Where Have All the Boys Gone?(54)

“And would you get these damn sheep out of the way!”

“Uh, sheep . . . come this way . . .” said the teenager gormlessly, clapping his hands.

“They’re not actually children,” said the older man scornfully. “They were brought up with children. And as the children in question are actually feral, that doesn’t really count for much . . . who are you? Are you Cady?” he asked, coming towards Iain. “I’m Nigel, the producer.”

“Uh, no,” said Iain, who was trying to fend off the sheep, who had circled around him and were bleating furiously at him.

“These sheep really like you. Do you know them?”

“Uh, no,” said Iain again, trying to back away. Katie stared at him in disbelief. He looked at her imploringly.

“Can I throw you my jacket?”

“Why?”

“It’s got a banana in the pocket . . . I think that’s the problem.”

“Lambs love bananas,” nodded the older man authoritatively.

“Why have you got a banana in your pocket? I thought you were just . . .”

“Yes, yes, pleased to see you, I know. Here.”

He took it out and hurled it at her. The sheep, however, completely ignored the projectile and continued to advance.

“So, where’s Cady?” asked the man bossily.

“Actually, I think you mean me,” said Katie, swallowing nervously. “I’m Katherine Watson. Most people call me Katie.”

The man stared at her rudely. “Do they? So, you’re a female golf expert then?”

“Not really. I’m here to speak out against the new golf course.”

“Help!” shouted Iain, gently collapsing onto a small table, and beginning to sink beneath a wall of sheep. Katie rushed towards him, just as the door to the studio opened again and a cascade of the filthiest children Katie had ever seen thrust through the opening in a torrent. The noise was unbelievable.

They dashed towards the lambs, panicking them instantly, then the entire group of mixed-up, overexcited lambs and small boys with liquorice over their faces cascaded out into the car park on a wave of noise.

There was quiet.

“Are you cowering?” asked Katie finally.

“No,” said Iain, hastily standing up and dusting himself down. “I’m fine and I wasn’t scared a bit.”

“Not a bit?”

“Yes. A bit. Those things nip!”

“I thought you were going to get pawed to death. By softness.”

“Country girl now are we?”

“Come on, come on, we’re late,” said the man, hustling them through.

There were two rooms beyond with a huge glass window between them. It was gloomily lit and filled with blinking lights on heavy black equipment. The cheap brown carpet was covered in coffee stains.

“You stay with me here.” He indicated to Iain one side of the glass, where there was a huge mixing desk and lots of twiddly buttons. “And you’re in there.” He gestured to Katie.

In the other room, a man in headphones, presumably Fergus McBroon, was patting a woman on the arm whilst Usher played quietly in the background. The woman appeared to be crying. There were liquorice allsorts all over the floor.

“Put on the headphones, and you can talk to any of the callers coming through. Go, go! And be quiet!”

He pushed Katie into the studio.

The woman got up out of the chair, snivelling and shovelling handfuls of liquorice into the pockets of her capacious cardigan. “I’ve never been so . . . so . . . humiliated in all my life,” she sobbed, stumbling out through the door.

Fergus McBroon looked up and gave Katie a tight-lipped grimace of welcome, indicating the rather sticky pair of headphones next to the chair. The music faded out and Fergus leaned into the microphone. An ominous red light came on in the middle of the studio. Katie caught the fumes from Fergus’s breath as she sat down.

“And that was Ice-T there with Motherfumph the police, neegaz. And we’d just like to say thank you to our guest Margaret there, with the, um, somewhat unscheduled demolition of the world’s first ever full-sized liquorice allsorts Michelle McManus. But surely not the last. And now, in our studio we have golf professional Cady Watson . . . a girl and not a boy, which is not what Nigel had down on the card, but hey ho.”

From behind the glass, Katie could see Nigel’s face curl up in a snarl.

“So, Cady . . .” Fergus leered at her. “What would make a pretty young lady like you become a professional golfer?”

Katie felt hypnotised by the big red light, glaring away in front of her. She swallowed down every sweary impulse in herself and steeled herself to speak, but the silence held. Fergus wasn’t even looking at her for an answer, he was shuffling pieces of paper about on his desk and pressing buttons. Nigel, behind the glass, was making furious gestures, presumably designed to get her to talk. Her gaze shifted to Iain. He was standing with three thumbs up . . . how could that be? Belatedly, she realised that one of the thumbs was a banana. She smiled, and relaxed a bit.

“Well, Fergus. Actually, I’m not a golfer. I’m against golfers completely. That’s why I’m here. A golfing consortium is trying to buy Coille Mhòr forest, and I’m protesting against it. It’s a beautiful natural habitat for wildlife, it’s been part of the local area for a long time, we’re already knee-deep in golf courses, and I don’t think we should overdevelop the environment.”