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words. The balm of his friendship and the validation and confidence he gave me had made me strong. When I told him how well the Joker’s card had worked with Aunt Vaughan, he had said, “Now you’re getting it. Other people don’t upset us. We upset ourselves.”
    As the train rumbled northwards through the outskirts of London, I thought again about the Joker’s card. In adulthood, it had slipped my memory and I had tended to meet any onslaught in defensive, fighting mode, taking it all on the chin. Could Michael’s Joker be the solution to this problem? Was there a way in which I could do the interview without compromising my principles? Or must I pull out of the assignment and lose my job, if I had the courage? I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift off into areverie. I opened my eyes and, looking out across the unfolding green fields of Oxfordshire, I began to see a possibility.
    I arrived at Oxford Station and took a taxi to the Randolph Hotel, where I was to meet Dr Newell. The receptionist directed me to his room and I took the lift to the third floor. I knocked on the door of room number 37 and it was opened by a slim, grey-haired man in his fifties. He greeted me courteously and his manner was calm, but beneath the surface I detected a nervous apprehensiveness.
    We sat together in armchairs at a large window that overlooked the busy street. I began by thanking Dr Newell for agreeing to see me. I said I would try to make things as easy as possible.
    He said, “Your editor has promised me that my family will not be troubled any further. My wife is unwell.”
    I took a deep breath and decided to tell the truth, whatever the cost.
    “Dr Newell, I’m afraid that promise will not be kept. I expect you know that one of my colleagues has already interviewed Geraldine Stephens?” Dr Newell nodded. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but another colleague is attempting to interview your son. Both those interviews are scheduled for publication in tomorrow’s paper. Another of my colleagues is attempting to secure an interview with your wife.”
    The silence that fell between us was deafening. The rumble of traffic in the street below seemed far away, as though we were detached from the rest of the world, cocooned in a moment taken out of time. Dr Newell’s expression during those few minutes, as he took in what I had said and considered it, was something I shall never forget. The desperation and hopelessness in his eyes wounded me deep inside. I felt myself being stripped open, to reveal an inner worthlessness. I felt dirty, guilty and ashamed. It was still not too late. I could gather up my things, make an excuse and leave. The silence ended as Dr Newell turned to look me in the eyes.
    He said, “It must have taken some courage to tell me that.”
    For the first time in an interview, I felt I was losing control of the situation. Tears were beginning to form in my eyes. Dr Newellleaned forward and put his hand over mine. “It’s a dirty business, isn’t it? Even those of us who try to do the decent thing get caught in the net. Should we accept what we are, do you think? Acknowledge our fallibility and weakness and ask for understanding?” He smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose that approach would cut much ice with your editor.”
    I remained silent. Dr Newell said, “I can see that a lot of unpleasant stuff is going to come out that will be deeply hurtful to the people I love.”
    He stood up and walked to the window, and looked down on the street below. He said, “There goes the world, busy about its business, rushing here and there. We all do it. Until the moment when life catches up with us, and then we have to stop. Doing the right thing. I thought I was. Well, I had no choice. Sometimes there is no choice. People are dying in East Timor because we’re breaking our own rules. Someone has to speak up and this time it fell to me.” He returned to his chair. He looked desperate.
    He said,