Looking for Trouble (26 page)

In the cubicle, I turned the shower on full, hot as I could bear it. Under cover of the streaming, steaming water, I gave in to the pressure that had been swelling like a balloon in my chest. With my fists balled, I mouthed all those age-old clichés, railing against my pain, my outrage and sorrow. Over and over again. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, you bastard, you bastard, you fucking bastard, it’s not fair.

With an unusual sensitivity, Maddie treated me with great love and attention on my return. It wasn’t just in the way she was physically careful, sitting beside me rather than clambering on my lap, but also in the quick glances I noticed, where she seemed to be checking I was still okay. Her solicitude made me feel all teary.

I’d no energy and I was tucked up and sleeping before nightfall. When I finally hauled myself out of bed, eyes wincing at the harsh daylight, I was perversely pleased at the way my body ached. If I was physically in pain, it didn’t leave as much space for worrying about the deeper hurts, the anxiety and fear below the surface.

Downstairs, the house was a tip. At least Nana Tello and I didn’t compete over housework. She loathed cleaning. I’d no need to worry about sticky shelves and a smelly fridge.

I had tea and toast while she talked about the crime wave, about the Ordsall riots, the Moss Side shootings. She went through all the acquaintances she had who’d ever been mugged or burgled. She blamed the parents, she blamed the teachers, she blamed godlessness and the lack of National Service. She never mentioned poverty or inequality. Then she began to lecture me about not looking after myself, out at all times of the day and night, these places...

‘It was broad daylight. I was walking a few yards from my car to Diane’s door – what should I have done?’ I demanded.

‘Well...’ She was stuck for an answer. Her eyes shifted about, looking for a safer topic. ‘Clive’s a nice boy, you lucky to get a lodger like that.’

‘Clive’s a little shit, actually. We’re gonna chuck him out.’

‘Sal!’ She exploded.

‘I’m going back to bed,’ I said, ‘I feel sleepy.’

She clicked her tongue. Her face set with offence. I was too cross with her to apologise.

I wasn’t sleepy. I didn’t get into bed. Instead, I sorted out my drawers. I reunited pairs of socks, cleared out knickers with holes or dead elastic. I folded T-shirts and sweaters, put aside some for jumble, others for dusters. I cleared out my jewellery box. I dusted the clutter of little bottles on my shelf by the mirror and hung up the heap of clothes on the chair by the wardrobe. My thoughts fluttered about. I avoided trying to concentrate on anything. I lay down again and listened to the rain, the blackbird and the chatter of the magpies. I slipped into sleep and woke stiff and tense, with fragments of an ugly dream dissolving into obscurity.

Knocking at my door. ‘Come in.’

‘Sal, I brought you tea.’ She held up a mug.

‘Thanks.’ I wriggled up to a sitting position. My ribs hurt like hell. ‘I’m sorry about before.’

She sucked her teeth. ‘You should be,’ she said. ‘It’s bad for a woman, this language.’ She put my tea down and began to smooth the edge of the duvet with her hand.

‘We are asking Clive to go, though.’

‘Why?’

Didn’t Ray ever tell her anything? ‘He doesn’t pay the rent or the bills. He’s unreliable, he lies...’

‘He’s young,’ she said, her voice dripping indulgence. ‘He has to learn.’

‘Yeah, well, we’re teaching him a lesson.’

She sighed. So did I. She couldn’t see beyond Clive’s gross flattery. While I could imagine the savage way he’d caricature her to his friends. The crazy Italian Mama with the thick accent.

Tears came from nowhere and dripped in my tea. I put it down, astonished.

‘Oh, there, now lovey.’ She pulled my head to her bosom. I cried a bit but the jerking hurt my ribs. I quietened and pulled back.

‘I don’t know why I’m crying,’ I said.

“Cos they hurt you; you hurt, you cry.’

That simple.

‘Mrs Fraser cried for weeks and they didn’t mess her face up like they do you. I said to her, you cry, you cry all you like. Now,’ she stood up and put her hands on my shoulders, ‘I’ll get you some nice food, you see.’

I waited till she’d closed the door before giving in again to soft little sniffles of self-pity. Easier on the ribs but, even then, the way I screwed my face up tugged at the embroidery.

Invalid food Italian-style was a rich tomato soup followed by a creamy macaroni cheese pie. I ate like it was mid-winter and I was a navvy. Nana Tello beamed with pride. We were at peace for all of two hours. Till the kids came home.

Ray had gone to Asda. The rest of us were watching children’s television. I went to make drinks and caught the remarks as I came back into the lounge.

‘Knees together, Maddie, that’s right.’ Maddie was perched on the edge of the sofa, knees and ankles pressed together.

‘You don’t have to sit like that, Maddie.’ I tried to keep my tone light. Nana Tello glared.

‘Nana said.’

‘Well, I don’t think you need to bother about it.’

‘She’s showing her knickers,’ Nana hissed at me.

‘She’s four years old, for Christ’s sake.’

She drew breath sharply at my blasphemy but ploughed on. ‘There’s a lot a funny people about.’

‘I know, but that’s nothing to do with how Maddie sits or what she wears – don’t start blaming her.’ It was the old ‘she asked for it’ mentality. I was tempted to chuck in Martin Hobbs as an example, but I didn’t want to escalate the argument. I could see Tom looking worried. ‘I’m going in the garden.’

The rain had stopped, everything was sodden. Fresh sweet-peas decked the canes. The grass needed mowing as soon as it dried off and I was up to it. I pottered round, dead-heading window boxes and tubs, making a mental note to tidy up the rockery, where periwinkle and alyssum were fighting for space.

I’d been hoping to hear from Inspector Miller. Surely he’d take my allegations a bit more seriously, now I’d been duffed up? I suppose he was busy making the case against Derek Carlton; a minor assault like mine would be low on the list. And it wasn’t actually Smiley who’d jumped me. It still seemed grossly unfair that Smiley had sent his dog-men after me without even waiting to see if I’d heeded his warning. I guess I expected even villains to play by some sort of rules. Naive.

My mind turned from work to money. The lack of it. If Ray was right about Clive’s debts, then I needed to up my production level. Get more work. My stomach lurched. Work. I should’ve been at the electrical goods shop, seeing the man about suspected pilfering. Shit. I tried to ring and got the ansaphone. Left a grovelling apology and begged him to contact me again if he thought we could do business. Kept it vague enough so it wouldn’t alert any potential pilferers to the nature of my job. Pilfering always smacks of missing biros and envelopes, but this bloke’s losses were running into hundreds a month; microwaves and VCRs going walkies.

Oh, well. My advert would be in at the end of the week. Maybe now was a good time to reapply for Housing Benefit. Given the paltry level of income over the last few weeks, I’d probably qualify again. Or should I go for family credit? I couldn’t get both, and family credit meant free prescriptions and dental care. I didn’t want to wallow in my poverty. It was time to start thinking positive and looking ahead. I could follow up the ad in the paper with a few cards in shop windows.

The trouble was, I was still holding onto the letter to Martin Hobbs, an obligation hanging round my neck like an albatross. What could I do now? He hadn’t come to the door when I’d called last time. There’d definitely been someone there, radio playing, water running. I needed some proof he was there, then perhaps I could send the letter by recorded delivery. Make a copy for safekeeping? It was time to do some muck-raking.

I rang Nina.

‘What’s with the garbage, Sal?’

‘Sorry. I thought if I went through it I might be able to tell if Martin was staying there. You know, different cigarette packets, frozen dinners for two, maybe even correspondence to Martin. If you could just hang on to it for a while?’

‘How long is a while? If the weather gets any warmer it is not going to be very pleasant.’

‘I know. It’s just that I’ve had...’ what would Ray have said ‘...a bit of bad luck.’

‘So I hear. Your husband said you were mugged.’

‘He’s not my husband.’

‘Well, that’s stupid. If he dies, you have a whole heap of legal trouble to prove you should get the house and...’

‘No, you don’t understand. We just live together, we’re not having a relationship.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. So, are you hurt?’

‘Bit shaken up, cuts and bruises.’

‘Mmm.’ I knew she wanted the bin-bags shifting, but no way was I going off to oblige until I was capable.

‘Actually, half the rubbish is yours. I just grabbed everything near the gates. So you could work out which is which and chuck that.’

‘And go through the rest, while I’m at it?’

‘No, I wasn’t suggesting...’

‘But that would be quicker than waiting for you to do it.’

‘Well,’ she was right, ‘yes.’

‘Right. So what you want is anything that points to who is living next door, particularly anything suggesting our missing teenager?’

‘Yeah. If you can bear it.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ she said dryly and rang off.

Diane came round that evening with a litre of red wine and a bag of black olives, done Provencal-style with herbs. She was sporting a lovely midnight-blue tunic with a meandering cream and gold print on it (one of hers) and had earrings to match, but she looked tense round the eyes and her laughter was a mite too hearty. We adjourned to my room, away from interruptions, and settled into the easy chairs by the bay window. With the curtain open, we could see the sunset ripple day-glo colours in and out of the scattered clouds.

I told Diane the gist of what had happened before she found me on the pavement and recounted to her my recent escapades trying to reach Martin Hobbs. She liked the bit about the wig. She was convinced that Fraser and Eddie Kenton were probably using Martin to make porno movies.

‘Well, that would explain why they were both so hostile to my visits,’ I said. ‘I know Kenton’s walked that way before but Fraser doesn’t strike me as a porno merchant. He’s no need of the money and he’s so...starchy.’

‘Maybe that’s how he relaxes.’ She raised her eyebrows at me.

‘Well, it’s all supposition and it’s nothing to do with me, especially now they’ve got someone for Janice’s death. I need work I’ll get paid for.’

I didn’t want to talk about me all night. ‘Barcelona,’ I said.

She screwed up her face and puffed out her cheeks.

‘Come on, all the grisly details.’

‘Oh, Sal, it was a disaster from start to finish. I had my bag nicked the first afternoon and Ben went on about how careless I’d been with it, then I started with cystitis, awful, I was pissing blood...’

‘Wait,’ I shrieked. ‘Start at the very beginning, don’t miss anything out. The airport...’

‘Okay,’ she filled our glasses and took a swig, ‘the airport.’

The practical cock-ups of the holiday had become funnier with the passing of time but when she got to the part where she and Ben discussed ending the relationship, she came over all tearful and I could see how raw the wounds still were. I went and put my arms round her. When she’d finished crying, I passed her the box of tissues and refilled her glass.

‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ I said, ‘not turning up and not phoning. It honestly just went right out of my head. You’re really important to me, you know. I don’t want to mess you about.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ she said. ‘You’ll set me off again.’

I grinned, chewed on an olive.

‘Has my mascara run?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

She stood up and went over to the mirror, used tissue and cream to wipe away the navy streaks. ‘The trouble is,’ she said, ‘it’s always the same. The relationship starts off brilliantly and goes downhill from there on in. And they always want more, they want to take over, they want me cooking tea every night, they want marriage or babies. I thought men were supposed to be scared of commitment. I just keep thinking it’s always going to be like this, always.’ Her voice started getting squeaky. ‘And I don’t think I can bear it.’ She crumpled again. I went and hugged her again. Tears tickled my own nose in sympathy.

We drank more wine, ate more olives. I told Diane about my clashes with Nana Tello. She told me about her work – her latest commission was going well. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about it and she waved her arms about in big sweeping gestures. By the time we’d emptied the bottle, our friendship was back on line.

I saw her out and waited on the back steps while she unlocked her bike.

‘And remember,’ she said, as she snapped on her lights, ‘next time, there’s no need to go battering your head on the pavement – an apology will do fine. Talk about attention-seeking!’