‘Of cuorst my borhter fucjing hates teh beast. Evryone hates it. It shodle bbe fucking burnt down, Yuo think yo’re so fhigh and moral, but its al lc omeing to and end ffor you. Weere winning. That;s hwat yuo racsts downt’ realize. You’e britain is finsihed, youe ide athat eeryone is a whtie christian is finishdfe. that britains dfead and you haben;t reliazed it yet. Us bworn0skinnd enlgish, w’ere liek baracj obmaa and tigher w oods, were teh best at evhrything, and soont the whoel of england’ll by liek London is alredy. Te fuckgng beast is jst the end fo a dyin g cultre, You’re dead and you doen’t eben knwo it yet. Wwe’re comeing, we’re already here, we;re everyhwere and you can’t stop us.’

The Beast’s words formed themselves without Jeremy’s having to think – ‘terror brother’s chilling anti-British rant’. Headline: ‘You’re dead’. The only thing missing was – he turned the page; another red asterisk, the ink thinning where the nib had accelerated – and, yes, they’d got him to say something about Islam:

‘This si agodless country, the churcjh f England, seriosuly, it’s a joke, a comeplte joke. Tehy break alll their ownr ueles to fit into your corript culturr. Iand hwen people are lokimg ofor soemthing that that ahs dome fucking intergrity, theyll finalyly aks to be saevd by Islam.’

It could hardly be better for the story. But Jeremy’s dread rose up over him. His vision narrowed to the alley of carpet between himself and the double glass doors that led out to the atrium. Dark figures crossed it. The reporters had the story’s blood-scent in their nostrils. Hacks were rushing in every direction. No one would notice him slipping out through the noise. Just for a minute, for one cigarette, while he had a think about all of this. And indeed, on long-suppressed impulse, he stood and started to walk.

His shoulder brushed a reporter, who paid no mind, and he’d cleared the first group when Geraldine, returning from the Editor’s office, blared ‘Ahoy!’ from shockingly close beside him. Jeremy’s head snapped to the right. Geraldine was staring up at him. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘Um. Fag break.’

‘Fag break? Mon dieu, you are taking the Mickey, aren’t you? You don’t actually work here, is that it? You’re some sort of merry prankster and this is an elaborate ruse. Do I have it right?’

Jeremy thought, I’m a grown man, I’m a full-grown man. I have a house. I have a wife. I’ve fathered two children. I have a pension. I have savings. I have a heavy glass award for Regional Newspaper of the Year 1997, Southeast. How can she speak to me like this? This is not how grown men are treated.