61 #QuestionTime

April was slumped in her favourite armchair, with a cold glass of G&T in one hand, and petting her cat Cheeka with the other. Like her owner, the moggy was getting on a bit. They shared other traits, too: their eyesight and hearing weren’t the best; and, given the option, they’d both just eat and sleep the day away.

April felt every one of her fifty-seven years. Each night she arrived home from work feeling so exhausted she could go straight to bed. Instead, she would force herself to make something for dinner – although tonight she had eaten at Luigi’s – then plonk herself in the armchair, where she would fall into a deep state of unconsciousness in a matter of seconds. All three of April’s husbands had complained bitterly about her loud snoring, but Cheeka didn’t seem to mind. The cat was now nineteen years old and had outlasted all of April’s relationships.

This evening, after three hours’ solid sleep, April had her second wind. She turned on the telly to find Question Time had just come on the BBC, hosted by David Dimbleby. ‘Bloody hell, that bugger is older than me – yet he’s still going strong,’ she told the cat. Dimbleby was in fact a good nineteen years older than April.

She didn’t care much for the current affairs and the smart-ass questions from the audience that were debated by a panel of guests. But she suddenly remembered how she used to watch Bryce Horrigan on the show. He had left the Daily Chronicle by then for London, but she had admired the way he oozed confidence and self-belief, and traded blows with government ministers and the token novelty member of the panel, which was usually a comedian like Alexei Sayle or Boris Johnson. It was amazing to think that Bryce was dead now after being such a high-flier.

April marvelled at the heartfelt passion from the younger members of the audience. She hadn’t felt passionate about anything for years. She’d long ago decided getting worked up over things you can’t change was a waste of energy. But she also recalled how it doesn’t feel that way when you are eighteen and ready to take on the world.

Suddenly, April’s brain clicked into action. She remembered a particularly tetchy exchange between Bryce and a young student activist on the show. It had been fiery and ill tempered, before Dimbleby had finally called a halt to it – not too quickly, mind you, as the old silver fox knew good TV when he saw it. Afterwards, there had been a story how the student had begun to harass Bryce, sending threatening emails then making late-night silent phone calls. He had been from Glasgow University and it had been Connor who had door-stepped him. The police had got involved after Connor’s exclusive story and cautioned the student. After that, it’d all gone quiet.

April searched the chair for her reading glasses before finding them in their usual place, perched on top of her head. She put them on, then sent Connor a direct message, although she was still stuck in World War I mode, slowly tapping out her message like a telegram from the frontline. What name student harass Bryce? Maybe killer?

A few minutes later she received a reply: Des Gilmour. Pompous rich boy masking as a socialist. It was followed by Gilmour’s last known address and one last tweet: Clever girl. I forgot all about that little twat – now go get him.