Dead Air

PETE HADDEN, VETERAN SCOTTISH RADIO DJ bursts back into his studio as a condensed radio edit of Purple Rain plays out. He is slightly out of breath; has spent the duration of the song in the bathroom. He is still zipping up his tailored, powder-blue jeans. The ON AIR light turns on the second he assembles himself in his seat, sitting on his phone which he has stuffed into his back pocket, and leans into his mic.

'The one and only Prince there, of course. Much missed, but his songs remain and continue to delight us all.

Pete pushes the cough button, lets out a long breath, and looks over to Rebecca, his long-time producer. A split-second pause that's only a slither from being dead air. One of Pete's trademarks. Rebecca's attention is fixed on her monitor - she is well used to Pete's last second returns and links.

Pete turns back to his mic.

'Also remaining today is our quiz! And a check of the watch tells me it's that the quizzing hour is nigh- so let's crack on with . . . (Pete presses the quiz-theme button - a triumphant trumpet solo, appended with canned cheers) . . . the Eleven AM Quiz!

(Further canned cheers and whoops)

'And I have it on very good authority that today's contestant is . . . Neil Hawksby! Neil, good morning, good sir.

'Hello Pete. A fine morning to be speaking with you.'

Neil's response comes instantaneously. His accent is plum, ripe, RP.

Pete looks over at Rebecca. She looks up, flashes a grin, raises her eyebrows. In Pete's long experience hosting the Eleven AM Quiz! - seventeen years, with approaching 3,000"Quizzees" quizzed, - the callers tended to hail from rural areas and speak with rural accents. Neil sounds more cocksure city worker than their usual demographic - retired farmer, or electrician on a break, hoping to win the prize of the day.

Pete rolls on. 'It is indeed, Neil! Do we have you on a day off, Neil? Or a break from the grind, from whatever it is that keeps you out of trouble?'

Again, Neil's answer is immediate.

'I'm not going to pretend that I'm chained to the millstone, Pete. My hours are my own. Have been for a while. I pursue my own interests. But I don't start anything to the afternoon, these days, work wise. Which gives me the opportunity to listen to your Eleven AM Quiz every day.'

Dead air hisses for a long second - Neil's response has ended as sharply as it began.

Pete blinks. Says, 'Ah okay, so on with the EAQ we go! Neil, today's prize is a Bluetooth speaker, worth £100. Sound good to you?

'It sounds fun . . .

For the first time, Neil has pause. When he does speak, a half-second later, his words are rather acidic.

'Truth told, a mid-range Bluetooth speaker may be something of a boon to the normal EAQ, but it's not why I, personally, are so keen to play your little quiz..

Pete shrugs, spluttering. Gesticulates his feelings concerning Neil to Rebecca via the classic wanker hand signal.

Rebecca mouths check his details to Pete, who belatedly grabs at a slip of paper - today's Quizzee facts - a runner placed on his console during his toilet break.

NEIL HAWKSBY

Area: Greater London

Occupation: Corporate solicitor

Family: Daughter, Olive

Hobbies: Squash, museums (with Olive), justice

Incidents: Got caught up with Billy earlier today!

Pete wonders what the hell the incident was. Imagines that Billy is a poodle, or perhaps a goat that this posh berk keeps in a suburban smallholding.

Hoping that Neil will fall flat on his face during the quiz, Pete nethertheless slips into his jovial, mid-morning patois.

'So a corporate solicitor, eh, Neil? The kind of work that's always in demand, hey?'

A second's pause from Neil, now.

'Oh, no, no. I'm not a corporate solicitor, Pete. Not anymore'

Neil's accent has roughened a touch. The plums have soured. Pete looks to Rebecca again. She shrugs, flops a hand in a gesture Pete reads, accurately, as go with it.

'Oh, fradulent information from the Eleven AM team, huh! We can't be having that . . .' Pete injects his words with concentrated servings of his trademarks of speech: casual tempo, jovial Scottish tones, slight laugh.

Neil laughs, in a measured impression of Pete's faked chuckles.

'So, what is it you DO, do, good sir,' Pete asks, wanting to keep on the front foot. Wanting to know why his heart is beating so fast. Corporate solicitor . . ?

'I'm a grieving father,' Neil says. 'And I'm going to make you pay for whay you did, you murderous . . .'

Rebecca jumps to action, cuts Neil's line, hits RANDOM from the classic playlist.

Prebab Sprout's The King of Rock 'N' Roll thumps into gear.

'Okay, what the fuck - WHO the fuck is this,' yells Pete into the intercom, standing up and scratching his bald spot. His face is raspberry red; his unshaven jowels shake.

Rebecca is also on her feet. A runner has ghosted into the studio, alongside her. She presses SPEAK. 'It's okay, Pete, it's okay, I caught this on the delay. All they'll hear is when he said I'm not a corporate solicitor - then, boom, Prefab Sprout. Albuquerque will save the day. I'll message Kerry and get one of the stand-by people patched through.' Rebecca has several IM boxes on her screen. She taps furiously into her manager's box. The runner is calm, quiet, and pulling something out from the tiny little knapsack that seem to be forever strapped to her back.

'Jesus,' says Pete, sitting down and pulling out his mobile. 'The fucken' nutter. Shit.'

Rebecca casts a look at the runner - the same girl who deposited Neil's notes on Pete's console. The girl's plaintive face gazes back at her. Rebecca has long found this girl dour, overquiet, creepy. Couldn't see what the girl was gaining from her internship here.

The studio's emergency phone, a dusty red landline rings. 'Get that,' barks Rebecca to the intern as Kerry flashes up a couple of replacement choices: George from Luton. Marian from Darlington.

The phone rings again. Rebecca grunts. Pete is facing away from his producer's booth, is typing a text to his wife:

Are you okay?

A third ring from the emergency phone. Rebecca's eyes scream and she turns to berate her runner, who muffles her face with a handkerchief soaked in chloroform. The girl pulls back Rebecca's chair as the producer slumps from it to the floor of the booth. The chair spins away. She arranges Rebecca in the recovery position. Pulls out a couple of cable ties from the back pocket of her dowdy black jeans, and zips Rebecca's wrists together, and then her shins.

The girl pulls Rebecca's chair back to the console desk. Sits in it and swivels it back towards the screen, replaces Rebecca's message to Kerry with words of her own, and an image that her father has sent - Sally and Cameron Hadden, roped up. Scotch tape across their lips. She snaps a quick pic of Rebecca, drugged upon the floor and sends Kerry this, too.

Advises Kerry NOT to pull the plug on the EAQ, lest she wants Rebecca properly hurt.

Leia cuts off the standby callers. Her mobile rings.

DAD CALLING

Leia answers, patches it through to the console. She fixes her eyes on Pete Hadden's back. Leans forward, she yanks the emergency phoneline from the wall.

As she stares, she picks up a permanent marker up from the desk.

Pete hasn't had a reply from his wife. He wants to text his brother now, thinks that should have been his first choice. Billy is physically strong and fiercely loyal to his celebrity brother.

The King of Rock 'N' Roll is drawing to a close. Albuquerque is imminent. Pete prays that Rebecca has gotten rid of Neil properly, that the replacement guest is ready to go. That this blip to his nationwide audience will soon be forgotten when one of the replacements gets their chance to shine, to win a Bluetooth speaker.

That Neil's voice - his real voice, not the RP version he'd used for calling into to his quiz only sounded like that of David Sandford.

Pete looks over to Rebecca as he sits back down. Leia Sandford looks back at him.

She is pointing at him through the glass. Pete recalls the girl from the courtroom now. Five years since. A year working around him. He nods, the first gesture he has bothered to make to her. Then and now. She stares back; Pete shrugs uselessly - what can I do?

Leia Sandford rolls her eyes. Bends closer to the glass, taps it,

Now Pete sees what she's tapping at. On the glass, Leia Sandford has written in block capital letters;

TO SAVE YOUR FAMILY

PLAY THE QUIZ

Pete gasps. Pulls his phone out again. A text from his wife, Sally.

do what they say Pete. Cameron is scared.

The text has an image attachment. His wife and his son are tied up and staring back at him, eyes wider than all the chasms of hell.

Pete's mouth drops. He looks up at Leia. She is nodding. She taps her ear.

Pete understands, nods. Pulls on his headphones. Pete has heard the squelchy, American-accented call of Albuquerque dozens of times in his career. This particular one seems to have slowed to a demented roar that resonates deep in his ears . . . ALBU . . .

. . . QUERQUEEEEEE

The song ends, dead air begins.

Leia points at the ON AIR light.

Taps her marker pen scrawl again.

Pete closes his eyes.

Says, 'And a welcome back to . . . Neil. Sorry, we seemed to lose you for a minute there, sir.'

David Sandford speaks. His own voice, a refined Cockney growl, has killed off RP Neil completely.

'Neil's gone, mate. Thought you'd gotten away with it, didn't you Pete?'

Pete looks helplessly at the ON AIR light. At Leia. His phone. His family. His lips curdle. In a low voice: 'Look, I don't know . . . '

'SHUT UP, MAN. SHUT UP.'

Dead air. Five seconds of it.

'Uh, Okay, David. What do you . . . what do you think I've done?'

David laughs. It is sick and short and humourless.

'It's not what I think, Pete. It's what I know. You killed them. Megan and Olivia. My wife, my child. Leia's sister.'

Pete looks up at Leia. The first time he has met her eye in the year that she has interned at his station. She stares back at him, consumes any remaining bravado in her pupils.

'Look,' begins Pete. 'I was having a rough . . . now, look . . . look . . .'

'I am looking, Pete. At YOUR wife. At YOUR child. Wondering what they would look like after some drunk bastard drives into them at ninety. Before walking away with barely a scratch, before getting the whole thing hushed up.'

Pete wonders why security and police and managers and whoever aren't rushing in to save him. Why he has to fend for himself.

'We can't still be on the air, David,' Pete whimpers. 'Let's . . .'

'Oh we are, Pete,' says David Sandford. 'And it's time we played the Eleven AM Quiz!'

Leia presses a button.

(Canned cheers and whoops)

Pete is dumbfounded. He stares at his family again, their terrified faces look imploringly to him from underneath smudge-marks left by his oily thumb. Cameron is wearing his Minecraft tee.

'Except,' continues David. 'This time you will be answering the questions.'

Pete swallows. 'Right.'

'I'm not going to pretend I'm going to get away with any of this,' says David. 'I don't want to. That's not my point. The point is justice.'

Dead air.

(Canned cheers and whoops)

'Pete Hadden, are you ready to play?'

Dead air. Three seconds of it, then a whimper.

'Okay.'

'That's GREAT news, Pete!' David elongates the great, naff local radio DJ style.

'The rules for today's special game are simple. There will be five questions, each pertaining to a certain incident that has affected the both of us. Get all five correct and you win a prize that is fun for all the family.'

'Survival.'

Pete clears his throat to speak, but David talks over him.

'QUESTION ONE.'

The driver of the Saab that took the lives of Megan and Olive Sandford was . . .'

Dramatic pause.

'A. Twice the drink-drive limit.

B. Thrice the drink-drive limit.

C. Stone-cold sober.'

Dead Air.

'I'm going to have to push you for an answer, Pete.'

Pete clears his throat, looking over at Leia, who continues to bore into his soul with her black eyes.

He whispers, 'C.'

Dead air.

David hmms. Stretches it out.

'C, Pete. Is that your final answer?'

Pete coughs. His hands tremble enough for him to drop his phone. It lands screen-down on the studio floor.

'Yes, that was the finding.'

'The finding,' parrots David. 'That was the . . .

Dead air.

. . . finding.'

Dead air.

'Yes,' bleats Pete.

Dead air.

'THAT'S CORRECT!' yells David, triumphantly. 'That was the finding! A well done to you, sir. First question answered correctly.'

Dead air.

'To a legal degree, anyway. Okay, question two - a bit of a double-header, this one, so pay attention!'

'On the night that Megan and Olive Sandford died, who confirmed themselves as being the owner of the Saab, yet who was recorded as being the actual driver at the time?'

Dead air.

'Quickly now, Pete. Time is most certainly of the essence here.'

Pete stares pleadingly over at Leia. She has propped her chin on her fists; is still staring at him.

'I am - was - the owner. Billy was the driver. My brother Billy. He was driving.

'Billy Hadden, huh. Your teetotal brother.'

'Yes, uh, he often drives me. He enjoys it.'

'Well, okay - again, correct! Again, these were the findings!'

Dead air.

'Alright, Pete. You're on a streak. Two from two. Here's question three.'

Pete has manged to claw his phone from the floor. He twists it around and unlocks the screen. A fresh message:

forgot to tell you about Billy.

A fresh image is attached.

Billy laid on an anonymous concrete floor, his throat slashed. A lake of blood fed by a stream that emanates from his brother's severed carotid artery. Pete stultifies a scream with his free hand.

'Are you ready, Pete? The daily prize - survival - is diminishing with every wasted second. The dead air.'

Pete can only squeak, 'I'm ready' into his mic.

'Fantastic! Let's move on to question three.'

Dead air.

'Megan and Olive died at the scene of the crash. That's for sure. But, did they die straight away? Or were their last few, agonising, moments filled not only with pain beyond what any - well nearly any -

Dead air.

- human should be made to bear, but also the knowledge that their deaths, was imminent, that the only life they would ever lead, was about to be extinguished. That their final moments were to be spent bleeding out in a crushed Peugeot, on a B road in the middle of nowhere?'

Dead air.

Dead air.

'I really don't know,' whispers Pete. 'I . . .'

Dead air.

'Alright, I confess that's a bit of a trick question there. But - and with time against us, I'm segueing into question four! - answer me this.

'The photographs taken by the police at the scene showed that Megan had reached over towards Olive. Her fingers were on Olive's seatbelt button, like she was perhaps trying to free her - my - our daughter.'

Dead air.

'Or maybe she was just trying to reach out to her.'

Dead air.

'I've heard word from Leia that you are aware of Billy's fate. Which I confess was at my hand. Because he killed my wife, and my teenage daughter. For which he was punished with a one-year driving ban.'

Dead air.

'A year in which, according my research, his mortgage was paid off, he barely had to work, and some £25,000 was paid into an offshore bank account set up in his name.'

Dead air.

'So my question is this. Who was really to blame for these deaths. Megan's. Olive's. Billy's.'

Pete thrusts a hand out to his mic, pulls himself closer.

'You . . . you killed my brother . . .'

Snotty crying from Pete.

'To be fair, yes I did. Bad me! Because he killed my wife and my child.'

Dead air.

'Didn't he, Pete?'

Dead air.

'FUCKING, DIDN'T HE?'

'NO,' cries Pete. 'No, it was me, I was driving, I didn't see . . .'

Dead air.

'Okay, Pete. You're on four out of four. You're going great guns.'

'Final question. Out of all those involved the night of the crash, who is the one person who deserves death?'

Dead air.

'Pete, come on now.'

Pete's juddering thumb scrolls between the images of his dead brother, his terrified family.

'Me.'

Dead air.

'Okay, Pete. Well done. You've won survival.'

'For your family.'

Pete looks over at Leia. She has been busy writing on the dividing screen once again with her marker.

LOOK IN THE SECOND DRAWER

David Sandford's voice is shorn of emotion. The anger and love and grief he felt since the court ruled that Billy Hadden had crashed into his wife's car, killing her and Olive while he and Leia were playing squash has left his body. The holes that he, a run-of-the-mill corporate solicitor had seen in the enquiry had been filled in by the bluster and expense of a rich man's legal team.

Pete pulls open the drawer. In it is a small, white, red-trimmed pack that looks like a plaster.

'On the condition that your life ends today, live, on air.'

Pete picks out the packet. On closer inspection he reads that it in fact contains a surgical scalpel.

'I can see a liar a mile off, Pete,' says David. 'Wasn't even your first time drink-driving, was it?'

'No need to answer that. Look at your phone. NOW.'

Pete unlocks his phone, sees a fresh image. A scalpel is held to his wife's neck.

'God, no, please . . .'

'Oh I won't, Pete. I won't. Because you're going to save their lives, Pete. By ending yours.'

Dead air.

'You see, I've been reading up on organ donation, Pete. All of us Sandfords are happy to save other with our organs, should we pass away. Which half of us have, of course.'

Dead air.

'So soon after their deaths, a surgeon cut into my wife and child's bodies with a scalpel rather similar to the one you hold right now. They drained the blood from their bodies. Like they will soon be doing with Billy's.

Dead air.

'And with yours.'

Dead air.

'That is, if you have the bravery for it to be your body that is hauled onto a table and exsanguinated and filled with a preserving solution before your organs are cut away, delicately. All your internal organs would be available, Pete. Not like my family's.

Dead air.

'Megan's punctured lungs. Olive's liver, her little heart. These couldn't be saved, Pete.'

Dead air.

'The police and ambulance are coming, Pete. I can hear sirens. To your house, where they'll find Billy's body in the garage before they move on to your conservatory. Doubtless they have colleagues on the way to your studio now.'

'What are they going to find, Pete? Two dead bodies at your home?

'Or one dead body at your studio?,

Dead air.

'Pete?'

Dead air.

'PETE? LEIA, IS HE DOING IT?'

Dead air.

JS Harding is a novelist and humour writer who has written for BBC Comedy and NewsThump. His psychological thriller, Under Rand Farm, written under the pen name LJ Denholm is available via Amazon, while his forthcoming humour novel, The Good Dr Grevaday? is slated for release in early 2022.