How did it go again?
We need one of our own.
The telecom messages kept piling up until well after midnight. There were journalists, tridstars, media agencies offering their brokering services, image consultants, a couple of psychics, wackos, even some faces he would have known, if he had looked at them.
Francesca called twice from Oxford to say she was recuperating and wanting to arrange dinner for the next day.
Serrin called twice from Cambridge. saying he had found what he’d gone there to find, and wishing Geraint success and happy dreams. He’d see him Tuesday.
Rani called a couple of times too, drunk and flushed, saying that she couldn’t track down Mohinder, but apart from that, everything was great and she loved Wales and he was the best thing that had happened to her and she’d be around tomorrow and where was he?
The man sat at his desk in the electronic twilight. Screens flickered around him. As the telecom poured out its endless stream of calls and cries and messages, he sat with his cards, turning them over and over and over.