by Jules Grant
I push the manhole back, lock it in place.
I hear a noise and look up. Some old wino with a can of Foster’s swaying in the wind.
He waves the can at me. You alright love?
I wave a hand, put my head down, try to walk away slowly, stop my chest from heaving.
Then I get to the corner and run.
29
The Sacred Heart’s dead quiet, not much warmer inside than out but at least it’s dry. Down the aisle there’s a dim dusty glow from the lanterns overhead.
In the corner of my eye a woman wearing a blanket like a cloak waves her arms about, talks to a stained glass window in some kind of sign language. Jesus looking down on her, all those little kids on his knee. All round the walls there are bundled-up shapes half-sitting, some lying down.
Father Tom’s up by the altar, parka zipped up over his leathers, beanie pulled down over his ears against the cold, fiddling around with the tea urn. I pick my way up the aisle, trip over a bag of rags, hear a groan.
Father Tom looks up and smiles, Alright Donna?
He leans across to a metal tray, lifts off the lid, Pakora help yourself love, should still be warm.
He bends back down to the urn. Bloody thing won’t turn. You try, can you?
The tap’s stiff, but it turns. A cloud of steam hisses out so I turn it off again, gently.
Father Tom wipes his hands on his jeans, shakes his head. You’ve got the touch, he says, and grins. Want a cuppa?
Something is going on behind me. I look over my shoulder and the shapeless bundles of rags are a silent queue now, stink making me gag.
After everyone’s got a tea and some food it’s quiet again. Father Tom busies himself with the urn. Carla says that’s what he’s always like, you can tell him anything pretty much and he’ll never be shocked, but he’ll never ask you straight out. Makes you feel everything’s in your own time somehow, no pressure. He sits down on the bottom step of the pulpit, pats the step beside him. I sit down beside him with my tea.
Someone might need to stay here, I say, my eyes on the woman with the cloak, arms outstretched, spinning round and round in the aisle.
He blows on his tea, nods. It’s a church, he says. Door’s never locked.
Thanks. I’ll tell her.
He smiles and points. There’s blankets and coats in the corner.
Across the dark the double doors bang shut and I jump, but it’s only another wino.
Father Tom squints at me. Maybe someone would be safer in the vestry he says. We get all sorts in here.
He beckons and I follow him to the back of the church. I can’t tell you why though, I say.
He throws me a blanket, rolls his eyes and smiles. Let’s just thank the Lord for small mercies, he says.
Inside, the room is small with wood panelling, smells of new carpet and old wood, kind of musty. A huge wooden desk stands in the centre, chair behind it, bookshelves all round. In one corner there’s a built-in cupboard and a tiny sink; in the far corner there’s another door with a key. Father Tom takes the big square cushions from the chair, lays them on the carpet behind the desk side by side. Takes the blanket from me and drops it on top.
He points at a door. Leads through to the hall on the way to the kitchen. You can get out that way if you need to. Down the corridor and turn left through the hall.
When he’s gone I open the cupboard. Pamphlets in boxes, a raincoat and umbrella, a black gown on a hanger, an old pair of bike boots covered in mud. In a black tin there are two white collar bands, starched and stiff. There’s a kettle on the shelf with instant coffee and four cups, little sachets of sugar, an empty milk jug.
I roll up the raincoat for a pillow, turn the light off, pitch black. I feel my way across the room, lie down on the cushions and pull the blanket over me.
There’s a hand on my leg. I sit bolt upright on the cushions, nearly knock someone flying. Jeeesus!
Not this time, says Father Tom, only me.
I can just make out his outline though he’s only a few inches away. Sorry Father.
He turns on the light. I’ve had a visit, he says.
I’m on my feet faster than shit off a hot shovel, heart thudding. Who was it?
Three men, mid-twenties, maybe thirty, all white. I’d say the one who did the talking sounded local. Asked if I’d seen you.
My heart skips up a beat. What did you say?
That I saw you yesterday which was true. Don’t worry, they don’t know you’re here – they didn’t ask that. Just thought you should know.
I grab my stuff. Thanks, Father, I’d better be off.
They won’t be back tonight. Come and have a cup of tea. Things can always be worse.
I look at him but he’s not even joking.
We sit on the chancel steps and wait for the urn to boil. There’s no one about now, just sleeping bundles of rags under the stained glass window and down the side walls. Even the dancing woman must be asleep.
Don’t you get fucked off with all this? I wave my hand in the direction of the bundles on the floor. First off it stinks. How do you stand it?
He pulls a small blue and green pot out of his jacket holds it up for me.
Vicks, he says. Little dab under the nostrils works wonders, can’t smell a thing. Tip from Manny Berman down Gorton. You know, the big undertakers?
The cold sterile smell from the coffin waves over me and my stomach turns over.
He hands me the tea.
We sit in silence for a bit and then I take a deep breath, I need to get going.
He looks towards the door. What’s the weather like out there?
Dark, I say. Pretty stormy to be honest.
He takes a hip flask from an inside pocket, tips it towards my cup. Not the kind of night to be out without some protection then?
He pours a clear liquid into my tea and then his. It curdles the milk but goes down warm, makes my eyes water and I try not to gag. What the hell is that stuff?
Holy water.
I look into the cup, Give over, it’s not?
He makes some kind of sign over my cup and grins. It is now.
Since when did you lot get a sense of humour? I say.
Oh, I don’t know, since they started calling Manchester a city of culture?
He raises his cup to me. To Moss Side Moonshine or Longsight Liquor or whatever else they’re calling it these days, he says, and we bump plastic cups.
We’re quiet for a moment. How’s Aurora? he says.
I wonder if he’s heard anything. Fine, I say. We manage.
I count the pews down the centre aisle, sip at the tea. The flowers in the vase on the altar are dead and brown.
How about you?
I look at the door. What about me?
It’s hard to lose someone you love, he says.
Have you ever loved someone? I say.
He smiles. Of course.
I don’t mean like your mum or like God, I say, I mean somebody, you know.
He nods again, not even offended. Of course.
I thought priests weren’t allowed?
Priests aren’t allowed to marry. You can’t stop a human being from loving, Donna, it’s what makes us who we are. He smiles a bit, shrugs. The church will catch up.
Down the aisle a bundle moves against the darkness, cries out. He looks sad and I feel bad now.
I never got to tell her, I say, by way of explanation.
Maybe there’s a way you can show her?
Yeah, there is, I think to myself. I’m gonna do them, Tony and Fats and Daz and the lot of them. If it takes me forever. Do them all. What way? I say out loud. When she’s dead?
You’ll find a way, he says, and when you find it you’ll know.
I shake my head. Then it’s like he’s reading my thoughts.
Some people can live a whole lifetime, Donna, and never really love. It’s a gift. Don’t let it turn into hate.
I grab my jacket, stand up. Now you sound like a priest a
gain, I go, all preachy.
Come and talk with me, Donna, any time, he says.
I raise a hand in benediction. Bless you Father.
He shakes his head at me and smiles. Cheeky bugger.
30
I’m a Fucking Insurance Policy, whatever that means.
They’re always at it, these two, rowing, fighting. Billy Chan out of F4 says that’s what it’s like when you’ve got two parents, getting in each other’s way all the time, must be a nightmare.
Don’t get me wrong, Mam can throw one all by herself, and sometimes it’s a proper eppy right out of the blue, but it never lasts. These two go at it all the time. But like Billy says, you can learn a lot of stuff that way.
I put me ear to the door.
Shantelle sounds mewey, like she’s crying. I can’t do it any more. You said she was going to Preston, stay with Tiny’s kids. One night, you said.
She’s staying here. I don’t trust him, not with everything up in the air like it is. Just call it my way of keeping us safe.
It’s not right though Daz, she’s only a kid.
He laughs, mean. It’s not right though Daz… What’s up with you? Thought you wanted a kid. You bleat on about it enough.
You mean bastard, she says.
Then the sound of the bolts drawing back.
Shut it now Shan, you’re doing me head in. Give me your keys.
Don’t lock me in, Daz. I hate that.
I have to because you can’t be trusted, can you?
I hear the bolts drawing back, the clang of the door shutting hard. Then the sound of the keys scraping, the clunk of the locks. Shantelle sobbing.
After a while she comes up the stairs and unlocks the bedroom door, smiles, watery.
Downstairs she draws the curtains, puts the telly on, ruffs me hair just like Mam used to do. Toast then sweetpea? she says, on her way to the kitchen.
I look at the windows, the bars to keep people out. Or in, I suppose.
After she comes back, hands me the toast, I ask her, Does he always lock you in?
She looks over at the window. Course not.
Don’t worry, I says, I don’t fancy Preston anyway. If I can’t go to Nan’s I’ll just stay here with you.
I only say it to try and cheer her up but it backfires and she starts scriking.
Then she hugs me tight so I can hardly breathe and I can feel the wet from her face on me cheek. Maybe it’s you-know-what. Mam and Lise used to get theirs all at the same time, everyone shouting then crying all over the place till it drove me and Donna mad. I hope mine never start. Or maybe it’s just him making her cry for no reason, and that decides me. One day, when I’m big, I’m coming back to smash his lights out.
She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, turns to Sky 1.
Eat your toast now, she says.
31
Over the moors the cloud hangs heavy, straggled. Dirty sheep’s wool caught on barbed wire, rain coming down on my visor, din in my ears.
Up ahead is the slip-road so I Iook in the rear-view mirror. Blue Fiat Uno, red Mazda MX5.
I turn off on to the A57, cruise up to the lights, stop.
The Mazda pulls up behind me.
I take the roundabout easy, make sure they can keep up.
All the way round and I take the slip back down on to the motorway back on myself, watch the Mazda take a wide sweep left towards Glossop town centre.
No sign of the Fiat.
Back down the motorway again I take the next slip, do a yu-ey, ignore the signpost for Hattersley, go on down towards Glossop and past the Cut. At the junction I skirt through the queues and turn off.
A few minutes later, up ahead, through the rain, I can see the moors, stretching in front of me, and I open her up.
The turn-off is so overgrown I nearly miss it, have to double back and slow right down. The track is ridged and bumpy, grass growing down the middle, a ditch on each side thick with brambles and hawthorn. Half a mile or so on and the hedge becomes scraggy, the track forks. I pull up, lean the bike on the hedge, cut off a few branches with the Bowie, get back on again.
Up to the left is the old cottage, so I take the right downhill, turn the engine off and freewheel. Halfway down the hillside the track just peters out, the old dry-stone wall mossy and blackened by years of rain. A metal cow-gate hangs on one hinge.
Behind the gate and beside the wall the ground is muddy and clagged where the cows come for shelter. Someone has thrown a few stones from the wall into the mud to make stepping stones, hopscotch.
I look back up the hill to the left. The roof of the cottage is only just visible from here, Sonn was right. Another dry stone wall runs at right angles all the way up from the metal gate to the small copse that blocks the view of the cottage.
I lay the bike down by the wall just before the gate, at the end of the track, stash the lid under the handlebars, pull some branches from the hedge. Then I pull the dark green plastic sheet out and cover her over, lay the branches across her. More than a couple of steps back and there’s no way you would see her. I take the keys from my pocket, put them under a fallen stone by the wall.
I vault over the wall, crouch low on the near side, wait.
The dark sneaks in, turning everything navy blue, luminous. Way down the hill there are lights, coming on one by one, flicker bright against the night.
Back over my shoulder and the hill rises up black; then the silhouette of the roof of the cottage beyond the copse, unearthly and still. I try to wriggle my toes but they’re frozen inside my boots.
I crouch, rock forward and back on the balls of my feet to get the blood flowing again, try not to think of Carla, down in the earth. I used to laugh at her and Lise, all spirit-this and goddess-that. I’m wishing to fuck I believed in something now.
Something moves at the edge of my vision and I turn my head, look up at the copse. The light flashes again, then a low whistle, the signal that everyone else is in place.
Credit where it’s due and all that, it was Sonn’s idea to scatter and make our own way there. Makes getting away safer, she said. And if you only know where your own bike is, you can’t lead them to anyone else, whether you mean to or not.
I cup my hands to my mouth, whistle back.
It takes sixty seconds to duck round and run up the side of the wall to the copse, make for the trees. It’s dark between the trees so I crouch down, start to make my way through the scrub.
Then someone grabs my ankle and I nearly call out, stop myself just in time. Sonn. Fuck’s sake, I hiss. You trying to give me a heart attack or what?
I look round. Lise is half in the shadow, Mel crouching beside her. We crawl through to where we can see right to the cottage, flatten out under the trees.
Where’s the back-up, I ask.
Sonn takes up the torch, flashes once at the dark, then draws an S in the air.
I knock the torch out of her hand, What the fuck are you doing?
Look, she says.
All over the hills there’s lights flashing, going off like silent paparazzi bulbs. Each one a zigzag, then an imprint blue in the air that hangs on for a second, just long enough to read.
Flash: J. Flash A, flash M, flash P, flash S, flash G, flash, flash. Until there’s lights and letters appearing everywhere in the dark. Dozens of them.
Then it’s dark again.
All over that hillside, says Sonn. I can just make out her grin. Next hill too. In case we need them. Watch this.
She flashes the torch twice, then draws a G in the air. A tiny light, far away on the opposite hill, flashes back three times.
Glasgow Easterhouse, she says, smug. Just in case we need serious artillery. Just got to show them the sign and they’ll be over. She grins.
I’ve got to hand it to her, fair do’s. No one fucks with the Easterhouse dykes and God knows what she’s promised them in return. Still, I suppose we can work all that out later. If there is a later.
What’s the matter? she says, super
-bright. I told you I’d sort back-up.
Nearly twelve-thirty and it’s the kind of cold you get in November, smell of frost and dead leaves, and charred wood and smoke; creeps into your bones.
Carla always said November’s the smell of death, of things that grow in the earth dying, and, even if we don’t think so, somewhere in our deep-down selves we know it, and that’s why it makes us afraid.
Don’t be a drama queen, I said.
Go on then, she said. Tell me why you never have a creepy story set in the sunshine? Tell me why more people get depressed in winter? See? You can’t.
No use trying to argue with her when she was on one.
Jen comes out of nowhere, throws herself down beside me, passes me the binoculars. Through the glass discs I can see the side of the cottage, the front of it side-on, and the bit of scrub at the front.
We don’t have to wait long until we hear the sound of a motor. A white transit, no lights, Salford Van Hire on the side, pulls up on the scrub.
Mel makes a strangled sound and I look at her, see she’s laughing. Salford Van Hire? Not a brain-cell between them. We all have a giggle at that and it loosens us up.
I see Tony and Danny climb down from the van, look around, hold my breath as I watch them go inside.
A light comes on in the cottage, shines out through the open front door on to the scrub.
Then another motor, quieter than a van. An old Audi pulls up by the van and Daz and Fats get out. They go to the back, unlock the doors, drag out a couple of holdalls. Yo, the money, whispers Lise.
Fuck me, says Mel, makes us all jump. It’s the car, Donna. The one that took you down after the funeral.
Are you sure?
But even as I say it I know in my heart it is. And then I know what it means and there’ll be no going back.
I twist round and look at Lise, her hand shaking where she’s holding the Glock. Mel clocks it as well, raises an eyebrow at me and she’s right. Lise will be a liability in there, and if things hot up, who knows what’ll happen?
I rest my hand on her wrist, stop it shaking. I need you to stay back here and cover us, I tell her.