That’s the final word of St Clio the martyr. Just pre-empting the jokes there. There are worse things to die for, and I’m going out happy. You’re all winding each other up into a senseless tangle and it’s making this world unliveable. I’m looking forward to the noise stopping. By the time you read this it already will have. I bet it’s peaceful over here.

Clio Campbell

Neil came back to himself and saw Craig’s face, still there, hovering over the monitor, bathed in seraphimic light.

‘Well. Well well, eh!’

‘You’re not thinking about printing this?’

‘Got it in one, mate. And as soon as we possibly can. Need you to signal-boost the tweet and obviously give us some analysis, seeing as you’re our expert in the field here.’

Neil scrabbled about in the workings of his brain to make the words come.

‘Craig, there are press guidelines for reporting suicides. The first one, right up there, is that you never disclose whether there was a suicide note, much less report its contents.’

‘The lady said it herself, Neil. We don’t know who else will be printing this. We’ve already put it on the website and I want your analysis in half an hour max. You’re not letting me down on this one. This is tomorrow’s editorial. It changes everything. I mean, think about it – we could really lead the way with some sensitive reporting; I’d be surprised if she doesn’t tap into a real public mood. I mean, we could be looking at a wave. Brexit suicides. Copycatting.’

‘That’s exactly why they tell you not to print the notes. Craig, come on.’

Craig moved so quickly Neil wasn’t quite sure what had happened. Suddenly there was no one leaning over the back of his desk chair, and his boss stood in front of him, seemingly a foot taller than normal, staring him down with tiny cold eyes.

‘Let’s have a deal, going forward, mate. You get on with your job and I get on with mine. My job is selling papers. Your job, right now, is writing whatever the fuck I need you to write to sell those papers. All right? Good.’

Carol did not meet his eye this time as that upright spine retreated across the newsroom, and he was grateful for it. He tried to turn his attention back to the mass of words on his screen. The only phrase he could think of for it was political suicide, but that wasn’t right, was it? Political suicide was when MPs were caught with hookers, called old ladies bigots, or murmured that Hitler had really been quite a promising artist. It didn’t mean actually killing yourself because of politics. Actually killing yourself to try and change people’s politics.

Neil couldn’t for a second imagine what it would take to be that person. To decide to take that sort of action. Not so much the suicide; that had been understandable when she’d just been a depressed fifty-year-old woman with a failed career. He’d been able to empathize then. He’d thought he’d got it. But this. This whole – stunt. Planning your death out as a public event, intended to impact beyond your immediate circle.