Falls the Shadow

by Mark Timlin

  We finished our tea and cigarettes and I left, taking her phone number and giving her mine at home, and promising to keep in close touch. By that time it was past eight. I drove straight to Brixton, parked and went to the wine bar where I was due to meet Peter Day.

  4

  I pushed open the door about eight-thirty and took a squint around. I’d never seen Peter Day in the flesh, but I’d seen plenty of photographs in the papers and reckoned I’d know him if I saw him. The place was quiet, and as far as I could see there were no media stars in situ. But I was early so I went to the bar and ordered a bottle of Perrier. As far as Sunset Radio was concerned I was tt and I didn’t want to spoil the illusion. Christ knows why. Sometimes a wind-up takes on a life of its own. I paid for the drink and took the bottle and glass over to an empty table with a good view of the door. I poured an inch of mineral water into the glass and lit a cigarette. The bar was early-in-the-week quiet with just a couple of tables occupied and one or two lonely-looking punters sitting at the bar.

  I sat there and smoked three cigarettes and watched the Perrier go flat as a couple more customers came in, but none who looked anything like Peter Day.

  Eventually, as nine o’clock struck on the Town Hall clock, the door banged open and he arrived. He looked exactly like the photographs I’d seen in the press, except for the fact that he was ten years older in the flesh, and tiny. He stood only five four or five in the smallest pair of cuban-heeled boots I’d ever seen. He posed in the doorway like a little bantam cock checking out the farmyard. Oh good, I thought. Colonel Tom Thumb. He was in his mid-forties, with grey, collar-length hair, wearing a navy blue double-breasted suit over a blue denim shirt. I caught his eye and nodded and he headed over in my direction. He stood in front of the table as tall as he could. ‘Sharman?’ he said.

  ‘That’s me.’ I replied, and stood up. Not a good idea, but fuck him. The cheque was in the bank with a jockey on it, and I had five, no, six hundred nicker in cash in a warm pocket close to my heart. He looked up at me and we shook hands. He had a grip like a vice. I’d’ve bet that six ton that he worked on it with one of those little exercise machines you can buy in sports shops. ‘You’re big, aren’t you?’ he said.

  I’m not particularly, just bigger than he was. In fact, almost everyone in the world was bigger than he was, children included. No wonder he was so bad-tempered on the radio. ‘Want a drink?’ he asked. ‘Oh, no,’ he said with a mean little look at the Perrier bottle. ‘I forgot. You don’t, do you? Can I get you the same again, or an orange juice or something?’

  I smiled a non-committal smile. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘An orange juice would be fine. Stick a vodka in it. A large one.’

  ‘But Hillerman said…’

  ‘Vodka’s not drinking,’ I said. ‘Odourless, colourless. You’ve seen the ads.’

  ‘So you…’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I lied.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Showbiz. I just love it. I’d do anything to get close to you entertainment folk. Just to touch the hem of your garments is to fulfil my existence.’

  ‘You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?’

  ‘My, but you’re quick,’ I said. ‘I bet you’ve got A levels.’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘And old Tony Hillerman thinks you’re as pure as the driven.’

  ‘I can do the job,’ I said.

  ‘Good. A large one, is it?’

  I nodded, and he went to the bar and stood on tip-toe and peered over the top to order. I sat down again and lit another cigarette.

  He came back and put my drink in front of me, and what looked like a large scotch on his side of the table, and sat down. I added a little flattened Perrier to the glass to kill the kick. I was supposed to be working after all, it was still a long time to the midnight hour, and Hillerman had warned me about Day’s drinking. Heavens, sometimes I’m so responsible, I frighten myself. ‘Tell me about Sector 88,’ I said, after he’d taken a swallow of his drink.

  ‘There’s not much to tell. Bunch of brainless, gutless shits. They think they’re in Germany, 1933. Black shirts, swastikas, Juden raus. You know the deal.’

  ‘You’ve been doing your homework.’

  ‘Know thine enemy.’

  ‘Fill me in.’

  He sat back and took a hit on his drink. ‘They were founded four or five years back. An offshoot of the nf. No Führer as such, just a loose committee.’

  ‘Any names?’

  ‘They use pseudonyms – except they couldn’t spell the word.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Great White Master. Grand Wizard.’ He saw my look. ‘I know, I know, more like the Klan. They don’t know what the fuck they are.’

  ‘Any sheets and pointy hats?’

  ‘No. Para-military gear mostly.’

  ‘And no burning crosses?’

  ‘Not yet. It’s just an excuse to dress up, get a hard-on and come in their riding breeches.’

  ‘You don’t take them seriously?’

  ‘Fuck ’em. Course I don’t.’

  ‘They didn’t take Hitler seriously, and look what happened there.’

  ‘I don’t see these idiots building concentration camps in Hyde Park and gassing Indian shop keepers.’

  ‘But they’ve got under Hillerman’s skin.’

  ‘He’s just scared of bad publicity.’

  ‘Or someone burning the station down.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, that too. Pompous little shit.’

  He was, I had to agree. I was thinking of ‘demography’ in particular.

  ‘But he’s loyal,’ said Day. ‘I’ll say that for him. Another Programme Director might have given me the rocket.’

  ‘He might have given it to you, if you weren’t related to the managing director.’

  ‘You’ve been doing your homework too.’

  ‘That’s what I’m paid to do.’

  ‘They wouldn’t fire me, brother-in-law or no brother-in-law. That’s who he is – Vincent. Vincent Crane, MD of Sunset Radio. My brother-in-law. Or maybe they would. Who knows in this business any more? But that’s another story. I’ll tell you about it sometime. When we get to know each other a little better. If we do.’

  ‘Is he your sister’s husband or your wife’s brother?’ It wasn’t really important but I asked anyway.

  ‘My sister’s husband. That way he can’t get rid of me unless he gets rid of her first. And there’s no way he’s getting rid of Joanie. She wears the pants in that house. And the boxer shorts, probably.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Old Joanie’s got it well sorted.’

  ‘Do you get on with him?’

  ‘If I don’t see him.’

  ‘That’s families.’

  ‘You got one?’

  I held up my thumb and forefinger, a quarter of an inch apart. ‘A small one,’ I said. ‘A daughter. Lives in Scotland with my ex-wife and her new hubby.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Mine too,’ he said. ‘She lives in Newcastle with my ex-wife and her new hubby.’

  ‘Snap,’ I said. ‘Want another drink?’

  ‘On with the motley,’ he said. ‘A large Bell’s with enough water to quench a mouse’s thirst, but barely.’

  I went up to the bar and got the drinks. We sat and drank for the next two hours and it didn’t seem to affect him at all. We talked about nothing much, just getting to know each other like he’d said. He was entertaining company. Eventually, just after eleven, he invited me to come over to the station and sit in on his show. I agreed, so we drank up and left the bar.

  5

  We walked the short distance to the radio station. When we got to the front door, Day pressed a button by the side and a security man sitting at the reception desk looked up. He recognised Day and buzzed us straight through.
As we walked across the carpet towards him, he turned down the volume on the loudspeakers which were playing Ride On Time by Black Box. ‘Stan,’ said Day, ‘this is Nick Sharman. He’s a private detective, looking for the Nazi tossers who’re sending us all that shit and stuff in boxes. He’s to be allowed to come and go as he wants.’

  The security man looked me over. ‘I hope you find them bastards,’ he said. ‘It’s disgusting what people do.’

  I agreed, and Day led me past the desk and through the door that Clyde had taken me through earlier that day. ‘Did you get a look around this morning?’ he asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’ll give you the tour then.’ He took me across the corridor into what he called the production office, which contained a coffee machine and a block of paper-strewn desks in the middle. He explained that that was where the jocks and presenters hung out when they weren’t on the air, and nattered to each other or any of the staff that they could hijack.

  At one end of the office were two cubicles. One housed the telex machines loaded with huge rolls of paper that stuttered out messages from AP, Reuters and IRN twenty-four hours a day, the other a pair of adapted VCRs that recorded every moment of the station’s transmission for the station log. ‘Very important, that,’ said Day. ‘In case of legal action.’

  The production office was a tip. There were records, books, tapes, CDs, newspapers, magazines, piles of paper, and all sorts of other junk strewn about everywhere. Every inch of wall space that wasn’t lined with shelves was covered with photographs, cartoons cut from magazines, and the kind of in-joke messages that apparently the people who work at radio stations love. Day showed me his cubby hole where his mail and messages were left for him. There were a pile of envelopes and three parcels waiting for him. One was what looked like a book wrapped in brown paper. The other two were Jiffy bags: one about eight inches by five, the other slightly larger and thicker. Day riffled through the envelopes and stuck them in his pocket, then began opening the parcels. ‘Are those all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘The shit comes in boxes, just a bit bigger than the ones you get wedding cake in. They’re all hand addressed in capitals with black marker. And they’re all posted letter rate from Brixton or the Elephant or Waterloo main post offices. You can spot them a mile off. Look at these.’

  A book was addressed to him on a white label with the publisher’s name and address printed across the top. He tore open the parcel to show me a copy of the latest shopping and fucking epic from an expatriate actress living in Los Angeles on her film rights and alimony. The smaller of the Jiffy bags had been franked with a little message proclaiming the attractions of Roxette.

  ‘EMI,’ said Day. ‘They’ve been pushing that lot for months.’

  He opened the bag and took out a CD reissue of a Coleman Hawkins Blue Note album. The other Jiffy was also franked. This time it simply read Love Thang. ‘A&M,’ explained Day. ‘That’s a new single they’re punting about.’ He opened that bag also and showed me two more CDs. One was by Sting, the other by The Carpenters. ‘No surprises there,’ he said, and stuck the discs back into the envelopes, took out a small bunch of keys, unlocked a desk drawer and dropped them in.

  After locking it again, he took me through a door in the far wall that led out on to a small loading bay, opening in turn on to the narrow service road at the back of the building where I’d parked my car earlier. The loading bay was accessed by an aluminium shutter that rolled up into the ceiling, and a single, small metal door next to it.

  We went back into the production office and Day got two cups of coffee from the machine and gave me one. ‘Come upstairs,’ he said, ‘where the real work gets done, and meet my engineer.’ We went out into the corridor again.

  Next to the production office were two executive offices and the men’s and women’s washrooms. At either end of the corridor was a fire door and stairs to the first floor. Another corridor led from the top of the stairs. Off this were four doors, two on either side. On the left were the doors to Studio One, and the engineer’s booth adjacent to it. On the right the doors to Studio Two and its engineer’s booth. Studio Two was where Day did his show. Leaning against the door stood a six foot six inch black man chewing on a sandwich. ‘Yo, Stretch,’ said Day, and went to give him a high five.

  The black man popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth, chewed on it and gave Day a disgusted look. ‘Cut that “Yo” crap, man,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you before, I get that shit all day from people think they my brothers. I tell ’em I got no brothers. I got three sisters and enough nephews and nieces to start a school. And you know I hate white men who try to do soul shakes. You can never do it without looking stupid.’

  ‘Nick,’ said Day, ‘this is my man Stretch. The best engineer on the station.’

  ‘I ain’t your man, man,’ said Stretch, and made a disgusted sound with his tongue against his teeth. ‘But you’re right about the other.’ He looked at me with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  Day ignored his comments. ‘Stretch, this is Nick Sharman. He’s a private investigator looking into that Sector 88 bullshit.’

  ‘It’s about time someone did,’ said Stretch, and stuck out his hand. I shook it. It was big enough to hide a football, and I made sure there was no suggestion of a funny hand shake as I did so.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘So you’re lumbered with this fool,’ said Stretch. ‘I thought I was the only one crazy enough to put up with him.’

  ‘It’s a living,’ I said.

  ‘Barely,’ said Stretch dryly.

  ‘Stretch is the only one in the place who dares say things like that about me,’ said Day.

  ‘To your face,’ said Stretch, and pushed himself away from the door and went to his booth. ‘Twenty minutes to showtime,’ he said to Day. ‘Better get your ass in gear.’

  Day grinned and pushed open the studio door. ‘He’s only kidding,’ he said. ‘Come in and have a quick look round.’ He ushered me inside. The studio was small and windowless. Compact, he called it. I would have said claustrophobic, but what did I know? According to him it was fitted out with the latest state-of-the-art equipment. It was lined with sound-deadening insulation material painted pale grey. The carpet was pale grey also. In the centre of the studio was a large console. On one side of the console was a mixing desk where the presenter sat. Day told me that it was possible to run a whole show single-handed from that desk. Using the faders for volume and the VU meters for balance, it was quite simple.

  Mounted on a floating boom in the centre of the console was a microphone shrouded in a foam pop hood. Directly in front of the presenter’s chair, coloured red, was the button that operated the ten-second delay that was supposed to be used to cut off swear words and slander from callers. Day told me he never used it. He said that if he couldn’t divorce the station from legal action he shouldn’t be doing the job he was doing.

  ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘it adds a little spice to the proceedings.’

  On the right were six slots for the looped cartridges, or carts as he called them, that carry the station id, and dj jingles, and ads, and announcements that have to be repeated throughout the day. Also on the desk were the headphone sockets that allow the presenter to hear the incoming telephone calls and messages from the engineer.

  On the presenter’s left was a twin turntable set-up, and above that a pair of the latest CD players. On top of the console was a computer terminal and keyboard. The terminal was wired into an identical one on the engineer’s desk so that information could be relayed to the presenter. On the wall above the door was the red light that operated when the microphone was open and the studio was live and on the air. On the other side of the console was another microphone boom in front of a chair for guests or interviewees. Mounted on the wall was a pair of big Lintone professional speakers to relay the broadcast back
into the studio.

  Behind the console were half a dozen shelves loaded with cartridges, and a phone for outside calls. Day explained that the phone had no bell, just a flashing light to show that it was ringing. The studio was separated from the engineer’s booth by a half-glass, soundproofed partition. The engineer’s booth, which was the same size as the studio proper, was decorated with the same grey insulation and grey carpet. There was a desk facing the glass partition. Behind this was a wheeled office chair for the engineer’s use. On top of the desk were a pair of six-line switchboards to take in-coming calls for phone-in shows, a separate telephone which was an extension of the station’s main switchboard, the computer terminal with keyboard that was the twin of the one on the presenter’s console in the studio, and a fixed mike that fed straight into the presenter’s headphones when a toggle next to the mike was pressed down. Next to the desk was another twin turntable, pair of CD players, and cartridge deck which could be used for transmission.

  So that was the studio set-up. The nuts and bolts. Then Day told me how the actual show ran. As well as engineering, Stretch’s job was to suss out the callers before they got on the air. That was where the computer helped. He’d punch up the name of the caller and the area he or she was calling from. Next to that he’d put in his own summary of the situation. ‘Loony’, or ‘pissed up’, or whatever. Day could take the chance on letting the caller on air, or cut him or her off. Ultimately it was his decision.

  Sometimes, of course, a real psycho got on the line with no warning. That was how the spokesman for Sector 88 had done it. He’d pretended to be calling about something innocuous and when he’d got through, he’d started his rant. Of course Day had loved it. He’d given him a right hard time. I knew, I’d heard the show. I told him I’d enjoyed it.

  ‘That’s the point, dear boy,’ said Day. ‘Really, nothing else matters. Now you are going to stay, aren’t you?’

  I’d’ve liked to see him get rid of me.