‘I’m on it.’

Like the flying parts of a mechanical loom, each raced his own course, intersecting without touching to run off an ever-extending strip of finished news.

Jeremy said, ‘Max, the picture of Kate Kloss is getting bigger.’

Max said: ‘Will.’

‘I’ll trim the copy.’

‘Thanks.’ And Will glowed.

Jeremy looked above the back bench, where a vertical electronic board had been switched on to display a double column of numbered boxes. They showed the pages in the pairs in which they were printed – one and sixty-eight, two and sixty-seven, three and sixty-six – and were coloured either minatory red – not sent – or summer-sky blue: away. The first forty pages, the News section, were still mainly in red, but Features, Travel, Health and the other pages towards the back of the book had already gone.

Jeremy found the earthquake story and opened it. He could hear the chief, like a distance runner lengthening into his racing stride, begin to raise his voice, ‘Jack, darling, would you like to tell me why twenty-four hasn’t gone?’

Jack from the Art desk looked up, but it was Jack Brandt, the leader of C pod, a tall man from Darlington, broad and strong-boned with a deep, flat voice, who replied, ‘It was ready three hours ago. But the pages have just been redrawn.’

‘It has to go right fucking now, darling.’

‘It fucking can’t.’

‘We need it, darling, we need that fucking page.’

‘Then stop fucking changing things.’

‘That’s the job, darling. If you don’t like it, go home and I’ll send it myself.’

Just then, they both stopped; everyone in the newsroom looked at the doors; there was a commotion; someone was trying to get in.

But it wasn’t what they instantaneously feared – it was a white man, in a suit; a hack; the grunts from BeastOnline were standing close in front of him, their arms slightly raised in case he tried to break past them. The chief told Jack, ‘Get that page ready,’ and barrelled for the door. When he reached the would-be intruder, he was too far away for what he said to be heard over the newsroom’s racket. But the man soon turned and ran back towards the atrium. The chief nodded at the two young men guarding the door and said something that made them stand up straighter, then bounded back to the subs’ desk.

As he arrived, the newsroom’s attention was on him. He spoke loud enough for other departments to hear: ‘That was a reporter from the Impartial, trying his luck. They got wind that we’re working on a huge story up here. I said to him, “Call yourself a newsman? The Queen’s been shot.”’ There was a great shout of relieved laughter.

But even as he was announcing this anecdote, he did not stop moving. It was nine o’clock.

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