Newsdeath

by Ray Connolly

  ‘We have several pictures of him in the file …’ a deep voice from the picture desk interrupted.

  Mitford carried on: ‘… and according to our other information there is a girl producer, two women telephonists, another security man and an engineer there as well as John Huckleston. Capital aren’t giving us the other names until they’ve told the relatives.’

  ‘So how are our forces deployed?’ The nature of the story had led Lloyd into talking unwittingly in militaristic jargon.

  Quickly Mitford went through a summary of his reporting staff’s operations, and their liaison with the several Fleet Street independent news agencies which would be supplying that newspaper and the opposition during the day.

  At the end of the outline there was a moment’s pause while the editor stared at his hands. He always stood up and thanked them at the end of conference, so it was clear that he had one thing further to add before they got back to their work. At last it came. ‘In the event of PUMA carrying out their threat and executing this security man at twelve o’clock we’ll be replating on the second edition as soon as it’s confirmed. I don’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary before getting it into the paper. So if you could all bear that in mind. I’ve already talked to the management and they’re quite prepared to see us replate as the story develops, so the ordinary edition times may be thrown about a bit today. I’ve no doubt some deal will be worked out with the printers and drivers and …’ Again he stopped and referred to his watch. ‘Well, I suppose by twelve o’clock we’ll find out which side is bluffing,’ he said at last. And standing up, added: ‘Thank you.’

  For the police surrounding Euston Tower that Monday morning there were two distinct problems: how to save the lives of the hostages and arrest the terrorists; and how to keep that area of London’s traffic flowing without putting any of the hundreds of thousands of drivers who regularly used Marylebone Road and Tottenham Court Road at any personal risk. There was no way that the latter could be achieved by leaving the roads open, and so with the aid of massive reinforcements from Scotland Yard’s B Division (traffic-control), diversions were set up as far back as Great Portland Street to the West, Euston Station to the east and a full block down Tottenham Court Road to the south. It meant that the whole of central London, reacting according to the domino theory, became totally congested, but it made the main job easier. And so for the television crews and reporters, who had bribed their way into surrounding, overlooking offices that they might peer down on the scene through their telescopic lenses, it was an extraordinarily deserted scene which met their eyes, the absence of traffic and the organization of the police in their positions of siege quite transforming the geometry of the area.

  By ten o’clock the first editions of the evening papers were being hawked around the crowds of onlookers who, despite police warnings, insisted upon gathering behind the barriers and taped off areas; while the more enterprising sightseers held transistor radios to their ears to hear the full-time commentary that LBC was offering on the situation, the way they might have listened the previous summer to the cricket. All the time twelve o’clock loomed nearer.

  Everyone had an opinion about what should be done to these people once the police apprehended them: but few could offer any realistic method of catching them without ensuring the certain death of the hostages and God knows how many policemen. Glancing through his own paper and listening sporadically to one of the radios covering the spectacle, Winston noticed again and again how much political capital was being made out of the siege; how Monday Club members were calling for the return of capital punishment; how the National Front was blaming the immigrants and pointing a finger at Neil Maxwell as the ring leader; how right wing politicians were calling for intervention by the army since PUMA was, in its own definition, in a state of war with the rest of society; and how one MP was calling for the setting up of ‘an anti-urban-terrorist ministry to be responsible for the maintenance of law and order in a society which seemed to be becoming a breeding place for violent anarchists aimed at overthrowing the principles upon which the greatness of Britain has been based’.

  It seemed to Winston, looking out across that wet expanse of shiny roadway and underpass and listening to the comments which floated among his colleagues behind him, that it wasn’t only the British upper class that enjoyed spanking. A love for old-fashioned authoritarianism lurked beneath the most liberal of breasts in times like these. Then he remembered a conversation he had had with Huckle at the start of this whole thing, when he had wondered what might be the philosophy of PUMA. ‘Does it matter?’ Huckle had replied cynically. ‘It might to them,’ Winston had countered. ‘But not to me,’ Huckle had said. Now it seemed to Winston that it didn’t matter to anyone any more what the aims of PUMA might once have been: it didn’t matter to the police, nor the media nor the public. And almost certainly it had lost its relevance to PUMA themselves. The adventure of the moment had become the event.

  In accordance with standard urban siege procedure Howlett, in consultation with the Metropolitan Commissioner of Police, had ordered that all electricity, gas and water facilities be cut to the Capital building. The idea was to so demoralize the terrorists that eventually they would either give up, or leave a chink in their armour through which law and order could rush. It was, in this case, a vain hope. Dozens of candles had been brought in one of the sports bags in anticipation of just this and the water cisterns in the building held enough fresh water to last for days. And on top of the provisions which PUMA had brought with them they found plentiful food in the staff canteen, and a more than adequate supply of alcohol in the hospitality room cupboard.

  From his position in main control Huckle watched the hours pass by with a curious fascination, a fascination that included admiration for the spectacular way in which Eyna governed her forces. She was strict and stern, but whenever any resentment or sign of disagreement threatened to upset the order of the besieged a sudden flash of warmth and seeming affection seemed to leap from her to her little troupe, and with a few platitudes about the common cause and the closeness of their victory the resistance faded before his eyes. It were as though the PUMA members had been brainwashed; but he knew that there had almost certainly been no need for that. The violence and the desire for strong leadership had been in every one of them, just as it seemed that it was lurking in his own make-up. He was, despite himself, attracted towards power and authority just as these other people were. Eyna had shown him that.

  Since main control and the main continuity studio were in the heart of the square-shaped structure that made up the station, neither room had access to any natural light, and when the power had been cut there had been a short moment of panic among the hostages before the first candles had flickered to life. Not that anyone was considering making a run for it. It was just that no one was sure how steady were the fingers on the triggers during these moments of stress. As the day wore inexorably towards the first deadline, the candles had been replaced several times and a routine had set in. Shelley still sat by his machine-gun facing the front entrance; Dave was covering the back entrance with an identical weapon while Hickmore and Martin Jenkins were waiting by the two overhead trap doors in case anyone should be brave enough to try to drop in on them from the roof. Neil Maxwell wandered from post to post during the course of the morning, while Jenny guarded the girls in the tele-communications room, and Eyna and Danny watched the people left in main control.

  Apart from the leadership demonstrated by Eyna it was the silence which struck Huckle the most. The hostages were meek, as well they might be; but their captors showed none of the revolutionary zeal and fervour that Huckle had imagined such a group might display. They made no attempts to convert their prisoners, and rarely spoke either to them or among themselves. It seemed that everyone was concerned with his private thoughts, and Huckle wondered what were their real feelings about the planned execution of George Delaware. Looking around main control and through the window int
o the tele-communications room at the other hostages he was met with a blank introspection in their faces, expressions which reminded him of an airline flight he had once taken when the pilot had reported that he was having trouble with the landing gear and then given instructions to the passengers on how to behave in a crash landing. On that occasion, as on this, there had been no sense of panic; no noise, just a deep, heavy, introspective silence which cloaked everyone as they considered possible death and their own unpreparedness for it. Even when Danny had curtly pushed Bill Adams away from one wall of the studio in order that he might assemble the wiring to one of his bombs there was no murmur of dissent from the engineer. He accepted the authority and power which Danny held without question, as did all the hostages.

  The only people who might just possibly, because of personal pride in their profession, have put up some kind of resistance, were the two security men, and their potential threat had been negated from the beginning, when their hands and feet were bound and they were dragged off to another room where Kate Springfield could keep an eye on them. At first Huckle had felt a twinge of sympathy to see them trussed up like that, but on consideration he decided that it was probably an unintended kindness. They must have been the only two people in central London who did not know that the time of George Delaware’s death had been set for twelve o’clock.

  At eleven thirty-five, several hours after the only communication with Howlett, Huckle turned to Eyna again. ‘You’ve got to let me talk to them again. I’ve got to try.’

  Eyna consulted her watch. On numerous occasions during the morning the telephone on the main control panel had rung, but Eyna had been insistent that no one should answer it. It was almost certainly Howlett trying to talk them into extending the deadline, and Eyna knew as well as Huckle that the best way of preventing this was not to take the call. She was playing a game of nerves. ‘All right. Go ahead. Repeat our demands. Tell them this is the final warning. We will go on the air by twelve o’clock or the man dies. You’d better try harder this time, Huckle. They’re not taking you seriously.’

  Huckle turned back to the telephone, and began looking through some odd playlist notes on the panel where he had left Howlett’s number.

  Eyna spoke again. ‘The number is 485 5896,’ she said.

  The moment he had finished dialling someone was answering the call. ‘I want to speak to Commander Howlett. This is John Huckleston,’ he said.

  There was the tiniest of pauses before the voice of Howlett exploded down the phone. ‘Didn’t you hear us trying to call you?’ From the anxiety in his voice it was clear that the Commander was taking the strain badly.

  Huckle ignored the question. ‘I have to ask you once again … in the name of God will you get them to turn on the Capital transmitters … you have less than half an hour left. They mean it, Howlett. These buggers will shoot this guy.’

  ‘Tell them we can’t make that sort of deal. Not yet. They must give us more time.’

  ‘Are you lot out of your minds? They aren’t asking for a plane to Uganda or anything. They aren’t trying to get away. All they want is to be allowed to broadcast.’

  ‘To say what?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know. Does it matter what they say? They’re all crackers. You know that. And they’re mad enough to blow this poor geyser’s head off at twelve o’clock if they don’t get what they want …’

  ‘Hey … watch that, man.’ Neil Maxwell’s voice behind Huckle was deep and menacing.

  Huckle turned towards him just in time to see Eyna shaking her head and indicating that the black man should not become involved. Huckle carried on: ‘I don’t know what you guys out there think it’s like in here waiting to die over some point of principle. Remember we all go at four-hourly intervals. After the security guy it’s going to be a telephonist called Patti Horrocks. She’s a nice lady. She has a little boy, I think. Well how the fuck are you going to explain to her little boy that his mother died because some big shots didn’t like the idea of a gang of terrorists shouting their mouths off on some pop music radio station? For Christ’s sake listen to me. Twelve o’clock for him: then at four o’clock she goes …’

  Huckle waited, listening for some sign of response. Finally Howlett came back. ‘That’s a political decision you’re talking about. It’s out of my hands.’

  Huckle looked at his watch again. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes, Howlett. For God’s sake, do something

  Howlett was about to ask some further question, thus extending his own contact with them, when Eyna stepped forward again and, taking the telephone receiver from Huckle’s hand, slammed the conversation closed.

  ‘You tried very hard,’ she said. ‘I can see we got the right man for the job.’

  On the other side of main control, slumped against a wall, Shirley, the producer, began to sob in loud heaving movements, exhausted by her own fears. She had hardly spoken since the siege began, always looking cowed and afraid, and Huckle had noticed how arrogant and bullying Jenny Silas and Kate Springfield had been towards her. Considering the state she was in he almost felt that he should try to comfort her but he knew in his heart that there would be worse to cry about before the hour was out. Maybe she hadn’t realized before then that Patti Horrocks was to be the next on the list. He looked at her again, noticed that she was hiding her head in Bill Adams’s arms, and decided against going over to them. He turned back towards Eyna. ‘Listen, you know as well as I do that it’s a political decision that Howlett can’t make by himself. Give him half a chance … extend the deadline. Just a few more hours, please.’

  Eyna looked at him and then turned away. ‘That,’ she said, over her shoulder, ‘would be just what they want. A sign of our weakness. You see we’re political, too.’ Without a further word she walked out of main control and into the corridor. The heavy door closed on its spring behind her.

  Huckle turned back towards the two men who were guarding them. Neil Maxwell was staring impassively at him. Danny was fiddling, as always, with the safety catch on his machine-gun. ‘ You’ve got to listen to me, even if she won’t. What you’re doing is insane. There’s no way that it’s going to benefit anyone, and even if you guys survive they’re going to put you away for ever if you carry on like this. You’ve got to stop her. Someone has. It’s insane.’ Neil Maxwell’s eyes never left his for a moment. His expression remained coldly impassive. Huckle could sense that his pleading was washing right over him. But he tried again: ‘I’m sure they’re doing everything they can. The light may even come on again. I’m certain they’ll put the transmitter back on, but you’ve got to give them time. Christ, you know what politicians are like making up their minds … get her to see sense. You can’t be so stupid …’He didn’t finish whatever it was that he was going to say, because at that point Neil Maxwell shoved his fingers straight into Huckle’s face, and a jabbing pain seared into the slack flesh under his right eye as the black man ran a finger nail as long and sharp as a razor blade along the rim of his cheekbone and below his eyeball. Huckle screamed in pain, and as he did so Neil Maxwell withdrew his hand. For a moment Huckle thought he had been blinded. Neil Maxwell knew better.

  ‘It’s only a cut, monkey. Just a slit. For a monkey you talk too much.’

  Huckle took his hand away from his eye. It was covered in blood. He wiped his face on his sleeve, and realized that he could see, although his eye screamed with pain. And as he nursed his face with his shirt sleeve he thought he heard a chuckle. Turning, he saw in the glow of the candle light that Danny was sitting on the floor tugging at his beard and giggling.

  Eyna came back into main control at five minutes to twelve. She appeared very calm. ‘Any sign of life yet …?’ Her question, with its dreadful irony was directed towards Bill Adams who had been standing by his console as though praying that a signal would come telling him that the transmitters were ready to work again. But no message had come. He shook his head. Eyna turned back to Neil, catching sight of Huckle’s ripped eye for
the first time as she did so. ‘That will teach him to be more co-operative,’ she commented, and then without changing her expression or tone of voice she ordered that main control be cleared of everyone apart from Danny, Huckle and herself. ‘1 want the rest of them out of sight until it’s over,’ she said.

  Through the window in the tele-communications room the two women were staring into main control. ‘Get those two away from there. Take them into a sound-proof room and play them some music or something …’ then remembering that there was no electricity Eyna repeated limply … ‘well, anyway, get them into somewhere where they can’t see and hear.’ It was a slip, but it was a nervous slip. It was the first that Huckle had seen her make. It was important. Neil Maxwell and Danny had noticed too. For a moment Neil Maxwell hesitated in rounding up the other hostages. Eyna recovered very quickly. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Her voice was now controlled and as dead as steel. With one more look towards her the black man pointed his machine-gun towards Shirley and Bill Adams, who without further bidding moved quickly towards the door. In his continuity studio Charlie Brown pulled himself to his feet, as Neil waved towards him. Together they left the studio. A moment later the faces of the telephonists disappeared from their window. Huckle looked at his watch. It was two minutes to twelve. Eyna turned and nodded towards Danny, who with a springiness that seemed to care nothing for what he was doing, left the room. Eyna walked across to Huckle and drew her pistol from her belt. It was the first time they had been alone together since they had been in the dark room. That seemed like a million years ago.

  ‘You know you’re mad, don’t you?’ That was all he could think to say. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added: ‘They’ll bring back hanging for you lot …’ For a moment he thought he caught the flicker of a smile across her features. Then she turned fully towards him and held the pistol out at arms length. For a moment he thought that the threat to the security man had been a trick and that he was to be the first person to be executed. Because it seemed to be the thing to do when a gun is pointed straight at you, he raised his hands and waited.