by Chris Simms
His eyes flicked back to Dan once again. The singer was now staring out the window as they headed towards the city centre.
‘So where do we go once we reach Ardwick?’
He followed Dan’s directions and soon they were parked up by the edge of the railway. It was at a point where various lines merged together to form the final run of track in to Piccadilly Station. A train waited at a set of lights as another started clanking slowly along the raised embankment, below which was a series of brick arches.
‘He’s in one of those. They’re tunnels, maybe thirty metres long.’
‘Exit at the other side?’ Jon asked, scrutinising the dark entrances.
‘Not the one he’s in.’
‘Which is it?’
‘Can’t see it from here. You cross over the tracks and it’s down the slope on the other side.’
It took almost twenty minutes before a staff member from the station ambled up. He unlocked a gate in the fence and ushered them over a designated crossing point by the nearest signal box. The grassy slope on the other side was peppered with litter thrown from passing trains. Dan led them to the second entrance, the mouth of which was shrouded by an expanse of black plastic sheeting. ‘Pete? It’s Serb, I’m really sorry mate—’
Jon pulled him away from the entrance. ‘Peter Robson? It’s the police. Can we talk?’
Away to their left a Virgin train slowed to a halt, its windows full of watching faces. Jon swept the sheeting aside and shone a torch in. Bare earth ended at an expanse of flattened cardboard boxes. A broken base of a bottle held the stub of a large black candle. Chalk graffiti covered the walls. The same symbols he’d seen on the walls of the burnt churches. The circle of torchlight picked out a small camping stove and a couple of upturned plastic crates. Next to them a sleeping bag lay like a shrivelled slug. Jon played the beam across to the other side of the tunnel. A large petrol container and a carjack were revealed.
‘Is he there?’ Dan asked from behind.
Jon glanced over his shoulder. ‘No. DC Murray, we’re going to need those evidence bags from your car.’ He stepped back from the arch and looked at Dan. ‘Where might he go during the day?’
‘Anywhere warm, where they won’t kick him out.’
‘Like the library?’ Rick asked.
‘He’s never mentioned the library.’
‘Where then?’ Jon demanded.
‘Manchester Cathedral. I know he hung about in there a lot.’
‘The Cathedral?’ Jon said, incredulous.
‘When he wasn’t in the place itself he’d be in a day centre thing to the side of it, where the drunks and homeless go for tea and free food. The Booth Centre I think it’s called.’ He paused to glance at the audience watching from the stationary train above them. Slowly he lifted his manacled hands, a middle finger raised. ‘Fucking wage slaves.’
A light in the display above the track changed and the train began to advance towards the terminal. ‘He was really fucked up about his mum. She committed suicide, you know?’
‘We’d heard, yes.’
‘Well, ever since, his old man has been spouting off about how suicides end up in limbo. Like abortions.’
Here we go, thought Jon. The bloody church strikes again.
‘Limbo meaning?’
‘The halfway house between earth and hell. When the world ends – which Henry Robson believes will be very soon – Christ will carry all the faithful off to heaven before tribulation.’
Jon shook his head. This was sounding like the same crap his mum liked to come out with. ‘I know this bit. The rest of us get thrown down into a pit of fire.’
‘Right. Purgatory. An eternity of torment. Robson drummed it into Pete that because his mum took her own life that’s where she was going to end up.’
Jon closed his eyes for a moment, wondering exactly what Helena Hunt, the resident medium at the Psychic Academy, had told the poor bloke. And the church. Christ, if the only consolation it could offer someone who’d lost his mum was that she was headed for hell, it was no wonder he hated it so much.
‘So why go and sit in the Cathedral?’
‘He’d admit to praying sometimes. When he was really low. He didn’t want his mum to end up in the flames, did he? He couldn’t get his head round the fact how, if God is merciful, his mum would be made to suffer forever in hell.’
Fair point, thought Jon. ‘Right, your help is appreciated on this. I’ll make sure it’s duly noted.’ He turned to the other officers. ‘Joe and Paul, can you escort Daniel back to the station. Hugh and Mark, bag everything up in the tunnel. Rick, let’s head for the Cathedral.’
He turned to go, but Dan stopped him. ‘When do I get released? I’ve got a gig to play tomorrow night.’
‘Daniel, you’ve got no band for a start.’
‘I’ve got backing tracks. There’s an A and R man from
London turning up. It could be my break.’
Jon looked over his shoulder. ‘Let’s get Pete Robson in and see where we stand.’
They parked in a cab bay by the enormous Marks and Spencers, then set off along the pedestrianised area leading towards the Cathedral. On the way, they passsed designer shops: Ted Baker, Rockport, Lacoste, Reiss. Harvey Nichols loomed up on their left and, rising up behind that, another monstrous development of trendy apartments. As usual, Jon found himself reflecting on the speed of change the city centre was experiencing. Where was the money coming from to fund it? Not for the first time, he hoped it wasn’t too much too fast. There was something fragile about a transformation that took place with this sort of speed.
Down a set of shallow stone steps was an old timber-framed pub, Sinclair’s Oyster Bar. One pount-thirty a pint. Prices like that made Londoners weep into their beers. The whole thing had been dismantled, moved a hundred metres and rebuilt to clear the way for redevelopment after the IRA bomb of Ninetysix had triggered the regeneration of the city in the first place.
Just visible behind the old boozer was the dark tower of the
Cathedral itself.
The bustle of shoppers quickly died away as they walked the flagstone alleyway running along the side of the pub. Seconds later, they emerged into the open area surrounding the Cathedral and the impression of entering another century was complete.
It was a squat, ugly building, Jon thought. No dramatic buttresses or soaring spires. The stone used to build it was of a dark brown, or maybe that was the effect of traffic fumes from the nearby road of Deansgate.
Bickering broke out on the grass to their left where a bunch of drunks milled around, most clutching soft-drink bottles filled with suspicious looking brown liquid: a way to carry on drinking despite the recent council ruling that banned alcohol from Manchester’s streets.
He watched the sad collection. They looked like walking scarecrows, or living skeletons, their eyeballs swivelling in hollow sockets, their emaciated frames moving jerkily beneath their baggy clothes.
A man in a baseball cap rasped at a heavily unshaven older man, ‘You’ve got eight quid, right?’
‘Eight?’ The older man thrashed his head. ‘Listen, listen. She owes me, right? I haven’t got it.’
‘Who? Her?’
They turned to regard a fat woman who was lolling on the grass, her skirt ruffled up so high her crotch was almost in view. The way she stared back made Jon suspect she was either heavily drugged or mentally ill.
‘Who is she?’
‘What’s your name, lassie?’ She didn’t reply.
The man with the baseball cap grew impatient. He turned back to the bearded man. ‘Get to fuck! You’ve had my CD player, you owe me.’
His demand was waved away.
‘I’ll fucking do you, you bastard!’ He made a feeble lunge, but his way was blocked by a newcomer.
‘Please you lot! This is a public area. Keep the noise down would you?’
This man was neatly dressed, blue shirt and navy jacket. The man with the baseball cap slid
round him and hurled a disposable lighter at the one with the stubble. ‘Cunt!’
The word bounded off the Cathedral walls.
The lighter landed on the grass and the older one bent stiffly to pick it up. ‘Half full, cheers.’
‘Bastard.’
As their mates stepped in to mediate, Jon followed the smartly dressed man down some steps. He approached a wooden door with a sign to the side that read, ‘The Booth Centre’.
‘Excuse me.’
The man looked round, a bunch of keys in his hand.
‘DI Spicer and my colleague, DS Saville, Greater Manchester
Police. I wonder if you could help us?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry officer, I’ve told them a thousand times. The Centre will be open in five minutes and they’ll all come inside.’
Jon glanced at the group who were all now smoking cigarettes, their conversation back to more normal levels. ‘It’s not a problem with us. Though that’s some job, controlling that lot.’ He nodded. ‘They’re worse now because they’ve been speedballing. Heroin and cocaine. The dealers have started selling it as a package. They can forget to eat for days.’
Jon understood why they were all so stick-thin. ‘Are you familiar with most of the people who use the Centre?’
‘Most, yes.’
‘We’re looking for a youngish guy. Early twenties, dresses in black. Black hair, probably tied back in a ponytail. Peter Robson, or Pete.’
‘Pete, yes. He’s been around quite a bit recently.’
‘Today?’
‘No. What’s the problem, if I may ask?’
‘Just a few questions. When does he normally show up?’
‘We open for eleven a.m. and five p.m. sittings. He only ever comes along in the mornings. He’s a very troubled young man. I’ve tried approaching him a few times, but he doesn’t communicate.’
‘Yes, we’re concerned for him too. Why do you say he’s troubled?’
‘He seems so alone. He doesn’t mix and when he does speak, it’s very stilted.’
‘Speedballing?’ Rick asked.
‘No. They’re charged up on that stuff. Something else. You could have a scout in the Cathedral itself. On the days he does turn up, he always has a sit in the Regimental Chapel first. Just slumps down in there and stares.’
‘Thanks for your help, Mr . . .’
‘Green. Norman Green.’
‘OK, Norman. If you could keep the fact we were asking after him to yourself.’
He nodded. ‘Has he any family? Someone who can take him in?’
Jon tipped a hand. ‘We’re in contact with his father. Maybe something will work out.’
They went back up the steps and in the side entrance. The air, noticeably cooler, had a tinge of mustiness to it. Jon examined the walls. Chocolate-coloured stone that rose up to a ceiling of equally dark wood. The surfaces sucked in the daylight shining through the narrow windows. Mounted on the ceiling was a series of spotlights. They shone on to brightly coloured banners that hung down the squat pillars lining the main part of the church. The attempt at cheeriness couldn’t dispel the gloomy nature of the building.
To their side a couple of tourists spoke in hushed tones. Jon watched as they stepped across the floor of black and white tiles, rucksacks on backs, cameras in hand. You’ll need a bloody strong flash to make out anything in here, Jon thought.
Rick led the way, taking them past various deserted side chapels. From a room somewhere above came the faint sound of a choir. Jon couldn’t tell if it was a recording or not.
At the top end was a larger chapel with flags hanging from the ceiling. ‘That’s it,’ Rick whispered.
They scanned the rows of chairs. Empty.
Jon stepped inside. The highly polished wood floor had a molten glow to it. Jon raised his eyes to the source of light. The end of the chapel was dominated by a stained glass window that swirled with oranges, reds and yellows. The colours gave the impression that a fire was raging just behind the mass of panes.
‘That’s why he comes here then,’ Rick whispered.
‘Contemplating the fate of his mum.’
Jon sighed. It made sense. He looked at the mouldering flags dangling from the tops of pillars lining the chapel. Most were so old their lower edges had begun to fray and perish. One or two were little more than squares of fine gauze, only fragments of material in their top corners remaining. He read a small wooden notice below one. King’s Colour of the 96th Regiment of Foot. Now 2nd Battalion The Manchester Regiment. Raised in 1824, carried
1824–1861.
The existence of the chapel was beginning to strike Jon as odd. ‘Why does the Church glorify the military? What about Thou Shalt Not Kill?’
Rick shrugged. ‘There’s plenty about the Church that has nothing to do with principles of acceptance or forgiveness or tolerance. You’re talking to a gay man, remember?’
Jon shot him a sideways glance. ‘I thought the church had got a lot more understanding about all that – and ordaining women too.’
‘Yeah,’ Rick said. ‘Like political parties really take green issues or the rights of the disabled or a whole host of other minority issues seriously. They might react if they feel a surge of opinion against them, but it’s all superficial at the end of the day.’
As they got nearer to the side doors the noise of arguing grew louder and louder.
‘It’s a death trap. A fucking death trap. Concentrate on that man!’ The bearded man’s voice.
‘He took my CD player!’ That was Baseball Cap. ‘He’s full of shite. Listen right—’
‘I never touched your poxy CD player!’ The Beard again.
‘You’re fuckin’ asking for it!’
Jon stepped out into the sunlight. The group stood around a mountain bike that had been dumped on its side in the middle of the small lawn.
‘It’s top quality man. Give me twenty-five for it,’ Baseball
Cap said to someone on the other side of the group.
‘Twelve. You owe me eight from last time.’ Jon stopped. He recognised that voice.
Baseball Cap pushed his visor up. ‘Twelve add eight is twenty, innit? I said twenty five.’
‘Twenty. I’m not paying more than that.’
‘Tommo.’ He turned to a young lad with a face like Gollum’s. Hair cut matched it too. ‘How much have you got?’
‘Seven.’
Jon craned his neck, fearing the worst as the bearded man stepped back, laughter bubbling in his throat. His younger brother Dave was revealed. I should have guessed, Jon thought. Drug addicts and the homeless. Dave’s preferred companions. He’d lost more weight and his head was now shaved. There was a cut or sore at the side of his mouth. Oh Jesus, thought Jon, what are you doing?
Baseball Cap was shaking his head. ‘It’s top man. Look, rear suspension see? Pure quality.’
Dave shook his head. ‘Twenty.’
The other man’s shoulders drooped. ‘When can you get it us?’
‘No time. Faster on this.’ Dave grabbed a handlebar and yanked the bike upright.
Jon stepped over. ‘Dave.’
Their eyes met and Dave blinked with surprise. ‘Yeah?’
The addicts were turning round, suspicion spiking their faces.
Jon walked past the group to a nearby bench. He could hear the tick of spokes as his brother followed. ‘What are you doing?’
Dave appeared at the edge of his vision. ‘Nothing. What are you doing?’
Rick was hovering just behind, an uncertain look on his face.
‘I’ll catch you up,’ Jon snapped.
‘You sure?’ Rick’s eyes were switching between him and
Dave.
‘Yeah. See you at the car.’
He waited until Rick had walked off round the corner. ‘Why does that man owe you money?’
‘This and that. I’m busy, you know?’
Jon looked at him. It was a sore at the corner of his mouth. Oh Christ
Dave, he thought, please don’t tell me you’re dealing to this lot.
‘Look at me like that and expect me to stay for a chat?’ Dave started to walk away.
‘You’re going down, Dave. Sooner or later.’
‘I’m buying a bike. All right?’
Jon stared at his back. ‘You never rang mum.’
Dave stopped and his bony shoulders rose and fell. ‘What can
I say?’
Jon was about to reply, you promised. But what was the fucking point? ‘She needs to know you’re OK. Or alive at least.’
‘Tell her then.’ He started walking once again.
‘I spoke to Ellie. She told me what happened to you two.’ Again Dave stopped, this time turning around. Something like fear was in his eyes. ‘You what?’
‘She told me about the Sunday school, about the man there.’ He saw his brother’s entire body flinch.
‘What’s she said?’
Jon stepped closer. ‘Dave, there’s no need to live like this. What you went through – there’s help we can get for you.’
His brother spat on the flagstones. His phlegm was dark brown. ‘Fuck are you on about?’
Jon grabbed his brother’s arm, sensed his fingers almost connecting on the other side. ‘Listen to me. We can get you sorted out.’ His brother’s eyes hardened and Jon realised his mistake. ‘I mean we can get the problem sorted—’
‘Fuck off. Get your fucking hand off me.’
‘Dave, trouble?’
Jon turned to Baseball Cap. ‘Piss off.’
‘Piss off yeah? You reckon?’ He clenched his fists and flexed his emaciated arms. ‘Make me.’
Jon wanted to laugh. One tap to the chest would send the bloke flying. But for the possibility of stabbing his fist on a hidden syringe, the temptation was overwhelming. Dave wriggled his arm free and, as he jumped on the bike, Jon’s phone began to ring.
‘Meet me at Stewie’s. Half an hour!’ Dave shouted as he rode away.
Jon watched him go, then turned to the other man. Incident over, he had stepped back, his eyebrows mockingly raised. I can’t be arsed, Jon thought, retrieving his phone. ‘Yes?’