Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

Sometimes they still seemed bemused by the radical change in their circumstances and their bank balance.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘You’re bound to let it slip when I’m least expecting it.’

‘Saint Lucia, for three weeks.’

I groaned. ‘So, the tent?’

‘I’ll ferret it out and all its bits for you, and drop them over some time next week.’

‘Thanks.’

Maddie was delighted. Though, worryingly for me, her view of what we were heading for was coloured by romantic notions from her books and videos.

‘We can catch fish, Mummy,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘and make a fire and cook them.’

‘We’ll see.’ The classic get-out.

Tuesday. I hadn’t had a swim for a week so went along to the early bird session as Ray could take the children to school. It was crowded and I couldn’t build up the pace I wanted because I had to do so much dodging and weaving to avoid kicking someone in the groin or getting raked by a full set of toenails.

They cleared the pool, just before nine, ready for the schools to use. I could hear the whine of a drill and someone whistling. They were having some building work done at the baths, taking down an old outhouse at the back and strengthening the roof and back wall. The drill stopped and silence descended. In my cubicle I took off my goggles and got out my towel.

Boom! The vibrations of the almighty thump that followed the explosion went right through me. I put my arms up to shelter my head, using my towel for extra protection. Not here, not now , I prayed. They can’t bomb here! My neck burned, there were spasms in my stomach. I held my breath and waited for the fallout, shivering, clammy with chlorine and sweat which prickled my armpits and broke onto my arms and sides. I was literally frozen with fear.

It was maybe a minute before intellect kicked in. No screams, no alarms, no bomb. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Demolition, not a bomb. Relief brought a new wave of sweat and shivering, I found my shower gel and walked unsteadily to the shower. My knees felt weak. I lathered and rinsed, lathered and rinsed, rubbing my legs, arms, stomach and shoulders vigorously, trying to take the gooseflesh away. By the time I was dressed, a crocodile of children were already filing into the place, chattering away, excitement breaking like bubbles and echoing round the room.

Diane was in the veg shop. Timing. ‘Come back for coffee?’

She opened her mouth to say no but I interrupted. ‘Please, there’s something I need to talk to you about, and I really don’t want to wait till tomorrow.’ We were going for a drink the following evening.

‘OK.’

She had to call at the Health Food shop on the way and I watched while she bought dried fruit, balsamic vinegar, apricot nectar and glycerine soap and geranium essential oil.

‘Money?’ I remarked.

‘Just got paid,’ grinned. ‘The Corkscrews.’

The Corkscrews was her name for a series of prints she’d done in metallic colours with Mediterranean blue and burnt orange for a swanky new Tapas bar in town. There were lots of spirals in them, hence the nickname. The bar liked them so much they were using her design as a logo for the menu and were having a wrought-iron and neon version done for the frontage.

At home I made coffee and we sat at the kitchen table. Digger muscled in on Diane who gave him a tickle behind the ear as she waited for me to explain.

I told her about my experience at the Baths. She let me get to the end and then waited a while before commenting. ‘It must be happening to lots of people. A sudden noise, flashbacks.’

‘But I was nowhere near it. I was up the other end of Market Street, up near Piccadilly.’

‘Near enough,’ she retorted. ‘You were there, you were in town, you heard it – probably felt it, didn’t you? It was strong enough to shake my windows.’

I nodded. ‘You don’t think I’m going mad then?’

She smiled. ‘Do you?’

‘No. It shook me up though. It was so unexpected, this instant reaction. So strong.’

‘It makes sense, Sal. Don’t beat yourself up about it.’

‘Least I didn’t run out into the street in my cossie or do anything else horribly embarrassing.’

‘It’s not happened before?’

‘No. That’s why it was such a surprise. God, I hope it doesn’t happen again. What if it starts happening all the time?’

Diane laughed. ‘That’s it, think positive. Look – suppose it does, then you go and see someone, get help. There’s counsellors and all that. But it’s probably a one-off.’

I nodded. ‘It was just that sensation. It was so…oh, I can’t even explain it.’

By the time Diane left I felt I’d recovered enough to get on with my day. Just voicing my fears took the teeth out of them.

I made myself a sandwich and got some milk then walked round to my office. The Dobsons were out. There was only one piece of mail for me on the hall table. It was from the bank, who were trying to sell me a pension. Like something lurking to get me. Or not lurking actually. My erratic, often pathetic income puts me well out of the private pension league. The last time I read a breakdown of figures and returns in the paper I worked out I’d have to stop paying the rent or stop eating in order to pay contributions. No contest.

Downstairs there were no messages on the answerphone. I opened the window to air the room a bit, stuck the kettle on and made a list of the calls I wanted to make.

I’d been advised against trying to collar Dermott Pitt at lunchtime so I’d have to try and get in late afternoon, the worst time for me as I’d have to sort something out for the children. I couldn’t do it today anyway, as Maddie had a friend coming for tea. Tomorrow then. I rang Dermott Pitt’s office and asked his secretary to make sure Mr Pitt knew I would be waiting to see him tomorrow when the court finished its business for the day – say at four o’clock. I would go to his office if they had already adjourned.

‘I don’t know whether Mr Pitt will be free then,’ she began.

‘He’d better be,’ I said, ‘I’ve already been to the police and I’m sure he will want to know all the details so that he can represent his client properly.’

She hesitated, uncertain whether this was a threat or an insult. I carried on. ‘I’ll be there as I say, and if I’m not able to speak to Mr Pitt then I would feel duty bound to inform his client of his unavailability.’ Duty bound? Why did I end up speaking their language?

Mr Wallace caught me before I’d made my coffee and demanded to know what was happening. He went ballistic when I explained that there’d been a delay in seeing Pitt and threatened to get onto it himself. I emphasised that I had a firm appointment fixed for the following afternoon and that I had been to the police. I managed to fudge the issue of why I couldn’t ambush Pitt today instead of tomorrow by talking crisply about other work and pointing out that he wasn’t my only client.

‘I’m sure Pitt will give me a full hearing tomorrow and things will start to move,’ I promised.

‘What about this hypnotist?’

‘Hypnotherapist.’ Eleanor insists on the distinction. She doesn’t want to be lumped alongside stage shows in which people do daft things in front of an audience. ‘I’m going to ring her soon; she should be back from Golborne by now. I’ll let you know how it went as soon as I have the details.’

The authorities had agreed to Eleanor using one of the private consulting rooms at the Remand Centre for her session with Luke. ‘It’ll be much better if he can relax,’ she had said, ‘and the surroundings can help that a lot.’ Eleanor was a friend of a friend who had given up working for Manchester Housing to retrain as a hypnotherapist. Her skills were used for all sorts: helping people to stop smoking, treating insomnia, teaching women to use hypnosis to ease the pain of childbirth. I had spoken to her, once the appointment had been fixed, to brief her on the background to the Wallace case; I covered the known and alleged events, and explained who the various people were and what the crucial time-frame was.