Christophe, me ol’ mucker. It’s giving you hallucinations now.’
‘Christ, he’s coming up here.’
He was. Peter Maxwell had given his girls strict instructions. They were to stay securely in Number 38 Columbine.
They were not to answer the door, the phone, any question Chris Tarrant might put to them and above all, if either of them touched his beloved Light Brigade in the attic, he’d hang them both out on his rotary washing line and bore them to death by reading them chunks of Professor Trevor-Roper. Now he was standing at the Advertiser’s front desk, steaming in the warm rain of the morning, water seeping into his socks.
The dim-looking woman opposite picked up the intercom aid it buzzed upstairs. ‘Chris, there’s a Mr Maxwell to see you. He says it’s urgent.’
There was a muffled response in the dim-looking woman’s ear.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked.
‘It’s about an essay he owes me on Hitler’s Polish policy,’ Maxwell told her, straight faced.
‘Foreign affairs,’ the woman said into the intercom. ‘We don’t cover any of that, do we?’
There was another buzz in her ear, the only buzz, Maxwell guessed, she was ever likely to get.
‘He’s on his way down,’ she told him. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’
Maxwell raised his dripping hat and paddled off to a corner where a retired colonel was scanning the microfiche to find something to complain about and a travelling couple were combing the small ads.
‘Mr Maxwell,’ the Head of Sixth Form didn’t have to look up to recognize the nasal whine. True, it was over-larded with Fleet Street Speak and the outstretched hand spoke volumes for the Confidence Building For Young Journalists Course, but it was still, in essence Christopher Bites-Yer-Bum Logan, sub-editor of the school magazine, in the days when Leighford High still had a school magazine. He came down the spiral staircase like a ginger Gloria Swanson, if that wasn’t too much of a contradiction in terms.
‘Chris,’ Maxwell stood up and shook his hand. ‘It’s been.’
‘Must be ten years.’ The hand-wringing ritual was exhausting, designed to assure his old teacher by his grip that Chris Logan had grown up in that time, was shaving now and quite possibly had had carnal knowledge of a live woman. He’d also thickened around the girth and wore contact lenses to replace the geek glasses that were once his trademark. His gingerness seemed to have diminished not one jot.
‘Still hacking, I see,’ Maxwell beamed.
‘Oh, yes,’ Logan nodded. ‘Come back for a bit of a break actually. You know, after the hurly-burly of the Sun .’
‘Quite,’ Maxwell nodded, frowning, sharing for a fleeting moment what must have been the endless agony of the Murdoch years.
‘What can I do for you? Looking up old pupils?’
‘Shame on you,’ Maxwell slapped the younger man’s arm. ‘That’s illegal, you know.’
‘Oh yes, ha, ha.’ The braying laugh and delayed humour were still the same, despite a 2.2 in Media Studies from Salford and the years at the computer interface.
‘No, it’s about Larry Warner.’
‘Ah,’ Logan’s grin had already frozen. ‘Mavis?’
The dim-looking woman glanced up from her phone. ‘Any chance of two coffees, in here?’ he pointed to a dingy office.
‘I’ve got the leader of the council on two,’ she cupped her hand over the receiver.
‘Well, that’s one more vote than he’ll get next time round,’ Maxwell quipped.
‘Hah, oh quite,’ Logan grinned. ‘Tell him I’m out to lunch, Mavis.’
Maxwell was quite prepared to believe that.
‘Have a seat, Mr Maxwell.’
‘Max’ll do,’ the Great Man said, removing past copies of the Advertiser and arranging his coat over a computer terminal.
‘Max,’ Logan sat opposite him. ‘It seems strange after all these years. I remember when you ran the school magazine.’
‘Oh no,’ Maxwell corrected him. ‘You were the driving force there, Chris. Logan’s Run I used to
‘Christ, he’s coming up here.’
He was. Peter Maxwell had given his girls strict instructions. They were to stay securely in Number 38 Columbine.
They were not to answer the door, the phone, any question Chris Tarrant might put to them and above all, if either of them touched his beloved Light Brigade in the attic, he’d hang them both out on his rotary washing line and bore them to death by reading them chunks of Professor Trevor-Roper. Now he was standing at the Advertiser’s front desk, steaming in the warm rain of the morning, water seeping into his socks.
The dim-looking woman opposite picked up the intercom aid it buzzed upstairs. ‘Chris, there’s a Mr Maxwell to see you. He says it’s urgent.’
There was a muffled response in the dim-looking woman’s ear.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked.
‘It’s about an essay he owes me on Hitler’s Polish policy,’ Maxwell told her, straight faced.
‘Foreign affairs,’ the woman said into the intercom. ‘We don’t cover any of that, do we?’
There was another buzz in her ear, the only buzz, Maxwell guessed, she was ever likely to get.
‘He’s on his way down,’ she told him. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’
Maxwell raised his dripping hat and paddled off to a corner where a retired colonel was scanning the microfiche to find something to complain about and a travelling couple were combing the small ads.
‘Mr Maxwell,’ the Head of Sixth Form didn’t have to look up to recognize the nasal whine. True, it was over-larded with Fleet Street Speak and the outstretched hand spoke volumes for the Confidence Building For Young Journalists Course, but it was still, in essence Christopher Bites-Yer-Bum Logan, sub-editor of the school magazine, in the days when Leighford High still had a school magazine. He came down the spiral staircase like a ginger Gloria Swanson, if that wasn’t too much of a contradiction in terms.
‘Chris,’ Maxwell stood up and shook his hand. ‘It’s been.’
‘Must be ten years.’ The hand-wringing ritual was exhausting, designed to assure his old teacher by his grip that Chris Logan had grown up in that time, was shaving now and quite possibly had had carnal knowledge of a live woman. He’d also thickened around the girth and wore contact lenses to replace the geek glasses that were once his trademark. His gingerness seemed to have diminished not one jot.
‘Still hacking, I see,’ Maxwell beamed.
‘Oh, yes,’ Logan nodded. ‘Come back for a bit of a break actually. You know, after the hurly-burly of the Sun .’
‘Quite,’ Maxwell nodded, frowning, sharing for a fleeting moment what must have been the endless agony of the Murdoch years.
‘What can I do for you? Looking up old pupils?’
‘Shame on you,’ Maxwell slapped the younger man’s arm. ‘That’s illegal, you know.’
‘Oh yes, ha, ha.’ The braying laugh and delayed humour were still the same, despite a 2.2 in Media Studies from Salford and the years at the computer interface.
‘No, it’s about Larry Warner.’
‘Ah,’ Logan’s grin had already frozen. ‘Mavis?’
The dim-looking woman glanced up from her phone. ‘Any chance of two coffees, in here?’ he pointed to a dingy office.
‘I’ve got the leader of the council on two,’ she cupped her hand over the receiver.
‘Well, that’s one more vote than he’ll get next time round,’ Maxwell quipped.
‘Hah, oh quite,’ Logan grinned. ‘Tell him I’m out to lunch, Mavis.’
Maxwell was quite prepared to believe that.
‘Have a seat, Mr Maxwell.’
‘Max’ll do,’ the Great Man said, removing past copies of the Advertiser and arranging his coat over a computer terminal.
‘Max,’ Logan sat opposite him. ‘It seems strange after all these years. I remember when you ran the school magazine.’
‘Oh no,’ Maxwell corrected him. ‘You were the driving force there, Chris. Logan’s Run I used to
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