Six months on, Ryan still hasn’t got over the thrill of being driven to work each morning; he still likes to make believe he is being transported to some far grander role at the South Bank or at White City. Folks back home are easily impressed with tales of his job in the city, but there’s a vast gap between where he is now and where he wants to be. This daily voyage to the wrong place at the wrong hour serves only to accentuate it.

He twists uneasily in half sleep, crumpling his suit jacket. Today he is dreaming not of the future but of the past: these dark towers traded for the squat yellow granites of his home town, the engine’s smooth purr for the contented murmur of the sea. His body tilts as the car takes a left off Moorgate, and he opens one eye. A ship-like office block with aquamarine windows hoves into view. The car slips under the protruding jib sail of its foyer, the door locks pop open. The sound of the sea is gone.

Ryan flicks his ID at the doorman, takes the lift to the fourteenth, and sinks into his swivel chair. While his machine starts up he drifts back to sleep mode, glazed eyes resting on the bank of clocks facing him. One for each of the wire’s offices around the planet: London, Frankfurt, Hong Kong, Tokyo, New York. Each time he focuses, the minute hand on the London clock judders upward in stop-motion. When it rights itself, the day will get going.


07:00:01
London shares opening
Sudden clatter of the dot matrix as the wire cranks into gear send stories from the Stock Exchange. No one speaks this time of day except Agneta.

‘Andy, take UBS Warburg, flash and fill; Oswald, flash the ICI results please.’

She tears the stories off the printer and reaches over the screens to hand each sub a ribbon of paper bearing header and first line of their story. When Ryan covers the slot in her absence he balls up the scraps of paper and hurls them at the subs, driving it home that he is, temporarily, one step above them.

‘Ryan, take Lastminute.com. Flash and fill.’

‘Sure.’

He accesses a fifteen-page statement and begins the haiku-like task of chopping it back to a one-line header and two pars. He enjoys the rattle of the keyboard, the challenge of being first to hurl out a flash, to kick his story into shape. Do it in my sleep, this stuff, and I’d still be faster than anyone else on the desk. That’s what realtime news is all about; you got to be smart, you got to be right, but most of all you got to be first.

When he’s done he presses send and yells ‘free’. Agneta gives him another story, and another, and another, until eventually the flood of words subsides.


08:25:32
London shares: early features
Ryan likes early features. A summary of the main action so far. There isn’t much to do, just run a typo check and track company names that alter from buyout to buyout, but he loves the rhythm of it. It puts him in mind of Grandstand and the league table results.

FTSE 100 risers
GUS 527 up 17 — Dresdner Kleinwort ‘buy’
Prudential 407 up 15-1/4 — Insurers rally
Sage Group 128 up 4-1/2 — Nasdaq opens higher
Vodafone 114 up 3 — Mulls stance on Libertel offer

FTSE 100 fallers
ICI 184 down 6 — HSBC, CSFB negative post-results
BG Group 235-1/4 down 6-1/2 — Profit-taking
BOC 754-1/2 down 8 — With ICI
Pearson 535-1/2 down 4 — Advertising concerns

The finished copy will form part of the two-minute news summary he presents to camera daily: the high point of his day. No matter that it doesn’t even go out on satellite, just on the website as video files nobody bothers to download — it gives him a break from the tidal routines of the subs desk, a tiny taste of the limelight. At ten o’clock each day he pulls on a jacket, straightens his tie and walks tall.


09:01:32
Euro rises sharply against Sterling
Mornings are best. The zombie hours between six and nine disappear quickly in the rush of early trading, and from eight thirty on Ryan’s almost human in spite of the sleep deprivation. By nine the flow of copy has eased. He calls ‘free’ again. If Agneta doesn’t hit him with something else, he’ll grab the newspapers from the reference desk and do the sports round-up.

His mobile goes. ‘Joshua’ on the caller display. He’s not allowed take calls at work, but he presses the green button anyway. ‘Josh, how ya doin?’

A flurry of movement ripples through the open plan office as the sandwich man arrives and people scurry to form a queue. It bothers Ryan the way they rush to buy their cheese and pickle rolls as if it really was lunchtime. He strides past them and scoops up the papers, Joshua’s ‘how are things are at the wire?’ sounding a million miles away.

‘Everything’s cool,’ he lies. ‘Well, you know, same as ever. So, how are you finding things there?’

The response reaches him spliced with noise, something about how Ryan should watch today’s international.

‘The friendly? Why would I want to look at that?’

‘Ryan, you free?’ Agneta says curtly. She doesn’t like things looking sloppy while she’s in the slot. They both know Frank, the chief sub, monitors every word.

‘Got to go, Agneta has a story. I’ll call you back.’

‘Take the Forex will you, Ryan?’ says Agneta.

‘No problem.’ He bangs in the codes that tell the machine where to send the piece. The Forex goes to all the wires: UK, Europe, US and Asia. ‘Sorry, Agneta,’ he calls, loud enough for Frank to hear. ‘Jetlagged from the change of shifts. Forgot to switch my phone off.’

Agneta gives one of her Nordic half-smiles but her eyes are saying, Leave that mobile alone — we’ve 16 year-end results today, so behave or you’ll get the worst of them, video round-up or no video round-up.


10:10:29
Sterling recovers on strong economic data
Ryan emerges from the cramped ‘studio’ with the buzz he always has after his ten-minute piece to camera. That feeling of being achingly alive and having nowhere to put the energy because he’s surrounded by people who seem frozen in place. He wants to cartwheel down the aisle and somersault over the desks, he wants the glass wall that mysteriously lets in no sunlight to shatter, and a cyclone to sweep the papers from the desktops. He laughs to himself. Like some cheesy building society advert where the suits jump on the desks and sing about interest rates.

He walks slowly, normally, to the satellite screens where Pav and a few of the guys are watching a match. The England-South Korea friendly kicked off at 7pm local time, and Frank is letting them watch it on low volume.


10:15:09
Euro regains early lead; CBE buoyant longterm
Agneta glowers at the deserted desks. To the men gathered under the TV monitor she calls pleasantly, ‘Anyone free to take the trading summary? Di is due a break.’

‘I’ll get it,’ Ryan says.

He doesn’t mind. It’s just a duff friendly, full of teenage next big things posing for the camera in their first international. He’s no idea why Josh said to watch it; maybe he’s losing touch since defecting to the FT sports desk. What is it, two months, since he left? No, more like four. Ryan feels a sudden tension in his stomach. That makes it eight months, not six, since he joined the wire. If it goes past the year mark, that’s it, he’ll be a lifer.

With renewed purpose he reapplies himself, spewing out a sentence scarred with regulation house-style commas: ‘Fears of an advertising downturn dragged Daily Mail, off 7-1/2 to 525, and WPP, lower by 7 to 423.’

He calls ‘free’, then pulls down a bookmark for the FT and runs a search for Joshua’s byline. He is both relieved and irritated not to find one.

Agneta hands him another strip of paper. An in-depth piece, this: Pav’s interview with the CEO of a once bankable dotcom now living frugally off its capital reserves. As usual Pav’s gone to town on his imagery. When will that boy learn to stick to Frank’s approved list? Short words that work well in heads. Slips, firms, gains, tumbles. Adrift, high, low, buoyed. Any deviation signals the crime of an opinion. Subscribers have opinions, big-shot journalists at the FT have opinions, but here on the wire the emphasis is on numbers, accuracy and speed.

Ryan chisels out Pav’s artfully phrased hook, and plugs the gap with some data from Lastminute’s statement. Soggy, number-filled sentences sink into the crack like so much badly applied Polyfilla.

‘Anyone free?’ Agneta asks, glaring in his direction.

He presses send.


10:41:04
Easyjet tops expectations; healthy order book
It’s Oswald who notices first. ‘Ryan, come here, this you have to see,’ he says. The two rarely speak, so his words carry some weight. Reluctantly, Ryan wanders over.

‘Thought the commentator sounded familiar.’ Oswald glances screenwards at a group of men engaged in post-match analysis, then looks at him expectantly. Searching for something nonchalant to say, Ryan smiles like an idiot, ignoring the sudden sharp pain in his gut.

Di follows over to see what the fuss is about. ‘Wow! He’s like a Hollywood actor in that suit,’ she says, and hurries back to the subs’ desk to tell Agneta.

Frank has also noticed the new commentator. ‘Now there’s a familiar face, wouldn’t you say, Ry?’ he says, stopping off on his way back from the coffee machine.

Ryan gives him an are-you-serious look. They both burst out laughing, then go silent as the camera cuts back to Joshua. He comes over well, relaxed but authoritative. Di’s right, of course: he looks great on TV. He beams happily while commenting on the Korean defence, as if he can sense them all clustered under the monitor, gazing up at him in awe.

‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’ Ryan finds his voice at last. ‘He phoned this morning. Made me promise not to tell you lot. Wanted to surprise you.’

Oswald throws him a look, as if doubtful Ryan could have kept this to himself. Ryan ignores it under cover of listening to Joshua’s comments. The problem is the whole office knows his own lifelong ambition was to be a sports presenter, so how can he not feel just a little fed up? All the same he tries hard not to show it.

‘Don’t know what they see in him myself, except a pretty face,’ Oswald says. ‘But I’m no sports man. What do you think, Ryan, does he have what it takes?’

‘The boy will do good,’ Ryan said. ‘He’s only at the sidekick phase yet, but he handles himself well—’

Laughter ripples around the assembled colleagues. Ryan trails off. Not so long ago, Joshua was his sidekick. It was Ryan who started the wire’s sports round-up. Frank said sure he could post results in his free time, but he wouldn’t get paid any extra; sports was not the core offering. Josh offered to help out, and he had a talent for presenting. That gorgeous mug of his helped, of course. And being called Joshua probably guaranteed you a try-out for the Beeb, if you went up for it. Ryan hadn’t even got that far, he had never dared apply.

A painful twinge in his stomach as Ryan remembers how, when the wire’s sports section started to do serious traffic and Frank still refused him a pay rise, he lost interest. But Josh had kept plodding away.

As the credits roll, Ryan is aware of Frank next to him.

‘So, d’you see much of him these days, Ry? You were good mates one time, weren’t you?’ he asks, as if Josh has emigrated to a distant planet.

‘Yeah, we meet up now and then. He’s still a mate,’ Ryan says, wondering how true this is. They’ve only met up the once recently, though they’ve spoken on the phone a few times. They really should meet up again. Maybe some of that magic glow will rub off on him. Ryan resolves to get in contact soon. Very soon. He has to get out of this place. It’s getting ridiculous: he can picture himself in two years, doing overtime at the pub with Frank just to make sure he gets enough of a raise to cover his mortgage.


11:50:21
Autonomy plc edges lower; remains in profit
It helps to only semi-concentrate coming up to midday, Ryan finds. It helps especially on days when the entire open plan newsroom must endure the pre-noon stink of Oswald’s microwaved chicken tikka masala.

Oswald is scary: a hulking warning of what happens if you stay here too long, growing visibly larger week by week. His claim to fame is that, at Cambridge, he memorized a page a day of the Oxford English Dictionary and then ate it, literally devouring the entire volume. An early indication of his true talents, Ryan thinks harshly, not meaning his legendary vocabulary or orthographical skill.

Unlike Oswald, Ryan never thought of typing up year-end results as a career move. But hearing Joshua’s upbeat tones earlier has made him wonder: is not caring part of his problem? He remembers the pleasure Josh took in getting the little things right. Is this what singled him out and pre-ordained him for better things?


12:14:56
London shares drop after earnings warnings
Lunchtimes most people take half an hour at their desks, passing round a tattered copy of ‘Hello’. Ryan goes around the corner to the Bricklayer’s for an hour. Mostly he goes with Frank, which is dull but at least Agneta never dares complain if they’re late back. Today Frank has a directors’ meeting, so he goes alone.

He orders a pint and takes out his phone. Calling Korea mobile to mobile will cost a fortune, but he has to get this over. All day he’s had this feeling of running on the spot past the same recycled background like a Wacky Races character, while Josh forges ahead into a glorious future. He has to take action. It seems an age before he hears Joshua’s voice, ‘Must take this one, if you’ll excuse me a moment... Ryan!’

‘Congratulations, Josh. You were amazing.’

Party sounds in the background. Picturing a reception at a swanky venue for the England team, he runs out of smalltalk. Instead of casually work his way up to it over a session at the pub like he intended, he now asks bluntly: ‘So, how’d you swing the gig with the BBC?’

‘Sheer luck, really, being in the right place at the right time,’ Joshua says. ‘By the way, I wanted to say cheers for giving me a shove in this direction. It’s not what I thought I was cut out for, but I’m really enjoying it.’

The fact that he’s only back-pedalling until he gets a better offer makes it worse.

‘Listen, do me a favour,’ Ryan says. ‘Keep your ear to the ground for any openings, won’t you, mate?’

‘Sure thing.’

There’s a pause.

‘Actually, I’m at a bit of an after-match do right now, so it’s a good moment for that sort of thing. I really should circulate.’

‘Of course, of course. Let’s talk when you get back.’

‘Sure. I’ll be out here three weeks, then I’m in New York for a week, but yeah definitely, let’s hook up after. And I’ll ask around for you, okay, mate?’

‘Cheers, Josh, that’s great. See you soon.’

Ryan hangs up feeling energized. He’s got something to aim towards now. He’ll have all his old sports round-ups copied onto a DVD, get a showreel in gear. And tonight he’ll rough out that TV show idea of his. Sports quiz with a difference. Funny, fast, stand-up kind of thing, with celebrity participants. Soon as his shift finishes, he’ll go straight home and work on it. And when Josh gets back to town they’ll suss out some likely takers. With Josh pitching it to the right people, attaching a producer will be a doddle.

He downs his Guinness and sets off for the office in bright spirits, cutting through the graveyard on a York stone path slippery with moss, and passing the melting gravestone of a cult poet buried in obscurity in the pauper grounds. By the time someone shelled out for a cheap stone no one knew any more which bones were his, so the engraving reads ‘Somewhere nearby lies...’ The poet’s simple grave is dwarfed by Defoe’s, a monument to the benefits of journalism and reality fiction, of living well and dying famous.

He downs his Guinness and sets off for the office in bright spirits, cutting through the graveyard on a stone path slippery with moss, glancing up as he passes the melting gravestone of a cult poet. Although still in print now the poet was broke when he died, and was chucked in the pauper grounds. By the time someone shelled out for a cheap stone no one knew any more which bones were his, so the engraving reads ‘Somewhere nearby lies...’ The poet’s memorial is dwarfed by Defoe’s, a monument to the benefits of journalism and reality fiction, of living well and dying famous.


13:44:56
Focus: London shares recover in late trade
Ryan gets back ten minutes late. Agneta stands up to let him in the slot. She was due to leave at one thirty, but has pointedly waited back to do the hand-over. This time of day the markets rarely show much movement, but she issues instructions about the two minor stories in progress. Ryan makes attentive noises until she pulls on her coat and goes.

There’ll be a lull now until the morning stories from America filter in. Ryan pulls out his phone again, thinking to fix a definite date with Josh, mention his quiz show idea. He presses redial. A tone he doesn’t recognize. Redial again. A voice in his ear intones spasmodically: ‘Joshua. Browne. Is not available. Please. Leave your message. Now.’

He glances at the bank of clocks. Korea is the same time zone as Tokyo, so it’s getting on for ten at night. Right now Josh is probably buying pints for the players or doing whatever it is that real sports presenters do off-screen to keep themselves one step ahead. He hangs up.

For the twenty-seventh time that day he checks the London clock. Two hours, fifteen minutes to go. In the background someone calls ‘free’.


16:59:59
London shares close flat, job worries counter upbeat data
Ryan sticks to his plan. He walks briskly past the Bricklayer’s, fumbling for his travelcard. No free car on the way home; the company only lays it on to make sure they don’t miss a second of the early shift. Usually he takes the tube but today he catches a bus and sits up top, needing to see the river stretched into the distance to either side of him, to catch a fleeting view of its swirling estuary waters at that place where north and south, east and west Londons uneasily collide. His least favourite thing about this city is going months at a time without hearing the ocean, without sight of a horizon. That must be what drives so many people over the edge, he thinks. The absence of horizons.

The bus is crawling down Moorgate towards the river when he gets a text reminder from Melissa and Fran about the private view. He calls to say he can’t make it.

‘Oh do come, sweetie, we haven’t seen you in ages! We miss you, don’t we Fran?’

‘But there’s this project I need to work on...’

Melissa shushes him softly, issues directions to a renovated railway arch in Southwark.

‘You could pick up a painting for two hundred quid that’ll make your fortune in five years time,’ she says. ‘Oh, here’s my cab, I have to go buy some ice!’ And she’s gone.

Although the fortune in five years bit may be true, Ryan knows he can’t entirely trust Melissa. Her claim that the gallery is only five minutes from London Bridge is almost certainly a fib.

In the end, he decides not to decide. If the tide’s in when he crosses the river, he’ll go to the opening. If it’s out, he’ll go home and work.






© Lane Ashfeldt 2003