Iain Banks - Dead Air

‘Yuh, but, like, they’ve got their job to do and we’ve got ours, right? We have to think what’s best for the Group.’ Nina was business-suit posh; long, not inelegant face, perfect teeth and silky skin; black hair, bobbed. Deep voice. She’d been head-hunted for the Mouth Corp from an internationally renowned management consultancy firm. Still under thirty.

‘May I call you Nina?’ I asked her with a smile.

‘Ah, yuh. Yuh, sure.’

‘Ms Boysert,’ I said, not smiling. ‘My life might be in danger. I’m not entirely sure from what you’ve been saying whether you’ve fully grasped that fact. I’m asking for help from my professional colleagues, and from the firm that employs me. Now-’

It was the ‘Now’ that did it. Phil jumped in after that.

Of course what I’d wanted to say was, Listen, bitch, fuck the Group, fuck the shareholders and fuck Sir Jamie, too; I was the one being bundled off into the depths of the East End in the middle of the night to have fuck knows what done to me, let’s focus on what’s best for me… but I’d reined myself in and come out with a little speech that I thought was far more polite, even with the sarky and probably unnecessary bit at the start about not using the woman’s first name.

‘I think Phil’s right,’ Boulen said, to whatever Phil had said (I’d kind of missed it, still glaring at Ms Corporate Good). ‘This is a legal matter and we have to take our lead from the police.’

‘Yuh, but I’m thinking, like, what about the publicity? I mean, this would be quite big news, yuh? I’m seeing the front page of the Standard; Top DJ’s Death Threat Hell. And a photograph, of course. Something like that, yuh? I mean, that’s big. We can’t ignore that; you almost can’t buy that.’

There was an awkward silence.

I said, ‘Are you for fucking real?’

‘Look, Ken!’ Phil said quickly, rising and clapping me on the shoulder. ‘You’ve had a tough couple of days; you don’t really need to be here. I can look after things. Why don’t I meet you in the Bough, half an hour, say? Yeah?’ He waggled his eyebrows at me. Guy Boulen was nodding fractionally, his expression somewhere between a grin and a grimace. Debbie was looking at the floor.

‘What a splendid idea.’ I got up, looked round them. ‘Excuse me.’

As I got to the door I heard a deep female voice say, ‘Was it something one of us said, yuh?’

‘Well done,’ Phil said, clinking glasses in the Groucho that evening. We were in the wee nook with the blue plaque, up in the snooker level. ‘You told the police what happened and, to my utter astonishment, you didn’t tell Nina Boysert exactly what you think of her. Proud of you.’

‘Thank you so fucking much. Do I get a badge or something? ’

‘I’m having a special commemorative medal struck tomorrow. ’

‘Did she shut the fuck up about leaking the story eventually or did you just throw her out the fucking window?’

‘That would be Option A there.’ Phil nodded. ‘Though it did take Boulen and I threatening to resign if she insisted on going ahead. I did also somewhat talk up your acquaintanceship with Sir Jamie; she might have got the impression that if anything happened you didn’t like, you’d take it up with the Dear Owner the next time you’re playing polo together.’

I shook my head, drank. ‘I bet she leaks it anyway.’

‘I don’t know.’ Phil thought. ‘Wouldn’t like to hazard a guess. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I’ve never met anybody who thought quite so much like a spreadsheet.’

‘Well, never mind. Fuck it. Fuck her.’

‘Hmm. Well, after you.’

‘Hey, look, Phil, can I stay at your place tonight?’

‘Jo’s away again, is she?’

‘Yeah. I hate sleeping alone on the boat.’

‘Well, no, you can’t. Sorry.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘No.’

‘I’m vulnerable! Don’t abandon me!’

‘Stay with Craig.’

‘He’s got Nikki staying for the weekend.’

‘So?’

‘They don’t want me there.’

‘So get a hotel.’

‘I don’t want me there. I…’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Let me stay at yours, Phil. Come on. Please.’

‘No. You’re probably safe now; they know you’ll be wary.’

‘I’m trying to be fucking wary! That’s why I’m asking you to let me stay with you.’

‘No.’

‘Please.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have a friend staying.’

‘What, the compulsively tidy jacket-cleaner?’

‘What about Ed?’

‘He’s away.’

‘Oh. Forgot to tell you; those Winsome people rang again, just before we left.’

‘The Breaking News company?’

‘Yes. The thing with this Holocaust denial bloke is back on. Second or third week in December, though that’s still tentative. ’

‘Tentative. Really. Right. But don’t go changing the subject. Come on; let me stay over. You’ll never know I’m there.’

‘No. Stay in a hotel, or go back to the boat.’

‘Look, man, I’m fucking frightened, don’t you understand?’

‘You have to face it sometime.’

‘I don’t want to fucking face it! I want to fucking live!’

‘Even so.’

‘I’m thinking about asking Ed to get me a gun.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’

‘Nah, mate. Sorry, no.’

‘Ed! Come on!’

‘Na. Now, that’s wrong, Ken. You shouldn’t even have asked me. Let’s forget you did. Look at the view instead.’

I sighed and leaned back against the curve of glass. We were on the London Eye, riding one of the big, bulbous cars on its grand forty-minute rotation through the air. We were about two-thirds of the way round now, slowly descending. It was a bright end-of-November day and the air was clear. Most of Ed’s extended family were here, laughing and pointing and generally having a fun time. Ed had reserved the car for us. The blazered attendant and I were the only white people on board.

I’d become quite worried on the way up; it had suddenly struck me that the Eye would be a perfect terrorist target. The supporting legs stretched out behind it – looking, I thought, a lot like the marching hammers in The Wall – splaying down to the ground by the side of the old GLC building… they and their supporting wires and cables suddenly appeared terribly vulnerable. Jesus, I’d thought; a big enough bomb there, blowing the whole structure forward to fall into the river just a bridge away from Westminster… but we were on the way down now, my atypical paranoia subsiding along with the gradually flattening view. Downriver, the tall white support towers of the new works on the Hungerford Bridge seemed to echo the architecture of the Eye itself.

Ed had just come back from DJing in Japan and this was the first chance I’d had to catch up with him. It had taken a good twenty-five minutes – and the passing of the best of the view at the top of the circle – for me to get him alone.

‘Would you get me a gun if I was black?’

‘Wot?’ Ed said loudly, incredulous. A few of his family turned and looked at us. I guess we’d made it obvious this was meant to be a private word. He lowered his voice. ‘Listen to youself, man. Ken! I mean, fuckin ell.’

I shook my head, patted his forearm and sat forward, my head in my hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, sighing. ‘I’m sorry, Ed. That was, that was truly, truly shit. I…’

‘Look, mate, I can see you’re really shaken up wif this. Don’t blame you.’ Ed leaned down so that he was level with me and he could say even more quietly, ‘But a shooter is not going to solve your problems. It’ll just add to them. Plob’ly.’