January 29. Historic Wigan mills regeneration plan approved

 Frank scans the beer pumps, looking for something to take the taste away, Forgetful Summer or Wandering Peasant seem to be the best options, but he settles on a pint of Swallow Dive and tries to pay with paper money, as always, an ongoing protest on behalf of others that can’t use contactless.

The Broken Collar is the oldest pub in town, no tv, no music, just a fruit machine to drown out the past, the racists, and the nimbies. He adds a cheese and onion cob as a side and takes his seat towards the back of the bar, which provides him with a good view of the main door, and close enough to the side entrance to leave unnoticed. He’s worn out, on the floor he crunches bits of old crisps into chalk.

Last week’s vote had been close, the councillors had seemed more confused than suspicious, but seven days is too long for them not to have worked it out. He drains the last of his pint and places it back on the bar seeing in the distance outside, a taxi door opening and a tangle of disgruntled councillors legs rearrange themselves into the lower halves of three separate people heading his way.

The girls are out to get him, for certain, but before they see him Frank spins on his heel and makes his exit


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