We move toward the studio. I step into the sound booth, and John nods at me, fiddling with his vape, while Dire Straits pours from the speakers.
“Enjoying yourself in here?”
“Quiet before the storm,” he says.
“No, this one will be a doddle.”
We both look up. On the other side of the glass, Rebecca Main slips the headphones on over her ears. Nicholas says, “Can you hear all right?” She nods, clasping her hands on the table.
Above the soundboard, a television screen shows BBC One. The evening news is about to start, when the hour turns over. Across this building, in the main studio, our presenters will be under the lights, waiting to read the day’s headlines.
Our runner comes in. “Does Nicholas have water?” I ask.
“Shit.”
“You’ve time.”
After he leaves, John murmurs, “Is he new?”
I nod. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“Mm-hmm.” John adjusts the soundboard, and the frequency needles swing, yellow, red, blue.
“Do you need to practice the top?” I ask into the microphone, and Nicholas shakes his head.
John pulls up our music. I lean forward and say, “Thirty seconds, Nicholas.”
When the six o’clock news bulletin finishes, our on-air light turns yellow. Nicholas reads my introduction, then says, “Thank you for joining us, Ms. Main.”
“My pleasure.”
“You’ve recently introduced a bill to loosen the safeguards on investigatory powers. One provision in the bill would allow the police to hold a suspect without charge for thirty days. Why now? Wouldn’t you say our police need more regulation, not less?”
“We’re living in a difficult time,” she says in a clear, low voice. “Terror groups don’t want us to adapt, they don’t want us to rise to meet them. This bill will greatly reduce their ability to maneuver in our society.”
“Perhaps,” says Nicholas, “or perhaps introducing these measures will benefit them by further alienating more of our population from their government. You might be creating new recruits.”
“Not at all. These are simple, sensible measures,” she says. My pulse is speeding and my face feels hot, as usual. Thousands of people are listening around the province. Nothing can go wrong while we’re on air.
One of her close protection officers is in the hall and one is in the studio, standing in the corner. Through the glass, I can see the white of his shirt and the spiral of his earpiece.
“But thirty days—that’s internment, isn’t it?”
“The police need time to gather the evidence for a prosecution, in order to prevent further offenses.”
“The current limit is thirty-six hours. That’s quite a dramatic increase, isn’t it?” I hold down the microphone and say into his earpiece, “Two thousand percent.”
“Two thousand percent,” he says. “It will be the longest detainment period in Europe.”
“Well, we’re able to make these decisions independently, to respond to our own particular circumstances.”
John says to me, “Do you have music for the end?”
“I’ll send it to you.”
Nicholas asks about other particulars of the bill, then turns to the threats made against her. She brushes them off, making a joke about the security preparations that must be in place for her to attend one of her son’s rugby games.
With a few minutes left, I press the microphone again. “You wanted to ask her about the pamphlets.”
“Let’s talk about the mailings your party has been sending to houses in Belfast,” says Nicholas. “Do you not consider it divisive, asking citizens to spy on their neighbors?”
“Look, these incidents take planning,” she says. “Everyone should know how to spot suspicious behavior. This isn’t about snooping on your neighbors, it’s about preventing the next attack.”
When I look up from my notes, my sister is on the television screen. Her cheeks are flushed, like she’s been out in the cold.
She is standing with two men outside a petrol station, by a row of fuel pumps. Her ambulance must have been sent out to a call, though for some reason she isn’t wearing her uniform.
“The police are appealing for witnesses after an armed robbery in Templepatrick,” says the closed caption. A ringing starts in my ears. Only Marian’s face is in view of the security camera, the two men are turned away.
“Tessa?” says John, sounding panicked, and I send him the music clip without really looking away from the television.