Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

It was glorious out there. The honey scent of alyssum mingled with the sharp smell of warm pine baking in the sun. I hunted down slugs, winkling them out of dark, damp corners. Emptied and refilled the traps. Began some weeding. Maddie appeared at the back door. Watched me for a while.

‘Phone,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Phone.’ Through clenched teeth.

I raced inside, hoping that she hadn’t left it too long before deigning to inform me.

‘Hello?’ Silence. ‘Hello?’ I heard breathing. Unsteady, shuddering. A prickle of fear stroked the back of my neck. The knife trembled, white knuckles. He was coming after me. The man who’d stabbed me. They’d let him out. My stomach balled like a fist. Please, please. My voice weak, creaking. They’d let him out and he was coming to get me.

‘Who is this?’

‘Please.’ It was a woman’s voice, ‘Where is he? You didn’t tell me where. I’ve got to see him. Please…please…’ she cried. Mrs Hobbs.

Relief released my body. I trembled and sat on the chair. ‘Mrs Hobbs, I don’t know exactly where Martin is and he doesn’t want to see you.’

‘You said he was in Cheadle. He’s my son, you said he was, he’s my son, you said, you said…’ She was freaking out and I’d no idea how to handle it.

‘He doesn’t want to see you after all he’s been through and…’

‘Don’t lie to me.’ Fury spat the words. ‘He’s my son.’

‘I don’t know where he is.’

‘You found him, my baby, my baby…’ she repeated her song of grief. I waited. What the fuck could I say? She fell quiet. I could hear her breath, rapid, shallow. When she spoke again she sounded bright, practical. ‘I’ll write to him, yes. Just give me the address, I’ll write. Yes, yes.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t have Martin’s address.’

‘Liar,’ she screeched. ‘Liar.’

I lost my temper, shouted back. ‘I don’t know, for Christ’s sake! All I know is it’s Old Hall Lane, I followed the bloody car, Aston Martin. I didn’t get the address.’

‘I’ll go there…Old Hall Lane. You said Cheadle. Aston Martin and Martin Hobbs. Two Martins. Martin Hobbs. That’s his name now.’

‘Don’t go, listen.’ She wasn’t in a fit state to go to the post-box, let alone try tracking down Martin. ‘I’ll take the letter. Write and send it to me. I’ll try and find the house. I’ll give the letter to Martin.’

‘Will you?’

‘Yes, I promise.’

‘He’s my son.’

‘Yes.’

She rang off.

Maddie was sitting at the end of the hall, clasping her doll.

‘Why did you shout?’

‘Oh,’ I sighed and went to reassure her. ‘Someone wasn’t listening to me. I got cross, that’s all. It’s alright now.’ I hugged her, craving one for myself. She squirmed away. The phone rang.

‘Oh, no.’ I couldn’t face any more. Mrs Hobbs’ distress had disturbed me, awakening memories of my own pain in the months after the stabbing.

Maddie moved towards the phone.

‘No, I’ll get it.’

‘Aww.’

‘Hello?’

‘Sal? Harry.’

Phew.

‘How you doing?’

‘Fine.’

‘Do you want to come over? Bev’s gone off with the car but the rest of us are here.’

‘Yeah, we’d love to. I’ve just got Maddie today.’

‘Okay. See you soon.’

It was a relief to get out of the house and away from the phone. I cycled over to Harry and Bev’s terraced house in Levenshulme. Their two boys were playing some version of goodies and baddies in the street, when we arrived. Maddie begged for my bicycle pump and ran to join them. The front door was open and I found Harry in the yard out at the back. He and Bev had transformed the small brick box into a riot of greenery, with climbers in pots, hanging baskets, even a tiny pergola complete with vine.

‘Lager?’ offered Harry. The deckchair creaked as he heaved himself out of it. Harry’s built like a rugby player and looks like a farmhand; thatched hair and hands like hams.

‘Mmm.’ He fetched me a cold can and opened a sun lounger for me. Bliss.

Harry was eager to hear how I’d got on at the clubs. I described my sorties into Manchester night-life and sketched in the unpleasant facts I’d heard from Martin.

‘I felt so stupid.’

‘I can imagine. So it’s over?’

‘Well…’ I told him about the phone call from Mrs Hobbs.

‘In the end I agreed to take the letter. I had to stop her barging in. She needs help.’ I sighed.

‘You never met the father?’

‘No, thank God. So instead of it all being done and dusted, now I’ve got to play postman.’

‘Woman.’

‘Okay,’ I pretended to kick him. ‘Plus, there’s the funeral.’

‘The guy you found?’

I told Harry all about JB, confessing my doubts about the official version of his death. He heard me out. Harry’s a good listener, he’s not averse to using a little imagination and I can trust him to keep confidences. When I’d finished, he sat quietly for a moment, chewing his lip. ‘Who’d want to get rid of him?’

‘I dunno. It’s full of holes, I know. Everyone else thinks it’s cut and dried.’ I drained my can. ‘You couldn’t really attack someone with a loaded syringe, could you?’

‘Not easy to find a vein. No, it’s pretty unlikely. But just suppose someone did want him out the way, why choose to do it like that? There are simpler ways of killing someone.’

‘That’s obvious,’ I replied. ‘No-one would suspect foul play. Once a junkie, always a junkie. They wouldn’t expect a murder enquiry; no questions, no trouble. They were right about that.’

Harry chewed his lip again.

‘You think I’m wrong, don’t you?’

He grimaced. ‘It’s a bit thin.’

I sighed. Crumpled the empty can.

I loved Harry. It wasn’t physical; he was too big and beefy for my liking. But I was drawn to him and sometimes wondered what it would be like to sleep with him; whether we might have an affair if anything happened to end his relationship with Bev. Strictly fantasy. They were a happy pair. Still…

‘I’m all for hunches, Sal. But that’s all you’ve got. No motive, no evidence, nothing. You’re going to have to fill in the picture a bit more to convince anyone.’

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I’ve no intention of reopening the case or whatever they call it. I guess all I need is to hear from someone who knew JB well that he really was clean, that he didn’t lie to me, or…’

‘And if your hunch is right, if it looks less and less like an overdose, you’re just going to leave it at that?’ Harry was sceptical.

‘What else can I do? I’ve no illusions about the British system of justice. Yes, if I got names and numbers, witnesses, whatever – I’d feel bound to pass that on, but it’s pretty bloody unlikely.’

Harry didn’t reply. Silence is consent.

I got up and shifted my lounger round, following the sun. Asked Harry about his work and lay, eyes half-closed, as he entertained me with tales of skulduggery in the world of journalism.

Maddie and I stayed for tea, enjoying a huge mixed salad, chips and veggie-burgers in the open air, It was after seven when I strapped a flagging Maddie onto the bike seat and pedalled home. She nodded off on the way. I woke her for a wee then put her to bed, grime and all.

I read the Sunday papers then ferreted out my library book. It was overdue. A crime story set on a cruise ship in the ‘thirties. I couldn’t concentrate. The mannered dialogue was too much effort and I found I didn’t really care whodunnit or why. I scanned the television page. ‘Twelve Angry Men.’ I’d seen it twice but it still gripped me.

On my way to bed, I sorted out clothes for the funeral. My only black clothes were heavy winter ones and the smoke-drenched dress I’d worn to Barney’s. Colour didn’t matter really. It was hardly going to be a big, formal affair. I found some lightweight navy trousers and a green sweatshirt. Casual but clean.