The chief was bowled backwards and, before he could stop the words escaping, said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Some recess of Max’s mind stored that for enjoyment later. But right then, he flicked Ctrl+Tab, the movement of thumb and forefinger unconscious. The splash was replaced in front of him by page twenty-two. In the five seconds he had, his eyes touched the headline, byline, captions, pull-quote, first par, last par. He brought the headline slightly closer to the text, made it a touch larger and aligned its edge with that of the first column. Then hit send and was back in the splash.

While the chief pairer said into his phone, ‘We’ve got twenty-two. Twenty-two is coming now,’ the Editor said to those he’d gathered behind Jeremy: ‘Don’t just stand there. Front-page headline, tell him what to type.’ Jeremy’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. The chief was shouting, his composure shot, ‘For fuck’s sake, get nine back, how the hell did that happen?’

The first front-page suggestion came from one of the assistant editors, Alex Thwaite, who was feeling grave and statesmanlike after writing a Churchillian leader column. While Jeremy typed what he said, Thwaite’s cigarette-roughened voice growled: ‘Perhaps it’s just:

TERROR

COMES TO

LONDON

‘Stark, sombre, severe, with a strap underneath to explain.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the Editor. ‘It makes it sound as if Cockneys are running around screaming.’

Geraldine tried, ‘Then it’s just:

TERRORISTS

PLAN BOMB

ATTACK ON

BEAST HQ’

‘No, no, NO,’ said the Editor. ‘You aren’t getting it at all. That’s a reporter’s headline. Those are the facts; what’s the significance, what’s the import? This isn’t just about our newspaper. This is the biggest attack on the West in years. And “plan” is useless, too. Don’t you think we could try to get at least a little urgency into it?’

Jeremy, elated by the power of what he was involved in, made a suggestion: ‘Maybe it’s:

ISLAMIC

BOMBING

LOOMS IN

LONDON’

‘No.’ The Editor dismissed it, though he didn’t seem to think it unusual that Jeremy would speak up. ‘That’s just plod, plod, plod. Think of something better, and be quick about it, because you only have eight minutes to do it in. Feldstein, this is your job, isn’t it? What have you got to say for yourself?’

‘Um, I’m just thinking.’

‘I know, I can hear your brain fucking clanking. Get on with it.’

Feldstein started to speak without knowing what he was going to say. It sometimes worked. ‘Um…

MUSLIM

PLOT LOOMS’

‘A plot can’t fucking well loom, Feldstein, God damn you.’