‘Until your boyfriend cut his head off,’ Bruce said bitterly. ‘Now I have a decapitated security guard.’
‘I told you I know we done that stuff and we’re to blame.’ Scout was getting angry too. ‘I’m just saying you got all this luxury, like a king or a president or something, and you pay for it by making films about ordinary, sad, dumb people, people who live in ghettos and projects and trailer parks, and making them look ugly and sick and violent-’
‘You are ugly and sick and violent!’
‘Yes, I guess I am, and I deserve whatever I get. It just seems to me that half of America lives in hell and the other half gets its rocks off watching.’
Scout didn’t want to talk about it any more so she put on the TV. Bruce’s house was still on the screen and approaching it, rather nervously, were two people in their underwear.
Chapter ThirtyTwo
Wayne opened the front door carefully and let the nearnaked camera operator and recordist into the house.
‘I sincerely apologize for the undignified working conditions,’ he said, somewhat taken aback to discover that one of the team, the sound recordist, was a woman, and wondering what Scout would make of that. ‘But I’m sure you understand my position here.’
Across the lawn, behind the ring of armoured vehicles that the police had established, the forces of authority watched the scene.
‘Well, yet another murdering bastard is about to get his fifteen minutes of fame,’ Chief Cornell reflected. The chief had with him his numberone siege team, his top negotiator, his Commander of Special Weapons and Tactics, and his press and media publicist.
‘And maybe when he takes a dump we can send someone in to wipe his ass,’ said the SWAT boss, furious at the lack of direct action. ‘I have Special Forces in position and ready to move, sir. Let my men take this bastard. We can be in and out again in fortyfive seconds.’
The publicist was adamantly opposed to this. ‘It’s too big a risk, sir,’ he said. ‘All the hostages are in one room, and both targets are heavily armed. If the SWAT guys go in, there could be a complete bloodbath, which I need hardly remind you would be in full view of every TV camera in Hollywood.’
‘Yeah, and supposing we pull it off?’ the SWAT man replied. ‘Stun grenade the bastards and bring ‘em out in chains? How about that for the cameras, huh?’
It was a tempting prospect. There is nothing quite so glamorous as a siege broken and hostages saved, especially if those hostages happen to include teenage girls.
‘There is no way Wayne Hudson is going to let you take him out of there alive,’ the publicist argued.
‘Dead then. Even better. As long as we save the hostages.’
‘As long as.’
In the end Cornell decided that, for the time being at least, cautionary counsel must prevail. ‘I think we have to see if this media stuff works. Who knows, maybe once he’s had his say he might throw the towel in.’
The head of SWAT turned away in disgust. Chief Cornell did not blame him; the decision stuck in his craw too. Even before the Uni Bomber, criminals had been showing a worrying predilection for blackmailing their way on to the media. Deep down, everyone wants to get on TV. A glance at any game show is enough to show just how far people will go to achieve that aim. Why should criminals be any different? More and more, it seemed to Chief Cornell that he and his men were becoming extras in a procession of lunatics’ private movies.
‘It’s getting so we ought to turn ourselves into agents and start charging ten per fucking cent,’ he reflected bitterly.
Of course the police were themselves partly to blame, and Cornell knew it. It is the police who supply the footage for police camera shows. It is the police who give neverending press conferences and appear on public-involvement TV programmes, appealing for witnesses. Chief Cornell knew that he himself had staged many spectacular operations with the cameras and publicity principally in mind. If the cops wanted to be stars, why shouldn’t the hoodlums?
Chief Cornell sighed. ‘Just as long as the bastard doesn’t throw a tantrum and keep us here all day while he sits in his trailer and sulks.’
Chapter Thirty Three
Inside the house Wayne returned to the lounge with the little ENG crew.
Scout was still watching TV. ‘Shhh,’ she said.
‘A camera operator and a recordist are now inside the siege mansion,’ the studio anchorwoman was explaining, ‘so we should be getting pictures soon. The recordist is trailing a twohundredmetre cable feed to the control truck which is parked in the grounds… there you can see it there, that’s the truck… That is the control truck isn’t it, Larry?’
‘I believe that is the control truck, Susan,’ said her partner, ‘but I can’t be sure. Let’s bring in Doctor Mark Raddinger, of the East LA Academy of Media Studies. Doctor Raddinger, is that the control truck we can see now?’
‘Yes,’ replied a bearded man in polo neck and corduroy jacket who was seated beside Larry, ‘that is the control truck.’
‘So you can confirm that?’ asked Larry.
‘Yes, I can confirm that,’ replied Doctor Raddinger. ‘That is the control truck.’
‘Well, it’s as we suspected, Susan,’ said Larry, ‘and we have a confirmation on that. The truck currently on our screens is, as you rightly predicted just moments ago, the control truck.’
‘And we can confirm that?’ Susan asked.
‘Yes,’ Larry replied. ‘We do now have confirmation. It is the control truck. The truck to which the recordist, who is currently situated inside the siege mansion, is linked by a twohundredmetre broadcast feed cable.’
‘Thanks, Larry,’ said Susan. ‘And further to that, I can also confirm that the recordist is linked to the TV ratings computer.’
‘The TV ratings computer?’ Larry enquired. ‘That would be the computer which analyses and delivers the TV ratings, right?’
‘Yes, it would, Larry.’
‘Let’s bring in Doctor Mark Raddinger again, here. Mark, can you give us a little background detail on the TV ratings computer?’
‘Yes, I can, Larry. The TV ratings computer is the computer which the TV companies use to analyse and deliver an accurate statistical analysis of the TV ratings via computer.’
‘I see. Fascinating. And you can confirm that?’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘And the TV ratings would be how many people are watching?’ Susan enquired.
‘Statistically and demographically speaking, yes it would-’
Wayne turned the set off. It was giving him a headache.
‘That’s enough TV now, Scout. We got work to do,’ he said. ‘OK, everybody, listen up. This is Bill and Kirsten, and they are going to make us stars.’ He ushered the crew into the room.
Bill and Kirsten entered rather gingerly. They were a tough pair, who had covered wars, famines and presidential elections, but their current circumstances were scarcely likely to put them at their ease. It wasn’t so much the woman in the bloodsoaked gown who lay gurgling on the floor near the drinks cabinet who bothered them. Nor was it really the two psychopathic maniacs who were pointing automatic weapons at them. It’s just never easy to be the only people who turn up at a social gathering dressed only in your underwear.
They felt naked. Bill and Kirsten were a tough, lean young news team, and they liked to look the part. Bill missed his survival tunic with its numerous pockets, out of which he often claimed he could live and work for a month. Kirsten missed her sixteenlacehole combat boots, the mere pulling on of which always made her feel tougher and braver. Most of all, they both missed their trousers. There was, however, nothing either of them could do about it, so they applied themselves to the task in hand like the proud professionals they were.