But it did the trick. The crowd grew quiet and looked over to the stage. My dad winked at me.
He took the bottle back off me and hopped down and back into the crowd.
“Thanks. Thanks everyone for coming today. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to yell a bit though - as we don’t have the funding for a microphone system.”
“Here we go…” I heard Shaun mutter through clenched teeth.
I gave the audience a quick outline of the history of Sisters’ Space and of our new enterprise; why Charlene’s Chocolate Factory and Café honoured the name of Charlene Fullham - a young woman from Manchester who had been beaten to death by her partner – a man who had also torched their home, inadvertently killing their baby as well. It was hardly cheery stuff – but I wasn’t going to lose the opportunity to get such an important message across. Then Shaun stepped forward and said a few words - mostly about how his local authority had helped to keep the centre going over the last few years. It was a shorter speech than I had anticipated, but I figured that from his perspective, the less said the better – given the fact that the council had recently taken the decision to pull the funding plug on us anyway.
And then it was Michael, who was charm-personified in his praise for the women’s centre, but of course, he had to weave in the inevitable gloating about his own government’s achievements. As Shirley and Andrea held the mini-chocolate Sisters' Space aloft, Michael officially declared the new enterprise open and the applause from the audience caused me to beam a big, goofy grin. A mixed bag of relief and sheer joy. And then I caught Shaun staring at me. I realised what I had been doing; twirling my cocoa bean pendant between my fingers. Shaun was looking intently at it. He knew that I didn't tend to wear much jewellery. So, I gently let the chain drop back into place and, instead, reached down to wriggle my wedding rings around. And around. Get the message, matey? His eyes moved back towards the crowd.
We climbed back off the stage and Shaun wandered off, whilst Michael posed with Casey for the photographs – taken courtesy of Jaz, Gill's current beau – a professional photographer who had offered her services for free today. People continued with their buying, their selling and their munching of hot dogs and we moved towards the cafe and chocolatiers, but our progress was hampered. A rodent-faced woman, who had ram-rodded herself into a tightly-tailored, hot pink business suit, was barring our way. She was in her late twenties and was quite attractive - in a gerbil-that-slaps-too-much-make-up-on, sort of way. Wielding a microphone, she was accompanied by a man clutching a TV camera to his shoulder. His equipment was emblazoned with a familiar logo - its trail of silver stars.
Hells Bloody Bells. How did they get in here?
“Hello, hello,” Michael murmured. “Star News, so I see.”
“Oh, God,” I replied. “I can’t believe the receptionists let them in! I’ll bloody…”
“Well. Not to worry,” he sighed. “I’ll see them off,” and then he turned away from me and towards the reporter.
“Hello. Not like your lot to venture so far up north. Have you run out of minor celebrities in London to dig the dirt on?”
The woman was all-hair, all-teeth and all-bones. And she must have been taking lessons from Councillor Casey because she winced a frighteningly similar fake smile at Michael;
“Erin Mayo from Star News, Minister.”
“Ah, yes. And that means that you’ll be from News of the Nation too, won’t you, Erin? Aren’t you the journalist who also moonlights as Simone Shaw’s assistant when it comes to sniffing out…” Here he coughed politely and mimicked a deep American accent, uttering the newspaper’s strapline; “'the stories that the public prioritise — ’”
But Erin just jerked her head at the cameraman, signalling for him to commence with filming. And then she was off;
“Minister, you're here to open a new shop run by abused women. But it seems astonishing that in your speech, you made no mention of the fact that due to the overall fiscal mismanagement of your government – everything in this building here was all set to be closed down - only a few weeks ago! Surely your appearance here today marks the height of hypocrisy?”
Michael was caught off-guard. His eyes flicked over to mine. I turned to look at Shaun, who had reappeared at the side of Kath Casey. He was giving off his best I’m-as-bored-as-shite vibes as he attempted to ignore the intervention of the journalist. Instead, he was gazing across the heads of the crowd, towards some noisy situation that was developing at the back of the hall. Probably Matthew attacking the face painter because she wouldn’t do a Spiderman logo on his bum or something. I seized the moment, stepping forward and in front of the camera;
“Mr Chiswick’s office had no knowledge of the previous plans to cut funding from the centre. But as you can see from all the people here today – Sisters' Space is going from strength to strength. There's no story here for you. Other than a positive one.”
Erin’s eyes glazed over. Not interested in you, lady. She told her cameraman;
“We’ll edit that out later,” and then she dodged around me and thrust her microphone out again at Michael, continuing with;
“But Minister, this really is deceitful of you. Basking in the glory of today… when in reality, all of the poor women who use this centre – not to mention the staff as well – would have been out on their ears a few weeks ago, if it were up to your government…”
Clearly, News Of The Nation were still fishing for a big, bad news story on Michael Chiswick. I saw Councillor Casey shake her head and say something to Shaun. He flashed her a smile in return. Trevor moved forward now, planning to intervene as he put a meaty hand out towards Erin Mayo - warning her off. But I surprised myself, by moving in front of Michael again.
“Excuse me, but we didn’t invite your media agency to today's event. And that's because we find the images of women that you use to sell your so-called 'news' – to be totally degrading. How you – as a female – can work for such a sordid and sexist so-called ‘news’ corporation is beyond me…”
She gave me a look of profound disgust and shot back;
“I’m not here to talk about what — ”
“And,” I continued. “Your determination to corner the minister here, is completely pointless. For your information – it’s central government who are stumping up the cash for the social enterprise loan that Sisters’ Space is now going to benefit from. So perhaps you should have done your research a little bit better before you…”
Michael interrupted me with a cursive snap;
“Yes, thank you for your help, Rachael, but I’m more than happy to speak for myself and for the government.”
Colour crept into my cheeks and I caught the small shake of Shaun’s head. A faint smile playing around the corner of his lips.
Bastard. This was just one big joke to him.
Michael’s arms were folded and he was all ready to go head to head with Erin Mayo and the camera, but before he could say anything more, there was a scuffle, a squeal and a;
“Oi! Watch it! You little git!”
And then a yelp from Erin Mayo. Sisters’ Space's version of the cavalry had arrived as various people were rammed by a child’s scooter. West and Mason were on the scene. Mason had deliberately elbowed Erin in the ribs (to be fair, it was hard to miss them) and West had stepped in front of the camera. Somehow Mason had managed to grab hold of the microphone, yanking it away from the journalist’s spindly arm and yelling into it;
“Hey, coool! It’s Star News! Are we LIVE? Are we? Are we friggin’ LIVE then? Hey West – get your dick out and show it to the nation! Haha!”
West seemed to be as hyper as his brother – and was all set to take his older sibling’s suggestion literally. He was already fumbling with his flies - desperate to oblige - when Dawn arrived, thin-lipped and pushing through the crowd, with Poppy-Rose thrown over one shoulder. She cracked West about the head with an open hand and then tried to do the same with Mason, who managed to duck in time.
She had another pop at Mason, who tried to shield himself from his mother’s blows, as the rest of the crowd - eager for a chance to appear in front of the camera themselves - began to swell and to push towards us.
Shaun stepped up and tried to wrestle the microphone from Mason as the noise of the crowd ratcheted itself up another decibel; screeching and shouting from behind the cameraman. And then a deafening explosion blew the squirming circle of children, politicians, mothers and journalists apart.
The sound of gunfire ricocheted through the hall and we all hit the floor.
CHAPTER 28
A split second of silence.
And then a wave of screams; a stampede of people heading towards the back of the hall.
I lifted my head up but looked down again, fast - as I saw the flash of a gun - a man heading towards us. So, I stayed squirrelled on the floor, my nose squashed against the hall parquet. Dust in my nostrils and the tangy lemon scent of floor cleaner.
Another three blasts of gunshots. A man’s voice shouting;
“No, you - get out! Get out! Get out! You! Get up off the floor - you, fuckhead, and get out! You too! You too! Go! Fucking GO!”
The scrambling and squeaking of shoes, of trainers against the floor. I lifted my head again; several pairs of feet were racing for the opening screen doors - the exit - at the back of the hall.
Get up and run too.
I twitched, about to stand up.
“No! No – you! Get down – bitch!”
A broad Mancunian accent.
“Stay down! Stay fucking down, you lot!”
And then came a quieter;
“Right. Yeah… Stay fuckin’ still, all of you. Or you’ll get it too.”
Michael was on the floor next to me, wrapping one arm over my shoulders. The crook of his elbow was protecting my head, pinning it to the floor, even though I was trying to raise it - to look. To see. But he wouldn’t let me. High-pitched howling drifted across the hall, from the left-hand side of us. Children.
I needed to see.
“Just stay still. Don’t move,” Michael hissed into my ear. And then;
“It’s okay, Rachael. The kids – your kids - they’re not here. Just keep your head down.” I felt him move, heard him call out;
“Alright. Alright. We’re all down. Hold off… hold it off.’
Followed by the low moan of an adult, in pain. Then Michael again;
“Come on. It’s okay. Just let us sit up – yes? No-one’s going to do anything sudden. Can we all just… sit up slowly?”
A man’s voice screamed back at him;
“No! No fucking way! You all stay on the fucking floor until I say! Get down! All of you! Stay down!”
A child sobbing.
Then Michael;
“Okay, fine. We’ll stay down. Let’s take it slowly.”
There was no response to Michael’s words this time. Just the sound of someone in pain, an eerie high-pitched whine. And there was a baby crying too. Escalating to full blown screaming.
I thought of the lime jelly that I had made last night. I had promised Matthew that he could have his favourite pudding for his tea today.
I thought of the fact that I hadn’t paid the milkman. Again.
I thought of my bathroom cupboard. That we were probably down to our last toilet roll at home.
I thought of a cliff edge. Of Cape Point. A screech of tyres on that South African road. Hot tarmac and…
A motorbike.
A bike. Always a bike.
And then everything fell into place.
Vinnie Murray was playing with his accent, sucking on the;
“So ...”
That nasal, exaggerated twang. Vinnie sounded like a parody of all things Mancunian. A comedic attempt at cockiness. As though he had watched the Gallagher Brothers’ Elocution Lesson on DVD once too often.
And there was the pad of soft-soled shoes, as he meandered about the bottom end of the hall. And then there was a grunt, a dull thud and his voice came from higher above us. He must have jumped onto the makeshift stage.
“So… Yeah. Who’ve we got ‘ere then?”
No answer.
“Ha. Look at you lot. A right band of Merry Men, eh? And Merry Maids. Not as chipper as you all were a few minutes ago, though - eh?”
No one replied.
From outside came the sudden and shrill crescendo of police sirens. First one vehicle and then another. They were loud. But not loud enough to drown out Vinnie's words. He just ratcheted his voice up a notch or two.
“Well. Took that lot longer than I thought. Fuckin' slackers. But hey. Yeah – so… 'who’s who' here? As-they-say.”
No answer. He carried on;
“At number one we have… what’s-er-name? Fat cunt. Or whoever she is, from the council. Hey. Looks like she caught a bullet or two there. Whoops. Sorry Council Laydee an’ all of that…’
I jerked my head, trying to see what kind of a state Kath Casey was in, but Michael wouldn’t let me.
“… and hey! Would you look at this? Fuckin' brilliant chocolate statue-fing what someone’s made. Fuckin' amazing, that! Let’s ‘ave a bit…” He tailed off.
“Mmmf. Wow! That’s good stuff, that is. Proper sticks to the roof of your mouth and that. I’ll save some for the kids. Hey. Vinnie’s high on the sugar now as well as… the old... So. What now? Oh yeah. Next, it’s you lot, innit? My lot. My three. Who no one’s gonna have.”
A vicious edge to his voice.
“…Who no one’s gonna take from me. Yeah-that’s-right. Meaning - you ! Their fuckin’ slag of a so-called Mother! Our Dawny-girl. Dawn Hibbert - also present and correct in the old school hall. Tick!”
There was a stifled giggle at the back of his throat. Of course, I'd seen Vinnie all loop the loop before. And Dawn had said that as well as the slow motion enjoyed from heroin, Vinnie was also partial to cranking up his act big-time with a bit of bad crack. Add a gun to the latter and I couldn't deny that Vinnie was turning out to be one scary mo'fo.
“And who’s…? Ah yeah. Here’s that lanky bastard who’s always in the newspapers banging on about car parks or whatever. Nice haircut, mate. And…”
The squeak of rubber on the hall floor as he jumped back off the stage.
“Let's bring this chocolate thing down here for my kids. Hee-yar... Not gotta share it with no other kiddies neither. All to yourselves. Hey… I’m Vinnie The Great Provider, me, I am.”
He moved towards the bouncy castle. “But… ah shit. The castle’s going down. Never mind lads. We’ll eat the choc-o-lat and then head for Blackpool Pleasure Beach or summat. Better than this shit-hole they call Manchester. Always wanted to live over that way, anyways.”
There was a pause and then came the over-exaggerated sound of Vinnie tutting.
“Uh-oh. Who’s next? We’ve got some slapper from the telly. Some journalist for Star News. Fuckin' hate journalists, me, I do! But, ha. Maybe she’ll do a feature on me next, eh? What drove this man to kill? Ha. Ha ha.”
More chuckling to himself. But followed by a return to the aggressive edge - as though his teeth were clenched.
“Who drove me? Who drove me-to-fucking-kill? Well - she did. Dawn. Fuckin’ slag of the century over there. An’ who taught me to kill? Fuckin’ army did, of course. Queen’s Lancs regiment… an’ then The Rifles. To be precise. But you never appreciate what they teach you until you’ve left… do ya?”
A pause for a minute.
“Did you hear that lads?” He called over to where the children must be lying. “You don’t appreciate summat until it’s gone. Till you’ve not got it no more. Did you get that? West…? Mace?”
As well as the baby, I could hear sobbing from another child. Vinnie snapped;
“Fuckin’ pussies. You don’t deserve no fuckin’ ch
ocolate.”
There was another squeal from one of his shoes as he whirled around quickly and boomed;
“So! Trained killer in your midst, my friends. Don’t be taking the piss, okay?”
His voice was suddenly drowned out by the nasal projections of a megaphone from outside;
“The premises are surrounded by armed police. In the interests of your own safety and that of the members of the public inside, we request that you put down your weapons and move to the front exit of the building – with your hands raised above your head.”
It was as though he hadn't heard a word. And then more steps. Coming closer now.
“An’ next. We’ve got the bitch what runs this place. Getting’ Dawnie her nice new house, far away from Vinnie. Yeah – you're a bad bitch – you are. One baaaad, bad bitch…”
Me. He means me.
Adrenalin was coursing down my spine, turning my legs to fire. I wanted to move, but Michael was applying even more pressure, pushing me down harder and not allowing me any room to shift position.
Poppy-Rose’s screaming was escalating, along with the wailing of one of her brothers. It was West.
Vinnie interrupted himself and screamed;
“ Dawn! Fucksake! Just shut the fuckin' kid up, won’t you?”
I heard her.
“Shush, Popsy, shusssshhh. It’s okay, shushhh.”
A pause.
“And now finally. We’ve got our Reverend here. Your Very Right Reverend Minister himself.’’ Vinnie’s previous chuckle had turned into an all-out barking laugh.
“Hey – you lot! Can you believe that when I first met him… when I was first told that he was a Minister – I thought he was like, your vicar sort? Ha. Un-bel-iev-able. Thick-as-pigshit-Vinnie. Or what?”
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 29