11:59

by David Williams

  “You’re not my type anyway. Seriously though, can you dig out last night’s ROT file and set it up for me?”

  “Eh, can’t you see how busy I am?” But even as he’s saying it he’s swivelling his chair round and propelling himself across to the Perspex cabinets that house the gubbins only Jim and his like ever delve into. As he’s searching for my programme recording I’m skimming anxiously through the headlines of the local paper he’s left on his desk, a pointless thing to do since anything that might have happened would have been too late for the morning editions. I’m just stoking my paranoia.

  “There y’are,” says Jim, pulling his head out of the cabinet. “I’ve put a feed into Studio Two. That’s free until eleven if you want to go in there.”

  “Cheers, Jim.”

  “What did you do? Say fuck on the radio?”

  “No, I just wanted to check something. Thanks for your help, mate.”

  There’s some perfectly good speakers in Studio Two but I shut them off and put the cans on to listen to the recording, feeling furtive, praying nobody from upstairs randomly decides to indulge in a spot of management-by-walking-around and noses into the studio to ask what I’m doing.

  I cue the in-point at 11.58 on the timeline then nudge the bar a few seconds on to the end of the music track for my pick-up. ‘Exactly ninety seconds to midnight and the news...’ Chirpy old-fashioned stuff, but it fits our demographic as they say upstairs. Besides I can’t do it any other way – DJ-wise, I’m cryogenically preserved. Here’s the dedication sequence. Graham the Scotsman, inoffensive, zip it on. The Tesco girl next, I was right about her name. Daniel her boyfriend, not Andy. I’m sending Emma up for Marni’s attention. Look at me Marni, aren’t I the dog’s bollocks? Ah, here he is. Hassan. Hassan, he’s called. Doesn’t sound Indian, Middle East maybe. British Asian, I don’t know.

  ‘I should like to send all my love to Amina. Amina Begum Khan.’

  ‘Amina, is it? Nice name. Wife or girlfriend?’

  Through the earphones I can just hear the slight sigh of my chair. That’s me standing up to mime the teapot thing.

  ‘Wife, yes. My widow. Mother of our darling child.’

  What? I jog the audio back, too far left on the timeline, and I’m hearing Emma’s nervous giggles again. Nudge forward and Hassan is so calm by contrast.

  ‘I should like to send all my love to Amina. Amina Begum Khan.’

  ‘Amina, is it? Nice name. Wife or girlfriend?’

  ‘Wife, yes. My widow. Mother of our darling child.’

  ‘Excellent, thanks for calling. Now we’ve just got time to squeeze in… Jed. Who’s the last lucky lady tonight?’

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck and double fuck. I wasn’t listening to a word he was saying. Basic fucking error. My widow. The guy’s about to end it all and he’s sending a message to me as well as his poor wife. And I ignore it. What did Ollie say about a cry for help? I could fucking scream.

  My instinct is to wipe the file, get rid of the evidence, remove me from the scene of the crime. But my rational mind is already kicking in with a few objections – like I couldn’t do that on my own, like it’s illegal, like it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to the facts – and there’s even a runt of conscience trying to make its feeble voice heard in all this din, suggesting that maybe I should spare a thought for Hassan when I’m through with the self-pity. Maybe he’s still hanging on, like James Watson, on the off-chance I might actually come and rescue him.

  Yes, yes, there is still that chance. I could try his number, see what happens. Come to think of it, there’s all sorts of possibilities. He might have changed his mind, be happy as Larry this morning. Or maybe he never meant to top himself at all. If English isn’t his native language he might have just chosen the wrong word, said widow thinking it meant, whatever, soulmate or something. And suppose it’s the worst case scenario, say he is dead. At least I can honestly say I made an effort to contact the guy. Just a few hours late, that’s all.

  I close down in Studio Two and make my way along the corridor to the main suite, trying not to run. On air it’s Simon on Saturday. In the ops room Debbie has her back to me, filling in programme returns. As I walk towards her my eye catches a glint of epaulette behind the studio glass and I can’t suppress a “Jesus!”, startling Debbie, before I realise it’s just some fire officer being interviewed by Simon Barnes.

  “God, Marc,” says Debbie. “What a fright you gave me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Got a hangover?”

  “No, no, I’m hunky dory.”

  “Thought you maybe hadn’t been to bed. What brings you in so early?”

  “Just a meeting. Mind if I use this computer for a minute?”

  “Help yourself.” I can feel her eyes appraising me critically as she makes room for me to sit down in front of the screen. She says, almost under her breath, “Hope your meeting’s not with anybody important,” then, aloud, “How’s Marni settling in?”

  “OK, good.” I notice Marni has replaced Sam’s Celtic logo with a flower on the desktop. I click through. “What’s the password for our Call Log?”

  “WHAMBAM. One word, all upper case.”

  Debbie says it nonchalantly, but I can’t help colouring slightly as I’m keying it in, reminded of past bedroom sessions and my ritual post-coital whisper that gave my ex-lover the idea for her password. “Wham bam, thank you, Sam.” Yeah, it sounds macho, but trust me, I’m the tender type.

  Password not recognised. Try again?

  “Is it spelt with an H or without an H?”

  “With.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I type it a second time.

  Password not recognised. Try again?

  “Hmm. Won’t let me in.”

  “Shift over, let me have a go,” says Debbie, and she settles her ample frame in front of the screen to demonstrate my incompetence. Except she has no more success than I had.

  “I know what’s happened,” she says at last. “Marni’s changed the password.”

  “What’s she gone and done that for?”

  “Well, if she’s like me she’ll use the same one for everything she does. Makes it easier, dunnit?”

  “Not for me, no. How can we find out what the new password is?”

  “We can’t. Not until Marni comes in.”

  “But that’s not till tonight. I can’t wait that long.”

  “Can’t help you, sorry,” says Debbie, going back to her programme returns.

  “Shit!” I bang the desk so hard it hurts. “Bloody idiot!”

  “Missing Sam, are we?” says Debbie sweetly, with a touch of gratuitous malice. I scowl and walk out into the corridor.

  I’m stalled now for hours. There’s nobody in from HR to tell me Marni’s home number. Not that they’d be likely to in any case – they wouldn’t give me a sniff when I tried to get back in touch with Sam. I suppose I could find my way back to Marni’s place and ask her for the password in person. But she’ll see that as my excuse for turning up on her doorstep, flatter herself I’m still after her body. No way. Or she’ll start asking questions I’d rather avoid. Chill out, Marc, the guy’s probably fine. I’m just looking for reassurance about that without bringing the world’s attention to it. Then again, maybe those extra hours could make all the difference. Or not, how would I know? Fuck.

  I wander along to the newsroom. Kate Foreman’s in there, working on her script for the midday bulletin. I do a couple of little drumbeats on her shoulders to alert her as I lean over, scanning the screen. “What’s the latest, Scoop?”

  “Death and disaster.”

  “Really?” Slight quickening of the pulse. “Where?”

  “Indonesia.”

  “Oh. Nothing local?”

  “Not in the way of earthquakes, no.”

  “I mean, people stuff. Who’s been… anything interesting come in?”

  “Look, do you mind? Some of us have a deadline to meet. If you’ve got nothing better to
do can you do it somewhere else, please? Don’t mean to be rude, but I’m really pushed, you know.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” I’m already backing off. “Carry on, Kate.” I retreat into the corridor and, with nothing but time to kill, keep walking right out to the car park.

  As it happens there’s nothing to worry about in Kate’s news bulletins all afternoon, nor in the evening paper which I pore over in the Eldon Arms, so I’m breathing a little easier by the time I come back into work to prepare for the show. I’m relieved to find some things aren’t password-protected. While I’m waiting for Marni I check the handful of emails and texts that came into the programme last night, deleting those from Oliver before I scan through the others. There are four from listeners who have heard or think they heard Hassan referring to his wife as a widow and asking what that was all about. I agonise over these – should I zap them without reply or respond? Which is more likely to come back and haunt me? In the end I decide that no news is good news on the suicide front and I send the same cheery message to each of them before I remove all traces of the correspondence.

  That’s what’s known as a ‘blooper’ in radioland! I’m guilty of them all the time (as listeners regularly remind me!) so I think we can forgive Hassan his little slip of the tongue. I believe he was a first-time caller. Thanks for getting in touch with the show and keep listening.

  Best wishes

  Marc

  For once I’m glad that Marni’s lack of routine has meant that I’ve got to the emails before her. I’m still irritated by the password business, though, and she’s hardly got her coat off before I’m at her about it.

  “Why the hell did you change the password on the Call Log file?”

  “What? Oh, I didn’t think it would make any difference. I’m the only one who uses it, aren’t I?”

  “Of course not. Whose show is this, anyway? There’s all sorts of things I might want to… analyse. Fine tune, sort of thing.”

  “Sorry. I’ll get it up for you.” As she seats herself at the computer her mouth swells into the faintest of pouts that I would have found sexy twenty-four hours ago. She logs into the machine, then lifts her eyes coyly and says, “Sorry, Marc, I hope I didn’t upset you last night. I mean, when I said I was tired…”

  “It’s got nothing to do with that. This is purely a work thing. I’m not getting at you. Just… oh, forget it, all part of the learning curve. Could you get me a printout of the Call Log, please? Not reams of it. Just from, say, eleven o’ clock last night.”

  “No problem.” She gives me a brave-little-girl smile. “I know I’ve got a lot to learn still. After all, I have a lot to live up to.”

  Maybe it’s me being over-sensitive but I can’t help feeling the softest bite of sarcasm in that remark, though whether it’s meant for me or for Sam I’m not sure.

  Anyway she manages the printout efficiently enough and I sneak off to what used to be known as the smoking room before government prohibition. On the second page of the list I find the name Hassan Malik and a landline number. He’s definitely a local; by the look of the area code probably not far from the city centre. I suppose I’d expected him to be called Khan since that was what he said was his wife’s last name, but there again different cultures have different rules about names, so what do I know? Well, what I do know is that I have to call this number.

  There’s a prehistoric extension phone parked on top of some old papers and laminated notices in the window corner, as if they’re all waiting to be thrown out. I lift the receiver and press 9 to check I can still get an outside line, then pause for a beat, forming an opening sentence in my head as I do when I’m about to go on-air, before I dial Hassan’s number.

  From here, away from the studio, I can see right across the city. I find myself wondering if I’m facing in the direction of the home where the phone is ringing, even, surreally, trying to locate it, placing the throb of the phone in a room with a high ceiling in a terraced house. The longer the phone rings the emptier the room in my head becomes until it seems quite desolate. A room deserted. I put the receiver down and stand motionless at the window, held by the trance of this image.

  The extension next to me rings loudly, making me jump. I stare at it, trying to get my head round the strangeness of it ringing right now, then pick it up hesitantly. “Hello?” For some odd reason I’m expecting it to be Hassan. It’s Marni.

  “Oh, is that you, Marc? I have an outside call for you.”

  “How did you know where I was?” My paranoia rising again.

  “I don’t know where you are, that’s the thing. So I pressed this All Call button. Was that wrong?”

  “Who is it?”

  “I think it’s the man who rang in last night.” (Christ, it is Hassan.) “Should I try to put him through?”

  “No, I’m not… Put the phone down.” I don’t mean to sound so brusque, but I’m fazed by what’s going on.

  There’s a click, followed by silence. But the line’s not dead. In her panic or huff Marni must have hung up her end and connected the call by mistake. I listen quietly to what at first seems emptiness from the other end. Tuning in more intently I can make out the sound of laboured, snuffly breathing, as if the person at the other end has a cold. Hassan is alive at least, if this is him.

  Alive and now, it seems, eating crisps. I don’t immediately place the noise of the packet opening, but there’s no mistaking the crunch and damp munching that follows. Graze while you wait. I can’t help a trace of a smile at the bathos of this after all my melodramatics with the phone call.

  “Is someone there?” I ask, cautiously.

  The hurried rustle at the other end is of an animal disturbed, but the voice is human, suddenly urgent.

  “Marc? Is it you speaking?” A pause with a slight panting underneath, like a dog waiting for you to throw the ball back, then a noisy, phlegm-filled swallow. “This is Oliver Dunn on the line. Are you there, Marc?”

  “I am. Sorry, I was expecting… another call.”

  “From the policeman?”

  “What?”

  “About the man on the phone. That’s who I’m ringing about. Is he saved or… not saved?” Without waiting for me to answer he plunges on in that headlong way he has. “Only I sent you some emails then I thought he’ll not be bothering with them if he’s busy with the man and the police and everything, right enough. I mean you won’t. Only couldn’t help worrying so I rang. Same if you’ve got somebody in hospital, innit? Even if you can’t do anything and you’re just a bother, you can’t help it. Stands to reason when you’ve got your hands full already without having me to think about. Never mind Joe…”

  “Joe?”

  “Public. That’s like a thing, innit, Joe Public, like people say?”

  “Look Ollie, I’m sorry, but I’m really busy, you know. I’ve got my programme to prepare…”

  “Are you going to mention it?”

  “Mention what?”

  “About the Indian man. Hassan, remembered his name. Only, after the thing about James Watson, I mean the day after, night after pardon me you said, thanks for all your emails and calls, I’d just like you to know that everything is sound. Everything is sound is what you said, which was a relief for everybody hearing that. You know, with wondering. You kind of hang on till you hear everything is sound. Competitions is bad enough, never mind this.”

  “Eh?”

  “I mean waiting for the results just. Say if you’ve entered. Or not, even.”

  In Ollie’s world every listener is on the edge of their seat, poised for the next exciting shift and turn of my thrill-packed programme. Would it were true. No, scratch that, one Oliver Dunn is more than enough to cope with.

  “Look Ollie,” I say, trying to put some perspective on this for both of us, “Don’t go overboard about one word you hear on the radio. Probably a slip of the tongue. It could mean anything, it could mean nothing…”

  “Have you not found out yet?” He doesn’t intend it as an a
ccusation, saying it more like a child seeking certainty from the adult, but it pricks me.

  “Hey, I’m on the case, OK? I’m in touch with Mr Malik…”

  “Is that him? Mr Malik. Oh, that’s good you’ve talked to him…”

  “I didn’t say I’ve talked to him, that’s not what I said. I said I’m in touch with him. I have his number. I was just dealing with… the issue when you rang as it happens. Bit of an interruption, to be honest.”

  “Oh.” A shocked pause. “Really really sorry, Marc. Messing things up…” He sounds so forlorn my tetchiness drains away, leaving my shittiness exposed.

  “No, don’t…” I start, then, “No, really, I’m glad you rang... Appreciate your concern, Oliver. We all do. Just, don’t worry, OK. It’s being sorted. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

  “Yes, Marc,” he says. A child scolded, forgiven, and off to bed. “Love your show.”

  “Know you do. Thanks.”

  As he’s putting down the receiver his end I hear him repeating faintly “Everything will be fine,” as if he’s speaking to someone beside him, but I guess he’s just talking to himself.

  It’s catching. “Everything will be fine,” I say as well, seeking my own solace from an empty room.

  What is certainly not fine is tonight’s show. Blame it on Marni and me losing the rapport we’d been building up, or the strange sense I have of being judged on every word I speak on-air – whatever the reason, we manage to combine amateur hour in Hicksville with the cheerlessness of a get-together with the Plymouth Brethren. I miss cues, garble links and snuff out any spark of life from callers, with weary responses that emerge from a dead area somewhere behind my eyes. Usually as the programme rolls along I cut down on the music, harnessing energy from what flows in through the phone lines, riding it more or less spontaneously. Tonight I don’t want the calls, I’m half-afraid of what might come in. Instead I spend much of my air-time taking refuge, you could call it, behind the work that other people have produced in studios far away and long ago. I just cue the music and sit for long minutes, brooding through the glass while Marni leaves punters on hold and tries to keep up with logging my unplanned selections from the play list.