Like all news reporters, Oliver relished the idea of donning a flakjacket and looking like a soldier.

But the Chief of News and Current Affairs did not mean change their clothes. ‘I mean you’ll have to take your clothes off. The guy’s worried about concealed weaponry. What’s the big deal?’

‘Ahem,’ said Oliver, clearing his throat nervously, ‘I think the question is one of presentation.’

Dale and Oliver looked good and were proud of it. Their image was the classic template of the news anchor team, the standard by which all other news anchor teams were judged: he silver and dignified in his late fifties, she cute and feisty in her midthirties. In the studio, with their makeup, hairspray and designer power clothing they looked, quite simply, superb. The American dream behind a desk; like some splendid ambassador and his gorgeous second wife.

The problem was that underneath the story was rather different. As, indeed, it normally is.

He, for instance, wore a corset. She was midway through a cellulitereduction programme. He had two massive and unpleasant hernia scars. She had an insane tattoo on her thigh, smudged by botched efforts to have it removed.

He suddenly remembered that his housemaid was sick and he was into the second day of his last, rattiest pair of jocks. It suddenly occurred to her that she was planning an aprèsshow tryst with her new lover, the second assistant floor assistant. She had therefore come to work wearing a pair of lacy scarlet splitcrotch panties with a heartshaped hole cut out of the bottom.

‘Hey, we can get you new underwear for Christ’s sake,’ Murray said. ‘We can put makeup on your blemishes.’

‘I don’t think so, boss,’ said the head makeup artist, who was hovering in the background. ‘Oliver and Dale use quite a lot of foundation on their faces. If the same proportions are applied to their whole bodies, I don’t think they’ll actually be able to walk.’

‘I really do think, Chief,’ said Oliver, ‘that the proper place for the nation’s premier anchor team in a crisis like this is in the studio – controlling the operation from the centre, so to speak. After all, generals don’t go into battle, do they?’

‘I’ll do it, but only with a body double,’ said Dale, who had not really thought it through.

And so Oliver and Dale missed their chance at media immortality but, much more importantly, they kept their nasty bits under cover. Considerably relieved, the two of them retreated to the studio, where their wonderful researchers had already lined up an exclusive interview for them with Dove, the actress whom Bruce had reduced to near tears at the Bosom Ball.

As it happened, Police Chief Cornell, already miffed at having his authority usurped by the news broadcasters, would not have allowed Oliver and Dale to do the job anyway. ‘We’ve got to use an experienced newsgathering team,’ he insisted, ‘preferably one that’s seen combat. If we send in someone who fumbles or fucks up, it could push this guy over. I want the best two journalisttechnicians you’ve got.’

And so the call went out for an experienced operator and recordist who had steady nerves and acceptable bodies and were reasonably relaxed about the state of their underwear.

The arrangements were made, and Wayne made his way down through the house once more, to await the camera crew.

Meanwhile Bruce paced about the lounge, desperately trying to think of a way out.

Scout was proud of how deeply Wayne ’s plan had affected him. ‘Ain’t Wayne smart, huh?’ she said.

‘I can’t do it,’ Bruce replied. ‘I just can’t.’

Velvet was with Brooke, attempting to redress her wound with torn cushion covers. She stared up at her father. ‘Daddy, you have to. This woman needs a doctor and you heard what he said he’d do to me. He said he’d shoot me in the mouth.’

Velvet was fighting back her tears but none the less was showing a strength of character of which her parents had been completely unaware. Years of wandering round shopping malls with too much money to spend had never brought out the best in her.

‘Yes, all right, Velvet. I’m sorry. I won’t let that happen. But I have to think. This is a very terrible thing for me. For us. Wayne ’s right, you see. Once I do this thing, my life as I know it will be over, no matter what I do, no matter what I achieve, this is all I will be remembered for.’

Brooke, whose life looked as if it was very nearly over already, tried to protest at this. Although it came out only as a gurgle, her meaning was clear: she felt her problem should be number one on the group agenda.

Bruce simply could not bring himself to agree. ‘Brooke, I know you’re seriously wounded, and, believe me, when I can do something about it I will, but right now I am powerless to help. And I have a problem too. Ten minutes from now the entire world is going to hear me confess to mass murder.’

‘But you’re being coerced. You can deny it afterwards,’ said Farrah. It had begun to dawn on her just how seriously Bruce’s defeat was going to affect her own fortunes.

‘Oh sure, Farrah. Some plea in mitigation – a retrospective claim to be a pathetic victim, outplayed and manipulated by a piece of scum out of the lowest trailer in the Midwest.’

‘You’d better watch your mouth.’ Scout did not like to hear Wayne spoken of in that way.

Bruce was too scared to care. ‘What? You want me to like the guy, Scout? Your boyfriend is a sadistic maniac, a heartless psychopath.’

‘You don’t know his nice side.’

Bruce actually laughed.

Now Farrah had something to say. She crossed over to the couch where Scout was sitting and sat down beside her. Scout covered her warily.

‘If you’re thinking of trying to make friends with her,’ said Bruce, ‘don’t bother. Brooke tried that, and got a busted lip.’

But Farrah had other things on her mind. She had been thinking a lot since Wayne announced his plan and now she had a favour to ask. ‘Look… Miss… um, Scout? Speaking of nice sides, I would like it so much if you could do something for us. A favour.’

‘What kind of favour?’

‘Would it be all right if my husband made a call?’

‘A call? Who’s he going to call? The whole world’s standing right outside on his lawn.’

‘What’s on your mind, Farrah?’ said Bruce. ‘Who do you want me to call?’

Farrah had to make her pitch. She knew it would not sound good, but she had no choice: everything she had was in danger of disappearing with the morning dew. Farrah was a woman who knew what it was like to have nothing, and as far as she was concerned it sucked.

‘Bruce, think about it. This thing isn’t just going to ruin you as an artist. It will completely destroy you financially as well. Once you claim responsibility for inciting murder, the family of every victim of violence in America is going to sue you, and not just Wayne and Scout’s victims’ families either, but everyone whose life has been touched by violence. We will be in litigation for ever. Velvet’s grandchildren will still be paying. Do you understand? Overnight bankruptcy. What we have to do is transfer all your assets into my name, right now, before you make the broadcast – it won’t wash afterwards. So if Miss Scout here will just let you send a little fax to our bank…’

It was an impressive display. Everyone was surprised.

‘Mom!’ Velvet protested. ‘This is so tacky.’

‘Lady, I am protecting your future here.’

Scout was laughing. ‘You’re something, ain’t you?’ she said.

‘I’m something? I’m not the one breaking into people’s homes and murdering them. I just don’t particularly want some Milwaukee waitress whose husband got knifed in a bar getting hold of my daughter’s money, that’s all.’

‘Well, no one’s making any calls, and no one’s sending no faxes either, so I guess you’ll just have to start thinking ‘bout being poor. So there!’