Acme Time Travel Incorporated - Volume 1 -
Between the florist and the charity shop 8th June 2017 9:57am
Frinton-on-Sea is an old-fashioned coastal town on the south-east coast of England. On this day in June 2017, the weather is pleasantly warm. It is a warm weekday morning.
The offices of the Frinton and Dovercourt Gazette can be found just along the High Street; just after the butchers and the florist. Between the florist and adjacent charity shop can be found a small doorway.
There is a letterbox, but it has a metal plate bolted onto it; to prevent anything being posted into it. A small, grimy plastic doorbell is fastened to the right of the door, but bare wires sticking out suggest that it may no longer be as useful as it once was.
Painted (quite carefully) onto the glass panel in the top of the door is a sign saying
Frinton and Dovercourt Gazette
Prop. B Daniels
Below the sign is a scruffily hand-written note, sellotaped onto the glass, saying
Letter-box at top of stairs
If no one in, please
leave message next door
Below the writing there is an arrow pointing to the right. The arrow has been drawn clumsily in black marker pen.
If you had opened the door and went in, you would have been faced with a steep flight of wooden stairs, with no carpet or runners. At the top of the stairs you would have been able to see a door with a sign on it saying
Gazette
please knock
before entering
If you had knocked and then just stood there for a bit, you would most likely have heard the creaking of a chair being pushed back, and a gruff voice rumbling something that sounded like “proper bloody investigative reporters don’t just stand there behind a closed bloody door”.
If you had knocked and then gone in, you would have seen what looked very much like a single room above a shop, but a single room that housed a one-man-and-a-dog business. On your right you would have seen a big desk with a guy in his late 50’s (maybe early 60s) sitting behind it.
The desk would have been strewn with papers. Also, on the desk you would have noticed a brass plaque saying
BARNEY
To the left of the room you would have seen a smaller desk (quite tidy) with a laptop computer and with a piece of card folded in half, on which is written (in light pencil)
tbc
The rest of the room would have been filled with filing cabinets, half-opened, bulging with paperwork.
On the walls you would have seen framed (and yellowing) cuttings from the Gazette’s big stories
Prince Regent visits Frinton
Lucky dog escapes death trap
Bus services will fold
Blue-star beach accolade
The guy who is evidently called Barney looks at his watch. It is 9:57 am, and he looks sceptically at his online calendar.
His MS-Outlook tells him that he has ‘Gabriel interview’ at 10 am.
He mutters “Barney ... you are a gormless bastard,” but as he does so, he hears the sound of the street door opening, and footsteps coming up the stairs.
There is a pause as the footsteps stop just outside his office door, and then there is a brief knocking on the door.
Barney prepares to utter his usual comment, readied just for this very moment, but just then the door opens and a young chap walks into the room.
The young chap walks over towards Barney’s desk, saying
“Mr Daniels, I have come for the interview. I hope that the time is still alright for you. My name is Gabriel Jones.”
Barney stood up and proffered his hand.
Gabriel shook it.
Barney noticed that it was a firm handshake. Not weak. Not too hard. Not crushing.
Just a good, firm handshake.
“Please sit down ... that chair over there,” Barney said, pointing to the other desk.
Gabriel sat down, looking at the piece of card on the desk, saying ‘tbc’.
“Ok,” said Barney, “please tell me about yourself, and why a career in journalism, working for the finest local rag, and for the grumpiest local editor, would suit you.”
Gabriel looked a bit shocked and puzzled, but then Barney pulled open a desk drawer and took out a black fibre-tip pen. He threw the pen over to Gabriel.
Gabriel caught it easily. He held up the pen, turning the pen over in his hands. He looked unsure of its significance.
“Don’t bugger about, mate,” Barney chuckled. “Use the pen to write your name on the card, and then let’s get on with making you the best investigative journalist round these parts.”
Gabriel looked slightly stunned.
“Come on Gabe. Fancy a cuppa tea? The kettle’s over there.”
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