Quentin St John, pronounced ‘Sinjin’, the editor of one of the most prestigious broadsheets in the UK, was trying to tell Fabian that he understood how he was feeling. Fabian’s neck glowed red. Quentin was a name chosen after much thought, to make the working class boy sound as if he came from good stock. He didn’t, and occasionally, his actions showed it. Tactika had a generous scholarship scheme which his father had insisted upon, which awarded prestigious university places to those less fortunate. It was his father’s way of helping gifted people out of the mire, so they didn’t have to fight like him. Fabian thought some of them should be more grateful, and loyal.

‘Listen to me,’ Fabian said in a low voice. Quentin went quiet. Fabian let his rage vent. It probably wasn’t fair, but life wasn’t fucking fair, and the buck had to stop somewhere.

‘This scrotum sack, what’s his name? The freelancing scumbag.’ Fabian grasped the newspaper in his free hand and searched for the name at the bottom of the article. There was a photo, too. It was his minute of fame, and it made Fabian seethe even more.

‘Who is he? I’ve got my people on him. He sounds like he’s some woolly Russell Group dropout searching for dirt. Why did you pay an amateur to bring my father’s name into disrepute?’ he screamed down the phone. Perhaps he shouldn’t have called until he’d calmed down a bit. Every time Quentin tried to respond, Fabian launched another tirade.

‘Are you that desperate that you can’t even pay your own any more? You sniff around for scraps like the gutter press? Jesus! Do you know the damage you’ve done?’

‘Fabian—’

‘Shut the fuck up. How much did my father pay for your degree in the end? Including trips abroad, your secondment to Le Monde, and your access to Sky News? Jesus, what kind of turncoat are you, Quentin?’

‘Fabian—’

‘Are you being paid by the Labour lobby?’

‘Fabian—’

‘Do you know how much damage you’ve done? Now you’ve risen to the dizzy heights of editor, you don’t need us, is that right? You selfish, immature, ungrateful bastard. Our shares dropped by thirteen per cent this morning. Greenwashing! How fucking dare you!’

‘Fabian—’

‘You can kiss sweet goodbye to any more money. All the perks and holidays and timeshares, Quentin, wave goodbye, you fucking traitor. I can tell you for nothing that we have everything on you, still, in a rather large envelope. My father throws nothing away, and now I’m sole heir, by God I’m going to destroy you.’

‘Fabian, shut up and listen to me!’