Newsdeath

by Ray Connolly

  Howlett’s first action on being woken had been to turn his radio on to Capital, which he did with some difficulty since neither he nor his wife knew where it lay on the dial. He found it just in time to hear the voice of Frank Sinatra suddenly silenced, and he deduced that someone in a position of authority either in the Post Office tower above the radio station or at one of the two transmitters in the London suburbs had cut the transmission.

  He had no doubts about the identity of the gunmen he was facing. This was the ‘big one’ which Patsy Peters had talked about. But what PUMA hoped to gain was the thing that bewildered him most on his drive from Wimbledon into town. They were trapped now, and surely they knew as well as he did that there had never been a case of besieged gunmen escaping in London. Even if the dim ex-paras in the group believed escape to be possible, and even if fanatics like Hickmore and Martin saw some possible deal, he was sure that this woman Eyna knew perfectly well the position they were in. He didn’t know for a fact that she was in there with them, but he was pretty certain. This must have been what Patsy Peters meant when she said that Eyna was going to die and leave her behind. But was this mystery woman Eyna the stuff of martyrs? Something in Howlett’s blood told him that she was not. Pondering these thoughts as his car screamed through the empty orange glowing streets of London, Howlett made his way to Euston Tower. His ruse of using the media had worked too well. PUMA had bolted from their cover with greater violence than they had ever manifested before. What, he wondered, were the terms they would demand? In a way, he thought he already knew.

  Sam Griffiths, the overnight reporter, told Winston. His first action when the flash had come over the teletype machine from PA was to call Donald Mitford. This was too big to handle himself. It was from Mitford on nights like this that Griffiths took his orders, and tonight he was going to have to arouse half the staff. The take-over at Capital had happened too late to get much coverage in the morning papers. The evenings were going to have a field day. And the editor was going to want a pretty bloody sensational first edition.

  There was only one detail Winston wanted to know: ‘Is Huckle with the terrorists?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve no idea, lad. Sorry,’ came back Griffiths. ‘Listen, when you get there, get hold of Barry Morton and tell him that Mitford wants everything you can get by half past seven. Check in with me every hour, okay?’

  Griffiths was detached and professional. Already he had three photographers on the way there and three other reporters as well as Winston. Nothing was to be left to chance. Tomorrow they’d be running maps, reconstructions, background pieces, colour pieces, human-angle stories … you name it, and John Lloyd would want it in his paper.

  By the time Winston reached Capital Radio just after four o’clock the Euston Tower had become a magnet. Road blocks had been hastily erected on Marylebone Road, preventing anyone from going down the underpass in fear that one of the besieged lunatics might indulge in target practice at moving cars, and a force of what Winston reckoned to be about two hundred police were taking up strategic positions around the building, clambering across the low roof from the adjacent Thames Television block to take a quick look for other ways into the radio station. From the comparative safety of fifty yards east along Marylebone Road, Winston considered the structure of Euston Tower. Capital Radio took up the ground and first floor, he noted, and then there appeared to be a set of stilts stuck on to the roof which held up the rest of the sixteen-floor tower block. Some explosives strategically placed there could bring the whole lot tumbling down.

  ‘I’d keep your head down if I were you. There are two dead already,’ a man he knew vaguely from the Daily Express was muttering in his ear. ‘Bloody hell …’ he looked at his watch and Winston followed his eyes, ‘I can’t find out whether they’re going to replate or not.’

  Winston considered the newsman’s dilemma and hoped, for purely selfish reasons, that the Express, Mail, Mirror and Sun would not be replating that night. They didn’t have the time to do the story justice.

  He moved a little closer towards the besieged building. New car loads of police were arriving all the time. Across the road from the building parked near the top of Tottenham Court Road he came across the London Broadcasting Company outside broadcast car. Through the dimly lit window he could make out a radio reporter, spelling out the story so far to all the insomniacs who, deprived of Capital Radio, had turned to LBC, the other all-night station, for company and solace. They’re right when they call us vultures, thought Winston. But despite his fears for his friend he felt glad to be a vulture and excited and grateful to be part of it all.

  ‘It looks like they’re preparing to take the Alamo out there.’ Kate Springfield, standing at the back of the Press room, was looking down on to the concourse area that divided Capital from Thames Television. The two security men, arms and legs bound with sticky camera tape, looked up into her face. George Delaware thought he noticed a smile of excitement. They were safe, he was sure, so long as no one outside did anything to upset their captors. He prayed no one had the romantic idea of releasing them by force. At that moment Kate noticed several figures moving along the end of the concourse. With a deliberation that terrified her captives she moved forward towards the window on her hands and knees; then, resting her machine-gun on the ledge, she suddenly poked its nozzle through the glass, sending it splintering down into the courtyard.

  From outside came sudden cries and warnings, but for two men they came too late. With almost a gleeful howl Kate sprayed the paving flags below her. It was a short burst of fire, but it was effective. Had Delaware or Rolf Peters been able to see below them they would have counted two bodies left lying in the courtyard.

  Kate Springfield shook her head. ‘It seems that no one wants to take us seriously,’ she said. At that moment Delaware felt a sudden convulsion in his guts and he began to vomit, pushing his head sideways along the floor in an effort to throw clear the hurtling debris from his stomach. Kate Springfield turned and looked at him, then, pulling a face of disgust, she stepped over him and walked out of the Press room and into the corridor, her gun slung dashingly over one shoulder. Rolf Peters lay still and prayed.

  Main control was, thought Huckle, not unlike the interior of Dr Who’s timeship. It was large and spacious, with glass walls all the way round which looked into the studios, and there in the centre on an elevated platform was a kind of pulpit from which the engineer could control the output from the station.

  When it had been established that there were no other people hiding in the building Eyna had ordered everyone to return to their normal duties, with the result that Charlie Brown, although now with a machine-gun facing him, was sitting back at his turntable, while the engineer Bill Adams and Shirley the producer were at the control panel. Behind them in the telecommunications room which overlooked main control, Patti Horrocks and poor northern Frances sat by their switchboards. Since the station had gone off the air their lines had been lighting up with call after call; they had been told to ignore them for the time being. Huckle looked through towards the two women. Their faces were now expressionless, and he thought how strange it was that real terror robbed people of the ability to show their feelings. He looked towards Eyna: she was serious and practical and he noticed that Bill Adams was looking at her with something that approached admiration. Her demeanour towards him offered no threat, she was carefully asking him questions about the way the station operated rather in the way a person on a day trip to Capital might ask the same things. Bill Adams, for his part, was blinding her with science in his attempts to be cooperative. It had no doubt occurred to him that, if and when the PUMA got the opportunity to start transmitting from Capital, he was the one person they could not do without.

  ‘This telephone here is an outside line … yes?’ Eyna was tapping a phone in front of him.

  Adams nodded. ‘Yes. All the listeners calls come in on 388 1255 or 388 7671 through the switchboards over there. This phone has always to be left
free in case of emergency. We aren’t supposed to use it ourselves. There are lots of other lines throughout the building.’

  Eyna smiled. ‘So this is the line they’ll use.’

  Bill Adams looked at her without answering. Huckle imagined that he wanted the opportunity to tell her more about transformers and feed-back, and how all the jingles were on cartridge loops, and the ten second delay mechanism used during Anna Raeburn’s Wednesday night Open Line calls from listeners with sex-problems. Ask a technical man a technical question, and no matter what the circumstances he’ll do his best to give you an answer.

  In the main studio Huckle could see Charlie Brown trying to look as cool as possible, sifting through his records and smoking a long thin panatella cigar. At that moment the chattering of machine-gun fire came from down the corridor. In that second everyone’s faces dropped in fear, particularly that of Bill Adams. With a simple wave of her head Eyna indicated to Martin Jenkins that he should go and discover the cause of the firing. He returned a moment later with Kate Springfield. As they passed alongside him Huckle smelled the pungent smell of the cordite fumes around the warm weapon.

  ‘They were coming across the courtyard … I frightened them away.’ Kate was explaining. ‘I think I got two.’

  She looked pleased with herself. As he looked at her, Huckle realized that this was the same girl who had seemed so guileless when they had talked together the day before. He wanted to shout out that she was a murderer, but he just stared at her, this seemingly fat jolly person, who had killed without a moment’s thought. Then Eyna interrupted.

  ‘No more shooting.’ Eyna’s voice was like iron. ‘There’s been too much already. We’re safe in here for the time being. They can’t get at us. Don’t confuse them. And don’t frighten them any more. Go and take care of your prisoners. We’ll need one soon.’

  Kate’s smirk had been washed from her face and without another word she turned and left the room. For what, Huckle wondered, would they be needing a security man?

  He was contemplating this when the telephone on the engineer’s control panel began to ring. The double ringing noise was so unexpected that Adams jumped in shock.

  Eyna turned to Huckle. ‘Answer the phone. It will be someone asking us to surrender. You will tell them there will be no surrender, but that if they don’t put this station back on the air we shall start killing the hostages at four-hourly intervals from twelve o’clock today, starting with the older security man. His name is George Delaware. Do you understand me?’

  Huckle stared at her in horror. She meant it. He picked up the telephone. ‘Hello.’ He listened hard into the phone. There was the slightest of pauses and then came a familiar voice.

  ‘This is Commander Howlett of the Anti-Terrorist Squad. Who am I speaking to?’

  Eyna had edged closer to Huckle so that she might hear both sides of the conversation. At the sound of Howlett’s voice Huckle felt he almost wanted to cry out to him with relief. It was like hearing from an old friend again.

  ‘This is John Huckleston, Commander,’ he said, and realized that it was the first time he had addressed Howlett by his rank. He felt Eyna’s eyes drilling into him, and noticed that Howlett was as shocked as he was.

  ‘I want to speak to the woman who calls herself Eyna, Huckle. Is she there?’

  ‘Yes, she …’ Just at that moment he saw that Eyna was shaking her head.

  ‘You do all the negotiating,’ she hissed at him.

  Huckle looked at her for a moment and then turned back to the phone. ‘Look, Howlett, I have to tell you that if you want to talk then I’m the guy you talk to. Nobody else will talk to you. Okay? And I have to demand that you let these people start saying what they want over the air, because if you don’t turn the transmitters back on they’re going to kill some more people every four hours, starting with a security man called George Delaware at twelve o’clock today.’

  ‘Huckle, tell that woman that we don’t make deals with terrorists. We are prepared to wait until hell freezes over to get those people. And we will.’

  Suddenly Huckle saw himself in a new light. It was okay for Howlett and his army of policemen to talk about waiting until hell froze over, sitting out there in some call box. But in here, right now, with the security guy with hair like patent leather, hell wasn’t going to freeze over before twelve o’clock. That man would be dead. And after him there was the younger guy, and then the two telephonists, then the disc jockey and the producer and probably last of all Bill Adams would find his mouth full of lead if he went on gabbling about the difference between ultra high frequency and transistorized coils much longer. And then there was the simple matter of Huckle’s own survival. Now he didn’t need Eyna to push him. He knew what to say For Christ’s sake, what did it matter if these lunatics said a few dirty and anarchic words on the wireless when it was weighed against the life even of someone as boring as Bill Adams?

  ‘Listen Howlett, this is Huckle talking now … I mean talking for myself … I’m not being prompted … it seems to me that someone out there ought to have learned something by now. These buggers mean it. There’s a security bloke in here all tied up, and unless you can talk the IBA or the Home Secretary or even the fucking Prime Minister or whoever it is into turning on the Capital transmitters, then that security man is going to make somebody a widow in a few hours. After him there’ll be the three women and then the four of us men. So unless you want to sit out there and watch us all die then you’d better do something. And I don’t mean that you should come blasting in like some trigger-happy Israelis either. That’ll be a certain way of condemning us all to death. They’ve got this place guarded like Hitler’s bunker.’

  Again there was a slight pause while Huckle assumed that Howlett was conferring with his colleagues and probably his superior. Then came Howlett’s reply. ‘You must tell those members of PUMA who are in there that there will be no deal. We don’t make deals with terrorists.’

  Huckle turned towards Eyna: ‘He says “No deal” …’

  ‘Tell him you’ll speak to him later. Get a number.’

  Suddenly becoming aware of where he had seen a similar scene, Huckle almost had to disguise an unconscious impersonation of an Al Pacino nasal New York accent. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go now … could you give me a number or something where I could call you back …?’

  ‘485 5896,’ said Howlett. ‘And remember, Huckle. Make them understand, we won’t give in … They can’t win.’

  ‘Commander, if I were you I’d choose my battlefield more carefully,’ said Huckle, hardly having time to finish before Eyna pulled the phone out of his hand and replaced it. Somehow Huckle was not afraid of her. For a moment he had seen himself as important again. Some semblance of his own personality was returning. She had morally castrated him in that room, but giving him a job to perform might just be the remaking of him. Half-smiling, he turned towards Eyna: ‘You didn’t happen to see the film Dog Day Afternoon, by any chance, did you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Pity, you’d have loved the ending … lots of blood and stuff …’

  ‘That sounds more like your ending,’ she said. And then she laughed, so loudly that Bill Adams and Shirley who, under the guard of Neil Maxwell, had wandered to the far side of main control, looked up in surprise. The condemned cell is no place for laughing. The police were going to try the bluff. But Huckle knew Eyna wouldn’t buy it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  John Lloyd considered Huckle’s obituary with some distaste. It had been written by Carol McGough and judging by the number of superlatives and adjectival compliments it contained it seemed likely that if Huckle ever got out of the Capital building alive young Carol might just be ready and waiting. It was all too much, even if Huckle was one of his own men, he decided, and taking out his pen began crossing out the sections where Carol’s affection had got in the way of her sense. He sometimes wondered why Mitford kept such ninnies on his reporting staff. Maybe he’d have a wor
d with him about her after all this business was over.

  Donald Mitford came into the room with the sheet of notes to which he always referred during morning conference. He invariably came in a minute or two before the rest of the staff, just in case there was anything the two men might wish to discuss privately. He saw instantly what Lloyd had been reading.

  ‘Let’s hope to God we won’t be needing that today,’ Mitford said. He knew it had been over-written, but he didn’t envy anyone the task of writing an obituary about a colleague who wasn’t even dead yet.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Lloyd, still deep in thought. ‘All the same I think we should get it set and have it standing by.’ He paused, while Mitford looked up with something approaching distaste. ‘If the worst does happen … well, we want to give him a good show don’t we …?’

  Mitford, who during the past ten days had had the distressing duty of putting in daily calls to Mrs Huckleston with or without any news as the story progressed, did not for once share his editor’s enthusiasm for the essence of speed but he let the matter pass.

  ‘Winston Collins tells me that they’re using Huckle as their link man with the police,’ he said, passing the copy that Winston had phoned through a few moments earlier to Lloyd. ‘He’s apparently trying to talk them into switching the transmitters on again …’

  Lloyd stared at the copy. ‘Twelve o’clock today. Who is this security man? George Delaware? What do we know about him … wife, kids … anything?’

  As he was speaking the office had begun to fill with the heads of the other departments, and he repeated the question to them. There were, he was told, no wife or children. He was a bachelor, possibly gay, and he lived alone. Lloyd considered this information with a slow nod of his head, while the features editor wondered what the man’s sexual preferences had to do with a time like this.

  ‘I understand that the Capital Radio people have been given some space from which to work at London Broadcasting in Gough Square,’ Mitford was talking again. ‘Julian Diamond is down there with them now checking on the names of everyone who is being held hostage. The disc jockey is a man called Charlie Brown …’