She would not be able to go home until he was found; that much she was absolutely sure of. But her own impotence felt like a crippling weight, like something she might drown in. Nobody felt like toasting the long-awaited victory of The Hour over Cilenti's web of corruption. Hector and Marnie had retreated into the green room, McCain had already left with Kiki on his arm, and Randall and Lix too had scuttled off, seeking whiskey in the Home Service offices. Bel walked briskly to her own office, but once the door closed behind her she found that she hadn't the energy even to switch the light on. She sat down and stared into the empty room and let the sobs which had been bubbling in her chest all night swell up and seize her by the throat.
God, Freddie. And his exceptional knack for finding trouble. The police had been called twenty minutes ago; that, surely, should be enough time to raid El Paradis and determine if he was there. And if he wasn't... Nothing would have kept Freddie from the recording, not knowing how much it meant. Nothing short of coercion, threats, violence... Worst case scenarios streamed through her head, three or four at a time. She sobbed harder. His last words to her that afternoon echoed in her head, and his face, happy, excited and reckless as she had last seen it, shimmered in her mind's eye. As if of its own accord, her hand strayed to the drawer on her right and retrieved the letter she had written, sealed and hidden away. She opened it, glaring at her own elegant handwriting through a blur of tears.
When the telephone rang, the jolt went through her whole body and she picked it up in less than a second, hope and horror flooding her in equal measure.
"They've found Mr Lyon, Ms Rowley. He's just outside..."
She didn't wait to hear more. Murmuring something under her breath she dropped the receiver without disconnecting the call and raced for the stairs.
In the middle of a flurry of shocked activity, she found Freddie lying on the grass, barely moving, his face and shirt spattered in blood, his lips bleeding, his face cut. For a split second her body wanted to deny that this could be him at all, that something so unspeakably horrible could have happened. She stared mutely at him, and he, for his part, fixed a deranged stare on the sky and hissed something she couldn't hear out of the ruins of a bruised throat. One of the BBC security staff took her gently by the shoulder and tried to steer her away, murmuring something consoling. "No – no, he's my..." she protested, shaking them off, not really certain of how to finish the sentence. At that moment, she realised what Freddie was whispering and staggered to her knees beside him, fumbling blindly for his hand.
"I'm here, Freddie," she told him softly. Drunkenly, his good eye roamed around the square and finally settled on her face. Some kind of lucidity seemed to return to him, and he moved his lips silently in greeting, a single tear gathering a reddish hue as it tracked across his cheek. "You bloody stupid, ridiculous... brilliant man." She squeezed his cold fingers and glanced furiously around at the hovering staff members. "Has anyone called an ambulance?"
Somebody nodded in the affirmative. She winced, realising that the onlookers included several tabloid hacks no doubt waiting for a quote from Hector when this even juicier nugget of news had landed in their laps. For now, she swallowed her anger, and turned back to Freddie. His face told a horrifying story that her imagination was now working overtime to fill in – she had been putting together the broadcast since Freddie left at four-thirty, Kiki had arrived just after six... and Freddie had been enduring a savage beating for almost two hours. Even now, he was still whispering that old, ludicrous nickname: "Money... Moneypenny."
Hector had dug out some gin from a cupboard in the greenroom and poured himself and Marnie generous measures. They both needed it, after the fraught recording. It had gone well, though, he shakily reassured himself: it had been bold and honest, and even the most fickle of publics would tire of his personal life in the wake of a revelation of such magnitude. He was still trembling with the adrenaline rush.
A nervous knock disrupted the agreeable silence which had fallen between them. He grunted something in response, and Isaac stuck his head around the door. "Mr Madden? Sorry to disturb – they've found Freddie. He's just outside."
Hector felt relief and fury flood him at once. Where the hell had Freddie been all this time? Did he not realise how worried Bel had been, how everyone's nerves had been stretched utterly to breaking point...?
"I'll come down," he said, standing. Marnie made to accompany him, but Isaac raised a cautionary hand.
"Mrs Madden, I might suggest that you wait here. Freddie is – well, you might find it upsetting..."
Hector felt cold at the realisation. "Is he...?"
Isaac met his eyes solemnly. "Ms Rowley is with him now, waiting for an ambulance. He's alive."
Alive... Hector gritted his teeth. "Darling, please excuse me," he murmured to his wife, and left the room with barely a glance at Isaac. He flushed with shame for the anger he had felt towards his colleague moments earlier. Reckless, mercurial, fragile Freddie. This had been bound to happen, sooner or later...
The scene on the grass outside Lime Grove reminded him of wartime, all bright lights, confusion and shock. Paramedics had arrived only moments earlier, and were bustling around the limp, bloodstained figure on the grass. Bel had staggered back when someone brusquely demanded that she give them room to work. She looked pale and lost in the harsh unnatural lights. Hector wrapped an arm around her distractedly, staring past the frantic medics at his battered friend. "Christ..." he exclaimed, under his breath. Bel sobbed hoarsely, clutching at his jacket. "Is he... will he...?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."
The team at Uncovered took it personally when they heard about The Hour's exposé. The story, so intricately related to their own, undermined the efforts of ITV's finest journalists, and made them all look foolish and behind the times. Despite this, and despite his suspicion that it was Freddie Lyon who had sabotaged his blooming acquaintance with Bel Rowley, Bill had to concede that it was a thrilling piece of broadcasting. Putting his daughter to bed, he heard the story repeated on the late radio news.
"...in a further shocking addition to the scandal, it was discovered upon the arrest of Rafael Cilenti that his crimes are not limited to those detailed earlier on the BBC's The Hour. Earlier this evening, BBC journalist Mr Frederick Lyon was attacked by Mr Cilenti at the Soho nightclub El Paradis, in what is assumed to be a reprisal for Mr Lyon's part in exposing his crimes. Mr Lyon is being cared for in hospital, but no information has been released as to the severity of his injuries. Mr Rafael Cilenti is in the custody of the Metropolitan police. In other news..."
Bill stared at the radio. He thought about Bel, and the bad luck which seemed to stalk her.
I feel like I can't commit to whether or not Freddie survives until we know if there will be a third series. Please help us out here, BBC!