Black Moss (Manc Noir Book 1) by David Nolan

Author:David Nolan [Nolan, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fahrenheit Press
Published: 2018-09-26T23:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-NINE

2.20 pm Monday 20 June 2016

‘Danny boy!’ cried Gary Keenan as he opened the door behind the MRFM reception and wedged it open with his body. ‘Walk this way.’

Gary’s ponytailed hair was as white as chalk. He’d put on a few stones in weight since Danny had last seen him, but he appeared to be wearing exactly the same combination of jeans, grey sweatshirt and keys that he’d worn in 1990. He stuck out his hand. Danny shook it, gasping slightly at the unnecessary firmness of the engineer’s grip. ‘Can’t Stop the Feeling!’ by Justin Timberlake accompanied them down a corridor then through an open-plan office. On one side, sales staff – some wearing headsets – talked to potential clients on the phone. On the other, journalists – about four of them – silently edited digital recordings on their laptops, quietly tapping in their scripts as they went. The sound of clattering typewriters was nowhere to be heard. Nor was there any shouting and swearing. Danny was shocked at how clean the new MRFM was compared to the coffee stains and fag burns of the old station. It looked and felt more like a call centre than a radio station.

‘How are you then, Danny boy?’ boomed Keenan, pushing his teardrop glasses up his nose as they walked. ‘I hear you’ve been doing a bit of landscape gardening with your motor down in London.’

‘Yeah, you could say that. Thanks, as ever, for your warmth and concern, Gary.’

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ the engineer replied as he pushed open the door of his office. A sign on the door read: THE ANSWER’S FUCK OFF – NOW, WHAT’S THE QUESTION? Although they were in a different building in a different century, Gary’s office seemed largely unchanged. There were wires, soldering irons, plastic tubs full of batteries and boxes of tiny, discarded earphones. As Gary motioned for him to take a seat, Danny’s eye caught an upright pole on the engineer’s desk. It was the kind normally found in a bathroom to hold multiple toilet rolls. Instead, it was stacked with rolls of different-coloured gaffa tape.

The engineer cleared away a small stack of electronics magazines and tool catalogues and gestured for Danny to take a seat. ‘Don’t wish to be rude, Gary,’ said Danny. ‘Which obviously means I’m about to say something really rude, but how the hell are you still at Manchester Radio? You should be retired by now, surely?’

‘Cheeky bastard, I’m not even sixty yet. Not much older than you. I’ve always looked old, that’s my problem. Dealing with shit from journalists for decades has aged me prematurely.’

‘Sorry. It always felt like everyone was older than me back then. Like everyone knew what they were doing. And I didn’t.’

‘We were all just making it up as we went along, mate.’ The engineer laughed. ‘Still am, to be honest. Mind you, very different world now, Danny boy. No tape recorders, radio cars or razor blades any more. It’s all done with iPhones, mate, by a handful of journos.

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