Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

Diane took a cursory glance at the baby, then folded her arms and looked at me. ‘And you’ve no idea whose she is?’

‘None. Look, here’s the note. What d’you think that says?’ I pointed to the signature.

She took the paper, peered at it. ‘Lear? Lisa?’

‘Isn’t that an “H” at the beginning?’

‘Or an “L”? Dunno. Waifs and strays, again, eh?’ Diane thought I was too quick to jump in and rescue people.

‘Hey, I didn’t go out looking for her. And I could hardly send her packing.’

She nodded at the note. ‘So have you told anyone?’

‘No. Ray thinks I should.’

‘How is the delectable Ray?’

The image of Ray scowling about Jamie was replaced in my mind by our impromptu afternoon sex. Something must have showed on my face because Diane hooted with laughter. ‘Hah! Still steamy, huh? You’re like a pair of teenagers.’

I smiled, fighting embarrassment. ‘Like I say, he’s not best pleased with our visitor – or how I’m handling it.’ I checked my watch: time to go.

‘How long will you be?’ she asked warily. Diane is the most practical person I know: she hews wood, can build a kiln and fire pottery, erect scaffolding, bake cakes, weld metal. She can turn her hand to any sort of material but when faced with a small child she’s a dead loss.

‘A couple of hours max. She’ll probably sleep for a while. If she starts to cry you add some boiling water to this.’ I pulled out the bottle, which already had a feed in. ‘Add about an inch, shake it, test it on your hand. Should be lukewarm.’ Grabbing a cushion, I demonstrated. ‘Hold her like this, bottle this way up.’ I showed her the odd-shaped teat. ‘She’ll latch on. Let her have as much as she likes.’

‘Burping and stuff?’

‘Very good,’ I teased. ‘You’ve been swotting.’

Diane glared.

‘Just hold her upright, pat her if you like, it’s not essential. If she fills her nappy…’

Diane shot me a look.

‘… I’ll change her when I get back.’ I’d promised Diane no nappies. I decided not to even mention vomit.

‘Anything else?’

‘If she wakes up you can talk to her.’

‘What about?’ She frowned.

I kept a straight face. ‘Or just put her where she can see you while you get on with what you’re doing.’ I glanced around; usually Diane’s latest project is evident from the state of the place but there were no sketches or paintings, boxes of fabric or reference books scattered about. ‘What are you working on?’

‘Resting.’ Her description of the times between practical work when she cast about for new ideas. She had not long ago finished a triptych of mixed media pieces based on landscape photos from our holiday to Cuba together. The trip of a lifetime, made to celebrate Diane completing her cycles of chemo.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I promised and left her to it.

The traffic was heavy and slow along Wilmslow Road, through Rusholme’s Curry Mile. I distracted myself by gazing in the shop windows, picking out my favourite shalwar kameez, or comparing the fancy neon signs for the different restaurants and watching the pedestrians pass: students streaming in towards the universities, local people shopping for groceries, a group of women in richly patterned African dress, others in saris chatting to a shopkeeper in his flowing white galabiyya.

We crawled past the park and the infirmary, where a taxi and a bus got into a hooting competition after a near miss in the bus lane, on past the universities and the BBC building. Today the weather was muted. A change to neutral, the sky a hazy grey, blanketed with thick cloud; the trees still, the pavements muffled by the mush of crushed leaves.

I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Damien Beswick again. He was awkward company and for all Chloe’s efforts I wasn’t sure that he’d be any more forthcoming than last time.

After passing through the gatehouse and the security checks, I was escorted to the same room. When Damien came in he looked tired: his eyes were pink, slightly bloodshot and he slumped into the chair. That nervy restlessness was still there, a foot tapping, his fingers moving to and fro, tracing the table’s edge.

I got straight down to business. ‘Chloe said you’d remembered something else.’

‘I’ve been trying,’ he said.

‘And?’

He shrugged. I felt a lick of impatience. He looked shifty, scratched at his sideburn. ‘I’ve tried,’ he repeated. So it was a con. There’s no stunning new evidence to support his claim to innocence, nothing new. He had wasted my time. I was on the brink of walking out but hated the thought of a wasted journey. Before calling it quits I would try out what I’d learned from Geoff Sinclair.

‘Right,’ I said brusquely. ‘What I want to do is go over the events at the cottage in more detail. OK?’

He sighed. ‘Yeah.’

‘And what I want you to do,’ I explained, ‘is try and relax a bit; sometimes it is easier to remember if you don’t force it.’

His eyes shone. ‘Guinness Book of Records; there’s this guy, he can remem-’

‘Damien.’ I cut him off. ‘Do you want to do this?’

He closed his mouth tight, hands fisted; he rubbed one set of knuckles on the other. ‘I don’t like to think about it,’ he said. His jaw was rigid, jutting forward, clenched emotion. ‘It’s in my head. I can’t get it out of my head.’ He wouldn’t look at me.

‘Do you need to see a doctor or a counsellor?’

‘I’ve put a slip in.’ I assumed that meant he’d requested an appointment. There was a long pause. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Whatever you need. I didn’t kill him.’

‘It might help if you close your eyes.’

‘You gonna hypnotize us?’ A spark of humour.

‘No.’

He let his head drop, folded his arms. A defensive move? Or protective?

‘You were on the bus – think about that. You’d come from Sheffield. Was the bus busy?’

‘Nah. Couple of old grannies, a girl with a little kid.’

‘And you got thrown off?’

‘I hadn’t enough to get to Manchester. Thought the driver’d forgotten but he pulls in and turns the engine off. He’s giving it out, blah, blah, blah. Comes up, wants my name and address.’

‘What did he look like?’

Damien opened his eyes, looked at me.

‘Think of it as practise, exercising your memory,’ I said.

He rubbed his chin, let his head fall again. ‘Fat bloke, glasses.’

‘Good. What was he wearing?’

‘Uniform?’ It sounded like he was guessing.

‘Only tell me what you can see, what you’re sure about. Don’t guess.’

‘Can’t remember,’ he said.

‘OK. You get off the bus. What’s it like?’

‘Freezing.’ He folded his arms tightly.

‘What else?’

‘The wind’s blowing. It’s dark.’

‘What are you wearing?’ I asked.

‘Jeans, sweat-top, jacket.’

‘Good. What’s in your pockets?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Damien?’

‘Some stuff: wrap of coke, a joint, lighter.’

Maybe that’s why he hesitated. ‘OK, what did you do next?’

‘Took the stuff.’ Something we hadn’t covered last time. So maybe this was progress.

‘The coke?’

‘And the joint,’ he said. ‘I needed a little something, take the edge off.’

‘Where were you while you did this?’ Surely he’d not be in plain view.

‘In the bus shelter.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Cars?’

‘Some, not many.’

‘Then what?’ I was making notes as he spoke, writing quickly in a shorthand I’ve invented. It’s a bit like text messaging – heavy on the consonants – but I also include sketches where that’s useful.