Newsdeath

by Ray Connolly

  Kirsten sat down and considered the pile of bills and envelopes piled neatly on the desk. Someone must go in every day and check the mail, she realized, as she noticed that all the envelopes had been slit open. The journalist in Huckle would see the sense in it, and its relevance. But the essentially lonely man would be appalled at this invasion of his life. What an ambivalent man he was, she thought, resenting the fact that the policemen who had heard the tapes knew him better than she did.

  Carefully she took a blank cassette out of its container and put it on to the tape deck. Turning on the radio tuner she sought out the Capital Radio frequency. It wasn’t difficult to find. The zealous chatterings of PUMA were still threatening and promising and haranguing, although it was a different voice from the last time she had listened. The speaker was now Cockney, uneducated and much more violent in what he was saying than the others had been earlier in the evening. Firmly she pressed the ‘start’ and ‘record’ buttons on the tape deck, let the spools unravel a few inches of tape and then, taking hold of the hand control, stopped the machine, ready to be flicked on again the moment anything worth recording was broadcast. Still in her coat, she settled down in the armchair alongside the tape-recording equipment and began her wait. Huckle had joked about wishing that he might record his own death. By helping him do just that Kirsten felt a closeness to him which she could get in no other way.

  Susan Huckleston’s reaction to the siege was as different as she was different from Kirsten Parish. She and her family had again become the focus of Press activity once it was known that Huckle was inside Capital Radio with the terrorists, but by now she was more able to cope with the situation and had brusquely sent the over-ambitious trespassers on her lawn on their way. The children’s mumps had given way to the Christmas holidays, and now at the beginning of Christmas week there was all the excitement of cards (more this year than ever before), decorations and presents. At her own invitation, Susan’s mother had eventually descended upon them, but the expected tensions had not developed and despite the situation life continued with a growing normality. Susan had been told that her husband was a hostage inside Capital Radio by Donald Mitford at shortly after eight-thirty that day, and, quite apart from the relief that he was still alive, she had experienced a strange pleasure that he was once again at the centre of things. She had not heard the execution commentary when it had been initially broadcast, but once again she had been tipped off by Mitford during the early afternoon, and had turned to the BBC World At One to hear once again her husband’s voice. Kirsten Parish would never have understood, but despite her fears for Huckle’s safety, Susan knew that in his way he would be enjoying the situation, even though he might be scared stiff. She never once expected him to die.

  By nine o’clock the number of PUMA guarding Capital’s various entrances had been reduced to two. Danny’s work with his bombs and explosives, which had kept him busy now for over twelve hours with hardly a break, had made the other three entrances, the two skylights and the back stairs secure from attack by the use of massive booby traps. Now Shelley and Dave, the most experienced men with arms, could help each other guarding the front entrance from attack.

  For two hours Huckle had sat in silence, occasionally looking up to see what the rest of the hostages were doing, and now and then looking through into the continuity studio to watch the excited PUMA as they repeated ad nauseam their pledges of solidarity with various freedom fighters around the world. From time to time they would all gather in front of a television set which had been brought into main control so that they might see what the outside of the building looked like, as both television channels had live outside broadcast units covering the streets outside Euston Tower. Huckle never failed to notice the excitement which spread through the group whenever their individual names were mentioned, and when accounts of the havoc they had so far caused were broadcast. They were clearly being kept awake and high by their amphetamines, and a kind of delirium appeared to be breaking out among them.

  At the engineer’s consul in main control Hickmore was talking to Bill Adams. ‘We want to do an open line.’ Hickmore’s attitude was arrogantly commanding towards the engineer. ‘You know, we want to talk to the listeners. Do a phone-in thing. How soon can you fix it?’

  ‘It’ll take a few minutes.’ Bill Adams looked towards the telecommunications room. He could see that Frances was asleep, and that Patti Horrocks looked as though she were in a kind of black stupor. Rolf Peters, the surviving security man, was sitting, still tied, staring ashenly into space. To do an open line Adams would need the co-operation of at least some of the Capital Radio regular staff. His eyes fell upon Charlie Brown and Shirley. They were sitting talking quietly at the back of the telecommunications room. Shirley could help Patti Horrocks work the switchboard and Charlie could help out in main continuity. Someone would have to show the PUMA broadcasters how to operate the switches from their end. ‘We’ll have to get help,’ he said at last, and explained his plan.

  Hickmore nodded. None of the hostages had been the slightest trouble so far. It was easier to be co-operative than to fight, and the fear that at any moment the police might come bursting into the studios in some attempt to end the siege filled captors and captives with a shared sense of danger.

  From his position on the floor Huckle watched while Charlie Brown went into main continuity, where he could see him explaining to Martin Jenkins which buttons to press to take the incoming listeners’ calls and how to be careful not to speak over the caller. In the telecommunications room Shirley had roused Patti Horrocks and together they were beginning to make sense of the various plugs and leads which led to two of the switchboards.

  Over the speakers into main control came the voice now of Martin Jenkins, requesting any listeners of Radio PUMA who might have queries about the aims of Radio PUMA to call now on 388 1255 so that they might speak to PUMA themselves and ‘take part for the first time in your lives in the voice of free radio and free speech’. Huckle looked back around main continuity. Danny had fallen asleep, propped against the wall facing him. His machine-gun was resting across his lap. Huckle peered at it, and wondered whether he would know if the safety catch was on or off by touching it. Yet even if he knew how to use it, would he have the nerve to shoot anyone? He knew he wouldn’t. And then he wondered if this were not a trap to tempt him into making a run for it, so that he might be shot while attempting to escape. But even as these thoughts were sweeping through his head he noticed that Eyna was watching him. He looked at her, and she half smiled, still sitting casually in Studio B on the far side of main control. She was right, he thought. He didn’t have the stomach for physical violence. Not even if his life depended upon it.

  Somewhere in one of the outer offices he could hear a telephone ringing and he wondered if Howlett was still trying to get through to him. He’d been trying all day on one phone or another, but all his attempts had been foiled. He wondered whether Howlett would negotiate with PUMA over the air, since that was almost certainly what they wanted. He hoped not, because he was sure that the police had given as much ground as they were going to give, and stand-off arguments between the two sides would only accelerate the end for all of them. If Howlett in any radio conversations got an idea of the fact that there were now only two men guarding the building he was almost certain to want to throw caution to the winds and come rushing in, hoping to save at least some of the hostages. Something has to be done from inside here, thought Huckle, and once again looked at Danny’s gun. There has to be a diversion if we aren’t all going to get our heads blown off before the night is out.

  At that moment the first listener got her call through. She had the unmistakable voice of the middle-aged, lower middle-class London housewife, the sort of voice which seems to have been designed for and patented by the commercial radio phone-in programme: ‘Hello … listen,’ she began, and it was clear that the PUMA were going to get an ear bashing, ‘I’ve been listening all evening since I got home from
work to you murderers and I want you to know that I only hope that when they get you they don’t waste public money with a trial, but hang you from the nearest lamp-post. You’re nothing …’

  The caller would have carried on, but Martin Jenkins had cut her off in mid-flow and begun an instant retaliatory howl of vehemence against these fascist people who were collaborators with the oppressors. Another call followed after a few moments: this time the caller suggested that the whole fucking lot of them ought to have their bodies used for pig food. This time the caller was a man. Again the line went dead before he had finished speaking. In the telecommunications room Shirley and Patti Horrocks were now putting calls through as quickly as they came in. Half a dozen followed in quick succession, all hostile, several threatening PUMA with the foulest of deaths should any further injuries be done to the hostages.

  At last a familiar voice came over the loudspeakers. ‘This is Commander Howlett of Scotland Yard … can I speak with the journalist John Huckleston?’

  ‘The monkey isn’t doing any talking now. We are. What do you want?’ replied Neil Maxwell.

  ‘Is John Huckleston all right?’ Howlett’s voice had an edge of concern.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘And the other hostages?’

  ‘Everyone is okay, man.’

  ‘Might I ask who I am speaking to?’

  Huckle realized that Howlett was merely trying to get on to speaking terms with the terrorists.

  ‘The name is Neil Maxwell. Neil Wellington Maxwell,’ came back the black man in reply. Huckle had thought for a moment that he might not want to reply, but he could see that Maxwell was enjoying the importance of being the one to negotiate with Scotland Yard. He was leaning over the microphone, while Hickmore and Martin Jenkins were sitting in front of the two disc jockey turntables. Jenny Silas and Kate Springfield were leaning against the wall of the small studio, listening. Dave and Shelley were on guard at the front entrance. The soldiering was clearly the part of the operation that both those men liked best. Danny was still asleep, while Eyna remained alone and thoughtful in the studio on the far side of the room.

  ‘We’d like to send in some hot food for you and your hostages …’ Howlett’s voice was forlornly hopeful. From the continuity suite came the sound of laughing.

  ‘No thank you. We don’t need your food. We got enough food in here. You can’t start sending in your hit men with fish and chips for us and a bullet through the brain when we start eating. We saw what happened to our friends. We saw what your pigs did to them.’

  ‘If you are referring to John Ash and Nancy Weber then I have to tell you that no police officer was involved in their deaths … if indeed they are dead.’

  At this point Kate Springfield came from the back of the studio to shout over Maxwell’s shoulder. ‘What do you mean “if”? We saw their bodies. We saw what you pigs had done to them. Don’t bullshit us.’

  ‘Where did you see their bodies?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with us.’ This was Michael Hickmore speaking now. ‘Those guys were taken out because they were too difficult for you pigs. They didn’t like your lies so you got rid of them. But you should have remembered that for every Johnny and Nancy there are a thousand more of us. If you don’t learn that then you’ll never learn anything.’

  At this point Howlett changed the subject. ‘You have three women in there as hostages. One of them has a small boy. Might I appeal to the women members of PUMA for their release while I continue negotiations with you. I believe that Jenny Silas also has children. Are you there, Jenny …?’

  Jenny Silas was propelled towards the microphone by Kate Springfield. She was so far from it that Charlie Brown, acting as the PUMA’s continuity engineer, had to raise the level of her voice on the console in front of him so that she might better be heard.

  ‘Are you there, Jenny?’ Howlett was repeating himself.

  ‘Yes, I’m here. And there’s no deal on the women. They are staying in here with us. They’re our insurance policy against trigger-happy police.’

  ‘But they have no part in the media. They’re just employees. They don’t dictate what goes on the air, or how your case is portrayed to the world.’

  Now it was Martin Jenkins’s turn. ‘In class wars there are no innocent bystanders. If they work for the capitalist media then they are collaborators, and as guilty, if not more guilty, than the oppressors themselves.’

  Again Howlett changed the subject. Clearly he was looking for a weak link somewhere. ‘It’s now nearly nineteen hours since you took over Capital Radio. You’ve had an enormous amount of publicity all around the world. There can be nothing else that you can achieve. I ask you for the safety of yourselves and your hostages to give yourselves up. We don’t want any more bloodshed, and if you come out now the world will be able to see and to judge the rightness of your cause. As it is with every extra hour you stay in there world opinion becomes more and more outraged.’

  ‘Go and fuck yourself, policeman.’ Neil Maxwell’s voice was curling with hate.

  Howlett was undeterred. ‘We don’t understand what your motives are now. We don’t know what you want any more. You can’t stay in there indefinitely.’

  ‘We’ll tell you tomorrow what we want. For the time being just tell your apes to keep away from us or everybody will die. Do you understand?’

  Howlett began to speak again, but suddenly the line went dead. Over the loudspeakers Huckle, and all the listeners to Capital, could hear PUMA congratulating themselves. Then Patti Horrocks put through another caller and a further mouthful of invective came down the telephone lines. This time Michael Hickmore had had enough, and he shouted back down the microphone threatening all kinds of destruction to people like this caller who were so obviously enemies of the people. They’re getting nervous, thought Huckle. For a moment there was silence from the main continuity studio. Looking through the main control window Huckle could see the various PUMA members busily talking among themselves. Was it possible that, having got what they wanted, they were unsure of what they should do next?

  Suddenly Huckle noticed that Eyna was watching him. The lights in Studio B were dim, reflected light from main control, and a pink glow was falling across her face reminding him once again of Susan. In this light and at this angle he could understand how he had made that mistake the first time he had seen her. As he looked at her he saw that she was looking straight through him, as though considering something which had already happened, or something which was about to happen. She was, it was clear, no longer acting as the PUMA military leader. Without her the troops were confused and disorganized. Huckle knew that it was only a matter of time before they asked for an aeroplane to fly them to a ‘friendly country’, but he could sense a feeling of uncertainty and nervousness coursing through the studio now. Huckle wondered why no one went to ask Eyna for her opinion. But they didn’t. Probably they would have felt that it was a sign of weakness on their behalf. Wearily the radio came to life again as Martin Jenkins began rereading the PUMA manifesto. Huckle was certain that the police outside must now be aware of the growing confusion in the building, but he knew also that they would not dare to risk breaking in, without some good reason for assuming that they might be successful. No one wanted a Black September Munich-type massacre in central London.

  Then it came to him. He knew what he must do. It seemed so easy he wondered why he had not thought of it before. Rising slowly from the floor so that no one would be unnerved by any sudden movements he walked across the darkness of main control to the solitary Bill Adams. In order that he would not fall asleep Adams had been given a couple of amphetamines, and Huckle could see that his pupils were dilated.

  ‘Can you switch the broadcast from main continuity in there to the other studio where the girl is sitting?’ Huckle asked as quietly as possible.

  Bill Adams looked at him strangely, as though he had not understood what Huckle had said. He had developed a kind of nodding motion of his hea
d, which made him jerk backwards every few moments or so.

  ‘What I’m saying,’ repeated Huckle, ‘is that I want you to cut the broadcast from main continuity and switch to Studio B over there when I start to talk to the girl. But I don’t want those other people in main continuity to know that they’ve been cut off.’

  ‘They’ll kill us all,’ Bill Adams murmured.

  ‘I’m sure that is what they intend to do anyway eventually,’ said Huckle. He could not actually be sure that Bill Adams was going to die, but he didn’t give much for his own chances of getting out alive, and the prospect of death was clearing his brain. ‘Listen, I’m going in there to speak to Eyna. When I put my arms up in the air I want you to switch us on. Right. I’ll pretend to stretch or something, so keep your eyes on me. Whatever happens let those guys think they’re still broadcasting. Keep them happy. If they want more phone calls, keep putting them through. Whatever they want, you give them. They mustn’t know. Not yet. Can you do that?’

  Bill Adams nodded, and for a moment Huckle thought he was going to give him all the technical jargon to explain how it was possible. For once, perhaps sensing the urgency of the situation, he just said: ‘It can be done.’