Jeremy could hardly imagine or remember such exuberance of desire that you would sleep on a concrete floor rather than in a bed. It reminded him that he hadn’t got through to Louise last night and that she’d be worried and angry when he finally did. He didn’t give two shits whether someone had slept in here or not.

The chief gingerly tipped the sullied suits into an upright plastic barrel in the corner of the room and slapped the dirt off his hands. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘Bet it was those grunts.’

‘Maybe,’ said Jeremy. ‘The kid was in his bunk this morning, though, wasn’t he?’

‘True.’

They spoke no more until they’d gone up a flight of echoing stairs to the first floor and into the canteen. It was small, almost perfectly square, and loud with the scraping and clanging of cooking, crockery and talk. Along one side was a serving hatch where canteen staff in hairnets and white jackets tilled their patches of yellow egg or glistening sausage. They reminded Jeremy of the Muslim kid from the pub, who must still be out there somewhere. The thought didn’t make him feel any better.

He took a tray and a Beast from their respective stacks and slid them along the metal rails while reading the front page:

17 KILLED

AS BRITISH

CIVIL WAR

BREAKS OUT

Strong headline, he thought with gloom. The body count had been updated for the later editions, and the picture was like a punch to the solar plexus: the smashed bus lying on its side with night falling around it; tangled metal, torn grass, zipped-up body bags. It was one of the best front pages he’d ever seen, let alone worked on.

He sighed and loaded up a plate with as much fried food as it could carry. His stomach churned but he clambered through the seats to one opposite the chief. They ate for a while, the chief reading the Burqa Bombings spreads and Jeremy turning his paper over to look at Sport. He let the salty, fatty food absorb his hangover and his thoughts. Once the chief had checked over all the News pages, marking infelicities for which subs would be reprimanded later, he folded the paper and quietly said, ‘So, Jez.’

‘Yeah, Frank, why the fuck are we up so early?’

‘The Editor wants everyone, subs included, in the newsroom soon as. And I’ve got to give you your special assignment before the others start crawling all over everywhere.’

‘How can there be any subbing to do now? The reporters haven’t even written anything yet.’

‘Keep your voice down.’

Jeremy glanced around. There were plenty of others eating at the long tables, alone or in groups, but none of their people. ‘Why?’

‘The job I’ve got for you’s not here.’

Jeremy understood at once, and lowered his voice. ‘You mean it’s at the Fun?’

‘Clever girl.’

‘What is it?’