Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  Martin tried to read her face. He could see pain in there, despair, mistrust. But that didn’t necessarily mean that her story was true. “But Marilyn, if you had all those injuries, how could he get away with it? How could they say it was your word against his?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you? Men like him, they’ve got the whole system in their pocket. They’d get witnesses to say that I was fine when I left his place, that I was drunk, that he put me in a taxi, that I must have gone on to meet another bloke, cos that’s what I was like. A tart, a whore, that’s what they’d say. I was asking for it, and I got it.”

  “But...” Martin stumbled, trying to figure it out. “Couldn’t you have got people on your side, to say you weren’t like that?”

  She laughed dismissively. “You don’t believe me. That’s fine.”

  Martin raised a hand to his head. “Marilyn, I’m in the middle of this, alright. I haven’t got a fucking clue what to think.”

  “Yeah, you know what to think. Just like all the others. You think I’d do the boss. You think I’d go with any old man to make my way up the greasy pole.”

  “No,” he said slowly. “That isn’t what I was thinking. I never thought you were like that.”

  “I wouldn’t have touched that disgusting old man. I was leaving anyway,” she said.

  “You were leaving Gallagher’s?”

  She looked proud for a moment, her chin tilted up. “We were going to set up on our own,” she told him. “Me and...” She stumbled for a moment. “Me and Jon,” she finished, her voice tailing off. “My boyfriend.”

  Martin nodded. How much of it was true, he wondered, how much of it was fantasy?

  “He couldn’t stand it, that I was going off, leaving his empire. He thought I belonged to him. He thought everyone he paid money to belonged to him.”

  Martin nodded at that one. “That I can believe.”

  She laughed, and they fell into silence. They both stared off towards the boys playing. Martin looked at her sidelong. She was just looking, her eyes blank. There was no hunger there, no maternal pride.

  “But,” he said, “if you had a boyfriend, how do you know... I mean, Ben might be your boyfriend’s child?”

  She laughed bitterly. “I wish.” Her eyes filled suddenly with tears, but she brushed them away. She picked up her coffee and knocked back the last of it. “I’m going now.”

  “Right,” Martin sat up.

  “Oh, don’t look so pleased, Martin. I’ll be back.”

  He shook his head helplessly. “What do you want from us?” He gestured over towards Ben. “Look at him! He’s happy. He’s fine. Don’t mess him up.”

  “I’m not going to mess him up.”

  “Look, whatever you need to do with Gallagher, whatever you have to do to set things right, you don’t need to involve Ben in that. He’s not evidence, Marilyn. He’s a child.”

  She looked over to the boys, watching them for a long time. Ben scored what seemed to count as a goal, and ran around before sinking to his knees. “He’s good.” She was smiling. She stood up. “I’ll be in touch, Martin.”

  He felt the sense of failure settle on him. He’d achieved nothing by meeting her. He watched her as she turned to go. He wanted to hate her, but it felt more complicated.

  She paused. “You’re the only one who knows, Martin.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About Gallagher.”

  He shrugged. It was probably all lies anyway.

  “I just wanted someone to know.”

  “Yeah, well now you’ve told me. Thanks.”

  “I thought it should be you, in case...”

  “In case what?”

  “Just in case something happens to me.”

  “What’s going to happen to you? Are you sick?” he asked, slightly ashamed of the feeling of hope filling his chest.

  She laughed. “No, it’s not that.” She looked over towards Ben. “Lester Gallagher is a dangerous man, Martin. If something happens to me, then you should take care.” She smiled, a sickly smile that raised a creeping sensation over his skin. “Look after our boy.”

  He stood abruptly, turning to look at Ben, as though there was some immediate threat.

  “What do you mean?” he said, turning back to her. But she was already gone, her silent footsteps taking her away.

  Thirteen

  “Why have I got to be the one that gets the bus? Why can’t it be you?” Farren writhed in the passenger seat, pulling at the seat belt that was cutting across his neck.

  Jango shrugged his big shoulders. “I’m driving, so it has to be you.”

  “We could’ve come in my car. I said, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, cos no one would notice that, would they?” Jango laughed. “Fucking disco lights all over it. You’re like a kid.”

  “Fuck off. It’s better than this boring heap of shite.”

  “Stop kicking me glove box, will you.”

  Farren lowered his trainer to the floor and stared out of the side window. They drove towards Sunlight Laundry, an untypical silence settling between them.

  “The boss didn’t mean it,” Jango said at last.

  “He fucking did,” Farren exploded, jerking upright in his seat again. “I fucking hate him. Why do we work for him, anyway?”

  “Because he pays.”

  “Yeah. Not enough. He’s fucking loaded and he pays peanuts.”

  Jango laughed. “Did you see that bit on the news?”

  “Yeah.” Farren nodded. “He looked a right tit, didn’t he?” He smiled at the memory of Gallagher on the platform, his face red with rage as he tussled with a protestor. “That bloke was puny and he still couldn’t get him off the stage.”

  Jango slapped the steering wheel. “The best bit was when he started pulling the boss’s hair, his combover all over the show.”

  Farren cackled. “What was it all about, anyway?”

  “That greenway site. Hallowfield. Backhanders and that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh I don’t know. Like he’s doing deals to get the planning and stuff.”

  “Well, yeah.” Farren shrugged. How else would you get things done?

  They pulled up at a traffic light. “Alright,” said Jango. “It’s just round the corner. I’ll drop you off and then I’ll park up on that bit where the carpet shop used to be.”

  “Yeah, I know it.”

  “She could go either way. Or she might go into town or something. You’ll just have to do what you can.”

  “And you’re going to follow in the car and pick me up?”

  “No. It’d be dead awkward. It’ll stop all over town and go down bus lanes. Just call me when you get off.”

  “Alright.” Farren undid the seat belt.

  “The shift gets off in ten minutes,” said Jango.

  Farren got out the car and watched it move along the road and into position by the empty carpet shop. He ambled along the broken tarmac pavement. There was nothing here, nowhere to wait, nothing you could do that didn’t just look like you were hanging around. The back door of Farm Foods opened and a lad came out, pushing an empty loading trolley. He put it in park, and fished in his back pocket for cigarettes. Farren walked up to him.

  “Got a light, mate?”

  The kid lit both cigarettes and pocketed the lighter again.

  “What’s it like in there?” Farren asked. “Any jobs going?”

  “It’s shit,” the kid answered. “I’d rather go back on benefits.”

  “Why don’t you then?”

  “They don’t give you nothing if you leave.”

  Farren nodded towards the laundry. “What about in there? You speak to anyone from in there?”

  “That’s shit too,” the kid said.

  Farren laughed. “You’re a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

  The kid smiled then sucked on his cigarette. “I fucking hate it, man. It doesn’t even pay enough to get wasted at t
he weekend. And if you do, then you can’t pay the rent.” He sighed heavily.

  Farren nodded. “I know, man. I know. Times are hard.”

  The door to the laundry opened and the first of the women came out.

  “Me bus’ll be here in a minute,” Farren said. “See you.”

  The kid raised a hand in a weary dismissal as Farren backed off towards the pavement. The women were piling out, hot from the steam inside, wearing vest tops over pink skin. And there she was. Farren watched the woman as she left the laundry. She wasn’t talking to anyone and no one was talking to her. She looked like she was in a world of her own. No vest top for her. She was covered from neck to ankle: a scraggy shapeless top, the colour of cardboard and jogging bottoms hanging off her skinny hips, splashed with bleach stains. The women were chatting, some hanging around in groups of three or four, lighting up. But this one just cut through them like a ghost. Farren watched her make her way up the road, the other way from the car.

  “Stop!” he muttered under his breath as she approached the bus stop.

  As if she’d heard him, she stopped dead. She looked at her watch once, then just stood there, her arms hanging down by her side, staring into space. A few of the women began moving in that direction, and Farren ambled along with them. She was standing by the fence, away from the kerb. Farren walked past her a couple of yards. He finished the cigarette and threw it on the ground.

  Her eyes were like glass, like a doll’s eyes. He had the feeling he could stand right in front of her and she wouldn’t see him. But it wasn’t that junkie glaze. He’d seen enough of them to know. She was just like in a world of her own.

  The bus lurched around the corner and the women began crowding into a tight knot. She hung back. She wasn’t going to fight to get on first. The women were jostling Farren, nudging him towards the bus. He pulled back. “You go first, ladies,” he offered, waving them on with a smile.

  When the women had got on, she moved towards the bus door. She flashed a pass at the driver and walked inside. Farren realised, too late, that he hadn’t been on a bus for years and had no idea what to say. “Errr...” he said, frowning as he pulled out a five pound note. “To the end of the line, like.”

  “Shipley?” the driver asked.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “£1.80. No change.”

  “What? Oh right. Errr...” Farren shoved a hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. He counted out £1.80 and offered it to the driver.

  The driver shook his head and nodded towards the ticket machine at the front of the cab. “In there,” he said tersely.

  “Right,” said Farren, as he dropped the money into the slot.

  The driver pressed a button and the ticket came spewing out. Farren ripped it off, as the bus started to move off. Where was she? She must have gone upstairs. At least she wouldn’t have spotted him being a tit getting his ticket.

  Farren climbed the stairs, holding onto the rail as the bus sailed around a corner. There she was, halfway down the bus, staring straight ahead with those glass eyes. There was an empty seat right behind her, and Farren made his way unsteadily towards it, landing heavily on the seat. Some of her hair had fallen over the back of the seat and was hanging there right in front of him. There was something weird about it. Farren stretched out a finger and touched a strand of hair. Almost immediately, he pulled the finger back in and looked around to see if anyone was watching him. No chance. Every single face was turned down towards a phone screen.

  Farren pulled his own phone from his pocket.

  On the bus, he texted.

  Farren drummed his fingers on his knee, watching her shoulders, waiting for any sign of movement. She was dead still.

  The bus swung into a bus lane, moving past the stationary traffic piled up to the side. Farren swung round on his seat, but he couldn’t see out the back window. Jango wouldn’t be following.

  Farren sighed and settled back on the seat, looking out at the upper floors of the sandstone buildings. It was good what you saw up here. Flats and stuff, their curtains open. Maybe he’d see a girl getting changed. He shifted on his seat, twisting to the side, and as he did he dragged a strand of hair with his knee. He saw her flinch, but she didn’t say anything, just reached behind to pull her hair over her shoulder.

  “Sorry,” he said. There was no indication that she’d even heard him. Maybe she’s deaf? The thought flashed across his mind for just a moment before he remembered that she couldn’t be. She was just like she was somewhere else. She was there, but not there.

  Farren returned to staring out of the window, disappointed with the lack of window porn, as they moved out of the city centre to the scrubby outskirts, all boarded up flats, and foreign shops and broken glass on the pavement. He’d almost forgotten about the woman when she stood up and slunk off to the stairs. Farren jumped to his feet and followed her. She pressed the bell and waited near the driver. Farren hung back, glancing up at her. He caught the driver looking at him in the convex mirror.

  “Thought you were going to Shipley?” he said.

  Farren shook his head and looked at the floor.

  An elderly couple got off at the stop as well. Farren let them go first, and then realising that they were going to take half the evening, he barged in.

  “Here, I’ll give you an ‘and,” he said to the old woman, all but lifting her off her feet and depositing her on the pavement. She looked around her, bewildered to find herself off the bus. Her husband was still laboriously negotiating the deep step as Farren bounded off the bus and away.

  She was a way ahead of him now, but the pavement was pretty empty and she was easy to spot. He saw her draw level with a convenience store, and she stopped, staring towards the shop. Farren slowed his pace. She was just standing there, staring. If she carried on like this he’d have to do some MI5 and start doing his shoelace.

  Finally, she moved off again and Farren picked up his pace. As he came up to the shop, he saw what she’d been staring at. The billboard for the local paper:

  ELECTION SCANDAL!

  GALLAGHER FIGHT!

  PICTURES!

  Farren smirked. He might pick one up on the way back.

  The woman was turning onto a path up to a tall, terraced house; a dirty red sandstone Victorian. Farren could imagine it before he even got close: half a dozen doorbells with wires hanging out of them, a hallway of cracked tiles covered in junk mail and free papers, some smashed up chest of drawers and a broken bedframe that no one had ever got round to moving. But when he got closer, he was surprised. There were potted plants on the doorstep and a proper little garden at the front. He drew level just as she closed the door and Farren stopped, pretending to take a call on his phone. He kept an eye on the patterned glass pane in the doorway. Her saw her rippling outline climbing the stairs, silhouetted against a long window at the back of the house. He crossed the street, still talking rubbish into his phone and sat down on the low garden wall opposite. He nodded as if he was listening to something, but he was watching the bedroom windows. And he was rewarded. She appeared briefly at the first floor window and drew the curtains. He still didn’t know what number the flat was, but at least he knew where. He ended the fake call and then called Jango.

  “I’m sitting here outside her place. It’s number 42 Watson Street. And it’s a shithole round here, so come and get me.”

  “Ahhh,” Jango laughed. “Didn’t you like the bus?”

  “No, I fucking didn’t.... Oh, hang on. Here she is.”

  The door had opened again, and she had reappeared. She’d changed out of the jogging pants. She was wearing shorts and a t shirt, both of them loose on her, but not as bad as the rags she’d been wearing before. She had long slender legs, pale as sand. She was carrying a plastic watering can and she bent over to tend the pots at the top of the steps. As she did, her hair fell forwards in a great sweep of red. There was something about the curve of her back, the slender legs, the fall of her hair. Fro
m this distance she looked young, like a girl.

  “There’s a corner shop just down the road,” Farren said. “I’ll wait there.”

  He stood up, ready to head off, just as an old woman appeared in the doorway. She had a stick and she was about as tall as Farren’s eight year old half sister, Sherelle. She was all bent over, so she couldn’t look at the taller woman unless she turned her head to the side and looked up that way. But then the taller woman squatted down to sit on the top step, and they were at a level together. She smiled at something the old woman said. She had a missing tooth.

  Farren meandered down to the shop and bought a paper. He was sitting outside, laughing at the centre spread of the boss when Jango pulled up.

  “Have you seen this?” he said as he climbed into the front seat. “Oh my fucking god, look at this one.” He pushed the paper in Jango’s direction. “Look at his face, man. Raging bull!”

  Jango pushed him aside and signalled as he pulled away from the kerb.

  “What’s up mate?” Farren asked.

  “The boss. There’s some toerag he needs sorting out.”

  “Yeah, well, what’s new?”

  Farren stared out at the broken down houses, people sitting on doorsteps. “Buy to let,” he said. “That’s the game for us. That’s what we should get into.”

  “What?” Jango flicked him a look.

  “Prices are dead cheap now. And loads of people can’t get a mortgage, so they get rented.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “Well, if it’s good enough for the boss, why can’t we do it? Why is he the boss and we just get ordered around? Sort out that toerag, torch that shop. I’ve had enough of it, you know.”

  “Don’t let the boss hear you talking like that.”

  Farren laughed. “Yeah right. Do you think I’m fucking mental?”

  They lapsed into silence for a while.

  “I could get my brother in,” said Jango. “He’s a builder. He can do all the trades.”

  “Yeah, exactly!” said Farren. “Now you’re talking.”

  “Are you serious?” Jango shot him a sidelong look.