Now he had his headphones on and was raising his thumbs in salutation. His mouth framed the word: ‘Welcome.’
Harry realised how nervous he was. Excited, too. No big deal, he told himself, to appear on a local radio show; yet he had never done it before and his mouth was dry and his stomach unsettled. He imagined microphones picking up a thunderous rumble from his innards, causing the listeners to flinch. The stories he had chosen in the papers seemed to have fled his mind; he did not know what he could say about the Sandie Shaw song. Downstairs he had been struck by the casual atmosphere. Here, things were different. Sophie and the engineer swapped flip remarks but tension was as heavy in the air as approaching thunder. He felt the adrenalin pumping through his own system. No doubt about it, to appear on a live show was to rekindle long-forgotten childhood fears of public humiliation.
Sophie sat astride a chair at the opposite end of the control panel to the engineer and spoke into an intercom which connected her with Baz. Harry found it disconcerting to see him mouthing his replies, yet to be unable to hear what he was saying. A jingle played and a phlegmatic Lancastrian voice began to extol the virtues of a chain of launderettes, whilst in the background a chorus of voices sang that listeners would be glad of that extra sheen that left their garments squeaky clean.
‘You’ll be in the hot seat in five minutes,’ said Sophie. ‘Nothing to worry about. After all, you’re used to speaking in court: not like Finbar, and he turned out to be a natural broadcaster.’
‘Somehow I can’t see him hosting Desert Island Discs or Yesterday In Parliament.’
‘No, I mean it. He’s so warm, he has so much vitality — perfect for communicating with an audience. He comes over as a very attractive personality.’
Thinking of the arson attack, of Sinead and of the man whom Finbar had been so anxious to avoid outside his office, Harry said sourly, ‘He’s not top of everyone’s popularity charts.’
‘Oh, believe me, I can see why Melissa fell for him. Though I’ll admit Nick’s not his number one fan.’
She giggled and added. ‘Nick did it deliberately, you know. Spilling the wine over Finbar, I mean.’
Harry thought it politic to feign surprise. Sophie was not saying anything he hadn’t guessed the night before. But he was interested that she was frank enough to put conjecture into words.
‘Finbar got up his nose, that’s what I mean.’ Sophie didn’t bother to hide her glee. ‘Nick’s a hunk and I love his bones, but he does like to be the centre of attention. And if something doesn’t suit him, he’s apt to fly off the handle. Maybe seeing his ex hang around a humble tattoo artist hurt his pride.’
Yes, and Sophie’s egging-on of Finbar had stoked up the provocation, Harry thought. He contented himself with a wry smile.
‘Not all that humble.’
‘Perhaps not. Finbar can take most things in his stride, I guess. Which reminds me: I forgot to commiserate with him last night. I read in the paper about the fire at his studio. Arson, I gather.’
‘The police are still investigating.’
Sophie tapped him playfully on the shoulder. ‘You’re so guarded, Harry! A solicitor down to your socks. But it must be worrying for Finbar — to feel someone has burnt down his place on purpose.’
‘He’ll survive.’
‘I’m sure he will. Melissa will be in a state, all the same. I thought she looked peaky yesterday. Of course, she never has much colour, but even so she looked dreadful. And she can do without that sort of hassle after all the problems she’s had.’
‘What problems?’
Mischievous pleasure deepended the laughter lines round Sophie’s mouth and eyes. ‘Don’t you know? Oh, sorry. Perhaps I’d better not say any more. I simply thought that, as a friend, you…’
A tiny girl in a pink tracksuit walked into the room, followed by a spotty young man wearing an Everton scarf. She looked to Harry as though she ought to be at school.
‘Harry, this is Tracey Liggett, our weather girl,’ said Sophie. ‘And — Jason, isn’t it? — her boyfriend. He’s just here as a spectator. We keep open house on this programme, people drift in and out all the time, no wonder we call it Pop In. Tracey, meet Harry Devlin. Harry’s a local solicitor.’
‘Yeah?’ The girl sniffed as if she’d been introduced to a lavatory attendant.
‘Tracey’s one of our rising stars,’ said Sophie. ‘The weather report today — who knows what tomorrow may bring?’
‘The football results, most likely,’ said the engineer as he lifted a cassette marked kwikslim from the bank of pigeon-holes which ran across one wall of the control room. With casual efficiency, he flipped it into the machine in front of him and pressed a switch. Another silly little tune played, followed by two housewives discussing the merits of a new miracle diet.
‘Okay, Harry,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re on.’
He took a deep breath and, clutching the bits of newspaper like a passport to a new world, opened the door into the studio. Baz waved him to one of the three vacant chairs round the table.
‘Welcome. I hear last night ended with a splash, so far as Finbar was concerned. Rumour has it he’s not one of my lord and master’s bosom buddies.’
Harry wasn’t in the mood to discuss Finbar. All he wanted was to make sure the next ten minutes passed as quickly as possible and without too much embarrassment. ‘I have the snippets here,’ he said, fanning the bits of paper out on the table between them.
‘So, this is it, eh? First broadcast to the nation, right? Don’t worry. Next thing, “on your dressing room door they’ve hung a star”, and all that crap. Now, this is simple. After the news bulletin, Tracey will tell us when the fog is going to clear and the moment I start talking about the lane closure on Runcorn Bridge, you wet your lips and get ready to speak, right,’ cause there’ll only be seconds to go. Okay? Good luck.’
The local news was bad, as usuaclass="underline" an attempted murder in St Helens, redundancies at a printing firm, a drugs haul in the docks, a strike in local government. The weather outlook was equally grim, but Harry was past caring. His mouth was dry and he was wishing he was anywhere but behind a microphone.
Suddenly, the microphone was open and he was on air. How he actually sounded to the indifferent outside world, Harry was never sure. Against all expectations, his time on air sped by. The stories he had chosen seemed to go down well, with Baz chuckling at regular intervals, and the lead-in to his choice of song was less of an ordeal than he’d imagined.
He didn’t tell the whole truth about the song, of course, describing it simply as an old favourite. It had hooked onto a peg in his mind long ago, but had acquired a special meaning since Liz had left him. Whenever he walked along the Liverpool streets he had walked along with her, he couldn’t help but recall how much in love they had once been. He didn’t know how to forget her when there was always so much to remind him of the past.
At last Baz was thanking him and giving a thumbs-up sign and farewell wave as he cued in the next jingle. ‘Great, Harry. See you around.’
He made his way to the other side of the panel, where Sophie mimed applause. She had been joined by a young man with an anarchic haircut and John Lennon glasses; Harry recognised him as an authority on the tangled web of Liverpool politics.
‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I told you it would be a success. Thanks a million, sweetie. You know your way out, don’t you?’
And that was it. The show would go on and Harry’s part in it was history. He wandered back alone through the labyrinth and a couple of minutes later found himself outside in North John Street where it had begun to spit with rain. He turned up his jacket collar as people hurried past on their way to work, oblivious of his presence.