Iain Banks - Dead Air

‘Sorry about this, Chris,’ I said.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What the fuck’s all this about?’

‘Oh, I was on a telly programme with this guy who deserved a good slap, so I duly whacked him one. Bit of a fuss about it for some reason.’

‘Did I not need this,’ Glatz breathed as I nodded at the security guy in the booth at the top of the ramp; the striped pole rose and we roared away down the slope. I stamped on the brakes and got a very satisfying squeal out of the tyres at the bottom.

Mr Glatz left looking unhappy, resigned to facing down the crowd of muttering rotters still milling at the top of the car park ramp.

I bumped into Timmy Mann in the lift.

‘Timmy,’ I said cheerfully. ‘You’re in early.’

‘Uh, yeah, ah, hi, ah, Ken,’ Timmy said, displaying the incisive wit that has made him such a hit on the lunchtime show. He looked down as the lift doors closed. Timmy was something of a throwback; older than me, an ex-Radio One Breakfast Show presenter, dark hair worn in a style dangerously close to being a mullet. He was short, even for a radio DJ.

I felt my good mood evaporate as the lift whined into action and my stomach seemed to drop. ‘Oh, yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘You’re here to do my show, aren’t you?’

‘Ah, just half,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’

‘Well, don’t forget to apply for overtime.’

‘Um, yeah.’

‘Where the fuck have you been?’

‘Talking to a man about a fucking death threat,’ I told Station Manager Debbie, throwing myself into a couch. The couch was on the far side of Debbie’s redecorated office, a pale mauve oval carpet away from her new ash and chrome desk, where Producer Phil and Guy Boulen, Mouth Corp’s legal geezer, were sitting. ‘Hi, Phil, Guy.’

‘I didn’t say you could sit over there.’

‘Good, Debbie, because I didn’t fucking ask to.’ The sofa was big and plump and cerise without actually looking like a pair of lips. It smelled very new.

‘What’s this about a death threat?’ Phil asked quickly, while Debbie was still opening her mouth to say something.

‘It’s been resolved. It was all a hideous mistake; an overreaction. I know what it was all about and it’s almost certainly been taken care of.’

Phil and Boulen looked at each other. Boulen cleared his throat. ‘You met whoever it was who’s been behind all this?’

‘It was an organisational thing, Guy; I met the guy whose desk this landed on after people below him didn’t get the results they’d wanted. And arguably took it all too far.’

‘Who was it? Who is it?’ Phil asked.

‘Can’t tell you,’ I said. ‘Sworn to secrecy.’

‘Is this-?’ Boulen began.

‘Can I just point out that we’ve a decision to make about a radio show due to start in twenty minutes?’ Debbie said loudly, swinging our attention back to her.

‘Debs,’ I said. ‘The Breaking News, Lawson Brierley thing; I’m denying everything. It didn’t happen. It’s all a lie. They made it up.’ I looked at Boulen and smiled. ‘That’s the line I’m taking.’ He nodded, then smiled too, uncertainly.

‘But you’ve been charged,’ Debbie said.

‘Yup.’

‘We can take you off air.’

‘I know. So; going to?’

Debbie looked at me as though I’d just crapped on her new couch. Her desk phone warbled. She glared at it, grabbed it. ‘Don’t you fucking understand English? I said no-’ Her eyes closed and she put a hand to her brow, making her glasses slip down her nose. She took them off and stared at the ceiling with tired eyes. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, Lena. Put him on.’

Each of us chaps looked at the other two.

Debbie drew herself up in her seat. ‘Sir Jamie…’

‘Chumbawumba and “Tubthumping”. Good to hear the old signature tune all the way through there, bit of comfort music in these trying times, don’t you think, Phil?’

‘Knock people down and they just jolly well get back up again,’ Phil agreed.

‘Ms Nutter, Mr Prescott and I would all agree. But what makes you mention knocking people down, Phil?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Phil waved one hand airily. ‘Just the lyrics of the song.’

‘Splendid. Time for some vitally important advertisements. Back in a mo if we haven’t been removed in the meantime for gross moral turpitude. Back, in fact, with Ian Dury and The Blockheads and “Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick”. Just kidding. It’s actually Cornershop and “Lessons Learned From Rocky One to Rocky Three”. Stop that, Phil.’ I FX’d the squeaky noise for Phil’s head shaking.

‘What are you like?’ he sighed.

‘Just keeping things topical, Phil.’

‘I despair.’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, I know. It sounds pretty crap now but just you wait till later. It won’t even be pretty.’

‘Hit the ad cart, Ken.’

‘It are hitted.’

We both sat back and put our cans round our necks as the ads played.

‘So far so good,’ Phil said.

‘Getting away with it,’ I agreed.

‘All my life.’ Phil glanced up at the portrait of Sir Jamie on the wall. ‘Wonder if himself’s listening in on the Internet feed.’

Sir Jamie had called Station Manager Debbie from the archipelago he owned in the Caribbean. He’d just heard about the press getting hold of the Breaking News story and called to say he thought it was vitally important that I should do my show unless the station had no legal choice but to pull it. I did believe it was the first time I’d actually felt a mild glow of affection for the man. He’d even had Debbie pass me the phone and spoken a few words to me. He told me he was right behind me, right behind me, hundred and ten per cent.

‘I can only hope and trust,’ I told Phil, ‘that I am living up to the faith placed in me by our Dear Owner.’

‘Are we really going to take calls?’

‘I think we must, Philip. We owe it to our public.’

‘Yeah, right. Ken, what’s this about you hitting some bloke on the telly then?’

‘Sir, you have been grievously misinformed.’

‘So it’s not true then?’

‘Actually I was just talking in general, Stan; you have the sound of a man who takes the tabloids, so you have undoubtably been grievously misinformed for, well, years, I imagine.’

‘Come on, Ken. Did ya hit him or not?’

‘At this point I have to resort to the old diplomatic service thing of saying that I can neither confirm nor deny whatever it is you may have heard.’

‘But is it true?’

‘What is truth, Stanley? One person’s truth is another person’s lie, one person’s faith is another’s heresy, one person’s certainty is another’s doubt, one person’s boot-legs are another’s flares, know what I’m saying?’

‘You ain’t gonna tell nobody, are ya?’

‘Stan, I’m like the Egyptian fresh-water carp; I’m in denial.’

‘What?’

‘The matter I believe you might be referring to is sub judice, Stan, or soon will be; the exact technical legal status it holds at the moment is not entirely clear, but let’s just say it’s better to treat it as definitely not to be talked about.’

‘All right. So, how’s that rubbish football team of yours up there in Jockland going to do then?’

I laughed. ‘Now we’re talking, Stan. Which aspect of the profound awfulness of the Bankies did you wish me to elaborate upon, Stanley? The choice is wide and the show is long.’

‘Don’t really give a toss, mate.’

‘Ah; indifference. Good choice. Now… Stan? Stanley? Hello?’ I’d cut him off. ‘Ah, how oddly pointed was Stanley’s casual but cutting dismissal just there. Though in fact I have to point out that actually the Bankies are currently doing remarkably well in the league and are strong promotion contenders. However, I’m sure normal service will be resumed in due course.’