Iain Banks - Dead Air

On the other hand, the Guardian had done some digging on Lawson Brierley and found that he did have convictions for assault; two, in fact, one with a racial element. Not to mention having done time for fraud and embezzlement. Some of the other papers were sounding just a little more sympathetic to me, though the Telegraph and the Mail still thought I ought to be hung up by the thumbs, and the Mail made a big thing about withdrawing its advertising from Capital Live!. Meanwhile I turned down a couple of TV appearances and several exclusive interviews; I think the offers topped out at eleven grand, which was mildly flattering without amounting to so much that I’d ever entertain actually succumbing.

‘I suppose it must be a bit weird having to defend somebody you know is guilty,’ I said to my lawyer.

Maggie Sefton looked at me with what looked like an, Are you serious? expression. I looked back at her and she obviously decided I was just as naïve as I appeared. ‘Ken,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Ask any defence lawyer; most of our clients are guilty.’ She gave a soundless laugh. ‘Civilians always seem to think it must be really hard defending somebody you know is guilty. It isn’t; that’s what you do practically all the time. Defending somebody you know is innocent; that is weird.’ She hoisted one eyebrow and opened an already fairly stuffed box file. ‘That can cause you sleepless nights.’

‘So, tell me straight, Maggie,’ I said. ‘Am I being really stupid here?’

She looked up sharply. ‘You want my professional or personal opinion?’

‘Both.’

‘Professionally, you’re entering a minefield. Riverdancing.’

I had to smile at that. She smiled too, then the smile went.

‘Ken, you’re risking charges of perjury and being in contempt of court. Happily – if it comes to it – your employers are able to afford a good brief, but I suspect he or she is going to spend a lot of their preparation time impressing upon you the fact that you’ll have to be very, very controlled and careful in what you say. If you go shooting your mouth off – in court or out of it – you could be in serious trouble. The judge can send you down for contempt right there and then, without any extra procedure, and perjury is, rightly, regarded by judges as being a lot more serious an offence than simple unaggravated assault.’

‘What about your personal opinion?’

Maggie smiled. ‘Personally, Ken, I’d say, Bully for you. But then what I think personally doesn’t matter a damn.’

‘And the good news?’

She looked away for a while.

‘… In your own time,’ I said.

She clapped her hands. ‘Let’s crack on, shall we?’

Fending off journalists and ordinary callers interested in the matter during the phone-ins became a game for that week. The crowd of journos shrank rapidly until by the Thursday I got to work completely unmolested. I got it into my head that Ceel would be listening that day, and that there would be a package and a phone call from her when I finished the show, but – again – nothing.

That left Friday; there had to be something from Ceel on the Friday. Otherwise it would just be too long an interval. She’d forget what I looked like. She’d fall in love with her husband again. She’d find somebody else – Jeez, suppose she already had? Oh my God; suppose she was some sort of series-serial sexual adventurer and I was just one of a dozen or so guys she met up with for sex every couple of weeks? What if she was fucking a whole male harem of guys, one a day, even two a day! One in the morning, before me! Maybe she was never out of those five star hotels, maybe she practically lived in them, serviced by a steady stream of sadly deluded lovers. Maybe…

Shit, I was going crazy. I had to see her again, I had to talk to her.

‘Hey; that’s your old girlfriend, isn’t it?’

We were in the office after the Thursday show. Kayla had grabbed our copy of the February edition of Q as soon as it had arrived. She was holding it up across the desk from me. Phil looked up from his computer screen.

I frowned. ‘What? Who?’

‘Jo,’ Kayla said. ‘Look.’ She passed the magazine over.

It was in the News section. A small colour photograph and a couple of paragraphs. Brad Baker of Addicta pictured post-gig in Montreux with current squeeze Jo LePage. La LePage, part of Addicta’s management team, has been spotted on stage helping to provide backing vocals for the band; definitely a better voice than Yoko Ono or Linda McCartney. Comparisons to Courtney Love not invited. Hate mail from female teenage Brad Baker fans probably in post already.

‘She’s fucking that bastard?’ I said. ‘She told me she hated him!’

‘That old trick,’ Kayla muttered. She was holding her hand out towards me. She clicked her fingers. ‘Back, please.’

‘And she was doing PR for Ice House,’ I said. ‘Not helping manage Addicta. Fucking useless fucking journalists. Bastards.’

‘Ahem.’ Kayla clicked her fingers again.

‘Have it,’ I said, shoving it into her hand.

‘You’re blushing!’ Kayla said.

‘Who’s blushing?’ Andi said, coming through the door with a tray of coffee and cakes.

‘Ken is; look,’ said Kayla. ‘His old girlfriend’s shagging Brad Baker.’

‘What? The Addicta guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Lucky cow!’

‘Yeah. It’s in Q; see?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Andi tutted, looking at the magazine as she put the tray down. She glanced at me. ‘That’s a shame.’

I looked at Phil. ‘Am I really blushing?’ I felt that I could have been. I certainly felt embarrassed. To still be so affected just because Jo was pictured with somebody else; pathetic.

Phil looked at me carefully. ‘Ta,’ he said absently as Andi handed him his cup and a doughnut. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses and he nodded. ‘Maybe a little.’

‘I think that’s sweet,’ Andi said, looking at me with a rueful, sympathetic smile. In return I managed a mouth-twitch that might, from a distance with the light behind it, have been interpretable as a smile by somebody partially sighted.

‘Reminds me,’ Phil said, clattering at his keyboard. ‘Bit of gossip on the office e-mail.’ He clattered some more. ‘Yeah,’ he said, nodding at the screen. ‘Mouth Corp might be buying Ice House.’

‘Ice Mouth!’ Kayla said.

‘Mouth House,’ Andi suggested.

‘Oh, fuck,’ I said, eloquently.

The Friday show ended. No package. I felt utterly depressed. I was walking along the corridor to the office when my newly switched-on phone vibrated. Yes! I pulled the Motorola from its holster.

Shit; my lawyer, again.

‘Maggie,’ I said, sighing.

‘Good news.’

I perked instantly; lawyers don’t go bandying about phrases like that without very good reason. ‘What? Lawson’s been found in a child abuse ring?’

‘Better. He’s dropped the charges.’

‘You’re kidding!’ I stopped in the corridor.

‘No. He had some backers who were going to bankroll him in any resulting civil action and I think they decided if they saw it through they’d just give you a platform and let you make the point you’re so obviously trying to make. So, they’ve pulled the plug. Mr Brierley has come to the same conclusion.’

That was rich; Lawson and his right-wing pals concerned about giving me a platform. ‘So, is that it?’

‘There’s the matter of costs. We could go after them.’

‘Right, well, you’d better talk to the money or the legal people here about that, but what about any sort of court case? I mean, is that it… for that?’

‘As I say, a civil action appears to have been ruled out, and, given that the police didn’t choose to suggest a prosecution themselves, yes. I think it’s highly unlikely they’ll change their minds now. Looks like you’re in the clear.’