It was then that the main award ceremony began in earnest. A lot of bad in-jokes, clapping and thank you speeches. The audience drunk and happy, black ties askew.
‘Now we come to the Feature Writer of the Year,’ announced the compere. ‘Stiff competition again, but we’ve a shortlist of six. Andy Dougall of The Times for his report on the Ethiopian famine. Bess Hartley of the Daily Mail for her series on the disabled living in modern society. Peter Bilton of The Independent for his Triad investigation. Casey Mullins of the Evening Standard for her highly personalised accounts of last year’s IRA bombing campaign in London…’
The air was electric now. Casey’s hand found Harrison’s on the table and he squeezed it reassuringly. She looked at him and grinned. How radiant she looked tonight, he thought, eyes dancing with anticipation like a kid at Christmas. Body tense in the sequinned black number that showed shoulders sprinkled with freckles and hair up to reveal the hanging pearl drops on her ears.
‘And the winner is…’ the Heritage Minister began, fumbling with the envelope.
Harrison squeezed harder. Mercs and Billy Billingham winked across the table.
‘Andy Dougall of The Times.’
The embarrassed, stuttering applause gradually built up as the journalist made his way towards the stage. No one had expected that. Casey’s face crumpled as she brought her hands together.
‘Sorry,’ Harrison said and kissed her cheek.
‘Outrageous,’ Mercs grumbled. ‘You was robbed.’
The ceremony moved laboriously on, but the magic spell had been broken. The glitz and glamour of it all now seeming self indulgent and tiresome, even phoney.
‘Just before we end tonight’s proceedings,’ the compere said, ‘I have a special announcement to make. The judges have taken the decision to introduce a new award for firsthand account journalism which will be given in future only in the most exceptional circumstances. It will be named after its first recipient. The Casey Mullins Award.’
The hall exploded into applause. Casey was stunned, reeling as Harrison and Mercs helped her to her feet and propelled her towards the stage.
‘…And to present tonight’s prize,’ the compere continued, ‘…a very honoured special guest.’
As Casey mounted the steps, the curtains parted at the back of the stage. A tall, lean figure walked uncertainly forward.
Harrison’s mouth dropped. He couldn’t believe it.
Midgely stared. ‘It’s Les.’
‘…Mr Leslie Appleyard of the Metropolitan Police Explosives Section,’ the voice continued over the amplifier, ‘the subject of one of Casey Mullins’s most moving accounts of the Tick Tock Men — a term the nation now has taken to its heart.’
The embrace between Casey and Appleyard seemed to last for ever before the compere managed to prise her away and lead her to the microphone.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she gasped for breath. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, I–I don’t know what to say… To see Les here walking again is the greatest prize I could get… to win this award as well… it’s too much!’
She looked back at the Expo and smiled. Then, regaining some composure, she continued: ‘Hell, I’m going to be ail-American and schmaltzy about this, I’m sorry. I just wrote about what other people did. This is their story. In particular it’s Tom Harrison’s story. Tom and I hope to marry later this year.’ As the crescendo of cheers and wolf whistles rose, she squinted out beyond the spotlights. ‘Tom, could I ask you to join me up here? My quiet hero…’
Midgely pushed his friend forward. ‘Go on, you old bastard, it’s your moment of glory. I’ll never let you live it down.’
The applause had become a standing ovation by the time Harrison had reached the stage.
‘I’d rather defuse a bomb than this,’ he said hoarsely in her ear.
She laughed, holding her trophy high for everyone to see. ‘Who needs a Pulitzer, Tom? I’ve got a Mullins.’
He kissed her cheek and looked out over the sea of cheering faces. From the corner of his mouth, he whispered: ‘So have I.’