how the
Minister makes up his mind. This afternoon we can sling your piece out
and leave a hole in the paper for the real news."
"Okay." Hart turned away and made for the library. He knew he was being
given a dumb job as a kind of punishment, but he took his medicine
gracefully, Cole thought. He stared at the boy's back for a moment. He
got on Cole's nerves, with his long hair and his suits. He had rather
too much self-confidence--but then, reporters needed a lot of cheek.
Cole stood up and went to the sub-editors' table. The deputy chief sub
had in front of him the wire service story about the passing of the
Industry Bill and the new stuff Cole's reporters had come up with. Cole
looked over his shoulder. On a scratch pad he had written:
REBEL Mps TOLD "JOIN THE LIBS"
The man scratched his beard and looked up.
"What do you think?"
"It looks like a story about Women's Lib," Cole said. "I hate it."
"So do I." The sub tore the sheet off the pad, crumpled it, and tossed
it in a metal bin. "What else is new?"
"Nothing. I've only just given out the tips."
The bearded man nodded and glanced reflexively at the clock hanging from
the ceiling in front.
"Let's hope we get something decent for the second."
Cole leaned over him and wrote on the pad:
REBEL MPs TOLD "JOIN LIBERALS" He said: "It makes more sense, but it's
the same count."
The sub grinned. "Want a job?"
Cole went back to his desk. Annela Sims came up and said: "The Holloway
Road incident came to nothing. A bunch of rowdies, no arrests." Cole
said: "Okay."
Joe Barnard put down the phone and called:
"There's not a lot to this fire, Arthur. Nobody hurt." "How many people
living there?" Cole said automatically.
"Two adults, three children."
"So, it's a family of five escaped death. Write it." Phillip Jones said:
"The burgled flat seems to belong to Nicholas Crost, quite a well-known
violinist." "Good," Cole said. "Ring Chelsea nick and find out what was
taken."
"I did already," Phillip grinned. "There's a Stradivarius missing." Cole
smiled. "Good boy. Write it, then get down there and see if you can
interview the heartbroken maestro."
The phone rang, and Cole picked it up.
Although he would not have admitted it, he was thoroughly enjoying
himself.
NINE A.M. TIM FITZ PETERSON was dry of tears, but the weeping had not
helped. He lay on the bed, his face buried in the damp pillow. To move
was agony.
He tried not to think at all, his mind turning away thoughts like an
innkeeper with a full house. At one point his brain switched off
completely, and he dozed for a few moments, but the escape from pain and
despair was brief, and he woke up again.
He did not rise from the bed because there was nothing he wanted to do,
nowhere he could go, nobody he felt he could face. All he could do was
think about the promise of joy that had been so false. Cox had been
right when he said so coarsely, "It was the best night's nooky you'll
ever have."
Tim could not quite banish the flashing memories of her slim, writhing
body; but now they had a dreadfully bitter taste. She had shown him
Paradise then slammed the door. She, of course, had been faking ecstasy;
but there had been nothing simulated about Tim's own pleasure.
A few hours ago he had been contemplating a new life, enhanced by the
kind of sexual love he had forgotten existed. Now it was hard to see any
point at all in tomorrow. He could hear the noise of the children in the
playground outside, shouting and shrieking and quarreling; and he envied
them the utter triviality of their lives. He pictured himself as a
schoolboy, in a black blazer and short gray trousers, walking three
miles of Dorset country lanes to get to the one-class primary school. He
was the brightest pupil they had ever had, which was not saying much.
But they taught him arithmetic and got him a place at the
Minister makes up his mind. This afternoon we can sling your piece out
and leave a hole in the paper for the real news."
"Okay." Hart turned away and made for the library. He knew he was being
given a dumb job as a kind of punishment, but he took his medicine
gracefully, Cole thought. He stared at the boy's back for a moment. He
got on Cole's nerves, with his long hair and his suits. He had rather
too much self-confidence--but then, reporters needed a lot of cheek.
Cole stood up and went to the sub-editors' table. The deputy chief sub
had in front of him the wire service story about the passing of the
Industry Bill and the new stuff Cole's reporters had come up with. Cole
looked over his shoulder. On a scratch pad he had written:
REBEL Mps TOLD "JOIN THE LIBS"
The man scratched his beard and looked up.
"What do you think?"
"It looks like a story about Women's Lib," Cole said. "I hate it."
"So do I." The sub tore the sheet off the pad, crumpled it, and tossed
it in a metal bin. "What else is new?"
"Nothing. I've only just given out the tips."
The bearded man nodded and glanced reflexively at the clock hanging from
the ceiling in front.
"Let's hope we get something decent for the second."
Cole leaned over him and wrote on the pad:
REBEL MPs TOLD "JOIN LIBERALS" He said: "It makes more sense, but it's
the same count."
The sub grinned. "Want a job?"
Cole went back to his desk. Annela Sims came up and said: "The Holloway
Road incident came to nothing. A bunch of rowdies, no arrests." Cole
said: "Okay."
Joe Barnard put down the phone and called:
"There's not a lot to this fire, Arthur. Nobody hurt." "How many people
living there?" Cole said automatically.
"Two adults, three children."
"So, it's a family of five escaped death. Write it." Phillip Jones said:
"The burgled flat seems to belong to Nicholas Crost, quite a well-known
violinist." "Good," Cole said. "Ring Chelsea nick and find out what was
taken."
"I did already," Phillip grinned. "There's a Stradivarius missing." Cole
smiled. "Good boy. Write it, then get down there and see if you can
interview the heartbroken maestro."
The phone rang, and Cole picked it up.
Although he would not have admitted it, he was thoroughly enjoying
himself.
NINE A.M. TIM FITZ PETERSON was dry of tears, but the weeping had not
helped. He lay on the bed, his face buried in the damp pillow. To move
was agony.
He tried not to think at all, his mind turning away thoughts like an
innkeeper with a full house. At one point his brain switched off
completely, and he dozed for a few moments, but the escape from pain and
despair was brief, and he woke up again.
He did not rise from the bed because there was nothing he wanted to do,
nowhere he could go, nobody he felt he could face. All he could do was
think about the promise of joy that had been so false. Cox had been
right when he said so coarsely, "It was the best night's nooky you'll
ever have."
Tim could not quite banish the flashing memories of her slim, writhing
body; but now they had a dreadfully bitter taste. She had shown him
Paradise then slammed the door. She, of course, had been faking ecstasy;
but there had been nothing simulated about Tim's own pleasure.
A few hours ago he had been contemplating a new life, enhanced by the
kind of sexual love he had forgotten existed. Now it was hard to see any
point at all in tomorrow. He could hear the noise of the children in the
playground outside, shouting and shrieking and quarreling; and he envied
them the utter triviality of their lives. He pictured himself as a
schoolboy, in a black blazer and short gray trousers, walking three
miles of Dorset country lanes to get to the one-class primary school. He
was the brightest pupil they had ever had, which was not saying much.
But they taught him arithmetic and got him a place at the
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