Julia was seated at the next desk and looked up. ‘To be fair, I don’t think she actually makes the sandwiches — they’re just bought in along with the rest of that snack-bar crap. At least in the old days of the staff canteen you could get some fresh vegetables.’
Mustansar wrinkled his nose, but Julia didn’t seem to notice. Frank took another bite of his sandwich. ‘I don’t mind them; they fill a gap.’
Julia shook her head. ‘You’re wasting your time, Mustansar. Frank’s exactly the reason why there has never been a revolution in this country. A deluded peasant, happy with his gruel. If you want a nice sandwich, go down to Entice, they do beautiful stuff — freshly baked bread, locally sourced vegetables, all organic ingredients.’
Mustansar pretended to consider it for a moment before saying: ‘No, fuck that. I’m off to McDonald’s. Does anyone want any real food?’
Julia sighed and returned to her screen. Frank asked Mustansar for an apple pie and went back to scanning the stories ahead of the morning’s production meeting.
It looked as if the lead was going to be a hospital story. West Birmingham was apologizing to a patient for the distress caused to him when he overheard staff laughing about his weight and referring to him in offensive terms. Frank had watched the package already. It included an interview with the man, who said that whilst he acknowledged he was overweight he didn’t expect to overhear members of staff laughing about it like children. His central message was that members of the caring profession should be more caring and professional. Frank found it hard to argue with that, but worried that by appearing on the evening news the man was exposing himself to more unkind comments. Viewers could be quite cruel; Frank knew all about it.
Next was the expected sentencing later that day of a man found guilty of throwing a pan of hot oil over his wife’s head. Footage from the trial showed a small man in a tracksuit covering his face with his jacket. A picture of his wife before the assault showed a woman with tired eyes and the ghost of a smile.
Next an uneasy gear change into a light-hearted story about obesity in pets and a canine gym that had opened up. It was a quiet day. Or, as Julia put it, ‘A load of old bollocks.’ The difference between a busy news day and a quiet one had a big impact on people’s lives. Today was lucky for the doggy gym, which on another day would have gone unreported; unlucky for the wife abuser.
Through the years Frank had started to detect patterns and recurrences in the news. The same things happened over and over with little regard for originality. Sometimes he’d feel sure that he’d presented certain items before; sometimes he thought he remembered entire programmes. The faces changed but the stories were the same. Another sick child hoping to get an operation abroad, another old couple swindled out of their life savings, another bare paddock of neglected horses. Sometimes he almost anticipated them. Like counting cards and knowing when to expect the next king. The different incidences became compacted in his mind to form generic news staples and the faces merged to form the composite face of a local news victim. He had not, though, become desensitized. Whilst he recognized the patterns, he still appreciated, albeit hours after the show, the pain, or the loss, or, very occasionally, the joy in each story. He remained, he hoped, despite it all, human.
He was interrupted by a call on his mobile. He took it out of the office. It was Cyril.
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’
‘Hi, Cyril.’
‘Anything in the net today?’
Frank wasn’t sure when the fishing metaphors had started, but he didn’t think they made these exchanges any easier to bear. ‘Not really, Cyril, sorry.’
‘Oh, come on, Frank. It’s been a week. Toss me a sprat.’
Frank closed his eyes and tapped the bridge of his nose with his finger. It had been a week. It didn’t seem that long to him. A new joke was due. For a little while a few months back Cyril’s calls had become less frequent and Frank had briefly held the hope they were dying off, but now they were back to at least once or twice a week. He gave up the obvious victim.
‘Well, there’s something about a gym for dogs …’ He couldn’t go on; Cyril was giggling at the other end of the phone.
‘A gym for dogs? You’re having me on! You couldn’t make it up!’
Frank sighed. ‘No, I don’t suppose you could.’
‘Oh, Frank — people, eh? Barking mad.’ Another gale of laughter. ‘This is a goldmine. Let me go away and have a think. I’m getting possibilities already. I’ll get back to you in an hour — on the dog and bone!’ He was laughing helplessly.
Frank rested his head against the wall. ‘Cyril, remember, just something subtle,’ but Cyril had already hung up.
*
Frank picked up the local paper in the hope of finding a new lead to suggest at the production meeting. He had leafed through over half of the pages before something caught his eye. The body of a seventy-nine-year-old man had been discovered sitting on a bench on Smallwood Middleway. The police estimated that the man had been there for two days before anyone noticed he was dead. The man was named as Michael Church and the police were appealing for information. Frank reached for his notebook to take down the details. The newspaper carried a photo of the man. It was a poor-quality passport-style image, taken presumably from his bus pass. It showed an old man in a V-neck jumper and shirt leaning slightly to one side, neatly parted hair, red cheeks and piercing blue eyes. Frank lifted the paper closer and stared at the image. He recognized the man. He quickly read through the article again. The name meant nothing to him, but he knew he had seen those eyes before. They were unusually large, giving an almost comic look of mock-innocence to the face. He tried to think where he had seen Michael Church before.
Julia noticed him peering at the paper. ‘Found anything of news value at all?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The paper, Frank. Impossible though it seems, is there anything in there of more pressing import than cross-trainers for dogs?’
Frank looked again at Michael Church’s face. Completely unknown, dead for two days already. ‘I suspect nothing that Martin would consider newsworthy.’
Julia went back to typing and Frank continued to look at the old man’s eyes. He felt his blood moving more quickly through his body. Perhaps this time he could do more than simply lay flowers.
8
‘ “Call the banker! Call the banker!” ’ cried Henry, his eyes shining. ‘Is that it? Did I get it right?’
Frank shook his head. ‘Sorry, no, that’s someone else.’
Henry punched his open palm. ‘Ooh — you’re good. You’re too good for me. Give me another go. Here we are now, how about: “It’s good but it’s not right!” ’
Frank shrugged his shoulder. ‘No, sorry. Wrong again.’
Henry looked shocked. ‘Balls! I was sure I had you then. Oh, wait there, wait there: “Hello, good evening and welcome.” Eh? Eh?’
Frank wondered how long this might go on for. Every time he visited his mother, he spent some time in the residents’ lounge. The manageress thought he lifted their spirits. Andrea thought it was more likely that he drove everyone to their rooms for a nap. Henry recognized Frank from TV but could never place him, or possibly pretended not to. There was a diabolical glint in Henry’s eyes and an edge to his grin that led Frank to believe that Henry knew very well who Frank was and was mercilessly mocking him.