The Dead Side of the Mike (2 page)

‘Wouldn't worry about that, Dave. Now what can I be getting you?'

Charles saw that he had his drinks and change. The latter had been deposited in a little pool of Guinness. The barman didn't believe in handing money to people who were invisible.

The man called Dave gave his order. ‘Perrier water for me – I have to work tonight. And what was it, girls?'

He turned to two women, hooked on either arm of a short man in a sleek toupée. ‘Riesling please, Dave,' said the older one, pronouncing it ‘Reisling'. Her inclusion in the appellation ‘girls' was generous. She was a middle-aged lady of pleasant dumpiness, with long hair of a redness unavailable on the colour chart offered by God.

‘Right you are, Nita,' said the man called Dave. ‘And for you?' He turned to the second girl with a charm that almost disguised his ignorance of her name.

This one was much more a girl, a shapely little wisp in a cream crochet dress. ‘Well, I'll –'

‘No, I don't think we'd better have another,' interposed her thatched escort in a strong American accent. ‘We're just about to go out to eat.'

‘Right you are, Michael.'

‘Then we'll come along and see the show go out. Would you like that?'

The girl giggled and said she would. ‘As the guy's agent I don't get many perks, but at least I can organise that,' said the American with a laugh. ‘And who knows, maybe I can twist his arm, to play you a request. Even get you the Dave Sheridan Bouquet.'

‘Ooh.' The girl squirmed.

Charles shielded his cargo of drinks back to Mark, negotiating the rare stepping-stones of carpet through a maelstrom of handbags, briefcases and legs. Mark, predictably, was talking to a girl.

She was short, probably not more than five foot three, and dark. Centre-parted black hair, well cut, framed an olive face dominated by enormous brown eyes. Once you saw the eyes, you didn't notice the rest of her. Charles was vaguely aware of a boyish body in trim cord trousers and Guernsey sweater, but he was mesmerised by the eyes.

She was talking animatedly as he approached. ‘But come on, of course it's a political issue. No education is apolitical. None of it's pure information; there's always some dressing-up, some emphasis . . .' She broke off and looked enquiringly at Mark.

‘This is Charles Paris. Charles – Steve Kennett.'

‘Hello.'

‘Steve works in News.
The World Tonight
, that sort of thing.'

‘What do you do on it?'

‘Produce.'

‘Ah.' Hardly looked old enough to listen to the programme, let alone produce it.

She didn't seem inclined to pick up her previous polemic, so Mark explained Charles's part in the feature on Swinburne.

‘Algernon Charles,' she said.

‘That's the one.'

She wrinkled her nose. ‘The only thing I remember about him was he was into flagellation, wasn't he?'

Charles smiled. ‘He certainly had a fascination for the relationship between pain and pleasure.'

Mark recited,

Good sado-masochistic stuff, isn't it?'

Charles was surprised by this sudden long quotation, until he realised that Mark was simply showing off. The resonant declamation was part of a cock-dance for the girl's benefit. Unaccountably, he felt a little twinge of jealousy.

But Steve didn't react to any sexual message there may have been in the quotation. ‘Is sado-masochism an okay subject for Radio Four these days? I can never remember whether we're in the middle of a new permissiveness or a Reithian Puritan backlash – it changes from day to day.'

‘Doesn't worry me,' Mark replied. ‘We're on Radio Three. There is no smut on Radio Three – by definition. As soon as it's there it becomes Art. Anyway, we're Further Education. Anything goes if it's in a proper educational context.'

‘Or if it's on
Woman's Hour,
' added Steve. ‘They can get away with murder.'

‘Murder.' Mark smiled. ‘I heard rather a good line the other day – if there was a murder in the BBC, who do you think would have done it?'

‘No idea.'

‘The Executive Producer.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, he must have done
something.
' They laughed. Mark pointed to Steve's glass. ‘What's that – a lager?'

‘Yes, but only if you're getting one.'

‘Certainly I am. Charles and I are going to get resolutely and gloriously pissed tonight.'

‘You mean you're not going to the Features Action Group Meeting?'

‘What?'

‘You hadn't forgotten? John Christie's thing. Today's Thursday.'

‘Oh shit.'

‘You had forgotten.'

‘Yes. Oh, Charles, I'm sorry, it had completely slipped my mind. I've got to go to this meeting.'

‘Don't worry about it.' Charles was still determined to spend the evening drinking, and he felt confident he could find other companions. There's always someone to drink with in the BBC club.

‘Oh shit,' said Mark again. He looked at his watch. ‘At seven, isn't it? Well, if I've got to sit through that, I'm certainly going to need another drink.' He dived back into the crowd.

Charles raised a questioning eyebrow to Steve, who smiled and began apologetically, ‘It's very BBC. You probably wouldn't understand it. The fact is, in the great glorious past of radio, back in the days when people actually listened to it, there was a department called the Features Department, which produced various landmarks in sound like
Steel
and
Under Milk Wood
and other forgotten masterpieces. It was full of various brilliant producers, who, so far as one can tell, spent most of their time drinking in the George and arguing about whose sports jacket Dylan Thomas had puked over most often.

‘Well, like all good things, the department declined and, some time – in the early Sixties it was – it was disbanded. Since then, whenever anyone feels frustrated about the sort of work they are doing or about the general quality of radio programmes, they say, “Why don't we start up the Features Department again?” As if the clock could be turned back, the invention of television could be ignored, and England could once again become a nation of nice middle-class families sipping mugs of Ovaltine round the beaming bakelite of their wirelesses.'

‘I see.'

‘The latest in the long line of people to use this rallying-cry is that gentleman over there –' She indicated a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in pin-striped suit, bright silk tie and complacent smile. ‘His name's John Christie. He's a BBC career politician.'

‘I don't really know what you mean by that.'

‘He is destined for some sort of greatness in the misty upper reaches of Management. His career has been textbook. Out of Oxbridge straight into the African service – I believe he speaks fluent Swahili, though I'm not quite sure when he gets an opportunity to use it. Then he went to Belfast and worked over there in some administrative capacity . . .'

‘And that's good, is it?'

‘Oh yes, lots of Brownie points for going to Belfast. The BBC doesn't forget its loyal servants who risk getting blown up in the cause of regional broadcasting. His reward was a post created in Drama Department. Co-ordinator, I think he's called. Co-ordinator, Drama Department. CDD. The BBC loves initials. But from there he's destined for greatness. Great greatness.'

‘What, you mean he'll become editor of some programme or –'

‘Good Lord, no. You are naive. The top jobs in the BBC don't have anything to do with the making of programmes. No, he'll end up as Chief Sales Inhibitor for BBC Publications or in some strange and powerful department like Secretariat.'

‘What do they do there?'

‘God knows.'

‘You sound pretty cynical about the whole thing; I take it you are not involved in the meeting.'

‘By no means. I'll be there.' The huge brown eyes looked levelly into his. Even if he could have broken the stare, he didn't think he would have wanted to.

The interruption came from a third party. A blonde girl came up and threw her arms around Steve. She was only a little over average height, but looked huge beside the other. ‘Steve, look at me – still standing up.'

She carried a fairly empty wine glass and seemed in a state of high excitement. ‘Have you managed to get any sleep, love?' asked Steve, with a trace of anxiety.

‘No, I'm held together by alcohol and willpower and sheer animal high spirits.' The way she spoke suggested alcohol might be the dominant partner in the combination.

‘Can't you get out of tonight?'

‘No, I'll be fine.'

Steve remembered Charles. ‘I'm so sorry. This is Charles Paris. Andrea Gower. She shares a flat with me. Just come back from a week's holiday in New York.'

Andrea giggled. ‘Just back in time for the Wimbledon finals. And I'm still somewhere up on a cloud over the Atlantic.'

‘Didn't you sleep on the flight?'

‘Not a wink. I had a drink and another drink and then the movie and then another drink.'

‘You should have got out of today's work,' said Steve, ‘caught up on some sleep.'

‘No, I'll do that tomorrow. It's my own fault. I stayed the extra day.'

Steve explained. ‘She was due back yesterday to start work today. But she decided to stay on.'

‘Ah, it was very important. I was finding out some very interesting things. I had to stay. It was necessary to the cause of investigative journalism.' She stumbled over the last two words. ‘I have found something eminently worthy of investigation.'

‘Are you a journalist?' asked Charles.

‘No, just a humble SM. Today an SM – tomorrow ruler of the world or dead in the attempt.' She dropped into an accent for the last phrase. Charles revised his earlier opinion that she was drunk. She had had a few drinks, but her excitement was more emotional.

‘I'm sorry, I don't speak BBC. What's an SM?'

‘Studio Manager. Knob-twiddler, teacup-rattler, editor, tape-machine starter and what you will.'

‘Ah. So what does that mean in practical terms? I mean, what have you done today?'

‘Today? God, what day is it? Today started about forty hours ago with pancakes and bacon in a coffee shop on a very hot Lexington Avenue . . . But, coming up to date, having been met at Heathrow by my good friend, Miss Stephanie Kennett, I rushed to Maida Vale to record a music session for the famous Dave Sheridan.'

‘Should I know him?'

‘What, you mean you don't know the famous disc jockey? Him, over there – with Nita Lawson – she's his Executive Producer.' She pointed to the tall man who had deferred to Charles at the bar. ‘The session was the usual Radio Two treacle – I say . . .' A new thought struck her. ‘If you haven't heard of Dave Sheridan, can it be that you are a lover of real music? Real classical music?'

‘Sorry. I'm afraid I'm not very musical at all.'

‘Oh, never mind. It's just that in these degenerate days, lovers of real music have got to stick together. And fight the barbarian hordes who play Simon and Pumpernickel into the wee small hours of the morning.' She grimaced at Steve, who said ‘Simon and Garfunkel' with automatic amusement. It was evidently an old joke between them.

‘Anyway, where was I?' Andrea was so wound up that nothing could stop her flow. ‘Yes, right, that was the music session, at which would you believe the great man Dave Sheridan actually put in an appearance. So we exchanged badinage. Then, after the session, I hopped into a taxi – which I can claim because I was carrying tapes and they can be wiped by travelling on the Underground – took them up to the Library and here I am. This evening I have to record – would you believe – a European Cup soccer match. It's not even my group. Someone's sick in the other lot and I'm on standby. The match is broadcast live from Munich at nine o'clock and I have to sit in a channel and record it. How long do soccer matches last?'

‘I don't know. An hour and a half maybe.'

‘Ugh. So, if I don't drop dead beforehand, half-past ten will see me staggering into a cab, telling the driver to take me to Paddington, taking a Mogadon and falling into bed for about a fortnight.'

‘I'm sure you could get someone else to record this match for you,' Steve remonstrated. ‘You look dead on your feet. Alick'd do it, I'm sure, if he's free.'

‘I am booked for it,' said Andrea stubbornly, ‘and I'll do it. I can do anything at the moment. I'm on an incredible high.'

‘So it seems,' said Charles.

‘Just try not to be around when the low comes.'

Andrea's ebullience was momentarily curbed by the appearance of Mark with the drinks.

‘I'm sorry I took so long. I was talking to John Christie and . . . Oh, hello.'

Neither Mark nor Andrea seemed to be exactly pleased to see each other. ‘How was your trip?' he asked after a pause.

‘Fine. Smashing.'

‘Good.'

‘Yes, it was. Very good. Made me completely rethink my life, what I'm going to do.'

‘Good.'

‘I am going to unearth the truth. I think the truth's very important. Everyone should know the truth.' There was a pause. She swayed slightly with exhaustion. Then she grabbed Steve's hand and said, ‘Come on, Roger and Prue are over there.'

Steve muttered an apologetic ‘Goodbye' to Charles as the two girls disappeared into the crowd.

Mark studiously didn't comment on their departure. ‘Look, I've just been talking with John Christie and he wants you to join this committee.'