"Are You Keeping Fit?"

Not a particularly unusual question, except that it wasn’t what I was expecting as the opening gambit on my first live radio interview. Cheryl and I had rehearsed for an hour or so last night, going over a few questions we thought might come up, but this was not one that we had practised.

The pressure is low because this a local Internet radio station with a tiny audience, albeit an audience who may well prove receptive to a local success story. But when Mandy, the pixie-like PA meets me at reception I tell her that I am impressed by the size of the setup. I nod at the dozens of people storming around holding clipboards and books, and the long queue stretching from the receptionist to the sliding doors.

“Oh no,” she says. “That’s the reception for Ealing Borough Council. We’re off in this side room.” She leads me into a small office with one desk and a door – open – leading to a tiny audio booth where a small, harassed middle-aged man in a tweed jacket is looking through a stack of CDs as though he has no comprehension of what they are for.

I spread my arms. “This is it, then.”

“This is our whole setup,” she confirms. “Nice and laid back.”

“I like it,” I say because it is my turn to say something.

“I’m trying to make it better,” she says. “More professional. Sometimes it seems that no one except me is too bothered.”

“Do what you can and move on,” I say.

She nods and from nowhere there is an unexpectedly sticky atmosphere of mutual attraction. She looks at my ring finger. “You’re married,” she says, giving a rueful smile.

“This?” I say, holding my finger up. “This is just an unfortunate birthmark. A 3-D, gold-coloured birthmark. Let’s do dinner and drinks.”

She laughs and turns to the DJ who is holding the back of a CD case inches in front of his face. “Matthew? Our guest is here.”

He looks up. “Send her in.”

Mandy turns back and sighs. “Good luck.” She gestures to the door and I walk through.

The DJ stands up in obvious confusion and holds a hand out. “Oh, hello old chap.”

I shake his hand. “Christopher Hardy,” I say.

“Ah.” He shuffles through some papers and I sit opposite him at one of the two guest mics. “Got yer,” he says.

He reads though his notes and then suddenly looks up at something. He frowns and puts his headphones on. I do the same. There is silence, and probably has been for some time. He pushes a fader up. “That was…” He searches through more papers. “Some music. Now we have our guest of the day. Welcome to Ealing FM!”

“Thank you. I’m Christopher Hardy.”

“Yes you are. Are you keeping fit?”

I am stuck for a second, unsure of how literally to take the question. Am I being stupid? Does it mean something else? I look out of the window and see Mandy gesturing for me to answer. “Well, actually, I have just started swimming again. I’m going a few times a week, doing about a mile each time…”

“Wow, without stopping?”

“No, there’s no need to do that anymore. Just take plenty of breaks and call it Interval training. Essentially I’m doing just enough to feel less guilty about drinking afterwards.”

“So…Clear History.”

“Yep.” He nods at me, smiling. “That’s the name of my book.”

“I was fiddling with my computer the other day…”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. And I saw Clear History when I tried to do something or other. Is it named after computers?”

“Erm, well not exactly. I mean, obviously I’m aware of the connection. I suppose that firstly, Clear History sounds good to me. It feels nice to say. And secondly, I like the idea that every time people see it on their computer they will think of the book. Like when people use the phrase Dire Straits, everyone automatically thinks of the band. Or if someone said to me, ‘He’s keeping the Status Quo,’ I could never hear that without singing ‘Whatever you want duh-duh, duh-duh,’ you know?”

He shakes his head. “Status Quo?”

“Yes. The band, famous for their two-chord songs and the ponytails?”

“I’m not familiar. My daughter would probably know. She keeps up to date with all the new groups.” He looks at his notes. “I was intrigued by the press release your publishers sent me. They describe it as ‘sky fi.’ Perhaps you could explain that to us.”

I laugh but he stares at me, straight-faced. “Erm, I think that’s sci-fi, as in science fiction.”

“Oh right, that’s what it stands for. Very clever. Do you like being a sci-fi writer then?”

“Err…sure. I mean, I wrote the book. I suppose I don’t really know why there has to be such a big distinction between genres. People should be able to enjoy all different kind of stories. There certainly isn’t such a big deal made about it in cinema, for instance. Futuristic thrillers are some of the biggest box office draws. It seems that people are more likely to go and watch a sci-fi movie than read a sci-fi book, and I think that partly has to do with the way they’re marketed. I think my book can fit within the sci-fi genre, but it also has elements of action thriller and mystery and suspense. I also like to think that it explores human emotion just as effectively as the majority of novels considered more mainstream.”

Matthew is sorting though papers and there is a period of silence that feels excruciating. Finally he looks up, startled, as though suddenly remembering that he is hosting a radio show.

“What happens in the book, then?”

“Well…the book’s about ninety-thousand words long, so quite a lot happens. I’m not sure I can tell you everything that happens. Perhaps you mean I should give a general overview of the plot?”

“What happens in chapter one?”

I laugh quietly. “There’s a prologue that people can read online, then in chapter one, two of the main characters are introduced. They are two new recruits to the police force of the Company, and they are plunged into a terrible dilemma almost immediately when…”

Matthew looks at the clock on the wall. “Sorry. We have to play a record.”

He plays some soft rock and then we stare at each other across the toy-like mixing desk. “Actually, I’ve got to run,” I say.

“Really?”

I stand up. “Sorry. Commitments.”

He looks downcast. “I don’t know how I’m going to fill the next three hours.”

In the council reception, Mandy gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s like he’s just arrived from a distant galaxy and found himself on a radio station. Why don’t you do a show?”

“I don’t really want it on my CV.”



Cheryl is reading a magazine when I get in. “Do you think Amazon’s pre-orders have rocketed up?” I say.

“What happened?”

“What? You didn’t hear it?”

“I couldn’t hear anything. All I could hear was him and you, very distant.”

“The idiot must have forgotten to fade my mic up,” I say, incredulous. “Jesus. I’m glad I didn’t stay for the whole show.”

“Surely someone would have phoned in and told them?”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh yeah. Let’s watch a DVD.”