‘We’ll make room,’ Laurie says, squeezing Andy’s shoulder. ‘And think big, would you? We’re not just writing this up for the venerable folk of South-East London. Readers the world over – if they’re worth their salt, that is – should be coming to this kid’s local press for the real story. We’ve got far more detail and insight than the nationals, because we live here. It’s about us too. This 235blood was spilt on our streets. So bear that out, would you? There are black kids being murdered by racist yobs the Western world over and there’s never enough being done about it. Make sure it’s clear to any Tom, Dick or Harry reading in butt-fuck nowhere why they can and should be identifying with this too. This is a story that can speak to all of us. Damilola Taylor’s death is as universal as … oh, I don’t fucking know. That’s your job. Find out whose, rewrite the whole thing and then show it to me again.’

I flinch reflexively, thinking about Damilola Taylor. Another story I’d never heard before I got here. Now I know everything about his life, his family, how they’d moved here just three months before he was murdered. Lagos, Nigeria … I can pick it out on a map just by pointing a finger. When I blink and see Kayleigh, I substitute his school photo, think about his family’s grief instead. And now I know what nibs are too.

‘It’s like staring at the sun, isn’t it?’ Laurie snorts as Phil and Andy survey him with a mixture of exhaustion and bewilderment, then turns around to find me hanging on every word.

‘What the hell are you still doing here?’

‘I was going to help,’ I say, ignoring the horror spreading across Andy’s face. ‘I could…’ I cast around wildly for something, anything to suggest that might keep me in this conversation.

‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ Laurie interrupts, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he squares up to me. ‘How many times do I need to tell you this? No one in Deptford, at least no one who buys this paper, gives a toss about those towers anymore. I can’t take you on in anything less than exceptional circumstances, and those were exceptional … and all my grand editorial ambitions aside, we are back to our local London flavour on the staffing front now, like it or not. I can’t conjure an apprenticeship from thin air, no matter how many coffees you make or print runs you help with. And more to the point, I can’t be held responsible for you doing yourself a mischief on my premises because you insist on working all the hours God sends … Oh, what the fuck is it now?’ 236