Death's Sweet Echo

by Maynard Sims

  When the morning came I was up early, washed and shaved, and dressed in my one suit. I vaguely imagined what a social worker would dress in for the daily role, but for the interview process, I decided I needed to impress – and a clean shirt, smart tie and a suit that hadn’t been worn too often would help ease my nervousness, if nothing else.

  My father said he would drive me to the council offices, and, even though I argued against it, I was actually glad he offered. I realised they were worried I would be living at home way beyond my sell-by date, and if the first step in me moving out and living an independent life was getting a job, they would do everything in their powers to make it happen. If my mother could have stood in for me at the interview, she would have done.

  At reception I was directed to a small waiting area, and I was dismayed when I saw there were already three other people looking shiny and brushed, two women and a man. I nodded a greeting, but we were all acutely aware that we were probably competitors and giving any sign of friendliness or welcome might be seen as a weakness. Interviews were for the strong in spirit and in nerve.

  I was last to be called in, which did wonders for my nerves. The man went in first, and an hour later was disgorged looking harassed and a little rushed. I noticed the younger of the two women smirk, and I guessed she thought she stood a very good chance of being selected. By the time the women had had their turns, each exiting the room with varying degrees of attempts at thin smiles and veiled suggestions of confidence, I was convinced a head would pop round the door and tell me not to waste my time. The position had been filled but it was them, not me, at this moment in time the position had been taken by someone far more deserving than a thin, partially bearded, long-haired man who looked younger than his years, and who seemed far too empathetic for a position helping vulnerable young people.

  A head did pop round the door, but only to say inquiringly, ‘Mr White?’

  I jumped up, followed the person through the door and found myself standing in front of a desk behind which sat four people of varying sex and varying degrees of age. To say I was intimidated was an understatement.

  I hesitated. My father had said that sometimes they play games at the start of the interview process to test initiative. Should I stay standing, sit, or wait?

  ‘Mr White,’ the older man said. ‘Take a seat.’

  I strode forward, purposefully, hand outstretched. Smile. I was grinning from ear to there. Shake hands firmly – one or two pumps and let go. I did, and they did, and their faces gave no clues if they were pleased, impressed, or simply going through the motions.

  The interview went by quickly, and so far as I could tell it went well.

  This was just like my father had said it would be. ‘I would structure your replies around STAR. So when they ask you a question such as “tell me about a time when you resolved a customer complaint”, you outline it like this –

  ‘Situation – the situation was this – and outline briefly what the customer complaint was.

  ‘Task – what you had to do to resolve it, but not what you did, that comes next – just the task you faced.

  ‘Actions – the longest bit of the reply – the actions YOU took to resolve. Not my team or we – must be what you did – even if you might feel you are boasting.

  ‘Results – what the end result was – the customer bought a product, that kind of thing.’

  ‘The situation was,’ I began at one point, and glanced at the younger man just as he wrote something down. ‘The situation I faced…’

  ‘Two situations?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You said situation twice.’

  ‘No just the one situation. And it was…’

  ‘Followed by the task, the actions and the results, no doubt.’

  ‘Do you want to hear my answer, or not?’

  The man scribbled soundlessly away.

  ‘How do you handle pressure?’

  ‘I managed well with my exams, and…’

  ‘What about with people? Do you like people?’

  ‘I have lots of friends…’

  ‘Real, or Facebook?’

  ‘Real life, of course, though online as well – who doesn’t, these days?’

  ‘People online get killed, did you know that? Sometimes you think you’re chatting to some nice young chap, and you agree to meet up, and bang, he’s a psychopath and you’re dead.’ The Asian woman smiled. ‘Do you have Facebook friends, Gavin?’

  Much of it went by in a blur, and as I left I was surprised to see I had been in there nearly an hour and a half. I was even more surprised to receive a telephone call the next morning telling me that the job was mine, if I still wanted it. I did, because then I didn’t realise what it involved, what I would really have to become involved with.

  ***

  I said I shouldn’t have met Melinda, and that part is true. The geographical area I was assigned, once I had undergone the training and probationary period, was the roughest estate in the borough. Head office at the council worked on the basis of that song about New York – if a social worker could make it on the estate, even survive, then they could function anywhere. Several hadn’t, and the stories of breakdowns, physical attacks, and resignations were legion.

  The legend of Bernie Myers wasn’t typical, but it served as a warning illustration of the pressures many of us faced in the job. One day Bernie left the offices to visit a notorious family who were hated by even the hardest of the denizens of the estate. He hadn’t returned by late afternoon, and the safety signs and procedures that we all had to learn for our own benefit hadn’t been followed. Pretty soon the police were called, and when they visited the family they found blood and a very injured man. We initially thought it was Bernie, hurt in the line of duty, but it wasn’t – it was the resident, and it was Bernie who had attacked him. When he was eventually located, several months later, he was living in a commune in Thailand, a bearded wreck of a man, albeit on a sun-kissed beach and with apparently at least three ‘wives’.

  Melinda didn’t live on the estate. She didn’t seem to live anywhere, which I initially assumed meant that she lived on the streets. Many of the kids who came to the centre did that, either for a short while or some by design. Most of them came from broken homes, but then that applied to lots of people these days, and not everyone turned to drugs, violence or crime. A lot of the most vulnerable ones I dealt with were victims of abuse, usually sexual – whether boys or girls – and mostly perpetrated by family members.

  There was the scrawny girl who looked ten, but was nearer fifteen, who had been pimped out by her father and uncle to local men who paid less than the cost of an average takeaway meal to abuse her. The boy who never spoke, who had been used by his father to test the drugs he concocted in the back room of their cramped flat. Damaged physically as well as psychologically, the boy had been examined by so many experts that he simply shut down and stared.

  They didn’t all come to the youth centre, of course. Some were in care and some were in secure institutions. Even those in care weren’t as safe as they should have been; there were just too many of them, and the system was in chaos. There were gangs that peddled in misery, and the newspaper stories of men grooming young girls at the school gates and from the doors of the care homes were just the tip of a very miserable iceberg.

  Melinda contrived to ignore me that first night. I was one of three workers on duty. We supervised after a fashion, made sure there were no fights, no overt drug-taking or alcohol excesses. We tried to stop sexual fraternisation as well, but to be honest, so long as we preached safe sex, we turned a very Nelson-like blind eye to a little pleasure for these blighted souls.

  She seemed so in control of herself that for a few moments I mistook her for a fellow worker, one I hadn’t been introduced to yet. She looked young, but then so did I, and sometimes the youngsters responded better to someone nearer their own age. That was the theory, at any rate.

/>   ‘Watch that one.’

  I turned to find one of my colleagues, Jenny, at my shoulder.

  ‘Which one?’ I said, although I knew full well who she meant. The whole room seemed to revolve around her every movement.

  ‘That one.’ She jutted out her prominent chin. ‘Melinda. Trouble with a capital T.’

  ‘She doesn’t look so bad.’

  She gave me a look that suggested I had made a thoroughly improper comment that meant I had designs on the girl. ‘Don’t get fooled. You wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘Does she live around here?’

  ‘Why would you want to know that?’

  ‘This is my patch now. I like to know who I’ll come across.’

  ‘You’ll come across Melinda, for sure,’ Jenny said. ‘Tie you up in knots before she’s finished with you.’

  ‘What’s her story?’ I said, but Jenny was distracted by a spilt bottle of Coke and I lost the opportunity to learn more about the mysterious Melinda.

  I was drawn to her, or so it seemed. I was shy with girls – had never had much experience with them, that was the trouble. At school I suffered badly from acne and spots, and puberty was a challenge that my skin lost. It was a huge London comprehensive and it was easy to disappear when I needed to hide. I had few friends, and those I did have were united by a common desire to avoid the myriad bullies.

  A lot of the girls were just as bad as the boys, even though their weapon of choice was more likely to be a well-aimed insult rather than a punch or a kick. So any thoughts I might have had of romantic involvement didn’t get off the ground. My love interest through the teenage years was my computer and the numerous sites I could track down with ease.

  When I stayed on to do the advanced levels exams, I thought the developed maturity could lead to better chances. I watched as more confident boys formed relationships and boasted about things the majority of them weren’t doing at all. I couldn’t boast because nothing was happening, for real. I was as repulsive to the girls in the sixth form as I had been in the junior years.

  My hope was university. Surely once there, and away from home, and with a real maturity I hadn’t possessed before, surely there would be the setting for my initiation into the art of love, or at least my first taste of sex. It wasn’t to be. Far more subtle now we were essentially adults, but the rebuffs came just as thick and just as fast. I suppose it was a small victory on my part that I had at last plucked up the courage to ask girls out. The results, though, were exactly the same. I was consigned to the group of boys who spent their waking hours, when not studying, drinking and playing video games. I can’t say what my sleeping hours comprised; I have never been good at recalling dreams.

  So I was drawn to Melinda for all manner of reasons.

  When I approached her, that first evening, I don’t know who was the more surprised, but I think it was me. It just wasn’t my style to approach anyone without being asked, especially attractive young women.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, with a complete lack of originality. ‘I’m Gavin.’

  I’d walked slowly across the carpeted floor and from behind her, so she shouldn’t have seen me coming towards her.

  ‘I know,’ she said. The look on her face was hard to describe. It seemed to me, and I have always had a bit of a fanciful streak when it comes to my overly romanticised view of girls, as if it was a mixture of hunger and pity. That was probably me bringing my natural insecurities to the party, rather than what I actually saw.

  ‘You live around here?’

  She wasn’t looking directly at me, but I thought I had her full attention somehow, even though she seemed to be concentrating on picking at a piece of dead skin around her bitten fingernails. ‘Around and about.’

  What did that mean? I was beginning to get irritated by the way she was ignoring me and yet managing to keep me captivated.

  ‘I’m the new social worker for the area. If you let me know what your address is, I can make sure I pay you and your family a visit.’

  She did look at me then, and I felt like a butterfly about to be pinned to a display board. ‘You want to visit my family?’

  My heart soared at what I took to be pleasure at my suggestion. She was pleased I was going to visit. Wasn’t she? ‘It’s part of the job to make sure I know how everyone is doing.’

  ‘And how are you doing, Gavin?’

  ‘Can I get you a drink or some crisps?’ God, now I sounded like we were on a first date or something.

  ‘You’re not supposed to show favouritism.’

  ‘I’m not. You don’t seem very relaxed. I thought…’

  ‘You thought some cheese and onion would do that trick?’

  I laughed then, despite myself, and for a brief moment I witnessed the hint of a smile cross her pretty features. She was happy that someone was laughing at something she’d said.

  ‘I usually find salt and vinegar works better.’

  She gave me a visual appraisal then that took far too long for normal courtesy and left me feeling uncomfortable, as if I was being measured up by the undertaker.

  ‘You can get me some of those cheesy things and a bottle of water,’ she said.

  I pointed to the half-empty plastic bottle she held in her hand. ‘Isn’t that water?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  When I went across to the trestle table that served as the bar, Jenny was hovering.

  ‘I warned you about that one,’ she said. ‘Trouble.’

  ‘I’m just getting to know her so I can win her confidence.’

  Jenny snorted in derision. ‘She’s got enough confidence for ten, that one, but she won’t share any of it with you.’

  ‘We’ll see. She seemed pleased when I suggested I was coming round to visit her family.’

  Jenny stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Where do we recruit them from these days?’ And then she moved away, before I could think of anything sufficiently pithy in response.

  ‘She giving you a hard time?’ Melinda asked as I took over the water and crisps. I noticed she had taken a large swig from her bottle, which I could only assume held alcohol.

  ‘Thinks I’m too wet behind the ears for this job. You know, a bit weak.’

  ‘You are – brand new, smelling of baby powder. Thanks for the crisps.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ I said, and even as the words spilled out I could hear how needy they sounded.

  She turned to me and her bright blue eyes were like hypnosis with a sparkle. I tried to be professional, even at that early stage when I might have stood a chance, but I could feel my self-control diminishing. My will was weak at the best of times, something I know my parents suspected from very early on. In her presence, I was already beaten.

  ‘You want to visit my family?’ she said.

  I blinked. ‘I didn’t mean right now.’

  She turned away, dismissing me.

  ‘Or we could go, right now I mean.’

  She took my left hand, raised it up and deposited the empty crisp packet into the palm. I hadn’t seen her raise it to her lips once, but the bottle she carried with her was empty. The one I’d given her was untouched.

  ‘Hey, Ali,’ she called out to a boy lolling by the window. ‘Catch.’ She threw both bottles at the boy and he fumbled each of them in turn. ‘Loser,’ she called, took my right hand and pulled me out of the room.

  It was a warm summer evening and yet I felt a chill when her skin touched mine.

  Outside, the air smelled of petrol fumes, fried food and despair. There were a few younger children milling about, most on bicycles, many smoking. One of them called out something obscene when he saw me, but he stopped quickly when he saw who I was with.

  ‘Do you live in one of the blocks?’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘I told you, I live around and about. Let’s go and see my dad first, shall we?’

  It wasn’t a surprise that her mother and her father lived apart;
it was almost the normal course of events. We walked for twenty minutes, during which time she didn’t speak once and I didn’t try, for fear of spooking her, or was it from a fear that she might desert me?

  We reached a part of town that held a string of terraced houses, tied together with neglect and addictions. So this was where her father lived.

  ‘Left here,’ Melinda said, and I saw the sign for the first time. She was taking me to the cemetery.

  The gates were shut at this time of the evening, but that was no barrier to Melinda. She jumped up and grabbed the top of the railings before hauling her slim body up, gaining traction with her knees and feet. At the top, she crouched like a monkey up a tree and looked down at me.

  ‘You coming? You wanted to visit my family.’

  It was suddenly very important to me that I didn’t show myself up in front of her. Despite my concern that I wouldn’t have the upper body strength to pull myself up in anywhere near the agile way she had done, I had no choice. I took a couple of steps back, and with a shuffling run I leapt at the iron railings and was amazed when my fingers caught hold of the top bar at the first attempt. With scrambling feet and dogged determination, I reached the top just in time to see Melinda jump down and scamper off.

  ‘Wait for me,’ I shouted, but she didn’t.

  I doubted I would make a successful leap down without injuring myself, so I slowly and carefully lowered my body down until my feet touched the grass and I let go with my hands. I turned to look for her, but she wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  ‘Melinda,’ I called out, but timidly. The place was shut and I didn’t want to attract any attention.

  I thought I saw movement behind some trees, but as dusk was sliding through the blue-skied cover of light, it was hard to be sure. With a lack of other options, I followed the movement and as I reached the line of trees I was rewarded by the sight of her gaily-coloured top sneaking in between some headstones.

  She was moving with a purpose, and I guessed that she knew exactly where she was headed. A small amount of sympathy curdled inside me. I could only imagine the pain of losing a parent. If she was as troubled as she seemed, then the lack of a fatherly role in her life might have taken some of the blame. I had worked hard at my training, and at that time I pretty much believed it all.