Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

Home is a large, slightly shabby Victorian semi in Withington, south Manchester. Solid red brick with crumbling stained glass, high ceilings, big rooms and a wonderful garden. Withington houses a mix of people; families, students, workers from Christie’s hospital. The area has an old-fashioned swimming pool, a library, a health-food shop and its very own fleapit style cinema.

Maddie and I share the house with Ray and his little boy, Tom. It’s a strictly platonic arrangement. We rent the attic flat out to a lodger.

Tom’s a year younger than Maddie, a fact he’s never allowed to forget. He’s developed the resilience of a second child. The four of us get along pretty well, though Ray and I have our moments, a bit like the kids. Just like the kids. Resentment and squabbling, usually over the chores. Ray sulks, I bully, he flies off the handle and flounces off to do whatever hasn’t been done (it’s always a one-way nag) and peace is restored. Life is humdrum, domestic. We take turns babysitting but neither of us paints the town red when unleashed. We just shuffle along to the local for a couple of pints with old friends. Every few months Ray meets a new woman and takes to wearing aftershave and trimming his moustache. But it never seems to amount to much and he appears more or less content with his lot. He potters around, building furniture in the cellar, which is a labour of love rather than an economic proposition, and spends hours hunched over his computer. Ray’s doing a part-time computing course at Salford Tech. He hopes it’ll help him earn a decent income. To date, all it’s generated is a lot of indecent language.

I made tea for Tom and Maddie and let them eat it picnic-style in the garden, then slung some vegetables into a pan with half a jar of Nazir’s Vindaloo Sauce for Ray and I to eat later. Chris arrived in the gap before bedtime. We sat in the kitchen, tea in hand.

‘How’s the new lodger?’ she asked, raising her eyes heavenwards.

‘Don’t ask.’

‘That bad?’

‘I think so. No sign of improvement. He’s away till Thursday. But then…we’re going to have to do something. We can’t go on like this. It’s getting so I dread coming into the kitchen in case he’s brewing up. It’s your fault,’ I rounded on Chris, ‘if you hadn’t moved out, we wouldn’t have ended up with him.’

Chris giggled. ‘I’ve got the stuff you wanted.’ She foraged in a battered briefcase and drew out a large manila envelope. Inside were lists of hostels.

‘These are the two direct access ones: the Direct Access Centre and Peterloo. I’ve marked them with an asterisk. They take people straight off the street, always keep a few beds free, sort people out with Welfare Advice the next day, try and get them into a B & B. The rest are the general hostels, men’s and women’s; some are church-run. Most of them expect payment, unlike the direct access ones. What do you want them for?’

‘I’m on a case, missing person. He left home with no money, nowhere to go, as far as his mother knows. It’s possible he came to Manchester, stayed in a hostel. I can check these…

‘No chance,’ Chris interrupted. ‘They won’t tell you anything. It’s confidential.’

‘But if I explain…’

Chris shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter, they have to protect people. No-one’s given that information.’

‘But all I need to know is whether he’s stayed in any of the hostels, nothing else.’

‘They can’t tell you that, Sal. They won’t even tell family. It’s a strict rule. It has to be.’

‘Shit!’

‘C’mon,’ Chris remonstrated, ‘if they start giving out that sort of information, no-one would trust the hostels…’

‘I know, I know…I didn’t think. It’s just, how am I supposed to start looking? I don’t even know if he came to Manchester.’ I cleared away the mugs. ‘What about kids who don’t use the hostels? Are there any places they regularly sleep out?’

‘Well, we haven’t got a cardboard city or anything like that. There used to be quite a lot of people under the arches, round Ardwick and down Whitworth Street in town. The council have got heavier on people sleeping rough; they don’t like to admit it still goes on. There’s still a bit of squatting, too, mainly in the old buildings in town – warehouses, places that are waiting demolition or re-development.’

‘I suppose I’ll just have to ask around. Thanks anyway. At least I didn’t go making a fool of myself trying to get blood out of a stone.’

‘Be careful. Visitors aren’t exactly welcome. A lot of those kids have good reason for leaving home, but there’s no provision for them. They’re constantly hassled by the police; after all, a lot of them have to thieve or beg to get by. They might not take kindly to anyone snooping around.’

‘Point taken. I’ll be careful.’

Later, when Ray had put the kids to bed and we’d eaten, I wandered into the garden to clear up the toys. It was still light, though the cloudy sky threatened rain. I spent an hour staking up straggling carnations and gathering up mammoth brown slugs that had been munching their way through my bedding plants. I dropped them in the beer traps. The traps had been fairly successful but had begun to smell appalling. I’d have to clean them out and replenish them. Tomorrow. By the time I’d finished, a light rain had begun to fall along with darkness.

I climbed into a hot bath and soaked the lilac paint from my hair. The weekend stretched ahead with its pattern of chores and outings. Martin Hobbs was on hold till Monday. I wondered where he was sleeping tonight. Somewhere safe and dry, or out there in the warm wet rain?

St. Matthew’s was a redbrick Victorian school which had been added to, over the years, with an assortment of prefabs and a single-storey extension. Boys and girls in maroon and grey uniforms swarmed over every available inch of playground. Parking the car took some manoeuvring. Adolescents seem to move at two speeds; manic or catatonic. I made liberal use of my horn but half of them seemed to have some sort of death wish. I managed not to fulfil it.

I asked a huddle of boys on the entrance steps the way to the staff room. One of them offered to show me the way. We walked through endless corridors strewn with pupils and adorned with displays of work. En route, I let slip that I wanted to talk to Martin Hobbs’ form teacher. He shrugged his shoulders.

At the staffroom door, I knocked and entered. The room was cramped. Low pvc chairs surrounded coffee tables. At the far end of the room, the smokers sat. Open shelving lined all four walls and papers spilt from every nook and cranny. Piles covered the coffee tables too. I approached the nearest group. Half-a-dozen women eating Pot Noodles, sandwiches and fruit. A couple were marking exercise books at the same time.

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Martin Hobbs’ form teacher.’

‘What year’s he in?’ one of the Pot Noodles asked.

‘Fifth, I think. He’s sixteen.’

‘Five Delta – Russ O’Brien – the one with the beard, in the corner.’

‘Thanks.’

Russ O’Brien was a smoker. Pipe. Eyes closed, feet on the table. Stout, hairy. Looked a bit like a mountain climber.

‘Mr O’Brien?’

He opened one eye, realised I wasn’t a pupil and opened the other. Slid his feet from the table and sat up in his chair.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello.’ I sat down on the chair next to him. ‘I wanted a word about Martin Hobbs.’

‘Yes?’ He loaded the word with caution, sizing me up.

‘Martin’s been reported missing. His family have asked me to make a few enquiries on their behalf.’