The room was silent for a moment.

‘Besides which,’ Scout added irritably, ‘I reckon maybe that waitress in Milwaukee would have a point. Maybe the great Bruce “Mr Oscar” Delamitri shouldn’t have gone making them films and all. Maybe all that stuff Wayne ’s going to make you say ain’t so dumb.’

Bruce was angry now, angry enough to ignore his fear. ‘I don’t believe it! You are actually trying to convince yourself that you’re not really to blame, aren’t you? It’s not just a trick, you seriously want to believe it. You actually want to dodge responsibility for what you’ve done. You cowardly little bitch!’

‘Daddy, be quiet,’ Velvet pleaded. ‘She’ll kill us!’

Scout fondled her automatic weapon. ‘I ain’t going to kill no one, cutie, not ‘less they don’t do what we tell ‘em. All I’m saying is that-’

‘You are the sole perpetrators of your crimes,’ Bruce shouted. ‘Nobody pulled the trigger but you.’

‘I know that, Mr Delamitri. I admit that. It was us done our crimes, I admit we’re to blame.’

‘Well, that’s mighty big of you, I must say.’

‘Daddy, please, be nice,’ Velvet begged.

‘It’s just, well…’ Scout continued, ‘I don’t think it helps any that everything is so ugly all the time. That’s all.’ She seemed almost wistful.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, you know, songs and films and stuff. All that used to be an escape from being poor and living in fear. Now everything just seems to rub your face in it. I mean, your films are like, what’s that word?… when someone’s getting off looking at stuff that’s none of their business…’

‘Voyeuristic,’ Velvet said helpfully, hoping to mitigate her father’s aggression.

‘That’s right. They’re voyeuristic. I mean, you live in a big old house in Hollywood with a pool and a security guy and all-’

‘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.’