Identity Crisis

The first bit of bad news was delivered by Uncle Dan immediately post the

Friday morning news conference.

I wasn’t in the mood for bad news – unless of course it was about someone

else in which case my journalistic soul would have been thrilled. Bad news being

somewhat of the stock in trade of the journalist in the same way as doctors would be

in something of a bad state career-wise if there were no ill people about. One

personally deplored that one’s fellow citizens were in some way discommoded, but it

would have left some awkward white spaces in the 3 o’clock late final.

The reason I wasn’t in the market for bad news of the personal variety was

twofold. Firstly my most recent girlfriend Julia had given me the speech. The “we’ll

always be good friends but it’s just not working out,” speech. In consequence I had

been out with the boys for a pint or ten and was feeling some distance from top form.

In fact top form and I were not even on the same continent.

Uncle Dan, by contrast, was clearly buoyed up by his role of harbinger of

doom. Such moments were clearly what motivated him to get out of bed in the

morning and I suspected he would have turned up to his job as deputy editor of the

Spearmouth Herald sans salary if he were still permitted to darken everyone else’s

day on a regular basis.

“There’s a head office visit on Friday,” he announced, clasping a letter in his

hands. (Dan was one of those people who look undressed unless they have a piece

of paper in their hands. We suspected some of them were actually blank and carried

to make him appear to be doing something, but strenuous efforts had so far failed to

prove this)

“I’m sure we can all help drape the building in the bunting left over from the

Silver Jubilee street party if that’s what you are after,” I grunted. “Or perhaps we

could make some paper chains from copy paper.”

“You’ll be more personally involved than that. They want to meet the staff. All

the staff. All the people whose by-lines they see in the paper and whose expenses

claims they approve.”

In case you ever wondered, the sound of five reporters saying “shit”

simultaneously is a bit like a lorry releasing its air brakes. Only with a “t” on the end.

The problem was, of course, that most of us were several people. I don’t

mean in a Seven Faces of Eve multiple personality way. It’s just that it confuses the

public when the person covering the court case of a multiple murderer fills in time in

the boring bits in the case by writing 500 words on interesting recipes for liver. We

therefore have a number of different by-lines we use for different features. My secret

identities, apart from mild-mannered council reporter Tom Robinson (no relation to

the musician) are Rick James the hip dude who writes the totally happening music

page, and John Nelson who writes the Nelson’s Column gossip section.

“I take it from your fatuous grin and self satisfied tone that our local

arrangement has never been officially sanctioned by the powers that be,” I said.

“Far from it,” said Uncle Stan. “I have reason to believe they would not

approve in the least. Remember Bill Graves.”

Bill Graves was a legend in his own lunchtime. He operated on an almost

intravenous feed of alcohol from a nip of whisky on his cornflakes, via a lunch liquid

enough to operate as a boating lake, to a nightcap which started at 6pm and ended

six hours later. His downfall was not drink, however. He was always able to perform

brilliantly as a journalist in spite, or perhaps because of, the amount he drank. He

had the misfortune to work for Albert Docking in the days when he was just a

provincial newspaper editor and had not scaled his current height as General

Manager of the Nationwide Newspaper group. Albert was so parsimonious he knew

the first name of every note in every pay packet, and begrudged letting them leave

the budget.

Bill had been working on a story about a ship launch when his hat had blown

off and floated down the river. Even if he had been able to retrieve it, it would have

been cheaper to buy a new one than pay for the medical care to cope with the rare

diseases he would have contracted wearing anything that came into contact with the

Spear. He duly put in a claim for a new hat in his next expenses only to have it

crossed out by Docking. Docking’s argument was that while the paper had sent Bill

out, it had only told him to cover the story and not his head.

The next week Docking remarked while receiving the expenses claim “No hat

this week then” with Bill replying: “Yes there is, but you won’t find it.” The next week

he was sacked for gross insubordination. We had all been surprised because we

hadn’t thought Docking could spell insubordination.

“And will Docking be part of the party? “ asked the News Editor, John Sutton.

“The party of the first part” said Uncle Dan. Another lorry released its air

brakes in the newsroom.

But what, you may ask (and if you don’t I’ll tell you anyway) has the general

managers excessive concern over expenses and the existence of multiple have

which when brought together cause such unusual bad language to appear on the

lips of otherwise abstemious journalists? It has to do with the unique nature of

expenses in journalism.

In most trades, expenses are paid to compensate for out of pocket payments,

which employees have actually made, pursuant to their efforts on behalf of their

employers. In journalism, they are part of the basic wage. In some dim and distant

pay negotiation, unions and management came up with the whizzo idea of agreeing

a standard level of expenses claim. That way the journalists were happy because

they got more cash in their pockets, and the employers didn’t look as if they had

caved in and allowed a wage rise when next reporting to their shareholders.

Therefore if the expected level was £15 a week, you used all of your expertise to

produce an expenses claim that came to £15 plus or minus 30p. This was often the

most creative piece of writing many of my colleagues produced all week. The only

trouble with this, as Bill Graves found to his cost, was that when you had a genuine

expense that exceeded the expected level, you had more chance of getting a

positive story about Satan in the Catholic Herald than you did of getting it paid.

We had come to a similar happy arrangement about feature writing. Those of

us who managed to fit in writing regular features on top of our daily quota of news

stories got both a small fee equivalent to that paid freelance contributors, and were

able to put in a separate expenses claim for each pseudonym. Both were paid out in

cash in the name of the by-line, rather than our own monikers. However, as this

practise had grown up after Albert Docking’s move onward and upward, we had

every reason to believe it would not find favour at HQ.

As you can imagine this put something of a damper on my mood, which was

excessively moist to begin with. The next bit of bad news plunged my mood to the

bottom of the Mariana Trench, wrapped in chains, and locked in a trunk.

On the way to the Town Hall for the Planning Committee, I bumped into Ken

Bing. As he is built like one of those concrete blocks designed to prevent coastal

erosion, this was somewhat painful.

“Hello, Tom,” he growled. “You may be the person to help me out.”

“Which way did you come in?” I quipped. Either because he was not in the

mood for levity, or not bright enough to spot the joke, he failed to laugh. In fact his

mood was so far opposite levity, it had enough gravity to suck in humour from a wide

radius and crush it in the super dense matter that constituted his personality.

“I want to see Rick James”

“Does he want to see you?” I replied, starting to feel a little nervous on behalf

of my alter ego. After all, we shared the same body, and Bing was known to be fond

of creative bodywork alterations. In fact he was known to display a great deal of

effort, but not much skill, in this endeavour.

“I doubt it. I read the review he did of the Fallen Angels’ single.”

Another one of those lorries released its airbrake in the back of my head.

As I alluded earlier, Ken Bing was solidly built. He was about five foot ten tall,

and four foot across the shoulders (as I also alluded, his IQ approximated two short

planks). He had a face only a mother could love, but as his primary use for it was

head butting people he didn’t like, he didn’t seem to mind. His gym had been forced

to buy in larger weights to keep him happy (having been convinced that keeping him

happy was something in their interests). As you can imagine this combination of

physique, intellect and attitude led him to consider as a career not floristry as his

mother hoped, but general thuggery. He had dabbled in being a bouncer (something

he took rather too literally when dealing with the heads of those being ejected)

minder to various villains, and some petty larceny of his own. I was actually in his

good books as he had asked me one day to keep a court appearance of his for

burglary out of the paper to prevent his mother thinking he was a thief. (He

presumably didn’t mind her knowing he was a violent psychopath). By chance other

stories bumped it off that day’s edition, and you can only report court stories the day

after they happen. Consequently he felt he owed me a favour.

Rick James on the other hand….

“I’m going to take his typewriter and stick it so far up his arse he’ll produce

War and Peace every time he brushes his teeth”

“Not a good review then?” I asked, ingenuously.

“The little toe rag said he wished all three of their chords had never been

found. He said their single was to the world of music what the burning of the library

of Alexandria was to the world of books. He said there was literally no beginning to

their talent. And those were the good bits.”

Ken, I should explain, had recently become the manager of the Fallen Angels

– Spearmouth’s own answer to the Sex Pistols. (and if they were the answer, it must

have been a stupid question). No-one had dared ask whether the Fallen Angels were

happy to have him as manager, although he certainly sorted out trouble at their gigs.

If there wasn’t any, he would cause some. As punk gigs had their success measured

on a scale of cause celebre, this was seen as a good thing and had brought them to

the attention of the national music press.

“Didn’t he say it was going to be a hit, though?”

“He said their first single was a number one, but this was definitely a number

two. I don’t think he meant it would be a hit.”

Evidently he was not quite as stupid as I had assumed. However I was sure

he was as violent as I thought. He had a pit bull he fed on live rats, a fish tank full of

piranha and a bird eating spider – or at least he had until one of his associates saw it

running across the carpet and stood on it assuming it was wild. Ken certainly was

and when his associate arrived at casualty he looked as if he had suffered the same

fate as the spider.

“I don’t think Rick is in today. Perhaps next week?”

“I’ll call in every day until he is there,” Ken said. The receptionist would be

pleased with me.

The third bit of bad news was delivered after the Planning Committee.

Planning Committee was held in the rather splendid Victorian Town Hall. The

architects had thrown in every style and effect including the kitchen sink (I had once

been in the kitchen and the sink was a rather nice veined marble affair with gold taps

in the shape of dolphins). The main council chamber was panelled in oak with plush

red leather chairs (for the councillors – the press had a cheap plastic one placed

carefully so it was impossible to see who was speaking) that would not have looked

out of place in one of the more exclusive London clubs. Paintings of ex mayors and

various other worthies (none of whom anyone had ever heard of) adorned the walls,

and it even had stained glass windows with the Town’s crest and motto (the motto

was a bit of an embarrassment. Celebrating Spearmouth’s role as a guardian of the

sea and sailing folk, it was felt “Be Prepared” would be a good slogan to adopt. This

was felt somewhat less of a good idea after Baden Powell adopted the same slogan

for his Boy Scouts. Leading to the same tired jokes every time a reporter from the

national media did a story that necessitated them visiting the council chamber).

Planning Committee was chaired by Councillor Dan Dodgson, who was also

leader of the ruling Labour group. I was also in Dan’s good books as I regularly

turned his incoherent mumblings into something resembling English. “I’m not sure

that was what I meant, but it should have been” he told me once. To be fair to Dan,

he wasn’t alone in receiving this service. Most of his group had their Geordie dialect

translated into Queen’s English (and I suspect in many households it was

painstakingly translated back). The opposition fared little better as I had to translate

their vapid outpourings of cliché into something that didn’t sound like it was written

by someone called Nigel whose reading consisted of American self help books and

the French Structuralists.

Dan’s heart was in the right place – just behind his ribs. However his brain

was a different matter. Believing himself a man of the people, he felt he could

therefore just consult himself when it came to deciding what was in people’s best

interests. These generally coincided with his own.

As I mentioned, I was in his good books. However John Nelson….

Red faced and fuming, Cllr Dodgson clumped across to the press bench like a

radish on top of a pressure cooker.

“How dare he say that about me?”

“Who say what?” I asked innocently.

“John flaming Nelson. I’ll have him up before the Press Commission. Said I

was being dishonest. That’s slander.”

“Actually, it’s libel. It’s slander when you say it and libel when it’s in print.”

“Don’t you start and get clever with me. I’ll make sure he never works in

journalism again.”

I wasn’t too worried about legal action or the Press Commission as the article

was absolutely true. He could make things unpleasant for a few months, however,

and make my day job reporting the council impossible.

The article in question was actually quite mild. The Labour party had been

short of a candidate at the last local election because the person due to stand had

been promoted away from the area (you can bet no-one was ever promoted into

Spearmouth). Rather than lose by default, they had simply got an old photograph

and made up a name for the ballot papers on the basis that he would be voted for

whether or not anyone recognised him – a correct assumption. The plan was to then

find a proper candidate, have the bogus one resign and run a by-election. However

in the meantime someone had the even better idea of claiming attendance

allowances for Cllr Also at which point even Dan had decided this was beyond the

pale and clamped down, admitting “an administrative error” in putting forward a non

existent candidate. Nelson’s Column queried how anyone could print up 500

photographs of someone who didn’t exist by error. I suspect what really got up Dan’s

nose, however, was the suggestion that the phantom councillor was actually better

value than most of the real ones as at least he never managed any cock ups in his

brief tenure.

“We don’t see him in the office much. I think he sends his columns in by post”

“He’ll have to come in on Monday though won’t he,” Dan grinned. “I’ve been

invited to meet your General Manager when he comes to see all the staff.”

Time for another braking lorry.

All of which made a pint in the Percy Vaults at lunchtime a quite attractive

proposition.

My best mate on the Herald was Adam Weston – one of the sub editors. Sub

editors, for those who don’t understand the arcane world of newspaper job titles (and

not just job titles – why is the union branch of hard drinking, swearing, sex obsessed

journalists called a “Chapel”?) are not people who work just below the editor. They

take the immortal prose we reporters fashion from the raw material of life and hack it

into unrecognisable gibberish merely to ensure it fits to the right length on their page

layouts. They also assume that our readers are incapable of understanding anything

requiring a reading age above the average seven year old. I was taken to task in my

first amateur theatre review for using the word “subsume”. They also turned down

“abnegate” when I tried to suggest an alternative.

Adam was less deserving of my ire than the others – mainly because he did

mostly feature pages and therefore subbed less of my copy on a regular basis. He

had started to develop the unhealthy pallor and bad posture inevitable among those

forced to live the troglodyte existence of a subs room for eight or nine hours a day

but retained a sense of humour. The worst effect being a sub had had on him so far

was a tendency to absorb the language of whatever he was subbing into his speech

patterns. Currently he was busy doing the horoscopes – a task he enjoyed as it

provided him with the opportunity of altering them to his own advantage. It was a

fortnight before people realised that their daily fortunes often suggested they buy a

beer for a Libran.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I grumbled as I brought the beers back to

the table.

“Now may the time to make a clean breast of something that has been

troubling you.”

“No. If I admit to HQ I’m John Nelson, Dan Dodgson will hear and stop me

covering council meetings.”

“Sever all ties with someone from the past who is holding you back.”

“Unfortunately I need the money. Pints of beer don’t grow on trees”

“You may find money from unexpected sources.”

“If that means you’re getting the next round in, bring it on, old friend.”

“Your love life may be ruled by Saturn, but your luck is coming out of Uranus.”

At this point my attention was distracted by a vision entering the saloon bar.

I’m unsure of the concept of love at first sight, but lust at first sight certainly exists,

and I had just been hit by it.

A couple of inches shorter than me (Five six, if you’re asking (me not her))

and slimly built. A face that could turn cheese back to milk surrounded by a nimbus

of red hair that would have had her instantly proclaimed a sun goddess by any tribe

in the market for said deity.

She looked a little out of place in the saloon bar of the Percy Vaults. I always

assumed it was called a saloon because it only needed a pair of swinging doors to

be right in place in any of the works of John Ford (the director of westerns not the

17th century playwright). It was certainly full of cowboys – most of whom were

staring at this beatific vision with less than holy intentions. As my own motives were

entirely chivalrous I leaped to my feet and approached her.

“You look a bit lost, can I help?”

“I was just looking for somewhere to get a bite to eat, I have a job interview

round the corner,” she favoured me with a smile that was bright enough to lighten the

gloom in corners of the bar that had not seen illumination since they put the roof on.

Several customers turned green as they saw clearly what they had been drinking for

the first time.

“Well they do a mean hot pot here,”

“That sounds nice.”

“No, I mean really mean. Attempt to eat it and it fights back. The reason this

place is near the police station is so they can quickly intervene if the casserole turns

really nasty.”

She laughed. Tinkling bells with an overtone of doves cooing.

“I can’t even recommend the pork scratchings, knowing what I do of the

barman’s personal habits. There is a reasonable coffee bar in the next street,

though.”

She agreed to let me show her the way, and with a wave to Adam we nipped

to the Country Tavern (whose name, I can only assume had something to do with

the sour faced lady that owned it).

As we turned to go out another good reason to leave came in. Roland

Anderton – the Northcastle Guardian’s Spearmouth reporter. Apart from the normal

journalistic rivalry between the two papers (I like to think we were slightly ahead on

points) Roland really got up my nose. Educated at public school he had the effortless

self confidence of that background. Tall with wide blue eyes, he had naturally curly

blonde hair and the sort of show off sharp cheekbones and jaw line that women find

attractive for some reason. In contrast to my innate modesty, he was far too full of

himself.

“Hello, Tom, still glad to be gay? And who is your friend.”

“Goodbye Roland, I’m off to do some real work. You may find out what that is

one day.”

Luckily, I managed to usher my vision through the door before she could get

more than a glimpse of Roland in the gloom of the Arms.

“Who was that?”

“Local nutter. He’s been pestering me for ages with some wild story he wants

me to print – I’m a journalist on the Herald, by the way. I blame the drugs.”

She generously allowed me to buy her lunch – the full English breakfast and a

slice of carrot cake. Either she had a very fast metabolism, or she was putting a layer

of fat and carbohydrate between her and her nervousness about the interview.

“I’m Tom Robinson, by the way,” I grinned stupidly.

“Like the rock musician? I’m Hannah Dodgson.”

Ignoring the comment about my name I homed in on hers.

“Like the Council leader?”

“Yes, he’s my dad.”

Two thoughts shot through my mind. Firstly how could something as lovely as

this have any familial relationship to something like that. Secondly what a good job it

was I had used my real name and not John Nelson. Not that I regularly gave false

names to girls you understand – at least not ones I plan on seeing more than once.

It is just that not many girls in their twenties read the council reports, so they are far

more likely to be impressed if I use John Nelson, or especially Rick James, who

there is a chance they had actually heard of.

“I was just talking to him this morning after the Planning Committee meeting.”

“You probably see him more than I do – he spends all his time at the Town

Hall.”

If Hannah looked anything like her mother, I couldn’t understand how Dan

ever left the house. Perhaps she was a terrible cook – which would also explain

Hannah’s calorie fest.

“So, you’re having a job interview? Whereabouts?”

“At the Herald, as a receptionist.”

Another one of those lorries. If Hannah was a receptionist, she may spot me

coming to answer a call for John Nelson and put two and two together. Given her

father’s attitude towards my alter ego, this was unlikely to bode well for any romance

I may have in mind. Not to mention any chance of sex.

“Presumably you will have to give notice?” I asked, clutching at the hope of a

stay of execution at least.

“No, I’ve just finished college and they seemed keen that whoever gets the job

should start straight away.”

There was still the hope that she may not take the job. People were always

wandering in to talk to journalists about some half-baked stories so the reception

area was always full of drunks. And the customers were sometimes worse. The

whole thing was so depressing I only made a tentative date for Monday night rather

than pressing for something earlier. It would either be out of the question by then or

all clear, and I would rather not experience ecstasy only to have it snatched from my

grasp.

By some miraculous process the food had disappeared from her plate without

seeming to enter her mouth. Either she had slipped it into her handbag for later,

could add being a very neat eater to her accomplishments, or I was so smitten I

hadn‘t noticed her ingesting. Lunch hour (and the rest) approaching its end I gallantly

escorted her to the Herald’s offices and introduced her to the senior receptionist as I

trudged back to the quiet of the newsroom. Sitting in the comparative silence that

descends after the final edition of the day is put to bed and the reporters pretend to

be typing the next day’s advance stories rather than the morning bedlam of them all

talking on the phone and typing at the same time.

After ten minutes I heard her name as she was summoned to the manager’s

office over the tannoy.

Ten minutes later (told you I was a bit down) inspiration struck. The tannoy. If

I could somehow gain control of the tannoy I could break up the head office party so

that different members met different versions of me. This could include ensuring that

Dan never met John Nelson. That still left the problem of Ken and Rick James, and it

would, of course mean split second timing, but if the Mission Impossible team could

pull it off every week, so could I (I had a brief reverie of pulling off those rubber

masks that would make things even more convincing, but Spearmouth isn’t noted for

its surfeit of disguise shops).

Luckily the Manager’s secretary, whose dulcet tones drive the tannoy, owed

me a favour. I had been offered tickets (in my Rick James existence) to a Kenny

Rodgers concert. While both Rick and I (and John Nelson) would rather be seen

dead than at a Kenny Rodgers concert, Marjorie was delighted to take my place and

give me a set list afterwards for the review (Kenny delighted his fans with …the rest

of us thought he was terrible).

Marjorie was indeed happy to collaborate, but unfortunately there were only

two in the head office party – Albert Docking and his Finance Manager. As there

were three of me, this meant a further elaboration. So I thought of Davey Jones.

Davey shared a flat with Adam in Sea Road, above Colman’s Café. William

Burroughs once said: “No-one owns life, but whoever holds a frying pan owns

death.” He had clearly eaten at Colman’s. No-one who lived in Spearmouth willingly

ate there, unless they had already ruled out pills and putting their head in the gas

oven as alternative ways of committing suicide. It was kept in business by tourists

and day-trippers and the powers that be ignored its various health and safety

breaches on the grounds of revenge for all of those empty chip packets they dumped

on the streets.

Apart from the smell of frying, Davey’s flat was very good value. It was near to

the places locals actually ate – Sea Road’s numerous Indian restaurants – within

staggering distance of the town centre pubs, and any time they needed a light bulb

they could go out on the balcony and pinch one from the set that spelled out the

café’s name. Each room therefore had a different colour, and they were well on their

way to making the sign spell “Colon’s Café” which they thought was more

appropriate.

Existing in a cloud of intoxication which would make a journalist jealous,

Davey was more than happy to go along with my plan, although getting the details to

stick was a bit tricky.

“Cool man, you want me to pretend to be you. Do I need to get a stupid

haircut like yours?”

My hair was perfectly fine, cut in the latest King Charles style which was all

the rage among Mickey Pratt’s customers (it was the only one he did) compared to

Davey’s white man’s afro and wispy beard which gave him his folk club nickname of

Brillo.

“No, you don’t have to pretend to be me. You are supposed to be Rick James,

who writes the music column. I’m me.”

“I thought you were Rick James.”

“Yes, normally, but on Monday you’re Rick and I’m me and John Nelson.”

“Why can’t I be two people.”?

“We’ll have enough problems persuading people you are as many as one

person. All you have to do is turn up at reception, say you are Rick James and I’ll get

the General Manager brought down to meet you. I can then introduce myself as John

Nelson, leave you to make small talk, and run upstairs to introduce myself as me to

the finance manager and Cllr Dodgson before coming back to rescue you and

escape outside. General manager rejoins his party who have now met all three of me

and everyone’s happy.”

“Why can’t I be John Nelson?”

“OK. Rick James writes about music. You know about music. John Nelson

writes about local affairs – do you know anything about local affairs?”

“I know about the borough solicitor and the woman from the Black Bull.”

“Not the sort of affairs I had in mind, although if you can give me details it

would make a good story for next week.”

After a couple of more cans I went home.

The rest of the weekend was a bit of a blur. It most closely resembled

Asmodeus chasing Beelzebub – just one damned thing after another. However

having restricted my Sunday night alcoholic intake to just the seven pints I was

comparatively bright eyed and bushy tailed the next morning. The winter sunrise

over the ocean was one of those pink, red, orange, blue and green jobbies that

Chesterton would have given his heart and lungs to describe (its main ingredients

being every carcinogenic chemical known to man from coal fires and chemical

works. Since God had seen fit to use up every colour in his Rowney giant

watercolour set on the thing I decided to take this as a good omen.

I smiled winningly to Hannah as I came in via the front door rather than sliding

in via the garage as I normally did. She smiled back – so far so good. The head

office party weren’t due to arrive until 10 so there was plenty of time to remind

Marjorie of her role and that split second timing was of the essence. I had reminded

Davey the previous night at the folk club –unfortunately not at the start so I wasn’t

entirely sure how good a chance he stood of remembering.

All I then had to do was sit tight and pretend to work so they wouldn’t send me

out on a story.

The first part of the plan worked perfectly. I had hidden in the toilet as the

party were brought in and introduced to most of the staff. I then sneaked down to

reception to see if Davey had arrived, only to be greeted by Hannah in the corridor.

“That nutter we met the other day is here to see you.”

Nutter?

“The one with the curly perm. Fancies himself a bit.”

Roland. Lorries.

“I suppose I can see him. I’ll go over to the far corner so we don’t disturb

anyone. I’m expecting someone else so it would be great if you could rescue me if

he arrives. Frizzy hair and glasses.” Hopefully not an insurmountable problem.

I slipped through into reception and dragged Roland as far away from the

desk as possible without cutting a hole in the wall.

“What do you want? Some of us have to work.”

“Is that what you call it? I’ve seen the output – I could challenge you under the

Trades Descriptions Act.” He grinned across at Hannah. “Don’t I recognise her from

the other day? Should I introduce myself? She looks friendly.”

“Not unless you have ability to regrow teeth. She’s spoken for. What do you

want?”

“I heard you were having trouble over expenses,” he gloated. “I just thought I

would pop down here to give you the benefit of my advice. Possibly to say hello to

Albert Docking. I worked for him once before I moved to the Guardian.”

“Listen Roland, as far as you are concerned you can be my sexual

counsellor,”

“What do you mean?”

“When I want your fucking advice I’ll ask for it. Now bugger off and stop

lowering the tone of our reception area.”

He had no such intention, however, especially as at that moment the doors

burst open and Ken Bing walked in.

“Hello, Tom. Where’s that bastard Rick James. I’m not leaving until I see him.”

Roland looked about to blab but became strangely quiet as I grabbed his

meat and two veg in a backhand grip and gave a warning squeeze.

“Don’t think he’s in today, Ken. I heard he was sick.”

At this point the door opened again and Davey rolled in with a slight stagger

that suggested he had been trying to recreate the situation he was in last night in the

hope of remembering what I had said. Given the presence of a violent psycho with a

grudge I hoped he wouldn’t succeed until I had a chance to tip him off.

“Hello, are you Tom?,” he said. “Can you tell me who I am?”

I gave Hannah a shrug and a grin (and Roland another squeeze) to suggest

this was a regular occurrence on the reception desk and she shouldn’t be put off.

“I’m sure I’ll remember who you are in a second. Do you want to walk round

the block and come back in five minutes so I have time to bring you to mind?”

Before he could leave, the door behind me opened and Albert Docking walked

in. With his finance manager (lorries) And Cllr Dodgson (lorries and a couple of

double deckers).

“Excuse me”, he said to Hannah. “I was told I could find Tom Robinson and

John Nelson down here. Could you introduce me, please?”

Before she had a chance to speak, Dodgson chipped in: “Hello Hannah, love.

That’s Tom over there – the short, nervous one. Not sure who Nelson is, though. I’d

like to meet him myself.”

Thinking on my feet has always been a talent (admittedly one of my lesser

ones). Between getting a tongue lashing from Dan Dodgson and a literal lashing,

and the rest, from Ken Bing, I guessed which Davey would prefer. In his current state

he was unlikely to remember the first.

“That’s him over there, isn’t it John,” I mugged, hoping he would catch on.

“Am I? Oh yes.”

“Hopeless case,” I muttered to Dan and Albert. “I think the editor is planning to

get rid of him. Not the first time he’s turned up drunk.”

Unfortunately Hannah overheard.

“Sack him, you can’t possibly do that. He’s the only man who seems to have

the guts to stand up to my father. I think he’s wonderful.”

To my surprise, instead of giving her the benefit of his views, Dan collapsed

like a pricked balloon.

“Well if you really think so, dear, I could have a word with the editor.”

Clearly John Nelson may have been the only man to stand up to her father,

but there was also at least one woman who had no trouble doing so. I was torn

between admiration and nervousness about how exactly she had managed to neuter

her father, and whether this was a process she tried on other men – boyfriends, for

example.

I had forgotten about Roland in this unexpected turn of events. He took

advantage of a loosening of my grip and stepped out of range. His lips were opening

when anything he might have said was drowned by another below from Ken Bing.

“Never mind all of this – where is Rick James?”

Inspiration struck again.

“I can’t keep it from you any longer Ken. This is Rick James.” And I turned and

pointed to Roland, neatly ducking as a right hook from Ken Bing swung past my

head and lifted Roland off his feet and onto his backside.

After that things got a bit complicated. I managed to retrieve matters a bit by

whispering in Dan’s ear that with “Rick James” incapacitated I could take over his

column and give the Fallen Angels a good write up if he would lay off, while

pretending to try and restrain him. This impressed Albert Docking quite a bit but

buttered few parsnips with Hannah. Still convinced Davey was John Nelson. She

was clearly enamoured and was quite frosty when she called off our date (by this

point Davey also seemed to think he was John Nelson. Whether this was confusion,

getting into the part, the intoxicants finally rotting his brain or simply knowing when

he was on a good thing with Hannah, time would tell).

Fortunately Roland was not too whoozy to recognise my threat to unleash

Dan as being genuine, and conscious enough to realize that he would be unable to

give the real explanation quickly enough to save himself from a beating. I wasn’t

quite sure whether to be happy or sad about that.

Luckily Albert Docking didn’t remember Roland. Those who recalled Albert’s

days on the Herald claimed he said hello to anyone he met in the corridors of the

building on the off chance he employed them. These included various people here to

be interviewed, the odd tramp wandering in from the cold, and on one occasion a

thief carrying off parts of his office furniture. If it wasn’t presented on the right form it

didn’t register on the radar.

Life went on. There were no great moral lessons learned by anyone (unless it

was don’t try and explain anything complicated to someone when they are pissed).

Perhaps the best closing words were given by Adam when he was in the throws of

editing the crossword puzzle clues: “No sex on menu indicates travel (4,3)”.