Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “Well, she says that they’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now. And she was all very evasive, when we met her outside your centre-place this morning. She said that this ‘friend’ from London had given her a lift up north – and had dropped her off there. But as it turned out - he was at your little event too! We even ended up meeting him in the park - just after it all started going hell for leather inside. Apparently - he carried her out of the building. Just picked her up and ran out with her. And it’s a good job too - she would have been stuck in there otherwise, what with that pot on her leg.”

  Mum stamped on the pedal of the litter bin and plopped the white pile of rejected potato offspring into it. She turned to open the fridge.

  “So yes. Whilst I can’t say that I approve of Vicky dashing off to a hotel with him rather than staying here – because I’d already gone to the effort of making up the camp bed for her and put the brighter light-bulbs in for her like she prefers. Yes, well. Rescuing her like that… He can’t be a bad egg.”

  “Aye,” said Dad. “Bit bigger than your average egg though. More like an ostrich egg. Bloody massive bugger. And he’s black.”

  Mum’s head appeared from round the corner of the fridge door.

  “And just why would you mention that, Terry? What does it matter - what colour his skin is?”

  Dad got all defensive.

  “It doesn’t! Bloody hell, Patricia – don’t start accusing me of racialism now or whatever! I just believe in describing people… how they look. Like your friend, Beryl – I’ll say she’s ‘pig ugly’ ‘cause she is! And the bloke who works in the post office with the dodgy eye, I’d just say…”

  I cut in.

  “What’s he called?”

  “No idea,” Dad answered. “I’m only ever asking him for stamps, or giving him your ma’s bloody parcels for her Avon returns.”

  “No – not him. Vicky’s fella, I mean.”

  Mum slammed the fridge door and yanked open the freezer.

  “Trevor’s his name.” she said. “That’s him. Pierced ear. But nice teeth. It’ll have to be sausages, then. Can't have chicken, two nights running.”

  I choked on my biscuit, coughing biscuit crumbs and saliva all over the embroidered tablecloth. The linen was promptly swapped for a fresh one and it finally dawned on me that Vicky’s taxi trip in the ministerial car was far less about extreme generosity on Michael’s part and much more about the Vicky and Trevor factor.

  Rotten sods – and Michael too. For not telling me earlier.

  As if on cue, the telephone rang. It was the lady herself, calling from her hotel in Manchester. I took myself off to the hallway to speak to her. She demanded a blow-by-blow account of what had happened, telling me;

  “Jesus, Rachael! I'm so glad that I only deal with microchips on a day to day basis - as opposed to society's down and outs. But have you spoken with Michael yet? I've not let on to Mum and Dad about you and him — ”

  “Yeah. You're good at keeping relationships top secret, aren't you? So perhaps you could ask Trevor for Michael's number. Because my phone is still at Sisters' Space and I've no idea how to get hold of him at the cottage.”

  But Vicky didn't miss a beat. She proceeded to tell me that;

  “Yes, after everything that you've gone through today, I thought that it’d be best if I got out of everyone's way. Let you have the room at Mum and Dad’s for tonight. Plus, it’s nice being in the Malmaison of course. So ... Trev?” Her voice moved away from the phone, “What's Michael's number?”

  There was a pause for a few seconds and then she carried on with;

  “Oh, Rach – Trevor's telling me that the BBC is saying… that another person who was admitted to hospital – a woman – has died from her injuries. Oh, that's awful! You'd best go and check it out, yeah? We're off to grab something from Chinatown in a minute. We're both ravenous, and it's weird, 'cause I've actually been digesting Chinese food a lot better these days...”

  I zoned out. Dawn. My mind began to race with the thought of Dawn. Of Dawn dying. Of her children – who would break the news to them? So many horrible, indiscriminate and freakish incidents that had occurred in my life in the space of just a few short hours. And yet here was my sister wittering on about the Yang Sing, banquets for two and her increasing and remarkable ability to be able to tolerate monosodium glutamate. So, I got a bit snippy with her;

  “Well, as unimportant as your personal life actually is to me, Vicky – in comparison to what happened in my workplace today – thanks – yeah, thanks, Sis – for making sure that I was the last person to know about your latest romantic liaison. Cheers for not telling me about the fact that you’ve been hanging around with the Special Protection branch - even more so than Michael does. And yes - whilst I go and find out whether any more of my friends or colleagues were killed today – please don’t forget to call me back and let me know whether you and Trevor plumped for the Peking duck, or for the beef chow mein in the end…”

  But Vicky was not one for being quick to take offence. Hide of a rhino.

  “Sorry, Rachael. Life has been… a bit unusual I suppose. It all… it all just began when Trevor kept popping round to the flat to see if I was okay. He knew that I don’t have family in London. It was very sweet of him. And whilst at first we just talked armoured vehicles and latest technology in one-to-one security and protection…”

  “Jeez — ”

  “Well. It progressed quite quickly. And I didn’t want to mention it on the phone to you - I thought it would be better to talk about it face to face. What with the Michael-Factor and everything. But he’s – Michael’s - really cool about it. In fact, he’s the one that said it was best to tell you in person. Ha. Heh heh. I think that he’s getting to know you pretty well, eh?”

  “Hmph. Maybe. Maybe not. And look. I need to go — ”

  “Well, either way – I’m hoping that he’ll do right by Trevor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, both of them – Trev and Ross, too. Ross was doing the covert surveillance stuff. And they both could get into serious shit over this. Questions will have to be asked as to why Trevor didn’t stay by Michael’s side for the long haul. Why he carried Lady with Duff Leg out of the hall instead.”

  “Oh. God, yeah…”

  “Yes. It's all a bit worrying. And… also - Shaun. Trevor said that this ‘Shaun character’ actually got shot. Jesus – I mean… is he okay?”

  “I don’t know, Vicky. Dunno. But I do need to go and find out. So, will you just get off the phone and go and order your dim sum, or whatever?”

  A few minutes later and, with Michael’s phone number discreetly scribbled on the back of my hand, I was upstairs, watching the TV in my parents’ bedroom. The siege was headline news on every TV station. The version from the BBC declared;

  “The dramatic gun siege that took place today in Greater Manchester, involving a senior cabinet minister, has ended in the death of two people. Michael Chiswick, Minister for Communities and Local Government, was attending a local event in the Medlock area of Greater Manchester when he and several adults and children were taken hostage by a gunman. The siege ended with the death of the gunman. And we have just heard that a second person involved in the hostage situation – a female in her early 60s – has died as a result of her injuries…”

  “Oh, thank God!” I spluttered out loud, shaking my fifth mug of tea so that some of it slopped onto my mother’s side of the bedspread. “Thank God, it wasn’t Dawn!”

  So, I was swamped with relief. But it was then tempered with guilt. Because I had never liked Councillor Casey. I had always thought her to be a po-faced, old bag. But I wouldn’t have wished her any harm – well; certainly, not that level of harm. I gulped the tea down and plonked the cup on the bedside table, hugging my knees to my chest as I cradled myself on my parents’ bed. Lydia’s voice travelled up the staircase, shrieking with delight;

  “Hey, Matthew! We’re getting sausage and
mash for our tea! Yeah – again! And then ice cream Mars Bars for afters! It’s great when there’s a disaster! They just feed you whatever you want!”

  And then I heard Matthew yell back;

  “Cool! Let’s make another one happen!”

  No doubt Lydia would be writing in her ‘What I Did This Weekend’ news report for school on Monday morning something along the lines of, ‘ This weekend I was nearly made a Norphan!!!!! And then I ate so much junk food!!!!!! That I threw up all over the second tablecloth!!!!’

  The news coverage on the BBC was ‘live’. The images moved to the front of the Manchester Royal Infirmary. A hospital spokesman was standing on the front steps of the red-bricked building as he confirmed the death of Kathleen Casey to waiting journalists. He went on to say that;

  “… another woman - aged twenty-five - is in a critical condition. She is in intensive care and is in a coma. We also have a forty-four-year-old male with gunshot wounds who is in a stable but serious condition. And a twenty-nine-year-old female who has just been discharged.”

  ‘Stable but serious’. What did that mean exactly? I wanted to call the hospital to find out how badly injured Shaun was, but I realised that it would probably be pointless right now; the world and his wife would be calling them for more information.

  Then the broadcast went ‘Live to Downing Street’ where a government spokesman had just begun to give a statement to the media. It was Alex The Twat. Bet he was chuffed to bits with my involvement in the entire horror-fiasco.

  “I can confirm that today, Michael Chiswick, Minister for Communities and Local Government - received minor injuries in the siege that occurred at the Sisters’ Space Women’s Centre in Medlock, Manchester and where two people tragically lost their lives. The Prime Minister would like to express his shock and horror at what occurred today – on a day that was intended to be nothing more than a happy community celebration. He extends his utmost sympathies to all the families of those involved and would like to assure the public that there will be a thorough police investigation into the incident. He has spoken at length to Michael Chiswick, who has also provided the police with a full statement of his experience. The Prime Minister would also like to emphasise that the situation was an isolated incident, initiated by a single individual and that there are absolutely no terrorist connections or affiliated threats to national security.”

  Alex was doing his best to look all maudlin, all caring and concerned; little shrugs of his shoulders, a faux-weary spin doctor-esque rub of the almost-albino eyes. But I knew damned well that he didn’t give a shit about the people involved. The journalists then asked who the gunman was. Alex replied; “He was a local man and already known to the police. They will be releasing further details in relation to his identity as soon as possible.”

  Finally, the media asked about Michael’s injuries;

  “He was very fortunate – he only sustained a cracked rib and several cuts and bruises.” And then nodding at the camera he added, “And that’s what you get for screwing around with common-as-shite biffers from up north.”

  Oh, okay then. The last sentence was a product of my overactive imagination and paranoid delusions.

  I shuddered, switched off the tosspot’s wheedling voice and vanquished his ugly mug from my parents’ TV. I picked up the phone at the side of the bed and dialled Michael’s number. He answered just after a few rings, telling me that he had just been about to call Trevor and ask Vicky for a landline number to reach me. He asked if he could drive over from Mottram - to my parents’ place.

  “No. That’d be too much for my folks in the one day,” I explained.

  Instead, Michael offered;

  “Well, why don’t you come here instead? I do need to talk to you… about everything. And I can’t really do that over the phone. Obvious reasons. Is there any way that you could swing an escape route for tonight...? Stay over?”

  I mused. Perhaps.

  Use the Best Friend Blag.

  Kate had called my parents after hearing about Shotgun City At The Women’s Centre and she had already told my mother that if I needed a bit of space that night, I could kip at hers.

  I trotted back downstairs. And explained what I planned to do. My mother was snipping skin between the defrosted sausages. She plonked them on top of the grill pan and nodded in agreement.

  “Whatever’s best for you love, after the day that you’ve had.”

  She made it sound like we had attended a Teddy Bear’s Picnic at Stalybridge’s Stamford Park, which had somehow resulted in Lydia being stung by a wasp and Matthew wetting his pants due to excess Fruit Shoot consumption.

  “That’s fine with us. Your dad can run you over to Kate’s, what with your car still being at the centre and all of that. It’ll only take him ten minutes to get to her place in Greenfield, won’t it, Terry?"

  Oh Crap. No. Not part of the plan. Tit’s n’ Balls.

  “Terry? Terry? Where are...?”

  Mum shoved the sausages under the grill and stalked away, into the lounge.

  “Terry-Bloody-Stanley!”

  Mum hardly ever used what she considered to be ‘bad language’, so when she did default to her own, odd perceived version of a profanity – you knew that she was really pissed off.

  Dad was nestled in his favourite armchair. He appeared to be halfway through a bottle of red wine. Mother was all-one hand on hip and the other changing the remote control - she didn’t let dad watch too many nature documentaries; “They make him a bit too frisky for my liking.”

  “I don’t believe it! Terry Stanley! It’s only six o’clock!”

  “Bleedin’ stressful day, Patricia – what with this lot!” nodding towards me and the children who were scowling at Grandad because he had switched ‘Garfield Goes Grunge’ off. “No offence, love.”

  I smiled. Saved by the bottle.

  “Oh, none taken. I'll get a taxi. Call you tomorrow about getting the kids back off you."

  For practically the first time ever, I thanked The Lord that far too many women of my mother's generation had never learned to drive and I borrowed some overnight toiletry and cosmetic gubbins off her – make-up and toiletries.

  “Won’t Kate be able to lend you that kind of thing?” she asked. I lied again, telling her that Kate had recently developed a terrible allergic reaction to anything other than organic hemp-based products.

  “Maybe she’s got thrush,” Mum offered. “I’ve always thought that those jeans she wears are far too tight for a woman of her age. And size. I mean, she’s got twin boys. She should be thinking of them – not of how her backside appears to men. None of you are getting any younger, you know…”

  I picked up the phone and dialled the number for a taxi. As fast as I could.

  CHAPTER 32

  Fifteen minutes later and I was at Michael’s cottage in Mottram.

  He didn’t look too bad; just a smear of lime-yellow bruising above his eyebrows and under one of his eyes - plus the cuts on his cheek which already seemed to be healing nicely. And the chipped tooth. I told him that it made him look rather charming; “Quite rakish, actually.”

  “Depressing, isn't it?” came the reply. “I’ve only had this constituency seat for three years and already I’m beginning to look like a true Manc. What with the scars on the face and the broken teeth.”

  “Look on the bright side,” I said. “Perhaps that’ll help you swing an even better majority come the next election. More people might vote for you if you look less like a southern wuss.”

  “Good point. Anyway. How’s you?”

  “I’ve had worse. Worse days I mean.”

  “I know.”

  Once the front door was closed, we held each other for a long time. And then we went to bed. It was very slow, very tender stuff (Michael's cracked ribs not lending themselves too well to unbridled passion). After that, it was time to feed the other appetites. Michael ordered in a take away. Only then - as we lazed on his living room floor, chomping down
on Mr Chow’s finest, inspired by Vicky's food preferences for the evening - did he tell me what the rest of his day had been like; nearly two hours on the phone discussing the situation.

  “Certainly not the kind of conversation that I thought that I would ever have with the Prime Minister – ‘Sorry, PM, that I couldn’t reply to your email about the election of the new party chairperson – was locked in armed combat with a psychotic wife-beater.’”

  And then we talked about the siege. I told him that I had seen most of the events through the spyhole and that I had managed to get the kids outside, to get them to the police. But that the only part of the whole event that still seemed a bit fuzzy to me, was how the situation ended – after I had fallen on top of Shaun. He tried to help me to fill the gaps;

  “First off. Did you realise that Vinnie had two guns?”

  “I did actually. But don’t ask me what bloody make and model they were. Which you no doubt were aware of – straight away.”

  Michael grinned and helped himself to more egg fried rice;

  “Glocks. Would hardly have been my weapon of choice. But anyway. Whilst he was hitting Dawn with one of the guns, he had the other one tucked down the back of his trousers. Which,” he reached over and grabbed a spring roll, “was a very stupid thing to do. Especially considering his army raining. So, one can’t help but suspect from his actions that Vinnie was either a pretty poor soldier - or that all the drugs had interfered with his capacity for making sound judgements. Illegal drugs or otherwise, I mean. You heard him mention Ashworth?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes. I caught that one. Bit of a conversation stopper.”

  “I’ll say," Michael agreed, in between chewing. “So… we had quite a few tactical errors there on the part of Vinnie. Him putting the gun into his waistband. Him leaving the hall in order to help us with opening the doors - which we were faking a struggle with by the way — ”