Cath Staincliffe - Stone Cold Red Hot

“Think about something happy, then,” Maddie suggested.

“I’ll try.”

“Think about Christmas presents.”

“And sweets.”

I cleared the table as the two of them invented outrageous wish lists based on all the television adverts they’d been watching.

Ray called Digger and they went off for walkies.

I had other creatures to attend to. “Maddie, Tom, we need to check your hair.”

They groaned in unison.

It was a regular palaver. I smothered their hair with conditioner then combed it through several times with a nit comb.

Time was we’d had to use a range of chemical treatments that filled the room with fumes and made our eyes water, but Manchester lice had become immune and the authorities feared we were in danger of poisoning our children; like sheep that were dipped too often they might end up twitching and collapsing, nerves and immune systems shot at, hence the conditioner and comb.

I found nothing on Tom.

“Don’t tell me, Mummy,” Maddie instructed me as she bent over the basin so I kept it to myself, tapped the two adult-size beasties into the sink and rinsed them away. I then applied herbal shampoo designed to deter lice to each scalp and put them in the bath for quarter of an hour while the lotion did its stuff. My head itched. I would do myself later.

While Ray was out I rehearsed what I would say when he got back. By the time I’d washed up, tidied the kitchen and swept the floor I was word perfect.

I heard the door open then Digger ambled into the kitchen followed by Ray. I didn’t even give him time to take his jacket off.

“I think we should have a talk, Ray. Can we fix a time?”

He sighed theatrically. “If this is all about yesterday…” he began.

“It’s not just that, there are other things and I’d rather we discussed them when we’ve got time to do it properly. One evening perhaps?”

“I can’t do this weekend,” he said quickly.

“Next week sometime, Monday, Tuesday?”

“Tuesday.”

“After they’re in bed.”

He nodded and wandered out. I let go of the tea-towel that I’d been gripping so firmly and rubbed at the cramp in my hand.

I was restless that evening. I wanted, more than anything, to pamper myself, to relax. I went through the motions; opened a bottle of red wine, got my book and a snack ready, tidied my room, had scented candles in my bath. It was all very pleasant but my mind was locked on Jennifer Pickering. I even tried day-dreaming about Stuart Bowker but he kept sliding away to be replaced by other visions: Jennifer shouting at her father, Frank feverishly building the shed, Barbara clearing out her daughter’s room. There was a constant churning in my guts.

Finally I slept. In my dream I was yelling at Mrs Pickering who was forcing soil into my mouth. Ray stood beside her watching. Then he began to call my name.

“Sal, Sal.”

I woke with a muggy headache and a furry mouth. Ray stood in my doorway. I felt a irrational surge of anger at how he had betrayed me in the dream.

“Phone for you.”

I reached the phone expecting Diane, who, not having children, doesn’t know the meaning of an early night.

“Sal, it’s Mr Poole, there’s trouble again – they’re back outside the house, calling names and that, a big gang of them.”

“Right, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I stumbled around getting my bag with the video camera, disguise, phone, keys. I washed two paracetamol down with a glass of water. I knew I shouldn’t mix them with alcohol but if my headache got much worse I’d barely be able to function.

“Becoming a bit of a habit,” Ray said when I reached the kitchen.

“Yes, I’ll be glad when this job’s over.” And the other one, I thought. I’d solved the mystery of Jennifer’s disappearance but I’d yet to disclose it to anyone and I wasn’t looking forward to the response I’d get. Truth or not I felt like a pariah.

I rang for a cab. I watched out of the window for it to arrive. The wind had got up and was blowing hard at the trees. Carrier bags went careering down the street. Dark clouds were moving swiftly against a darker sky and across a creamy, full moon.

I climbed into the taxi and V. Chowdury greeted me.

“I got the call,” he said, “recognised the address. You on a job then?”

I felt a rush of confusion. I didn’t want to endanger the guy by asking him to drive me to the Close where the bully boys were out in force but would it be right to refuse to ride with him because of his race? How could I explain?

“This might not be a very good idea.”

“What?”

“I’m going back to Canterbury Close, in Hulme, where you picked me up before.”

“Yeah.”

“The reason I’m going is there’s some racists, kicking up trouble, they’re harassing a family on the Close and I’m filming it for evidence. They could just as easily turn on you.”

“I can look after myself,” he said coolly.

“Maybe,” I said, “but I don’t want to put anyone else at risk. Isn’t there someone else, another driver who could take me?”

I meant a white driver but couldn’t quite bring myself to state it.

“No.”

“I could ring another firm.” I was thinking aloud.

“Look, I’ll drop you nearby,” he said. “That do you?”

There wasn’t time to quibble and I thought he’d probably be alright doing that. The trouble would be down the Close and we could stop up on the main road.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not the one who’s bothered. I told you; I can look after myself.”

“OK, thanks.”

He roared off and got us there in just over seven minutes. He pulled up a few yards from the junction. “They’ve blocked it off,” he said.

“Oh, God.”

A row of wheelie bins, an old mattress, scrap metal, the shell of a car (not mine), and the remains of a fridge freezer were strewn across the road.

I opened the car door to see more clearly. Three boys, maybe nine or ten years old, peered from behind the bins. “Fuck off,” one of them shouted.

I got out and went closer, “What’s going on?”

“Mind your own fuckin’ business.”

“I need to get through.”

“What for?”

“See my uncle.”

“Who’s he then?”

“Mr Poole.”

“He’s a grass he is, old farty arse.”

I was sure they’d resist any attempt I made to clear the junk away. I walked back towards the taxi; maybe we could drive round and find the alleyway that led into the bottom of the Close.

A police siren grew closer and soon the flashing lights appeared round the bend. The car slewed to a halt by the barricade. I got my bag out of the taxi and retraced my steps. The taxi-driver got out and followed me.

“Come on, lads,” it was PC Doyle, the bigot. “Clear this lot out of the way.” He made it sound like a weary request.

“We never done it,” one of the lads piped up.

“Shift it,” he barked.

The kids ran off, one of them hurled a load of abuse as he went.

The copper glanced at me and the cabbie.

“You best be off,” he said.

“I need to get through,” I said.

“You don’t live round here,” he challenged.

“My uncle, Mr Poole, I’m staying there.”

He looked at me, eyes heavy with mistrust. Then he flicked his glance to the taxi-driver.

“Well, you can be on your way, Abdul,” he said. He began to pull one of the wheelie bins aside.

“The name’s Johnny,” said the cabbie. I could hear the effort of control in his voice.

“I don’t care if it’s Mahatma bleeding Ghandi,” he yanked another bin to the kerb, “get on your flying carpet and piss off.” He stooped to pull at a length of rusted metal and hurled it across to the pavement. He grimaced, his hands were filthy from the rust.