‘There are some other small marks that could save us—’

He waved him away. ‘Give them to Max. But if he and Geraldine want to keep something, it stays, is that clear?’

The lawyer took his place behind Max’s chair and spoke over his shoulder. Ever more people were assembling there. So they could all see what he was doing, they formed a wedge with Max at its point. Their heads seemed to be pulled forward by the lit screen, as if it were a window through which they might climb.

The lawyer was saying, ‘If we could make clear that the mosque completely denies…’ and Geraldine was saying, ‘Where’s the line about how we’ve decided to keep working with the threat hanging over us?’ and one of the reporters was saying, ‘The bombing wasn’t in Damascus itself, it was in…’ and another was saying, ‘The counter-terror acronym is actually slightly misleading; it’s not really a public body, it’s…’ and Aamir Malik was saying, ‘The West Acton imam’s been there for eight years, and his age is…’ and Will’s head popped up from his reading to say, ‘Max, in half the stories we’ve got the accomplice Muhammed Ranjha with an e, and in the others we’ve got Muhammad with an a.’

Max ordered, ‘Check the cuts. What did we call him last time?’

Will hurried to look and alter, the soft pads of his fingers damp on the keys and the mouse.

The Editor told Jeremy to open the front page and began to call names across the newsroom. ‘Walker, Gross, Feldstein, Murray, Thwaite, Geraldine.’

Will said, ‘Muhammad with an a,’ as Geraldine detached herself from the group behind Max to join the other senior editors, who were rushing importantly together to form a semicircle behind Jeremy. The rest of the newsroom watched them. It was twelve minutes to edition and the outer departments’ work was done. Almost every page had gone. The double column of paired pages was almost all in blue. The chief was calling, ‘Kill eight, page eight is coming again, eight V-two.’ One of the pages further back, twenty-two, the Blind Bulgarian, was still in red. The chief bounded over to Max, a damp dark wheel marked under each arm, and said, ‘Max, darling, why the fuck has twenty-two not gone yet?’

The Editor, surprised and incensed by this unexpected interruption, boomed: ‘Can’t you see he’s subbing the splash? Fuck off at once.’