disconnected. So in the early afternoon, Nathan called his new mobile. Only four people knew the number. Mark answered almost immediately.
'It's Nathan,' said Nathan.
He didn't know where Mark Derbyshire was speaking from. But he got the idea he was alone in a hotel room, watching Sky Sports and waiting for the phone to ring.
'What the fuck are you doing?' said Mark. 'I'm trying to keep this line clear, for Christ's sake.'
'They fired me.'
'I know that. It's still my fucking show. I know that.'
'It's your show. But I don't have a job on it any more. Neither does Howard.'
'Howard will be all right. He's probably got a job already.'
'I don't care about Howard.'
'As soon as I'm back on air,' said Mark, 'Howard will come back.
He'll be all right.'
'I don't care about Howard.'
'Well you fucking should. He's worth a hundred of you. A thousand.
A million.'
'Be that as it may. They didn't give me severance pay. I'm out without a penny in my pocket.'
'Because you were sacked for gross misconduct. You tried to hit me at my own party.'
Nathan sighed and said, 'Why are you doing this? Surely you need all the friends you can get?'
'You're not my friend. You were my employee. Now you're not even that. Right now, I need the station to love me. And if I can save them a few quid by firing you at no cost, and pulling in some work experience fuck who'll work twice as hard for fuck all, then that's what I'll do.'
'You're unbelievable.'
'Yeah. Well. Wake up and smell the monkeys.'
'But I haven't got a pot to piss in. Or anywhere to live. What am I going to do for money?'
'Listen. Good luck. Really. But I need to keep this line clear, so I'm going to hang up now. Okay? So fuck the fuck off But he didn't hang up. He was lost and alone and scared and desperate for somebody to talk to. Even Nathan.
Who said, 'But I need money.'
'Don't we all.'
'Listen, Mark. Just listen for one minute. Please?'
'One minute,' said Mark Derbyshire. 'Fifty-nine seconds. Fifty eight seconds. Fifty-seven seconds.'
'I've been fired,' said Nathan. 'Not made redundant. Which means I can't even claim benefit for - I don't even know. Months. And I've got to leave my flat because I broke up with my girlfriend. And don't say I should kick her out, because it's her flat. Yesterday a tabloid journalist phoned me. I don't know how they got my name or my number, but they were willing to pay me - and I'm not kidding here -- they were willing to pay me a lot of money.'
Mark Derbyshire stopped counting down.
'Pay you money to what?'
'Talk about you.'
There was another, longer silence before Mark said, 'Talk about me, how?'
'I'll say whatever they want to hear,' said Nathan. 'I can't afford not to.'
He didn't even feel empty. He felt like he didn't exist.
'Jesus Christ,' said Mark. 'How much do you want?'
'Thirty grand.'
'Fuck you. I haven't got it.'
'Sell something. They offered me fifty.'
'And if I pay? How do I know you won't go to the papers anyway
'Because I'm telling you I won't. You have to trust me.'
Three days later, 30,000 pounds was credited to Nathan's bank account.
The same morning, he stuffed some belongings into a black nylon holdall.
He paused to look at what he was leaving behind: his CDs, a few books, some videotapes. His television, his stereo, his sofa.
None of it meant anything. It seemed strange to think that it ever had.
He left the flat and checked into a seaside bed-and-breakfast hotel: the kind of place that shouldn't have existed since about 1975. It was a backdrop for repeated sitcoms, for laughter-tracks behind trapped lives in a bygone England.
But it was real. He dumped his bag on the single bed, and slept with the lights on.
Three weeks after Elise disappeared, Nathan endured the sight of her parents and her sister on the local television news, making a plea for her safe return. He stared at the screen.
The family knew Elise wasn't coming back. He could tell by the way they looked at the camera. By the way they
'It's Nathan,' said Nathan.
He didn't know where Mark Derbyshire was speaking from. But he got the idea he was alone in a hotel room, watching Sky Sports and waiting for the phone to ring.
'What the fuck are you doing?' said Mark. 'I'm trying to keep this line clear, for Christ's sake.'
'They fired me.'
'I know that. It's still my fucking show. I know that.'
'It's your show. But I don't have a job on it any more. Neither does Howard.'
'Howard will be all right. He's probably got a job already.'
'I don't care about Howard.'
'As soon as I'm back on air,' said Mark, 'Howard will come back.
He'll be all right.'
'I don't care about Howard.'
'Well you fucking should. He's worth a hundred of you. A thousand.
A million.'
'Be that as it may. They didn't give me severance pay. I'm out without a penny in my pocket.'
'Because you were sacked for gross misconduct. You tried to hit me at my own party.'
Nathan sighed and said, 'Why are you doing this? Surely you need all the friends you can get?'
'You're not my friend. You were my employee. Now you're not even that. Right now, I need the station to love me. And if I can save them a few quid by firing you at no cost, and pulling in some work experience fuck who'll work twice as hard for fuck all, then that's what I'll do.'
'You're unbelievable.'
'Yeah. Well. Wake up and smell the monkeys.'
'But I haven't got a pot to piss in. Or anywhere to live. What am I going to do for money?'
'Listen. Good luck. Really. But I need to keep this line clear, so I'm going to hang up now. Okay? So fuck the fuck off But he didn't hang up. He was lost and alone and scared and desperate for somebody to talk to. Even Nathan.
Who said, 'But I need money.'
'Don't we all.'
'Listen, Mark. Just listen for one minute. Please?'
'One minute,' said Mark Derbyshire. 'Fifty-nine seconds. Fifty eight seconds. Fifty-seven seconds.'
'I've been fired,' said Nathan. 'Not made redundant. Which means I can't even claim benefit for - I don't even know. Months. And I've got to leave my flat because I broke up with my girlfriend. And don't say I should kick her out, because it's her flat. Yesterday a tabloid journalist phoned me. I don't know how they got my name or my number, but they were willing to pay me - and I'm not kidding here -- they were willing to pay me a lot of money.'
Mark Derbyshire stopped counting down.
'Pay you money to what?'
'Talk about you.'
There was another, longer silence before Mark said, 'Talk about me, how?'
'I'll say whatever they want to hear,' said Nathan. 'I can't afford not to.'
He didn't even feel empty. He felt like he didn't exist.
'Jesus Christ,' said Mark. 'How much do you want?'
'Thirty grand.'
'Fuck you. I haven't got it.'
'Sell something. They offered me fifty.'
'And if I pay? How do I know you won't go to the papers anyway
'Because I'm telling you I won't. You have to trust me.'
Three days later, 30,000 pounds was credited to Nathan's bank account.
The same morning, he stuffed some belongings into a black nylon holdall.
He paused to look at what he was leaving behind: his CDs, a few books, some videotapes. His television, his stereo, his sofa.
None of it meant anything. It seemed strange to think that it ever had.
He left the flat and checked into a seaside bed-and-breakfast hotel: the kind of place that shouldn't have existed since about 1975. It was a backdrop for repeated sitcoms, for laughter-tracks behind trapped lives in a bygone England.
But it was real. He dumped his bag on the single bed, and slept with the lights on.
Three weeks after Elise disappeared, Nathan endured the sight of her parents and her sister on the local television news, making a plea for her safe return. He stared at the screen.
The family knew Elise wasn't coming back. He could tell by the way they looked at the camera. By the way they
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