The Talk Show: the gripping thriller everyone is talking about

by Harry Verity

  As well as a pay rise, Edward and Violet had been given their own office and a garage, perks of the job, he supposed. While Edward had not been able to afford it, Violet, Edward noticed, had bought herself a cheap car. The interviews she had given to The Lion had been more lucrative than even Edward could have imagined and it was more than double the money they’d offered to him to sell his story.

  So as Edward walked down the corridor, which had been decked out with a plush new carpet and ‘no smoking’ signs, Edward paused for a moment before he entered his new office. The moral conundrum which he faced on a seemingly daily basis had been resolved: they would fix people rather than break them.

  Violet was inside, busy at a new computer, presumably compiling information for the first set of shows.

  ‘Hi,’ Edward said, tentatively. If it had been anyone else he would have gone over for a hug, without hesitation. She smiled, briefly.

  ‘Braithwaite has already suggested some guests for the first show,’ she said. ‘There’s a young mum who’s just split up from her boyfriend and she’s pregnant with his child. She was friends with Minnie’s mum.’

  ‘Oh that’s strange, you wouldn’t think she’d want to come on given what happened…’ Edward trailed off. Braithwaite appeared at the door. He had grown a beard, appeared to have lost weight and was sporting a new blazer.

  ‘We were just talking about the first guest.’

  ‘Good. It really is quite tragic. I’m going to try to get her to tell me the entire story and then quiz her a bit about her childhood. But we have gone to great lengths this time to ensure that the guests feel comfortable and are looked after. We’ve scrapped Florida so that we can spend more money on professional help. We’ve also got a new producer. Dave used to produce Who Deserves a Million? before it got cancelled.’

  ‘Oh… I see.’ It wasn’t really a surprise that Mags had decided against returning to the show. Not given how fiercely she had defended Michael in the trial and, Edward thought, fondly, how strongly she loathed Braithwaite. For all her unpleasantries, her cynicism, her chain-smoking, her insatiable appetite for swear words, somehow Edward knew the show wouldn’t be the same.

  ‘I shall leave you to it,’ said Braithwaite, ‘but if you do have any problems you know where to find me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Edward said.

  As it happened, the new producer was hardly the pinnacle of professionalism either. In fact, he quickly became known as the caveman, for his dirty black stubble, beer belly and proclivity to sit slumped in the gallery for most of the day, making sexist jokes and complaining bitterly, about the amount of work he had to do.

  It was mainly left to Violet and Edward to put the show together: from the research right through to the recording. Strangely, though, this made the experience a lot easier. Half the battle before had been trying to second guess and then persuade Mags about their choices. Dave was so lazy that he rarely challenged them. The research was also a lot less full-on than it had been. They were no longer searching for the guests with the most compelling story: it was a case of deciding who needed the most help.

  By the end of the week they were more than ready to record the first set of shows. Braithwaite came to see them that morning.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, ‘take it easy. We’re not in the business of exploiting people.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Edward said, though it soon became apparent Braithwaite’s motives for speaking to the both of them was not just mere pleasantries.

  Inevitably, a lot of the stories they had compiled for the first week were ones that would have ordinarily fallen by the wayside on the O’Shea Show. Their first attempt was the complete antithesis of Jessica Butler’s story. A huge man, so overweight that he could barely fit through his front door and in need of a specially converted bungalow with wider doorways. Thirty-eight-year-old Alan’s addiction to junk food had naturally caused a complete mental collapse and he had lost his job. What made it a good story, though, was the question of why he had suddenly descended into obesity.

  The man was a fantasist. His entire life had been a lie. He’d married two different women and mortgaged two different houses, fathering children and using false names. He’d pretended to one wife that he was a teacher and to the other a private detective, using the latter lie to explain his long periods of absences. He had kept this up for a decade before he was found out when he mistakenly left a debit card with his real name in on a trouser pocket he had put out to wash. The whole affair had ended with a suspended prison sentence and his children and both wives refusing to have anything to do with him.

  But what was staggering about the whole incident was that in the seven years since it had happened, he had refused to talk or even acknowledge that anything untoward had taken place. On his return from prison, he had sunk into depression, obesity, and unemployment.

  Edward had hoped that Braithwaite would spend the first ten minutes of the show describing and highlighting the severity of the man’s condition and the majority of the show trying to get the man to open up about what had happened and confronting him with the facts.

  But it appeared Edward was to have no such luck.

  ‘I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for joining me today,’ Braithwaite began, in an overly sincere piece to camera. Edward did not correct him, thinking it set the tone for the new show. The set had been completely re-designed. It no longer felt like a bear pit; there were pot plants and bookcases and instead of plastic chairs, there were sofas with a coffee table between them. As Braithwaite addressed the camera, Violet, off-screen, led Alan from his motorised wheelchair and onto the sofa.

  Braithwaite explained his predicament but only briefly – he skirted around the most sensitive details – and focused not on the causes of the man’s obesity but merely on practical ways to address it.

  ‘Can we get back to the root causes of his obesity?’ Edward said over the mic. ‘Get him to open up about the identity fraud.’

  But his advice appeared to have fallen on deaf ears. Fifteen minutes went by and still, Braithwaite was nodding passionately and offering up suggestions about how the man might set about changing his diet. Edward was quite happy for Braithwaite to approach the subject gently but to completely ignore the obvious not only felt like a disservice to the viewers at home – who Edward feared may well turn off in their droves – but to Alan himself. He couldn’t go on ignoring the blindly obvious. If Alan went on pretending that nothing had happened, that the crimes he had committed had never taken place, Edward failed to see how he could even begin to get better. To use Braithwaite’s own language, Alan wasn’t addressing the core psychological issues behind his addiction.

  The recording was coming to an end. There were just five minutes left. Edward reminded Braithwaite again. But he still refused to go into any of the details about the man’s identity fraud. How could they broadcast this? The omission was so huge, it was almost comical. They had dropped a bombshell and not mentioned it.

  When the recording came to an end and they broke up briefly, ready to bring on the next guest, Edward wondered what to do. Did he go downstairs and have a word with Braithwaite right at this moment? Did he leave it and accept that this was the way he wanted to run his show? In the end, he just couldn’t leave it alone. So he sprinted down the gallery stairs and to his office where Braithwaite was going over some notes with Violet.

  ‘Did you not hear me over the microphone?’ Edward asked, casually, though his unorthodox appearance backstage obviously gave away his concerns.

  ‘Yes, Edward,’ Braithwaite said, ‘but I really didn’t feel it was appropriate to go into that on national television. In fact, I do think we should ask the editors to take out even that small reference to the fraud. You have to remember this is such a profoundly different show to anything that went before, the interests of the guests must always come first and if I’d gone into any detail it could have backfired, Alan could have tried to kill himself when he saw it broadcast back, it could ha
ve made for a grave situation indeed.’

  Edward didn’t quite know what to say. He didn’t want to challenge his new boss, especially on the first day at work but he was genuinely worried. Who would watch a show in which the very notion of conflict was met with disdain and censure? But then, perhaps this was a one-off, the man had a serious condition and was clearly fragile…

  Edward shouldn’t have banked so heavily on such a thought. This was the way Braithwaite would run the show, regardless of the rapidly declining ratings and regardless of what anybody else wanted. And once again, nobody but Edward and Violet seemed to care. Least of all Dave, the new producer.

  ‘Make us a cuppa tea, love!’ he shouted to Violet one day as she sat at the desk at the back of the gallery, putting the final touches to the following days recording with Edward. The techies were also in, rehearsing.

  Violet ignored Dave. She was devising potential follow-up questions for the guests which she and Edward were going to try, no doubt unsuccessfully, to get Braithwaite to ask. When the two of them were finished they began to head downstairs, but they were accosted.

  ‘Oi, where do you think you’re going? What kinda woman are you? Come back and make me a cuppa!’ Dave roared as Violet headed off downstairs.

  ‘Enough!’ Violet said, raising her hand, as she approached the gallery door.

  ‘Oh! Hit a nerve, have I? Looks like we ’av a feminist, lads.’ He was talking to the techies. They nodded in vague agreement, trying to ignore him. Violet was not impressed.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she said, clipping the end of her syllables short like a woodpecker snapping shut its beak.

  Dave gave her the finger but by then she was halfway down the gallery stairs…

  ‘We can’t go on like this,’ Violet said. They were in The Blackfriars. Edward was sipping cider, as was Violet, though hers was a non-alocholic brand. It was the end of the second week of recordings.

  ‘We’re doing more work now than we were before. At least Mags was good at her job.’

  ‘Oh, the caveman?’ Edward said, pretending he wasn’t distracted. The name had stuck.

  ‘Odious man. We should do something about him.’

  ‘We should speak to Braithwaite.’

  By some strange coincidence he walked through the pub door.

  ‘I did wonder whether I’d find you here,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ Edward asked, politely, hoping he would turn him down.

  ‘No, really, it’s quite all right. I can’t stop and I’m driving. I did want to have a word with you before you went off; you did leave in rather a hurry. I just wanted to check that everything is running smoothly with you, if you had any problems?’

  ‘Dave,’ Violet said.

  ‘He’s only temporary,’ Braithwaite said.

  ‘The workload… it’s too much. We can’t produce the show and look after the guests at the same time. We need someone to make sure everything is running smoothly,’ Edward explained.

  ‘I see… I did rather wonder whether he was the reason behind your de-camp to the pub!’

  ‘What about Mags?’ Violet said.

  Edward couldn’t believe he was hearing these words, had they not suffered enough? But he knew she was right.

  ‘I can try,’ Braithwaite said, ‘but even if she was to agree I mean I… she… I…’ He took a gulp and composed himself.

  ‘We understand,’ Violet said, tactfully. Regardless of what had been said at the trial, it had been Mags, not Michael, who had hurled the most abuse at Braithwaite; they weren’t about to kiss and make up.

  ‘No, it’s not that. I don’t mind… I can work with her… I mean that if she did come back we could not abandon Dave. He does have a contract after all, albeit a temporary six-month one. They would have to work together. That may prove tricky and the show’s budget would have to be… stretched.’

  ‘Okay,’ Violet said. Edward could tell she was exhausted and did not want to discuss work any longer.

  ‘I’ll try to talk to Mags,’ Braithwaite said, and with that, all three of them left the pub.

  37

  ‘Guess Mags is not coming back, then,’ Edward said.

  ‘No,’ Violet said. And there, amongst the pile of newspapers and magazines full of abuse for the new format, was a single-page spread on page five of The Lion, open for them both to see.

  EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW. EX-O’SHEA PRODUCER: ‘MY BATTLE TO CLEAR FRIEND’S NAME.’

  -I’ll Prove He Is Innocent

  A long-time friend of child murderer Michael O’Shea who came to his defence at his trial, says the former talk show host is innocent of all charges. Thirty-eight-year-old O’Shea was found guilty of three counts of murder and two counts of rape but Marguerite Archer, also a former producer on the now-defunct show, known as Mags, insists he was stitched up.

  ‘Me and Michael go way back. I know he wouldn’t do a thing like this. It’s a f***ing stitch up.’ But the evidence, including a severed thumb found in a secret lockup he owned and a blood-soaked cardigan, suggests otherwise and was enough to convince a jury that the talk show host should be sent down for life. ‘They asked me to go back but I wouldn’t do it. It’s beyond betrayal, it’s not just stabbing him in the f***ing back, it’s like creeping up behind him, hacking his head clean off with a knife and pissing all over his dead body.’

  This week saw the launch of a new talk show fronted by Bernard Braithwaite, the doctor on the O’Shea Show. ‘He was a weasel, always sneaking up behind people. I wouldn’t work for him, cashing in on it all. He’s just out for what he can get.’

  ‘It’s all we need,’ said Violet, turning the computer monitor so that Edward could see the email attachment she was browsing. It was the ratings from the previous week. They peaked on Monday but then went dramatically downhill.

  ‘Wow,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Violet, ‘we need more interesting cases not Mags mouthing off, it’s going to kill the show and then we’ll both be out of jobs, back to square one.’

  ‘But how do we make it more interesting? Braithwaite doesn’t seem to want to listen to us,’ Edward said.

  ‘The irony is Mags wouldn’t let Braithwaite get away with this, she’d stand up to him. We need her.’

  ‘But she won’t play ball if she believes all this stuff about Michael being innocent.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘I don’t think Braithwaite going to speak to Mags is a good idea.’ The very suggestion now seemed ludicrous. ‘The quotes will have been exaggerated but it’s still not a good idea.’

  ‘What about if we go to see her instead, talk to her, bring her round?’

  ‘We can try, I doubt anything will come of it. Maybe Braithwaite can just hire another producer.’

  There was a knock at the door. It was Braithwaite.

  ‘Here.’ Violet handed Braithwaite the viewing figures. He pulled out a pair of glasses and studied the sheet for several moments.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘I suppose they aren’t really encouraging, are they? But we started off well and you know the figures aren’t everything. So long as you do keep an eye on them.’

  Violet was aghast.

  ‘The guests for this morning’s recordings will be arriving soon. These pair are damaged. They are brothers, abused as children, but now they are at each other’s throats. I really would like some time to work through their problems so please don’t interrupt with too many questions. I do have quite a clear idea of what I want to say.’

  Edward took up the slack.

  ‘And there’s this,’ he said, handing him the copy of The Lion.

  Braithwaite studied the paper once again but remained unmoved. ‘I see.’

  ‘So…’ said Violet.

  ‘That’s unfortunate, it can’t really be helped, can it? She is entitled to her own opinion, as I am entitled to mine and you are entitled to yours. No point worrying about it.’ Though just what Braithwaite’s views o
n Mags were remained a mystery.

  As Braithwaite closed the door behind him, Violet turned to Edward.

  ‘It’s suicide, he’s going to kill the show. He’s going to do it. We have to get her back on board. She’s the only one who can talk sense into him. She’ll make him put through her changes whether he likes it or not.’

  Unfortunately, however, tracking Mags down was not that easy. For starters, they had to wait until the following weekend. They were working so hard and Dave was so utterly useless that, what with managing the studio floor as well as doing the research and having to fight with Braithwaite about the entertainment value of some of his guests, they rarely left the studios before 9pm. On Saturday morning, though, Edward and Violet, who had explained that she had spent the time during the trial passing her driving test, set out on the road to find Mags. Her last known address, according to the network database – which was still not password protected, despite the reassurances of the studio executives that it would be harder for employees to access personal information about one another – was a flat in Clapthorpe, a suburb about forty minutes away.

  When they arrived, Edward and Violet found her modern apartment building, clad in white and spiralling four stories into the air. Edward pressed the buzzer. There was no answer. He tried again. Still nothing. So he tried one of the other flats.

  ‘I don’t give out details about residents to people I don’t know,’ snapped one of Mags’ neighbours.

  ‘That told us.’ Edward tried another flat. This time a far more civilised response:

  ‘I’m sorry, love. I don’t know. Have you tried the pub?’

  ‘The pub?’

  ‘Yes, The White Horse. It’s about a ten-minute walk.’

  ‘This early in the morning?’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’

  They took her advice and sure enough in the smoking shelter (where else) was Mags puffing away on her own.