Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘Hello again,’ he said.

She started. ‘Mr Devlin. What brings you — oh yes, you’re on the programme with Baz this morning, aren’t you?’ She touched the mark on her face with her finger, a gesture he guessed was her habitual reaction when disconcerted.

‘I hope he’s going to be gentle with me.’

‘You needn’t worry. Baz is marvellous with all his guests, especially those who aren’t experienced. Forget about his reputation for being sharp — people always exaggerate, he’s never had the credit he deserves.’

‘He’s certainly a celebrity in this city.’

‘A big fish in a tiny pool, that’s all. He could have been a national name if he’d had a few more breaks, but Baz has always been unlucky.’

‘In the wrong place at the wrong time?’

‘I suppose so. He’s known tragedy. He married young, but his wife died of leukaemia.’ Her voice faltered. ‘And his — his twin brother died a few years ago. People don’t realise how much suffering he’s been through. Yet you’ll see when you get in the studio, he’s always the complete professional.’

Sophie stuck her head round the door. ‘Your public awaits, Harry. How are you doing?’

‘Okay. You were right about the razor blade.’

He nodded to Penny and let Sophie lead him up stairs and along corridors through a labyrinth of offices, finally ushering him through a heavy door into the control room. From vast loudspeakers came the voice of a dead man — Otis Redding, being broadcast at that moment. Hunched over a control panel, a bearded engineer in jeans and a lumberjack’s shirt nodded a greeting.

Thick glass separated them from Baz Gilbert, who sat on the far side of a circular table on top of which were crammed teddy bear mascots and a dozen snapshots: Baz in a band, Baz on the air, Baz through the years, changing from a lad with a guileless grin to a seen-it-all veteran of a business in which youth was the only thing that mattered. A couple of old photographs showed him with a look-alike brother, whose military short-back-and-sides made Baz resemble a refugee from sixties San Francisco in comparison. A couple of recent pictures showed him cuddling Penny Newland. In other shots, taken years back but carefully preserved, he shared a joke with Roger McGough, chatted with Paul McCartney.

Now he had his headphones on and was raising his thumbs in salutation. His mouth framed the word: ‘Welcome.’

Harry realised how nervous he was. Excited, too. No big deal, he told himself, to appear on a local radio show; yet he had never done it before and his mouth was dry and his stomach unsettled. He imagined microphones picking up a thunderous rumble from his innards, causing the listeners to flinch. The stories he had chosen in the papers seemed to have fled his mind; he did not know what he could say about the Sandie Shaw song. Downstairs he had been struck by the casual atmosphere. Here, things were different. Sophie and the engineer swapped flip remarks but tension was as heavy in the air as approaching thunder. He felt the adrenalin pumping through his own system. No doubt about it, to appear on a live show was to rekindle long-forgotten childhood fears of public humiliation.

Sophie sat astride a chair at the opposite end of the control panel to the engineer and spoke into an intercom which connected her with Baz. Harry found it disconcerting to see him mouthing his replies, yet to be unable to hear what he was saying. A jingle played and a phlegmatic Lancastrian voice began to extol the virtues of a chain of launderettes, whilst in the background a chorus of voices sang that listeners would be glad of that extra sheen that left their garments squeaky clean.

‘You’ll be in the hot seat in five minutes,’ said Sophie. ‘Nothing to worry about. After all, you’re used to speaking in court: not like Finbar, and he turned out to be a natural broadcaster.’

‘Somehow I can’t see him hosting Desert Island Discs or Yesterday In Parliament .’

‘No, I mean it. He’s so warm, he has so much vitality — perfect for communicating with an audience. He comes over as a very attractive personality.’

Thinking of the arson attack, of Sinead and of the man whom Finbar had been so anxious to avoid outside his office, Harry said sourly, ‘He’s not top of everyone’s popularity charts.’

‘Oh, believe me, I can see why Melissa fell for him. Though I’ll admit Nick’s not his number one fan.’

She giggled and added. ‘Nick did it deliberately, you know. Spilling the wine over Finbar, I mean.’

Harry thought it politic to feign surprise. Sophie was not saying anything he hadn’t guessed the night before. But he was interested that she was frank enough to put conjecture into words.

‘Finbar got up his nose, that’s what I mean.’ Sophie didn’t bother to hide her glee. ‘Nick’s a hunk and I love his bones, but he does like to be the centre of attention. And if something doesn’t suit him, he’s apt to fly off the handle. Maybe seeing his ex hang around a humble tattoo artist hurt his pride.’

Yes, and Sophie’s egging-on of Finbar had stoked up the provocation, Harry thought. He contented himself with a wry smile.

‘Not all that humble.’

‘Perhaps not. Finbar can take most things in his stride, I guess. Which reminds me: I forgot to commiserate with him last night. I read in the paper about the fire at his studio. Arson, I gather.’

‘The police are still investigating.’

Sophie tapped him playfully on the shoulder. ‘You’re so guarded, Harry! A solicitor down to your socks. But it must be worrying for Finbar — to feel someone has burnt down his place on purpose.’

‘He’ll survive.’

‘I’m sure he will. Melissa will be in a state, all the same. I thought she looked peaky yesterday. Of course, she never has much colour, but even so she looked dreadful. And she can do without that sort of hassle after all the problems she’s had.’

‘What problems?’

Mischievous pleasure deepended the laughter lines round Sophie’s mouth and eyes. ‘Don’t you know? Oh, sorry. Perhaps I’d better not say any more. I simply thought that, as a friend, you…’

A tiny girl in a pink tracksuit walked into the room, followed by a spotty young man wearing an Everton scarf. She looked to Harry as though she ought to be at school.

‘Harry, this is Tracey Liggett, our weather girl,’ said Sophie. ‘And — Jason, isn’t it? — her boyfriend. He’s just here as a spectator. We keep open house on this programme, people drift in and out all the time, no wonder we call it Pop In . Tracey, meet Harry Devlin. Harry’s a local solicitor.’

‘Yeah?’ The girl sniffed as if she’d been introduced to a lavatory attendant.

‘Tracey’s one of our rising stars,’ said Sophie. ‘The weather report today — who knows what tomorrow may bring?’

‘The football results, most likely,’ said the engineer as he lifted a cassette marked kwikslim from the bank of pigeon-holes which ran across one wall of the control room. With casual efficiency, he flipped it into the machine in front of him and pressed a switch. Another silly little tune played, followed by two housewives discussing the merits of a new miracle diet.

‘Okay, Harry,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re on.’

He took a deep breath and, clutching the bits of newspaper like a passport to a new world, opened the door into the studio. Baz waved him to one of the three vacant chairs round the table.

‘Welcome. I hear last night ended with a splash, so far as Finbar was concerned. Rumour has it he’s not one of my lord and master’s bosom buddies.’

Harry wasn’t in the mood to discuss Finbar. All he wanted was to make sure the next ten minutes passed as quickly as possible and without too much embarrassment. ‘I have the snippets here,’ he said, fanning the bits of paper out on the table between them.