The impact is a shock to both of them. Michael is suddenly alert. He lunges forward and manages to grab the knife before the other two men have dropped their fags. He feels their hands on his arms, but is able to kick and hack his way out. He waves the knife and they back away. He looks around and sees that Phil has already started running towards the road. Michael starts to run after him. He checks over his shoulder, but the men have no interest in the chase. Instead they hunch down, picking over Phil’s uniform.
Michael and Phil run along the dark road, managing after half a mile to flag down a passing truck. They climb into the back and collapse exhausted on the flatbed, trying to catch their breath. It’s a while before Phil is able to speak.
‘Bloody hell, Mikey. You could have done your John Wayne bit before I dropped my pants.’
‘I didn’t get the chance. You don’t need much persuasion, do you?’
‘They had a knife, for Christ’s sake, that’s enough persuasion for me.’ He’s quiet for a moment and then adds: ‘Thanks, Mikey.’
‘What for?’
‘You saved my life.’
Michael smiles. ‘They weren’t going to kill us, you daft sod. Their hearts weren’t in it.’
Phil shakes his head. ‘You saved my life.’
Michael looks at Phil and starts laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’
Phil’s face and body are smeared with whatever animal’s shit is all over the back of the truck and clumps of feathers are sticking to him.
‘We showed the others, didn’t we? Let them travel like cattle – we’ll get back in style.’
21
He ordered a beer and took it to a table by the window overlooking the queues of cars nudging their way round the roundabout. As always, he was early to meet Andrea and as always she would be late. The hotel bar played its early evening selection. Frank was familiar with the track-listing now. He knew that ‘Mas Que Nada’ would be followed by the Lighthouse Family. The smooth early evening playlist. Andrea hated that kind of music; she said it made a vein throb in her face. Frank quite liked it. He tapped his foot.
The bar was charmless and yet he and Andrea always met there when in town. It was on the fourth floor of the hotel and Frank enjoyed the view. He liked that part of the city centre – an area where small scraps of the past were still visible at the margins of the newer developments, like unfashionable trainers peeping out from under a new suit. All the office blocks around had been converted into apartment complexes, their windows made larger, their surfaces lighter. Frank looked out at a building now calling itself Westside One. He remembered it as the office of an insurance company. He wondered what the people who had worked there, who had once sat at desks dreaming of escape, now thought of the dream of champagne flutes, leather sofas and wooden laminate flooring that was being sold back to them. He wondered if any of them had bought an apartment there and looked down now on the view they once hated with new eyes. He suspected not; no one seemed to be buying any more. An enormous banner hung on the outside of the building announcing that the ‘last few’ still remained two years after the first residents moved in. The banner boasted the development’s selling points, one of which was that it overlooked another more prestigious development.
In the centre of the roundabout was one of the city’s few remaining sunken mini-parks. A faded sixties mosaic of an imagined Victorian past, horse-drawn carriages and children chasing hoops with sticks, formed the backdrop to a now stagnant water feature. Empty cans lay motionless on the black surface of the water in the concrete pond. Benches waited for anyone who might enjoy a moment’s rest in the eye of the traffic’s storm. The city’s many subways were once a source of pride, decorated with public art and seating areas. Frank had seen archive footage from the sixties of the opening of a subway under one of the busiest roads in the centre. A race to cross the road was staged between two councillors. One went by surface, the other by subway – and won. The results were clear: subways were quick, safe and modern.
Frank could see now that three of the subway tunnels that led into the underpass were sealed off. New pedestrian crossings had been installed on the busy roads. The ethos of separating people from cars that Frank’s father had thought the solution was now seen as the problem. People wanted the right to roam the surface of the city and not be shuttled below or above the roads out of the sight and minds of motorists. Frank remembered covering a murder in one of the tunnels some years ago. The victim had tried to resist his mugger and ended up dead. He wondered how long it might be before all the entrances were sealed off and the sunken garden covered over. He imagined it remaining intact under a new layer of development, as empty and forlorn as it stood now, waiting for future archaeologists to unearth and invent complex mythologies about.
He didn’t hear Andrea approach and jumped slightly as she touched his shoulder.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
He stood to kiss her. ‘You’re not really sorry. You think making me wait keeps me keen.’
‘Does it? Were you sitting there thinking longingly of me?’
‘I was thinking about pedestrian underpasses.’
‘Naturally.’
He smiled. ‘Do you want a drink first or shall we go to the restaurant?’
‘Let’s get a drink and I can ring and check on Mo before we go.’
When Frank returned from the bar, Andrea was staring at the muted TV screen on the back wall. He followed the direction of her gaze and saw Phil’s face. He felt himself begin to smile before the memory of Phil’s death returned and he experienced a small jolt of shock once more.
Andrea spoke without turning her head from the screen. ‘They’re showing An Evening With … again. He looked great, didn’t he?’
‘He’d have loved to hear you say that.’
Andrea smiled and looked at Frank. ‘God, he was funny, wasn’t he? I bumped into him once in Rackhams and blimey you couldn’t miss him. He had that ridiculous suntan, and was wearing this enormous white padded jacket and gold-framed sunglasses. You’d think it was Tony Curtis, not the local newsreader. Everyone was staring.’
‘I know. He loved it. He was totally shameless about it. He knew it was shallow, but he didn’t care.’
‘Did I ever tell you about my auntie and Phil?’
‘No.’
‘You know Margaret? She loved him, thought he was the cat’s pyjamas. She only had to hear the name “Phil Smethway” and her face would light up. She used to watch Heart of England Reports every night just for him and was absolutely devastated when he left.’
‘But I took over after Phil.’
‘Yeah. I know. Anyway, obviously she stopped watching after Phil left.’
‘Obviously.’
‘She assumed he’d retired, gone off to live in Monaco or somewhere glamorous. Then shortly afterwards she and Uncle Matt were on holiday in Brighton and they saw him presenting South-East Reports.’
‘I’d forgotten that. He only did it for a few months.’
‘Uncle Matt said she was furious. She felt so betrayed – it was as if she’d discovered an affair. When he moved to national telly after that, she’d never watch him. If ever he cropped up on an advert or a trailer, she’d do this thing, wiping her lips with her fingers as if to wipe off a kiss.’
‘Well, you see, there’s a lesson for her. Don’t be dazzled by these entertaining types – with their charm and their wit – stick with people like me, stolid and dull, we won’t let you down. Haven’t I always told you that?’
Andrea smiled. ‘God, I couldn’t have lived with Phil. I mean he was lovely and fun to be around, but he was always checking out his own reflection, always fussing with his hair or his shoes. I couldn’t be with a vain man.’
‘He was sending himself up a lot of the time.’
‘I know he played up to the role – but it was based on truth. He and Michelle were like the perfect accessories for each other. I was never sure if there was much to their rela
tionship beyond the surface.’
‘I think there was. Just because they were glamorous, it doesn’t mean they didn’t love each other. I remember the way Phil used to talk about Michelle. I’m sure he loved her.’
Andrea shrugged ‘Well, you knew him better than me, so maybe he did. Maybe all that gloss just distracted me from the substance underneath.’
As they headed towards the restaurant, Frank thought back to one of the last conversations he’d had with Phil. After they stopped working together they kept in regular, if occasional, contact. They met maybe once or twice a year. Sometimes at each other’s houses with Andrea and Michelle there too, at others just the two of them for lunch or a drink when they happened to be in each other’s part of the country. Frank would tell Phil about developments on the programme: who had left, who had joined, the latest budget cut, the sinking morale. Phil would tell Frank funny stories of A-list celebrities, monstrous egos and associated bullshit. Inevitably, though, what they talked about most were the old days. The fortune-telling parrot that bit Frank, the skateboarding dog that caught Phil in the balls, the alcoholic sports correspondent, the philandering weatherman, the stories that broke nationally, the unsolved mysteries, their favourite interviews.
A few weeks before his death, Phil phoned Frank. Phil normally called during the day, but this call came late one evening as Frank was about to go to bed.
‘Howdy, pardner.’
‘Hello, mate.’ Frank glanced at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be in your lead casket by now? Cucumber slices placed carefully over your eyes.’
‘Sadly, Frank, the days of cucumber slices are long gone; they just don’t cut it any more. I sometimes look in the mirror and have to accept that I’m not the man I once was. I console myself, though, with the thought that I look a hell of a lot better than you will when you reach my age.’
Frank noticed Phil was slurring his words. ‘I suspect you look better than I do now.’
‘Well, you will insist on wearing those cheap suits. I’ve always told you how ageing poor tailoring is.’
‘And I’ve lost sleep over it. What are you ringing for anyway?’
There was silence for a moment, then Phil said: ‘You know I love Michelle, don’t you.’
Frank frowned into the receiver. ‘Of course I do. Have you been drinking?’
‘I have, actually. I’ve just finished off a bottle of Glenfarclas, but that’s beside the point. I love her very much.’
‘I know. It’s good that you love her. She’s your wife.’
‘I mean … you know she’s a lot younger than me; she could have married a young man, but she chose me. I never want her to regret that.’
‘Why would she regret it? She loves you. Why don’t you go to bed?’
‘I’m going, I’m going. I just wanted to call you. I wanted to tell you, because you’re a mate, one of the best. You know that, don’t you? I mean all joking aside. We take the piss, don’t we? We have a laugh at each other. We always have, but you know, don’t you? Don’t you?’
Frank was smiling at his end of the phone. He’d never heard Phil so drunk. He was relishing the prospect of reminding him about the call when he was sober. ‘I know what?’
‘Oh, you’re trying to make me say it. You’re a tease. You know what I’m talking about. Shush …’ Phil whispered the next bit: ‘I love you.’ His voice went back to normal volume: ‘There, I’ve said it! Not in a funny way. You know that. Man to man. Mates. I know you think I’m a flash bastard. But I love you, Frank. Oops. Said it again. I love Michelle too. I never want her to regret it. She won’t regret it.’
‘No one’s going to regret anything, Phil. Except you in the morning. Go to bed now. Go and have a sleep, okay?’
‘Okay, Frank. I’ve embarrassed you. I know, I know. That’s okay. We’re mates, Frank. You know the funny thing? I’m going to tell you a secret. All my life I’ve been scared, but tonight, when I’ve got something to be scared about, I’m not scared at all. I’m not scared, Frank.’
‘All right, Phil, well done, not scared, very good, now go to bed. Don’t worry about anything. Go and have a lie down.’
‘Night, Frank.’
‘Night, Phil.’
A quiet Phil phoned a few days later to apologize.
Frank laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m a loveable man, why wouldn’t you ring me up late at night and tell me how you feel? I’m amazed you’ve suppressed it so long.’
‘I’m sorry, Frank.’ Phil seemed entirely lacking in bounce.
Frank found it impossible to take the piss when Phil wouldn’t bite back. ‘It’s okay. It was funny.’
‘It was pathetic.’
‘Well, maybe, but that’s okay. Are you okay? You seem down.’
‘Yeah, yes, I’m fine. Probably still hungover. What an idiot.’
‘Well, you’re making me feel bad now. Almost as if you didn’t mean what you said.’
‘To be honest, Frank, I don’t even remember most of what I said.’
‘Oh, it was nothing. You love me, you love Michelle, that’s all.’
‘I’m ridiculous.’
‘Bloody hell, Phil, don’t worry about it. I enjoyed it; I thought I’d be able to mock you for years, but you’re taking it so badly you’re ruining all the fun.’
Phil said nothing – his breathing was heavy.
‘Phil? Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah. Honestly, I’m fine. Sorry, just tired.’
‘There was one thing you said on the phone that was a bit odd.’
‘What? What did I say?’
‘Something about not being scared even though you had every reason to be. What have you got to be scared of? Are they discontinuing Grecian 2000?’
‘God knows. I was talking rubbish. Bloody Glenfarclas. Never again.’
Within a month Phil was dead. His apology call was left hanging in Frank’s memory as their last conversation. It was a strange note on which to end. Frank felt guilty for his facetiousness. He squeezed Andrea’s hand. ‘I thought a lot of Phil, you know.’
Andrea looked at him, surprised. ‘I know. Of course you did.’
Frank opened the door to the restaurant and wished he’d said the same to Phil.
22
Frank worked through his in-box. In a bid to appear relevant in the digital age, the email addresses of the show’s presenters appeared on-screen underneath their names, as well as on the website. Aside from spam, he typically received between ten and twenty mails a day from the public and the policy was to reply to all but the outright abusive or threatening. Today he had three requests for personal appearances, four suggestions of stories to feature, one asking about the shirt he’d worn on the programme of 2 October, one obscene request pertaining to his female co-presenters, one veiled threat, one unveiled threat and a racist joke. He was left now with the ‘unfriendlies’, which needed more time and care. An unfriendly wasn’t straightforwardly abusive and thus warranted a reply, but a generically bland response would lead more often than not to a rapid escalation of hostility. Julia received roughly the same amount of mail as Frank, but the content tended, even Frank would concede, more towards the bizarre. Reporters and correspondents got their share of mail too and at any one point someone on the show would always have a stalker, but it was naturally enough the presenters who attracted the most attention.
In total there were seven presenters covering the various bulletins and programmes across the team’s output. Frank and Julia were the regular presenters of the evening show as well as presenting some of the other brief post-network news bulletins throughout the week. Frank liked working with Julia, even though she gave no sign of this being mutual. They were an odd couple, but with an on-screen dynamic that seemed to work. She was younger, earnest, frosty, but concerned. He was older, sincere, awkward and corny. As a pair they seemed to convey the right blend of warmth and authority and both had enough self-awareness to know that they were better together than apa
rt.
Julia took the job seriously and gave every indication that she thought she was the only one who did, though in fact she and Frank shared a similar approach. Historically presenters tended not to attend production meetings. The way that shifts worked out meant it still wasn’t always possible and many of the other presenters on the show rarely attended for that reason. But Frank and Julia had both always seen the meetings as part of their jobs. Frank wasn’t sure that this was something necessarily welcomed by all the reporters and correspondents and sometimes had the distinct impression that some members of the team preferred the old-style presenters, with backgrounds in light entertainment rather than journalism. He knew some called them ‘gobs on sticks’ and expected them to mouth the reports they were given unquestioningly despite how thin they might be or how little coherence they possessed. It was hard to mistake the sarcasm with which certain correspondents referred to presenters as ‘the talent’.
But neither Julia nor Frank had any desire to present stories that they themselves couldn’t see the point of, or that failed to deliver on the promise of the headline. Frank had become skilful over the years in giving the impression of going along with whatever was the order of the day, whilst actually continuing quite doggedly along the path he thought was the right one. He liked to arrive early in the day with plenty of time to check through the reports and rewrite links. It was a way of curbing the more tabloid or inconsequential impulses of the day’s producer. He checked through the stories diligently, watching the packages, subtly pointing out gaps or errors to reporters and rewriting their links as necessary. Much of this work was invisible to Julia who tended to see Frank as spineless. She favoured confrontation and drama and didn’t seem to notice that she lost many of the fights that she picked, leaving her fuming as she presented stories she felt lacked credibility.
Frank turned his attention back to the remaining mails:
dear Frank,
I saw you the other day buying wine in oddbins on colmore row. I expect you need alcol to help you sleep at nite. you looked very shabby I thought. I followed you up corporation street but then you went in house of fraser and I didn’t go in because of the PROSTITUTES. remember that Jesus is watching you and so am I.
News Where You Are Page 10