“They’re approaching the main entrance now,” he muttered into his pocket memo, his voice as high and agitated as a racing commentator’s. “They haven’t been burned to death yet, but surely it can only be a matter of time. And who can doubt that the question on their lips—if they still have lips at this moment, of course—is, what reforms to the nuclear power station inspectorate can the Government propose now if they are to retain any credibility whatsoever in the eyes of the nation? Did anyone in Downing Street know that this was likely to happen? Was there a cover…?”
Before he could say “up”, there was a deafening roar, and the helicopter was jolted by a violent gust of air as the front part of the power station collapsed in a cloud of smoke and yellow flames. The Meissen geiger counter started to play “Lilliburlero”, which was presumably its quaint, Augustan way of signifying danger. Danny stared but there was nothing to see, just swirling clouds of smoke. He turned away and told Neville to take the chopper out of there fast.
“Did you get all that?” he asked the cameraman breathlessly. The cameraman looked at him.
“Oh sod it,” he said, “forgot to take the lens cap off. Only kidding,” he added quickly, as Danny’s face twisted into a mask of rage and his hand moved to the butt of the gun. “Can’t you take a joke all of a sudden?”
“No.” Danny snapped. “That’s my award you’ve got in that thing, so for Christ’s sake stop farting around.” The strains of “Lilliburlero” had died away, and the elegant needle was back out of the red zone. “Right, Neville,” he shouted at the front of the helicopter, “let’s go back and have another look.”
Neville shook his head. “No can do,” he shouted back. “No fuel. Sorry.”
Danny swore. “What do you mean, no fuel?”
Neville pointed at what Danny assumed was the fuel gauge, although for all he knew it could be the tape deck, and shrugged.
“You clown!” Danny shouted. “The story of the decade and you choose this moment to run out of petrol.”
“It’s not petrol,” said Neville, “it’s aviation fuel.”
“I don’t care if it’s methylated spirits,” Danny yelled. “Go somewhere where we can get some more and be quick about it.”
Neville consulted a map. “Inverness,” he said.
Danny, who had been to Inverness, shuddered, but there was nothing he could do. “All right,” he said, “but get on with it.”
♦
As the helicopter turned, Danny peered frantically out of the back window, and could just see the bright glow of a burning power station through a miasma of black clouds.
“Don’t go away,” he said, “we’ll be right back after the break.”
Just another day at Broadcasting House. In the rather battered and uncomfortable suite assigned to the lost sheep who run Radio Three, a harassed-looking man in what had been, thirty years ago, quite an expensive tweed jacket told the listening public that they had just been listening to a sonata by Berg. Long ago, when the jacket had been new and the world had been young and not quite such a miserable place, someone out there might have cared.
The harassed-looking man announced Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony”, took off his earphones and fumbled in his pocket for his packet of peppermints. All gone. Damn.
“George.”
The door of the studio had opened—a curious event during working hours. Had someone lost his way looking for the lavatory? No, for the stranger had spoken his name. George turned his head.
“News flash, George. We interrupt this programme, and all that.”
“Fancy,” George said. “The last time I did one of these was poor dear President Kennedy. What’s up this time?”
“Nuclear power station in Scotland’s blown up,” he was informed. George raised an eyebrow.
“Well, now,” he said, “how dreadful.”
“Indeed.”
“I mean,” George said, “we’ll have to reorganise the whole afternoon schedule. After all,” he explained, “I’m sure there’ll be lots and lots of these little bulletins as the long day wears on, and that’ll make it impossible to play the Bartok. Can’t play Bartok with holes in it, it’s not right.”
“Well absolutely.”
“I’m glad you agree,” George replied. “Have they come up with a revised schedule?”
“No, George, they haven’t,” he was told. “I imagine they’ve been too busy playing at being journalists to give any thought to anything so important.”
“Now, now,” George said, frowning, “there’s no call for sarcasm. You’d better leave it all to me, and I’ll just have to cobble something together.”
“That’s fine, then,” said George’s interlocutor. “I’ll leave it all up to you. Let no one say you didn’t stay calm and do your bit in the crisis.”
“Thank you.”
“Like the orchestra on the
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” The door closed, and George thought for a moment. In the background the music played, but the only effect it had on George was to inspire the reflection that the “Unfinished Symphony” would be used to it by now, and he could safely take it off in a moment to read the news flash. What could he think of for an impromptu programme with interruptions?
♦
