Tony Wilson Look, I know about this because an assistant of Mr Giless called this morning, asking the school

to pass on the invite. She said that, at the moment, it wasnt really appropriate for them to call your house they were worried about the message getting through. Does that sound about right? It did sound about right. His fathers mood had, if anything, deteriorated since the encounter in the players tunnel. On the plane trip home, Lucas had encouraged his father to read his essay, but it was hopeless. Charlie was convinced that his son had been stooged. Lucas had won because of who he was, not what he had written. Theyve suckered us, Charlie said, using the back of his hand to shove the magazine off the polished timber eating tray, just one of the private-jet accoutrements that seemed so exciting to Lucas on the way over, but had been dulled by the change of mood. I dont need to read it to know that Anton Giles suckered us. Later that night, Monica had sent him to Lucass room to apologise. There was a whole section in Me, We, Us that discouraged family members from going to bed angry. Im sorry I yelled at you, Charlie had grunted. I checked out the article. It was fine. He had then turned disconsolately towards the landing, where Monica was casting a mediatory ear. Charlie had found himself annoyed by that too. In the pick-and-choose of how she lived her self-help agenda, why had not-going-to-bed-angry survived, when others of her socalled cornerstones had not. Her hypocrisy was infuriating. Lucas hadnt answered the goodnight. He was, if anything, even angrier than Charlie. It was just so typical of his father to deny him this success. Just because he wasnt good at football, he apparently couldnt be good at anything. Then his mum, true to her interfering ways, made Lucas get up, go to his fathers room, and say a proper goodnight. That time, finally unsupervised, it was Charlie who didnt answer. You are invited on Friday, Ms Sharma said. If you can get a signed permission to go, Id like to extend the same offer I made to Millie. Id love to drive you down there. Is your mother likely to
44

Making News let you meet with The Globe people? Lucas nodded. If she didnt, maybe it was time to get some benefit from those book-signing sessions. I think so. And what about you? Do you want to do this weekend trainee thing? Lucas waded through a muddy series of thoughts that encompassed his fathers rage, his own rage, his ambitions to become a writer, and the prospect of forty minutes in a car with Ms Sharma. I guess I do. I mean, thank you, yes. Id really like to. He lifted his head to meet his teachers eye. And no, I shouldnt have too much trouble getting Mums signature. It only took twenty seconds in the company of Anton Giles for Lucas to understand why his father disliked the man, and to begin hatching some serious misgivings himself. For starters, Mr Giles was an apropos guy. In the first bellowed sentence Lucas heard from The Globes boy wonder commander-in-chief, he used both apropos and fuck her sideways. The exact sentence was apropos that Melanie Griffith story, you can tell her people that they either confirm the quote or we fuck her sideways with those rumours about darling daughter Dakota. Lucas could overlook the expletive and perhaps even the bullying, but wasnt going to forgive the mocha-ground pretension of apropos. What was wrong with plain old regarding? And he knew the rot wouldnt stop there. There was not an apropos guy alive who wouldnt also chance his arm with some vis vis. Anton Giles ranted for another thirty seconds, and finished by telling the unfortunate on the other end of the line that Michael Ellam could fucking well wait on hold, because Im with ten kids and that introducing new blood to the Fourth Estate was more important than whether Gordon fucking Brown thought they caught his good side in a page four photo. He slammed the phone down and sat back, hands behind head, surveying the lucky ten. Okay, okay, okay. Here you all are. Englands best and brightest. Im Anton Giles, you know that. You also know that Im thirty45

Tony Wilson six years old, which makes me the youngest newspaper editor in England and potentially the person who can give you the career break of a lifetime. I hope you all know that it is actually impossible, statistically impossible, for you to land a job here. Understand that, and you might just understand how hungry you need to be. The fact is that for you ten standing there, Im Willy Wonka, and youre Gloop and Veruca and Beauregard, and whoever the fuck else pulled a golden ticket out of their backsides only to go and stuff up the opportunity when it was delivered to them on a plate. He leaned back in his recliner chair and tucked a tan boat shoe into the crook of his knee. He wasnt wearing socks. Look. I know who you all are, or, at least, Ive read your pieces, and Giles glanced distractedly at the flat-screen television on the interior wall of his office, his twenty-four-hour-a-day Star News portal. And after sifting through god knows how many tons of shit with this project, you ten were the nuggets that stood out. The nuggets stood awkwardly in a line, recruits facing the drill sergeant on the first day of basic training. The drill sergeant had a most unmilitary mop of curly black hair that fell foppishly across his brow. His cheeks were pink and his lips were wet. Despite Giless relative youth, there was a shiny fullness to his face that Lucas suspected had been achieved through hors doeuvres and alcohol. There was no doubting his fondness for the sound of his own voice. And so the question is, kids, will you turn out to be nuggets of shit, or nuggets of gold? This exercise is about giving you a chance to experience reporting. We want to send you out into the field, match five pairs with a senior each, so that you can feel what writing for this paper is like. We know you can string a sentence together. The ten of you are standing here right now because we believe you can write, because we believe most of you have a creative streak, and, fuck knows, youve got to be creative when youre putting together a tabloid story. But what we dont know is whether youve got a nose for this business; whether you can interview. And we dont know whether you can use all five senses,
46

Making News and possibly a couple you dont even know youve got, to work out what is going on in a given situation. What the truth is. Whether its a story. A lot of that stuff is instinct but it also means work, work, work. Research, research, research. He paused, drinking in his seventeenth-floor view, pretending to be lost in the Canary Wharf scenery. I mean, right now, sitting here, Ive already told you one lie. His voice was calm and measured, as if delivering a review on a Sunday arts program. Who can tell me what it is? Lucas didnt want to be a nugget of shit any more than the next person. He knew not to swing at this. Come on. Think about what Ive said. What lie have I spun you in the last five minutes? A scrawny black kid with a West Country accent raised his hand tentatively. We dont have seven senses? Anton exploded. Oh, for fucks sake. That wasnt a lie. That was a figure of speech. Come on, you geniuses. What is the lie Ive told you? Sharpen up, Sherlocks. You might even find the answer on the fucking wall. With robotic synchronisation, they turned their necks to stare at the interior walls. Above a long wooden liquor cabinet and over the editors desk, there were framed front pages celebrating the great scoops and news events of Anton Giless reign. A remorseless, phone-throwing Russell Crowe was up there, tagged with the edgy, fill-in-the-gaps headline Six Odd Foot Of _unt. Next to that was the wordless smouldering horror of a front page dated September twelfth, 2001. There were maybe a dozen more around the room, including a joke front page, a for-staff-eyes-only mock Christmas edition featuring the editors grinning mug and the headline ARSEHOLE: But Our Kind of Arsehole. He had hung it beside a real front page containing his visage, an eight-yearold souvenir of the first edition bearing his handprint. After an interminable thirty seconds, the black kid raised his hand again. It says on that front page Giles, 30, youngest editor ever. And yet, that was before September 2001, which means you must be thirty-seven or thirty-eight now. But just before, you told us you
47

Tony Wilson were thirty-six. Hallelujah, Giles grinned, looking to the ceiling in mock celebration. Whats your name, kid? Tyrell. Well, it seems Tyrell here has just aced the class. I am not thirty-six Im thirty-nine, which, I might add, still makes me the youngest newspaper editor in England. But, kid, the way youre going, you might have my job by your twentieth birthday. Tyrell smiled, obviously pleased. The rest of you, observe the scene. Look and listen. Smell and feel. Taste, if you have to fucking well taste. Keep a camera phone and a recording device with you at all times. And, mark my words stuff happens! He stood up, preparing to dismiss the troops. Okay, Christine is here, and shell take you to a conference room to pair you off with senior journos. Lucas Dekker, as the winner of the competition, youve also got the opportunity to provide us with a five-hundred-word-a-week column for two-hundred quid a pop. Well try you out for ten weeks. If youre no good, we ditch you after three. Take it or leave it. Lucas felt the others eyes on him. And to you other whingeing pricks, no, he didnt fucking win because of his surname. Read his piece. Then read your piece. And instead of wasting your time complaining, pull up the window shades and bask in the light of some harsh reality. Okay, hes not Hemingway, but his writing is fresh and interesting and, at this stage, its fucking better than yours. So, stop crying into your pints, and just get on with it, okay? The ten stood motionless. None of them had, to that point, felt like complaining. Only one of them was old enough to legally drink pints. Lucas shifted from foot to foot. He was embarrassed, but pleased: embarrassed to be singled out; pleased even to be not Hemingway. Giles rode out the pause. Okay, okay. Speaking of getting on with it, Ive got the Prime Ministers press secretary on hold, so Id best be getting back to it. No you havent.
48

Making News Lucas swung his head around. The female voice was soft but clear, and came from their lineup. Sorry, did one of you speak? Giles asked, disbelievingly. Millie cleared her throat. I spoke, sir. I said, No you havent, as in, No you havent got the press secretary on hold. She stared down at the phone. A red light was dutifully flashing. So that makes two lies. Anton Giles placed his palms on the desk, bemused. Excuse me, darling. Take a look at the flashing light. The press secretary is on hold. Millie pointed to the flat screen. Michael Ellam is currently on TV, giving a press conference. Lucas marvelled at her calm. Jesus, she really wasnt intimidated by anybody. Giles, already ruddy faced, turned a deeper shade of pink. Well, that press conference must be from earlier on. My PA just told me that Ellam is on hold. Millie was unmoved. It says LIVE in the bottom corner there. Giles picked up the receiver. His fleshy jaw clenched in a forced smile. Sandy, is Ellam still on hold? Okay thanks. The phone smacked down again into its cradle. Well, hats off, young lady. Ive just been informed that, vis vis that conversation with Mr Ellam, my personal assistant had her wires crossed. He gave an awkward laugh. Well done, um sorry, your name, Miss? Millie Overgaard. Well done, Miss Overgaard. I wasnt lying, but yes, I can see anyway, fair play to you.

49