‘Four–five is the dramatic interrogation plus raids on Bucklebury, not named. The old four–five, the Met’s terror hunt, moves back whole on to six–seven. The new eight–nine is the burnt shopkeeper and the Great Muslim Debate. Drop the economist and the chief justice – get more from Ahmad and make it the Great Burqa Debate. She wants to say the burqa’s a cloak for terror, a relic of medieval misogyny, and has no place in modern Britain; then our lefty civil-liberties campaigner wants to say that the state can’t dictate what we wear, that individual liberty is the basis of a free Britain and that banning the burqa would be simply racist. Then the cricket smorgasbord moves back whole on to ten–eleven.’

Every instruction activated subs, designers, reporters, pairers, and the racket of production leapt into the air. Brython’s staff shouted across one another:

‘Weather and lottery on to page-two-in-exile, please!’

‘Pervert pilot exposed needs a hundred-word trim!’

‘Send that page, darling!’

‘NIBs page is away! Forty-two is away!’

‘Thirty-nine V-one, thirty-nine is coming again!’

‘Anguish of the public-school rape victim goes to seventeen!’

‘The terrorists’ names are Farhana Rouhani and Begum Thorpe. One of our bonny bombers is married to a Brit. Get reporters on doorsteps – hop to it. We’ll need family quotes for the second.’

‘Frankenfish Oil in bold ragged, please! And put it above Cancer Risk for Macho Teens; make it all a Health sidebar.’

The squat bulk of the chief powered towards Max’s Terror pod. ‘Are you happier now, darlings? What did your uncle Frank tell you about people who fuck with the Beast? But you may have noticed there’s still a paper to get out. So pay attention.’

He slapped down a copy of his own flatplan, with the changes marked, and Max was already talking across him: ‘Will, Art desk have filed the rag-outs to go next to your Impartial story – mastheads with a sentence or two under each. Check it all makes sense.’

The chief said, ‘Copy’s in for the Terror Hunt. Also the rewrites for the Great Muslim Debate are in.’

Max said, ‘Jez, you know your tart in a burqa story is being grafted on to the splash, so you can leave that on the operating table for now.’

‘OK, and I’m done with the interrogation.’

The chief told Max, ‘Twelve–thirteen need a trim because they’re getting a weather and lottery sidebar.’

‘Where’s the Cops with Guns copy? It happened hours ago.’

The chief shouted across to the Newsdesk. ‘Sweethearts! Where are the Cops with Guns?’

‘Right here! Just tidying it up.’

‘Maximilian here can do that. Send it right over.’

Max said, ‘So I’m waiting for that, the details of the bus victims, raids on Bucklebury and the splash.’