I pick up my bag again.
“And Josh?”
“Yes?”
“If he brings a notebook on day one, tell him to write down that I already regret this.”
Josh smiles.
“That,” he says, “might be the most honest opening line he gets.”
6
Chapter 5
AJ
There are several waysto arrive at a fire station where everyone has a professional reason to dislike you.
Early, I decide, is probably the least idiotic.
Late would make me look arrogant. Exactly on time would make me look as if I had spent the morning sitting in the car having an existential crisis, which would be both unhelpful and, unfortunately, too close to the truth. Early suggests respect. Early suggests preparation. Early suggests a man who has not changed shirts three times and googled whether journalists are statistically more likely to be murdered by hoses than ordinary members of the public.
I pull into the car park at Fellside Fire Station at 7.43 a.m. and sit for a moment with both hands on the steering wheel.
The building looks smaller than I expected.
Not small, exactly. Practical. Brick, glass, wide doors where the fire engines come out, a yard marked with lines and equipment zones I assume mean something important to people who know what they are doing. Beyond it, the hills rise in the distance, grey-green under a lowmorning sky. There is a damp shine on the tarmac and the air smells faintly of wet leaves, diesel and that particular rural freshness that always makes me feel as if I should be wearing better trainers.
On the passenger seat beside me is a notebook, two pens, the visitor information pack Marie Louise sent over, and a packet of mints I bought because I panicked in a petrol station and apparently decided fresh breath might save my career.
Excellent.
Strong start.
I get out of the car before I can begin itemising my personal failings by category, lock it, then immediately check that I have locked it because I am not above becoming my own elderly relative under pressure.
The front entrance opens before I reach it.
A man steps out, carrying a mug and wearing the relaxed expression of someone greeting a guest rather than receiving a human apology parcel from the local newspaper.
I recognise him after half a second from the midnight research I resorted to last night when I couldn’t sleep.
Station Manager Josh Walker. Former watch manager here, according to the fire service website. Married, if the Greenview Manor charity dinner photos I definitely did not spend too long scrolling through are still accurate. The sort of man whose online presence suggests competence, local goodwill and an alarming number of waterproof jackets.
“Anthony?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “Although AJ is fine.”
“Josh Walker.”
His handshake is firm, brief and without any need to prove something, which I appreciate. Men who use handshakes as miniature combat sports should be made to assemble flat-pack furniture without instructions until they reconsider their choices.
“Thanks for having me,” I say.
Josh’s mouth twitches again. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Too optimistic?”
