Getting Home (49 page)

‘All right,' she snapped. ‘This is a gun. Now tell the pilot to drop me at Channel Ten.'

The paramedics cursed under their breath. Operating procedures were quite clear: in the event of a threat of attack with a firearm – any threat whatsoever – they should send a coded message to air-traffic control in West Helford but obey the attacker's instructions and do everything possible not to endanger life. The man slowly got to his feet and moved forwards towards the pilot.

‘Quicker!' ordered Allie, twitching the gun. ‘I must be there by half-past.'

‘Welcome back to a new series of
Family First.'
Rod stood squarely in front of Camera One. ‘I'm your new host, Rod Fuller, and I'm standing in for Allie Parsons, who's been unavoidably delayed on her way to the studio. I'd like to introduce you to our first guest, Stephanie Sands, an ordinary
housewife
whose life was shattered earlier this year by a
disaster
beyond her worst nightmares …' Stephanie sat on the sofa and smiled at him trustingly. Success was a few seconds away. The glow around them was not lighting but the euphoria of victory.

In the gallery, the vision mixer's finger lay feath-erlight on the cue button for the taped report. The senior producer frowned intently at the screen, marvelling at the rapport the new Himbo had with the camera. In the audience, the New Green Army hugged their banners closer to their chests. The rabbit struggled, and its bearer was so rapt in the proceedings that he put the animal down, and it sat for a while by his feet, getting its bearings.

Rod turned back to Camera One and deployed the foxy grin. Around the country, three million woman stopped whatever they were doing and sat down to watch, feeling as if spiders were waltzing around the backs of their knees. ‘But first,' he continued winningly, ‘a report on something which increasingly affects all our lives …'

The helicopter set down at Channel Ten at 10.22 am, a good ten minutes before the handful of available police officers from Helford Station ran into the precinct. An anti-terrorist squad was on its way in another helicopter from the centre of the city, but they also arrived long after the small pink figure tottered frantically on its high heels across the tarmac and into the building. From force of habit, Allie made her entrance through the front reception hall, where the head of the queue for the next show stood thankfully in the dry, watching the monitors above them.

‘Shit!' muttered Allie, seeing multiple pictures of Rod standing in front of the excavations at Oak Hill. The sound from the monitors had been muted, so she paid no attention to what he was saying. ‘Shithead! What's he doing in a suit, for fuck's sake!'

Seeing a filthy, demented, dishevelled woman swearing violently in front of the reception desk, and the three receptionists shooting anxious glances in his direction, a security officer approached her.

‘Can we help you, madam?' he enquired, allowing his mass in its blue and green uniform to loom menacingly over her head.

‘For fuck's sake,' she said again, ‘call up to make-up and tell them to get ready. And wardrobe, they gotta find me something to wear. Anything, anything. I'll take over after the break. Hurry!'

‘Are you sure you're in the right place, madam?'

‘No, I'm not in the right place, you fuckwit. I should be up there!' And she pointed at the monitors, almost jumping out of her shoes with rage.

‘Madam, we're going to have to ask you to leave …'

‘Are you out of your mind?' For the first time, Allie focused on the man in front of her, her eyes now indigo with urgency. ‘Don't you realise who I am? I'm Allie Parsons and that's my show…'

The security officer was about to escort her to the door when a grey-faced child detached itself from the queue and ran with flapping unlaced trainers over to Allie, carrying a McDonald's bag and a pencil. These the child held mutely under her nose. Recalling the gracious behaviour that her public deserved, Allie smiled on the brat and leaned on the reception desk to autograph the bag with due ceremony, returning it with an affectionate chuck under the grimy chin. The child ran away.

‘It's her,' one of the receptionists whispered to the security officer. ‘She's been held up in traffic today. She must have walked. But it is her.'

‘Of course, Mrs Parsons,' the guard intoned, saluting as he stood courteously aside. ‘I do beg your pardon, I should have known it was you. I'll have someone call the studio straight away. Straight away. I do beg …' Without wasting time to abuse him any further, Allie sped into the elevator hall and took the express to the studio.

As the doors closed on her, the first police officers ran into the building.

‘Later this week, we'll be offering the Oak Hill Development Trust the opportunity to explain
why they
want to build a business park where ten thousand people will come to work every day on a piece of land which is
so poisoned
that nobody should even be walking on it without a mask and protective clothing,' Rod leaned into the camera confidently, making up the words as he spoke and quite intoxicated by his own fluency. ‘And we hope that the Helford and Westwick Council planning office will be able to tell us just
why
they gave permission for this development. And today on
Family First
, after the break, I'll be talking to Stephanie Sands …' – From Camera Two came a shot of Stephanie, smiling serenely in her new hound's-toorh check suit from Bon Ton, poised on the sofa – ‘who has just found out that
her house
is going to be
knocked down
to make way for a road to the development. How's
that
for your ultimate suburban nightmare? So stay with us now, we'll be back
very soon
…'

An eruption of cheering and applause from the audience greeted the
Family First
logo, something colourful featuring flowers-and a rising sun, which flashed on to the screen before the commercials rolled. The rabbit, lolloping purposefully down one of the aisles, froze in alarm.

‘Isn't that our kidnap wife?' demanded the senior producer of no one in particular.

‘What it is …' Maria got up and came over to sit on the arm of the director's chair next to him. She was perfecting the earnest yet pouting manner, Meryl Streep does Betty Boop, for those little moments when a woman just has to front up to trouble and argue that black is white. ‘We did start with her as a kidnap wife, I know. But it turns out her husband's going to be released now. Only he's coming home to find his house is going to be demolished, you see? It's even better, isn't it? I mean, it was two tragedies for the price of one kind of thing. How could we turn it down?'

‘How indeed.' The senior producer ruffled what was left of his hair with the end of a pen, looking perplexed but intrigued. ‘Oak Hill Development Trust, yeah? Isn't Allie tied into that somehow. That husband …'

‘He's resigned,' the senior researcher put in gallantly ‘It was on the financial news last week.'

Maria looked squarely at the producers. ‘This was such a great story …'

‘Great story!' The senior researcher, scenting freedom, backed her all the way.

‘You mean, this was Allie's tip?' The senior producer suddenly seemed downcast.

‘No!' Maria insisted, ‘No – she – ah – well –'

‘She doesn't know?'

‘Well, not exactly…'

The senior producer weighed the value of his star against the value of the show, and found that Allie lost. She'd be fired, but so would they. On the other hand, another season of having his nuts vaporised by that overactive Barbie doll might have been too much. He might just walk away with enough career to save.

A telephone warbled on the console and the vision mixer answered it. ‘No kidding!' she squeaked. ‘No kidding! They want you …' and she handed the producer the telephone. He listened attentively, rolling his eyes.

‘Right,' he said. ‘Right, right, I got ya. Right.' And he hung up. ‘People,' he announced, suddenly full of the joy of incident, ‘there's an emergency. Right here. A real one. Some woman hijacked a helicopter and ran into the building just now. She's armed and dangerous. Because we're transmitting, security are going to cordon us off. Rest of the building's being evacuated. Of course, Alamo rules apply – anyone who wants to leave now …' He looked around the room, but nobody moved. The, rush of live breaking news was making all eyes sparkle. The idea of giving the audience the same chance to avoid being shot was not considered.

‘OK. Better speak to the studio.' He reached for a switch. ‘Rod?'

Rod heard the voice of the senior producer buzzing in his ear-piece. ‘Emergency situation in the building, some woman with a gun – security are on the case, nothing to worry about, just carry on, OK?'

‘Sure,' Rod agreed, uneasy. Excitement was making the man talk at twice his usual speed.

‘Oh – and – uh, great report, Rod, great, great … next time, if you have to reschedule a film like that, remember to check with the gallery here that everyone's up to speed with the transmission schedule, OK?'

‘Yeah, sure, OK.' Standing in the middle of the set, Rod looked over the heads of the audience in the vague direction of the gallery, which was invisible at the far back of the auditorium. Since his microphone carried his voice, all he had to do was speak into the air like Moses chatting to God on Mount Ararat. The rush of being on camera was wearing off. Where, he asked himself, was the barrage of outrage and complaint for which he had rehearsed. They had both been fully prepared for Stephanie's half of the programme to be summarily axed. ‘You're really OK with this?' he ventured.

‘Yeah, yeah. Absolutely,' the senior producer reassured him, a chuckle in his voice. ‘But thank God Allie's been caught up in traffic, eh?'

‘Why, may I ask?'
Had it been possible for him to turn into a pillar of salt, the senior producer would have done so. As it was he shuddered momentarily, turned around and faced his star. Allie stood in the doorway, stripping off her wet jacket and kicking off her ruined shoes while a make-up artist behind her combed back her hair. ‘Gel,' she ordered, ‘no time for anything else. Slick it back. Then the face. Hurry.'

‘Thank God you're safe,' he blustered. ‘There's a maniac on the loose in the building. With a gun. Didn't you see the security …'

‘Network's coming to us in ninety,' announced the vision mixer, preparing to begin transmission again. A wardrobe assistant appeared with a green jacket, apologising.

‘It'll have to do,' Allie told her, twitching her arms down the jacket sleeves with reptilian speed. ‘I'll sit behind the worktop. Tell the floor. I'm coming down.'

‘Allie's doing the interview behind the desk, everybody. Move Stephanie over now. Coming to us in one minute.'

Stephanie, having heard nothing of this, only saw the floor manager convulse into action and leap towards her. ‘I'm going to have to move you,' he announced, snatching the microphone from. her lapel. Obediently she got up from the sofa and followed him to the tiled worktop usually reserved for mixing the Cake of the Week where she struggled on to a high stool and looked around for Rod. A sound man appeared to help her re-fix the microphone.

Rod had not moved from the sofa area. He was listening intently to his ear-piece, an expression of tragedy settling on his face. He shook his head, looked over at Stephanie, mimed something unguessable and waved crossed fingers. The sound man scurried over and detached his mike. Immediately he ran over to Stephanie.

‘God, I got my worst marks for mime,' he hissed in her ear. ‘What I meant was, the bitch is back. It's over to you. Break a leg, sweetheart!' A strong warm hand squeezed her thigh and then he was gone, back in the twilight zone beyond the studio lights.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen!' The floor manager was capering out in front of the audience. ‘Our star presenter, award-winning hostess of
Family First —
Allie Parsons! Put your hands together everybody …' He waved his arms, trying to conjure applause. The illuminated signs under the monitor screens facing the audience flashed the word ‘Applause'. A few biddable souls clapped. Allie appeared at the back of the seating, scampered down the aisle waving left and right to the silent audience, and tripped over the rabbit.

People laughed. In the gallery, Maria laughed so severely that she got hiccups. At the edge of the set, Rod laughed from the depth of his diaphragm, the sound of Jove chuckling over a thunderbolt. Stephanie laughed so heartily that the last shred of fear in her heart evaporated. The rabbit's owner, with an air of deep injury, struggled out of his seat and recaptured the animal.

The floor manager helped Allie to a stool on the far side of the counter, where her wet pink skirt, ruined hose and bare feet were concealed. The make-up artist combed her hair again. Somebody shoved two coffee cups in front of them. The audience subsided to titters. The red light on Camera Three flashed.

‘Welcome
back,'
gushed Allie, almost falsetto with relief that she had triumphed over every foe to reach her goal. ‘Welcome back to
Family First.
I'm Allie Parsons. I'm sorry I wasn't here for the first half of our programme, but well, I'm here now and isn't this cosy?' She pulled a cup towards her and pretended to sip coffee. ‘Just like home! Only for my guest here, Stephanie Sands, home hasn't been so sweet lately, has it Stephanie?'

The light on Camera Three died. The operator dragged Camera Two closer to Stephanie and the light shone red. Allie mugged encouragement at her. Out in the audience, she saw Gemma give her a thumbs-up. ‘No,' Stephanie agreed. ‘Ever since I found out that our house was going to be demolished to make way for a road to the new business park, things have been just about as bad as they could be.'