Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

As I finished, the phone rang. I gave the number.

‘Is that Sal?’

‘Yes, who is it?’

‘It’s Leanne, right, I wanted to…’

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve.’ My stomach clenched, my face got hot.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. What are you doing, ringing to see if I’ve got the message? Well, I have, loud and clear, and you can tell Smiley his fucking goons put me in hospital and you can also tell him that the phone call would have done the job. There was no need to send in the clowns…so,’ I was running out of words and breath, ‘so you can just fuck off, Leanne.’

‘It’s not my fault, is it?’ Surly innocence.

‘I don’t give a toss whether you went running or he came asking, all I know is, within hours of me leaving you, he’s threatening me, and my child, on the phone and next thing I know I’m beaten senseless.’ I was screeching by then, shaking with renewed outrage. ‘So you can just go and fuck yourself.’ Eloquent. I hung up.

I wanted to break something, lash out. Digger slunk past. Clive couldn’t have timed it worse. I was sorting out the cutlery, crashing handfuls of metal around, when he bounded into the kitchen.

‘God,’ he said, ‘what happened to you?’

‘I got beaten up.’ I could see from his eyes he was weighing up whether to make some clever dick remark. He didn’t get chance.

‘Clive, we want you to move out. I’m giving you notice now, a month, but if you can find somewhere sooner, we’d be delighted. And we’d like you to settle the rent and the bills – I think it’s about eight hundred pounds so far. Ray’s got the exact figures.’

‘You can’t throw me out, I haven’t done anything.’

‘Precisely. You’ve done sweet f.a. for as long as possible, you haven’t contributed anything to the running of the house and we’re sick of it.’

‘You can’t make me leave.’ His chin came up. ‘I’ve got rights, you know.’

‘I doubt it. Tenants pay rent. You seem to have stopped. I think you’ve forfeited any rights.’

‘Look, look.’ He waved his hands up near his ears – it was all too much, man. ‘Okay, I got a bit behind and I missed a meeting, but this is way over the top. We can work something out. I’ll pay it off a bit at a time.’

‘It’s too late, Clive. You’ve blown it. I can’t trust you anymore. You’ll have to leave.’

‘Where can I go? It’s impossible renting these days. I’ll end up on the streets.’

‘Oh, I don’t think Daddy would let that happen, do you?’ Below the belt maybe. Clive couldn’t help having a rich father he never saw.

‘You’ll be sorry for this,’ he began to shout, pointing his index finger at me, ‘just wait and see.’ He moved closer. ‘I’ll get you back for this, you cow, you just wait, you cunt.’

The prickle of fear hadn’t a chance. I was still boiling from Leanne and here was the red rag.

In a trice, I had Clive by the collar. I pushed my face up against his, smelt sweet aftershave and stale tobacco. ‘Don’t you dare threaten me, you little shit.’ Even I was impressed at how scary I sounded. ‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that. Now, get out.’ I shoved him away.

‘Dearie me, what’s the matter?’ Neither of us had heard Nana Tello come in. She stood, aghast, a bag of shopping in each hand.

‘Clive’s just going,’ I said. ‘He’s off to find somewhere else to live.’

‘Oh,’ she said to me coldly. She turned to Clive. ‘You could try the shop windows,’ she offered brightly.

‘Aw, piss off Grandma,’ he said, as he made his exit.

She drew in a sharp breath. Lifted the carriers onto the table. ‘You’ve upset him,’ she accused me.

‘Yes,’ and then I felt the bubbles rising, a ridiculous giggle that took me over completely. ‘Yes,’ I gasped, doubled up as the laughter shook my ribs, ‘yes, I suppose you could say that.’

In the late post, I had another note from the Victim Support Scheme. I wondered if they’d noticed it was the same person they’d written to just the week before. I was impressed with their efficiency. I’d heard rumours that they were going to have their funding cut. Was nothing safe?

Bev rang to see about meeting up for a swim on Sunday morning and going back to their house for lunch. I told her about my injuries. I didn’t really want to bare all my bruises at the baths.

‘Bit of gentle stretching might be good for you,’ she said. I wasn’t sure, nor were my ribs. I accepted lunch and said I’d confirm the swim on Sunday morning. I asked if Harry was there. I wanted to tell him what Smiley had put me through.

‘He’s out,’ said Bev. ‘Another shooting in Moss Side, last night.’

‘Oh, no. What happened?’

‘Some little girl got caught in the crossfire, she’s in intensive care. One of the youths involved is dead. Harry’s been there since first light.’ Bev sounded pissed off. With the situation or with Harry?

‘It just gets worse,’ I said. ‘Kids with guns.’

‘They reckon you can pick one up for fifty quid, less than a pair of trainers.’

I made the sort of noises expected and rang off.

Ordsall and now Moss Side. Just down the road, but it still felt unreal – as though it were all happening in someone else’s city.

I fished out my cagoule, found my bag, made a sandwich and filled a flask. Nana Tello was in the lounge, pouring over the racing papers, ringing hopefuls with a stubby pencil. I told her I was off to the office. I’d have to talk to Ray about her staying – if I tried to tell her that I could manage fine now, she’d take umbrage.

Within an hour of getting to the office, I’d had two calls in response to my ad in the paper. A solicitor wanted three lots of papers serving on people and would pay nicely to get them off her hands and a woman wanted me to check whether her husband was really working late so many nights. The solicitor would have the papers ready first thing Monday morning and I arranged to visit the worried wife the same afternoon.

I opened two new files with the relevant details and allowed myself a cocky grin as I dropped them in the drawer of the filing cabinet.

I played with figures for a while; working out how much rent I owed the Dobson’s; ringing to check on insurance rates for minimum contents cover (two plastic chairs, a phone and a distressed filing cabinet); checking back with my invoices to tot up what I’d earned over the last couple of months. I tried not to let it get me down. It convinced me to call at the post office for a Family Credit form as soon as possible.

I took the letter addressed to Martin out of my bag and propped it up by the phone. Then I unpacked my lunch and ate it, gazing all the while at the letter.

It was proving impossible to deliver by hand. If I sent it by registered delivery, it could always be intercepted and signed for by Fraser Mackinlay. Fraser had consistently denied me access to Martin, denied he even knew him. I opened my Blue Riband, bit off a chunk, took a sip of coffee and thought. My mind went to the group who I’d seen with Martin at the night-club. I could hardly go back and ask Eddie Kenton to confirm whether Martin was staying at the house in Cheadle. But what about Bruce Sharrocks? I’d still not found anything to connect him to the others. If I asked him straight out, played the innocent, pretended I knew Fraser too, perhaps? But not over the phone. Easier to weigh up his responses face to face.

I rang his secretary to confirm that Mr Sharrocks would be in his office today. She was expecting him back from lunch at one-thirty. No, I didn’t want to leave a message.

I got to town a little early. I had a credit card in my pocket. The bank, obviously enjoying the draconian charges, hadn’t repossessed it. Feeling poor made me glum, spending a bit would cheer me up. The sales were on – they always are. I picked up a baggy cotton-knit top in cornflower-blue for myself, a pair of shorts each for Tom and Maddie and a pair of pyjamas for Maddie – all her other ones had shrunk while she’d grown. They no longer met at the waist or covered ankles and wrists.