Will put his ear’s whorled cartilage to the door, leaning close enough to make out the brush-lines in the grey paint, his head directly in front of the Editor’s pistol. He could see the newsroom watching him from its hiding places. Several people were writing shorthand or filming with their phones. Anna had come closest and was on one knee, taking pictures. Jez was standing beside her, hastily pressing buttons on a small video camera. The muscles at the root of Will’s ear tingled with the effort of listening, but he could hear nothing beyond the blood at his temples and the dry breath in his throat.

The Editor asked his newsroom: ‘Has anyone seen anyone coming out of that door?’

The journalists looked around at one another. From beside the Editor, Geraldine, giving it the stiff upper lip, asked, ‘Charles, old stick, would you mind giving me a hint about what’s going on?’

‘Two men have succeeded in breaking into this bunker.’ People ducked involuntarily, letting out strings of obscenities. ‘They were last seen going in there.’ The Editor ordered Will: ‘Knock!’

Will flattened his body against the solid wall and stretched his arm so that his fist was extended as far as possible from his vital organs. A rapid double tap, then he jerked his hand back to his chest. The Editor’s voice rang out: ‘Surrender now and you won’t be harmed! You have a story you want the British public to hear. Come out talking and we will tell that story in our pages.’

Inside the meagrely furnished meeting room, Adrian snapped his fingers with delight. ‘That old fox, always turning things towards the next edition.’

And outside Will pointed and pointed at the door, mouthing: ‘They’re in there! They’re in there!’

The Editor shifted one foot slightly forward, to make a steadier base, and took the pistol in a firmer, two-handed grip. ‘This is your opportunity to tell your side of things. The public deserves to hear your account. We are in the midst of a national crisis and you obviously have something important to say. But your message will be distorted by the media unless you come out and explain it.’

Jeremy was still struggling with the video camera Anna had shoved into his hands. Something was wrong with the focus and he couldn’t work out what.

Inside the meeting room, Adrian was bouncing on the spot with excitement. Never before had working on the Echo been so dramatic. This would be one of the great tales of modern journalism: two guys from a tiny local paper holed up inside the Beast’s bunker, putting one over on that Goliath. He cried out at Gavin, ‘I’ve got it! We’ll phone in the story from here! We’ll phone it in! We’ll dictate the copy. By the time they escort us out, our newsroom will already have it!’