‘Bloody pile of complaints, never goes down. It’s like a torment in a Greek tragedy,’ he grumbled. ‘Given the choice I’d have preferred to have my liver pecked out daily like Prometheus than have Sir Basil constantly kicking me in the bollocks. This week has been particularly a c— . . . taxing.’ He twisted on his heel mid-sentence.
‘Bad, eh?’ asked Laurie.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe. Nobody can bloody proofread any more these days. I don’t know which planet we get these knobheads from. They come to us armed with qualifications dropping out of their arses and not an atom of common sense. Not one. I mean . . .’ He picked up a letter from the pile on his desk and read aloud. ‘ “I was greatly offended by the story in last week’s Daily Trumpet about my mother Mrs Doreen Pitt”.’
Laurie’s brain spun; trying to work out why Mrs Pitt’s daughter was annoyed enough to send in a letter to the editor.
Alan now read from the newspaper clipping attached to the letter.
‘ “Mrs Doreen Pitt was awarded first prize in the WI croquet competition. The judge said that he took it into consideration that the woman had never been in trouble before and sentenced her to forty hours of community service.” Clearly two stories have got mixed up there. Three if you count that she was actually the winner of a crochet competition. We issued an apology. Of course we did. To Mrs Doreen Titt. Apparently we are responsible for the flare-up of her acne.’
Laurie hooted. She couldn’t help herself. At the same time she realised how alien it felt to laugh these days, to feel the stomach muscles work.
‘The one I’m most worried about is the day in the life of the mayor where he insists on starting each day with a golden shower instead of a cold one, according to us. He’s a nasty bleeder, this mayor, as well. And he’s got about as much of a sense of humour as I have. Doesn’t help that bloody Juice Hughes keeps chucking sausage rolls at him everywhere he goes. Oh yes, go on laugh, why don’t you, young lady.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Laurie. ‘Thank you for this already, Alan. I haven’t laughed like this in months.’
The phone rang. Alan snatched it up and the look on his face said it all. His eyes shuttered down as if he wanted to keep out the world. When he did speak, he was remarkably calm. Or spent, as he would have described it.
‘He’s a golfer isn’t he? Suggest a donation to their retired old bastards fund, Flo, he’ll take it. I know him. Pringle-wearing prat. Goodbye.’
Alan made a noise like a punctured balloon, before turning his attention back to the coffee machine. He put down a mug in front of Laurie.
‘As my great gran, God rest her soul, used to say, “If you don’t laugh in this shithole, you’d cry buckets,” ’ he said. ‘Drink your coffee before we make a proper start. Here – posh treats. Fortnum and Mason hamper arrived for Sir Basil but they inadvertently left out the biscuits which arrived by separate carrier so I nabbed them. I’ll deny all knowledge if asked. He’s diabetic anyway. I’m saving him from himself.’
Laurie picked up the first foolscap file but her thoughts were lingering on what she had just said. She hadn’t laughed in months. No, it was longer, much longer than that.
Chapter 3
There was a lot of time to think in this job, more than people would have realised. They presumed being a firefighter was continual stimulation and Pete Moore had seen a lot of people who joined up and couldn’t hack the amount of tedium that far outweighed the gung-ho stuff. Luckily for him – although not so lucky for others – there had been a lot of call-outs recently. Vandals setting light to rubber tyres, malfunctioning alarms, wood fires; nothing too major, though. He was glad of the activity. It took his mind away from settling on thoughts he didn’t want to have. Thoughts about how different his life was now to how it had been six months ago. Before his wife died.
A job came in to attend the children’s playground in Edgefoot. It was still referred to as ‘the playground’ even though the council had grown sick of replacing the vandalised swings and called it a day. All that remained of it now were bare patches of grass where the spider’s-web roundabout, climbing frame and slide once stood and a large rectangle of tarmac which still served as a basketball and football pitch. The demarcation painted lines had long gone, as had the slam-dunk hoops but the iron fence around it still remained. It would take colossal strength to bend the rails, but someone had managed it, which is why a fire engine had been deployed here. With his head stuck in between them was an infamous town drunk, Jason Hughes, better known as Juice because of his once bright-orange hair, as long gone as the swings.
‘Now then, Juice,’ said the gaffer Andy Burlap, ‘how the heck did you get in this mess?’
‘No idea,’ said Juice. ‘I just woke up like this.’ There was a mug of milky tea in front of him, untouched. Apparently the woman who had phoned 999 had taken that and a round of toast over for him on a paper plate, but then she’d had to dash off to work.
Andy leaned over to assess how they were going to get Juice out of there. He coughed as his nose entered Juice’s personal space. Weed, wee, alcohol, sweat and more layers of unpleasantness assaulted Andy’s nasal receptors. He’d been at school with Juice; he’d been just an ordinary kid then. He was never going to be chief scientist at NASA but he should have achieved more in life than to become the town joke, the one who bought sausage rolls in the Pound Bakery just to break up and throw at policemen and dignitaries; who busked outside the market with a school recorder even though he couldn’t play a note. In his head, Andy still saw the flame-haired kid in the too-big jumper and holey shoes whose mam was known to everyone as Dirty Di.
‘The bars have been bent back in to make sure he doesn’t get out,’ said Andy to Pete. ‘Britain’s Strongest Man couldn’t have done a better job.’
‘Silly cow didn’t put any sugar in that tea,’ Juice said with a chuckle, still obviously drunk or high. ‘And I hate milk. It gives me the shits.’
Pete noticed Juice’s neck was red raw. He’d obviously been struggling to get out, even if he couldn’t remember doing it.
‘You’ve got yourself in a right pickle here, lad,’ said Krish, who had come over from India in his teens but spoke ‘Tyke’ as well as any born-and-bred Yorkshireman. He shook his head, let drop a heavy sigh; his expression read, what a waste. Krish had saved Juice’s life once when he’d decided to have a barbecue in the squat he used to stay in. The fire he caused hadn’t killed him, nor had the carbon monoxide fumes. He had the luck of the devil, which was ironic considering the state of him.
A small amused crowd had gathered to watch the activities, including a smart young man taking photos on an iPad. Pete recognised him as a reporter from the Daily Trumpet who had turned up on his doorstep just after the accident. He’d got as far as ‘I know this must be a difficult time but I’m Jordan from the Daily Trumpet, could you give us a few words . . .’ before Pete’s brother Griff had butted in and dealt with him, sternly but still politely. The kid was only doing his job after all, but on that occasion, he’d have to get his information from elsewhere.