CHAPTER 34
Monday morning. But not my usual start to the week. I was still car-less and so my dad had offered to drive over from theirs at six AM to help us out;
“Rachael, there’s not many people I’d do that Saddleworth moor drive in the dark for, but these things can’t be helped when you’ve bred accident-prone children, like you and our Vicky turned out to be. Plus of course, there’s that smashing bacon butty van on the Greenfield Road on the way over here. So, I had a little stop-off on the way. But don’t tell your ma. I’m sick of her whinging on about my cholesterol.”
We deposited the children even earlier than the norm at the child-care and half an hour later my dad had dropped me off at Sisters’ Space in Medlock;
“There’s that award-winning pork pie shop just off the ring-road on the way back. Don’t tell your ma, though.”
And in many ways, Monday morning at Sisters’ Space was proving to be very different. Bev, Jade and Gemma had turned up early to help clear away the mess left after Saturday’s events, which meant that Jules the cleaner wasn't half as po-faced as I had expected her to be, after encountering the state of the place, what with all of the rubbish left behind by the panicking crowd. Some of the police’s crime scene tape remained outside the building and the hall itself was still completely out of bounds – with the yellow tape criss-crossed across the door and the obligatory policeman on duty. I jerked my head towards him;
“Has he been here all weekend?”
Jade nodded. “Yeah, well - outside. Marsha locked up on Saturday night after they had to do all of that forensics shit. They’ve had police shifts outside here the last twenty-four hours, so he’s only just got inside now. Poor bloke – he were freezing! So’s I just brewed up for him. He said the rest of the cops will be here in half an hour to be doing some more checking; to be talking to the people who were ‘ere. Just keep ‘em away from Dee though won’t you, Rachael? You know how she hates the pigs. An’ now she hates the journos too — ”
“Ah yes. I saw her family’s little performance on TV yesterday.”
Bev chimed in;
“Yeah. Feelin’ a bit persecuted by the media – like she’s Angelina Jolie or summat. Daft bint. Right, well, anyways. I’ll do reception until Sandra trucks up. Oh… and I gotta tell you, Rach. I’ve been frettin’ all weekend. Was gonna call you. But I didn’t have your number.”
“Fretting about what?”
“Keys. Remember me takin’ yours off you and lockin’ all the internal doors? Well. I can’t bloody find ‘em anywhere. Swear to God they were in me pocket. Our Gaz says I’m gettin’ early onset dementia.”
“Oh. Don’t worry, Bev. I’ve got them. Sort of found them. Not your fault.”
“Yeah? Wow! How did that ‘appen?”
“That’s one for another day I think.”
“Right. Well anyway. Gill just called before - to say she’ll be a bit late as she got stuck on the Princess Parkway. So's I told her whichever gay member of the Royal Family that she’s been havin’ a sticky-shag with at this time in the mornin’ is none of my business…”
Whilst Bev took up her post on reception, the other two women followed me to my office, providing me with snippets of further information and random gossip, such as; “Bugsie Bradshaw says that Vinnie went mental ‘cause Dawn told him that Poppy-Rose weren’t his. But I’m not havin’ that. That little girl’s a dead ringer for her arsehole of a dad,” and “Face painter woman says that one of Dawn’s kids nicked a tenner from her cash box – but that she won’t be doin’ nowt about it, ‘cause the lad’s probably been traumatised for life now. An’ a juvenile record for petty theft won’t really be helpin’ matters,” and “speakin’ of money, Rach – we thought we’d left all the cash inside, when we legged it out of the hall. But guess what? That Marmaduke Magician bloke produced the entire takings of both the tombola AND the lucky dip from his top hat - when we were all stood outside in the park. Guys a fuckin’ conjurin’ genius!”
I unlocked my desk drawer and grabbed my handbag, telling them;
“I’ve got to go out and clear up a few things this morning. You okay to hold the fort until Gill arrives?”
“No worries, Rach” said Jade “But just so yer know... once the police an’ forensics say it’s okay for us to go back into the hall again. Well. Jules is sayin’ that she won’t go anywhere near it. Says it’s not in ‘er contract, moppin’ up blood from dead people. An’ that if she’d wanted to be doin’ that sort of stuff she would’ve gone an’ worked for Medlock morgue. Or for Man City.”
I nodded. Jules had always been a bit too jobsworth for my liking. But then again, she was probably right. Your average cleaner’s pay wasn’t enough to remunerate the scrubbing up of dried blood and guts. I fished out my mobile phone and jotted down the number of DI Garratt for them.
“Tell him that I asked you to call him. That we need to know when the police’s deep cleaning team will arrive. Tell him we’ve got women and children needing to use the hall in the next few days. Of course, it might well be that the women… may not want to use the hall now. But that’s not the point.” Gemma took the piece of paper and looked at it;
“Think they will, Rach. Everyone what we’ve spoken to are, like – adamant about staying here at Sisters’ Space. We’re all feeling like… more solidarity than ever - against the patriarchy and against misogynistic behaviour.”
“An’ I mean, where else are we gonna go?” added Jade. “Where else can yer get shit biscuits an' get to watch the telly for nowt? I'm up in court next week for not havin' me TV licence.”
They went off to make the phone call to the DI.
I slung my handbag over my shoulder and went out to the car. It was damned cold inside, so I started the engine and tried to generate a bit of heat. And then I began the task of checking my mobile. There were no less than thirty missed calls, twenty text messages and ten voicemails. Just as it had been with my home answering machine, it was more than a little bit disconcerting to hear the messages left by anxious friends. I sent a mass message to all my phone contacts that said;
By now you’ll all know I’m fine. Any £ you can offer us at Sisters’ Space wd b apprectd. We need it. Pls tell others
Hell – why not turn a disaster into a generic and ongoing appeal for funding for an important charitable cause? Sir Bob Geldof had managed to get away with it, and he lacked both my charisma and affability. Although I must concede that he is a little bit better at ironing than I have ever been.
And now for the next challenge. Before work that morning, I had finally managed to speak to the nursing staff at Manchester Royal Infirmary and then it was; “I’m sorry but we can only disclose the condition of a patient to close relatives.”
Infuriating.
So I had given up the ghost on that one and decided instead to hop across town and to brave the hospital itself. I snuck my farty little car into what seemed to be the last available parking space - no doubt causing the fella in the big Eff-Off 4WD in front of me to jealously covet a 1000cc engine for the first time in his entire life - and once inside the main building I managed to track down the relevant wing and then the correct floor and ward. When I got to the security doors at the end of the corridor, I decided that I would brazen it out and claim the prized ‘relative’ status.
“I’m here to see Shaun Elliot,” I told the person on the other end of the intercom. But the faceless lady didn’t even ask who I was and I was immediately buzzed in. And then I waltzed right past two nurses who were otherwise occupied with looking befuddled about something on a computer screen. So, within a couple of seconds I had located the correct room.
Ah. The glories of our NHS.
As per usual, Shaun had ended up with the best deal going. This will be where they shove the VIPs, I thought. Or perhaps the trouble makers. It was a private room, but it had glass observation windows, which at that precise moment in time, I was very grateful for - because they prevented me from walking sla
p-bang into an encounter that I would not have particularly relished.
A willowy frame leaned over the end of Shaun’s bed, smoothing out the sheets. She had dark russet hair, shaped into a neat, glossy bob and she wore a short, stylish raincoat with belt yanked around the waist, emphasising that oh-so-svelte figure. Funky, pillar-box red calf-length boots matched a shiny handbag which had been placed at the foot of the bed. Although we had never met, I recognised her straight away. Even though I had only ever seen a couple of images of her before.
The first photo that I had been exposed to had been courtesy of the internet; something or other in relation to her assisting with abused alpacas or replanting the rainforest or whatever it was that her top-notch job working for a large and much-celebrated NGO usually entailed. And yes, I had been unashamedly noseying about to see what she looked like. In the past, Shaun had never been the sort to have pictures of his loved ones in a wallet or as a screen-saver.
So, needs-must, I had figured, leading to me stumbling across the online photograph of her. And the other time – more recently - I had noticed a picture of her on Shaun’s desk in his office at Medlock Town Hall. But perhaps the framed photo wasn’t entirely Shaun’s idea. Perhaps she had presented it to him as a Christmas present one year; 'For your desk, Shaun. It’s me with Gurgles the Gorilla in Uganda. You always said that this was a cute photo of us both!’ Or maybe I should just face facts; Shaun thought that his wife was a bit of a looker and wanted all and sundry to know about it.
Whatever. Damn Her. Because she had looked to have been attractive enough in that framed portrait, but everyone knows that the camera can lie for a one-off snapshot of your wife, that you don’t mind the odd colleague seeing. But now, here she was in real-time, bearing more than a passing resemblance to Jackie Onassis – wide spaced dark, liquid eyes. Immaculately turned out. The woman possessed it; that alluring balance between style and the understated. And she topped it all off with that luminous halo blushing above her head. Or could the latter just be a product of my overactive imagination?
I moved back from the observation window, but I was unable to look away. Transfixed by the scene. This was something that I had never witnessed before. Not just Jess in 4D, but here was Shaun with His Wife. Be a dispassionate observer, I told myself. Don't let your emotions rule the roost. You’re not the brazen type, not the sort of woman to storm into a room and to use it as a chance to unload years of bitterness and bile. You’re not the sort to slink into their presence and make pokey; suggestive remarks, stirring the pot.
And anyway. It was over long ago with Shaun, wasn’t it? Eons, long gone. Yonks and donks ago as they say in Manchester. This little, private viewing should mean nothing to you.
But bollocks to all of that. Oh, how it smarted. Seeing her move - seeing Saint Jess walk and talk and adjust her knickers - because she thought that no-one was looking. It nipped at me one hundred times more than seeing a cute photo-of-her-with-orphaned-meerkat could ever do.
She finished off with the straightening of the NHS' bulk-buy bed linen and then moved up to concentrate on Shaun. She dropped a kiss onto his lips and rubbed his cheek. Kissed him again. And then I heard her soft voice, the hint of a Scouse burr;
“See you later then, sweetie. I’ll bring you some pyjamas.”
I had never thought that she might be a Scouser. Shaun had never mentioned this. Not that I've got anything against Scousers, you understand – but there's been nearly two centuries of a long-running feud between the more ignorant Mancunians and their Pudlian cousins. So, it does tend to colour the way one might think about those sickeningly ever-cheery sorts over there in the rival city. Even if you like to think that you're above all of that.
But then she moved towards the door, so I span round abruptly, pretending to read posters about MRSA and prostate cancer on the opposite side of the corridor. She clicked past me in those expensive-looking boots. I counted out sixty seconds. Then entered the room.
Shaun looked a lot better than I had expected. His colouring was almost back to the usual swarthy skin tone that fortune had bestowed upon him. There was only a bruised cheek and a stitch over one eyebrow. But judging by the bulk from under his hospital gown he was heavily bandaged. He had just started to open some cards that Jess had left with him, when he glanced up to see me. Surprise etched itself across his face. And then concern.
I sauntered up to the bed, arms folded. His eyes darted to the doorway.
“Don’t worry,” I jibed. “I saw her. I stayed back until she’d gone. Although these days there’s hardly any reason for me not to meet her. Not like 'owt's been going on. But, still. Why would you want to change the habit of a lifetime, Shaun?”
A weak smile. Grateful, even.
“Nice to see you, Stan.” He gestured to me to take a seat.
“So. Do you really wear pyjamas at home?” I grinned. “My, oh my, Shaun. What an image of domestic bliss I encountered just now.”
I was quite enjoying this.
He screwed up his eyes and concentrated on the cards that he was opening. I let him fumble one-handed with them and on his third one, he did the Robert de Niro gurn and said;
“Well, Stan, got to say that you’re looking a lot better than you were on Saturday. Your hair looked like you’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Never seen you looking so rough.”
“Cheers for that. But it was your blood that added to the overall roadkill-on-the-head effect. And it was a right bugger to wash it out, believe me. But never mind talking about aesthetics - get you! You’ve got to have over fifty-odd cards here.”
Several large bowls of fruit and boxes of chocolates presided alongside a flurry of ‘Get Well Soon’ cards along the windowsill and on top of the crappy Formica unit next to his bed.
I suddenly realised that I hadn’t brought anything with me. I apologised.
“Don’t be stupid,” he commented, yawning and thrusting his chin upwards - towards the fruit and cards and the various frivolities;
“Gesture politics. Bunch of hypocrites. Nearly all of this shite comes from people to do with work. The sorts who wouldn't exactly count themselves as my number one fans. In fact, half of them would’ve been quite happy if I’d ended up kicking the bucket on Saturday.”
I sniffed and picked up a card from the bedside table. From Medlock Golf Club. 'Look forward to seeing you back on the Fairway soon!'
I shrugged.
“Oh, Shaun. So self-important. Even from your hospital bed, with a frigging gunshot wound. I mean, I hardly think that you register on most people’s ‘Top Ten of The Mildly Irritating Bastards That I Would Like to See Dead’ list. Can't you simply accept that ninety-five per cent of folk are just… nice?”
I must have plucked at a rarely available heartstring, because his working arm jerked upwards towards me and he smiled, unexpectedly reaching over for my hand. My brain told my fingers to brush him away. But my instinct allowed him take it. His thumb began to rub up against my palm.
“Well, whatever you say, Stan. You always seem to think that you’re the expert on humanity and interpersonal skills. But regardless of you being a know-it-all, I’ve got to say that I’m more than a bit glad that you’re okay. I honestly thought… when we were coming back into the hall…”
He stopped for a moment and wiggled himself upwards in the bed, slightly short of breath.
“… When I saw you legging it into the other room with the kids. I thought that you’d have no chance. You’re bloody mad, you are. I don’t know anyone else mental enough to take that kind of risk.”
He shut his eyes and gave his head a tiny shake. The room was so quiet that I could hear the number one – the sound of his stubble-cut – grating itself on the back of the pillow. I dismissed the back-handed compliment and looked towards the window. The sky was ice-blue outside. It still wasn’t quite winter yet, but it almost seemed like it was going to snow. His thumb had been stroking my palm in tiny, repetitive concentric motions. Now it stop
ped and began to sweep itself up and down. Up and down.
I moved my hand away, dipping it into my coat pocket and retrieving my phone. I pretended to check it as I commented;
“Bad about Councillor Casey, eh? Her poor family.”
“Really bad. Bit of a shocker to us all. Gobsmacked at what happened to her. Can't get my head round it. Seriously bad. Bad stuff...”
Even Shaun was willing and able to feel the prickle of recoil and of horror – on that one. Or so it seemed.
“I mean…” he carried on, “I had this woman from that charity - Accident Aid - turn up here – just after nine AM this morning. She wanted to offer me counselling. Bleedin’ counselling, for Christ’s sake! Probably Roger, instructing Human Resources to wheel her out. He’s a total and utter fuckwit. Knows I’m after his job once he retires. And he's obviously got an issue with that. God knows why.”
I stood up a couple of cards that had fallen down on the table, but then realised that this was the kind of thing that Jess would do. So, I stopped. He carried on;
“I mean, I don’t get why he might want me to have trauma-counselling or whatever they call it. He was never a big fan of Casey. I reckon he's just feeling threatened. Knows I'll be able to do his job standing on my head. Patronising me by sending some therapist along — ”
“Or perhaps,” I said, “It's not all about big boy game plans and strategies, Shaun. Perhaps, even a fuckwit like Roger might think that it could have been horrible for you to watch someone that you worked with, bleed to death in front of your own eyes.”
Shaun seemed to catch my drift and looked away, towards the window and at the view stretching out towards leafy Cheshire, to all things successful and six-bedroom-detached. He bit his bottom lip. I wondered what he was thinking about. Perhaps an IRA bomb some forty-odd years ago. Of a little boy being orphaned in a split second. Of him developing an extra tough emotional shell in order to deal with the loss.
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 38