Returning their gazes, he saw the brazen curiosity in the faces of the up-and-coming reporters, and the cynical boredom in the long-serving hacks, the silent and lazy, whose greatest daily adventure consisted of finding the route home from their favourite watering-holes. What did they see in him, he wondered, the famous war reporter returned from a dangerous stint in Dublin? A Lazarus brought back from the dead, marching into the lion’s den. Kant had headed straight for the offices as soon as he disembarked from the train, anxious to write up his report as soon as possible. Normally, when he submitted his copy, the editor kept him stewing for an interminably long time, but on this occasion he was summoned almost immediately. McArthurs, the editor, was a large-headed Scot with an angry, bull-like face, his neck straining in his collar. When Kant entered his office, he lifted up the report and bellowed, ‘What sort of Fenian pigshit is this?’ ‘That is the preliminary report of a much larger story,’ replied Kant.
