she could charm the old boys at the bar. Her old, old boys. A  quiet time and maybe a chat with Tom.

Your man Mark who was at your party, you know him well?

I've known him since he was a baby, she said.

What, and you’re his godmother?

No dear, not my style. A fairy godmother, I've had ambitions in that direction but they've never come to much, you know, until I win the Pools. Until then I've kept it in check.

Pleased to hear it, we'll have no fairy godmothers here, the drinkers would take liberties. Now, does he really know about cars, your man?

Mark? Probably.

Probably?

He'll know what most things are worth. Give him a ring, he'll not cheat you. Now here we go.

It was the first burst of the evening, teachers, the poor souls. Gasping for it. All that talking.

Talking? Tom said. You've got it wrong,  it's their nerves, shot to pieces.

***

What a working girl did, she pulled herself together. There was a job to be done. Several in fact, but priority was the programme for Steve. They owed him, all of them, her, James, Bill Jarman and Geoff who'd been their nightime producer, they all owed Steve to do their very best. Geoff, she rather suspected, had some kind of chip on his shoulder, but she had, she felt, hit it off with Bill. Anyway, it was no time for pettiness.

There would be clips of Steve himself, representative of his many moods was the intention; tributes from other friends and broadcasters; and more investigation on their part as to what might be done. The police had gone all legalistic on the Theresa-Steve connection in face of pressure from the station to confirm it, while at the same time not ready to release the body for cremation. What was the point of the DNA detection technology, James said, acknowledging her with a nod, if they couldn't say straight out, yes, the same man is the killer in both cases. But the police, he said, talked of a technology still in its infancy, the dangers of the killer knowing, and of compromising  his eventual trial.

If, and bloody when, they've caught him, Geoff Castle said..

They would find ways around it, James said, Bill would drop as many hints as possible without ramming it down people's throats, which was something Steve himself had been dead against. In the meanwhile, they all had their jobs to do, and some fresh angles were the order of the day.

There had been support and sympathy from the In The Smoke gang. Also, Angela sensed, a fair degree of curiosity both about the circumstances, and something more prurient, but she blanked it out, accepted the sympathy at face value, and sought out Tom Shirley on his own.

If it's lunch, my treat this time, Tom said.

I was going to say the same, so we'll go dutch, she said.

Lunch between consenting adults.

A bit bold for Tom, but she allowed herself a smile for the first time in a long time. Across the table at the Vietnamese she felt the genuine nature of his concern. It was a truly awful thing, he said. There he was, crime 'specialist' and what did he know, what was his experience, he said. One time his flat had been burgled, that was it. But for someone one knew to be murdered!

I mean I have to admit I didn't especially like his style, he said, but this is just terrible.

Thanks, it makes you wonder, I mean what's the point when a person can be nullified just like that. Do you know what I mean? Angela said, as a waiter put down the sizzling prawn, rice, and fish soup.

Is that what a murder does, brings everything into doubt, Tom said.

Please Tom, not some abstract speculation, not now.

Something told her he was peeved. This was not the time for any friction, she really could not bear it.

Sorry, I'm just not myself, she said.

Of course.

Sorry also that nothing's come of the AIDS thing, you'll understand everything's up in the air right now, but work is the only solace so I'm going to stay with the station on a part-time basis. The AIDS series will happen. In the meanwhile we're doing programmes for Steve himself.

Of course, he said.

Part tribute, and then I'd like us to really come up with something that's going to help catch the bastard who did it.

Of course, he said.

If he said ‘of course’ one more time, she was going to scream. I'm going to tell you something in strictest confidence, she said.

Off the record.

Off the record. The 90 per cent liklihood is that Steve was murdered by the same person who murdered Theresa Dwyer, you know, the case we were campaigning on.

That grabbed his attention: what, it was incredible; what, she was kidding!

No, she said. She waited for pennies to drop.

You mean, he said, it had taken a while, you mean that because he kept on with the Theresa case, didn't let it drop, that because of that the killer killed him.

That's what it looks like, she said. She was tired, the same things back and forth.

And the police?

Are being cagey. Don't want the killer to know they know; don't want to prejudice a future trial.

Uh hu.

So what are you working on Tom. All this, and feeling so useless with it, it's pushing me in the direction of crime reporting myself.

I wouldn't, it pushes you towards the misanthropic, desperately trying to cling on to some positive view of the human race.

I've thrown away my rose-tinted specs.

I wouldn't if I was you, easy to be smug once they're gone for ever. What am I working on? You remember that poor deranged woman directing the traffic on the Camden Road, it came up on Steve's first programme, that somehow she'd freaked out the victim.

Smug she was not, how could she be! Theresa, she said, and yes, I remember the woman herself.

With a fruit and veg shop on her head, and more than anybody she made me think of the shabby translation of radical ideas on mental health by our public cost cutters, he said, pushing his empty plate along the table so as to lean across. Empty the asylums because they cost a few bob. And hey presto, hundreds of the unbalanced unleashed on the streets with sod-all by way of back-up. In that context, I've been looking at random attacks on people by some others who are supposedly Care in the Community. You know something, there are times when this government of bourgeois self-interest makes me sick in the stomach, that self-righteousness they have even when, no, especially when they are doing the most selfish and sordid things. Oh, and that wasn't rehearsed.

I should think not, Angela said. Very impressive, though I think you'll find bourgeois is rather dinosaur these days. Linguistically speaking.

He shrugged his shoulders, suggested they call for the bill.

Don't listen to me, she said. It's just that the flippant is a relief from the hysterical. And what you're doing, very interesting. It would be very good, really it would, if you'd come on board for the Steve-tribute-plus programme to talk about this stuff.

Angela, what self-respecting journo doesn't want a bit of exposure but honestly, in this case, I don't think it's relevant.

But the killer, he's obviously mad.

Maybe, whatever that means, but I'd say unlikely, highly unlikely he's ever been c-in-c, other wise the bill would have had him. Or someone similar. But please, use it yourself, if you like, if it'll help. On the other hand, what you've told me…

In confidence, she said.

In confidence. Looks like it's six quid fifty each and I'll throw in the pound for the tip, how's that, he said.

***

Morning, noon and night, it looked like all you were going to hear was Steve this, and Steve that, like there was nothing else going on in the world. All on his day off, a day of rest lined up. So he'd had a lay-in, and switched on for a bit of relaxation, and this had started. At the end of the day, he shouldn’t have killed the twat, something had snapped because he had let himself get into a state. He’d admitted it, he‘d been in the wrong, up, but ever since he had done the right things, packed his clothes of that night in a carrier and left it one dawn outside an Oxfam south of the river, and now it was time to draw a line under it, and move on. Only now, out of the blue, he had no choice but to keep half an ear on the crusader cry-in..

In the afternoon they had clips of the berk himself doing interviews. Graham got up and shook out the sheet and the duvet, bashed the pillows, and then re-made the bed, tucking in the bottom sheet on all sides. Once you'd started, because that was the hard part, why not go the whole hog, do all the housework.

one of the very last interviews in the morning show which Steve had made his very own. Here he is with Britain's own businessman extrordinaire, and a man used to getting his own way, Sir Edward, Eddie Boyd..

He started with all the surfaces, first with dustpan and brush. You'd had a bit of excitement it was what you needed, something slow and thorough. A crummy hole, course it was, didn't mean you let it slide. You kept it ship-shape.

Well put it this way Eddie, is it true?

That if you really believe in something, a new idea be it a product or a service, you've got to put your shirt on it? Yes. If you sincerely want to make a lot of money, yes.

Who doesn't? It was the berk's voice with his silly laugh, like he knew everything.

You'd be surprised. A lot of people think they do but look at the x million punters who do the Pools every week. Without sounding arrogant that's just wishful thinking. A real desire to make money takes not just nerve but a lot of damn hard work. There, that was telling him.

He re-did the surfaces with a J-cloth, the sink unit and the mini-fridge door with a sponge 'n scourer.

So to put it crudely, a lucky break or brilliant foresight?

That's a no-win question Steve. Either I sound like a chancer or I sound big-headed.

Touché Sir Edward, how's about it's the genius of picking a winner. He was laughing, the twerp was, didn't have much choice did he, when the tycoon bloke had told him what's what.

He shook his head. How on earth had he let himself get riled by a twat like that?!

We've played that, not just because it was one of Steve's last, but because Sir Edward has put up a 50,000 pound reward for information leading to the arrest of Steve's killer, rising to one hundred thousand when that person is convicted in a court of law. It speaks volumes for the effect Steve had on people, and for Sir Edward’s generosity.

He poured two mugs of cold water into the kettle and stood there to watch it boil. Reward? A reward required a blabbermouth who knew something, and he wasn't about to start blabbing to anyone. No sir. Could afford to be generous couldn't he, the tycoon, knew he wouldn't be paying up. He waved a finger at the TV set, asked if it was going to start blabbing. There's nice big reward, he said. Could get yourself dressed up in teak. He smiled. His cheeks wrapped around that smile..

Now here was a relief, two hours without the crusader; news, sport and music before the gala performance, the announcer said. Graham smiled some more. He stepped out into a warm late afternoon. If it stayed like this, next day off he'd maybe give the hatchback a polish, have a look in on West Ten, then take a spin in the country. In the meanwhile a stroll down to the kebab shop where he ordered a doner, paid for it and said he'd be back to collect it. At the offie he picked up a four-pack of lager.

Hole it might be, his place, but it was gleaming.

Coming up soon Bill Jarman who has already done the morning show, but is going to do the main programme this evening because for him, like the rest of us at the station, this is personal.

He ate the doner out of its polystyrene box, using the serviette and plastic fork provided.

Life insurance Arthur, nah, I've got better things to do with my dosh, know what I mean. Besides, I'm never ill, me.

Terry my old son, you're going around with your eyes shut, life insurance isn't just a matter

He switched off and flipped open his first lager, poured it with care into a clean glass. One things was for sure, if they did get on their high horses again and started name-calling, it would all be water of a duck's back because he knew now, it was frightened hot air, and nothing more. High horses, they could have all the kings horses and his men, and it wouldn't put the crusader together again. He liked it, couldn't help but smile; all the king's horse and all the kings men. His cheeks wrapped around that smile. He squeezed the drink can and the rest of the beer came out frothy. Time to see what was up, time to switch on.

…I’m Bill Jarman, For the time being I've been doing Steve’s morning show, and I wish more than anything in the world that it's not what I was doing, nor doing this programme now. I'm pretty new on this station, pretty new to broadcasting as it happens, a greenhorn, wet behind the ears, and I never had the time to get to know Steve that well but he was a helluva guy. And I'm raging myself because now there never will be the time. …

Graham crushed the empty can, got up to drop it in the flip-bin, and took out a fresh one from the mini fridge. Blah blah. And what do you do for a living son? Oh I talk, I'm a talker. Maybe Jack was right, give Dave half a chance and he'd be radio twerp of the year.

James Barclay, our station manager and hands-on producer had this to say.

Steve's death is not only tragic personally speaking, it has also robbed London of one of its most original and talented voices. As soon as I started to work closely with him, his professionalism and vision were apparent. That is who and what we have been robbed of, not just the vision, but the determination, a quality he showed so clearly on the case of Theresa Dwyer which he just refused to let drop.

OK OK, what did they take him for? A kid, born yesterday? Miss Theresa Who, Miss Theresa Who, all day long the same song, the crusader and his crusade. So, they'd made a link, or thought they had. So. Wasn't exactly news was it, not if that DNA business was half it was cracked up to be. Or may be they just wanted to make a link. No mention of him getting fucked up the arse was there, not a word, so who knew.

…and I'll never forget him saying, we were in the canteen at the time, You've got to go on Bill, even something like this, like what happened to Theresa, you've got to go on because otherwise it's a victory for, and to hell with political correctness, for all the nutters out there…

See, Theresa again. So? He took a big swig, half the glass, restrained himself from banging it down. So? The old spunk wasn't it, the sperm, jam-packed with the DNA stuff. Still, they weren't going to be having every adult male wanking into a test-tube, were they.

Now there was a woman, posh voice, Angela someone.

I mean surely everyone must have noticed, seen with their own eyes, the ever increasing number  of quite obviously disturbed people in the streets of London. We see it and yet it's not reflected in official statistics, official debate, or even in more general public debate. Are we afraid of something, afraid to speak out, is it a taboo subject…

Now there, she had a point. They were everywhere, gibbering away in the streets. Old Frida Frill, her on the Camden Road with the traffic. And the other bloke at Finsbury Park, long talks he had with the bint in the bikini, the ten of her on the hoardings. And they were just the tip of the iceberg. She did have a point.

That's what Steve was fighting for, and that's what we're going to carry on fighting for, for a safe

Fighting?! The berk?! Graham smiled, he couldn't help it. The smile wrapped itself round his face. Fighting? Flapping round like a chicken more like it, when it came to it.

And this one's for Steve, it was one of his favourites. For him, for me, and for all of you, John Lennon, Imagine.

*

School holidays meant one thing, and one thing only: a lot of kids and a lot of noise from kids playing at being quiet, most of them rushing about like they'd been let loose in a playground. In these circumstances, break-time should have guaranteed peace and quiet. Instead you got Jack and Dave.

You see my point, Dave said, trying to drag him in.

To be honest, I'll be glad to be out of it, Jack said.

All right for some, but you think about it, if they bring in admission prices, is this place going to be competitive?

Well no one can say we don't have variety.

So. Look what happened to variety shows, down the toilet. I mean will this place survive in a competitive landscape?

I'm not with you, Graham said.

Gordon Bennett, admission charges Graham, I'm talking admission charges if they come in. I mean are you going to shell out when there's a hundred other things to do.

There'll always be people wanting to come to museums, always have been, Jack said.

But will they want to come to this one, not exactly innovative is it.

Not what Graham wanted to be thinking about back in his exhibits room, not when he'd been inching his way back to West Ten. Inching. With patience. With infinite patience because West Ten was special.. He had accepted that they might well have put two and two together, Miss Who and the twerp, and scored Bingo, accepted it and said So What! Said it, and carefully opened his Mind's Eye, careful as on those occasions he could hold it in no more, and was faced with a door that might creak, or lead to a room not expected. Opened it up for a peep and there'd she'd been, blurred but unmistakably West Ten.

His gaze focused on the railway, the chocolate uniforms stood on the station platform and then the points, the sound of the train running smoothly. All well, they were skirting it, all in such a hurry that they glanced and moved on. No time for a jack-the-lad to be tempted.

So he'd got over it, the kerfuffle over the crusader, and popped over to see how she was getting on, clipboard in hand. Had walked along the street which backed on to West Ten's and seen the gap between the houses. He'd counted and counted, boldly drawn a plan on his clipboard paper as if he was a surveyor. There was a moment when destiny just fell into place, the gap, a wartime bomb likely as not, gave direct access to West Ten's back fence over which he could see a coal shed and a simple back door. And then, when he'd strolled back to the Harrow Road junction, he'd seen her too, if anything a little more hunched.

Treat it with respect, show some patience, and the Mind's Eye wouldn't let you down, only now there was this new thing that if you believed Dave, and maybe he did have a point, might be a fresh disturbance. Not that he'd starve, he had his testimonials and there'd be security firms falling over themselves for a man with his record, but who wanted the upheaval? Who wanted it, new world, new faces. It was not right, a museum was a museum and it carried on, what was the point otherwise. If it was here today and gone tomorrow, wouldn't be a museum, would it? It'd be a sideshow or one of those hot dog vans that turned up for a special event, and then buggered off when it was over. On the other hand with Dave he'd heard panic, the sound of every rat who thought, rightly or wrongly, that the ship was sinking. He could see him, Dave swimming in an empty sea while the ship sailed on, a flabby Dave who would soon get tired and give up.

He looked up again from the swirl picked out a black woman in those weirdo plaits they wore, next to her a boy, the two of them looking at the largest of the sliced open dolls houses on display behind glass. No husband on view, didn't exist more than likely. He put his wonderfully weary, washed-out West Ten              on hold. He put bothersome butterfly Dave on hold and homed in on the other black face in the room, the girl who was another butterfly. She was restless, rushing about. Different to the boy, likely as not different fathers. He sank back into his uniform. The mother had turned towards the girl who was wanting to move on, it was obvious. She was saying something that must have got her attention, and the daughter followed her to the tall case of dresses. The girl was going to be disappointed, not the height of fashion were they, and whatever the mother told her, she couldn't wear them, nor even touch the material.

The room was still half-crowded. He spotted an educated-father type and a bunch of mini-thugs in leather-look jackets that were supposed to look leather, then scanned back to the mother and daughter and nearly missed him, the boy standing there, staring at the train and its railway. He had, he'd bloody nearly missed him. He pulled himself back further into himself. The boy moved his hand hovering by the station platform. There was an outbreak of noise, he should by rights call for quiet, but not now, not when the boy was now staring at the points, his hand moving as of to try it out. Wasn't even looking at the notice. He shut out the din, they probably thought he was alseep. They were wrong. The boy, seemed he was sleepwalking, his hand moved over the miniature fence, it hovered and came down on the lever of the points. His own uncoiling was magnificent, he could feel it as he sprang up from the chair and guided his voice to strike the miscreant.

Oy you, can't you see what the notice says?! Can't you read?! The exhibits are not to be touched.

Not more than two yards away and a direct hit. The boy's hands fairly jumped back over the fence, the rest of him paralyzed, the face frozen. Only there was screaming in his ears.. Stand away from my boy. Stand away right now!

What?! What was this?! He turned through a roundabout of faces and eyes staring at him and at the end of his turn, the slut of a mother.

Who you think you are fat arse. Sit on that chair all day cos you aint fit for nothing else except growing a fat arse and scaring kids. Oh big man, big man. Now stand away!

The blood was itching in his face skin, the cheekbones playing ping-pong, the whole bloody room staring at him, and this slut in front of him screaming, taking advantage. The restraint, it took all his power.

It's all you good for, you streaky piss uniform.

This was madness, the mad bitch's fingers jabbing at him, and behind her all those pairs of eyes. Just a few seconds with her alone and she'd know what's what. The ping-pong had gone into a fast rally, he could feel it across his face but he was going to get on top of this, he was in the right.

Mr Big-Shot, you bully kids to be a big-shot.

There are rules in this museum, and there are notices telling you the rules which are not there for the likes of you to break, the open exhibits are not to be touched.

What he said was reasonable, it was official and reasonable, surely everyone could see that.

The likes of me Mr big-shot with your exhibits which is just a load of old tat the Oxfam shop wouldn’t touch.

It was outrageous, by rights he should giver her a clout only she was taking advantage.

This is a valuable exhibit, there's not another train set like it and handling will damage it.

Damage?! Yours are they fat arse? That boys tiny hands going to damage your fucking toys. Now stand right away, back in your corner!

He couldn't stand it, his hands tied, tics like mad clockwork in his face.

Now you listen to me, any more of this and…

No you listen, just leave my boy alone and you back to sleep on that chair like you should do, go to sleep and draw your wages cos that's all you're good for.

Graham rallied. I'll have you thrown out of here, this is a museum understand, a museum not a… but the words were stuck as he saw her turn with her two brats towards the exit. Now she wasn't shouting, the words were cold.

You ain't even a big-shot, you're just a creep, a noise, an arty-farty noise.

And she was gone and everything was pounding away inside and all the other eyes still upon him. What did they want, what business did they have and, oh no, stood in the doorway, sly Dave ready to take advantage.

OK are you Graham?

Oh no, not that, not from him.

NINE

She'd been on a beach with Martin, hot, hot, hot, and the sea a dancing blue. Martin was Martin, the stomach wrinkled but still flat. He'd been making Martin-type remarks. It was him, only he became Jack, or Jack's voice, or Jack had just wandered out on to the sand. Not enough palm trees, he said. Oy you, he said, and she'd seen the young black man down the road with the car that never got scratched, him in starched whites. Oy you pal, a few more palm trees if you please. With coconuts.

Believe in paradise do you Martin, she said, like it was the last thing in the world any adult could do. Coconuts don't grow in the cold. But he had one in his hand the cunning conjurer. The cunning actor. Could make you believe anything because the coconut was hairy in her hand.

I love the way you eat them, Martin said

Is there then some other way? Just how many ways are there?

Oh, a thousand and one, he said like he was the cat's whiskers. Like he knew everything.

Which he did not, which is what woke her up into a sunny summer morning, a lunchtime shift to come, so as she could leave the beach behind without bursting into tears. And instead give herself a pat on the back for how she'd persuaded the guvnor - Tom liked it, the guvnor - that he make something of the little yard at the back, found it had room for five tables and whitewashed the surround walls. It would be a pub for all seasons which, if you fancied a local in the first place, is what you'd be wanting. That is if you were a person who hadn't the wherewithal, or the inclination, to be out on a tropical beach with coconuts on command.

In bed she stretched, farted, rolled over. Bloody Jack, you thought he was really gone only no, he had to pop up again, get in his sixpenny worth. Never mind, she was happy enough in bed not to be wanting the cup of tea immediately. No desperation, just watching the shadow doing tricks up the wall and across the ceiling. Playing with the fundamentals: copy what the light and the shade could do , copy that and the day would come you could see round corners, when you really could see out the back of your head.

`No desperation, but the bladder had started a whinge and being as the throat was furry and wouldn't object  to a hot hot tea, she was not going to make a point out of staying in bed. On the other hand, no desperation, poor JJ, his was a man's thing. Not all men, not Martin, he'd said nothing, there'd been no sign. He was The One That Got Away.

She'd made a joke, she should laugh but no laugh came. Time to get up.

At work Tom was watching over barrels from the wagon that crashed down the ramp into the cellar. She emptied ashtrays and J-clothed the tables; gave the bar surface a polish; and opened the doors on the dot. All regulars the first hour or so; they said hello and wanted peace and quiet. Had to have their special tables or bar stools otherwise Favourites would lose speed when it mattered, and hot tips make a disgrace of themselves. Tom said they liked her, said she had class and what a ropy old place it had been before. She believed the half of it.

And a good morning to you Marjorie.

Stanley, always the cheerful voice which maybe he was. What she called an occasional regular. On account of the size of his pension she supposed. Liked a chat before he settled down.

And a good morning it is, which is not something a person can say every day, she said, pulling his pint. The one pint unless his pal the old Jamaican feller turned up, in which case they'd have a session and it would run to two and maybe a half to finish up.

Every day is a new day, he said, even when it looks like the one before.

It'd be a poor show if it wasn't, the poor old Earth of ours would get fed up with going round the sun.

He liked that, Stanley did, said she was a card.

One of the bar-stool punters glared down at them over his Racing Post like it was a library and him ready to go Shush. Well it wasn't a library and what did they want, this was a proper pub, no muzak and no music either unless it was a music night advertised as such, Frank Sinatra tributes or a Ceili. And his time would soon be up, away to place his bets; or not place them. Soon there'd be the navvies that weren't navvies, they were builders Tom said, doing the conversions, them and the office groups, and sometimes the really loud young ones from the studios.

Morning Edwin, she said. Stanley's mate, Stanley who hadn't looked at the door once but was pleased as punch, she could see it on his face. Just in time too before the mini-rush when Tom came in to give her a hand for an hour. Busy enough for her to hear the voice at the bar before she looked up.

So this is your hideaway, pulling pints, Mo said. She looked good in smart jeans, tee shirt and linen jacket.

All right Mo, what can I get you.

What is this, on the house you old stop-out?

Are you skint? If so by all means.

I cannot tell a lie.

What, you are or you aren't?

I might ask the same about you. But as it happens, Ian may not be the greatest brain in the world but we aint starving. No even if that Mark smartarse would have dropped us in the Sahara with half a chance.

Marjorie said nothing, there was nothing to say.

I'll have a pint of lager, that way I won't have to see your new muscles on the pump.

Shall I take that as a compliment, Margie said, flipping the tap.

These days I take everything as a compliment, you know, as long as they're not snarling.

There's very little snarling in this pub, Margie said. She waved Mo's fiver away, said who was she kidding. And no, she said, she wouldn't have a drink herself.

What, working and on the wagon, sure it aint you is skint, so what's happened to your film star, don't he think it's a bit low class?

I'll be back, Margie said. Two loud young men leaning over the bar with a twenty note in the hand, dressed in tee-shirts and suits. It was normal, people said, suits with tee-shirts, never mind no tie. She was picking it up as she went along, modern life. And what would they like? Which bottled lager? It was a game they played, like it was on afternoon television: Which Lager?

Lucky the guvnor don't do time and motion on you, Mo said. Still, not a bad old pub, Mo said. Nice mix, the lower classes and the yuppies.

Yuppies?

Young professionals on the way up, always makes me think of puppies, Mo said.

Sausage dogs those two, busy but ridiculous.

I like it, Mo said, the laugh reasonable. You're still sharp enough I'll give you that, like when you turned on poor Gerry, for a plum you're a bit tasty. In other circumstances I'd have laughed till I wet myself.

Don't tell him about this place, me and this place please, Margie said. As a pal.

All right, if that's how you want it, but then you've got to tell me how come your film star lets you.

Mo, he's not mine, and he's not a film star.

All right then, a star on TV and a bloke in films. More to the point he's a feller you've got a scene going with.

You have, you've got nosey in your old age, next thing you'll be asking what he's like in bed.

Well go on then, I've never slept with a star.

The day will come, Margie said, when someone's going to call you a dirty old woman.

I already am, Mo said, laughing loud enough for two.

All right then, how's your Ian in that department, Marjorie said.

Oh, he keeps his end up, Mo said, and this time it was the two of them and the laughter bounced along the bar. The suits in the Tee shirts frowned back down it.

A man and woman had come in, a couple, looked to be too old to be glowing at each other the way they were. Next thing they'd be snogging over the bar.

You just stay there Mo. And no drooping, Marjorie said. She turned to the couple, asked what she could get them. In close up, no question, they were not spring chickens. It took a while for the feller to say two chilled white wines like the whole business of the drinks was a chore. Then it all sped up and they were off out into the yard.

Where those two love birds off to?

Now then Mo, don't be sour. Our sun-drenched patio as it happens, where affairs can flower, Marjorie said.

Well I shall have to sample it myself.

I thought maybe that's what brought you here, news had got around. So what did bring you here?

Oh you know, mooching around, gives you a thirst. And don't try that on me, this is Mo, not some dumpling in a napkin.

Try what?

Changing the topic of conversation, what does the boyfriend, the star of stage and screen, what does he think about this, the barmaid bit.

Since you really are a nosey old woman, I don't know what he thinks, and anyway, it's none of his business.

Suit yourself, Mo said.

That's what I'm doing. You want another, sort that thirst out? Then I've got work to do.

*

He'd been tempted, sorely tempted to jack the job in there and then. For a few days after the crazy bitch with her lip had run riot, he'd been on restraint overdrive, never known anything like it. Hadn't asked for sympathy, kept his head down, and then what happens?! One ponce of a Curator making out he just happens to be passing by and what does he say, Bit of a hullabaloo in here the other day Farley, so I understand.

Bit of a hullabaloo?! When he'd been abused, sworn at, and all for doing his job. He'd tried to explain, restrained himself too, called the black bitch a temperamental woman. Only Mr Trendy in his dickie-bow putting on his vague act from behind sharp specs, he didn't want to know.

No argy-bargy though Farley?

No argy-bargy?! He'd been too stunned to reply fast enough, to tell how the woman had gone berserk, the language, the swearing. Hadn't been given the time except to say no, there'd been none of that. Instead he'd been patronized, these things did happen; and then warned, how they happened once in a blue moon and must not happen again. This is a museum, dickie-bow said, not a fairground, and he must remember that it was the public who paid for it blah blah blah.

Lived in another world the ponce, or liked to make out he did. If that slut was a taxpayer his name was not Graham Farley. Her bloody welfare money out of his taxes more like it, just so as she could bring another two hooligans into the world, and bring them to a museum that was free of charge, and still was. The bitch, she'd taken advantage, knew his hands were tied so she could get away with it. Known he couldn't give her the clip round the earhole she was asking for, not in his position, and even then she'd been lucky, could not have known that restraint was his strong suit.

He pulled open a can of Extra-Strong from the mini-fridge and flipped the ring. And what had he been doing?! He'd been doing his job. DO NOT TOUCH it said. For which, for doing his job, he'd got a reprimand from a ponce in sharp specs. He'd been tempted, sorely tempted, to tell him just where he could stuff his job. Did he know the sheer brake power that had been involved?! Slammed on the hydraulics for a jaywalker when going downhill in a forty-tonner, and then some! That's how it had been. Did he know, dickie-bow, just what it had taken not to lose it, seeing Dave stood in the doorway while the slut flounced out with no one to stop her? Did he care?! Did he buggery! Dave with his sympathetic face. Sympathetic?! Believe that and you'd believe anything.

He'd been tempted, sorely tempted. And if it wasn't for West Ten he'd have told him there and then, stuff your rubbish job up your arse. But not now, who wanted the upheaval when he'd got West Ten on the go. Better the devil you know; for the time being. She was the one, she was special. Had to be, when he could think of her at all after what he'd been through.

He stood up from the divan, finished the Extra-Strong in one go, burped and pardoned himself. Very, very special when he'd thought of her, thought of paying her a personal visit the very night of the outrage after he'd told sly Dave that Yes thanks very much, he was fine, and seen out the last hour and a half of work. He'd thought about it, been ready to go, but no West Ten wasn't some smash and grab affair, she was special, and he a man of infinite patience. And in her case, such respect he had, that he'd not even risked a Mind's Eye view, wasn't going to spoil it. Not even when it seemed like there were people who seemed determined to try.

Didn't know him did they! Some people had thought they had who should have known better. And some people, it was just the way they were, like big-mouthed sluts who just knew that when it came to it, they had nothing to worry about, when they knew that every dickie-bowed ponce in the country would take their side. Argie-bargie?! He smiled, his cheeks wrapped around the smile, pulled another Extra-Strong from the mini-fridge. Mayhem more like. If his hands hadn't been tied, if the bitch hadn't chosen her ground, there'd have been mayhem.

*

The Inquest, and all that it would bring to light in neon and thick-ink headlines, it hovered, delayed by continued forensic investigations official sources said. James made the phone calls himself and still could not get past the bland front. As to the investigation, they talked about leads and their collation of leads. So far he had accepted the official line, next time he would point out that one could easily collate a lot of nothing. Like a fishing net empty but for seaweed, he would say to make the point clear, pulled in by resigned fishermen in over-fished waters.

It had crossed his mind to ask if Edward, Sir Eddie Boyd, had been in touch with them, having an interest staked, as he did, his fifty thousand reward; had done so as a consequence of it crossing his mind that that ruthless bastard might be getting information closer to the real McCoy from them. In the meanwhile the Inquest hovered, the blade ready to fall as if they, Steve and all his friends and colleagues were the guilty ones. Leaks were inevitable and Angela for one, he suspected, had picked up something. There was a haggard look to her, but it was encouraging that she was proving to be a new trouper of the old school. Bill too.

In other circumstances, he would give himself a pat on the back, re-scheduling and man-management, it had been a holistic process. Ego suspended, he'd accepted that Bill was going to move only on condition of Geoff Castle accepting what he was offered. No hard feelings, he'd kept Friday morning for himself, given the other four to Geoff with his very own Jazz Hour thrown in on a Sunday evening. Weekly meetings, rough outlines for the week ahead to be held on Friday early afternoons. In one hour's time in fact when he'd already been on the go all day. Life on Mars: was it important, possible or likely; desirable, impossible or feasible? And if not, why not? This morning's programme had been him and Bill, only Bill after Friday mornings had taken to commandeering the hospitality room and power-napping ahead of the meetings.

No such luxury for one director-producer with just half an hour to himself and his thoughts, before Hayley was back again from her break. Director, producer and morale-booster at a time when they were unable to move, not until the Inquest was done and gone for better or worse. Morale-booster? It could only be for the worse. Even so, let it be over so that the programme and the station could draw a line under it, and move on. Not that they were going to let it go, there would be none of that  until the maniac was caught, behind bars, and the keys thrown away. They were not, they had lost an operative in the field and they were angry, but it simply could not go on like this. Closure was the word apparently, his wife had told him, at some moment you need closure in order to move on.

Two bagels, a smoked salmon and cream cheese, and an egg mayonnaise, Hayley said, it's all that was left.

You think a starving man is fussy?! So tell me, have I got anything on after Bill Jarman and crew.?

Four Thirty, the all-London Radio Listeners Federation, she said.

What? What on earth? These days, one man and his dog, and you had an association. For a federation no doubt, two men, the dog, and a woman for preference. What did they want anyway? The whole point of radio was that you could switch it on, switch it off, or turn the tuning dial whenever you wanted: if you liked what you heard, you listened; if not, you switched it off. Total freedom, so what the hell was an Association, check, a Federation, what the hell was its raison d'etre.

He said it to Hayley, what was its purpose in life, and could she please look it up. There must be an entry somewhere, he said, some file. By the way, who fixed this up?

Oh that was Mr Feltham and it has been in your diary for weeks.

Should have known, One of Brian's PR wheezes, being open to the audience, their feedback taken seriously etc etc. But it already was. Regularly. Why had the station taken the phone-in so seriously? Just How much feedback did Brian want?

I believe you, he said. Mea Culpa. Now could you please find out what they want? And then could you send a memo on my behalf to Mr Feltham or, if you think it gets better results, have a word with his PA. CCTV promised for the staff car park as part of the Security Review. Never mind Brian's pet organizations, the safety of you and all the staff is paramount.

Yes sir, she said, like she was doing army-based TV comedy. Do you want to read it off the screen?

From behind he read the membership numbers. Seven thousand in London alone. There was also a National Federation. Its purpose to preserve standards and especially those of the English language.

It was incredible. Didn't these people have anything better to do with their time?

He told the story to Bill and the others, just to lighten the atmosphere, but Geoff was having none of it, were the police on the Steve case or not, he wanted to know.

Good question, James said. So far their line of defence is that psychopaths can be very cunning and careful people. My next call I plan to go on the attack, it's not good enough.

And Eddie Boyd’s fifty grand, is that not getting anywhere? Bill said.

So far it's getting Sir Edward a lot of good and free publicity.

Bitch-ee, Bill said.

Just thank your lucky stars it's just a reward and not a deposit on buying out this station.

And why should we be thanking our lucky stars, we who know nothing of high finance, Bill said.

Because with him at the helm friends, we'd be Stakhanovites to a man. And a woman of course, James said with a bow to Angela.

And what does that mean when it's at home, Bill said.

Stakhanov, a propaganda miner in Stalin's Russia, hewed more coal per day than anyone else, loved hewing more coal than was possible. That was the story, production targets smashed on a regular basis.

I do believe I've experienced some of that already, Bill said. Just recently.

I think not, you don't know how lucky you are, James said. So, next week, ideas? For Friday I want to do something on parking in London. One more aspect of our question, What's This City Coming To?

What's your problem, Bill said, take a cab, ride a bike.

Not fair on women, Angela said. No car and it's a night time curfew.

All right, all right, I admit it, I failed my driving test, Bill said. Anyway, to be serious, what about the war in Bosnia?

Oh not Bosnia, James said, it's been done to death. Angela?

London, as an entertainment capital.

He liked it. He did like it.

*

What do you want me to say, Mo said.

There's no fool like an old fool, why not spit it out, and then we can get on with lunch, Margie said. It was her splashing out, falafels, salad and a Chablis, natural enough to want to make the most of it. And if it was true, that pride came before a fall and the fall, according to Mo, had already happened, what was the point. But her friend had already moved on.

But you know what your trouble is, Mo said.

No, obviously she did not.

You've never had to swallow it before, Mo said. At least, not since I've known you.

Out through the window, on the street, there were only young people, mini-skirts and bare arms, men in shorts, the flesh young and smooth. Marjorie caught a glimpse of the puritan in her pal's underground, told her it didn't suit her.

What?

Talking like, you know, an advice column.

I'm just saying, Mo said. I've had practice and after the first couple of times you realize it aint the end of the world.

What isn't, Marjorie said. It wasn't as if she hadn't known disappointment and, as it happened, for what she was going to pay, this salad wasn't up to much.

When I say, it's OK Ian, you don't have to clear yourself and all your stuff out. You know what I'm saying. Not that he's ever knocked me about, that I would not stand for, though you'd be surprised where it does go on, you know, respectable people with money, knocking their women about.  But what I'm saying is, he seemed a nice enough feller, your Martin, not stuck-up like he could be, and that's without the few bob he must have tucked away.

Maureen dear, don't be sordid.

What's sordid? I mean I know your flat's worth money these days but you wouldn't want to leave, and even if you did, well you'd still have to pay for something else. And you aint going to be doing bar work till you drop.

I have no intention of dropping for a while yet Mo. Here have another glass and we'll say Cheers, I don't know what's come over you, you only live the once, make the most of it. See what I'm saying, I do suit myself.

Whatever you say.

That's right. And I don't want his money. He used to bring round some nice treats, very nice, when he did come round, you know when it suited him.

Bloody hell Margie, what were you expecting.

Something better than this food, lets drink up and get out of here.

All right, all right. But no gulping, no burping. And I quote.

Who?

You, Jack trying to hurry you out of some drinker, Brewer Street in fact.

So who is it's got the nark's memory now?

I was going to say that was the first time I knew you was special. The way you stood up to him and got away with it.

I didn't make a habit of it, never did it for its own sake, Marjorie said, and turned away to ask for the bill.

Before I forget, did you see that a while back, that radio feller that Gerry did the programme with, what really gave you the hump with him, well he got knocked off, only what I heard is it was the same bastard that murdered the woman he did all those programmes about.

How do they know? Might have been Gerry himself, why not, wanted his pride back, Marjorie said. Perhaps he's got difficulty swallowing.

You're getting so sharp you'll cut yourself. Or I've touched a nerve. You and your pride.

Marjorie looked at the bill, counted out the exact money. You don't mind if I don't leave a tip do you Mo? Not for that.

It's all right with me, Mo said. I haven't told Gerry you know, about that pub of yours. Nor even Ian come to that.

I know darling, they'd have been in already otherwise and I'm grateful. I am. Come on lets go and walk in the sun.

They passed under the Westway and out again into the sunlight. Turned right up Golborne. Dark furniture sat behind glossy windows. No chairs free outside the Portuguese coffee houses on either side.

No fun drinking coffee stood up, Margie said. You'd look the spare prick whatever the event.

You read my mind you old witch.

We've known each other a long time Mo. And queened it when a coffee bar was a coffee bar. Come on, lets go and sit in the Gardens, soak up some sun.

You're joking, sit in there?! What like I'm a junkie or a bag lady?!

Without a bag, Marjorie said. Well suit yourself, I'm for a sit down.

Without a bag? All right then, Care in the Community case? I will suit myself, see you later alligator.

Alligator, where did that come from you old rock 'n roller?

*

For the weekend shift, they'd put him in the room normally watched over by Dave, Dave who was on holiday in Spain by all accounts, along with all the other loudmouths. Paintings, canvases not to be touched of course, but no big sign to provoke the little hooligans, no levers to touch. Not so busy either, hard not to fall asleep, which was maybe Dave's secret. Woke up raring to go and talk non-stop rubbish in the canteen.. Sympathetic Dave! Was he all right when the black bint had taken advantage of the situation to abuse him, weighed up the situation and understood exactly what she could get away with. No, he had not been all right smartarse, but if Dave or anyone else had thought he was going to say so, they'd had another thing coming. What did he know anyway, what it was like on the front line, when he clocked up his hours in a room like this? Bugger all, easy for him to put on a sympathetic face and enjoy every minute of it.

Funny the position Dave had placed his chair. Looked like it was specially set up to look at a daft picture, some old dear in a white bonnet, who wasn't a patch on West Ten, doing her knitting and a cat that looked like it was listening, when there was nothing to listen to. Look at that for long enough and you would be asleep. West Ten on the other hand, she was a classic. With an Appreciation Society. Under his peaked cap he smiled, his cheeks wrapped around the smile, a one-man Appreciation Society.

Patience was the watchword, she deserved nothing less. For one thing, the way she'd survived the storm. The way he'd survived the storm, the mad bitch with the lip who'd have had some men beyond the point of no return, and come back to West Ten,              More in hope than expectation he'd set off just the other day. To suit conditions, weather and otherwise, he'd opted for public transport and sunglasses. Got off a rattler of a train full of off-whites at Ladbroke Grove and strolled leisurely up across the Portobello Road. The streets full of the usual posers and riff-raff but he hadn't minded. All the time in the world and the sun warm.

Bloody hell he did have it easy, did Dave, the school party in and out before you could say Jack Robinson, the eyes sweeping round the pictures in one go, and off again. No wonder he was worried about admission charges. He should say his prayers and thank his lucky stars that there were attractions like a railway he didn't have to guard, and would not get abused for guarding.

It was on his way back from her street he'd spotted her, could hardly believe his luck. The street was as he'd remembered it, no sign of CCTV or a blitz on burglars. No sign of her either, but it would happen when it happened. That was his mood; when it was destined, it would happen when it happened. Rather quicker than expected as it did happen. Walking back through a scrubby old bit of park, there'd she'd been, sat on a bench like she could have been a bag lady without the bags. And why not, he'd sat on another bench and looked from behind his dark glasses. Why not, nothing wrong in that.

Highlight of her life likely as not, catching a bit of sun on a scummy patch of grass. From behind the glasses he took her on board at leisure, soaked her in. Tried to smarten herself up hadn't she. Didn't amount to much, it was still her, West Ten. And then, when he'd had his fill, he'd stood up and left, carried on his way back to the tube station. Hadn't pushed his luck, had left no mark, had never been one for outstaying his welcome.

Graham smiled, his cheeks wrapped around the smile which, and there was no accounting for people, seemed to startle the old boy stood in front of him. He held on to his smile. The old boy stepped well back, calmed down and looked again at the picture with the old dear in her old kitchen. What, as if he was an expert and wanted a fresh angle? Who was he kidding?! Or fancied being in that kitchen himself. Well tough, no chance, it had been a long, long time ago. He held on to his smile. Couldn't see it himself, it was just an old room with an old dear in it doing her knitting. Not his type at all, sat there in her bonnet. Not a patch on West Ten. And the cat, that was a funny looking thing, its ear was all manky.

*

And still no Inquest, so that one had to go around keeping it to oneself. The relief it would be for it to be out in the open, Steve buggered. And that anyway, as far as the public was concerned was what, nothing more than a titillating extra to the fact, the outrage, that Steve had been murdered because he'd stood up for justice. Because he'd touched a nerve in this modern-day monster. That was the way it should be. In this world however, Angela was not convinced.

Despite all this she was honouring Steve in her own way, doing the job. Was even getting the odd grin from Geoff Castle which in itself was some kind of victory against a chip on the shoulder. At the start, the first meeting of the proposed AIDS series, on ice till the Inquest was over, but ready to go, Geoff had gone into a condoms routine. The cheapest ones on the continent as far as we know, he'd said, are still ANTI-BABY, the marketing department should be alerted for a re-launch, ANTI-BABY: ANTI-AIDS. And rather laboured the point for her benefit. How it had to be a colon there, a full colon between the two.

Yet somehow she'd proved herself, even when she'd made no effort to prove herself. Geoff grinning when she'd cheeked headmaster James at his most headmasterly. But then James had his job too, someone had to manage and that when they were all of them so fragile. It had been his decision to postpone the AIDS series. After the Inquest he'd said. It will in its own way be a tribute. In the meanwhile, a strict focus on London. She could see his point, not that he'd been much help beyond a thing he'd got about Parking, restrictions that had got out of hand. Bill not believing a word of it, but ready to humour the boss. The rest, most of it, it had been her. London as an entertainment capital, interviews, recollection, anecdotes and its significance in the city's economy. Which was mostly her working the phone, starting with Steve Spring to give an inside account of the club scene, the real inside, given the money he had invested.

And still no Inquest.

The sorrow and the secrecy, sometimes it was too much. For sanity's sake she'd gone down to deepest Streatham and done a piece on Ten-Pin Bowling for the magazine, lightweight retro for the sake of it. Ten-Pin Bowling, she'd written, redolent of 50s automobiles, mixing the gross and the innocent. After that she was saved by wise parents and Angela pragmatism. Went down to Hampshire for the weekend to be spoiled by her mother, slob about, catch the last of the summer sun in a deckchair, her mother so pleased that she not the rather shrill person she assumed she must once have been. To be treated to single malts by her father pleased to talk adult to adult. And then sleeping in her bed that had been hers from when she was teenager.

Sunday night she said thank you, it was just what she'd needed. Really.

They said it had been a pleasure for them too and her father invited her for a nightcap.

Just the one, she said.

It worked, the whisky and the quiet: her head on the pillow and she was asleep. She was rock-climbing sure-footed along a ridge. It was Glencoe. Her trousers were corduroy. Like her father's. He turned, advising her not to be such a unilateral partisan of the McDonald's cause. Then he was gone into the spring sunshine. Here was a fault in the ridge, she must take on a tricky little chimney to reach the higher level it had sprung. Bum, back and feet braced, she bustled upwards. She must be half along the ridge because below was the horseshoe at the bottom when hospitality had been abused, so the story went, when life was still black and white. Bum, back and feet braced, she edged up another foot.

Bash. Rip up her trousers, a scratch down her thigh. She had slipped and was ready for a father's ironic smile that was a smile only because he knew she was safe.

Try, try and try again. And I quote, Robert the Bruce.

Steve's voice. Steve waiting for her to do that thing and scramble up. He was sat on a rock on the higher ridge in jeans and a biker's jacket with MARLBORO in red, leather embossed in the leather of the jacket. The Campbells always did climb too much, he said.

But that's not my name, surely you remember, I'm not a Campbell. The words were ready to say but there was such mockery in Steve's grin that she could not even make a valid point. And if she wasn't careful she was going bump and slide all the way down the scree slope.

Hey Tracey, he said, no problem, you know the score, it's all a fucking joke.

Only now he was in the studio, at the station, miming a kiss to her through the glass and his voice boomed out through the speakers. You know what I'm saying Trace, he said.

She woke up, woke herself up it felt like. Horrible. Her thighs, the both of them, they were all right. No hurt, no smeary blood. A bad dream and no more than that. She wasn't having it, this guilt-tripping, she was a victim too. Don't beat yourself up, grief counselling step one. It was terrible what had happened to Steve, it wasn't like he'd asked to be murdered and buggered in the process, but what was the sneer for, he had no right to sneer. She was still in the land of the living, that was her only crime. And in the land of the living, endeavour was not futile, projects not a waste of time. No, and in the land of the living, she had work to do.

*

Like the suntan Dave, young Eric said. Wick-ed.

A recipe for skin cancer is what that is, Joe said. An intelligent man like you should have known better.

From his somewhere else, Graham was alerted to an odd silence. A Dave with no comeback, no clever remark, had left them confused. Till Eric had to say something more, how Joe was a miserable sod and needed to get a life.

I've had one thanks very much, fair bit of one anyway, Joe said. Which is more than you lot'll have if you don't watch out for the sun. Don't you read anything?

It was like he hadn't spoken, not a word.

So Graham, you've had my room while I've been away, Dave said.

Had he missed something? Graham held a slight smile, the eyebrows furrowed. Yes, that's right, he said.

Bit boring for you I'd have thought, Dave said, none of the excitement you get with your train set.

Excitement?! You lot?! You'd run a mile, young Eric said.

Graham had kept his slight smile. He shrugged. His point exactly. Wouldn't know what it was, not even if it smacked them between the eyes. Eric included.

I must have got it wrong, Dave said.

You?! Got something wrong?! It's done something for you that holiday, Joe said. You're a changed man.

So you enjoyed it, my room. Relaxing was it? Almost like having a holiday yourself was it?

I wouldn't go that far, Graham said.

Yeah right, where's his suntan, Eric said.

Well that's good because it's over now, Dave said. He was up on his feet and out the door.

What's got in to him, you'd think he owned the poxy room himself, Eric said.

Graham shrugged. Joe, like he'd seen troubled waters, poured oil, said they knew what it was like coming back to this after a holiday. You know what I mean, he said, almost puts you off going in the first place.

Another problem cracked as far as Graham was concerned. To shut up one smart-arse giving you a headache with his chat. It was the same in the afternoon break, Dave like a kid with a cob on, just because someone had been playing with his toys.

Back home after some chicken nuggets with a tub of coleslaw, it was time to settle down on the divan and empty the head. It took a while until West Ten was hovering, he could sense her there.

Go on, step into focus now that you're here. Get in the swing of things. That's right, I can see your shoulders now, they're perfect. I know you've been waiting for me. I've been patient too and it is better that way, believe me. It's true, however much you're tired and worn out, be patient.

She was all there, the whole of her, sat on her bench amongst the rubbish, the shoulders,

the lines in her face. Perfect. What you saw is what you got, the old Mind's Eye on top form. His knob had livened up, pushing its way out through the cock-flap of his boxers. He waited, left it as it was, her on her bench amongst the wrappers and the shit, waited until it had settled, and then got up for a wad of tissue. All by herself she'd got up and walked painful steps and was on her own steps, down to the basement door. She was up and down, slowly up and slowly down. His cock was pushing at the trousers, stretching the polyester, shifting its folds. Tempting, tempting to open the zip there and then. West Ten was back on her bench. Got no choice in the matter had he, the tip of his knob hurting now, scraping on the fabric. It was out. She was back on her steps, the weight of the world on her. He took his time, placed the palm of his hand under the length of his cock. Left it there still as could be. There was all the time in the world. Left it there to grow on its own.

*

Hello Martin, her heart jerky inside. What can I get you? Her voice as normal as could be.

He was played the game, which helped, asked her how good was the Guinness.

As good as you'll get in London town, she said.

In that case, I'll have a pint, and perhaps you'll have a drink yourself.

It was the surprise, the shock, nothing more, the heart performing like it had. Over the shoulder she had an impression of the shape of him, the well-pressed denim shirt, his face. She said she would have a half for herself.

I'm on a diet, they call it a programme, she said. For bar staff.

Which is?

Don't drink too much, she said from where she was giving his pint time to pour. Not much past opening time and the old place at its best, the voices quiet and a sparkle to the glass and the glasses. There was sunlight and there was shade.

Was that the voice of experience? Previous experience? I didn't know, Martin said.

She shrugged, disappointed like the ball was lost, like he'd forgotten his lines when it was him was the actor, was supposed to be the actor.

All experience is previous, she said, how could it be otherwise?

Ah Marjorie, indeed yes, you have logic on your side..

She sketched a shamrock in the head of the pint and put the half glass back under the tap to top it up. It sounds good, she said. I'll tell Maureen, I have the logic, I’ll say. She'll be impressed. It was her told you I'd be here, yes? Is she playing the matchmaker? She'd do better looking out for herself, a bit of adventure of her own.

I'm no stool pigeon, he said, doing his gravelly voice. She pushed the pint across the bar, their faces close.

Nor Mo either if I'm being fair, she said. You weren't in the contract, only Gerry was named.

Contract? Should I be pleased or worried, he said.

Indifferent, she said. As will be Gerry, a contract that has him barred, only it’s from a place he doesn't know exists.

She saw Edwin at the bar further down, wanting a drink, hat on, said to Martin to take his time, but why not to come back later, close to closing time. If that was what he wanted. If that was possible.

It was obvious: she was working; he would get bored, and besides one or two of the betting men had recognized him enough to be looking up a second time from their papers for a good old stare. And here was Tom, along the bar to shake Martin by the hand.

Paranoid, or conceited enough, and a person could believe the whole thing was being staged, her summed up and the script written. She went down the other end of the bar, one of the young crowds with money waiting to be served. In the course of which she made a fool of herself, the Martin shake-up making her talk, how IT must be interesting only in her day it had been the International Times, and they'd looked at her blankly, or maybe it was pity. You never stopped learning, only she should have learned this before: stick to the job, serve up the drink unless otherwise requested. Down the bar Tom was grinning, Martin polite; waiting to tell her that yes, he would be back for closing time.

Good. And then what would they do? Too late for lunch and the alternative what, back to hers like it had always been bar a couple of restaurants and one depressing pub? No thank you. For a stratagem as he'd called it, for that to work, you had to know where to go, and then  it should be fun.

No time to think about it, a sudden rush of drinkers, the first suit walking fast and sideways, telling the score to the rest of them behind. He gave her a look like they were in a conspiracy for two, and paid only for his own drink. So it was back and forth to the till until the old place quietened down towards half two. In time for Martin's return. She said it in her upstairs enough times till it was a headline: MARTIN'S RETURN.

How about a posh coffee and cake, he said.

Martin the seducer, she said at closing time. Seriously seduce me. Not seduce me seriously because then I'd just laugh, but because I'm worth the effort.

She could see he'd done that. Up to Maida Vale, finding a parking spot, finding the machine to pay the parking spot, and then into the Patisserie like they were a king and queen in disguise. A window table was available. The cheese cake looked delicious, the cream cakes looked delicious. She chose one of each with a hot chocolate.

Viennese style, he said and chose for himself an espresso and an almond slice.

I wouldn't know, I've never been.

In which case, a treat to look forward to.

Perhaps, she said, neutral, to her own ears; was there an invitation in the offing, and if so, had tickets been booked? But now I see you in close-up, she said, that's what you call it isn't it, close-up, you do look tired.

She leant over the table to stroke a touch on his cheek.

You know what they say, work is the only answer to a broken heart.

No, if she was to enjoy being Viennese for an hour, she must not let this pass.

A broken heart, that's how they talk in costume drama, that's what you call it isn't it? You know with carriages or old Rollers, you must be doing too many of them, she said. It also might be that it's the too much work doesn't help in the first place, doesn't give much time for the heart.

I see, he said.

A good moment for the waitress to lay out their order on the table. To be busy and let the cheesecake melt in her mouth with a tang of lemon. To watch Martin fiddling with his small cup.

Perhaps you're right, he said. I think it got to the point, you and me, where we had to speak about the future and how we saw it, you know, how it might be, and We Didn't Do It. Or it was I didn't do it. And since then, well I've missed you.

How did you miss me?

The fun, the no-bullshit, he said, elbows down on the table. How easy I felt with you, not having to explain anything. Maybe it wasn't like that for you because something went wrong, but that's what I miss. And your lovely body of course.

This chocolate's wonderful, and all this cream, I'm letting myself go.

Are you?

His sudden cheeky grin, the way he said it, no, too soon, he'd lost the rhythm. She started again. That film you did, the rebel in the Old People's Home, has it been on yet?

He jumped back reeling from the change-in-subject. Shook his head like he was concussed.

She was smiling, it was pantomime. And don't tell me I'm an old witch, she said, I already know. So, did I miss it?

The film, no, it's a treat in store. One of many Margie. Why don't we take a holiday together.

So, an invitation had been in the offing. No tickets booked, surely not, that would be fresh to a fault. Besides, there was the pub, there was Tom, never mind the presumption.

What did you have in mind?

Somewhere warm, we've had our summer. The Caribbean? Brazil?

Sounds good, she said, but for now it wouldn't fit in, there's the pub and Tom. They were a happy coincidence for me, I don't want to lose it or let him down.

He nodded. It was understood.

He understood. Everything then, was possible. She might, for one thing, mention it to Tom, having a week or two off say in a couple of months time, plenty of notice, and when winter had really settled in. Possible, but there would be Martin’s diary, choc-a-bloc likely as not. Acting, it's what I do. He'd said it enough times, rushing off to work. It's what I do, as if that was that then. And looked tired on the strength of it.

She dodged his look, bent her head for the last of the cake. She savoured it, the cream in her mouth. He had understood, that was something. He did, that she did not want to lose the pub, and that it wasn't just loyalty to Tom; had taken it on board. So. Be positive. It was Mo's voice in her upstairs, Don't let the bubbly go flat. Loud and clear in her upstairs, as if poor Maureen really had got her advice column, and got it right first time. Who wanted the bubbles sinking with the slice of lemon? Perverse or what!

In the meanwhile, she said, as a taste of this paradise-for-when-we-have-the-time, I'd like a coconut.

He put his hands out, turned his wrists, like life was very strange.

The market will still be openand I'd like a luvverly bunch of them. And then we can fix a day for you to invite me to a wonderful dinner. Or a wonderful lunch, I'm not fussy.

*

It was amazing, Inquest over and the Press, all of it, had made nothing of the fact, distasteful but a fact all the same, that Steve had been buggered. One couldn't get much rougher than the self-righteous tabloids and yet, there it was, nothing. Instead, when the Met finally came off the fence with the link to Theresa, they were full of Steve the Martyr. At the station they'd been inundated. The funeral had been full to overflowing. James had been, not to put a finer point on it, rattled at the prospect of meeting the parents but they had been remarkably stoical, dignified. They were proud of what Steven had achieved. He could not have agreed more. More he could not have agreed.

To be brutally honest with himself, had also got into something of a tizzy about the presentational problems the sexual assault angle seemed to present. More than that, it was Brian Feltham who'd been right all along. Unrealistic to imagine that Brian or anyone else had the clout to hold back the Tabloids if they'd got their teeth into something or, more likely, someone. No, Brian had simply been right. It was a galling truth, but these were the truths that had to be faced. It could be argued that Brian had been lucky, one could never be sure, but in the circumstances, his tactics were immaculate - Do Nothing, Say Nothing. No need to respond to everything. He should have taken it on board, it was after all a basic rule in negotiation strategy. Regrets however were pointless, what mattered was to learn the lesson and show that he had done so, earned and learned that something called judgment. Or maturity of judgment. Otherwise? Otherwise he might end up staying where he was, brilliant in his own field no doubt but missing that elusive quality.

As it was, in the here-and-now, if Steve was a martyr, he was their martyr. Publicity for the station had been massive, it was now his job to make it an integral part of the city's fabric, the station with something for everyone, which included the kind of fearless campaigning for which Steve had paid with his life. If he had anything to do with it, it was not going to be a knockdown price soft touch for Sir Edward or his ilk.

At the weekly meeting the relief was palpable, inquest and funeral, they had made for closure. Who had known what, he did not know and did not want to know, but Angela for one, she looked like she was back in the land of the living. They were, Geoff said, dedicated to maintaining and developing the programme to be worthy of Steve.

Geoff with gravitas, a turn up for the books twice over, the irony being that it was still not Bill's forte. Sometimes irreverence needed to be put on the back-burner. Like now. He agreed with Geoff one hundred percent, Bill said. But what about the boys in blue, he said, how much help do they want, the Clouseaus with the clues, the bumblebobbies. Give me one on air to let rip at.

Judgment? He was not wholly bereft. No Bill, he said. I ring them two, sometimes three times a week, they know we're on the case but public humiliation, I think not. They're professionals trying to do a difficult job and we're not here to assuage our anger. Another couple of months, before the Christmas lead-in, then if, God forbid, an arrest has not been made, we'll look at it again and not take No for an answer.

But Steve's not going to get forgotten I hope, nor Theresa come to that, Geoff said.

Of course not. As long as we don't ram then down people's throats, James said.

He'd have hated that, Angela said. Not just a bugbear with him, more like a credo, don't do it. Whatever it is, don't ram it down the throat.

I think now is exactly the right time to start on the AIDS series, James said.

It was an issue close to Steve's heart, Angela said. I think we should say that loud and clear.

Geoff nodded. Bill nodded. Bright girl, Angela. Gone on to how they must keep bringing the global back to London. Her own hobby-horse for example, AIDS and sex tourism, there would be Londoners indulging. At which point Bill had started a Bill jingle. Shame them, down with their breeches and into the stocks with them, that kind of thing. Judgment. Bill had to be given his head, of course he did, he was a natural, but there were parameters and he had to learn where they were.

Back in his office, James wished Hayley a good weekend. Could easily envy her, not a care in the world beyond delays on the Central Line. For him, Monday and it would start all over again, assuming that is, a trouble-free weekend. Stop the world I want to get off was his thought. He withdrew the thought. Poor Steve. Not fair on him who'd been shoved off to where  there was no coming back. And yet now, however selfish the thought, the Inquest over and its reporting amazingly discreet for the times, there was some air to breathe, a time to step off the eggshells.

The paperless office, don't you believe it, Hayley'd said. And been proved right. There was far more of the stuff just like she'd predicted. Some of it in his in-tray. Reviews, cuttings, print-outs, memos and invitations. He flipped through them, confident that if anything was really important it would jump up to meet his eye. Here a conference, there a seminar. Yes, if he had the time. At the bottom of the pile an old memo. Philip, one rather cheeky sound engineer. He'd forgotten the whole thing. Of course he had with all that had happened, Philip with a talent for the tasteless remark. He'd been going to get rid of him, Steve had more or less demanded it. The last thing Steve had said to him if he remembered right. One of the last things he'd said at all. Had been lying there all this time, from when he was still alive. And yet.

He would check Phil's file of course he would, get Hayley to open it up first thing on Monday morning, but the fact was that no one else had complained about the man. Not about anything. And though he himself had been a witness to the man's outrageous cynicism, it had always and only been with Steve. The weird chemistry of personality clashes, they did exist. Difficult to sack a man just for that, and there were procedures to be gone through, contracts and all the rest of it. But he would, Monday morning he'd give it another look and clear the In-tray for another week. For now, he'd had enough, Time to go home.

*

Pub grub, it was the way forward Tom said. Working people, they were looking for a lunch.

Not haute cuisine, he said, but something better than a warmed up pie.

I should hope so, Margie said. And does this involve me?

Oh, you have more strings to your bow do you? Catering, the cooking, diplomas and that.

Obviously not.

Obviously not what?

It doesn't involve me. I can cook, but catering's another thing altogether. And you'll need a proper kitchen. And different tables and chairs, you know, for eating, with knives and forks.

Well there's a start, you've put me on the right track. But you know, he said, his head bent close and the accent thicker, all youse really needs is a fucking big microwave if you'll excuse the language.

She was laughing, said he couldn't go wrong then but hadn't he just said No Warmed Up Pies, which was only right because no one in their right minds would eat one.

You've lived a sheltered life Marjorie, he said. They do. But with your microwave you're talking lasagne, you're talking chilli con carne. No problem, out of the pre-cooked bag, on to the plate and into the Microwave.

I've lived a sheltered life and you, you are a very saucy man.

And how else would I survive? But Marjorie I'm only telling you this because when we start, you'll be running the bar yourself more times than not.

He had a woman lined up to do the kitchen, there would be stuff cooked on the premises too, sausage and mash, boiled bacon if the demand was there, beef stew, all that as well as the pre-cooked, but he would have to be on hand, and being the waiter, while they saw how it was going.

I'll do all your weekday lunchtimes if you like, she said, but a fortnight's holiday, the fortnight, I mentioned it to you, have you thought about that?

I have, and just in case you're going to ask, your friend Martin hasn't said a word about it. If you wouldn't mind hanging on till the New Year, say the second week in January, take three weeks then if you like.

Walking home in the afternoon, the air cool, the pavement plane trees nearly bare, she was ready for a nap, a dinner with Martin arranged. A restaurant, Westbourne Grove, not so far and rather wonderful he'd heard. Not the first dinner date either, not the first dinner that might lead to love-making. She hadn’t told Mo, it was the fate of matchmakers, there was no honour to it, whatever the outcome you were still the spare doodah at the wedding.

The air was colder. She'd felt the walk doing her good most of the way and then she'd had enough, just wanted to be home. Ho Ho The Magic Cab. Her and Mo, when they'd first met. Ho Ho the magic cab. Their If Only song when there was no prospect of a taxi.

Where had that popped up from? But what a good feeling when she was finally, back at home.

Later, at the restaurant,  chatty on the Armangac and coffee, she said it, about matchmakers and their fate.

Their fate, Martin said, is to have been replaced. First they had agencies, then the agencies got computers.

And how crude are they? Mr A and Miss B, how do you like your sex? In order of preference. And whilst we’re at it, your income Mr A?

Outside it was just a question of Yours or Mine. She'd been to his, a lovely place, spacious and high up so you could see the most of it round about, the domes, the blocks, cranes and the spires. Comfortable too, but she felt lazy this time.

Mine, she said.

For bed she chose a flannel nightie.

Is that a statement? He asked.

What. That I'm not going to get you all worked up. In fact I like sleeping next to you and who knows what'll happen when we wake up.

I wasn't angling for a promise, he said.

Tom said the last three weeks of January, holiday time. I've been too scared to mention it, you know, in case you're Ben Hur for January.

He turned on his shoulder to look her closely in the face.

Ben Hur? Cheeky! I'll have talk with my agent, but I know I have weeks free then. After that, mid-February I'm committed to Ibsen, a West End run. Which means I'll be here safe and sound in London town for a long while. Unless it's a flop of course.

Ibsen?

Drawing room tragedy. Norwegian.

Then you'll be needing lots of face powder, she said.

He frowned. Perhaps he didn't understand.

It was the Caribbean you mentioned, she said, or Brazil. There'll be the deep tan.

*

And Mr Farley for your bonus, a week’s holiday to come, and Dave smartarse gone quiet in the canteen. Joe had tried, Eric had tried. For their sake, hard to believe, he had tried himself.

Still awake Dave, he'd said. A fair enough question when addressed to a man who passed his time in the museum's room for geriatrics. Still awake, he'd said and what had motormouth done, he'd shrugged. Was left to young Eric to keep the shop afloat because Graham had done his bit, more than his bit when if he'd had it his own way, he wouldn't have bothered at all, said nothing.

Start spending your time thinking about the Daves of this world and you were finished. As it was, Bingo, you could get on with your life in peace. Take a drive in the hatchback. Drop in on West Ten's patch just for a look-see. Nothing more. A bright day, autumn going on winter, and who wanted to be cooped up on a day off. The corrugated fencing apart, it was like he'd never been away, jungle music out of the coloured house, woolly hats and fat tarts with prams. What could you do, it was West Ten's habitat, and she was special.

Special?! Say it to Dave, say it to Joe or Eric, and they wouldn't have a clue. A TV special, a special offer, it would be their limit. Or a radio special. He listened into the station now and then, the one that had caused him so much trouble, listened in now and then just in case. Had done so when they'd made it official, the berk and Theresa Who. They'd give him the full martyr treatment. Next thing you knew, the Pope'd be involved, and all for a mollycoddled mouthpiece. He'd said that, mollycoddled mouthpiece and smiled. This evening he was not oing to be bothering with any of it, no one else’s specials, not when West Ten was fresh again.

*

The piebald trees were half naked, the fallen leaves brittle-brown on stiff grass. All logs were from branches, and damn what they sold in a garage. Besides, logs were not enough. Here there were twigs and sticks, all that was needed to start a fire, or liven it up. She was pleased with her haul, but walking home, a chill circled her chest. At her age, out among the drinkers on the bench and then her like a donkey, the Liberty bag in the one hand, basket in the other, both full of wood bits, who did she think she was kidding?

Herself obviously. So that her fire was the bestest of the best? So that it was the perfect home for when Martin came? Like a donkey through the crackheads, the skin and bones faced girl in the dirty high-heels, and the man, telling her to her face, white spit crust on his mouth that the world was a matter of Satan and the clitoris.

Later, like she should have known it would be, it was perfect, all forgotten and worth it anyway, staring at the embers, from the bed she'd made up in the front room. He said again that he did not take it for granted, not her, not the fire or the comfort. She believed him she said. Not so hard when he'd made the commitment and bought the tickets.

I'm hoping that swimming's like sex, she said.

As in delicious, ecstatic experience? That's pushing it a bit even in the warmest sea. Sex is very powerful when it's good, like it is with you. For me that is.

Are you fishing for compliments, she said. I was thinking more that I hoped it would come naturally after a long lay-off. So there's your compliment, it did with sex which happened to be with you. So why not swimming, though I haven't done it for years. I'll need a costume as well as a passport, she said, slipping off her dressing gown to join him under the duvet.

She let him push up the comfort nightie and duck down his head. She could feel the weight of it between her thighs, the softness of his tongue through her hair and into the slippery. Slowly it slid up the soft channel to her clit, the pip that had never let her down.

He could feel her body relax, looked upwards to see her face above the nightie prepared to be pleasured. Her smell was rich, refined smells of the sea and its fish. Gastronomic. He kept his tongue to a light touch, its tip skimming up and down the velvet then resting at the mobile base of her clitoris, gently round and round it, then diagonal darts back and forth until he felt her hips moving.

Crafty, crafty Martin, it was him had got her worked up. Crafty, crafty tongue. Twinkle twinkle little star, warm excitement where you are, the tip of his teeth holding it steady for his tongues stronger strokes. Her fingers stroked the hair of his head. They were fierce, digging in. She was riding him now, his head on his solid shoulders his excitement rising with her.

Afterwards he opened a bottle of Macon and brought glasses back to the bed.

Is this what they call decadence? She said.

Do you care, or is it red wine in particular? Would a Jameson's be all right, medicinal?

It would depend on circumstances.

Ah, my learned friend, spoken like a lawyer, he said as they touched glasses.

No thankyou, to spend all your life in a courtroom, it would be awful wouldn't it.

I guess so, but then I can think of all kinds of thing that would be awful.

Like what?

Oh I don't know, like being walked over by sheep, he said.

Good God, you poor man! Come here and let me hold you tight. .

*

No  more incidents Farley?

Dickie-bow who'd crept up on him, taking advantage of Graham stuck to his chair, the sharp specs sweeping across him and his chair.

No sir, he said. He pointed at the Notice. Began to say what it said, and what had happened.

I'm pleased to hear it, we simply cannot have any incidents at this delicate moment in the funding process, dickie-bow said, and was gone.

Not a chance, he had not been given a bloody chance to put his side of the story. See how one of the others gets on in here, he should have said. Why not give me something cushy like Dave's bloody room where he'd half-slept through the weekend rota. Why not bloody leave him alone more like. Now he'd  have to use all his experience and knowhow just to get his calm back, all because some ponce of a director had walked by and not listened. Well sod him, he would not lose his calm. Two days off tomorrow and then the full week the week after. See how the rest of them liked it, handling the hooligans. Been lucky on other occasions, or there'd been incidents swept under the carpet. Bit of a hulabaloo in your absence Farley, only he'd be the last person to hear.

Going down the canteen corridor at lunchtime he found himself in step with Dave.

Still awake, he said.

Yes I am thank you. By the way, you've asked the same thing before, it's getting boring.

Oh you know me, Graham said. He was smiling, the smile wrapped round his cheeks.

Do I?

There, it had always been the same, he'd done his best and where had it got him? If it was non-stop sarky chatter, it was this.

In the afternoon, no time to be thinking of Dave, who in their right mind would want to be thinking of him anyway, and no time for West Ten because she needed quality time and there was none of that going free, not with parents, teachers and hooligans. That and an antique railway set in need of protection. Be worth paying a ticket to hear dickie-bow if that got wrecked. If Graham just sat there and let it get wrecked, the only attraction in the place. Hulabaloo? He'd be screaming and screeching so loud the dickie-bow itself might just drop off. A smile stayed wrapped around his cheeks. Grandstand tickets, you'd pay for them.

It wore off late in the afternoon when a parents and kids grouping caught his eye and he sank himself behind his cap and into his chair, the boy in the denims and the bright red scarf with the parents who were too old to be having a kid like that. It didn't take a genius to see how easy it had been for him to be a cocky little so-and-so. A classic case, he'd seen it so many times before; the parents thinking they were doing their duty, educational and the rest of it, while all the time they knew they were on a loser.

The parents had done their bit, time to move on, closing time imminent, but red scarf was hovering, looking up at the big sign, down at the railway, across to the parents. He'd turned his back to them, hand poised over the toy white fencing above the points and its lever. Down moved the hand, up jumped Graham. Oy, you, the sign says Do not touch and that's exactly what it means. Can't you read.

And they scuttled, cringing, the boy too, rabbits in the glare.

Enjoy that did you, enjoy yourself.

He turned, saw Dave standing in the doorway. Bit more careful were you, who you picked on, no mum to tell you where to get off, Dave said.

What?! What was this?! Dave now in his face. What are you on about, he said.

What am I on about, I'm remembering the black woman with the kids, she'd got the measure of you, a big man scaring kids.

The blood was itching in his face skin, the cheekbones playing ping-pong. His body paid the price, slamming on the brakes so as not to just slam Dave into the wall and finish him off there and then.

I was just doing my job, he said.

I-was-just-doing-my-job, have I heard that somewhere before?

Graham's fists, they were opening and closing, his backbone contracted, fighting itself.

Well listen carefully, don't you ever guard my room again. I've told you once and you didn't listen. Now I'm…

Now you're what? Graham said. It's nothing to do with me, your cushy room, it's the rota.

Fuck the rota, do a swap, but I'm telling you now, leave my room out of it, you leave a bad smell.

Who do you think you are, Graham said, fists in his pockets lest they do what they wanted and hammer the twerp.

I know who I am and I know what you are too, like the woman with the kids did, sussed you right out. Don't work in my room again or I'll have you. I don't care how big you are, I'll have you.

He wanted to laugh, Graham did. In other circumstances he would have laughed.

You, you'll have me?! he said, a smile across the throbbing cheeks.

That's right you tosser, Dave said as the closing bell rang. Then he walked away.

Next thing Graham knew, it was like he'd been somewhere else and Simon was saying it was past closing time, and what was it with him.

Do you like the place so much that you sleep here too. Turn the heating off at night you know.

Oh right, Graham said.

Except in the security office, Simon said.

Outside the museum, on the pavement, the blood was still boiling, boiling like a kettle, throbbing. A realist to his fingertips Graham knew the tube, the tube now, it was impossible when half the world was taking advantage, his hands tied. He began to walk, his breath ahead of him on the cold air. And now smartarse had joined the queue. His room! His room! He allowed a smile to wrap around his aching cheeks. Anyone would think he owned the bloody room. And its paintings. Not much to them from what he'd seen, but worth thousands, millions. What, and all so a barrowboy like Dave could call them his own.

He'd reached The Strand, and turned against the crowd moving towards Charing Cross. Joined the queue had Dave, maybe the twat thought he was safe that way, like the rest of him, choosing ground where Graham had his hands tied. Dave would have him?! Him and whose army?!He allowed a smile across his aching cheeks. The tics now were in his hands, his forehead. Kings College, he turned right to cross Waterloo Bridge, welcomed the cold wind of the river. Thought he was safe didn't he. Dave would be dealt with in his own way in his own good time. In the concrete of the South Bank the wind went bitter, haywire, and at last he felt ready for the tube, fists clenched.

On the way home from the Underground station he picked up a doner kebab at the takeaway. A test in itself, the meat cylinder round and round till it had heated up, the pita on the charcoal till it had heated up. And he'd stood there and waited, his fists still clenched, waited till it was time to open up the one hand and hand over the right money. Nodded his head when Mr Greasy nodded his.

Safe behind his own door he'd wolfed it down. Fair wolfed it with angry bites. Taken big gulps from a can of Extra-Strong before settling down for the rest of the evening, settling down on the divan to hold it off, all of them who'd taken advantage, all of them. How to keep West Ten without spoiling her was the test in store, he wasn't having her sullied, not West Ten, she was special, had proved it. With her, when it came to patience, he was setting new records.

He tried the radio, opted for the TV, tried the radio again. No help at all when all you wanted was a nice peaceful evening not thinking about people who'd only said what they'd said because they knew his hands were tied. But he would not, he would not think about them. What, he was going to give Dave a good hiding there in the museum, was that what motormouth had been after? Out in the open, and then himself on a hiding to nothing?! Assault charges, witnesses, grievous bodily harm, and who knew what as a consequence. Who was he kidding, soft Dave with his cushy job among the pensioners. Dream on sunshine! Dave, the kind of wiseguy who'd know which way the wind was blowing, would be all ears for the gossip from on high, that men who did their job properly got black marks from dickie-bow. Yes, well, some people who had known him, or thought they did, had been in for a surprise. Dave would be taken care of. In his own good time.

He closed his eyes, took his time to clear his head of all the crap that swirled around in the world. And there, it never ceased to amaze despite what he knew, there was the old Mind's Eye, clear as could be with West Ten. Five-six pick-up-sticks. Eyes closed, he smiled, the smile wrapped round his cheeks. Poor old West Ten, you picked them up all right, only then you had to carry them home. And your poor shoulders, it was them took the strain. It wasn't fair, not on them, not on her. She was trudging, he could see her, trudging the shitty pavement of the Harrow Road. The pity of it! His knob stiffened, poked through the cock-flap of his boxers, ready to take her in one go, what she'd been waiting for all those wasted years. West Ten, the lines on her face, the defeat.

Only something was happening. The picture went into wobble, his cock at half-mast and Dave and the black bint stared at him, grins on their stupid faces. He would not have it. No sir. West Ten, West Ten. He was clinging on, some life still in his knob. Her, the bag in one hand, basket in the other, his hands round her scrawny neck. His cock surged. He left it there, stretched out on his hand. Just left it, the control immaculate. To see her, or not to see her, that is the question Graham. He smiled at that, the smile stretched his face-skin.

Must have dozed off, managed some shut-eye, must have done in order for it to be the murky light of a day-off morning and himself wide awake. Two days off and a night time resolution to pay a visit to West Ten and her patch. Dave and his black bird could go hang themselves, he had his own agenda thanks very much.

He dragged it out, did the hatchback by the book even though, as he knew from bitter experience, there was no guarantee in  that. Checked the oil, brake-fluid and windscreen-wash levels. Then the tyres. And why not stretch it just a little further, test himself to the limit just for the hell of it. Besides who knew how the day might turn out. Be prepared. He returned to the flat and plugged in the kettle. He watched it, looking for the first wisp of steam.

A watched kettle did boil. He made a thermos of Nescafé, with milk from the mini-fridge to taste.

*

She owed it to Steve, she owed it to herself. From that first interview, and how innocently happy that now seemed; to reflections on the role of radio; her subsequent involvement in it, the observer as participant up to the cruelest fact of Steve's terrible death; what had started as a feature interview was a serious piece of writing that had grown organically. It was close to book length and a commission was there for the taking. In the meanwhile Game Ladies had been broadcast and well received. Shamir and Madame Debbie, telegenic the two of them, and she could well imagine them turning more to screen work, they loved it, and there'd been plaudits for Matt and herself. The money was good too, but it was the book that mattered, the book was personal. Which hadn't stopped some skittish finger-waving from James. You minx, he'd said, slipping off to that other medium whose name we do not mention when I wasn't looking. From Bill it had been her bit of extra-curricular. Had there been a touch of envy in his voice? It was misplaced, in her judgment Bill was a star in the making.

A star-in-the-making with whom she had become firm friends. An ally too. Their mission? To stop James from trying to control everything; and from monopolizing talk at their weekly meeting which was the next item on her diary. Now, for this week only, James had said, in a satire voice, Tuesday. Time in fact to get changed for going out. Trousers definitely, her black favourites in a wool mix. She'd felt the first nips of cold the day before on a trip to the magazine office by bus. No bus today either, at the radio station one had the luxury of a company parking space. Now viewed by CCTV cameras. James had made a meal of it, telling them at length how he'd pushed for it. It was appreciated all the same. She did not need telling that there was still a vicious killer out there, a powerful man who humiliated as he killed.

She added a tight chunky sweater also in black and her new ankle boots. Then as her final coffee percolated, she checked all the windows of the flat.

At the station after well-deserved congratulations on how the AIDS series was going, James was straightaway on to his favourite speech. Balance, Steve not to be forgotten on the one hand, absolutely not, he said, but on the other hand what had happened not creating a pall over the programme and the station as a whole, Steve himself wouldn't have stood for it. It was James's what-a-hard-time-he-was-having routine, the weight of the world on his shoulders. Then he was off again, how they needed to focus on Europe, the currency proposal, the sceptics, and was London a European city. Geoff did his sigh with the eyes number. Bring on the dancing girls, Bill said with his mouth. OK, she could lip read and would have laughed out loud, but she'd had enough.

It's not that you're not doing a great job, James said.

Very true, she said. And in addition I'm going to make a proposal, we, the station rather, sets up an award in Steve's name. Annual would be best.

There was silence. Three grown men gobsmacked. Geoff was in first. Brilliant, he said, it was a brilliant idea. Absolutely right.

James's face was a picture, weighing it up, looking for his own angle. Till he said yes, he liked it.

The Steve Bryant award for, for what, Bill said. Services to radio? No. For radio journalism? Investigative journalism? A scholarship?

Details to be arranged, James said, all suggestions welcome.

Nothing cheapskate Bill said, we're not talking a hundred quid.

Absolutely not, James said. A smile was forming on his face. I think, he said, a time to tap public benefactor Sir Eddie Boyd. Then we'll see what he's made of.

On his way out, Geoff gave her a pat on the back, said she'd done what needed to be done.

She didn't need thanks, she'd done the right thing by Steve. But now she needed something nice and normal. Like ten-pin bowling, it might well be a Bill thing.

He made a meal of it, the couldn't-believe-what-he-was-hearing look.

Fuck off Ange, he said. I'll take you dancing, I'll take you to the West Ham, to the flicks, but bowling, no thanks.

*

Graham had driven back, not a murmur from the hatchback which was only right, the money he'd splashed out. Luxury apartments on the borders of Notting Hill, the board inside the corrugated said. Who were they trying to kid?! He ate a leisurely lunch of piping hot Campbell's mushroom soup, followed by a cheese on toast of his own making, topped off by half a Bakewell tart.

Only something was up. He'd settled down to relax and found the resilience of the old Mind's Eye something you could only marvel at, the way it kept Dave and his ilk at bay, how clear was West Ten, face, shoulders, from top to toe, no problem there, but his knob had stayed soft. He tried, tried his very best. Only when he had his hands on her, till she was his completely, ready to give up the struggle of putting one foot in front of the other, only then had it livened up. He'd held it in his hand, the blood pumping inside, gone to the limit, then held it, telling her what she'd meant to him, how this was the moment she'd been waiting for, how patient she'd been, how patient he'd been. Peak performance without the spunk climax, and then slowly letting his hands go, he thought of snooker, a long blue into the middle pocket, and the blood receded from his cock.

He woke up in the afternoon. Gave the Mind's Eye another chance, which was only fair from everyone's point of view. Still laid out on the bed in the half light, he waited for her to walk in, West Ten. He waited, she came. Nothing happened and he had to give up otherwise he would have become very angry which would not do at all. Would have pulled him back to Dave and his pal, the screeching black woman, and they were not worth it.

No, he would not get angry. Instead, with a fresh thermos of coffee, he drove across town in leisurely fashion. Fridays and Saturdays she might be out of an evening, Bingo nights more than like, but for the rest, she'd be home sometime in the afternoon and then she'd be in for the night, that was the pattern. But pattern was only pattern, this was destiny, finally confirmed as he worked his way down Kilburn Lane and there she was, her back unmistakable in that ratty old coat in the half light, struggling along defeated in a hard world. He knew, he sympathized, it was a hard old world with plenty of people having nothing better to do with their time than make it harder for you. He indicated and stopped kerb side and let her get ahead. No problem, there was only one place she was going. He counted out the seconds and set off again, came level with her as she passed a street light and he could see the silver strands in  her dark hair, the sheer tiredness of the face, another day she was on the way to getting through.

A car horn blared. His eyes jumped back to the road and he pulled the wheel hard to avoid the Renault with the child seat. The woman driving shook her fist at him. He shouted slag and knew he must take the risk of parking for a few minutes and watch West Ten into her street on foot. Double yellows everywhere. What was it with the city, something should be done about it. Glancing down a side street he saw a space with no yellow for which, he supposed, he was meant to be grateful. But he was going to have to hurry to get to what was now the far end of the street, and still be ahead of her. When he made it, opposite side of the street, there she was turning in and then he knew. Tonight's the night sang in his head. He had been very, very patient, she'd had a good run but he'd never said he was superhuman had he, and there were times when what had to be, had to be, simple as that. History showed it. Nature showed it.

*

She was tired. A person well turned sixty could forget her age, but not today. Tom had offered to run her home in the car young Mark had fixed up for him. Pleased as punch, young Tom, a gift horse at the price he'd said, and you know what they say about them. I have heard tell, she said. But she'd turned down the offer, he was as tired as she. Next time she would use her upstairs and accept.

She had no energy to be making a fire, but lit all the rings on the kitchen stove while she made a pot of tea and waited for the central heating to come on. She was tired, not surprising with the success of the lunchtime food. Portuguese, the woman Tom had in to do the real cooking, and the way she did the steak and kidney and the shepherds pie made a person wonder, were these the national dishes of Portugal? Either way it was a success, Maria the cook's and Tom for setting it up. The man with the plan, she called him, a tycoon in the making.

Tea leaves sat in the strainer. If she was a wise woman or had the training she could read them properly. As it was, they said she would soon be going on a luxury holiday with a handsome man. Handsome man now filming in Cornwall, tiring himself out again. No, no morbid thoughts please Marjorie, they would get Christmas and the  New Year out of the way and then away themselves, to somewhere she'd never dreamed of, Brazil that would be hot and beautiful, and come back good as new. In the meanwhile, add a splash of Jameson's to the tea, put the kettle back on for a hot water bottle, and don't wish your life away girl. The way she'd said it, Christmas and New Year, like they were there simply to be hurried past. A person could forget the basics; you only live once. This time around she could make something of the New Year's Eve, be the Margie with the plan. Her and Mo, and their men, if they were up to it, on the razzle with Ian told that even if he was made an offer he could not refuse on this night, he would refuse it. They'd start in the pub, maybe even take in the one drink in JJs and then off down the West End.

Something was urgent, something had to be done which she didn't know what it was, and woke up, the phone ringing and her own voice saying to leave a message. The downstairs phone, she was lying on top of her own bed in the dark.

Ignore it, it's really me, she said, the phone in her hand.

Sorry my darling woman, did I wake you, it's late.

Is it? I must have fallen asleep.

Oh it's what, ten o'clock, Martin said. A night shoot.

Ten o'clock? I have been asleep but am not that past it, the night is young. What and you are going to be up all night?

Margie I am well wrapped up. I have taken vitamins, I drink coffee in small quantities, and…

I am not your mother.

Well that’s a relief. I'm getting called now darling, but can I give you my hotel number.

Obviously she had not collapsed in a heap, her handbag was on the bedside table, inside ballpoint and address book. She wrote down the hotel number, said she would try him tomorrow and was thinking of their holiday. He did too, he said, it kept him going.

She had not collapsed in a heap, had been the girl with a plan and put a hot water bottle in the bed. Was she hungry? An omelet perhaps. No, evidently not, shepherds pie Portuguese style with Portuguese portions and she was full for the day. Or maybe it was just Maria, the style and the portion.

She undressed and put on the flannel nightie in bleached stripes, and got straight into bed. Tried the radio. Liked the music. There was some swing to it. Might have been Tubby Hayes himself from the good old days. And then the next tune, very different but she knew it, the voice flat but the future was going to be better than the now.

A favourite of Steve Bryant's that one, Bob Dylan, The Times They Are A'Changing. And talking of Steve, which we do - you're not forgotten mate - well as a kind of not forgetting as you all probably know, and if you don't you should, there's to be a Steve Bryant Memorial Award, to be worth three thousand pounds a year, yes, that's three grand…

She moved the tuner dial in search of music and ran into crackle. It was there somewhere but she was tired. Laid her head down in the pillow. You slept when you could, no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever that meant. Something that was beyond her. Sinking into the pillow, sank

Sinking, sank.

*

People who should know better, half the time they hadn't a clue, your fencing was only as strong as the posts it was attached to. Gloves on, he'd jerked the post at one end out of the ground and walked in and around the scaffold on the site and vaulted the low fence at the back of West Ten's yard. The hard plastic worked no problem on the back door by the coal hole. Inside he re-closed the door and stood still, waited for his eyes to sort themselves out in the no-light. They would, had done so many times before. Night vision? There was equipment, but all that was required here was patience. Rims of shiny whiteness came to him   across the room. Underneath a different, metallic kind of glint. Aluminium. A sink unit? A dish rack with plates? Plates certainly, the shiny whitenesses. The kitchen of course. A little more time and he'd get a sure sense of heights and planes. You'd been trained and you didn't forget. Be patient, and then you'd see everything.

The metal shine spread further. It was a sink unit and, sure of that, other differing darknesses began to make sense, an electric kettle on a surface flush to the sink unit, the plate rack and its plates. On the wall above it, another gleam of white tiles. He shifted his focus to the left side of the kitchen. There was a table with its own subdued wood shine, a square table and close by the back of a dark painted chair. Its twin on the other side of the table. He closed his eyes and the Mind's Eye switched on for West Ten herself. She was struggling up her front stairs while he stood in her kitchen, the picture in sharper focus than it had ever been before. His knob was a handful immediately. He let it stay swollen for a minute, two perhaps, then doused it with snooker talk, the long red pocketed, the black not-on, until the surrounding pack of reds was broken up. Inch-perfect shot that brought him back for the blue; then the blue potted with plenty of screw to bring the cue-ball back into the pack of reds. His cock went quiet, on idle.

The kitchen came back to him just as it had been. He walked its length, passing the silent chairs to the inside doorway, the door open on to a passage straight ahead, and stairs down to the basement. He turned back into the kitchen, base camp from now on, took off his shoes and placed them on the table, then tried the passage. Just the one door leading off it, and there, some light through the half-closed curtains, made it easier, the  dull-gleam tiles of a fireplace unmistakable, the black oblong surrounding. On the wall furthest from the fireplace, an empty divan. No shape upon it, no breathing, no sound at all. So, like he'd suspected all along, she was sleeping downstairs. But West Ten was no smash and grab, every cell in his body was wide awake, and under restraint. He walked with care towards the fireplace, all the weight on his toes. It was laid, tight newspaper rolls, sticks of wood and some coal nuggets. Something about it, the sight of the sticks, the sticks from the churchyard, had his cock kicking off again, and the fireplace had him in old Mr Pegg's house, little Beverly not knowing the excitement that was coming her way.

He slapped down the picture and turned to the two armchairs either side of the fire. No, an exhausted West Ten had not just dropped off in front of an unlit fire, not in either. If, at the end of the day, however things turned out, he decided on a dawn exit, one of them, either one, might be the place to rest up. A car was coming up the street, too fast to be local, or parking close by. The arc of headlights did a fast circuit of the room and passed on, had already done a job for him, woken up his ears to go with the automatic night sight. Trained automatic.

A silent flat: no creaks, no wheezes or strumming from the plumbing; no rattle from the windows. Easy enough to fall asleep himself. In other circumstances. He smiled, the smile wrapped round his cheeks as he padded out into the passage to the head of the stairs. The weight on his toes and his arm on the banister rail, he went down the carpeted steps He paused near the bottom, and let West Ten back into his Mind's Eye, trudging, West Ten the beast of burden trudging on the pavement. Waited for the sound of her thin-chested breathing to join in. It was out there, the sound.

He willed himself not to rush to its source, and in return felt a rush to his cock. West Ten a real, breathing person in his grasp. Too much, it was too much to bear when there must be no smash and grab. He switched on some snooker talk. To be safe a clearance needed on the colours. All potable if the champ could screw the cue ball back enough from potting the green to have a good line on the brown. His cock stilled itself but did not shrink. Close to the limit, close to any man's limit, just needed to hold it, hold on a little longer. Down the last three steps and into the basement passage. Two doors leading off, both open, and the breathing, louder now, from the back room. Poor old West Ten, shown at least a crumb of sense, the bedroom furthest from the street and its noise.

An acceptable level of throb in his cock now, he did it by the book and checked the front room first. Enough grey light to see boxes and junk. No one else present, no silent breathers, just him and West Ten waiting in the next room the way it was always going to be. He moved away and stood in the open segment of the bedroom doorway. Without a sound, sucked in its tired smell. It was how it had to be, the smell of defeat and now he was closer, that chest did sound bad. Poor West Ten, not much longer for her too endure, not much longer.

He pushed the door smoothly and sidled round it. Her breathing faltered. He held his own, ready to jump and smother if it came to it. No, it was all right, hers took up its rhythm again. The bulk of the bed was ahead of him. His cock was quivering. Holding it back, it took all he'd got because with West Ten he'd made no mistake. It was her all right sleeping on her side, her back to him, her body a ripple in the duvet. On the other side that she faced, a small bedside cupboard with what looked like a handbag on top. Not stupid, West Ten, keeping her valuables close to hand. He'd never said she was stupid, not like some people who came to mind. Some scum he could think of who had made a very serious mistake.

On hold, his cock fluttered. He bent over the bed, the shoulders in what looked like an old maid's nightshirt, peeped out from under the duvet. They were unmistakable, they were perfect. The blood was rushing inside, into his cock, into his everywhere. Now, however much his strength he could not hold it back yet still, still had the control to lift his side of the duvet with care and slide under. With a sigh she shifted in small movements, her knees brought up and then back down again. Graham lay still, staring at her shoulders, their very outline enough, unspoiled by the granny-wear.. He pulled down the zip of his slacks. His cock jumped out through the cock-flap of his boxers. Every cell in his body alive and bursting yet still, the old control hanging on in there, giving him time to breathe in the close-up of her smell. He jammed his knees together in one last effort to hold back till the pain was too much and Bosh, his arm fast straight over her head, the forearm into her mouth.

It's me, he said, I've come at last.

She was squirming, poor West Ten. With all the strength of a feeble chicken.

Don’t fight, not now, he said.

What was the point, it was pointless and would only spoil things for her. His free hand ripped the nighshirt till her shoulders were free. His eyes bored into their naked boniness, bony but crushed by the sheer weight of it all, life. He understood. He really did understand and spoke quietly as his gaze moved up to the scrawny neck under the still dark hair.

It's me. I know you've been waiting a long time but you know how it is, mustn't rush, not when it's special, and I do know how hard it's been for you believe me, he said feeling his face soften, a hint of tears behind his eyes. His free hand tugged up the hem of the nightdress. Her arms were flapping, scrabbling about. Scrabble if you must, but where then would be her pleasure was his thought, his cock rubbing up against her warm skin while his eyes stayed on her sad shoulders and the neck, coy but scrawny from under her hair.

The old knob was ravenous, fast up her thighs.

I'll find you, it's OK, don't worry, he said.

His free hand took her neck, such a small one he could handle it single-handed. He gave it a gentle squeeze, got a close-up flash of a terrified Dave while his cock pushed at her dryness.

So please don't think it's all been a waste. Your poor neck, so much of the strain it's had to take…

What?! A savage burning in his back, in his side, something strange and wrong. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. A freeze rushed up and down his back. Something was wrong, warm liquid on his back. Something was wrong, his free hand gone rubbery. There was no need for it, her to be angry just because he'd taken so long. But he was burning. A knife, the bitch was stabbing him. Madness. This was madness. His cock was scared, in retreat. He swung his free arm to grab her hand with the knife but his own hand was useless, pins and needles robbing him of his strength. Madness, and all because he'd rushed it, Dave and the black slut getting at him when West Ten would have lasted.. Got under his skin the two of them, but it wasn't over yet, oh no, what did she take him for, his arm deeper into her mouth. She was biting, biting his arm. Sharp teeth. Not fair. Another one taking advantage and his arm in her mouth, that rubbery too. He rolled away in a tangle of wet red duvet but the knife followed and came again at his chest. He could see it coming, felt all his insides frozen. No fair. Not fair, just because he'd rushed it. Just because. Just because. Warm liquid was climbing up his throat. It was choking him, it was going to choke him. It could not be. Could not. Just because. Cold and unfair.

Marjorie heard only her breathing, big gobfuls of air, but why couldn’t she hear her own screams? Why not? Had they died in her throat. She swallowed, saw the bloody bulk beside her, saw the mean face that had tried to be something else and kill her. The blood too. Dark, dark red and sticky on her hands, the rag of her nightdress, her chest, the duvet. The thing itself was dead. Her upstairs was still working, it had gurgled, it had choked and now it was not breathing. She was breathing, she could hear herself. From him, the bloody thing, not a sound. She swallowed again. Perhaps she did not want to scream, trembled instead, her whole body shaking. Only one thing for it, get out of the room. Off the bed, she dropped the knife and rushed out of the door slamming it shut. She dragged herself up the stairs, bloody hand on the banisters. In the kitchen she grabbed the bottle of Jameson's with a bloody hand and took a swig straight from the bottle. Then another swig. It touched the back of her throat sweet and fiery, told her she was still alive and yes, she could stroke the neck that housed her throat.

She was shivering. Of course she was shivering, barefoot in the kitchen in a bloody rag that had once been a nightie, a comfort nightie. Shivering and swallowing like she could swallow the marks of his fingers on her poor neck, swallow everything that had happened and have done with it all.

It's the shock dear, the shock.

Her speaking?

Her listening? Yes, that, a little ear, a not-fully-grown ear, listening at the door. Mr Brady from next door in his coffin.

She would wave a wand and whoosh, the thing downstairs in his coffin, and whoosh again, the coffin into the ground, into the lime pit for all she cared. Just boxed up and out of her house please.

Only it wouldn't be like that, by a miracle her upstairs had not gone AWOL and, bare facts on a bare table, she had killed a man, and life would never be quite the same again. First thing would be the law. No, right now she could not be dealing with them. Not yet, she needed time, just a little time. Instead a cool voice suggested she might care to go down to the bedroom, open the door and make sure. Perhaps it had been a nightmare, she had after all been asleep. She had indeed been asleep, deeply but then there'd been a terrible pain in her mouth and a hard voice had simpered on her ear, its breath sanding her ear. Yes, only her nightie was ripped and sticky with blood, and long ago she'd learned to wake up from dreams that had turned nasty before they got nastier still. Instead she was trembling in her own kitchen, her skin all goose pimples and that only because she'd woken up and her desperate hand found the handbag, found the knife inside the handbag, and she was glad. Glad, glad, glad she'd killed him, her voice loud in her upstairs. It answered back, said the rozzers Marjorie, the rozzers.  All right, hadn't been born yesterday had she, wasn't going to tell them, not scream it from the rooftops or anywhere else, how wonderful it had felt when crafty Margie had felt the shape of the knife in her handbag, flicked it open, plunged into the bastard's back and not dared to stop. After he'd poked at her with his penis, hands round her throat, how she'd plunged him and plunged him again, over and over. She grabbed the bottle of Irish, necked it, was laughing: Jack's knife, saved from her grave from the grave. Jack to the rescue who hadn't just said it, every woman should have a knife, he'd gone and bought her one. A good one that worked.

Her laughter, the madness of it all, set off a churn in her tummy and there was nothing for it but to rush down the stairs into the bathroom with bile, sweet and sour, in her poor throat. She knelt at the toilet wishing she was the small girl she had once been, and there was still someone to pray too while she forced trails of the burning slimy stuff out of her mouth, her tummy juddering, her ribs shuddering. More wanted out. There was no more to come except the tears that had come to her eyes of their own accord and took an age to trickle out from the ducts, warm and silent on to her cheeks. What a sight, her head on the toilet's rim, and that, the feel of the cool porcelain woke up the pain in her mouth, the numb giving way, With both hands on the rim she pushed herself upright and flushed the toilet. She touched her mouth, it was puffy, throbbing, sore in the corners like the dentist had had her there for hours.

In the cupboard mirror above the washbasin it was someone else, a swollen mouth, the cheeks puffy, mad eyes, the whole face trembling and her breasts bare and blood smeared. It wasn't her, not when she had fallen asleep exhausted but happy. And now she would have to call the law, and life would never be the same. It hadn't ended there on the bed like it should have done, enough and more than enough, bare facts on the bare table, it would drag on. Might be worse than that. The coppers from Jack's time, they'd have all retired but they'd look her up all the same. Margie Donnelly, oh yes, still around, boyfriend get out of hand did he? Self-defence? Bit frenzied wasn't it Marge?

She could not face them alone. Was not that strong, was not strong at all. Martin was going to find out anyway, of course he was, everyone was going to find out that in saving her life she'd stabbed this man, this monster over and over. And was now covered in blood and gore and had done so, just in case it had been forgotten, to Save Her Own Life. Besides, she couldn't face them like this, never mind frenzied, she was freezing, she'd been freezing for however long it had been, no wonder she was trembling like she was never going to stop trembling. Slippers and her winter dressing gown, that was minimum. Slippers and dressing gown that were behind the bedroom door. Address book that was behind the bedroom door.

Keeping the eyes closed, feeling her way round to the other side for the wardrobe and her handbag, why not? Why not, said her upstairs, the bit that was working, because she would trip over, make more of a mess if that was possible, have the law thinking anything was possible. She fairly ran at the bedroom door so there was no chance of stopping till she'd done what she had to do. The handbag was not visible. The bloody mess on the bed with a face fixed with hatred, that she could not help but see. She wouldn't have it. It was none of her business. He was none of her business, this bloody bastard so why her?! What had she done?! She could not sleep there, that was obvious. She could not sleep at all. Also obvious. It was all so bloody obvious that the thing on the bed had achieved that. She turned away to take her old tartan dressing gown. She put it on carefully, left arm in left sleeve before right arm, tied its cord round her middle and hugged it to her body. As she turned again, she saw her handbag on the floor, coins beside it. She knelt down at the side of the bed to take the address book. The knife sat on the duvet smudged in sticky red and the dead face looked at her with hatred.

So you've stopped me from sleeping, she said. Happy are you? Achieved what you wanted have you, stopped me from sleeping and messed up my life. She could hear herself now. She was shouting and stopped, did not, at this moment absolutely did not want the new young couple from upstairs getting involved. She spoke quietly, are you satisfied now? Now that I have to make a desperate phone call. Well let me tell you something you gobshite, I'm not running upstairs, I'm going to make it from here. The address book was open, she closed it again. What, phone Martin? Who was three hundred miles away, who was still working, who must never see her as she was now. Mark? No she didn't need bravado, and Tom, he didn't deserve it.

If only. If only none of them had to know. Wouldn't happen, the bloody mess had got what it wanted. Even the regulars, how would they be even if they were sympathetic: how many stab wounds was it? Blimey.

She didn't need the address book, up off her knees she rang the number that hadn't changed in years. It seemed an age till the phone picked up and Mo asking did she know what time it was. Marjorie said no, she had killed a man who had broken in and tried to rape and kill her.

I'll be with you in fifteen, Mo said, I'm putting down the phone and calling a cab. Don't do nothing till I'm there, not the law, not nothing.

TEN

Katie B would be round shortly, prickly as ever no doubt but, as far as Angela could make out, in urgent need of work. In the meanwhile what had started so innocuously, so innocently - not a routine interview because she'd seen Steve as special, but an interview nonetheless, a one-off in all probability - had mushroomed into a book recently commissioned. It would be dedicated to Steve, to his memory, a supplement to the measly three grand a year she'd squeezed out of the station, or them out of Sir Edward, for the annual award.

It had started with Steve and ended with what, the death of a killer? If you could call it an end. Looked at from the outside, beginning and ending, bang and whimper, they were all mixed up, and how brutally ironic that was how she'd started the whole piece when Steve was alive and in his prime: 'You know how all stories begin, not with a bang but a whimper. As it happens I was doing the damn ironing.' That would stay in the text, but from inside, for those who'd known Steve, there would be no end.

Katie was due, true, but no excuse to just sit around. At the kitchen table she poured herself a coffee and read through another earlier section of text.

“Soon afterwards I heard Steve again. Waiting for those interminable lights on the Camden Road to change, I turned on the car radio and thought yet again that I really must do something about the precarious tangle of wires which put me in touch with a whole world beyond the interior of a rather battered Renault. Steve's voice was angry, passionate. A woman called Theresa Dwyer had got through to his phone-in programme to express her fears. It hadn't stopped her getting murdered, killed just off the very Camden Road I was stuck on, the one that scythes its way up the hill before sliding down into that shapeless jumble that is called Holloway.

Maybe it's the times we live in or it's me, but I don't go in for revelations but this time I felt the chilling certainty of casual coincidence.”

Coincidence, the joker in the pack; spanner in the space-time continuum or integral feature? That of all the people in London town, never mind the rest of the world, that the denouement to the whole tragic story should be in the hands, literally at the hands of, Marjorie Donnelly, it was incredible, unbelievable. Or, coincidence was a slap in the face for cold rationality. She wrote it down at the side of the text, 'a slap in the face for cold rationality.' As an alternative she wrote 'a cold slap in the face of linear time', and returned to the text.

“Some time later, Steve said it had made him feel inadequate, but you, my-ghetto-is-the-world philosophers out there who say 'sell-out' faster than the promoters of a one-off  gig, he did not wallow in guilt, did not take it lying down, but made amends as best he could, fought back. Another time he talked of how the brutal snuffing out of Theresa's life had changed him with all the impact of a fast lane Motorway pile-up…”

The doorbell. She looked at the kitchen clock, Katie B bang on time. At the door she unlocked the upper Chubb with two turns and then the lower Chubb with two turns.

Feeling insecure? Katie said, nodding at the door.

Angela stood aside. She was frowning.

Oh I'm sorry, Katie said with a hug in the doorway. Really. Silly remark, I am sorry, I mean I know there was some friction, me and your friend Steve, but what happened, terrible.

Angela said it was all right, Katie should come in, she would make coffee. You remember the table? She said.

Katie was trying, floundering but trying. It was obvious.

Leyton, Angela said. She was doing her best. After all that had happened, doing her best.

Katie was shaking her head, she was sorry she said, it was like her memory had been shot to pieces.

And you're back what, permanently?

Permanently? That's a big one, Katie said.

Angela shook her head over the percolator, with Katie B nothing was ever allowed to be simple and straightfoward.

But yes, I am back from Bosnia and I could do with some money and therefore, work. Do you want the whole story?

Just the salient facts, Angela said with a friendly grin. She placed the pot and two cups on their saucers on the table.

I got scared, that's the long and short of it, Katie said. It was one late afternoon, I had temporary charge of a hire car and there were these boys with guns, really, just boys and they were frightened and desperate to cross the Drina, only the famous bridge was gone, blown up. The only way across was on wooden planks and it’s a long long drop but they were desperate, screaming at me, You can make it, You can make it. Look I don't want to lay all this on you. Lets just say I'd been scared before but for a cause, believing that telling the truth about what I saw was going to change things, librating Sarajevo and do on.. I believed that for a long time and then, well I didn't believe it any more, and didn't want to risk death for no purpose. If anything can be saved it will be thanks to the successes of the Bosnian army against all the odds, not me, definitely not me.

But aren’t they all hard-line Islamists?

Katie B Made a thing of looking resigned, said the joke was that Bosnian Muslims were the least Islamic of all, wore their faith lightly.

But a few of them are changing, it’s what wars do and of course the arms embargo means the Saudis see an opportunity and they want something for their money and guns

I see. Sorry I've only boring old digestive biscuits to go with the coffee.

Boring old digestives will do just fine, Katie said. Anyway, I've seen enough war and senseless death to last me a long while but I realize that for you, it's happened very close to home.

Angela nodded. She poured out the coffee head down, then looked up to say that she was working on a book, what had become book length, and was now going to be one because she'd been commissioned. She explained how personal it was, then how it had started and how it was always one step behind reality. Her original interview with Steve superseded by the murder of Theresa, and that then leading to a working relationship with him, how from taking an outsider's view of the importance of radio and the phone-in she'd become involved with it herself and still was.

I see. And good old In the Smoke?

Oh I've got some weird title there, but I'm still just a free-lancer, really privileged by veteran status. It's something you should be doing. Anyway then of course Steve was murdered himself. Devastation. Seriously, I felt close to cracking-up, the loss of a good friend and colleague and then the discovery that the killer was the same man who'd murdered Theresa and, it is suspected, other similar women in the past. I don't mind admitting I sought help, not therapy but a counselor specializing in grief.

Really, and that helped?

Yes, I think so, she was sympathetic and pragmatic, Angela said.

Awful for you, that at least I understand, how awful. The counseling I only slightly envy. I don't know if I need a lot of it, nightmare counseling if there is such a thing, or I'm beyond its help altogether.

Typical Katie B, her situation having to be more extreme, more dramatic.

A bit, it only helped a bit she said, because nothing was going to do that much for me until the bastard was caught, and there seemed little chance of that.

Until what, he tried it again and met his match.

Yes, you could put it that way, Angela said.

And what about him, is he to be part of your book.

Oh yes, Graham Farley an epitome of the banality of evil. Who was it said that?

Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem, Katie said. It got her in a lot of trouble. I've seen a lot of it myself recently, but this Farley, banal in what way?

Oh just too predictable, the story. He was in the army for quite a while and was married, but his wife, well his wife seems to have had a survival instinct, found out what a nasty piece of work he was and got away. She eventually got a divorce and successfully kept out of his way. I'm off to interview her the day after tomorrow, up north somewhere. I've a suspicion she may be living with another woman, but either way she feels guilty in some way, should have said something about him long ago, that kind of thing. You know it's like everyone being wise after the event. And we've another one of those who I'd like you to interview. Standard rates.

Katie nodded, asked who that was.

Angela said it was a man called Dave, she had the details for her but first needed to give some context: how after the army, the MoD still being cagey about some periods in Farley's career, he'd got a series of security jobs but then settled for a routine museum job. She described the place, Katie might know it, an oddball of a museum in town.

He was there for several years, was still working there, she said.

And Dave?

Another museum attendant, also feeling guilty, should have known. What exactly he should have known is not clear but he's keen to talk, said something about a picture and Farley spoiling it somehow with his vibe. Vibe he called it. Main job however Katie is to interview Margie Donnelly, and I'll put my cards on the table on this one…

It's where they belong, Katie said.

Angela held back a sigh, Katie B the smart alec, and said that this Margie, she was the woman who had killed Farley.

And quite coincidentally, she said, there's a bit of history between us. Not How Fings Used To Be history, not that type she said, more like suspicion has become its own prison.

As it does, Katie said. And then there are suspicion managers, suspicion movers-and-shakers, the suspicion business as a whole, it's flourishing.

A real Katie B riff that was, always just a little over the top. Feet needed back on the ground. She explained the misunderstandings with the documentary, how Matt had put his foot in it, and gave Katie a folder with a resume of Jack Box, and a resume of Margie plus photos.

But as you'll have gathered, she said, I'm just about the last person she's going to give an interview to. Plus - and I'm not trying to make you think this is going to be easy - she's a bit of a prima donna to start with, and now quite bitter so I've heard.

I appreciate you being straightforward Angela, and I can understand it, the bitterness. What have you heard?

Well, that the Met were a bit rough with her at first, you know, rather cynical.

Because of this Box guy, because of the past?

The moll with the mostest as someone called her. Anyway it didn't last long, courtesy of the current boyfriend, a top lawyer was suddenly on her side and all was well.

As well as could be expected, Katie said. Sorry, an aside, so, what, he's a man of power and influence, the boyfriend?

Enough to get a good lawyer. He's an actor.

Well known? What's his name?

Oh Martin someone, you'd know him if you saw him, does a lot of TV stuff and is one of that stable of character actors who seem to pop up in every Brit flick. You know, so that sometimes you're not quite sure which one you're watching.

I see, Katie said. And what, they then made some forensic link.

With DNA technology I imagine, we'd been banging on for it to be used for ages.

Katie said she would do her best and she'd start with Marjorie if she was going to be the most difficult. And thanks for the work, she said, and the chance to get back into the swing of things here.

You helped your friends, it was normal and to be fair Katie'd been easier company than she'd expected. She had every confidence in her.

Back to her text, she soldiered on. The new thread that entered the story, listening to the radio and hearing the voices of Steve and Fiona, “an eerie business of listening to the voices of people I knew coming from the trannie. On the panel were also Neil McAllin, still holding to the quick-fix model; Paul Sherwood, that old voice of the New Right with his plum cliches, and Tom Speeling, still clinging to those complacent male certainties of yesteryear. You could almost touch the bad faith…”              No, not good enough.

Bad faith, bad faith… Bad faith out of queasy conscience.

She liked it, it had promise. Bad faith, bad smell. And then it fell into place. She rewrote and she really did like it, “Bad faith out of queasy conscience, the smell as unmistakable as liver and onions.”

She liked it, she liked it a lot.

*

The way to do it here was to come down to the beach around five o’clock time, so as to feel the warmth on the skin and need no creams. To allow the soft light to grow softer till the headland at the far end of the bay and the rock island out to sea grow furry, while the  house-high granite stones on the beach lost their gloss. Best was to lie in the warm pools of sweet water that lay in the fine sand among them.  Other times she would rub her whole body against the silky smooth granules of the ochre and black rock, so solid stood there in the sand when there was little that was solid in the world beyond Mo who had been there for her, and Martin who never asked what she was thinking when they were quiet together.

He had arranged everything, paid for everything. They’d started in a hotel that was expensive luxury, old stone and modern hot tubs. There was no bother with service, it was just there as and when, and no waiters making themselves busy. Then she’d got tired of it, the services to hand and the cobbles of the old town that were there to tell you this was authentically old, and perfect for twisting and ankle. And the shops too, everything was authentic. From the Amazon they said. Empty your upstairs, had been the professional advice, like there were valves and taps and could be emptied Just Like That. Only when she’d tried at the hotel pool and under its powder white sheets Life Will Never Be The Same had stamped across in big dirty boots.

Now, what luck, and she deserved luck, Martin said, as much as was going, they had fallen upon this little paradise, a simple room with a big fan in the ceiling amongst the thick green high above the beach.  Deserve?  Not deserve? It was a question outside the light that the thinking part of her upstairs sometimes shone, had to stay in the dark. A place to forget? Yes, that possibly when there could be no better place.  Forget it, which had been the professional advice, only all too easily said when who wanted to be a heroine, even less when there was serious doubt as to whether you really qualified to be a heroine. The stab wounds Margie, it’s the number of them we can’t get over they’d said, but kept it under the carpet like they were doing her a favour. And she’d taken it till the rozzer in the crumpled suit, playing at being uncle had only tried to help, he’d said, and offered cold comfort.

OK Margie, lets just say you were in the wrong place at the wrong time

The wrong place you prick, she’d shouted, that’s my home and has been my home for a very long time.

A long way off down the beach she could see Martin and from the shape of it a coconut in his arms, big and round in its skin. Tanned Martin, relaxed Martin, only she knew he was mother hen to a Marjorie who’d been in the wars. At night he held her in his arms and asked for nothing and when, at any time what-if and what-if-nots had crowded in her upstairs demanding a hearing, he did not ask but was quick to cut them off.

The knight in shining armour, not a role I’d have chosen for myself but I do have a sword.

He had as well, saving the situation with a story. Early days, he’d said, Shakespeare, and my big break from wordless courtier to a few lines with Gadshill one of Falstaff’s rogues. Some six or seven fresh men set upon us, he says. And Freddie, God rest him, says sotto voice while Falstaff did his next speech, Don’t get fresh with me young man. My self-control was exemplary, not a titter. Not a titillated titter. Took my sword as a memento. Ructions in the props department, One of our Swords is Missing.

Dear Martin. But then, facts on the table, only possible thanks to the DNA business and what it could tell them because what she could tell them was never going to be enough, not when she was Margie Donnelly even if she hadn’t been that Margie for twenty years and more. Yes, the DNA that said this is you, 100% for sure the nasty piece of work she’d done for. It was then, her officially in the clear, that she’d felt the bravado of all those years ago. Said to Mo, there are limits to being someone else’s fantasy. Fair play to Mo, she’d laughed but a person couldn’t live on bravado. More facts on the table, the prick who’d interfered with her, had had his way, Life never would be the same when who, who with an upstairs in working order, would want to be an iffy heroine.

Yes yes yes. She knew this, didn’t need repeating and Martin was closer now, walking in the spray at the water’s edge. It was a coconut, of course it was, the dear man. How she loved it, the straw in the hole and the cold milk straight to the mouth. How she loved it here, should not have to remember that she loved it when it was so easy to let the sound of the sea take over. Scrape, scrunch and breathe out; scrape, scrunch and breathe out: the sound of the ocean, scrape, scrunch and breathe out. Not therapy, an ocean. The Atlantic. Hard to believe it was so warm and friendly when in her childhood upstairs it had been full of  convoys, ice and death.  Where had that popped up from, uninvited.  She would not have it, nor his ugly breathe in her ear, the creep she had done for. Scrape, scrunch and breathe out; scrape scrunch and breathe out. Easy and she was fit again for Martin.

Marjorie, I do believe you’re developing a sun tan, he said, putting the big round green ball in her hands. She sipped through the straw and held the milk in her mouth.

I’ll be careful, can’t have Mo getting a cob on, it’s a struggle for her already, envy.

Why?

Well you my darling man

Really, he said, accepting the coconut and drawing on the straw.

No false modesty now. Besides, it’s not you you, more who, what you are.

Therefore, in fact, no opportunity for false modesty. Ah well, no doubt another chance will arise.

The light had changed again, the rock island smudging over, a touch of orange pink at the sea horizon. The beach stones had gone matt.

Fancy a dip, Martin said.

They walked hand in hand into low surf. Summertime and the swimming is easy came into her head; summertime and the floating is easy as she flipped on her back, moving easily in frog fashion. Turning in the water she could see the steep inland’s green losing its shine. Somewhere up there, their very own room in a foreign land, and this was the Atlantic where a person could float in a happy skin and not understand a word anyone said.  Close by she could hear Martin splashing about, boyish Martin. She liked it, turned her body to tread water and wait for his embrace. The sea water was an oil between their skins, belly to belly.

Their paradise had a balcony with a bench for two and , all around a thickness of leaf of all sizes, shape and height alive with their rustle and scuttle and scurry among them. Directly below where the family lived, a white cat on a mission slinked out of this busy green tangle to the side. In the daylight when the washing lines were full, it had marmalade tips. No, it was not on a mission but had laid down on the flat slabs where water fell continuous into a carved out pool, a quiet splash. At the bottom of the view, a sliver of the sea, non-stop, all the way to Africa, Martin had said and then checked himself, the slave trade, its horrors and its extent left hanging. For her own part, when she’d had the thought that professional advice only had a chance if an all-expenses-paid paradise was part of the package and that if she’d been poor, if there’d been no Martin, if there’d been no Martin to pay, she had checked herself, not said it.

Inside the swish of the fan was regular. Martin was making caporinha. Given an abundance of limes, it could become a drink of choice.  As for food, banana, mango and pineapple were quite enough after the fish soup they’d had for lunch in a shack at the other end of the beach. They touched glasses. Zing, sweet sour and cold in her mouth.

I wish this could go on for ever, she said, and of course I don’t wish it. It would be unfair to the place.

Yes, he said, a quiet Martin. Which, just like that, made the words come tumbling out of her, how she knew she hadn’t been a bundle of laughs, but...

There is no deadline, he said.

But there is my darling. This living in the now now now, it’s saved my life, it is saving my life but I know that’s only happened because you planned, did things to make it so when, at the time, it was something in the future. You know what I mean. The future is not another planet

He smiled, full of happy confidence. No, he said.

I mean the practical things, I’m not going to be able to work in the pub again and that’s made me so angry, that piece of shit invading my privacy, but I’m over it.  But you Martin, you’ve got your play, it’s your life.

I cancelled.

Oh Martin, oh you shouldn’t, it’s me who is doing it to you.

Don’t dramatize darling, you’ve had enough of that for a lifetime and the fact is, who wants Scandanavian gloom in the English midwinter.

Well someone must or are theatre owners so enthusiastic for bankruptcy?

Ah Margie, he said, his voice happy in her ears, you’ve found me out, it was myself I was thinking of.

She did not have to believe him, would not say, do-you-really-mean-that, but he did need to think of himself after all those weeks of her, of her as his responsibility, a wheelbarrow full of responsibilities. He was tired, she could see it and so would make another drink and then it was bed for him.

Yes matron.

In which case, no flirting.

Yes matron.

Him in a previous life she remembered, some TV thing he’d been doing which would have been just after he’d rescued her from those dreadful people and they had done whatever it was they had done, got together, become lovers. Cutting the limes and back in that past life, the upstairs couldn’t help but let in a What If and she saw the sneaky peeps at her, caught the whispers of the punters if she took her place behind the bar at Tom’s. He would take her back, of course he would, had said so, but it was not on, simply not on. Besides, she had not worked for a long while until Tom’s and been happy enough. Only how would it be with Martin not working too, if he was not working, what would they do?

Outside with the drinks, she heard the long call of a bird she did not know, the muted ocean, and the sound of the family talk below in the language she did not know. Just for now, it could go on for ever.

Don’t panic, it’s only the Ibsen, he said as if her skull was transparent and he’d seen her upstairs at work. Then he said, So far, smiled and then again, serious, I’m sorry about the pub, truly. We’re just going to have to play it by ear.

Of course, what else, he’d seen her thoughts but for once tired Martin was stating the obvious and at their age they bloody ought to understand what it was the ear was hearing, the words and how they were said, those times when it was necessary. But what luxury, the no-need and the wish that followed, that this could go on forever.

He had put his glass down on top of the balcony surround and yawned.  It was enough, it had been a long day. Tomorrow they would make a point of sleeping in the afternoon. She moved close to his body along the bench. She put an arm round his shoulder and pulled gently so that his head came to rest on hers and she felt the weight of it.  He made a sound she heard as faraway contentment. Through the hair her fingers felt the shape of his head she knew so well. She stretched out her palm to feel it whole and felt the echo of his heartbeat under it.  It could go on for now, and without Matron jokes. Her hand moved to the back of his neck and settled in the hollow at the base of the skull. Let go my darling man, let go, she said.