Looking for Trouble

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘I still keep forgetting,’ she said, smiling gently, ‘that she’s gone. You’d think it would have sunk in by now.’

  ‘When did she first trace Martin?’

  ‘Way back. He was five. She’d thought about it a lot. Reckoned it’d be easier to trace him once he was registered at school. She used a private investigator then. Didn’t let on to me till it was all done.’

  ‘Did she think you’d disapprove?’

  She nodded. ‘Raking up the past. I thought it’d hurt her even more. She’d given up all claim on him. That’s what adoption is. Was then, anyway. He had a new family, a new name. Anyway, this bloke knew what he was doing; followed up birth certificates and this and that and came back to Janice with two possibilities. He’d got photos. One of them was Martin.’

  ‘How could you be sure?’

  ‘He was the spitting image of Janice at that age. To a ‘t’. She was over the moon. She went and watched him going to school one day. It was then that she told me about it.’

  ‘And after that?’ I asked.

  ‘She was happy enough to know where he was. Now and then, she’d drop by the school or pass by his house. Few times a year. She never said much about it – just that she’d seen Martin. I used to worry that it’d stir things up, you know, open up old wounds, but she coped alright. In the end, I suppose I thought it was harmless enough. Then, this last couple of years she starts worrying about when he leaves home; how she’ll know where he is, which college will he go to? Janice was always bright, you see; she’d have gone a long way if it hadn’t have been for her troubles. More brains than the rest of us put together.’ She grinned and I saw again the smile of Janice in the paper, the smile of Martin with his fish. ‘Anyway,’ she paused for a moment as if searching for the best way to tell me something awkward, ‘she began to talk about making contact. Martin was nearly sixteen, she reckoned he’d a right to know.’ She sighed with exasperation. ‘We argued about it. I thought it was wrong. He might not even know he was adopted. When she gave him up, she gave up all those rights.’ She cut the air with her hands to emphasise the point. ‘1 couldn’t get her to see sense, but she never mentioned it again. I hoped she’d given up on the idea.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you about coming to me?’

  ‘No.’ She leant across and retrieved her glasses, wove the chain between her fingers as she talked. ‘She told me Martin had left home. She rang up in a right state. She’d not seen him at school, so she’d gone to the house and watched there. In the end, she rang the house; pretended to be some careers advisor or some such thing. Mrs Hobbs tells her Martin’s in hospital, that he’s had a breakdown. Well, you can imagine what that did to Janice.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘I persuaded her to come and stay here for a couple of nights. She was worrying herself sick. Which hospital was he in, had he been sectioned? She wouldn’t let up. In the end, we rang all the hospitals. No trace of him. We didn’t know what on earth was going on.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Towards the end of May. Knowing he wasn’t in hospital calmed her down. We began to think there’d been some strange mix-up. Anyway, I let her go home. Next thing I know, she’s on the phone, terribly agitated, talking about Martin being,’ she struggled with the word, pulling the spectacle chain taut across her palm, ‘well, being abused, you know, by his father.’

  She leant forward, clasping the glasses in her lap, looking at them as she spoke. ‘I thought she’d flipped. That she was getting it all mixed up...losing touch. If I’d only realised...’ I kept quiet, sensing there was more to come, ‘it was bad enough her hearing that Martin had got ill, but then that...’ Her breathing came fast and shallow. ‘To find out...just the same...the same.’

  The penny dropped. Janice Brookes had been a victim of abuse too. Mrs Williams still bent forward, her face obscured by the cap of white hair falling over it.

  I had to break the silence; acknowledge what I’d heard.

  ‘Was it her father?’ I asked. My voice sounded thin and reedy.

  She nodded her head. ‘Bastard.’ She whispered the curse, but there was anguish in her quiet delivery of the words. ‘She was only a kid. I had no idea.’ She looked up at me now, hiding nothing of the pain in her brown eyes and the tremors that shook her lips. ‘I’ve never forgiven myself. How could I not know, in my own house? When you can’t even protect your own...’ Her Scouse accent was more pronounced now. ‘I threw him out sharp enough once I found out, but it was too late, too late for Janice. That’s what made her ill. I’m sure of it.’

  In the silence that followed, I heard the sing-song of a siren approaching the hospital and the shrieks and calls of children playing in some nearby school.

  And I thought of Janice, whose childhood had been stolen; of Martin. I felt the pain of the white-haired woman opposite me and thought of my own daughter, of the passion that bound me to her. I could never bear for her to suffer in the ways that Janice had. How could any mother bear it? My throat ached and tears started in my own eyes.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ Mrs Williams said huskily, tears coursing down her cheeks, her nose reddening, ‘but I’m ready for another cuppa.’

  ‘Yes,’ I smiled, ‘that’d be great.’

  I’d managed to regain my composure by the time she returned. I concentrated on filling in the factual gaps in Janice’s story. Janice hadn’t been in touch again after the Saturday. Mrs Williams knew of no reason for her daughter, who lived in Bolton, to be in South Manchester. Janice had been working part-time in a sandwich bar. She gave me the address. She’d been friendly with staff there and also with her next door neighbour. No other friends her mother knew about. She hadn’t been involved with anyone romantically.

  The police hadn’t been back in touch with Mrs Williams since their initial interview. At that time, she’d had no reason to connect Martin with her daughter’s sudden death. Natalie had never known about her half-sister’s child. She’d only been nine when Martin was born.

  I asked her whether she knew who the father was.

  ‘Yes. Edward Mullins.’ She screwed her face up into a grimace. ‘Right waste of space, he was. Janice was working in his shop. He flattered her – he could turn on the charm. She caught first time. She never told him. Tell me about Martin.’

  The question took me by surprise. Though he was her grandson...I described the shy schoolboy, with his love of fishing, and the distraught young man I’d talked to at the nightclub. It wasn’t a particularly rosy portrait. I showed her the pictures that Janice had left with me.

  ‘She never showed me these; probably thought I wouldn’t approve,’ she said regretfully. ‘He’s got a look of her, in the smile.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me what her real relationship to Martin was?’ I asked. ‘Why all the pretence? After all, she’d used a private eye to trace him before.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘Maybe the fact that she wanted to make contact this time. It is illegal, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Janice probably thought it was. You still have the letter she wrote him?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to find out if Martin is still staying in Cheadle. If he is, I’ll try and deliver it. The man who owns the house denies ever having met him.’

  ‘If Janice told Martin who she really was, if he was upset anyway...you say he had these outbursts...’

  The question, though unspoken, was clear. ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t a violent boy; there’s only been the odd occasion. It’s not...’

  ‘It would explain why he’s missing,’ she insisted.

  I didn’t reply. She needed to consider the worst possible version of events, a sort of protection policy. Nothing could be worse, could it, than discovering that Martin had murdered his mother?

  ‘You’ll ask him, won’t you, if you find him?’

  ‘The police have made it clear I’m not...’

  ‘I don’t give a damn
about the police.’ She reined in her anger, keeping her voice low, but her eyes flashed. ‘My daughter’s dead and there’s some sort of connection with Martin Hobbs. He must know something. Even if she never got to the house, that tells us something...’

  I wasn’t going to start asking about Janice’s murder. I just wanted to find Martin and give him the letter. Finish. Anything else was beyond me. ‘I’ve told the police most of this; they’ll have interviewed anyone...’

  ‘I’m not asking the police’ she was exasperated with me, stood up and marched over to the fireplace, ‘I’m asking you. If it’s a question of money, I’ll pay whatever it takes.’

  ‘It’s not, it’s not money...’ What could I say? I’m scared. I’m a coward. Someone killed your daughter and they might do the same to me. I sighed and looked

  over at Mrs Williams. She stood, head up, waiting for my answer. It was a foregone conclusion. ‘Alright, if I find Martin and if I get the chance, I’ll see whether he knows anything about Janice. And if other information comes my way, I’ll let you know; but that’s it. I haven’t the resources or the authority to take it as far as the police can. And if they hear about this – you’ve employed me. It wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ I saw her shoulders relax. The clock on the mantelpiece had traced the afternoon round. I had to go. She saw me to the door.

  ‘When you find him...’

  ‘If I find him.’

  ‘Yes, if it’s alright, if you don’t think he’s...’ she paused, searching for a word other than guilty ‘...involved, will you tell him I’m here, if he ever needs anybody, if he wants to know about her?’

  I nodded, struggling again with sudden tears, impressed by her dignity and generosity.

  Mrs Williams stood on the doorstep, watching, while I got in the car. She waved once and disappeared into the house.

  I started back for Manchester.

  I’d agreed to do more than I wanted and that promise sat like a stone in my stomach. Why couldn’t I have said no? Admitted my fears and inadequacies? Just said no.

  Because you feel guilty, you feel responsible for Janice and you feel you owe her mother.

  I sighed and hit the accelerator. I just wanted to get home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  I walked in on mayhem. Maddie, her face red with rage, was screaming at Ray, who was on his knees trying to mop up a pool of stuff that looked like cooking oil. Tom was standing on a chair at the kitchen table doing something creative with salt, ketchup and milk.

  I’d hoped for a little attention myself when I got back. Some idiot had cut straight across me, where the motorways merged, on the way back into Salford and Manchester. One of those get-in-lane-quick spots. I’d practically done an emergency stop to avoid him. If there’d been anyone close behind me...I say ‘him’; I was too busy watching my life pass before my eyes to take note of the driver, or even the make of car, but I assume it was a man. I’ve never yet been in a car with a woman who drives like a maniac.

  By the time I reached home, the shakes had subsided and I’d run through my gamut of revenge fantasies. It looked like tea and sympathy was off.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Maddie, shut up or go somewhere else and make that noise. I’ve had enough.’ Ray’s outburst was heartfelt. And harsh enough to make me wince and Maddie draw breath. For a split second, I wanted to defend her, criticise Ray for his lousy handling of the situation. The moment passed. I’d been there myself, many times, at the end of my tether, running out of tactics and lashing out with my tongue. But I felt dispirited all the same. Why was it so hard to be the parents we wanted to be? Humane, mature – giving our children respect and dignity. Wasn’t the verbal slap, the belittling comment, part of the same continuum that also dished out beatings and child rape?

  I moved over and disengaged Tom from his collage, hoisted him onto my hip, took Maddie by the hand.

  ‘Come on, you two, let’s go to the shop.’

  ‘Can we get sweets?’ Maddie’s voice rose in hope. Ray shot me a look.

  ‘No. We’re going to get a drink for Ray and then we’ll come back and help clean up.’

  ‘Shoes,’ demanded Tom.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. I carried him piggy-back and took Maddie’s hand. Mr Mohammad at the corner shop knew us well enough to make a joke about the grimy, tear-stained faces of the kids. I bought cheap white wine and lager from the fridge and a bag of Hula-hoops each for them. If it didn’t have sugar in it, it wasn’t really a bribe.

  As I waited for my change, a ripple of fatigue washed through me, tangible enough to make me steady myself on the counter. My back ached, not just from the drive or carrying Tom, but my period was due. Self-pity. I went with the flow. Saw myself throwing in the towel, giving in to the pressures. Walking out of the shop, leaving the children there, leaving Ray to his floor, giving up on the case, crawling to my bed. I reined in the fantasy, disturbed at how shaky I felt. The revelations of the afternoon had upset me more than I’d realised and I was shattered. I picked up the shopping, pulled myself together and carried on coping.

  I helped myself to beans on toast and tea. Ray had calmed down a lot, but there was still an edge to his voice as he took the children up to get ready for bed. I fought the impulse to make a martyr of myself and offer to do bedtime. I wandered out to the garden, watered the tubs and the window-boxes. Digger was out there, sprawled under the table. He raised an eyelid in answer to my greeting, then lowered it again.

  When I could tell the children were out of the bath, I went up to say goodnight and then retreated to the bath myself. I ran it up to the overflow, covered my face with a flannel and steeped. Fragments of the afternoon came and went; Mrs Williams’ face, attractive, mobile, listening, smiling, crumpling with grief. I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to go to bed.

  It was nine-thirty when I padded into the kitchen. Ray had started the wine but I made cocoa. I could hear the television on in the lounge and went through to say goodnight to Ray.

  ‘I’ve fixed up a meeting with Clive,’ he announced. ‘Friday, after the kids are in bed.’

  My heart sank.

  It took us another hour to sort out our line for the meeting. We kept getting waylaid by exchanging gossip and bits of news about our lives. Ray was furious about rumours that the council were going to start charging for nursery places.

  ‘They can’t,’ I protested. ‘People only get those places if they really need it. People couldn’t possibly afford to pay...’

  He shrugged. ‘It’ll be means-tested, but even so...’

  ‘But the principle, as well; free childcare, provision for under-fives...’ We rumbled on about that for a while, too.

  In bed, I nestled round the slow groping pains of my period and soon sank into a thick, heavy sleep.

  There was a child crying. It was my fault. I’d locked her in the coffin and there wasn’t enough air. She’d die. It was a mistake. I lurched awake and placed the crying. Tom. I went through to him. In the dim light, his face was shiny with tears. His hair formed damp whorls on his forehead.

  I lifted him up, murmuring reassurance. He burrowed into my neck, sharp little breaths jolting his body. I walked round the room, patting him on the bottom and whispering lullabies. Longing for him to settle. When I felt his body slacken, I did a couple more circuits, then lowered him gently down, trying not to tense myself and so alert him to the change.

  I stole back to my room. So heavy, so tired. Craving sleep. Tom was bawling again. My stomach lurched with dismay. Anger and resentment surged through me. I need to sleep, I need to fucking sleep. Stop it. Be quiet. Leave me alone. I reached their bedroom door, ready to seize him too swiftly, stalk round batting his bottom a little too hard, the ache of frustration ringing my throat. I checked myself, knocked on Ray’s door. ‘Tom’s awake, I’ve put him down once but he won’t settle.’

  ‘Shit!’

  I escaped, dived back to my dreamless sleep.

  The
next day I felt spacey. Pains came and went, blood seeped. I felt fizzy with fatigue. Over breakfast, I speculated how civilised it would be if I could withdraw from the world for the duration. Go off and commune with myself, while other people cared for the kids and cleaned the house. Fat chance.

  I’d lain in bed till the kids had gone and I was trying to cut through the fog in my brain, to sort out what I was meant to be doing. I couldn’t focus on anything. I wanted to go in the garden and play with the plants. I made another cup of tea.

  Maybe I’d do better at the office. Aw, shit. The office. I’d managed to forget about the office over the last three days. Sigh. I hated to think what the Dobsons would be saying about me if I didn’t sort it out soon. Oh, well, maybe sorting it out would have a knock-on effect on my thought processes. Let a little light into my clouded mind.

  I gathered together cleaning stuff, bin-bags, rubber gloves and a stanley knife to cut up the carpet. Made a flask and a sandwich.

  The Dobsons were all out at school. I went down the cellar stairs, bracing myself for the shock. I got a surprise. Someone had cleared up. More than that, they’d sorted the room out. The carpet had gone, a faded but serviceable patterned rug in its place. All the walls and the ceiling had been painted white, faintly pink, one of those hint-of-a-touch numbers. Two collapsible garden chairs and a small plain desk had been set to one side of the room. Opposite, stood my filing cabinet, still streaked with lilac splashes. Beside it on the floor, two stacks of files, one lot smothered in paint, the other relatively unscathed.

  Gratitude and guilt fought for the upper hand. There was a note on the desk next to the (clean) phone. ‘Sal – raided the attic, plus car-boot sale. You owe us a tenner! Girls displayed cringe-making propensity for nest-building. Jackie.’

  I laughed. Jackie was terrified that her four daughters would all opt for marriage and children at an early age and rebel against her hopes that they would go on to further education and economic independence.