on the sofa and stood looking out of the window at the street beyond and wondering how Robyn’s day was shaping up. The strange incident with the kids in the field had really thrown her friend. Mariam wondered what had really happened out there and how much of it had come from Robyn’s imagining. The bark of a male voice startled her.
‘Hi. Mariam. Welcome to 3Shoof.’
He was skinny, donnish and bespectacled, wispy pale blonde hair and an aquiline nose, angular and terribly English. Mariam took Alan Kingsthorpe’s out-thrust hand. ‘Glad to be here.’
‘Come on, I’ll show you the rumpus room. Did you have much of a journey?’
‘Sort of, I was staying with a friend in Somerset.’
He led the way up a narrow staircase. ‘That’s some voyage. Want a coffee?’
‘Kill for one.’
‘Let’s get you sorted. Then you can install yourself, we’re short-handed right now. Come to think of it, we’ve been shorted handed since we started this whole thing. Coffee machine. Bring your own cup. You can use the guest ones for today. They’re the ones with our logo on them. When you’ve sorted yourself, we’re along there, third door on the right.’
He slapped her shoulder and Mariam knew this was going to be a good gig.
It was a good day in all. A lot to take in, a lot of new faces but all young, friendly and pleased to welcome the newcomer. Lunch was ordered in from a local Mediterranean deli and taken in the meeting room, a family affair presided over by the avuncular Kingsthorpe.
Mariam found her energy levels crashing after lunch. The tiredness washed over her. She fixed herself a strong, sweet coffee and was just back at her desk when Kingsthorpe tracked her down with his hunt master’s cry.
‘Hi! Any luck with that sanctions busting story?’
‘Just filed it. I got through to the ministry and they confirmed they had just commissioned a brand new American supercomputer. I was speaking to the undersecretary himself. He was very defiant, said that this was yet more proof sanctions wouldn’t work against his country.’
‘That’s pretty hot. You obviously have a talent for this.’
‘I was just lucky, I—’
She was interrupted by the entrance of Adel Ibrahim, 3shoof’s owner. She’d seen his picture in news stories and he wasn’t much prettier in real life. Pale-faced and running to fat, he had a wispy beard and was for the most part bald, the remnant of hair in line with his ears making him look tonsured. His retroussé nose gave him a piggish look, accentuated by bulbous eyes and a weak, moist-lipped mouth. He wore an over-sized tweed jacket and a shabby blue jumper. There were livid marks on the pink dome where he had been scratching at spots.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Mariam, meet Adel. Mariam’s just joined the editorial team.’
‘You put the sanctions story up on the CMS just now?’ Mariam nodded. ‘Right. My office, both of you. Something’s come up.’
Kingsthorpe shrugged at Mariam’s enquiring glance. They followed Ibrahim into the room at the end of the corridor that turned out to be an office. It looked, to Mariam’s wondering eyes, as if it been searched by enthusiastic burglars.
‘Grab a chair,’ Ibrahim dumped himself down behind the desk smothered in piles of paper and nameless other detritus. Mariam moved some books from the chair nearest her and added them to a pile on the coffee table.
Ibrahim’s feral tongue darted out to flick across his lips. ‘Did Alan tell you what the most important thing in your work is?’
‘Clicks.’
He sat back, beaming. ‘Good, good. Absolutely. Everything we do is about driving views. Views means impressions means clicks. And clicks means cash.’
She nodded, glancing at Kingsthorpe who regarded her benignly; a favourite uncle gracing a precocious child who is proposing a new and innovative system of land reform.
‘Here.’ Ibrahim handed her a plastic folder addressed to Kingsthorpe. ‘His name’s Buddy. He’s