‘Now, you might say, “But he was the son of God. Born of woman, yes, but that was just … expedient. So it’s not surprising he could be so detached.”
‘But is there also a lesson there for the rest of us? Well, think of this. In Matthew’s account of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says that to be a true child of God you must love your enemies. Love them that curse you. In other words, if you only love those people who love you back – your family, say – what have you done that everybody else doesn’t do anyway? With God or without Him?
‘I don’t think – or at least I find it hard to … Well, I mean, I say “I”, actually, who cares what I think?’
There was a rustle of dry mirth about the hall.
‘No, the question is, what did Jesus intend? That we honour our mother and father, I’m sure. But maybe not above all others. You’ve heard it said, I’m sure, you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family. Christ chose his disciples over his family, His followers chose to follow Him over theirs. Clearly, no – we can’t choose our families. If we could, we’d probably all be less inclined to murder our fathers.’
He saw some vexed looks, heard some mutterings, some seat-shifting.
‘That’s only what old Freud said. What sons want to do. I don’t know what he said about daughters. I wonder now, actually.’
But he had lost his mental place, was groping into empty space for an ending.
‘I suppose the truth is – the question for us is – the love in a family, is it enough? Is it enough to make us better people if the love stays within those walls, and never gets circulated? Of course, some people have great reason to thank their families. But then what if you never had a family in the first place to give you that love? Is it easier then for those people to go out and love others? Or are you much the worse off? Or what if you don’t ever start a family of your own? As an adult. If you were only ever the recipient of family love? Do you even have the right to speak about any of this?
‘I’m not sure. I dare say you’ve all lived longer lives than me. Maybe you could let me know.’
*
Afterward he girded up and pressed flesh as diligently as he was able. It didn’t hurt. A dwarfish old woman whose name he cursed himself for having forgotten kept hold of his fingers most intently in her dry, calloused hands. ‘I want you to know, hinny, it’s interesting, the thought you put into what you say.’
‘That was one of your better ones, I thought, John,’ Monica Bruce echoed a little later as Gore was pitching himself into shifting and stacking the chairs. Heartened, he washed teacups, pushed a broom round the floor, swapped cheerful murmurings with all who drew near.
He felt new vigour commingled with the relief of a burden shifted. If this was a meagre, much-diminished base from which to work, it was nonetheless a manageable one. A certain millstone had been lifted aside and the moment seemed to propose itself for an erasure of the slate, a back-to-basics reckoning of resources, a utilising of old skills alongside the new lessons learned. The lingering concerns of recent days and weeks, those that had clung like dank wet clothes, seemed now as if they might be just as easily cast off and torched.
*
He stepped out under the awning, stretched and shook out his limbs, suddenly hungry, noting what looked to be not the gloomiest of skies, though sporadic clouds were black as coal-fire smoke. A last couple of parishioners’ cars were taking turns to nose out of the gates, and before him on the walkway a girl sat perched upon a concrete bollard, her back to him, her very yellow hair in a ponytail. She wore a pink hooded top with some illegible decal, a washed-out denim skirt, and scuffed white trainers like plastic bricks on her feet. She turned to him, and at once he knew her – recognised her frown, and the sallow bird-like prettiness made by ill-nourishment – remembered too the flare of her underwear as she had been dumped onto concrete by her inconsiderate swain.
‘John Gore, aye?’ She was up and coming straight at him.
‘That’s me. It’s Cheryl, isn’t it? Did your mam tell you to come say thanks?’
‘Me mam telt us come get yer. Can you come see her at ours? Only we’ve got bother, she reckons you can help wuh, it’s wor Tony.’
Gore put up a hand to still the wild words. ‘Hang on. Tony?’
‘Aye. Mackaz, like?’
‘Mackers? You’re related?’
‘He’s me brutha. Aye, he’s not been home, see? Not for two nights. So will you come on with wuh? She’s ever so desperate, me mam.’
He wracked his headpiece for a delaying tactic. ‘Can I – look, I just need to finish up here first and then –’
‘Please, but. Please. She’s desperate. She’s doing all wor heads. Please.’
He really could have wished it otherwise, his newfound equilibrium won at such price. You have no choice, a fastidious voice told him straight.
*
She led him through the barren yard and down the weed-strewn path, under the doorway and through a cramped kitchen smelling of turpentine and browned mince, past a narrow stairwell, steps littered with toys, down which was traipsing a dozy-eyed hulk of a young man, naked but for a bath-towel round his hairy midriff.
‘Me brutha Col,’ Cheryl drawled. ‘He’s on nights.’
From the living room the television glowed blue and mute. The carpet was tacky underfoot. Gore took the hand of Mrs Fay MacNamara – her own pasty blondeness clearly kin to her daughter’s, albeit run to fat – and accepted the introduction.
‘Thank you so much for comin’, Father. I’m at me wits’ end.’
‘Of course you are, of course. Think nothing of it.’
There was nowhere to park himself but on the settee beside her, and he inserted his person next to a slumbering black cat, lowering himself gingerly. Cheryl lingered in the doorframe.
‘I’m imagining all sorts, see. I can’t get on with anything.’
‘I’m sure. This will sound pat, Mrs MacNamara, but please remember, people go missing every day. I know it’s murder for you.’ He saw her eyes pop feelingly, and so cursed his maladroit phrasing. ‘But we’ll find him. I’m certain he’s safe and well.’
She sniffled, seemed almost to crush her fingers. ‘Well, you say that.’
‘Is it out of character? Has he ever gone off before?’
‘Nah, never. Except for the odd mad night.’
Cheryl piped up. ‘He went off that time after you and that Gormley bloke.’
‘Aye, well, that wasn’t this was it, Cheryl?’ Frowns were exchanged at this evident filial impiety.
‘And what have the police said?’
Silence. Mrs MacNamara’s frown had deepened, somewhat guiltily.
‘You have reported this, to the police?’
‘I’ve not. Only that’s why I asked you here, Father.’
‘But why not the police? I mean, you need to get into the system, get an officer round –’
‘I divvint want an officer round. That happened to me friend Paula. All they did was turn her place owa. Made her feel rotten. Like she’d done her own lad in.’
‘What if I went to the police? On your behalf?’
‘Aw, don’t, they’d still be round. Please, man, I don’t like ’em. Can we not keep this just between wuh? Can we not?’
Gore bit his lip, weighing the matter unhappily. Slowly, since no other option occurred, he withdrew his notebook from his pocket, and uncapped a biro. ‘Well then. When was the last time you saw Tony?’
‘Yesterday morning. He’d been in his bed, then I looked in and he wasn’t.’
‘What was the actual time? When you last set eyes on him?’
‘Well, I only saw him when he went up to bed, like. Midnight mebbe?’
‘Midnight, okay. How did he seem? Was he acting like normal?’
Mrs MacNamara looked to Cheryl. It was the girl who spoke up. ‘The place where he works, right? There was that shootin’.’
‘What shooting was that?’
‘D’you not hear? The pi
zza place out North Shields. There was two of ’em got shot dead, two fellas.’
‘My God.’ Gore felt his control over proceedings rudely sent packing. ‘My God, so that’s where Mackers – Tony – that’s where he works? He was there when it happened?’
‘Aye,’ Fay fumbled in her lap. ‘I knew there was summat wrang, see, cos he was never home ’til late, and he come in all moody. He was moody, wasn’t he?’
‘He looked like they’d shot him an’ all,’ Cheryl muttered at her armpit.
‘The men were shot actually sitting in the restaurant?’
‘Aye, in front of everyone, like.’
‘Is Tony a waiter there?’
‘He delivers. Drives a bike.’
‘Did he see the men shot?’
‘Dunno. He didn’t tell us exactly. He was just so moody.’
‘I’d have thought he would have been traumatised.’
‘Say again?’
‘An experience like that. He’ll have suffered a huge shock, to his system. I mean, it wouldn’t be surprising if he was just – wandering the streets somewhere.’
‘You think? Suppose he could, couldn’t he?’
‘It’s possible. He’s not on any medication, is he?’
Cheryl snorted. Her mother squinted at her. ‘He’s not, but.’
‘Have you rung around the hospitals?’
‘I did, a few,’ said Cheryl.
‘Well, now, look, this is already a police matter, isn’t it? It’s a part of a – of an actual crime, with a crime number and so on. Tony will have been spoken to himself, won’t he? By the police, on the night?’
‘Dunno. He didn’t say. Never says that much, see. He wouldn’t, but. Normally. Talk to the police.’
Cheryl was shaking her head adamantly. ‘Naw. He said to us he had.’
‘He told you?’ Gore turned his attention wholly to the girl.
‘Aye, said he had, but he wished he’d not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Didn’t tell us.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Just what I telt you, man. He was in a mood, I couldn’t hear half what he said. Just shut the door on us. Heard his mobile ring, but.’
‘He has a mobile phone?’
‘Aye.’
‘I assume you’ve tried calling it?’
‘We’ve not got the number.’
‘Why not?’
‘He never give us it. Said it was just for his work.’
For a moment Gore felt his vision swimming in a high swamping wave of fatigue. He rubbed at the corners of both eyes. ‘God, this is – let’s – let’s just try to establish, what are the obvious things to do? Have you talked to his friends? Who are his friends?’
‘Cheryl’s been round all them, haven’t ya?’
‘Aye, just like a few I knaa. They’d not seen him.’
Gore looked closely at her. ‘What about that boy Jason? Jason Liddell?’
Disdain seized her face. ‘I don’t speak to him no more, he’s an idiot.’
‘He is a friend, though, of Tony’s?’
‘Naw. They’d fell out and that.’
‘Why? Any reason?’
‘Dunno. It was all like sort of, “You’re in with this lot and I’m in with that lot. This is my gang and that’s yours.”’
‘Gang?’
‘Aye, like, y’knaa, gangs of lads what knock about.’
‘And Tony was in a sort of a “gang”, you would say?’
‘I dunno with Tony. Jason is. There’s a whole load of ’em what live in the same flat. Over on Scoular. They think they’re that rock.’
‘What, it’s a flat just full of kids?’
‘Aye. But it’s Jason’s flat. They put him in there when he come out of care, he just lets everyone crash. Neebody stops it.’
Mentally Gore was herding the fragments into a pile, hopeful that some might coalesce or else stick out. ‘Maybe – you could show me it, Cheryl? This flat, where it is?’
‘Tony’ll not be there, man, I tell you he’ll not.’
Gore bit at the end of his biro. He had no resources left to hand, other than an offer he fought shy of voicing, namely to tramp the streets of the locality for whatever remained of daylight. Yet he was toying with that offer still when another notion, albeit disagreeable, stepped forward forcibly.
‘I wonder – I wonder should I talk to Steve Coulson?’ Fay MacNamara ever so slightly flinched. ‘Just that he knows Tony, of course.’
Cheryl was laughing mirthlessly into the neck of her hooded top. ‘Why would he help anyone?’
‘I’ve found he can be a helpful man.’
Fay’s MacNamara’s mouth was tight and defiant. ‘Aye, Cheryl, he’s been good to you.’
‘How’s that then?’ the girl shot back.
‘Ways you’re not to know. Don’t listen to her, Father, our Tony always looked up to Stevie.’
Gore nodded tactfully. ‘Fay, do you have a recent photograph?’
‘Of Stevie?’
‘No. Your son.’
*
Now he was in motion, covering pavement, fighting himself from thinking twice about the wisdom of the mission self-imposed. He knew at least where to start his enquiries, so long as he was in time. Crossman was enlarging in his sights when a BMX bike darted maniacally over the kerb and onto the pavement before him. Even on a small-size set of wheels Cliff Petty looked diminutive, yet he stood up on his pedals, his face supremely surly.
‘Oi, you. You said you’d help wuh with wuh dole. Didn’ya?’
‘I did, yes, and I’ve been having a go. Now’s not a great time, Cliffy.’
‘Aw aye, right, you, wank-wank bollocks. Yer useless, man.’
‘Listen, Cliffy, you know Tony MacNamara, right? Mackers?’
‘What’s it to you, bollocks?’
‘Have you seen him lately?’
But the boy only grasped his handlebars, threw a wheelie, and pedalled away, flicking a V-sign back at Gore.
Nearing the Youth Centre, Gore saw a few more cars than usual parked on the gravel out front, and a smattering of juvenile onlookers. He pressed on up the ramp and indoors, there to be met by an empty stage – a scene of dismantle and removal. It appeared that everything not nailed down had been bagged and piled for shifting. Two unshaven men in loose tee-shirts motioned for him to step aside lest they clout him with a stainless steel sinktop. He stepped across the floor between the detritus, and through the door of the former games room he saw Kully Gates in faded Wranglers and frayed pullover, pensive over some papers spread out atop a solitary table.
She looked up. ‘Well now. Hello, stranger. You’re late.’
‘Kully, what’s going on?’
‘Oh, you pick your moment. Today’s the great day. Today we shut.’
‘What, your drop-in?’
‘No, no, the whole centre. For the chop. Bulldozer time.’
For the first time on this generally confounding day, words failed Gore entirely.
‘Oh yes. We got the news not so long after your last little visit.’
‘But – God, that’s so drastic, isn’t it?’
‘Oh’ – she shrugged – ‘forever they’ve had complaints. “Behaviour issues”, they say. Meaning drugs, you know. A petition they got up this time. And it worked! They should have a party! Woo-hoo. Now their kids can all get into a taxi to some club five miles away, can’t they?’
‘They couldn’t have just let you try and get rid of the troublemakers?’
‘John, then you have no bugger left. Has to be for all, or else for none.’
‘Isn’t there a duty, though? To have something here?’
‘Oh, but they have big plans, John, big plans. You need to read the paper.’
She slid the opened Sunday Sun across the table to him and he took it up. Page five was given over largely to a photograph of Martin Pallister, glowing with exertion in shirtsleeves and crimson tie, one arm around a thin clear-faced teenage gir
l, the other round a sheepishly handsome black boy – both of the youngsters in Newcastle football kit.
MP SEES FUTURE IN BLACK-AND-WHITE
Tyneside West MP Martin Pallister is betting on young football talent to shoot Hoxheath out of the doldrums. The MP today announced plans to lead a regeneration project for the recently closed Hoxheath Youth Centre. Working in tandem with the City Council and Newcastle United FC, the MP will seek a slice of government funds to build a top-class all-weather football pitch on the site of the old centre, with full changing facilities.
‘Football breaks down boundaries in our society, and it creates new opportunities,’ Pallister told the Sun. ‘Football is dreams. Right here we hope to make some of these dreams reality.’
‘We love watching our sport in Newcastle but we need to get more people doing it,’ the MP went on. ‘Football is now a serious profession in this country. If we get local talent started young and properly encouraged, they could make their fortunes – and maybe save the Toon a few bob in transfer fees down the road,’ Pallister joked.
After announcing the project, the MP enjoyed a game of ‘head-tennis’ with Junior FA hopefuls Sophie Benton, 16, from Town Moor, and Remi Odukew, 15, of Fenham.
Gore looked to Kully, who shook her head sadly. ‘God, I should have paid attention when he was banging on about football. I’m sorry, Kully. Is there anything I can do?’
‘You? I doubt it. Well, no, I say that, you can give me a hand with some of this rubbish. My car’s outside.’
Reluctant to intrude further on Kully’s dejection, Gore chose to defer his enquiries into the disappearance of Tony MacNamara. They each took an end of a cumbersome computer monitor, and Kully began to shuffle backward toward the rectangle of pale daylight.
Chapter VI
SIMON BARLOW IS BUSY
Monday, 18 November 1996
Awkwardly stooped, his fingers pudgy in gloves, Gore was chaining his bike to the gate outside the vestry of St Mark’s when he sensed a messenger drawing nigh through the dark, be he friend or foe. It was Michael Mercer, the dapper, bespectacled, slight and prematurely snowy-haired archdeacon of the diocese.
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