“What about all the stuff you just said? That won’t be in it, will it?”
“No. I’ll edit that out. How about I kick you when we’ve started for real?”
That earned Ollie a grin he wasn’t quite ready for. He scanned the table, checking for the dozenth time he had everything he needed, despite the fact that he’d laid it all outhoursago while the band had still been getting breakfast and taking turns in the tiny shower on-board the bus.Fuck it.
“Okay, we’re going live in five, four, three, two, one.” After a brief pause, Ollie kicked Shay under the table. The contact reminded him of the blissful ten minutes they’d spent in Galway with their legs pressed together, a silent storm of awkwardness and perfection that had only been shattered by an ambulance screaming past. A third shiver rocked Ollie’s world, but for once, the professional buried deep within him won out.
He reclaimed his leg. “We’re going to start in 1864, during the peak of the Danish-Prussian War to be exact. Have you ever heard of it?”
Shay leaned forwards. “Denmark and who?”
“Prussia,” Ollie said. “In simple terms, it was a massive German state that covered a huge swathe of Northern Europe. Parts of Poland and Lithuania were included. Kaliningrad too. You’ll find many definitions of what it meant to be Prussian, but the Nazis stopped using the term in 1934, and it was abolished entirely in 1947.”
“After the Second World War?”
“Yes.”
Ollie reached for the hefty book he’d come all the way to Belfast to study. He’d marked the page he needed with a teaspoon—the only thing he could find when he realised he was reluctant to risk losing his favourite pencil.Freak.
Shay plucked the spoon free and laughed. “Please tell me you haven’t been crawling around the shelves sticking spoons in books?”
“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.” Ollie tapped the page. “Now pay attention.”
Shay whistled. “Wow. You don’t get that at the BBC.”
“You don’t get a lot of things at the BBC.”
“You’ve worked there?”
“Once upon a time. Is this one of those moments when I need to kick you?”
Shay’s expression sobered, and he regarded Ollie across the table, curiosity lighting up his gold-flecked eyes. “Do you have a story, Ollie?”
“I have lots of stories. They’re all about you.”
“What about yours?”
“That’s not why we’re here.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it.”
“Shay.”
“What?”
Ollie cringed inwardly at the amount of editing he was going to have to do to make this piece viable if Shay carried on like this. He jabbed a finger at the camera. “Not now.”
His clipped tone seemed to reach Shay. Something changed, and he snapped back to attention. “Sorry. Where were we?”
Ollie smoothed the page. “I was about to introduce you to your great-great-great-grandfather.”
“My what?”
“Take a look.” Ollie beckoned Shay forwards, realising too late that Shay’s hair would flop forwards so close to his own face that he could smell his musky shampoo. “This man here”—he tapped the page—“is Rudolph Kaspersen.”
“Kaspersen… that’s, uh, Swedish, maybe?”
“Danish,” Ollie corrected. “It means ‘son of Kasper’ if you take it literally, though God knows how far you’d have to go back to find the original Kasper, and by then, you might not be in Denmark at all.”
