I Remember You by Martin Edwards

but he dared not utter such blasphemy. He cast his mind back to Finbar’s trumpet-blowing account of his own experience of radio stardom.
    â€˜So I pick two or three stories from the Press which catch my eye and then tell Baz about my favourite record?’
    â€˜Right.’ She consulted a clipboard. ‘“There’s Always Something There To Remind Me”? An old one, isn’t it? Before my time. But no problem, we have it in the record library.’
    She bustled out and he turned his attention to the papers. Flipping through the tabloids, he was rewarded with a story beginning: A randy reverend defrocked a teenage organist five times a night, a court was told yesterday . For slaking the Great British Public’s thirst for legal cases with a little spice, the Street of Shame beat the All England Law Reports hands down.
    He was cutting out the last paragraph of a snippet in The Independent about an Australian bigamist who wanted to plead guilty but insane when Penny Newland walked through the door.
    â€˜Hello again,’ he said.
    She started. ‘Mr Devlin. What brings you - oh yes, you’re on the programme with Baz this morning, aren’t you?’ She touched the mark on her face with her finger, a gesture he guessed was her habitual reaction when disconcerted.
    â€˜I hope he’s going to be gentle with me.’
    â€˜You needn’t worry. Baz is marvellous with all his guests, especially those who aren’t experienced. Forget about his reputation for being sharp - people always exaggerate, he’s never had the credit he deserves.’
    â€˜He’s certainly a celebrity in this city.’
    â€˜A big fish in a tiny pool, that’s all. He could have been a national name if he’d had a few more breaks, but Baz has always been unlucky.’
    â€˜In the wrong place at the wrong time?’
    â€˜I suppose so. He’s known tragedy. He married young, but his wife died of leukaemia.’ Her voice faltered. ‘And his - his twin brother died a few years ago. People don’t realise how much suffering he’s been through. Yet you’ll see when you get in the studio, he’s always the complete professional.’
    Sophie stuck her head round the door. ‘Your public awaits, Harry. How are you doing?’
    â€˜Okay. You were right about the razor blade.’
    He nodded to Penny and let Sophie lead him up stairs and along corridors through a labyrinth of offices, finally ushering him through a heavy door into the control room. From vast loudspeakers came the voice of a dead man - Otis Redding, being broadcast at that moment. Hunched over a control panel, a bearded engineer in jeans and a lumberjack’s shirt nodded a greeting.
    Thick glass separated them from Baz Gilbert, who sat on the far side of a circular table on top of which were crammed teddy bear mascots and a dozen snapshots: Baz in a band, Baz on the air, Baz through the years, changing from a lad with a guileless grin to a seen-it-all veteran of a business in which youth was the only thing that mattered. A couple of old photographs showed him with a look-alike brother, whose military short-back-and-sides made Baz resemble a refugee from sixties San Francisco in comparison. A couple of recent pictures showed him cuddling Penny Newland. In other shots, taken years back but carefully preserved, he shared a joke with Roger McGough, chatted with Paul McCartney.
    Now he had his headphones on and was raising his thumbs in salutation. His mouth framed the word: ‘Welcome.’
    Harry realised how nervous he was. Excited, too. No big deal, he told himself, to appear on a local radio show; yet he had never done it before and his mouth was dry and his stomach unsettled. He imagined microphones picking up a thunderous rumble from his innards, causing the listeners to flinch. The stories he had chosen in the papers seemed to have fled his mind; he did not know what he could say about