From the backseat of the Jag, atop a hemp cushion dividing her from the leather upholstery, Salma listened to Timothy White thank his guests before reading out some final messages from his listeners.
     “Lots more support for the bishop coming in. Alex from Barry says, ‘Yes some people are executed by mistake, but more people die because of the bigger mistake of not using this powerful deterrent…’ And Ian from Nottingham says, ‘Who in their right mind thinks the families of those children can ever be happy knowing that a mass murderer is free to live the rest of his life, enjoying decent meals and good TV? He has to hang.’
     “But David from Bedford emails… ‘The problem is, where do we draw the line at responsibility? Some people develop into murderers because of bullying or poor parenting or coming from hard-up areas. If society executes those who turn to a life of crime, are we just brushing our bigger problems under the carpet…?’”
     Salma called up to the driver. “Anton, could you switch it off please?”
     As the driver dutifully turned the dial on the car stereo, Salma gazed out at the wall of tinted windows towering over the fire door at the rear of Broadcasting House. Security guards were at the junction ahead of them, standing resolute against a row of temporary barriers — the only obstacles between their car and an army of paparazzi bearing a shield wall made of cameras.
     Was this the society “David from Bedford” was so concerned about? Those paparazzi didn’t care about the psychological damage their work could do. Maybe that was why photos got called “shots”, for fudge cake. But then there was the general public, desperately hungry to consume scandal. Did they care about the minds that got unhinged along the way?
     And Salma could feel her hinges crumbling. The amount of times she’d sat in her office at The Old Deanery, watching the press gang up around the black iron gates, and wished they’d just drop dead… Had her wish come true, the obstruction would probably cause tailbacks as far back as Croydon. Perhaps she was just a few social niceties away from being an Andy herself.
     Stold. She meant Stold. Why had Andy popped into her head? She hadn’t thought of him for ages. No reason to, really. He would have been a little older than Stold when he yelled death threats at Salma and her friend Alison outside their campus common room. Well, OK, they hadn’t been death threats — but Alison’s tiny elaboration had been corroborated by all the witnesses, and probably helped put the wanker behind bars. That, and Salma’s statement as to how she never consented to Andy’s advances. Which, given that he hadn’t actually made any advances, wasn’t really a lie at all.
     Salma wondered how long it would be until Andy’s prison term was over. What was he like now? Would he want revenge? Could Alison’s elaborated testimony have put ideas in his head…?
     Had Salma and Alison made a Stold?
     The paparazzi burst into activity, squirming around each other to take their shots as the fire door opened. Security men in hi-vis jackets rushed Theo towards the Jag. He was wearing a rain coat with the hood up, despite the midday sun, shielding his face from the cameras with a plastic document wallet.
     Anton jumped out to open the passenger door opposite Salma, and Theo hurried in beside her.
     “Well,” he said as he buckled up. “Somehow I don’t think I’ll need to hand in that letter of resignation anymore.”
     Salma attempted a smile. “From the phone ins and texts, it sounded like you had lots of support.”
     Anton landed heavily back behind the steering wheel. Within seconds, he began creeping the Jag towards the line of paparazzi, engaging the door locks as he did so.
     Theo stared down at his lap. “I was trying to give support, not seek it.”
     Salma pursed her lips. “Do you regret it?”
     After a moment, a thin smile dabbed Theo’s face. “No. Not really. It’s a debate the country needed.” He sighed loudly. “But of course, all this extra attention is going to make Operation Twelfth Night all the more critical. Were the agency able to take Mum’s house off the market right away?”
     Salma nodded as she tucked her handbag under the hem of her skirt. “Yes — all done.”
     Theo passed her the plastic wallet, unbuckled his seat belt, and began removing his coat. “Thank you so much for doing this. I owe you hugely. I really just need time alone with my family right now.”
     As Anton drove them down Ludgate Hill towards Dean’s Court, Salma donned Theo’s coat, pulled up the hood, and gripped the wallet tight. The Church of England’s security provision wasn’t as extensive as the BBC’s, so a mere two guards were struggling to make space for the Jag as close as possible to the black iron gates of The Old Deanery.
     “Ready?” asked Theo as he scrunched his body below the level of the window.
     Salma shrugged, then opened the door.

Next Chapter: Xandra