by the way he wears his hat slightly
offcentre, as if to make a point. By the fact that he’s got his nightstick out as he patrols up and down the line and slaps
it against his palm, rhythmically, as he eyes the women with an expression somewhere between a sneer and a leer. There’s a
few of them in every town. He reminds her of her brother Darren: his air of sex with a predatory edge. A nasty young man,
but he might well be useful.
She can’t wait to be done with this piece. She wants to get home and sort things out with Jim. And she still has the remains
of her two-day hangover. She wants to be at the dining-room table that doubles as her office, back in Farnham, with a cup
of proper coffee and the laptop open and her husband mollified. She will be, soon. Just needs to mingle, like the rest of
the press pack, with the first trippers back into Funnland, and she’s out of here. She has fifteen hundred words to file by
lunchtime tomorrow and needs to get writing.
The queue edges forward. She’s amused to see that a lot of her colleagues are also mingling undeclared among the civilians
in the hope of picking up some juicy, usable quotes without having to seek permission, studiously ignoring each other though
they will all be buying each other drinks in a couple of hours. Stan shambles up the street, looking as hungover as she feels.
Thelandlord of the White Horse will probably be able to take the rest of the summer off. Few drinkers are as free-spending as
a journalist on expenses.
He walks past the straggly queue and straight up to her.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says loudly, for the benefit of the people behind. ‘Took ages to find a parking space.’
He slots himself in beside her, lowers his voice. ‘Of course, it’s less about the queue than the company.’
‘Is that you being roguish?’ she asks.
He slide his specs down his nose, twinkles at her over them. ‘I wouldn’t know how.’
He offers her an Extra Strong Mint and they shuffle along companionably.
‘Get back to your room all right the other night?’ she asks.
‘I should be asking
you
that,’ he says. ‘You were so many sheets to the wind I thought you might go flapping off across the Channel. And how
was
your room, after you dodged the Ripper?’
‘Thanks for that, Mr Pot. It was great. It had a sink in the corner for throwing up in. But tell you what, I’m in such bad
odour at home, I should be wearing a hazard label. I completely forgot we were having some City cheeses over to dinner to
try and oil them up for a job for Jim.’
‘Oops.’
‘I was so hungover, I actually threw up.’
‘Not at the table, I hope?’ asks Stan.
She laughs.
‘We’ll make a pro of you yet, my girl.’
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I don’t think you can call him a ripper, can you? Strangler, surely?’
His face takes on a contemplative look. ‘The Whitmouth Strangler. It doesn’t have much of a ring to it, does it?’
‘The Seaside Strangler?’
‘Nice. Like it. I found what looked like some dried snot on my bedspread. Which wasn’t very conducive to a good night’s sleep.’
‘Bed-bug numbers are up globally, you know.’
‘For God’s sake. I’m getting that camper van. I hardly ever go home as it is.’
‘Then you could go to the seaside every day,’ she says.
‘Ah, wouldn’t that be lovely? I must say, I’m enjoying this little interlude.’
‘Me too,’ she says. ‘It’s like being on holiday. Are you going on the rollercoaster?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You?’
‘Still feeling a bit frail,’ she says. ‘I might have to give it a miss.’
‘Amateur,’ says Stan, and shakes his head. ‘How’s your piece shaping up?’
Kirsty shrugs. ‘Oh, you know. You can find whatever your editor wants you to find. Jack’s after Third Circle of Hell stuff.
So that’s what I’m giving him.’
‘That’s why I joined the press,’ says Stan. ‘The relentless quest for
offcentre, as if to make a point. By the fact that he’s got his nightstick out as he patrols up and down the line and slaps
it against his palm, rhythmically, as he eyes the women with an expression somewhere between a sneer and a leer. There’s a
few of them in every town. He reminds her of her brother Darren: his air of sex with a predatory edge. A nasty young man,
but he might well be useful.
She can’t wait to be done with this piece. She wants to get home and sort things out with Jim. And she still has the remains
of her two-day hangover. She wants to be at the dining-room table that doubles as her office, back in Farnham, with a cup
of proper coffee and the laptop open and her husband mollified. She will be, soon. Just needs to mingle, like the rest of
the press pack, with the first trippers back into Funnland, and she’s out of here. She has fifteen hundred words to file by
lunchtime tomorrow and needs to get writing.
The queue edges forward. She’s amused to see that a lot of her colleagues are also mingling undeclared among the civilians
in the hope of picking up some juicy, usable quotes without having to seek permission, studiously ignoring each other though
they will all be buying each other drinks in a couple of hours. Stan shambles up the street, looking as hungover as she feels.
Thelandlord of the White Horse will probably be able to take the rest of the summer off. Few drinkers are as free-spending as
a journalist on expenses.
He walks past the straggly queue and straight up to her.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says loudly, for the benefit of the people behind. ‘Took ages to find a parking space.’
He slots himself in beside her, lowers his voice. ‘Of course, it’s less about the queue than the company.’
‘Is that you being roguish?’ she asks.
He slide his specs down his nose, twinkles at her over them. ‘I wouldn’t know how.’
He offers her an Extra Strong Mint and they shuffle along companionably.
‘Get back to your room all right the other night?’ she asks.
‘I should be asking
you
that,’ he says. ‘You were so many sheets to the wind I thought you might go flapping off across the Channel. And how
was
your room, after you dodged the Ripper?’
‘Thanks for that, Mr Pot. It was great. It had a sink in the corner for throwing up in. But tell you what, I’m in such bad
odour at home, I should be wearing a hazard label. I completely forgot we were having some City cheeses over to dinner to
try and oil them up for a job for Jim.’
‘Oops.’
‘I was so hungover, I actually threw up.’
‘Not at the table, I hope?’ asks Stan.
She laughs.
‘We’ll make a pro of you yet, my girl.’
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I don’t think you can call him a ripper, can you? Strangler, surely?’
His face takes on a contemplative look. ‘The Whitmouth Strangler. It doesn’t have much of a ring to it, does it?’
‘The Seaside Strangler?’
‘Nice. Like it. I found what looked like some dried snot on my bedspread. Which wasn’t very conducive to a good night’s sleep.’
‘Bed-bug numbers are up globally, you know.’
‘For God’s sake. I’m getting that camper van. I hardly ever go home as it is.’
‘Then you could go to the seaside every day,’ she says.
‘Ah, wouldn’t that be lovely? I must say, I’m enjoying this little interlude.’
‘Me too,’ she says. ‘It’s like being on holiday. Are you going on the rollercoaster?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You?’
‘Still feeling a bit frail,’ she says. ‘I might have to give it a miss.’
‘Amateur,’ says Stan, and shakes his head. ‘How’s your piece shaping up?’
Kirsty shrugs. ‘Oh, you know. You can find whatever your editor wants you to find. Jack’s after Third Circle of Hell stuff.
So that’s what I’m giving him.’
‘That’s why I joined the press,’ says Stan. ‘The relentless quest for
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