My Name is Frankie
It took him a while to find the desk, hidden away as it was behind a partition at the far end of the arrivals hall. They were always renovatin’ the feckin’ place, could they not leave well enough alone? An ATM flashed and beeped at him, making him jump as he approached the young woman at O’Brien’s – Value Vehicles.

He had the sag of a man on a rapid exit from middle age; trousers of an indeterminate green-brown colour drooped from his belt, a grey collared t-shirt ruffled over his paunch. One of his shoes squeaked a little bit. He carried a small black holdall, a nylon thing on sale at one of those anonymous sports superstores where the music would deafen you and the staff’s attitude would cut you. On sale if you don’t mind. Was a time for that price you could’ve bought an ensemble of luggage and had enough change for a flight to Monaco. She was lovely that Grace Kelly, a classy bird. You don’t get that nowadays. It’s all highlights and plastic nails.

He smiled brightly at the woman behind the counter.
“Afternoon love. I’ve got a car booked.”
“Howiya sir. Sure most people coming up to me have somethin’ booked. We are the Best Value Vehicles after all!” She winked at him.
“Is that some line they make you trot out? I hope you have somethin’ nice for me now. Last time I got some awful yoke, bright yella it was. I felt like I was drivin’ a feckin’ banana. The brother gave me awful grief over it.”

The woman giggled. She was smartly dressed in a green uniform but the hands that covered her face as she laughed ended in ragged little nails, the cuticles gnawed down to the quick.
“What’s the name there sir and I’ll see what we’ve got you down for?”
“…..Byrne,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t catch the first name sir.” He didn’t want her to. Bloody saint’s name.
“Francis.”
“Like Assissi?”
“The very same. But Frankie for short. Like Valli.” Those showband days. He’d never have those back again.
“Me too!”
“What’s that?”
“My name is Frankie. But like Frankie and Johnny.” She tapped her name badge, although it was a soft tap, on account of the nails.
“You’re too young for that!”
“1991 Pfeiffer and Pacino.”
“Ah, nothin’s original anymore. Your da must have been a terror to give you a chap’s name like that.”

Her voice didn’t miss a beat but the nails were in her gob like a flash.
“I never hear from the aul fella.”
He looked at her.
“I have a young wan about your age. Melissa she is. She ran off mind, a few years back. Couldn’t get on with the ma. I don’t hear from her either.”

She pushed a pile of forms towards him, indicating with a flick of her pen where he should sign. He took a while to get through them all, stretching out his weathered fingers as he went. She studied his bald patch intently, wondered about his whiskery cheeks – were they rough or soft?

“You don’t live here permanently now so?”
“No love, in England a long time now. Back for a funeral.”
“Sorry.”
“Same way we all go.”
“The car is green by the way. The whole fleet is green now. Management decision",she rolled her eyes, “so you might look a bit like an apple, but sure it’s got to be one up from a banana.” She laughed again.

He took the keys from her and padded across the shiny floor. A fluorescent light buzzed over him on his way out. He stopped a minute and walked back to where Frankie was starting to tear into a Cadbury’s Twirl. His hand was curled into a fist around the keys. He knocked it gently on the counter.

“Two-way thing these phones. Give yer da a ring love, if you can. I’ve never had a number for Melissa. Good luck now.”

***

Frankie wasn’t supposed to watch the little portable TV she had by her desk, but no-one else was booked in for the afternoon and the other desks were shut up so she had no-one to talk to. She put the set on quietly in the background, idly flicking through an old magazine and spilling chocolate crumbs on it. On impulse she pulled a pink address book out of her handbag. A tatty old thing, it had arrived on her 13th birthday; even then it was too young for her. A kid’s book, with a girl in a flowery hat and big eyes on the front. His number was proudly scrawled at the front, under A. Adam (Da!) and a number up north somewhere. Eejit. Something on the small screen caught her eye. News footage, what looked like only a few miles out from the airport on the motorway. A pile-up. And there, in the middle of it, like an upturned crab, its hazard lights blinking furiously, a small green car. It didn’t look much like an apple really, she’d only said it to make him smile. But it was an O’Brien’s alright, the very one she’d just signed out. A scrawny aul wan with big hair was jabbering into a microphone out on the motorway. It looked as though it was lashing. Frankie had not remembered to bring her brolly.

“…..gardai have issued a statement to the effect that inclement weather had made driving conditions hazardous, and that no one vehicle or driver was to blame for the accident. There were no survivors of the ten-car pile-up.”

Frankie switched off the TV and threw the chocolate wrapper in the bin. On reflection, she threw the pink address book in after it. He was a bastard anyways.