But what people were watching were the ticker lines. The BBC’s said, ‘Shop owner killed in “retaliatory” arson attack after anti-Muslim violence’. ITV’s was ‘Shopkeeper burnt alive in pro-Muslim attack in Luton’ and Sky had ‘White shopkeeper burnt alive in anti-Beast firebombing’. In another of the shots every channel kept switching to, a group of bearded Muslim men in long shirts and embroidered skullcaps were yelling and holding up hastily daubed signs that read ‘Burn the Beast’.

Burnt alive. Jeremy glanced nonsensically over his shoulder at the entrance to the newsroom, where there was only a Diary girl hurrying outside, phone in hand. Burnt alive. He was suddenly glad he wasn’t in London, and that the walls here were so thick.

The chief muscled through the uncertain crowd to the subs’ bench. He heaved his wheelie suitcase flat on to a desk, unzipped the lid and popped it open. Lying on top of his clothes and held in place by crossed elastic straps was the road sign ‘EC4 Fleet Street’.

The chief pushed one of the chairs against a square pillar at the end of the back bench and warily hauled himself up on to it. As people nearby saw what he was doing, they began sombre applause. The rest of the newsroom noticed and the chief, playing to the crowd, held the sign above his head like a boxer displaying his title belt. Everyone began to clap and whistle. Then someone banged on his desk, others joined in, and the tone abruptly dropped into utter seriousness. The Beast’s staff pounded the desks till they shook and staplers and telephones jumped up like rain off the pavement.

The chief, slowly swivelling to show them all the sign, shouted, ‘No surrender!’

The crowd roared back, ‘NO SURRENDER!’

‘No surrender!’

‘NO SURRENDER!’

‘No surrender!’

‘NO SURRENDER!’

The chief turned to duct-tape the corners of the sign to the crude concrete, and a chant was taken up and hollered out: ‘BEAST! BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!’

Then it was done and, as the chief, almost overcome, bent to lower himself off the chair, there was a loud final cheer and relieved laughter.

Jeremy wanted to say something to the chief, but had no idea what. For someone who was supposed to be at the centre of all that was going on, he felt as if he were struggling to get up to speed. Before he could try, the chief slapped him meatily on the shoulder and said, ‘Come on, Jezzum, look alive, you raddled old hack, for as long as you can. For all you know, we had an al-Qaeda arson squad half an hour behind us on the M4. We’ve got to get your bag on your bunk so they know whose is whose if we all get barbecued.’