“Yeah. I remember you mentioning him, before. Great name.”
“So, yeah. Anyways, our Katrina – poor cow – well, she's always got Shelly Murray’s fat arse stuck to her sofa…”
Shelly Murray was Vinnie’s aunt. And you couldn’t meet a nastier piece of work. A lady who was quite happy to use a machete on innocent neighbours who might have parked their car in the wrong place. Or who she felt were daring to challenge her family’s entitlement to Brindleford rule. She’d once even tried to punch me in the face, back in the day when I had been a housing officer on the estate.
“So yeah. ‘Cause it were West’s birthday – he's just turned eight – our Katrina wanted to give him his pressie. So, we agreed to meet just off Brindleford – at The Lantern. We used to go there a lot, me and her. Play darts an’ that. An’ anyway… we’re sat there havin' a drink. Kids were fine – messin’ about in the games room – and then some bloke comes over to us, to say there’s someone outside askin’ for me. Turns out it were Vinnie.”
“So… how did he know you were there?”
“Well, I'm guessing that fat slag, Shelley, must have gotten hold of Katrina’s phone somehow. Seen about me and her meetin’ up. She’s sly. Fuckin’ sly, Shelley is. Probably saw the birthday pressie for West an’ all. Put two and two together.”
I could picture that. Shelley had taken a photo of Michael riding Vinnie’s motorbike through Brindleford and sold it to the News of the Nation.
“So, first of all, like - I weren’t gonna go outside to see him. But then I thought… it were like, showin’ me a bit of respect. weren’t it? Him not comin’ and gobbin’ off at me like he normally would do. So… maybe he really were sorry. I thought.”
I could see where this was going. I also suspected that Shelley Murray might have given her nephew a pep talk on the correct strategy when approaching a woman who you'd recently assaulted and who also happened to be the mother of your children (i.e. don’t punch ‘em in the face straight away, our Vin - leave it for an hour or so).
“An’ then our West – who were earwiggin’ as per usual – twigged that it were his dad outside, so he ran out to 'im and it were all tears and ‘I miss you’ and all of that. So, I went out to the front door of the pub to tell West to get his arse back inside. But Vinnie were givin’ him his pressie. New tablet thing. An' he’d got Poppy-Rose this tiny pair of sparkly pink trainers. An' a load of cinema vouchers to give to Mason, what he’d got from somewhere or other…”
“And then?”
“An’ I bet you’re thinkin’ ‘You stupid cow!' Like, 'ow could you go outside and see him, after all the stuff that you lot at Sisters’ Space 'ave been doin’ to help us out?”
I interrupted her.
“Hey. Pack it in with the mind-reading act, will you?”
She nodded. A pause. She reached into her handbag for a bottle of day-glow orange pop. And then wrinkled her nose.
“Whatever. So… there were West cryin’ and all of that. It’s his birthday. And he just wants to see his dad. And there’s Vinnie going ‘Please – please can I spend some time with the kids?’ And the kids were all going ‘Please, please’ and so I said - yeh – alright. You can see ‘em for a couple of hours inside the pub. But I’m sittin' behind the bar - with one of Katrina’s mates what works there. Stayin’ away from you.” She cleared her throat. “Thought I’d be alright with that. Plenty of people about in the pub.”
We both glanced outside. A child had fallen off the swing and was screeching for its mother.
“So, he came in and he were playin’ darts with Mace and West. An’ they were lovin’ it. Playin’ dead nice with them he were. An’ in the end I’d had a few bevvies myself. Still sat behind the bar. And they were all askin’ me to go over – ‘cause everyone knows that I used to be the best on the ladies’ darts team. An’ so, we all ended up ‘avin a few beers together. So, by now it got to half-nine and I thought, we should be goin’ back - ‘cause it were school the next day, an' that.”
Half past nine on a Sunday night in the Russell household must clearly operate on a different time continuum to that of Dawn’s family. By then, both of my children have already been nailed into their respective bedrooms for over two hours. But there you go. Horses for courses.
“An’ so we tried to set off. I was gonna get a cab from the taxi rank round the corner. Our Katrina had slipped us a tenner to get one. But he kept followin’ us. Askin’ us where we were livin’ now. An’ I could see that West were just about to blow it all - an’ tell him where we’d moved to. So, in the end I just shouted back at him to fuck off and stop followin' us. But he wouldn’t. So, then I shouted that I were gonna get an injunction out on ‘im and ban him from seein’ the kids. An’ that’s when he lost it, proper like. Went mental. You know?”
I knew.
And I could have asked her a dozen different questions. Why did you have to meet in a pub just around the corner from Brindleford? Why didn’t you call up a radio cab to come to the door of the pub? Why didn’t your dimwit cousin keep her phone on her at-all-bloody-times with a nutter like Shelly Murray hanging about at her house for most of the day? But I kept a lid on it.
She was quiet. Lost in thought. I said;
“So, stop me if I'm asking a silly question here, Dawn. But – did you report it to the police?”
An incredulous laugh. “Ha. Whadder you think?”
That’d be a Nah, then.
She coughed. Took a swig out of the pop and suppressed a belch;
“'Scuse me… But yeh. It could have been worse, I s’ppose. The kids started screamin’. Five of the blokes in the taxi office legged it outside to us. Even Vinnie’s not fuckin’ stupid enough to take on five. So, he pissed off – fast. Mace said he jumped on a bus what was headin’ for Levenshulme.”
She wiped her nose with her sleeve. Was she crying? No. Dawn wasn’t the type to “do tears.” I’d heard her self-proclaimed pride herself on that one, before now.
“And. Well. I just keep thinkin'. Why does it always happen? An' I... God. I can’t believe I’m tellin' you this. We did it. Actually, did it. Shagged - had sex, I mean. In the pub. In the bastard men’s toilets! After we’d been muckin’ about and playin' darts. Jesus Christ. I’m such a stupid, stupid bitch! I bet you can’t believe what I’m sayin’ to you here!”
I could. And I could well imagine doing something like that myself. Not with Vinnie. Obviously. Good God, No. But I knew what she was talking about. That sort of story. I just gave her a sympathetic shrug and a shake of the head. She continued;
“He just… he's got some sort of hold over me, sex-wise. Magnetic or whatever.”
I nodded.
“Me mum just can't get it. She reckons I’ve got a bit of me brain missin' where Vinnie’s concerned. But I can’t explain it to her. She can’t get her head round the sex thing. I keep sayin’… with me and Vin it… it’s really just like when you see it in the films. Proper passion. Proper intense. So, then me mum goes ‘Oh don’t fuckin’ talk to me about sex again! You should have got over all of that by the time you were eighteen, Dawn!' Which is actually dead funny really. ‘Cause her latest bloke is about the same age as me.”
She screwed her eyes up in pain, as she moved her arm too suddenly. Drinking from her bottle again;
“An' I just always,” her eyes flashed bitterness at me. “I always fuck it up. I always just give in to him. Give him that one little minute. To explain. Even if I’m well pissed off with him. I sometimes just feel sorry for him… And before you know it, we’re laughin’. He always makes me laugh. An' then. An' then we’re shaggin’ each other’s arses off.”
I knew that tale, too. Her head snapped upwards as a baby at the other end of the corridor began to wail. The crying stopped and she suddenly stood up, with a slight groan and bit her lip. Pointed a finger at me.
“'Fing is. You’ve got to see Vinnie. When he’s at his best. He’s well fit. He’s dead funny. He’s hard and he’s quiet and
he’s cool. And… like… He’s a bleedin’ drug and he draws me in, and I get off on it. I can get off me head on it.” She was a lady in sore need of some validation. So, I said;
“I do know what you’re saying.”
“Yeah?” She gingerly picked up her bag and moved to the window, pressing one of her palms against it. Jules the cleaner wouldn’t be happy about that. She’d have a go at me for that, later on. She was proper scary, was Jules. I said;
“Yeah. You know what, Dawn? There's a lot of elements that make up what and who you find to be sexually attractive. Physical, emotional, genetic things… like… like endorphins. That we're not at all aware of.”
“Endorphins? Thought that was to do with athletics and that?”
“Well, yeah. It’s similar. Hormones. Brain chemicals. The feel-good stuff. Pheromones. You're not aware of your own and how they might – instantly – mesh with someone else's. They can be pretty addictive. Dynamite, even…”
But I was drifting again.
Dawn laughed, breaking my mood.
“What? Like some big sex bomb? Ha ha!” We both smirked.
“Well, the love songs are always talking about chemistry, eh? The invisible stuff. And if you’re lucky – or unlucky enough as some people might see it – to experience that kind of ‘Wham Bam’ with someone, well your endorphins might end up going ga-ga. Getting addicted to the hit. Developing a habit.”
Dawn chewed her gum, contemplating.
“Bad choice of words that, Rachael. Hit.”
I smiled. “Sorry. But what I’m saying - in essence - is that a lot of couples start off with massive chemistry to begin with. And then when they settle down and have kids, it tails off. It’s just the job of evolution - making sure that we reproduce effectively, look after our children and all of that, rather than going at it like rabbits half of the time – whilst the kids starve to death.” She smiled.
“Well, it never tailed off with me and Vin. But like what you just said - maybe that’s ‘cause we never settled down.”
Another little kid outside tumbled off a swing. Splat. Dawn continued;
“See, I met Vin when I already had Mason. He were just a toddler then. So, course - there was me havin’ to look after Mace. Meanin’ that we never had the chance for a proper romance – hearts an’ flowers an’ goin’ out to Nando’s, all of that. He were back an' forward on army leave. We had to grab our moments together. Speakin' of which…Yeah. You sound like a lady who knows a bit too much about all of this...”
I frowned, but she carried on with, “Is that what... you and that Shithead I saw you with in the park the other week… were like?”
Were?
Dawn had witnessed Shaun trying to ladle on the pressure with me, when he had realised that I was Michael’s mysterious co-star in The News of the Nation. Neither Shaun nor I had realised that the argument had been overheard. Later, Dawn had confronted me about it, telling me that yes - she might be able to make a few hundred quid of your tabloid-pounds out of this knowledge, but she reckoned that I deserved better than national disgrace and losing my job (see why I like Dawn?)
I shook my head slowly. Adopted the oh-so-professional mode.
“This isn’t about me, Dawn…”
She grunted. “Yeah, right. Fair enough. Mind your own business, Dawnie. So.” She turned round again, to look out onto the faded playground equipment. “Me and Vin... after I got pregnant and we had West, Vinnie did one. Pissed off back to the army. And then we didn’t see him for God knows how long. Said he were stayin’ over at his mates - Liverpool way for a bit. And then… yeah he lived with us for about four months. That were two years ago, when I got pregnant with Poppy-Rose...” She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s why there’s a bit of a gap between her and West.”
“So, you never lived in the barracks with him? With his regiment - the other families?”
She barked a laugh and brought out a packet of cigarettes from her bag, wincing as she moved her arm
“Yeah, right. Do I look like your army-wife sort? Brindleford might be a shit place to live, but at least me family and me mates are all there. Once - early on - Vin asked me to move into the barracks with him, but it were over near Sheffield and nah. I can’t be doing with Sheffield. Hills on every street corner over there. Try pushin’ a pram round that place.”
“So, he was never really around? For… that tailing-off of the passion - to happen?”
“Nah. An’ actually… maybe that’s exactly why, come to think of it. If he’d thought that we’d lose all of that sex stuff. I reckon he would have fucked off for good. Cause it were him what always talked about gettin' off his head on me.” She mimicked his voice, exaggerating the Mancunian nasal twang; “‘Dawn – you’re better than friggin' H. Heroin ain’t got noooo appeal when I’ve got yooouuuu’.” She fiddled with the packet of cigarettes, adding quickly;
“But I hated him sayin’ stuff like that. Talking up skag like it’s summat cool. I know I drink and smoke too much or whatever, but I’ve always hated drugs. They did it for my dad, see? But I used to tell myself that if he could just kick the drugs and stop knockin' us about a bit. That we’d be okay.”
She pulled a cigarette out and tapped it against the packet. I stood up too, as she prepared to leave the room. I needed to push her a bit. I wanted this to be one conversation that had a proper conclusion.
“But now?”
“Now, the kids… have seen too much. An’ like Bev were sayin’ to me before, in the kitchen. If I don’t get my act together, social services are gonna end up taking me kids off of me, anyway.”
“So,” I moved closer to her and touched her shoulder gently, the one that didn’t seem to be causing her too much pain. “Can I finally convince you to commit yourself to keeping an appointment with one of our caseworkers? To get the ball rolling on an injunction? I don't like to nag anyone but...”
Dawn popped the cigarette between her lips.
“Go on then. But only ‘cause Bev said she’d be the next one to give me a good slappin', if I didn’t.”
And then, with a mischievous grin on her face, she gave me a “Ta, chick” and headed outside to Smoker’s Corner.
Bless that Bev. She might have put me off my lunch yet again that morning, by informing me that my potted beef panini resembled ‘Our Simon’s undies when he’s got a case of the skiddies’.
But she was undoubtedly a good ‘un.
CHAPTER 12
After Dawn left, I ruminated as to whether the crew at Sisters’ Space would be able to convince her to report the attack to the police. Of course, it would have been better if she had immediately made the phone call by herself. But that aside, it would still be the only way for us to sort out getting an injunction drafted. Plus, according to Dawn, Vinnie already possessed a criminal record, which would be another big help in persuading the guy to keep his distance. Still, I knew damned well that someone with Vinnie’s history of violence might not always be deterred by an injunction. Sure, if we did help Dawn to take legal action - in the longer term - Vinnie could even end up in prison for this incident, but that would all be dependent on whether the taxi drivers who had helped Dawn were willing to give evidence. And I didn't feel too positive about that side of things. Because over the years, Vinnie and the infamous Murrays had spawned a culture of fear and intimidation on Brindleford. They did their own thing - they did it their own way. Everyone knew it. And their reputation extended beyond the boundaries of the estate.
I had been involved in countless cases like this before; when you had finally managed to piece it all together, hacked your way through the organisational silos, made a pact with your colleagues in housing, in social services and with the law enforcement bods. When it seemed as though you had all of your ducks in a row; when it was looking good, with the victim being supported to either appear in court or to continue with the case; when the evidence that you had sweated to collect had been parcelled up nicely, all neatly. And then - just one h
our before the trial - someone would end up ‘getting to’ a key witness and the entire thing would come toppling down.
Tits n’ bollocks n’ all. Was always an understatement in these circumstances.
It was perhaps the most infuriating part of my job at Sisters’ Space. Equally frustrating for the Crown Prosecution Service. And certainly, for the police. But then, as so many potential witnesses had said to me, on so many occasions;
‘Well, would you do it? They know where I live! An’ the coppers are never round here when you need ‘em. I’ve got [delete as applicable] kids/elderly parents/pets/a car/a dicky heart/a nice garden/a desire not to get burned alive…’
Of course, I had sympathy for them. But in my own mind, I had always hoped that if ever faced with testifying against such violence, that I would somehow find the courage from somewhere, to dredge up the necessary mettle and to be able to go through with it.
Probably not though. I mean, I don’t even like telling our milkman when he makes a mistake and brings us the skimmed instead of the semi.
Despite Bev’s attempts at ruining my appetite, I managed to complete my lunch and was crunching into an apple when the phone on my desk jerked into action. It was Kevin Harris, New Banks’ housing manager for Stepping Vale, the area of Medlock where Dawn had only just relocated to. Marsha had persuaded Kevin’s team to part with one of their newly available void properties and Dawn was more than happy with her new location, an anonymous cul de sac, a good few miles away from Vinnie and his lot.
But Kevin Harris wasn’t.
“Bloody hell, Rachael,” he grumbled. “What the hell’ve you given me here?”
Straight to the point as always, Kevin was yet another housing professional that I had worked with over many years.
“What’s the problem, Kev?”
“Your lot told us that this Dawn Hibbert would cause no problems for us. But today I’m being told that she's had her face smashed in again. Just two weeks after bloody moving into one of ours! Hardly the ‘Happy Houses, Happy Homelives’ corporate shite that your mate, Martyn Pointer, expects us front-liners to somehow magically procure for him.”
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 12