Frank’s Story
Blackpool, England. July, 1981
The editor of the Blackpool Chronicle rested his cigarette on the edge of his desk, stood up and said, ‘How are you, lad? Are you well?’
‘Fair to middlin’, Jock. How about yourself?’
The two men shook hands.
‘Not so bad, Frank, not so bad. Welcome to the Chronicle and all that. Take a seat.’
Frank remained standing. ‘Do we have to do this here? There must be somewhere we can get a drink. You can do the whole best team in Blackpool thing over a beer or two, can’t you? It has to be time to . . .’ He glanced at his watch and tutted. ‘Bloody battery’s gone again.’
The editor frowned. Gestured to Frank’s watch. ‘What the hell is that thing?’
‘This, my friend, is a Casio C-80. LED lighting, built-in calendar, digital stopwatch and’ – he lifted his wrist – ‘fully functioning calculator.’ A proud nod. ‘You’re looking at the future, Jock.’
‘But it doesn’t work?’
‘Like I said, you’re looking at the future.’ He grinned. ‘The light’s an absolute bugger when it comes to draining the battery.’
‘Aye, well, my old wind-up tells me it’s half past four in the afternoon. Pubs won’t even be open for another hour, Frank. And besides, that’s not the way we work anymore! This is 1981! Times are changing!’ Exasperated, he sank back into his seat, jammed his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and pulled out a bottle of Bell’s from his top desk drawer. ‘You drink in the office until your work’s done and only then do you slope off to the pub.’
Frank shook his head. ‘You’re going soft, mate. You’re—’
‘Sit down!’ The words were spoken with a force that took Frank aback.
‘All right, all right.’ He took a seat. ‘Don’t panic, Captain Main—’
‘No, it’s not all right, Harvey! I took a bloody big gamble hiring you, lad! You made a mess of it on Fleet Street by poking your nose into the wrong scandals and your oh-so-promising career went arse-about-tit. Don’t forget that! And don’t think you’re doing us a favour working on a local rag! We’ve got a good readership and this is a grand little number! There won’t be any holding hands under the table!’
‘Jock.’
‘What?’
‘Piss off.’
Frank stood up, stepped from the office into the newsroom and didn’t bother to shut the door. He pulled a packet of Camel Straights from his pocket and lit up. ‘Blondie!’
A fair-haired woman, stood by the office’s enormous, state-of-the-art fax machine, replied, ‘Are you talking to me?’
Frank exhaled a nimbus of smoke. ‘No, I was talking to Debbie Harry on the news desk, but you’ll have to do. What’s the best pub in this town these days?’
*
As he walked into reception and hurried towards the exit, Frank heard someone call his name. ‘Mr Harvey?’
‘Yeah?’ He paused. Three people were hovering at the reception desk. An old guy. Mid to late eighties. A younger man, maybe early sixties.
‘We spoke on the phone last night.’
Frank guessed this third man was about his own age, late twenties, early thirties maybe.
‘Sorry to mess you about. I’ve just been kicked off the paper.’
‘You only started today.’
‘I work fast. Go on up, though. Tell your story to the editor. His name’s Jock. He’s a good reporter. Lousy editor, but good reporter. See you!’ He opened the door to leave.
‘No, wait! You don’t understand. We want you to cover our story, yeah. But not for the Chronicle. We want you to write a book about it.’
Frank hesitated. ‘Nah, not for me. Sorry. Good luck, though, chaps.’
The oldest of the three men approached Frank. He walked with a stick and wore a grey, full-length, cashmere coat and a black homburg. Something in his bearing made Frank pause. He spoke with a slight Russian accent. ‘Mr Harvey, this is all very fortuitous. Yes?’
‘What is?’
‘Well, our story will take maybe fifty minutes to tell. The public houses will be open in around an hour. Perfect timing, wouldn’t you say? It’s as though fate has brought us together in this propitious moment!’
The old man smiled and Frank laughed. ‘Fair enough. Do you know anywhere we can chat?’
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ said Leonard Alexander. ‘Why don’t we take a stroll along the seafront?’