"Damien!" Dave shouted, the murderous gleam in his eyes surpassed only by the genocidal tone of his voice. "Did you do this?"

"No?" Damien's voice was painfully high and sharp as it floated into the editing suite, almost as if Joyce had finally carried out her threat of cutting off his balls and locking them in a filing cupboard. Which, come to think of it, wasn't such a bad idea - he'd have to remind Joyce of her plan, possibly after Gus's next inspirational pep talk.

"Damien!" Had Dave's voice been an army, neighbouring countries would have had delegations lobbying the UN Security Council faster than you can say "wider hostilities". As it was, all that his shout achieved was the appearance of a very disgruntled Henry at the door of the suite.

"Will you pack in that bloody racket!" Henry shouted. "Some of us have work to do!"

"Who?" asked Dave, not too livid to take the cheap shot.

While Henry was busy fuming, Damien appeared.

"Hey, Dave! The old fart's finally cracked it!" Damien pointed at Henry's reddening face. "A cheap, efficient, unlimitted energy supply flowing right here through dear Henry's veins. Keep him talking and I'll fetch the kettle."

Not even the sight of Henry's now purple face, throbbing veins and twitching eyebrow included, could distract Dave from his anger. His was the anger of the just, of the righteous, of an honest soul. His was the anger of a man whose entire collection of royal family cock ups had been wiped. The missing minutes of the Diana interview? Gone! Princess Michael of Kent mispronouncing her husband's title? Gone! The Duke of Edinburgh's meeting with the Israeli ambassador? Gone! And all because that absolute tit Damien Day had needed a spare tape to record himself at the BAFTAs. He hadn't even won anything.

"Of all the selfish, inconsiderate, arsingly stupid things you've ever done," Dave brandished the tape as if while its label now read 'Fuckupingham Palace', it might soon read 'Exhibit F: The murder weapon', "this may well be the most... The most..."

"Selfish, inconsiderate, arsingly stupid?" Damien offered. The three men regarded the pathetic scrap of synthetic fibres lying in front of Henry. His voice barely above a whisper, the man spoke. "So." He paused. "Now you know. I suppose everyone will buy lunch."

Dave felt a twinge in his gut. Indigestion? Pity? No, worse: compassion. He rose from his chair and walked towards Henry, pausing to pick up the wig and hand it to him. "We won't tell anyone." Looking at Damien, his voice hardened. "Will we?"

Damien caught his eye. "No."

Henry smiled with relief.

Poor bastard. Everyone in the office had known about the bald patch for years.