News Where You Are

2

Two days later Frank listened to the countdown on his earpiece, took a swig of water and stowed the bottle under the desk. In the last few seconds his expression became attentive with the hint of a frown. He spoke on cue.

‘Now on to a remarkable story of survival. Sixty-five-year-old Alan Purkis had something of a shock when he discovered a thirty-foot-deep hole had opened up in his back garden. The retired electrician from Droitwich was only saved from a plunge into the abyss by the timely arrival of a cuckoo.’ Head inclined to one side, his quizzical expression segued into a reassuring smile: ‘Scott Padstow gets the full story for us.’

The package ran. Frank had a headache and thought he should have eaten something before they went live. He thought of the Mars bar that had sat on his desk all afternoon and was filled with sharp longing and regret. He turned and looked at Julia’s exposed arm and could imagine with terrible clarity ripping into it with his teeth. When he looked up, she was staring at him. He gave a little shake of his head as if coming out of some private reverie. He looked, he hoped, as if his thoughts had been on something distant and intangible or, failing that, on anything other than eating her flesh. He gave a slight sickly smile. Julia was still in a foul mood.

‘Great story. News that almost happens. A man doesn’t fall down a hole.’

The producer’s voice sounded in their earpieces. ‘Come on, Joolz, can we get over this? The man almost falling isn’t the story — it’s the hole. Why is it there? Is it going to widen and open up in other gardens, maybe swallow entire houses? I think that is of some interest to people in our region.’

‘Right — but that’s not really what the link focused on, is it? It bills it as a “remarkable story of survival”, and what about the cuckoo? Where’s the news value in that?’

Another voice cut in: ‘Back with you, Julia, in five, four, three, two …’

Julia introduced an item about a pub in Wolverhampton whose steak and kidney pies were doing well in a national competition.

Frank thought that a pie might be an option. Beef and Guinness. He knew he didn’t have one at home, so that’d mean a trip to Tesco, and that was too depressing a prospect. He wished, not for the first time, that he had a local pub that served decent food. He thought of the Rose and Crown whose menu consisted of three types of frozen pizza — brittle seven-inch singles of misery that resisted any attempts at cutting. They came topped with a mysterious molten substance that clung to the roof of the mouth and burned straight through. Frank didn’t expect much from food, but he thought it shouldn’t injure you.

The story about pies was coming to a close. Frank read the next link just ahead of his cue and braced himself. He tried too late and too half-heartedly to apply a mischievous smile and instead achieved only a half-cocked imbecile grin.

‘Reaching the national finals of that competition is pie no means a small achievement!’ He turned and beamed at Julia who looked back at him with bare-faced contempt. His grin faded. ‘But seriously, well done to the Bull’s Head there and good luck on the night.’

After the bulletin he apologized to Julia. ‘You know I don’t want to do the jokes.’

‘Well, I wish you fucking wouldn’t, then. There is no humour there, Frank; they are not recognizable as jokes. The only way I can tell that’s what they’re supposed to be is because otherwise what you’ve just said makes absolutely no sense. What the hell am I supposed to do? If I laugh, I look as if I’m mentally ill. If I don’t laugh, I look as if I hate you.’

‘Maybe just smile, pityingly. The viewers would understand that.’

‘It’s not easy to smile, Frank; believe me, it’s not easy.’

‘Try and imagine it’s an illness. That’s what I do.’

Julia shook her head as she got her coat. ‘See you tomorrow, Frank.’

The door closed behind her and Frank was left wondering what to do for the evening. His hunger had mysteriously evaporated and he didn’t feel like going straight home. That morning Andrea had taken Mo to visit her aunt in Bradford and they wouldn’t be back till the next day. He found the house just about bearable when his family were there; with them away he avoided it as much as he could. Sometimes he’d grab a drink with the crew, but tonight the thought of being that particular version of himself, of talking and listening and laughing in the right places, seemed too much effort.

He got in his car and headed for the Queensway. The car seemed to guide itself — gliding up over flyovers and swooping down into underpasses. The lights of the tunnels passed through his windscreen and across his face. Familiar glimpses of the city slid by and as they did stray names and faces associated with them from old news stories combined with memories from his own past. He was at his most susceptible to nostalgia and melancholy when he was tired.

The car pulled in at a garage and for a moment Frank had no idea why he was there, until he saw the buckets of flowers and realized that tonight he would pay his respects. He was too weary to resist.

The young man at the till recognized him and Frank switched his face on.

‘I seen you on the telly, man.’

‘Right, yes, that’s me.’

‘What’s that other one? The babe. Julie, is it? She fit, mate. Flowers for her, are they?’

‘These? No, actually they’re for someone else.’

‘Ahhh — you bein’ a bad boy? Sniffin’ up some other telly lady?’

‘Yes, that’s right. These are for Esther Rantzen.’

‘You tell that Julie, if she’s getting lonely, to come down here and ask for J and I’ll show her a sexy time. Tell her I know what she likes.’

‘Well, I’ll certainly pass that on J. She’s a busy woman, but you never know.’

As he walked away, Frank heard the assistant say to his colleague: ‘She could do a lot better than him, man.’ Frank smiled, knowing how much that would amuse Andrea when he told her.

He drove out of the city on the Expressway and was surprised to find he remembered the way, despite the passing of time. The street was lined with parked cars on both sides, but he managed to find a space within sight of the house. It had changed since the first time he’d seen it. Then paint had peeled from the woodwork and the privet hedge in the front garden had expanded in all directions, covering the bay window and half the pavement. He didn’t know how many people had come and gone in the intervening years. The windows were UPVC now, the front garden gone altogether and replaced by some slabs providing not quite enough space for a 4x4, which was wedged in at an angle, jutting out onto the pavement.

Frank was sure that whoever lived there now would know nothing about William Grendon. No one had noticed him when he lived and no one had noticed him when he died. The single thing that had brought his existence to the notice of the wider world was the smell of his decomposing body. He was discovered sitting upright in a high-backed chair with a twenty-six-day-old newspaper on his lap. Frank remembered there was no photo of William to show on the bulletin, so instead he had delivered the story in front of an image of the outside of the house.

He pulled the flowers from the cellophane and then carried them loose in his hand to the front of the house. He looked at the houses on either side, the blue light of a television flickered through the gaps in the curtain of one. He dropped the flowers on the slabs.

Frank stood and thought of William Grendon. Something invisible had disappeared, but it left a mark. There was always a mark.