The Hanging by Paddy Bostock

Author:Paddy Bostock [Bostock, Paddy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781613093382
Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
Published: 2018-04-30T22:00:00+00:00

Twenty-three

“Sally, SAA-LL-EEE, get your sweet arse up here, RIGHT NOW,” Norman shrieked down into the newsroom from his editor-in-chief’s chair when Vilius’s message pinged into his inbox.

“What now? We’re meant to be meeting Snipes at The Parrot and Ewe in half an hour,” said Sally once she’d finished sexing up fledgling farm correspondent Frankie Fielding’s turgid piece on upcoming sheepdog trials, stumped up the stairs to Norman’s office and kicked her way through the door. “And don’t you ever refer to my arse that way again, okay?”

“O-kuh-kay. Only luh-look at this,” said a pale and cold-sweaty Norman, which even Sally McIntyre had to grant was unusual for a person who normally appeared ruddy even when The Keswick Gazette’s central heating broke down, as it just had for the seventeenth time since Christmas. Journos in fur hats and Alpine Man coats stamping their feet as they batted back calls from locals concerned there had been no recent updates on the hanging, although many contended it was “the PAX man what dunnit.”

“Look at what?” said Sally, after the “sweet arse” episode, standing no closer to Norman than necessary as she peered over his shoulder at the Apple Mac screen which had embarrassingly morphed into saver mode: the graduation photo of Norman in gown and mortarboard taken on the steps of Lancaster University gazing up at the heavens he wished would soon become his oyster.

“Sorry,” he said, scooting his mouse around its mat while Sally sucked in her cheeks and stared off.

“This,” he said when his emails were back up.

“Fuck me!” said Sally after speed-reading the message, her words causing Norman to spasm and clutch at his crotch. “You don’t think...?”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Norman. “And for me...”

“That would be a first?”

“You know me so well,” said Norman, holding out a hand Sally did not grasp. “D’you think we should tell Snipes?”

“And then sacrifice our scoop? You...have...got…to...be...kidding me, Norman Nightingale.”

“You could call me Norm if I could call you Sal.”

“Dream on, sunshine. Just write down the gist of what you’re seeing on-screen—and the name—on this piece of paper I’m going to give you,” said Sally, pulling a yellow-paged lawyer’s notepad from the back pocket of her jade-green, leather hipster Levi’s. “Then trash the email. Okay?”

“Okay, here we go,” said Norman, doing as ordered, then handing back to Sally the piece of paper with its scribbled message.

“Great,” said Sally, pocketing her prize. “So, time to meet the Snipes creep.”

“Who will have his pals with him.”

“Pals, brothers, sisters, whoever...you keep schtum about what we’ve just seen, okay?” said Sally. “And maybe comb your hair before we leave? It’s looking kind’ve...lank.”

~ * ~

Rodney Snipes was having so much fun dancing to the vocals-only, newly re-constituted Four Nicators—Kevin, Stan, Ron and Memo—he almost forgot his appointment with Norman Nightingale at The Parrot and Ewe. It was only when everyone swapped partners and he found himself jiving to “Jailhouse Rock” with a right little cracker called Cinna, that the memory hit.

“Shit,” he said, causing Cinna to frown.

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