Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

It was nine-thirty when I padded into the kitchen. Ray had started the wine but I made cocoa. I could hear the television on in the lounge and went through to say goodnight to Ray.

‘I’ve fixed up a meeting with Clive,’ he announced. ‘Friday, after the kids are in bed.’

My heart sank.

It took us another hour to sort out our line for the meeting. We kept getting waylaid by exchanging gossip and bits of news about our lives. Ray was furious about rumours that the council were going to start charging for nursery places.

‘They can’t,’ I protested. ‘People only get those places if they really need it. People couldn’t possibly afford to pay…’

He shrugged. ‘It’ll be means-tested, but even so…’

‘But the principle, as well; free childcare, provision for under-fives…’ We rumbled on about that for a while, too.

In bed, I nestled round the slow groping pains of my period and soon sank into a thick, heavy sleep.

There was a child crying. It was my fault. I’d locked her in the coffin and there wasn’t enough air. She’d die. It was a mistake. I lurched awake and placed the crying. Tom. I went through to him. In the dim light, his face was shiny with tears. His hair formed damp whorls on his forehead.

I lifted him up, murmuring reassurance. He burrowed into my neck, sharp little breaths jolting his body. I walked round the room, patting him on the bottom and whispering lullabies. Longing for him to settle. When I felt his body slacken, I did a couple more circuits, then lowered him gently down, trying not to tense myself and so alert him to the change.

I stole back to my room. So heavy, so tired. Craving sleep. Tom was bawling again. My stomach lurched with dismay. Anger and resentment surged through me. I need to sleep, I need to fucking sleep. Stop it. Be quiet. Leave me alone. I reached their bedroom door, ready to seize him too swiftly, stalk round batting his bottom a little too hard, the ache of frustration ringing my throat. I checked myself, knocked on Ray’s door. ‘Tom’s awake, I’ve put him down once but he won’t settle.’

‘Shit!’

I escaped, dived back to my dreamless sleep.

The next day I felt spacey. Pains came and went, blood seeped. I felt fizzy with fatigue. Over breakfast, I speculated how civilised it would be if I could withdraw from the world for the duration. Go off and commune with myself, while other people cared for the kids and cleaned the house. Fat chance.

I’d lain in bed till the kids had gone and I was trying to cut through the fog in my brain, to sort out what I was meant to be doing. I couldn’t focus on anything. I wanted to go in the garden and play with the plants. I made another cup of tea.

Maybe I’d do better at the office. Aw, shit. The office. I’d managed to forget about the office over the last three days. Sigh. I hated to think what the Dobsons would be saying about me if I didn’t sort it out soon. Oh, well, maybe sorting it out would have a knock-on effect on my thought processes. Let a little light into my clouded mind.

I gathered together cleaning stuff, bin-bags, rubber gloves and a stanley knife to cut up the carpet. Made a flask and a sandwich.

The Dobsons were all out at school. I went down the cellar stairs, bracing myself for the shock. I got a surprise. Someone had cleared up. More than that, they’d sorted the room out. The carpet had gone, a faded but serviceable patterned rug in its place. All the walls and the ceiling had been painted white, faintly pink, one of those hint-of-a-touch numbers. Two collapsible garden chairs and a small plain desk had been set to one side of the room. Opposite, stood my filing cabinet, still streaked with lilac splashes. Beside it on the floor, two stacks of files, one lot smothered in paint, the other relatively unscathed.

Gratitude and guilt fought for the upper hand. There was a note on the desk next to the (clean) phone. ‘Sal – raided the attic, plus car-boot sale. You owe us a tenner! Girls displayed cringe-making propensity for nest-building. Jackie.’

I laughed. Jackie was terrified that her four daughters would all opt for marriage and children at an early age and rebel against her hopes that they would go on to further education and economic independence.

Now I had no excuse, I fished out some paper from the clean files and sat with pen poised. My head still buzzed with nothing. In the end, I resorted to talking aloud and making a list of things I needed to do. I still needed to establish whether Martin was at Fraser Mackinlay’s and, to do that, I needed to see whether Nina Zaleski had seen him.

RING NINA.

If he was there, I needed to find a time when Fraser was out, in order to see him. After my last visit, I knew Fraser wouldn’t let me see Martin and I wouldn’t trust him with the letter.

CLEAR COAST? DELIVER LETTER. I knew now that it was from his birth mother. How the hell was I to tell him she was dead, worse, murdered? I’m not a fucking social worker.

Plus, I’d promised Mrs Williams that I’d ask if Martin knew anything about Janice; if she had visited the house. There was something obscene about it. Shit, it was heavy enough going to see the lad and revealing that he was adopted. Then what would I say? ‘Oh and, by the way, your mother was murdered. Could even have happened here; she was headed this way. Ring any bells?’ I got to my feet, appalled at the scenes running through my head. I just couldn’t do this.

Who was Martin Hobbs? I was chasing a chimera. First, I’m looking for a runaway who doesn’t want finding. I find him and he turns into an incest survivor. Next thing I know, he’s a foundling, a precious child given up, a chosen child betrayed. Now he’s an orphan, maybe even a matricide. And I have a letter, with his name on, a message to Martin…

I walked back over to the desk. Looked down at my list. Concentrate on the job, I told myself. Don’t think about how he might or might not react. Just do it. I rang Nina Zaleski, but there was no reply. My frustration was tinged with relief.

I ate lunch, then decided to fish around a bit after Bruce Sharrocks, the man who’d accompanied Martin and Fraser to Barney’s; the leading light of the Dandelion Trust. A perky voice answered. When I asked to speak to Mr Sharrocks, she told me he wasn’t in the office. Could she help? I trotted out my cover story; I was doing a feature on local children’s charities, and the people behind them, for City Life. I wanted to interview Mr Sharrocks. The prospect of publicity did the trick. She explained that he worked elsewhere but she was sure I could contact him there. It was a Town Hall number, Social Services department.

I rang my friend and ex-lodger, Chris, and asked her if she could find anything out about Bruce Sharrocks; if she knew anyone in Social Services. I persuaded her I was just after general impressions – nothing dodgy about the request. She said she’d see what she could do, but I could tell that she didn’t really like being asked.

I sorted through the pile of paint-free files and put them back in the filing cabinet. The file on Martin wasn’t among them. My stomach tightened. If it wasn’t here, if it had been removed, then I couldn’t really go on acting as though the paint-job was just the work of local youths. I began to prise apart the files that were congealed with paint. It was there, drenched with lilac vinyl silk like the rest of them. I made sure the skeletal notes I’d had were actually inside, if illegible, and sighed with relief. Then I chucked the whole stack.

I drafted a small ad for the local weekly free-sheet, advertising my services. If I was back in business, it was about time I generated some. Discreet service, reasonable rates. On my way to deliver it, I called at the library. The newly-introduced computer system informed me that I owed three pounds and ninety-five pence, and charged me another fifty pence for a replacement ticket. I restricted myself to two books. A Loren D. Estleman crime thriller and the latest in the Sue Grafton Alphabet series. Least they were still buying books.