* * *

—

At my desk, I write Nicholas’s introduction for Rebecca Main. I polish the rest of the running order, call press officers, and answer emails, with one eye on the news bulletins flowing in from our outside sources. One says that the power stations are concerned about blackouts. The thunderstorm is expected to reach land by evening. I think of Marian, watching the storm come in. The clouds might have already started to darken at the north coast, over the fishing boats in Ballycastle harbor, the rope bridge, the sea stacks. She might be swimming, if the sea isn’t already too rough. We always joke about being part selkie. I check my phone, though she hasn’t written back yet.

Before our guest arrives, I sit outside on the fire stairs eating a Mars bar and drinking a cup of tea while Colette smokes a cigarette. She’s from west Belfast, too, Ballymurphy. She knows my cousins, my uncles.

“How’s Rory doing at school?” I ask.

“He still hates it. Who can blame him?”

“Is it the kids or the teachers?”

“Both. He says he wants to go to St. Joseph’s, can you credit it?”

“Jesus, things must be bad.”

Colette sighs. “I’m thinking about getting him a dog.”

Last summer, Colette was walking down the Falls Road when a car bomb exploded. She was thrown to the ground by the blast, but made it home with only bruises. At work the next day, she looked at Esther like she was mad for suggesting some time off.

“Who’s on Politics tonight?” she asks.

“The justice minister, Rebecca Main. Have you ever had her?”

Colette is the makeup artist for all the guests on the evening news, politicians, academics, actresses. They often end up telling her their secrets in her makeup room, her wee confessional.

She nods. “I liked Rebecca.”

“Did she tell you anything?”

“No. She’s cleverer than that.”

Colette stubs out her cigarette. We pull ourselves to our feet and she keys in the security code for the fire door.

* * *

—

The justice minister arrives, with two close protection officers. She shakes Nicholas’s hand, then mine. Our runner wheels in the trolley and sets about pouring her a coffee from a silver carafe. I don’t ask her officers if they want anything. They always say no, even to sealed bottles of water.

We move toward the studio. I step into the sound booth, and John nods at me, fiddling with his vape, while Dire Straits pours from the speakers.

“Enjoying yourself in here?”

“Quiet before the storm,” he says.

“No, this one will be a doddle.”

We both look up. On the other side of the glass, Rebecca Main slips the headphones on over her ears. Nicholas says, “Can you hear all right?” She nods, clasping her hands on the table.

Above the soundboard, a television screen shows BBC One. The evening news is about to start, when the hour turns over. Across this building, in the main studio, our presenters will be under the lights, waiting to read the day’s headlines.

Our runner comes in. “Does Nicholas have water?” I ask.

“Shit.”

“You’ve time.”

After he leaves, John murmurs, “Is he new?”

I nod. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

“Mm-hmm.” John adjusts the soundboard, and the frequency needles swing, yellow, red, blue.

“Do you need to practice the top?” I ask into the microphone, and Nicholas shakes his head.

John pulls up our music. I lean forward and say, “Thirty seconds, Nicholas.”

When the six o’clock news bulletin finishes, our on-air light turns yellow. Nicholas reads my introduction, then says, “Thank you for joining us, Ms. Main.”

“My pleasure.”

“You’ve recently introduced a bill to loosen the safeguards on investigatory powers. One provision in the bill would allow the police to hold a suspect without charge for thirty days. Why now? Wouldn’t you say our police need more regulation, not less?”

“We’re living in a difficult time,” she says in a clear, low voice. “Terror groups don’t want us to adapt, they don’t want us to rise to meet them. This bill will greatly reduce their ability to maneuver in our society.”

“Perhaps,” says Nicholas, “or perhaps introducing these measures will benefit them by further alienating more of our population from their government. You might be creating new recruits.”

“Not at all. These are simple, sensible measures,” she says. My pulse is speeding and my face feels hot, as usual. Thousands of people are listening around the province. Nothing can go wrong while we’re on air.

One of her close protection officers is in the hall and one is in the studio, standing in the corner. Through the glass, I can see the white of his shirt and the spiral of his earpiece.

“But thirty days—that’s internment, isn’t it?”

“The police need time to gather the evidence for a prosecution, in order to prevent further offenses.”

“The current limit is thirty-six hours. That’s quite a dramatic increase, isn’t it?” I hold down the microphone and say into his earpiece, “Two thousand percent.”