The Fall

2

Fourteen years after the lightning strike that had knocked Sam Baker out of the pear tree and killed his two friends, he kicked open the TV studio’s gallery control room and headed for the staff lounge, where he poured himself a well-earned coffee.

After sitting in the director’s chair, mixing four hours of football that was being beamed out live across the whole of the blessed United States, he was more than ready to remove his head and leave it in a refrigerator to chill for a while. His brain sizzled like a hot roast inside his skull. At least, that was what it felt like. It had been a hell of an evening. Two cameras at the stadium had gone on the fritz. The commentator had forgotten the players’ names and had um’d and ah’d his way through the first match. Thunderstorms cavorting over New York had played havoc with the microwave link-ups.

Now Sam lusted after a few beers – a few very cold beers – in the Irish bar across the street. Then he wanted to go home to bed where a few hours’ sleep might soothe his frazzled brain.

Hell, whoever said TV work was glamorous needed their own head tested for brain-tissue content. Or lack thereof.

As the sign over the coffee machine so rightly said, You don’t have to be mad to work here – but it helps.

Sam folded himself down into one of the low armchairs, closed his sore, tired eyes and sipped the coffee.

‘My God, Mr Baker, how people would envy you! Paid good money to sit with your eyes closed and drink free coffee.’

The voice felt like a slap against his jangling head. Nevertheless, Sam smiled and gave a mock salute. ‘I’m not sleeping, I’m just regaining my will to live.’

A man of around 50 with flyaway white hair and a pink bow tie stubbed his cigar out into a potted plant on the window-sill before helping himself to coffee. Joe Kane was one of the indestructibly cheerful sort. Even after a ten-hour shift as deputy station manager. Grinning, he sipped his coffee with a grateful ‘Ah… that hits the spot. You’re not finding that director’s chair a mite too big, eh, Sam? Too wild and woolly?’

‘What, me? Sam the Wonderkid? Hell, no.’ He smiled. ‘Give me six hours’ sleep and I’ll be ready for the noon shift tomorrow.’

‘Oh, you’re on Football Shots at 12?’

‘Sure am.’

‘I see.’ Joe Kane looked down at his reflection in the coffee cup, his forehead wrinkling as he worked through a problem. ‘I’ll have to ask Katie to sit in the director’s hot seat, then.’

Jesus Christ, I’m being fired! were the words that snapped through Sam’s head. He sat up straight, suddenly wide awake. ‘What’s happening, Joe? I’ve been directing Football Shots for the last six months; I’ve been keeping it fresh, haven’t I?’

‘Fresh as a daisy, Sam.’

‘But it sounds from where I’m sitting as if I’m being shown the exit.’

‘Fired?’ Joe raised his white eyebrows in surprise. ‘No, you’re not being fired, Sam. Far from it. With all those director’s awards cluttering up your mantelpiece you’re obviously far too brilliant for your own good.’

‘I take it this is where you give me the choice of whether to hear the bad news or the good news first. Am I right?’

‘Something like that, Sam.’

‘Okay, shoot.’

Joe took a seat opposite Sam and looked round the lounge to make sure that they were alone. Then he leaned forward in a way that suggested he was going to share a secret. ‘The lady upstairs,’ he began in a low voice, ‘needs someone to plug a hole in our ranks… our directorial ranks, that is.’

Sam leaned forward, head tilted slightly, listening hard, trying to detect any sign he was being sidelined, or demoted into directing weather bulletins or some other low-grade programming.

Joe continued in the low voice, not wanting to be overheard by station staff passing by in the corridor. ‘Danny Trepinski’s taking a little vacation.’

‘Danny? He never goes on vacation. Why, his butt might be nailed to the director’s chair for all the times he leaves it.’

‘Ah, well, there was a melodramatic scene in the station manager’s office this morning. Danny Trepinski was called to the office just before lunch to find not only the lady upstairs herself there but also his wife and sister. Can you believe that?’

‘I think I’m starting to get the picture.’ Sam mimed drinking from a bottle. ‘Glug, glug?’

‘Spot on, Sam. The management and his own family ganged up on Danny and forced him to go dry out at Tranquillity Meadows or whatever crapola name they call it. They got him into a hospital car so fast he didn’t even have time to collect his jacket. In short, he’s got three weeks to kiss the vodka bottle goodbye or he’s out of here on his bony ass.’

Sam nodded, half guilty, half relieved that the bad news didn’t involve him. ‘Poor Danny. There but for the grace of God…’

Joe pointed a finger at Sam’s coffee. ‘So, you stick to that stuff… you’ll be all right. Savvy?’

‘Aye, aye, captain. But where does that leave me? Danny Trepinski doesn’t cover sports. He’s strictly light entertainment.’

‘Well, here comes the good news, Sam. You’ve been promoted. And your first assignment is something your colleagues here would kill for.’

Again, Sam felt a surge of suspicion. ‘And that assignment is?’

‘You’re going to direct a live rock concert!’

‘A rock concert? Be serious, Joe. I’ve never handled anything like that before. What if I make a hash of it?’

‘You won’t. The lady upstairs has every confidence in you.’

‘But Joe—’

‘But Joe nothing. It’s outside-broadcast work just like football or athletics or baseball. You can sleepwalk through it.’ Joe’s smile faded. ‘You’re not going to walk away from an opportunity like this, are you, Sam?’

Sam shook his head and smiled. The only way he could walk away from this assignment was to walk away from the building and never come back. ‘No way,’ he said, injecting a note of confidence into his voice. ‘As you say, it’s a great opportunity. When is it?’

‘A week on Thursday. Some big stars, Sam. Pull this off and you can write your own ticket. Any questions?’

‘Only one: where is it? Carnegie Hall?’

‘Out of town.’

‘Boston?’

‘A little farther east than that.’ He paused, enjoying keeping Sam in suspense. ‘England.’

‘England?’

‘Sure, a little island across the Atlantic. You can find it in any atlas. And don’t worry, you can drink the water and they speak the same language – more or less, anyway.’ Chuckling at Sam’s wide-eyed expression, he climbed to his feet and dumped his cup in the bin. ‘Oh, you best move quickly. You’re booked on a flight that goes in precisely…’ He looked at his watch. ‘…Precisely 12 hours. Bon voyage. And don’t forget to send us all a postcard and a Beefeater doll or two.’

Outside, thunder rumbled like the stirring of ancient gods.