Cath Staincliffe - Stone Cold Red Hot

“Mrs Ahmed,” I said, “my name’s Sal, I’m staying with Mr Poole, are you alright? Will you open the door?”

I waited for a minute then repeated it. Mr Poole, at my elbow, called out too. “It’s Mr Poole – the police are here and we’re going to get the window fixed.”

“She doesn’t speak English,” PC Doyle rolled his eyes at our stupidity, “there’s no point in trying to talk to her.”

“The children will though,” I retorted. “One of them’s at school, they’ll probably be used to translating for her.”

He looked affronted.

I knocked again, gently. “Mrs Ahmed, please open the door.” There was the sound of bolts being drawn back and then the door opened a crack. She kept the chain on. She stood there, five foot nothing, face still, scarf over her hair. Her eyes glanced rapidly over us all. At her side a small boy, Tom’s age I guessed, in faded Batman pyjamas.

I spoke to him. “Please tell your mother that Mr Poole has called someone to come and fix the window tonight.”

“From the council,” added Mr Poole.

The boy spoke to his mother. She inclined her head once. Her expression didn’t change.

“The police are here and we hope these people will go to court very soon.” I waited while he passed on my words. “They will be told to leave you alone or they will lose their houses and have to leave the area or maybe go to prison.”

She listened to her son then glanced at me. There was no hope in the look she gave me, just blank indifference. She didn’t believe a word of it, she couldn’t imagine it happening. Words meant nothing. Only actions, only when the victimisation stopped would our promises have meaning.

“I’m staying at Mr Poole’s,” I repeated, “I’ll be there till your husband gets back. If there’s anything I can do let me know.” The boy translated,

An empty offer really but I hoped that she would understand that I would be watching out.

“PC Doyle is going to send the boys home now – he’ll come back if there’s any more trouble. Goodnight.”

The child nodded and shut the door. Doyle smiled at me, angry and boxed in by my statement. If he didn’t do it he’d compromise his authority – we might suspect he couldn’t handle the teenagers. If he refused I was pretty sure I could register an official complaint about his conduct – though it probably wouldn’t be pursued beyond a quiet reprimand.

He strolled down to the gate and spoke quietly to the boys. Eyes flicked my way. There was a burst of laughter and then the lads shambled away. The overwhelming impression was of a bunch of people in cahoots not that of an officer of the law dealing with lawbreakers.

Mr Poole explained it to me as I made a drink in his kitchen. “He’s the one I told you about, bad penny. Agrees with that lot,” he said contemptuously.

“Gave me the creeps. And the policewoman never said a word.”

“Doesn’t dare, he’s the boss. He’s probably giving her a hard time of it already.”

I poured water into my mug, stirred the coffee.

“With tonight as well,” I said “they should have enough to go to court, they must have.”

He moved to a kitchen chair, lowering himself cautiously to sit down. “I suppose they need to have a watertight case” he said, “make sure they’ve dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, it’s only right that you’ve got to have good grounds to take someone’s home away but even so when you see how they behave…”

“She looked so…hopeless,” I said, “depressed. And there’s two other children?”

“Aye, a baby few months old and a toddler. Little lad’s at school. I see her taking him up there, others in the trolley.”

“What about Mr Ibrahim?”

“He’s quiet, friendly enough considering. He was a teacher before the war – schoolteacher. He speaks a fair bit of English. I showed him the archives,” he gestured towards the back room. “He was interested in that.”

We contemplated their savage change of circumstances. I sipped at my coffee. “I’ll take this up.”

“I doubt that they’ll be back tonight. Pubs shut a while ago and there’s no sign of the men.”

At midnight a van arrived and fixed a sheet of plywood to the broken window. After they’d left the man I’d seen before walked his dog along the Close and waited while it crapped on the pavement. I filmed them just for the hell of it. At one fifteen a cacophony of fire engine sirens rent the air, whooping past on the main road. At two thirty five Mr Ibrahim returned in a taxi. I saw him stop for a moment when he saw the boarded up window then hurry up the drive. Maybe I should have rung him at work and warned him about it but I hadn’t got the number. I thought about going over to ask him for it but all being well this would be my last stint on Canterbury Close. It was late, I was knackered and I was sure the Ibrahims could do without any more callers.

Mr Poole was dozing in the lounge, I didn’t wake him. I pulled the door to behind me. It was cold but at last the drizzle had stopped. The wet had brought out the smells of the gardens, soil and rotting leaves, the tarmac and concrete. I walked down to my car. My stomach did a somersault, my mouth soured. Aw, shit. The bastards had nicked my car.

I reported the theft to the police on my mobile and rang a taxi. I sat on the low wall in front of Mr Poole’s to wait. The wig was driving me mad and I’d a headache starting. I wondered whether to ring Ray but decided against it – there was no point in waking him just to say I’d be half an hour later than expected.

It was quiet on the Close. I could hear occasional traffic from the main road. My eyes felt hot and itchy, my back stiff from the tension and from peering into the viewer in the camera. I was ravenous too. Most nights I went to bed by eleven; my body was confused at being up hours after. It wanted breakfast.

The taxi arrived and hooted loudly as it rolled down the Close, pretty inconsiderate I thought given the time of night.

I waved and he sped to the bottom, circled round and roared back up to where I was waiting. Asian boy racer.

Once inside I gave him my address in Withington. “Go down the Parkway, yeah?”

“Fine.” The dual carriageway had a higher speed limit which would suit his driving style and get me home quicker.

I settled back into my seat, leopard print suedette covers, a pair of pink fun fur elephants dangling from the rear-view mirror along with his i.d., V. Chowdury. Did he choose to have the car tarted up like this? Was it meant to be ironic?

We drove through the New Hulme; a huge development initiative that had replaced the massive Crescents, curving high rises and the nearby deck-access blocks with human-sized housing. I could see the graceful line of the Hulme Arch, over Princess Road, a symbol of optimism. Like Pauline had said this was the second attempt to renovate the area. Would it work? The houses looked nice enough, there had been a huge consultation exercise with the communities in the area as part of the project. They’d knocked down the old buildings but how would they get rid of the poverty, nestling like mould, spores ready to bloom and start the process of disintegration all over again?

I pulled the wig off, delighted to be rid of it. I rubbed at my head and the back of my neck. The driver did a double take in the mirror. Opened his mouth and shut it again.

A bit later. “Been waiting long?”

“No, my car’s been nicked.”

“Left it round there?”

“Yeah.”

“Have the shirt off your back round there, you know. You see that documentary the other night? Car crime capital of Europe, Manchester is. They ship some of them across to Russia, Lada’s and that. Others they do a make-over drive them down to Brum or over to Liverpool. Lot of money in it. A mate of mine, he’s parked outside the Palace, on Oxford Street, right, got a cab like…”