The subs tried to make themselves motionless and invisible, like toads under a hedge. Will carefully peeked across at where the noise was coming from, turning his head as little as possible, wanting to be noticed somehow but not to divert the ire on to his own skull. A broad back in a navy-blue jacket, with the height and shoulders of a former rower, was bent over the angled table where pages were drawn, and a navy-sleeved arm was slashing out expert, imperious pencil strokes. ‘Panel goes here, pull-quote goes here, big fucking picture, small fucking picture. It’s not fucking rocket science. There, make it up like that.’

The figure seemed to have been slightly calmed by drawing the spread. Will glimpsed boxes sketched with architectural clarity. The figure turned and Will saw the strong, still-handsome features, the skin healthily bronzed by trips abroad, the blond hair fading towards grey and receding into a flat laurel wreath, the expression secure, untouchable, the master of its world, both grounded and uplifted by responsibility, possessor of the voice that commanded. It was the Editor.

As he bore down on the back bench, his staff hurried to clear their desks of sandwich boxes and personal phones – anything that might incur the Editor’s displeasure – and tried not to let their eyes make contact with anything but their work. The muscles at the base of Will’s ears tensed with the effort to listen. But he needn’t have bothered. Every word the Editor said could be heard in every department of the newsroom. ‘How are we doing?’ The clipped consonants. ‘Alright. Fine.’ The firm full stops. ‘Get your people together. You, too, Frank, get everyone together, quickly now.’ Already it was taking too long for him. The voice rang out, overtaking the back bench as they scurried towards the outer desks. ‘Features! Sport! Politics! Diary! Travel! Health! Showbiz! Magazine! Gather round. You, too, Newsdesk. The subs can stay where they are.’

The back bench turned in mid-scurry and rushed back. The staff from the outer departments followed, hanging up phones and leaving sentences unfinished. Even Geraldine and the reporters she’d assigned to the bombing stopped their work. Some of the BeastOnline door-guards began to drift towards the centre and were pulled back by their overseers. The only person who did not heed the command – and was not expected to – was the deputy head of Newsdesk, who kept answering the incoming calls.

The hundred journalists still in the newsroom crowded into the subs’ area, squeezing each other against the edges of desks and making the subs get up from their chairs. The Editor stood in the middle and the crowd left a space around him. He surveyed his people; there was no talking.