But he must not mess this up by getting ahead of himself. He cut through everything and into the narrow corridor. Here were framed pictures of men the Beast remembered – company men, chief subs and production editors from thirty years before – photographed with pints and captioned with nicknames. As he passed them almost at a jog, he recognized John Dyson, whom he’d seen banged out two days before, and he thought: I will be banged out when my time comes; my picture will be here when I am gone.

He hurtled past the editor’s PA, who was exhaustedly resting a mug against her forehead and too slow to stop Will rapping loudly on the door marked ‘Charles Brython, Editor’.

‘Come!’

Will slipped inside and closed the door on the PA’s protests. What he found slightly disappointed him: instead of a separate world of luxury and status, there was just more bare concrete, a wide desk strewn with layers of print-offs marked up in blue pencil and, behind it, hugely, the Editor himself.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked, and jabbed a button on his desk phone. ‘Emma, can you explain to me why—’

Will hurried out, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Brython, but it’s important.’

The Editor paused and said into the phone, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it myself.’ Then said, ‘Well? Get on with it.’

Now, actually having the Editor’s ear, Will became temporarily star-struck. ‘It’s that… I’ve just seen… I’m not sure exactly who.’ His thoughts coalesced: ‘The building’s been infiltrated.’

‘WHAT?! How do you know?’

‘I’ve just seen them. But—’

‘Good God, man! They’re inside the building?’

‘In the newsroom, but—’

The Editor surged to his feet, knocking his chair back against the wall behind him. He reached up under the dark-blue pullover he was wearing beneath his jacket and brought out a pistol. Will stumbled backwards, instinctively lifting his palms. ‘Don’t play the fool, damn you! Put your hands down! How the fuck did they get inside? You say they’re in the newsroom?’

‘They went through a door just off it, by the back bench, I think it’s—’

‘It’s a meeting room.’ The Editor was coming round from behind his desk, his great chest rising and falling. ‘Cunting mother of cunt. They’re probably prepping a bomb. Motherfucker, come on!’

In two strides he was at the door and pulling it open, holding the pistol vertically like an officer about to go over the top. His PA jumped in her seat when she saw it, spilling pale tea across her keyboard.

Will went after the Editor, ignoring her again, and managed to get out, ‘I don’t think they’re jihadis. I recognized them.’

Not slowing his stride back the way Will had come, the Editor demanded, ‘Who are they?’