The Features people around Dyson stopped yelling and began to bang their desks with fists or staplers or the flats of their hands. There was an instant of charged quiet like that between the end of a play and the cloudburst of applause, then the long-serving hacks, the back bench, the chief, Max, Jez, and journalists all over the newsroom were on their feet, bending forward to whack the tables with whatever was in reach. Greenhorns like Will and Rosie, who’d never seen a banging-out before, copied them in excited bewilderment. Hundreds of hands thumped the shaking tables, rattling the screens and keyboards and making pens jump and run to the floor. The noise was as arrhythmic and furious as a hailstorm smashing into a car park, and through it people were whooping and shouting.

In Dyson himself, dazedness gave way to joy. He laughed and made an elaborate bow, then clasped his hands together and raised them over his head like an old-time champion. The noise lifted to a new intensity. He picked up a worn leather briefcase and set off across the newsroom towards the glass doors, turning to raise his hand to both sides in acknowledgement. The banging almost coalesced into one beat, went wild again, and then hit a rhythm all at once, a single rapid BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG.

By halfway across the newsroom, Dyson seemed overwhelmed. Trying not to let any tears escape, he began to hurry and then, all at once, he was gone and the glass door was swinging shut behind him.

The newsroom went quiet and it was as if, after this deafening, their thoughts had become briefly audible: How must it feel to get a banging-out like that?… Imagine working here for that long… I wonder how it’ll be when I leave… Julie got made redundant last week and all they gave her was a month’s pay… I hope newspapers last long enough to see me out… I’ve got to get out before it all goes under…

As everyone’s ears adjusted, the ringing phones, whining computers and busy voices resumed their usual volume. The scroll of BeastOnline projected on to the back wall still spooled; the TV reporters projected next to it still spoke soundlessly in their boxes; the silhouette of someone walking behind the back bench moved across the projections; work continued.

The chief bounded over to them with the eager bulkiness of a baby monster, already saying, ‘I haven’t seen a banging-out like that since Clive got the heave-ho. I thought Dyson was going to blub. Poor sap. He’ll have hanged himself in his underpants by this time next week.’

Carefully edging and laying his words like a row of bricks, Max asked, ‘Do you think you’d like a banging-out when it’s your time to go?’