The Reckoning Hour

‘You weren’t expecting a surprise today, folks, but it's yours truly, Dave Reckon, with, yes, you know it - The Reckoning Hour on Say Today UK.’

I leant back, folded my arms behind my head.

‘Not my usual slot, but I’m in for Colin Snoad, who’s away today. Show’s “not on the Snoad”, so to speak - ha - thoughts and prayers. Grateful for the chance to squeeze into Colin’s size fives - but you didn’t hear his shoe size from me.’

I winked for the livestream - suddenly realised I could’ve stuffed it up. Forgotten why he’s off today. Some kind of emergency, the producers had said. Family? Accident? Hadn’t stuck in my mind. I’m a professional interrupter - sorry, disrupter. Said yes before they’d even finished asking me to cover. Still, I wasn’t being laid into by the producers - and god knows they’d be on it quicker than millennials to a boundary-setting convention, if I’d messed up.

‘What a broadcasting legend. Anyway, today our topic is - do we owe it to people to stay in touch? So far we've had Terry who left the family WhatsApp after his granddaughter said ‘OK boomer’, and Charmaine, whose son only texts when he's forgotten the Netflix password. Gen Z, eh? Let’s go to another caller.’

I looked over to Producer Harv in the studio, who nodded. Let this be a good one. We'd had some good gripes so far, nice bit of outrage, but nothing to get hot ‘n’ heavy with the algorithm.

‘Cometh the hour, cometh Stanley in Cockfosters. Stan - what do you reckon?’

‘Hi Dave, it's actually Sanjay,’ said the voice down the line. I looked at the presenter display, which confirmed it. Line 1 - Sanjay, Cockfosters, can't reconnect with family. Oh, bollocks.

‘My bad, chief. Sanj, do we owe it to people?’

Don't let the mess up show on your face. David, you’re a pro. I leant back - relaxed. Listening pose. I saw Producer Sama jabbing towards the ceiling, mouthing “Sit up, sit up!”

I reclined, foot up on knee, air the old groin - stretch those seams more than Terry's family relations. Oh, Harv and Sama would’ve liked to be the puppet masters. Get me to sit up straight and take off the chain link bracelet. It was their own fault for wanting every bloody blink on film now, wasn't it? Couldn’t micromanage brand Reckon out of the bling and the slouch - it was a signature style. It was authentic.

‘That's right Dave,’ said Sanjay. ‘I'm like you, I'm a family man.’

I nodded.

‘Always brought home the bacon, Dave, you know how it is. But my own kids, they're strangers to me now,’ his voice warbled with indignation. ‘In both families.’

Now, here was something. May God have sent us a bigamist, and not just some sad divorcee.

‘What do you mean, chief? Both families?’

‘Now look Dave,’ he says. ‘I was a bit of a bad boy in my twenties, innit. And thirties. To be honest, I'm glad the double life's over. And I've kept them all in trainers and Fortnite skins the whole time, haven't I?’

‘Oh, well you've done your duty there, haven't you Sanj,’ I said, with another wink for the camera - make sure the sarcasm plays to the back of the room, for the socials.

‘Stop winking,’ hisses Sama.

I went on. ‘So you see your status as the breadwinner as a fast track to forgiveness?’

‘Innit,’ he said. ‘It’s actually hard work, all of that, you know. And now they’ve all joined forces and cut me out. Even got their own new family TikTok.’

I wondered - how many followers? Hope the producers got the handle.

‘Sanjay,’ I said, trying to buy time to think. Weighed up my options. Could berate him, could imply he’s a jack the lad, could go for the righteous angle, could use it to bemoan the state of society. There was only one choice. Emotion plus social commentary equals clicks, equals cash. That Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee habit wasn’t going to pay for itself.

‘You had two families running side by side,’ I said. ‘What do you want, Sanjay, a dad of the year card?’

He hesitated. Rookie mistake. I made the covert hand gesture which told Harv and Sama - I’m done with this one. Cut him off.

‘It’s blokes like you who let the side down, my man,’ I said. ‘It’s no wonder everyone's out to get us at the moment, with entitled chancers like you dedicating a lifetime to deception and never working an honest minute to earn an honest relationship with their kids. You’re the reason people say we're toxic, Sanjay. You want back in? You've gotta graft.’

I let the silence ring out for a couple of seconds, cupping my ear in expectation.

‘Speaks volumes,’ I said. ‘Sanjay’s family, all the best to you. Back to the topic in hand - do we owe it to people to stay in touch?’

‘Give the callers more time,’ whined Sama in my headphones. ‘We’ve got two more hours here, Dave.’

I didn't react. Sama was Colin's usual producer. I'd actually been dodging her since I'd got a bit chatty after a few dusters and offered to slip her details to a BBC exec I knew. She kept on and on, asking about the intro. Didn't have the heart to tell her the promise was about as substantial as the froth on my lager. I mean, the guy had once viewed my LinkedIn. Connection request from me? Still Pending.

I checked the monitor, making sure to read the name closely.

Line 2: Brian in Hastings, likes meeting new people.

‘Cometh the hour, cometh Brian. Do we owe it to people to keep in touch, Brian?’

‘Hi Dave,’ said Brian, who’d obviously heard the producer's advice to remove his lips from full contact with the receiver, and decided it wasn't for him. ‘I don't think we owe it to anyone. I think your premise focuses on the transactional when for most of our interactions, our burdens would be lightened if we focus on the momentary beauty of the transient. I -’

‘Whoa there, Socrates!’ I cut in. No way I was handing the wheel to this philosopher. ‘I bet you're the kind of guy who takes but you're too wrapped up in your own thoughts to give.’

‘Au contraire,’ said Brian, who sounded like he'd run up a flight of stairs. ‘I give - only too generously.’

Harv was making frantic throat-cutting gestures from the producer's studio. I twigged.

‘Well Brian, let's keep it transient then, shall we?’ I said, pretty pleased with myself. ‘That was Brian, probably calling from a layby in Hastings. And this is The Reckoning Hour with Dave Reckon, on Say Today UK. See you after the break.’

The ads began to roll. Sama started up immediately.

‘Dave, did you hear what I said about keeping them chatting?’

‘Oh did you want me to keep the pervert on the line, Sama?’ I shot back.

‘You could've got more from the secret life guy. That conversation had way more promise.’

She just couldn't leave it alone, could she?

They went back to screening callers. Realised I was just going to have to lie to her about the whole BBC exec thing. I could say I'd put in a good word and he didn’t bite. No, better - he was keeping her “on file”. Then she’d probably be sweet enough for a drink again.

The ads came to a close. I felt buoyed.

‘Right, you're listening to Dave Reckon on The Reckoning Hour on STUK, in for Colin Snoad. Our topic today - do we owe it to people to stay in touch?’

I check the monitor: Line 1: Angela from Cheltenham, thinks sometimes it's crucial.

Cheltenham - just another couple of hours and I’ll be heading back there. Sweet sanctuary. I was dreaming of a night on the sofa with a cold one and the best of 1980s Wimbledon - yes please. Not that my actual home fitted with the brand. Radio “Dave Reckon” lived in Southend-on-Sea, snaffling bacon rolls in between darts matches.

‘Cometh the hour, cometh Angela. Tell me more, Angela.’

‘Mr de Requémont,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

Well that was a turn up for the books. Hardly heard that name since my agent told me to drop it like a mate who’d just started trending on X for being problematic.

I make the signal to cut. Harv wasn’t looking. Sama stared at me. Smiled, slowly. The caller stayed on the line.

I laughed like it was all a big joke.

‘Madame de Angelique,’ I said - in my best comedy French. ‘Ave we met before in anuzzer life, non?’

I continued making the signal to cut. Do it, I willed them. Easy to pretend the call had dropped.

‘Not another life. This one, Mr de Requémont,’ she said, flatly. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for more than an hour. When I discovered you were broadcasting to the nation, I thought this would perhaps be the only way to reach you.’

Harv’s fingers hovered over the call end button. Sama shoved his hand away.

‘It’s Angela Poynter, Assistant Head at Cheltenham Ladies’ College.’

That made me sit up.

Chloé. I’d promised - today -

Cut the line, I motioned. Cut the line for Christ’s sake.

‘Since you seem to be on air, I’ll assume that, once again, you won’t be able to collect your daughter. We’ve made other arrangements, but I thought that you may - at some point - wonder about her safety, so I’m letting you know as a courtesy. Did you catch all of that?’

I looked over to the producer’s studio. Sama’s hands were cupped over her still-smiling face.

Harv looked like he’d been winded - but not, I could tell, unhappy. His hand snaked over the desk to his phone.

‘I’ll assume you heard,’ she said. ‘Au revoir, Mr de Requémont.’

The line cut. My head turned to the camera, still broadcasting live to the nation. Instinctively one hand fingered the chain link bracelet.

‘This is … Dave Reckon,’ I stammered. ‘It’s The Reckoning Hour, on STUK, for the next -’

Gulp. Paper shuffle. Sip of water. Trouser rub.

The lines lit up.

‘- two hours.’