To Hell in a Handcart. Richard Littlejohn

word?’

      ‘That’s what we are doing, isn’t it?’

      ‘I mean an official word. In my office.’

      ‘This is my office. Say what you’ve got to say.’

      ‘I’ve just got these, mate. Take a look.’ Charlie threw a stack of ring-bound A4 paper on the console. Ricky picked it up and studied it. Numbers, figures, graphs.

      ‘What is this?’

      ‘The RAJARs, mate. The official listening figures for the last quarter. We have been experiencing some very serious churn.’

      ‘Since when have you been running a dairy?’

      ‘You’re the one who’s always boasting about being a milkman. I’m afraid you’re not delivering.’

      ‘I’m here every day. I’ve never let you down.’

      ‘We’re not talking attendance here. You don’t get a silver star for turning up. This is what matters,’ said Charlie, pointing to the bottom line on the second sheet of paper.

      ‘And what does it say?’

      ‘It says that between nine and noon we are down almost thirty per cent. And who’s on between nine and noon?’

      ‘That’s only to be expected. I’m new to the station. People have got to get used to me. You have to figure that it will take time to win people round. Three months ago, before I started, this was a football station, with no fucking football. I’ve had to start from scratch.’

      ‘You can’t argue with a fall of thirty per cent.’

      ‘I can. Three months ago, the only listeners you had were a bunch of soccer-mad morons too stupid to find Radio Five.’

      ‘That’s as maybe, but there were thirty per cent more of them.’

      ‘Of course, that stands to reason. The kind of terrace plankton you had listening to you then are hardly going to stay tuned for adult-orientated rock interspersed by saloon-bar pontificating.’

      ‘I know that. But if you look at the figures more closely, you’ll find that the new audience is falling away, too. It’s down ten per cent over the past two weeks, according to our tracking.’

      ‘You picked the format. And you picked the presenter. Me.’

      ‘True. But I didn’t know you were going to go out of your way to piss off the listeners.’

      ‘I don’t.’

      ‘You do, mate.’

      ‘Don’t.’

      ‘What about George just now?’

      ‘The man was a fucking idiot. Turn the dogs loose on beggars? For fuck’s sake.’

      ‘A lot of people out there agree with him.’

      ‘A lot of people want to bring back hanging, drawing and quartering.’

      ‘Look, Ricky, all I’m saying is lighten up. Cut them some slack. Don’t be so short with them.’

      ‘Short is what I do.’

      ‘So you’ve got to do something a bit different. Look on the audience as our customers. Be nice to them once in a while. Play to their prejudices. Don’t sign off by dismissing them as a bunch of losers and lunatics. God knows what message that sends to the advertisers.’

      Ricky got up and pulled on his coat from the back of his chair. He picked up his bag and headed for the door. Charlie didn’t move.

      ‘Excuse me, Charlie. I don’t need this after a long week. I’m off to get pissed.’

      Charlie’s eyes hardened. His corporate smile faded.

      ‘I don’t think you’ve been listening to me, Ricky.’

      ‘Sure I have.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

      ‘So what’s your point?’

      ‘My point is that this station, particularly in this time slot, is going down the dunny. I’m paying you a lot of money. Too much money. I’d never have given you so much if I’d known you’d already been kicked out of the Exposer.’

      ‘I wasn’t kicked out. I just, er, left.’

      ‘Don’t lie to me. They didn’t renew your contract. And they replaced you with the Picture Book lady. I should have fucking hired her myself.’

      ‘And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?’

      ‘It means that if these figures don’t show a serious upturn, you’re finished.’

      ‘See if I care.’

      ‘Oh, but you do care, Ricky. This is the last train to Clarksville for you, mate. There’s not a newspaper left in London would hire you and if you screw up this gig, there’s not another radio station would touch you either. Just you think on that when you’re diving headfirst into the European wine lake in ten minutes’ time. Think damned hard. Think about your bar bills and your monster mortgage on your funky little bachelor pad. You’ve got to raise your game. If we’re not up at least thirty per cent, back to where we were, by the next survey, you’re dead meat. You’ve got three months.’

       Six

      Mickey French dropped Andi and the kids at her mum’s house in Palmers Green. They’d driven straight there, round the North Circular. It was nearer than their home in Essex. Andi and the children went inside to change out of their blood-spattered clothes. Andi stood in the scalding shower for a good ten minutes, scrubbing her skin with a loofah, scraping away every trace of the red-hot gypsy blood, which had turned cold and caked in her hair.

      ‘No, Mum, we’re not hurt. Yes, Mum, we’ll be fine.’ If she said it once, she said it a dozen times as her mother fussed and fretted, while at the same time maintaining a steady stream of strong, dark, bitter coffee and rich Greek pastries.

      ‘No, we’re not going to the police. Mickey’s dealt with it. We just want to put it behind us. Please, Mum, let’s just forget it. We haven’t lost anything, we’re all in one piece.’

      Terry stuffed his face with Nana’s filo fancies and relived the adventure for Andi’s mum’s benefit. If it was possible to embellish their ordeal, Terry managed it. He couldn’t wait to get back to school to tell his mates. This wasn’t a playground punch-up, this was for real. As far as Terry was concerned it had been as big a step on the road to manhood as his first crop of pubic hairs.

      Katie hugged her grandmother and let it all come out. After a long soak in a foaming bath, she dressed in the new jeans and spangly boob tube she had been saving for the first-night disco at Goblin’s. With a bit of make-up she could pass for eighteen, she told herself. It made her feel better and helped her forget.

      Mickey took the car to his cousin Roy’s body shop in Crouch End. Roy replaced the broken window and rear tailgate lock with identical parts from another Scorpio, which he had towed in at the request of the police and was in the process of cannibalizing. It had been written off when it was wrapped around Crouch End clock tower by a team of joy-riders.

      Roy said he agreed with Ricky Sparke’s last caller that day. They should set the dogs on these bastards. You couldn’t move in north London for gangs of gypsies, begging, mugging, and burgling.

      To make matters worse, Roy complained, the local council had spent a fortune housing them, yet his sister had been on the waiting list for twelve years without getting any nearer a ground-floor flat.

      Mickey shrugged. He was all angered out.

      ‘He’s