The copy hit the page, and Max began to read at an unstinting pace, nicking away a few words here or reformulating a few words there in rapid flurries at the keyboard. They’d nosed it:

Terrorists last night were making lastminute preparations to attack central London. The target is the Daily Beast.

Max’s attention moved across it, and then it read:

TERRORISTS have been spotted making last-minute preparations for a bomb attack on central London. The offices of this newspaper are the target.

Jeremy was using a machete now on the mortgage story. Quotes from an industry expert – slash! Criticism from the shadow cabinet – slash! How this scheme related to the general economic context – slash, slash, slash! He noticed that the shape of the Tragic Schoolgirl story had changed – he’d have to write another headline for the new box once he’d finished this. A message popped up in the bottom right-hand corner of his screen: an email from Geraldine. As he clicked on it, Geraldine was already rushing across. It was too close to edition to simply trust that emails would arrive. She crowed from close above Will’s head, ‘Maestro! Have you read that copy?’

‘I’m looking at it now.’

Geraldine rushed back to Newsdesk while Jeremy read, ‘Known associates of the West London terror gang used burqas to disguise themselves to commit terror attack in Syria. The bombings were carried out on government-controlled facilities in Damascus and Aleppo in February and March of this year.’ Mother of God, thought Jeremy, this is an even bigger story than I thought. This isn’t just about the Beast. We can link these guys to extremists in Syria. The connection is the mosque they’ve all been to. We can connect the tactics they’re developing over there with what’s—

Geraldine shouted to him, ‘Have you seen this stuff? They’re bringing terror tactics back to London from Syria!’

Everyone in the newsroom glanced up. The young BeastOnline grunts guarding the doors shifted anxiously. Turkish Anna blinked behind her black-rimmed glasses. Remembered photographs were crowding in on her, the unprintable ones, of damage done to young bodies by a nail bomb in the Manchester Arena, of the stricken London bus in Tavistock Square on 7/7, its back broken by a bomb, and particularly of the dark patches on the walls in the offices of the magazine Charlie Hebdo after the jihadis got in. She hoped she would die at once.

Jeremy shouted back to Geraldine, ‘We’ve got them. We’ve nailed them. We’ve got the whole thing.’ And in those who heard him, spirits were lifted.

He switched back to the mortgage story. He hacked out two more lines and filed it. Immediately he reopened the Tragic Schoolgirl. The headline now read:

HORROR ON FIELD DAY AS

SCHOOLGIRL STRANGLED BY

ABSEILING ROPE

There was no pause for thought or clever tickling of connected words. The pressure shot them into place like rivets: