Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

Martin hadn’t been in Manchester long when JB had seen him begging on Market Street. He’d watched the police caution him then gone over to talk to the boy. Martin had been sleeping rough. He already looked run-down. He had no money, no sleeping bag. JB had offered a place in his squat for a few nights. He made it clear it was to be a temporary arrangement. ‘I like to have the place to myself, now and then.’ Martin was a quiet and reserved guest. He slept most of the day and went out to get money at night. He refused to get any Welfare Advice. ‘He thought they’d send him back. Anyway, you get fuck all at his age unless you’re on a scheme and you can’t do that without an address.’

We’d arrived at the back of old warehouses off Great Ancoats Street. JB moved aside a part of the wooden fencing. I followed him through the gap. The yard was piled high with debris, old pallets, a shopping trolley, mattress, the shell of a car, fridges. Weeds grew waist-high. We clambered over the lot to a set of steps leading down to a cellar door. JB unlocked the door and we stepped into darkness. The stench of damp and mildew caught at my throat. Nobody knew I was here. Could I trust J.B? Wasn’t it a little suspicious, inviting me back to his squat? Buzzing in my ears. A flush of fear burned the nape of my neck. Please, please. Spittle on his lip. I stumbled and yelped.

‘Take my hand,’ he said. His hand was soft and warm, he gripped mine firmly. The contact reassured me. I shook off my anxiety. He led me through the gloom, then up more stairs and into dim light. We crossed a massive room, pillars lying where they had fallen amidst chunks of plaster, old tea-chests and broken tables. One wall of the room was windows, row upon row, thick with grime. Broken panes gave glimpses of blue sky. Up another set of stairs and along a door-lined corridor.

‘This is it.’ He stopped at one of the doors and unlocked it. After the desolation of the rest of the building, I was surprised at the cleanliness and care shown in this room. It had been painted white. On the floor lay an old floral carpet and against one wall was a huge sofa with a bright green bedspread thrown over it. A guitar leant against the arm. Opposite a television, a shelf with books and mementoes. In the far corner, beyond the sofa, there was a mattress and bedding. The wall nearest to the door was broken up by windows; half-way along was a sink, Calor gas cooker, pots and pans; beyond those, a table and a couple of chairs. Everywhere I looked, pinned up on the white background were pictures, line drawings, sketches. Mostly pen and ink or charcoal; faces, street scenes, landscapes. I walked closer.

‘These are brilliant. They yours?’

‘Yep.’ He grinned and filled a kettle.

‘This is Martin.’ I pointed to the portrait. Head and shoulders. The look he’d captured was one of great sadness. ‘He looks lonely, sad.’

‘He was.’ JB lit the stove and came over to the wall.

‘Have you studied art?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s a hobby.’

‘You could sell these.’

‘I do, now and again. But I make more on the chalkies.’

‘Chalkies?’

‘Pavement drawings.’

‘Mickey Mouse, Madonna.’

‘Yeah,’ he laughed. ‘Get the kids and the mums pay.’

‘These are signed P.H. So is JB a nickname?’

‘Tell you’re a detective. Yeah, short for JCB. Used to like to drive ‘em away in my younger days. Sort of stuck.’ He went over and made mugs of coffee. Brought them over. We sat on the sofa. He began to roll a cigarette.

‘So where was Martin going when he left here?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Didn’t he say anything?’

‘Someone had set him up.’

‘How d’you mean?’

He sighed. ‘That second week, Martin had more money. Bought clothes. He was on the streets but it wasn’t just begging any more.’

‘He was a rent boy?’

‘Yeah. Plenty of lads drift into it. There’s a lot of demand. It’s tempting. Anyway, that last night, he came in, early hours it was, said he’d found a new place, someone was going to see him right. Talked about riding round in an Aston Martin, eating out every night.’

‘You mean like a sugar daddy?’

‘Yeah,’ he lit his roll-up, ‘or a pimp.’

‘Was he happy about it?’

‘Oh, yeah. Least on the surface. Excited, like it was his big break. Martin was soft as shit. It wouldn’t take much to con him. Promises of this and that, next thing he knows he’s standing by the bus station every night waiting to jump into cars, giving the dosh to some guy who’d beat him up soon as look at him.’

‘But it might not have been a pimp?’

‘Who knows.’ The dog came over and draped itself over JB’s feet. ‘Maybe he struck lucky. And I’ve not seen him doing business, not on the streets. Could be working the clubs. His mum’s not gonna like it much, is she?’

‘No. But it could be worse, I suppose.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, God. Well, if he was on crack or something.’

‘He wasn’t.’ His tone was sharp. The dog pricked up its ears. ‘I won’t have it,’ he explained. ‘This place is clean. I was an addict, see, but I’ve been clean for three years now. I won’t have it around.’

‘Anyway, I’m not going to tell her anything until I’ve checked it out. It could just be a relationship.’

‘Yeah,’ JB nodded his head, ‘and I could be the President of America an’ all.’

‘Could you ask around a bit, see if anyone’s heard from him? Heard where he is?’

I pulled a fiver from my bag. ‘I’d like to give you something for your time.’

He looked embarrassed, a slight flush to his olive complexion.

‘Oh, go on. You’re the only help I’ve had. Get a meal or something. Treat the dog.’

‘Alright,’ he grinned. ‘You’ll like that Digger, eh?’ The dog wagged its tail.

I gave him my card and a photograph of Martin. He pinned them on the noticeboard above the sink, amongst a collage of other bits of paper. He led me back down through the gloom of the building and out into the yard. I thanked him again. As we reached the fence, it was pushed back and the young girl I’d spoken to earlier climbed through.

‘Hiya.’ She bent to pat the dog. His girlfriend? Or another waif he was helping out?

‘Bye then, and thanks.’

Another smile. The two of them set off towards the steps and I clambered back onto the street. JB had given me a lot to go on. I hoped with all my heart that he’d got it wrong.

My half-painted office cried out for completion. Its pleas fell on deaf ears. I rang Mrs Hobbs instead. She wasn’t in. Did she work? It was only three o’clock. Not much point in trying again till after five. I wrote out some notes about the investigation so far; added up time and expenses.

I gazed at the narrow window. A fern and a couple of sturdy dandelions cut out most of the meagre light, but they couldn’t obscure the fact that it was sunny out there. The walls needed painting. My garden needed attention. No contest. Walls would keep, bedding plants wouldn’t.

It was a good decision. I weeded and trimmed, staked and tidied. Dug over a bed for planting, chatted to my perennials, filled an old chimney pot with verbena, pansies and lobelia. I even changed the slug traps, gagging at the stench as I carried each one gingerly to the cellar toilet and flushed the slimy contents away. The rhythm of the work, the scent of the earth, the sun on my back left me feeling pleasantly tired and relaxed.

It was nearly six when I put the tools away and rang Mrs Hobbs.

‘Mrs Hobbs, Sal Kilkenny here.’

‘Yes,’ she spoke quickly, ‘have you found him?’

‘No, I’m sorry. But I do know he came to Manchester and I’ve met someone who put him up for a while. Another…’ I groped for a label; homeless person, runaway, boy, young man, ‘…lad. He hasn’t seen Martin for a couple of weeks but he’s going to ask around and get back to me. So far, that’s all I’ve been able to find out.’