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immediately following a Noise concert in the Albert Hall. The Noise wanted a new image and a new direction; the Bang-Bang wanted a new noise. The two went together.
    Nick Sidney had virtually built the Noise and their multimillion dollar success story, as well as Gibraltar before that, and he set to work with a will on licking his new team into shape. He had to begin at the beginning, by teaching the Howe twins to play a few basic chords on guitar and to project their singing voices. Fortunately, the twins – like every other youngster on the globe – were familiar with the conventions of pop. They disliked being prisoners of Humbleden; they had no objection to becoming prisoners of fame.
    Their rages, their frequent outbreaks of recalcitrance, were dealt with by Nick Sidney with the zest he had shown towards Nottingham Albion. On the one end of the scale, he employed cold water hoses and a new-fangled electronic stun gun; on the other, he employed the more traditional lures where pop groups were concerned, the three Ds of the trade: drugs, drink and dollies.
    Despite these inducements, progress was slow. I saw Zak on one occasion, just after he had returned from what he always termed ‘the Manor’. Zak was quietly fuming at the lack of response from the Howe twins. I recommended sending for the sister, Robbie or Roberta, of whom the twins were obviously fond, to see if that improved matters, but Zak brushed the suggestion aside. He wanted the Bang-Bang to sink themselves into their new roles, not to be reminded of the old ones. A preliminary tour for the Bang-Bang, on a Northern circuit and with a tie-in with Scottish television, was already scheduled for a few months ahead. As far as Bedderwick Walker were concerned, the operation had to start earning back its investment as soon as possible – any refinements to the act could come later, etc., etc. Of course I had listened to similar talk many times before. Training hooligans to bellow and strum was nothing new in the music business. Nor was failing to do so necessarily an obstacle to a profitable career.
    But the day came when my gogglephone gonged and Zak’s face looked out at me, voicing a new complaint.
    â€˜Henry, hi. You know of a magazine called
Sense and Society
?’
    â€˜I do. One of the Humanistic Sanity group of magazines. Left wing, of course. Circulation not more than 25,000 a month. Influential among middle-of-road socialist circles, you might say. What of it?’
    â€˜I’ve just had an anonymous phone call.
Sense and Society
have time-tabled for future publication an article on the exploitation of teenagers by the middle-aged, treating them as another underprivileged minority. The article will instance pop groups and make particular mention of the use of freaks to attract live audiences, complete with details of cruel training methods, including use of electronic weapons. How do we stop them?’
    â€˜That shouldn’t be difficult. Humanistic Sanity depend for their liquidity on voluntary contributions, including a substantial one from the Borghese Tobacco Corporation, who happen to be clients of ours. Will the information in this proposed article come within appreciable distance of being accurate?’
    â€˜That’s what I’m afraid of. It’s being written up by a woman.’
    â€˜I’m sure you can manage that better than I.’
    â€˜This isn’t just a dolly, Henry. She’s old. Thirty-five. You know her name. Laura Ashworth. Dervish’s girlfriend. Daughter of the clergyman who was in the news a few years ago.’
    â€˜I recall.’
    â€˜She’s a contributor to
Sense and Society
or whatever the damned thing’s called. You know how she hates me, silly bitch. If she lets out some of the murkier details – particularly if she links the Bang-Bang’s name with Chris Dervish – as well she might – then our goose is cooked just as our publicity machine