‘You know I’m going to be production editor over there, a back-bench job?’

Jeremy nodded.

‘Well…’ The chief leant his bulk conspiratorially closer. ‘My first task is to appoint a deputy production editor. It’s a good gig, Jez. Matching the pages, making sure they get sent properly, keeping the pairers right, that sort of thing. You could do it even more deeply asleep than you are here. And the best thing is they do a nine-day rota, so you only have to work about half the number of evenings. Rest of the time, you get out at five o’clock. And because it’s in London Bridge, it’ll be nearly an hour off your commute.’

The possibility of actually getting out of the Beast awoke in Jeremy. But he stayed sceptical. ‘How’s that possible, leaving at five? Don’t the pages all still go in the evening?’

‘Yeah, except this job – these jobs – are to oversee production for the online and digital editions as well: iPad, smartphones, all that stuff. They want to…’ The chief clasped his strong fat hands around each other. ‘Bring it all together.’

‘But I don’t know anything about all that.’

‘You don’t have to. It’s the easiest thing in the world; it’s not even really journalism. All you’ve got to do is copy and paste and then make things fit. Or not even that, because these kids they’ve got making the editions do the copying and pasting for you. What they want old lags like you and me for is to keep an eye on them and make sure they don’t lose their little minds and start writing “gherkin” instead of “Gurkha” or “minge” instead of “minister”.’

‘So you’d be teaching them as well.’

The chief nodded, conceding that. ‘But you’d like that. I bet you liked it on the Sentinel, showing the rookies the ropes.’

Jeremy conceded in turn. ‘Mmhmm.’

‘And you get on with the whippersnappers we’ve got here.’

‘Yeah, I suppose, but what’s the money like over there?’

‘For you, about the same, maybe a smidgen more. For me, untold riches, darling. Enough to go private when I start slobbering into my bib.’

Jeremy waggled his head. This was all so much to think about. ‘What do you want me to do it for?’

‘Jesus, Jez.’ The chief sat up away from him, then swooped back again to hiss: ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you? You should be saying, Thanks, Frank; you’ve really looked out for me on this one. Where do I sign? When print goes under, half the lifers in here’ll be coming to you to beg for shifts.’

Jeremy did like that idea. But he wasn’t going to let anyone talk any lightness into him. He scooped a row of beans with his fork, pronged a roundel of sausage and lifted this load carefully to his mouth.