I put the cup and saucer on the desk, folded up the typed list of names.

The telephone buzzed again.

Oldman walked over to the door and opened it. “You do your digging and I’ll do mine.”

I was standing up, legs and stomach weak. “Thank you for your time.”

He gripped my shoulder hard at the door. “You know, Bismarck said a journalist was a man who’d missed his calling. Maybe you should have been a copper, Dunston.”

“Thank you,” I said with all the courage I could muster, thinking, at least then one of us would be.

Oldman suddenly tightened his grip, reading my thoughts. “Have we met before son?”

“A long time ago,” I said, loose with a struggle.

The telephone on the desk buzzed and flashed again, long and hard.

“Not a word,” said Oldman, ushering me through the door. “Not a bloody word.”

“They’d hacked the wings off. Fucking swan was still alive an’ all,” smiled Gilman from the Manchester Evening News as I took my seat downstairs.

“You’re fucking joking?” said Tom from Bradford, leaning over from the row behind.

“No. Took the wings clean off and left the poor bastard just lying there.”

“Fuck,” whistled Tom from Bradford.

I glanced round the Conference Room, boxing thoughts hitting me all over again, but this time no TV, no radio. The hot lights were off, allcomers welcome.

Only the Paper Lads here.

I felt a nudge to the ribs. It was Gilman again.

“How was yesterday?”

“Oh, you know…”

“Fuck, yeah.”

I looked at my father’s watch/thinking about Henry Cooper and my Aunty Anne’s husband Dave, who looked like Henry, and how Uncle Dave hadn’t been there yesterday, thinking about the great smell of Brut.

“You see that piece Barry did on that kid from Dewsbury?” It was Tom from Bradford, Scotch breath in my ear, hoping my own wasn’t as bad.