Dead Air (34 page)

‘Okay; quiet in the studio,’ the floor manager said, then, ‘Turning over.’ She did the ‘Five, four, three …’ thing, with the two and the one shown only on her fingers.

Cavan took a breath and said, ‘The vexed issue of race, now, and the provenance - or not - of the Holocaust, in the first of a series of
Breaking News
special features pitching two people with profoundly different views against each other. I’m joined tonight by Lawson Brierley, a self-labelled libertarian racist from the Free Research Institute, and Ken Nott, from London’s Capital Live!, doyen of the so-called … Sorry.’

‘No problem,’ the floor manager said. She was a tall gangly girl with close-cut brown hair; she wore big headphones and held a clipboard and a stopwatch. She listened to her phones again. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You all right, Cavan?’

Cavan was squinting towards the camera ahead of him, shading his eyes from the overhead lights. ‘Ah … Could you just move the autocue up a tiny little bit?’ he asked.

The man with the big camera adjusted it fractionally.

Was I really a doyen? I wondered. That meant ‘old’, didn’t it? More ‘senior’ rather than ‘ancient’, if I recalled the dictionary definition correctly, but still. I was sweating badly now. They’d probably notice and have to stop and bring one of the make-up girls in to touch up my face. I felt a pain in my guts and wondered if I was giving myself an ulcer.

Cavan nodded. ‘Fine now.’ He cleared his throat again.

‘Okay,’ said the floor manager. ‘Everybody okay?’ She looked around at us. Everybody seemed to be okay. I wasn’t going to say anything about sweating. Lawson Brierley sat, blinking, looking from Cavan to the monitor, still avoiding my gaze. The little bearded guy with the big camera adjusted it back to where it had been before, but Cavan didn’t notice. ‘We’re going again, quiet in the studio. Turning over,’ said the floor manager. ‘And: Five, four, three …’

‘The vexed issue of race, now, and the provenance - or not - of the Holocaust, in the first of a series of
Breaking News
special features pitching two people with profoundly different views against each other. I’m joined tonight by Lawson Brierley, a self-labelled libertarian racist from the Freedom Research Institute, and Ken Nott, from London’s Capital Live!, doyen of the so-called Shock Jocks and - as he’s described himself - unrepentant post-lefty.’ Cavan raised his eyebrows for effect. ‘First, though, this report by Mara Engless, on the undeniable existence of deniers.’

I looked over to Lawson Brierley. He was smiling at Cavan.

‘Good,’ the floor manager said, nodding. ‘Good. Perfect, Cavan.’ (Cavan nodded gravely.) ‘Okay, we’re going for—’

‘How long’s the video bit?’ Cavan asked.

The floor manager looked away for a moment, then said, ‘Three twenty, Cavan.’

‘Right, right. And we’re just going straight into the interviews, the ah, discussion bit, now, right?’

‘That’s right, Cavan.’

‘Fine. Fine.’ Cavan cleared his throat a few more times. I found myself wanting to clear my own throat, too, as though in sympathy.

‘Everybody ready to go?’

It looked like we were all ready to go.

‘Okay. Quiet in the studio.’

I put my hand in my pocket.

‘Turning over.’

In my pocket, the plastic coating the metal felt cold and slick in my right hand.

‘And: Five, four, three …’

I leaned forward slightly, to hide my hand coming out of my pocket.

Two.

My other hand was at my belly, holding, steadying.

One.

Click.

Cavan took a breath and turned to me. ‘Ken Nott, if I can turn to you first. You’re on record as—’

I’d snipped the mike cable with the pliers.

I had tried to think all this through, weeks and weeks earlier, and I’d guessed they might wire us up; that was why I’d brought the pliers in my jacket pocket.

But that wasn’t the clever bit.

I let the pliers fall as I kicked the seat back and jumped up on the big desk. I’d have settled for three seats in an arc, but the desk was better; I’d reckoned as long as I didn’t take too long getting myself up there it would provide a highway. So far, so good; seat falling backwards out of the way and a clean leap up onto the wooden surface.

Though that wasn’t the clever bit either.

Cavan had time to shut his mouth and jerk back. Lawson Brierley’s eyes were going wide. I ran at him across the desk. I’d worn a pair of black trainers, for purchase, so I wouldn’t slip, just for this.

That, too, was not the clever bit.

Lawson had his hands on the desk edge, tensing to push himself backwards. Cavan was falling off his seat as I passed him. From the corner of my other eye I thought I saw the big camera and the guy with the handheld both tracking me. From the shadows behind Cavan, somebody threw themself forward and grabbed at my feet, but missed. I threw myself down, too, my left hand out to grab Brierley’s cravat if I could, my right hand coming back in a fist.

Lawson was moving backwards but he hadn’t started pushing away in time, plus the mike wire would be slowing him down. I hit the desk on my belly and slid; my left hand missed his cravat, catching him by the padding in the left shoulder of his hacking jacket instead, but my right fist smacked satisfactorily - and painfully, for my fingers - into his left cheek, just below the eye.

My momentum, and his push, carried us both back over his seat, falling in a flailing tangle to the floor behind, where I landed another couple of lighter blows and he managed to thump me once on the side of the ribs and once on the back of the head with weak, painless punches before we were pulled apart by security guards and production people.

That, obviously, wasn’t the clever bit either.

Brierley was ushered away shouting about communist violence and intimidation, surrounded by headphoned staff, while I was held, the backs of my thighs against the desk, by two uniformed security guards. I was smiling at Lawson, and not struggling at all. I was highly gratified to see that Lawson already looked like he was developing what we used to call, back where I came from, a keeker; a nice black eye. A door closed softly in the darkness and Brierley’s shouts were silenced.

‘It’s okay, guys,’ I told the security guards. ‘Promise I won’t run after him.’

They kept holding me, but their grip might have relaxed a little. I looked around. Cavan seemed to have disappeared as well. I grinned at each of the two security guards as the floor manager came over. She looked professional and unruffled. ‘Ken; Mr Nott? Would you like to go back to the Green Room?’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Though I’ll want my pliers back, or a receipt.’ I smiled. ‘I’ll pay for a new mike cable.’

Still not the clever bit.

‘Ken!’ Cavan came into the Green Room. The two guards were in there with me, and two of the awfullies. I was watching News 24 on the room’s TV and relaxing with a Scotch and soda. Not something I’d normally countenance, but, hey, it was only a blend, and besides, I felt a certain refreshing desire to get drunk quickly.

‘Cavan!’ I said.

He looked a little flushed. There was a smile on his face that looked unhappy to be there. ‘Well, that was a bit of a surprise there, Ken. What was that all about?’

‘What was what?’ I asked.

Cavan sat on the edge of the table with all the sandwiches and drink. ‘Bit of a rush to the head there, Ken?’

‘Cavan,’ I said. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

The door opened again and the exec producer came in; a small, bald, harassed, sullen-looking guy I’d met briefly earlier whose name I’d forgotten the instant I’d been told it. ‘Ken,’ he said throatily, ‘
Ken
; what, what, what was that … ? I mean we just can’t allow, I mean, that was just, that was really just, I mean, what, what on earth—?’

‘Cavan, old son,’ I said.

‘… I mean, I mean …’

‘What?’

‘… You can’t, just can’t …’

‘Are you calling the police?’

‘… no respect, professionalism …’

‘Ah, the police?’

‘… ashamed of yourself, quite, I mean, I don’t …’

‘Yes; are you calling the police?’

‘… in my entire career …’

‘Eh? Ah, now …’

‘… disgrace, just a disgrace …’

‘
Have
you called the police? Do you
intend
to call the police?’

‘… what you could be thinking of …’

‘I’ve no idea, Ken. Your man here might know. Mike; we calling the police?’

‘What? I … Ah … I … I don’t know? Should we?’

Mike looked at Cavan, who shrugged. He looked at me.

‘Guys,’ I laughed. ‘I can’t tell you!’ I returned my attention to the telly and said, ‘I think you should find out whether the feds are to be involved. Because, otherwise, I’m about to leave.’

‘Ah … leave?’ said Mike the exec producer.

‘Mm-hmm,’ I said, sipping my drink and watching shots of Camp X-Ray.

‘But, well … we thought we could, maybe, still do the discussion. I mean, if you would agree …’

Cavan crossed his arms and appeared innocently bemused.

I was looking at the two of them, shaking my head. ‘Listen, guys, I have no fucking intention of even beginning to take that nasty little right-wing shithead’s diseased ideas seriously, to
debate
them, for fuck’s sake.’ I looked back at the TV. ‘Never did,’ I muttered. I looked back at the producer. He was standing with his mouth open. I frowned. ‘You
did
get it all on tape, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. Of course we did.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Very good.’ I watched the TV a moment longer. ‘So,’ I said to him, when he still hadn’t gone, ‘if you could just find out if the boys in blue are going to be involved or not. Okay? Thanks.’ I nodded at the door and then went back to watching the guys in orange shuffling between the cages in Guantanamo.

He shook his head at me, and left. I smiled at the two attractive awfullies, who grinned back nervously.

Cavan chuckled and got up to leave. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if I’m not mistaken, Ken, you’ve totally fucked us.’ He opened the door. ‘But it was elegantly done.’ He nodded as he left. ‘Look after yourself.’

I just smiled at him.

Actually, at that point I’d quite happily have settled for whacking a fascist and getting away with it, but - in theory, according to the mad, bad plan at least - what had to happen next was that somebody did take the matter further, and the cops did become involved, and I was formally charged with assault.

Because then - despite all the witnesses, despite the cameras and the videotape and the thing being replayable in slow motion from two or three different angles, and certainly despite what I hoped would develop into a splendid black eye for Lawson Brierley - I had every intention, in front of the police, in front of the lawyers, in front of a judge and in front of a jury if it came to that, of denying it had ever happened.

And
that
was the fucking clever bit.

Nine

BIG GUNS

‘I
knew
you were up to something.’

‘Fuck off! You did not.’

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

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

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

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

‘You didn’t really hit him, did you?’

‘Yup. Biffed the blighter on the phizog.’

‘A proper punch?’

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

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

I thought about it. ‘Yes,’ I said.

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

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

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

‘But they didn’t call the police.’

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

‘Do you think Brierley will press charges?’

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

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

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