Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “That incident with the fire engine that I mentioned to you before. Well. It momentarily distracted some of the officers, so that the lad – Mason - was able to run past the barriers and back into the building.”

  No. No bloody way.

  Go Home, Rachael. Don’t think about this one right now.

  A police squad car took me back to my parents’ home. My own car was still stuck outside of Sisters’ Space because handbag, car keys and phone had all been locked away in my desk drawer on Bev’s advice. And the place was still crawling with coppers so I was told that everything would have to remain there until the forensic team had completed their no-doubt long and laborious examinations.

  Dark thoughts swirled around my head as we drove back to Stalybridge. Apart from the fact that my workplace had suddenly become the scene for an armed siege and death - my own children had been on the scene. Vinnie - who had seen me as one of the interfering bitches that was trying to get Dawn away from him – wouldn't have been aware that my own family were present at the launch.

  But what if he had? What if he had picked up on the fact that at the last minute, three generations of my lot had trucked up to the event?

  I sat in the back of the police car, picking at my nails. Wiggling my wedding rings up and down. Maybe Adam had been right, after all.

  It was a Thursday evening. I was heavily pregnant with Matthew. Adam was stomping up and down in our kitchen. He was furious; fuming. Full of the Effs. That afternoon there had been an incident at Sisters’ Space. My car had been vandalised by the partner of a service-user. Adam rarely lost his temper and this wasn’t anything to do with the car-damage, he said. Which was true, because I had a battered old Renault Clio at the time and it was due to hit the scrapyard anyway. But for some reason, this particular incident had really gotten to him.

  “I mean, look at you – you’re due to give birth in a few weeks, for God’s sake! And you’re doing a job like this? With a load of psycho blokes hanging around! Why can’t you go and get a job in policy again? Work for the council, even!”

  “It’s safe at Sisters’ Space, Adam. You know how much time I’ve spent on choosing the best security features. Come on.”

  “I’m not talking about them getting IN - I’m talking about what happens OUTSIDE! Like in your car park. Like some sicko nutter following you to Tesco's or summat. Like someone finding out where you live and seeing that you’ve got little kids and…”

  “Oh, don’t be such a drama queen, Adam!”

  I went on to say that if he had wanted a-stay-at-home-and-mop-the-bathroom-floor-once-a-week-or-something-weird-like-that sort of wife then he had bloody well married the wrong woman. And in response to that, he grabbed his coat, got into his car and headed for the KFC in Huddersfield. Because it was nearly tea time and because he knew that it was the surest way to naff me off. Afterwards, when we had both apologised to each other and I had made him remove the empty cartons from his car, because they would stay there for at least four months otherwise, he had said;

  “But it’s not just about us anymore, is it, Rach? Everything we do… could potentially have an impact on our kids. That’s why I finally agreed, when you wanted me to get rid of the bike. I mean, I love the fact that you’re helping other mad cows like you - sort their own lives out. I think that it’s great that our two will have a mum that has a job that really does make a difference for people who’re living some sort of God-awful existence. And yeah – you can call me sentimental if you like - but I can also overlook the fact that you’re crap on the housework.”

  “Cheers for that, you sexist tosser.”

  “My pleasure. Yeah, I can overlook that bit, ‘cause I happen to think that you’re a brilliant mum. And I just don’t want some dickhead wife-beater doing you in before you get to see your own kids growing up!”

  “Yeah, well. Your own profession - exposes you to nothing more dangerous than dropping the odd bit of computer hardware onto your toes. Painful, perhaps… but I don’t think that you can ever really understand why I do what I do. I mean - you don’t exactly get an adrenalin rush with the old ‘Oh, what if my internet browser won’t open today’ sort of problem at work now, do you?”

  “Ah, Rach. That’s just it. Some of us don’t need the buzz of danger in the workplace. You should be keeping your craving for thrills and spills out of your nine to five, I say. Anyway.”

  “Anyway.”

  “Yeah, anyway. I’m off to wipe Lydia’s bum. She’s been sat on the loo for ten minutes shouting for one of us.”

  “Goodo. It’s your turn anyway.”

  He turned round and gave me that beautiful toothy, crooked smile of his;

  “Love ya, Rach. But think about what I just said, won’t you?”

  I feigned a Scarlett O’Hara southern-belle and touched the back of my hand to my forehead;

  “Oh Rhett! Rhett! Where will I go? Whatever would I do without you?”

  I heard the laughter and the ‘Quite frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,’ as he headed up the stairs in order to extract his daughter’s arse from the porcelain. Meanwhile, I rubbed my distended belly as child number two attempted a spot of stage-diving onto my bladder.

  And didn't all of this just seem like the most pathetic irony now? We had done all that we could to minimise the risks in our lives - and to keep an eye on the future. We had done the serious, grown-up conversations, planned for the pensions, installed a burglar alarm and even baby-proofed my dad’s allotment shed.

  But neither of us had ever dreamed that it would be something as daft, as spur of the moment, as Adam’s hankering after a bit of one-off biking on his holidays - that would wrench our little family apart.

  I remembered how that conversation had ended. Adam's voice had drifted down the stairs;

  “And anyway, Rachael. You promised me way more sex if I got rid of the bike.”

  Followed by Liddy's high pitched tones;

  “What's Waymosecks? He can't have none. He's not washed his hands, after wiping my bum.”

  CHAPTER 31

  I smudged away tears as the squad car pulled up outside my parents’ home. I had spoken to my mother over the phone, just before the police interview had taken place, so the necessary familial reassurances of my safety had already occurred. My parents had ferried the children back to their terrace in Stalybridge and were expecting me to stay the night with them.

  As soon as I was through the front door, Lydia threw herself at me, employing her best am-dram use of language;

  “Mother! We all thought that you were dead!”

  But then she pushed me away, screwing her nose up;

  “The state your hair’s in! Did you try and dye it brown?”

  I made a quick exit for a hot shower. I scrubbed long and hard at my scalp and then at every inch of my body. Wanting to get rid of the stench of injury and death. Shaun’s blood was swirling away in rosy rivulets. And right now, I still didn’t have a clue as to how badly injured he was.

  I contemplated Jess. Who had told her about Shaun? Where had she been when she got the phone call? Perhaps she had been chanting an extra mass for the soul of Saint Jerome of Abergavenny, or some other transparently fake religious entity. Or maybe she was half way through running a marathon in Edinburgh for Bengali asylum-seeking iguanas.

  For a second or two, I thought about calling her – ‘a concerned colleague of your husband’ – but then I realised that I didn’t have their home phone number. That she would probably be at the hospital anyway. And that it would be the wrong motive for calling her - more of a perverse desire to hear her voice for the first time, as opposed to the genuine concern for her well-being. I wondered who would break the news about Shaun, to his other nearest and dearest - to Ozzy the Cat. Perhaps the poor, little pussycat might be so traumatised about what had happened to his father figure that it would put him off his fishy treats that evening.

  I started sniggering to myself – but it soon descended into more of a mania
cal cackle. And then I began to sob. But the self-pity moment was quickly averted by the sound of my mum’s voice outside the bathroom door;

  “I’ve left you some fresh clothes on the bed. I’d put them away to give you them on your birthday but now’s as good a time as any. And it’s not like you can fit into any of mine. Not since you were fourteen. You’ve always had hips from your dad’s side of the family.”

  In the spare bedroom, she had laid out a pair of silver tracksuit bottoms and a matching t-shirt. The t-shirt instructed the reader to ‘Dance Till You’re Dizzy!’ This was perhaps the most inappropriate early birthday present that she had ever presented me with. Because I definitely did not do the running-thing, never mind any form of dancing. I topped off the ensemble with one of my dad’s fleeces. In solidarity with my father; ‘She hates fleeces, your ma. I wear them as much as possible.’

  Back downstairs, the kids had been parked out of earshot and in front of the TV. So, armed with a strong cup of tea I provided my parents with a basic outline of what had occurred inside the building. My dad listened - head cocked to one side - and then nodded slowly;

  “Well. Personally speaking, I’ve always thought that Michael Chiswick was a bit of a willy-woofter — ”

  “Terry!” my mum chipped in, “That sounds rather too homophobic for my liking.”

  Dad continued; “Hang on, Pat, I was just going to say – but whether he’s a bit of a poofter or a posh slimy git or whatever. I was going to say… that after today – I’ll give the fella his dues. I stand corrected. He sounds alright. And it’s not often I say that sort of thing.”

  My mother shook her head, irritated;

  “No. Very generous of you. And anyway, as for me - I couldn’t give a monkey’s about what his sexual orientation is and whatever Michael Chiswick gets up to in his own bedroom…”

  God, how clueless can you two be? But I'm rather glad about that, Mum. As the two of us have been shagging like a pair of sex-starved dirty dingos these last few weeks.

  “Although I’ve never been too sure of his politics, quite frankly – he’s got that big, cheesy smile thing going on there - so I can’t help but think of Tony Blair when I look at him.”

  Cheers, Mum. Why not go the whole hog and says he reminds you of Bernard Manning? Put me off sex with him for life, why don’t you?

  I wanted to distract them from Michael's involvement, so I asked my mum to tell me what had been going on outside of the centre, whilst we were all still trapped inside.

  “Well, we weren't in the building when it all went crazy. We'd decided to take them outside for a run around in the park. Matthew had started spitting at old ladies again and I hate it when he does that. So, we were at the swings when we heard what I suppose must have been the first shots being fired. Everyone came screaming and running out of the building. Your dad wanted to get back to the place to find you. But there were so many people… just running out of there. They were lucky they weren’t trampled to death.”

  A baleful look from Dad;

  “I did try, love. I really did. It was all just a complete…”

  “I know, Dad. Don’t be daft.”

  Mum wandered over to the kettle and flicked it on again, shaking her head.

  “And of course, there were already a few coppers about the place – because of your VIP sorts. So, they were at the front door instantly - wouldn’t let anyone back in. And… oh. That was the scariest bit. Not knowing whether you’d got out or whether you were still in there. Or that something worse had... I feel like I’ve aged fifty years in the last few hours, I really do.”

  Dad suddenly brightened. “You’d be doing bloody well there, Pat. You'd be a hundred and seventeen years old. Damned good innings, that.”

  “Oh, shut up, Terry.”

  She went on to outline the scenes outside;

  “Police cars, sirens. Everyone standing around and fretting. Some woman from your workplace said that you'd been at the far end of the hall when the gun was fired - that you were probably still inside. So, I started thinking the worst. Well, you would, wouldn't you? But of course, having the children around meant that we had no choice other than to concentrate on them. And well, with your two – neither of them are good at being ignored, are they? Although you’d think that with living with you they’d be alright with… Anyway. Matthew was very giddy. He was quite taken with the excitement of all the police cars and the firemen. All of that.”

  She brought a fresh pot of tea over to us, along with the biscuit barrel. Dad prised it open, snaffling a handful of bourbon creams for himself, telling me;

  “Yes. The fire engine. I took the kids over to see it. I think the driver must have felt a bit sorry for us because we said that you were still inside the building. So, they let Matthew climb up and have a nosey. And then your ma called me away for a minute because she was trying to tell one of the policemen what you were wearing - but she couldn’t remember. Brain like a bloody sieve! Can’t even remember what she’s wearing herself, half of the time…”

  Mum did the Shut-Up Terry thing with her eyes. He ignored her.

  “… Anyway, the next thing we know, all hell was breaking loose, because it seemed that Matthew had been fiddling with the handbrake. And of course, we all know that he’s a proper strapping little lad and all of that…”

  Mum sniffed and pushed the biscuit barrel away from her.

  “I’m actually worried that he’s going to be obese one of these days, Rachael. The way he troughs his food.”

  Dad seized the barrel and helped himself to four custard creams.

  “But there’s no way that a kiddy like Matthew could have taken the handbrake off. I mean – come on! The leverage that you’d need to release that kind of thing! We’re talking some serious traction for an HGV of that size! So, I’m betting that they didn’t have the damned handbrake on properly in the first place. Doesn't make sense.”

  Lydia interrupted us. The sound of the biscuit barrel opening had momentarily lured her away from the telly. She helped herself to three Foxes Gingernut Creams as she complained;

  “I don’t know why everyone’s talking about Matthew. He didn’t make the fire engine move. He’s just a silly baby. He couldn’t even reach the steering wheel properly. It wasn’t him.”

  I asked;

  “So, what happened then, sweetie?”

  She reached for a fourth biscuit, surprised that the adults were too interested in the conversation to prevent her from engaging in a biscuit-a-thon. Pocketing it, she casually remarked;

  “Oh, it was all to do with that lad. The big boy. With the yellow hair. The naughty one with the flashing scooter. He’d just arrived with his brother and their little baby sister near the fire engine. The police were talking to them. And when Grandad went to tell Grandma about what clothes you had on, the fireman got talking to this woman with humongous boobs. He was leaning out of the window and smiling at her.”

  “Right.”

  “And then when the police were looking at the baby to check she hadn’t been hurt, the big boy just ran over to the fire engine to us. And he hopped up onto the seat next to our Matthew. At first I thought he was covered in poo – but when I said, ‘Eew – is that poo?’, he said ‘No, stupid, it’s chocolate, get out of the way’. He was very rude actually! He pushed right in front of me - even though I was waiting for my turn to go inside the fire engine very nicely, thank you very much! But as usual – Matthew Patthew was hogging everything and being ratty and bratty…”

  I nudged her back to the story;

  “So, he went in front of you?”

  “Yeah! He climbed up next to Matthew and he went; ‘Help me pull this’ and they pulled that handle thingy up and then - he jumped out again fast. And he nearly knocked me over. And then the fire engine started rolling – with our Matthew still in it! It was dead funny. But maybe a bit scary too,” she admitted.

  “Good thing the fireman had quick reflexes and stopped it in time, eh?” my dad commented.r />
  “Exactly,” I added. “Was Matthew okay? Was he upset?”

  Dad shook his head.

  “Was he buggery. He threw a right paddy with the fireman when he managed to stop it… before the damned thing ran any of the policemen over. The gob on that kid! I tried to drag him out of the cab by his legs – and then his trousers came off. So, he was shrieking and holding onto the steering wheel, in just his t-shirt and underpants.”

  Lydia chewed her biscuit - gob open as usual - and chipped in with;

  “And then Grandad had a right row with some fat, orange lady who had a name badge what said 'Dee.' She was telling Matthew off for screaming. So, Grandad told her not to shout at his grandson. And then she called Grandad a bald old coon.”

  My dad shook his head.

  “She said coot , Lydia. And I think you’re confusing the word ‘coon’ with the word ‘coot.’ A coon is…”

  “A word we should never really use anymore!” added my mother helpfully.

  But I had switched off. No longer listening to Lydia prattling on. Things were making a bit more sense now. Mason had clearly employed a distraction technique so that he would have enough time to run back down the hill towards the centre and to get back inside the building. Without any adults stopping him.

  Lydia meandered back to the living room. Mum said;

  “And you should call Vicky. She knows you're okay. But I'm not best pleased with her. She was meant to be staying here tonight, but she's decided to stay in some hotel in Manchester instead. Met some fella.”

  My dad coughed. With purpose. Mother stood up and moved over to the vegetable rack. She prodded the potatoes and then began to pick out the ones that had started sprouting and were looking a bit too much like whiskery old men.

  “What?” I spat - all incredulous. “She met a man? When? Today? Whilst all of this was happening at the centre?”

  Mum began to pop the maggot-like roots out of the potatoes, using the edge of her fingernail. A significant twinge of disapproval flickering across her face;