Cath Staincliffe - Stone Cold Red Hot

The phone rang. “Sal, it’s Mandy. Thank you for the tape.”

“Can you use it?”

“They’re dithering. I’m not going to have an answer till later this week. I get the impression there’s some uncertainty between the two solicitors who’ve seen it and they want to discuss it with the boss.”

“But it’s clear enough isn’t it? You can make out who’s involved and…”

“Yes. That’s not the issue. They won’t go to court unless they’re ninety-nine percent certain of winning. It’s out of my hands now until I get word from them, so hang onto the camera in the meantime.”

“What is it that they’re not sure about?” I demanded. “It’s obviously harassment, you can hear most of what they’re shouting, all the racist abuse. And they attack the property, too – all the kicking the door…”

“Yes, it’s awful,” she agreed, “but sometimes they need to prove the violence is sustained, that it’s an ongoing problem.”

“There’s all the police call-outs.”

“Sal, it’s not up to me. I wish it were.”

“I’m sorry, I know.”

“I’ll get back to you, as soon as I hear one way or the other. I hope it’ll be later in the week but I can’t promise.”

I paced about a bit after that, seriously pissed off. I couldn’t settle to my report for Roger Pickering or any other paperwork. It was just after two. I locked up and went home. The house was a mess after the weekend. I tidied and hoovered the lounge and swept the stairs and the kitchen floor. I’d worked up a sweat by the time I’d done and created a bit of order to make up for the fact that out there everything was crazy and out of control.

At nine thirty that evening Mr Poole rang me. “Can you come,” he said urgently, “there’s trouble brewing.”

My stomach tightened. I told him I’d be there as soon as possible. I slapped on the wig and glasses and the long mac, got the sports bag from my room and told Ray where I was going. He looked at me for a while and for an awful moment I thought he was going to ask me if I’d changed anything but he finally figured it out.

“Is it fancy dress?”

“Undercover, reduces the risk of any dodgy types coming after me,” I tried to make it sound jokey.

“Good,” he said. His face closed down. There wasn’t any warmth in the comment. I knew he was thinking about previous occasions when my work had come far too close to home. It was an area we skirted round now. I had a rush of irritation with him. The past was over and done with. How long was he going to cradle his disapproval? We needed to talk about it, but not then. I was in a hurry.

Traffic was light and I reached Canterbury Close in fifteen minutes. It was drizzling, the soft, steady veil of damp that Manchester does so well, creating balls of diffuse orange light around the street lamps.

I could see a huddle of people outside the Ibrahims’. There was a van parked outside Mr Poole’s house so I drove on and found a space further down the Close. The fine rain made it hard to see clearly what was going. I fiddled with my rear-view mirror and pretended to mess with my hair. Though there’s not a lot to do with a plain grey wig. I could see the Brennan twins and Micky Whittaker, no sign of the two adults or Darren. A fourth boy was bouncing a football from one knee to the other.

I got out of the car and locked up. I felt the attention swivel my way and a silence stretched the seconds. My shoulders tensed up and my stomach contracted. The football slammed against the far side of my car.

“Hey,” I shouted, “pack it in.”

Someone echoed me in a falsetto voice. There were jeers from the group. It would be unwise to antagonise them further. I needed to get inside, set the camera up, do my job. I walked quickly towards Mr Poole’s. One of the twins intercepted me at the gate.

“Where you think you’re going?” He dripped insolence.

I moved to side-step him and he shadowed me. I was close enough to see the fuzzy hair on his upper lip, the cold sore at one corner of this mouth, to smell the cooking fat on his clothes. I avoided eye contact: common sense, don’t challenge him.

“Those glasses are well sad, you look like Elton John, anybody ever tell you that?”

“Let me past,” I said, “or I’ll report you to the police.”

“Yeah,” he raised an eyebrow, “got a mobile phone in there have you?” He made a grab for the sports bag. I swung it backwards out of his reach.

Mr Poole’s door swung open and light spilt across the path. “What’s going on?” he barked. There were two women close behind him in the doorway.

“Aw, fuck off, grandad,” yelled the boy who I’d not seen before.

“Clear off,” shouted Mr Poole, “go on, clear off. We’re sick of the lot of you.”

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” one of the women spoke up.

Catcalls and clapping. The twin inched out of my way. Mickey Whittaker gave us two fingers.

I hurried into the house. Mr Poole shut the door. There was a hard thump from outside. It made me start.

“Football,” said Mr Poole, “they’ve been kicking it over the road against the door for the last ten minutes.” He closed his eyes momentarily, shook his head. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m OK.” But raging inside.

“This is Mary,” he introduced the woman who’d called out. She was small, energetic, bright-eyes and a quick smile. We shook hands.

“And Pauline.”

Pauline’s hand was cool and frail, everything about her looked pale, faded.

“We’re his secretaries,” joked Mary, “help him sort his files out.”

“More like gaffers,” he joked, “keep me on my toes. Local history buffs,” he explained, “know all about Hulme, these two do.”

The women both grinned.

“I’d better get going,” I gestured upstairs.

“We’ll get you a brew. Tea?”

“Thank you.”

“They know what you’re doing,” Mr Poole said to me.

“It’s not all like this, you know,” Mary tapped my arm. “You look in the paper and it’s all ‘estate from hell’ and ‘crime and despair’ but there’s some good people round here, proper little communities. This side of the road, we’ve not had all the changes they have over there.”

“We’re not the New Hulme,” added Pauline, “they’ve knocked that down twice in my lifetime. St Georges has had a different history. Lot more settled.”

“Thought we’d died and gone to heaven when we moved here, didn’t we Pauline?”

“Oh, aye. We was all moved from the slums, see. Beswick and Salford. You’ll not remember but they was terrible places, really terrible. We came here and there’s indoor toilets – cos we only had a privvy in the yard before that.”

“Hot water out the tap and all,” added Mary, “I cried first time I saw that. Tears of joy.”

“She does exaggerate,” teased Mr Poole. Mary slapped him on the arm.

“You go on up,” he said, “I’ll bring your tea up.”

I opened the window a couple of inches then set the camera up as before. I was smarting with outrage at the bullying I’d had to deal with. I knew I’d done right to play cautious, to save my skin but I had been in many similar situations and every time there was a small part of me, enraged at the injustice of it, at the brutal cocksure arrogance of these men (for they always had been men) and each time I had swallowed that anger. One day, I fantasised, I’d let go, let all that rage free, let it come pouring out and I’d kill someone, batter them to death with whatever was to hand, strangle them with my bare hands, beat them to a pulp…and more. And then how would I feel? Better?

I checked the focus, I couldn’t see the lads at all then I realised that they must be leaning against the van parked directly outside the house. The football would appear now and then and they began to target the Ibrahim’s house, kicking the ball hard against the door and windows. I couldn’t film them but I took some footage of the ball to establish what was happening.