Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

I wasn’t sure any more. Maybe Charlie had annoyed a motorist further along into his journey. Maybe there was no road rage incident and Sinclair was right. I was scrabbling for theories.

‘Just background,’ I smiled. The gesture hurt my cheekbone.

She didn’t smile back. ‘I really must get on,’ she said. ‘And I’d rather not be interrupted at work in future.’ And with that she walked off.

Ray was still in bed. I’d put my head round his door to see if he wanted a cup of tea, figuring that an amiable approach from me might improve things between us more quickly than if I left it up to him (Ray’s default mode during conflict was to sulk). He was still asleep.

Abi asked me about my face when I swapped ice cream for Jamie, and I’d told her I’d managed to collide with the back door on the hatchback when I was loading the shopping. ‘I’m always doing it,’ I said. ‘Never learn.’

After grabbing something to eat, I fed and changed Jamie. I talked to her and watched her mimic me: trying out shapes with her mouth as I babbled on. ‘What are we going to do with you?’ I rubbed her tummy. ‘What are we going to do?’

It was a good job Ray was out of it; otherwise he’d be back on my case, telling me it was now day seven and we needed to alert social services to the situation. The prospect made me queasy. How would they regard the week-long delay in contacting them? Might they turn the spotlight on me, my motives, examine my circumstances? I’d probably be treated with suspicion at the very least, or as a nutter. With a squirt of anxiety, acid in my stomach, I wondered if they’d question my ability to care for Maddie. Would they want to assess me as a parent? A frightening prospect. Now I was getting paranoid. Wasn’t I?

The doorbell went at one o’clock. I was cautious, jittery, still shaken by the attack and so I checked through the glass before opening the door.

It was a young woman. She’d long hair, dyed an artificial crimson colour, the vivid tone contrasting with the pallor of her face. She was of slight build and wore a bright green coat with three-quarter length sleeves (a style that would make my wrists ache in the cold), black leggings and fake Ugg boots.

‘A’right,’ she said.

Did I know her? There was something familiar in the shape of her face, the narrow planes, sharp nose, the cast of her eyes. She snorted, shook her head and the light glanced off the sheen in her hair, she cut her eyes away and back at me. ‘Leanne,’ she announced. ‘Yeah?’

Leanne! The hair had changed from the mousy rats tails I remember and she was a few years older, but now I knew her. The first time we met she’d been a homeless waif plaiting bracelets to make a few pounds, squatting in an abandoned warehouse. She’d been part of a case I was working on. She’d had a traumatic life in care, horribly abused by the people supposed to be looking after her. The boy I was searching for had been violated in the same way. Parties in the care homes, the young and the vulnerable easy pickings for the powerful men who got pleasure from raping children. I didn’t know all that until it was almost too late. Leanne helped me out at first, then blamed me when things went wrong. I took her out for a meal and to pump for questions and she stole from me. The last time I saw her, she was in fear for her life. I watched her shoot a man dead, vengeance and damage etched on her face, and run away. She was thirteen years old, then. She probably saved my life. I’d never expected to see her again; I’d doubted she’d survive. I’d expected her to disappear into a world of addiction and dispossession. Die alone, in some squalid squat.

‘Leanne,’ I said, still fumbling for comprehension.

‘Where is she, then?’ She had a huge sports bag by her side and hoisted it over her shoulder, stepping inside. She smelt of cigarettes and fabric conditioner.

‘Jamie.’ Connections were sparking, fizzing and rearranging in my mind. I felt dizzy.

‘Jamie?’ Leanne dumped her bag in the hall and pushed the door shut. ‘She’s not called Jamie.’ She sounded disgusted, her lip curling at the thought.

‘I’d no idea what she was called,’ I retorted. ‘You didn’t put that on the note, did you?’

‘Oh, soz. It’s Lola. Jamie’s a boy’s name.’

‘Not always,’ I argued.

‘Jamie Oliver.’ She flung back the name of the celebrity chef. She glanced around the hall, moving into the playroom. Quick, nervy, still a wild quality to her. Questions crowded my head; where to start? She turned to me, her face narrowing with suspicion. ‘Where is she? You didn’t put her in care?’ Her eyes shimmered with anxiety and her voice shook.

‘She’s here.’ I led Leanne into the lounge.

‘Lola.’ She scooped up the baby, hugged her close and kissed her head, then her cheeks, repeating her name and hugged her close again. Her own eyes closed, Lola kicked her legs, chuntered.

‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked Leanne. ‘What on earth made you leave her? Why here?’

Leanne continued to cradle her daughter, swinging her hips slightly from side to side.

‘What’s going on?’ Ray came in, still in his pyjamas.

Leanne opened her eyes. ‘Cool jim-jams.’ She nodded.

‘Leanne,’ I tried to stay on track, ‘I didn’t even know it was you. Why didn’t you explain?’ I looked over to Ray. ‘Leanne, Jamie’s mother.’

‘Lola,’ Leanne corrected. She patted the baby’s bottom. ‘What’s she wearing?’

‘Reusable nappy,’ I said.

‘Ugh, gross.’ She curled her lip.

‘Where’ve you been, Leanne?’

‘You know her?’ Ray asked me.

‘She was a friend of J.B. – the guy who had Digger.’ J.B., a homeless lad himself, had been a kind friend to Leanne and other homeless youngsters. He had been killed when he got too close to the paedophile ring I was investigating. I found his body.

‘You kept Digger.’ Leanne nodded. Then her face altered: sudden worry again. ‘He all right with the baby?’

‘Keeps out of the way,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you come in and tell me what was going on? Instead of just leaving a note. I’d no idea who the baby was, who’d left her.’

‘You might have turned us down,’ she said with a shrug. ‘And I put my name on, anyway.’

‘It was illegible,’ said Ray coldly.

‘Sorry,’ she said, sounding anything but.

‘Why leave her?’ I asked.

‘It’s complicated,’ she said.

Ray sat down in one of the armchairs; he looked horribly serious. ‘So, explain,’ he said.

‘Go on.’ I sat on the sofa.

Leanne sighed. ‘I had to make myself disappear for a bit. I didn’t know where I’d end up. I couldn’t take her with me.’

‘Why did you have to disappear?’ Ray asked.

‘Who’s he?’ Leanne complained to me. She was a teenager still, trying to play us off against each other.

‘Answer the question, Leanne.’

‘This bloke, he’s bad news, he won’t take no for an answer. He’s been inside and he was coming out, expecting to play happy families.’

I heard Ray groan, dismayed at the scenario.

‘He’s your boyfriend?’ I asked her.

‘Was. For, like, five minutes. I didn’t want him near her.’

My heart sank. It sounded like Leanne was still stuck in the same murky, dangerous world as when I’d last known her.

‘Why me?’ I asked.

She shifted Lola to the other shoulder. ‘He never knew about you – wouldn’t have a clue. Anyone else, he might have guessed. You helped us out before,’ she said gruffly, a wash of colour in her cheeks.

‘How did you know I was still here?’

‘The phone call about energy suppliers?’ She smirked. I’d a dim recollection, a cold call.