Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

I’d not heard from JB’s friend. Would I be the only mourner? I’d hardly known him. Surely, he’d have lots of friends? She would let them know, wouldn’t she? He deserved that.

If they did turn up, would they talk to me? Maybe they all thought I’d been responsible for his death. But why? What had she meant?

I fell asleep defending myself against a charge of murder, not knowing what the case against me was. Only that I was innocent. Innocent.

‘I’ll give you a lift back to town?’

She hesitated. She’d be bloody daft to refuse. It was pissing down. Her pink cotton jacket and mini skirt were already sodden. Funeral weather. It fitted perfectly with the miserable rite we’d both witnessed. A few generalised platitudes from a cleric and JB laid to rest in the public grave. I still called him JB, though officially we’d just buried Philip Hargreaves. Dead and gone. But not forgotten. Not yet.

‘Alright.’

I bundled Digger into the back seat. Got in the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. She climbed in. Her bare legs were mottled with cold. Water dripped from the lank strands of hair onto her shoulders. I wanted to towel her dry and put some warm clothes on her.

‘I’m glad you came,’ I said. ‘Someone who knew him.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said. She coughed. Pulled a squashed packet of Benson and Hedges from her pocket. Opened it and took out a disposable lighter and a cigarette.

I opened my window. I didn’t know which was worse, the second-hand fag smoke or the wet dog stench steaming off Digger.

‘Why weren’t you going to come?’

She shrugged and looked away out of the window. Her hand was trembling. I don’t think it was just the cold.

‘What did you mean, the other day, about it being my fault?’

‘Nothing. I were just upset, right.’ She was a lousy liar.

‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Leanne.’

‘I’d like to talk, Leanne.’

‘What’s the point?’ She blew a stream of smoke straight ahead.

‘Things I want to know.’

‘I don’t know anything.’ Defensive. ‘I don’t know anything, right?’ Wrong.

‘Let’s get out of here.’ I started the engine. ‘Find somewhere to dry off. I’ll buy you a meal.’

‘Not in town.’

‘What?’

‘Someone might see us.’ She was paranoid. Perhaps with good reason. If JB’s overdose had not been self-administered.

‘Would they know who I was?’ I asked her.

‘Maybe. I dunno. I can’t think right when I’m hungry.’

‘Better get you some food then.’ She grinned, then it was gone. ‘Do you like Indian food?’

‘Yeah. Anything.’

A handful of the curry houses in Rusholme open in the afternoon. The rest don’t bother. Trade is slack in the daytime, brisk at night. The old Shezan was open. Empty, but open. We wouldn’t be hustled to eat up and move on.

‘There’s a Kentucky Chicken there,’ said Leanne.

‘That’s just a take-away. Come on.’

I held back on the questions till Leanne had got through a plateful of bhajis and samosas and well into her Prawn Dansak.

‘About JB,’ I began.

‘It’s over, right.’ She glared at me.

‘No, it isn’t. I want to know what happened to him. Don’t you?’

‘No.’ Vehemently. She set her jaw. Blinked rapidly.

‘You’re frightened. He didn’t kill himself, did he? You know that. He told me he didn’t take drugs. I don’t think he lied to me. Was he in trouble?’

‘Not till you poked your nose in.’

‘I was trying to trace someone, a runaway…’

‘Martin Hobbs, he told me. He was playing detective and all, wasn’t he? Next news, he’s dead.’

‘When did you see him last?’

‘I dunno…erm…Thursday morning.’ I could see from her eyes that she was working out the right answer. She broke up pieces of naan and dropped them into the remains of her meal.

‘Did he use drugs?’

She shook her head. ‘No, never.’

‘Why are you frightened, Leanne, what is it?’ She wriggled in her seat, sighed theatrically and cast her eyes from side to side, looking for escape. She looked tired, unwell. Her skin was a pasty white, she had a cold sore and chapped lips.

‘Tell me what you know.’ I raised my voice and the waiter, reading his paper in the corner, glanced over. ‘Please,’ I said quietly. ‘You were his friend, he helped you out didn’t he? Whatever happened may tie up with what he was doing for me. I want to know. He’d want me to know. Don’t you think you owe him that, at least?’

She poured salt onto the table, pushed it into a little heap, drew a circle in it.

‘Just another dead junkie,’ I said, ‘that’s what the police reckon, who gives a fuck? You happy with that, are you?’

‘Shut up. Why you so fucking interested anyway? Fancied him, didn’t you?’

How the hell did she know? My cheeks burned. It wasn’t the curry.

‘Don’t change the subject. Stop pissing around,’ I was riled now, ‘and tell me.’

‘Can’t fucking make me.’ She was all defiance, chin up, eyes hard.

I sighed. ‘Please, Leanne.’

Silence. She traced shapes in the salt. At last, she began to speak, reluctantly, in a slow monotone.

JB had talked to her about trying to find Martin. She knew him a bit; they’d both been dossing at the squat. JB had hung around outside the clubs on the Wednesday night looking for people he knew. He’d got a couple of strange reactions, people overly nervous about his questions, but no information at all. On the Thursday morning everything had been as usual, though JB slept in after his late night. Leanne was out selling. She returned to the squat about two-thirty. She’d just entered the cellar when she heard footsteps she didn’t recognise on the stairs. She hid. The man passed her and went out of the cellar door, leaving it ajar. She knew who he was, a right bastard. She went up to the flat and found JB He was dead. She ran away, slept out that night. Didn’t return until she heard about JB on the grapevine.

‘Why? Why on earth didn’t you report it?’

‘He was dead, wasn’t he? What’s the point?’ Defensive.

‘This man?’ I asked.

That look of fear. ‘He’s bad news. Smiley, dunno his real name. He’s a right bastard. JB knew him, told me to keep well clear of him. He’s done a lot of time in Strangeways.’

‘What for?’

‘You name it – drugs, porno stuff. I’m not gonna grass him up, no way.’

‘But he probably did it. The police would protect you.’

‘No they fucking wouldn’t.’ She leant forward, spoke urgently. ‘They’ll put me back in care, that’s what they’d do, right?’

‘You’re not sixteen? How old? Fourteen, fifteen?’

‘Thirteen, but it doesn’t matter see, I’m not doing another day in care, not for you, not for anyone.’ She leant back, searched for her cigarettes. Lit one. Leant forward again. ‘And don’t try dragging me into all this, right, ‘cos I never saw anything, right? Never met you.’

‘What’s he look like?’

‘You don’t want to know,’

‘Leanne…’

She shrugged. ‘I dunno. Always smiling, got a scar see, he grassed on someone, they didn’t like it.’ She drew her finger across her face in a large crescent.

‘Tall, short, black, white, how old?’

‘White, getting on a bit, I dunno. I’m off.’ She pushed back her chair.

‘D’you need some bus-fare?’

‘S’alright, I got some.’

I held out one of my cards.

‘No, ta.’ She handed it back.

‘Just in case.’

She smiled. ‘I never seen you. What would I be doing with that?’

‘I’m in the Yellow Pages,’ I called, as she walked out. ‘Kilkenny.’