Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “Perhaps I do,” I shot back at him, “Because I got involved with the likes of you."

  At any rate, Shaun told me that Jess had instantly believed my story, as presented to her – that her husband had truly saved the day. Which wasn’t actually a story – it was the God’s honest truth. Or at least, how I was feeling about things at that particular moment in time.

  Shaun had added more convincing details for his wife; explaining to her that everyone at Medlock Council was aware that I had been ‘on the edge’ for some time – ever since Sisters’ Space had been faced with the council axing our funding. And that the siege was looking to be the last straw, nudging poor Rachael Russell’s sanity to finally crack. He had told Jess that he had asked me to come to the hospital, so that he could break the news to me about the grant that had just been awarded to the women’s centre. That he had hoped that this would somehow prevent me from “going off the rails completely.” But that after the way I had behaved in his hospital room, he was now going to have a discreet chat with Sisters’ Space’s chairperson with regards to the delicate issue of Rachael’s mental health and wellbeing. I clearly a lady in need of a lot of help.

  Jess bought his story one hundred per cent. She had heard my name in the past – mainly in relation to Adam’s death. So, she already had me down for tea and sympathy; perhaps even a prayer or two or maybe the odd Hail Mary, at the time of the accident.

  So, Shaun was all chipper about this. Didn’t even have the grace to temper his words;

  “Yeah. She thinks you’re a right loonytune now. Feels right sorry for you.”

  “Cheers for that, Shaun.”

  After the unexpected encounter with Jess, I was feeling more than a tad bit shaky, but I managed to make it to the opposite side of the hospital, to the intensive care unit. I told the nurses on duty that I was one of Dawn’s sisters, so I was permitted to spend a few minutes at her bedside. And it wasn’t a complete fib – I mean, we’re all sisters at Sisters’ Space – aren’t we?

  Dawn looked ghastly – the parts of her upper body which were exposed and not wreathed in plaster were pockmarked with indigo-yellow bruises. I had to steel my reaction when I saw what Vinnie had done to her previously pretty face, because she was still virtually unrecognisable. The nursing staff told me that she had suffered a broken jaw, cheekbones, nose and even an eye socket. But according to them, she had already turned the all-important corner; she was conscious. And she immediately recognised my voice, heard me dropping my backside down on the plastic chair next to the bed. She managed to open one of her eyes wide, attempting a lopsided smile. A couple of her teeth had been knocked out too. She gestured at all the tubes that were weaving between her body and the various machines, and she rolled her eye at me, mouthing;

  “Cah t wai t’geh ouh heh!”

  I told her to take it easy, that I would check in on the kids who were staying with her mother. She nodded. I didn’t want to assume that she already knew about Vinnie's death. She had been completely unconscious at the time that he had been killed. But she slurred to me;

  “They tol’ me. Bou’ Vin.”

  I nodded. Her one-opened eye looked flat. Hard.

  I tried to shake away the urge to talk – about everything that had happened. To talk away how she must be feeling. Or of how the rest of the family might be dealing with it all. And it certainly wasn’t my place to tell her about her own son’s involvement. That would have to come later, from the police. But I did ask;

  “Have they pushed you for your statement yet?”

  She tried to shake her head, saying;

  “Lay-keh.”

  “Yes, later. Be firm on that one with the police, Dawn. Not until you can speak properly.”

  I held her hand and squeezed it. A muffled;

  “Shtil owim furnappish”.

  I frowned and then suddenly realised who she was talking about. Michael – and the nappies that he had bought for Poppy-Rose when we had rescued her from yet another beating, that first time we had all me, over on Brindleford. I told her;

  “Ha. You don't owe him anything. He can afford it, Dawn. Don’t believe all the crap those politicians claim about not being paid enough!”

  She smiled with her good eye. I carried on;

  “You’re a tough lady. They’re going to fix you up properly. It won’t take them long. You’ll be back to normal before you know it.”

  She nodded, trying to smile. I continued;

  “And there’s going to be no more of this now. I know it was the worst possible way to end something. But you’ve got your own – new – life. And the kids to think of now. I promise that it’s going to be nicer… bedlam in Dawn Hibbert's household now. Okay?”

  She nodded again. I noticed a tear running out of the corner of her eye. I grabbed a tissue and wiped it away for her. And I did the same with my own eyes, as they appeared to be leaking too. Then Dawn tried to say something to me. I asked her to repeat herself.

  “Ger y’own tissue. Muckeh buggah!”

  CHAPTER 36

  I had already had a quick scan at the Foundation's email on my phone whilst sitting in my car, but back at the centre I thudded down at my desk for a proper read of it on the laptop. It was just as Shaun had said. Six hundred and fifty thousand. On condition that I tinkered with the budget and updated it to include 'damage to the women's centre caused by violent attack.'

  I duly tinkered. As I tarted about with the spreadsheet, my phone buzzed. It was Martyn Pointer. He also knew about the offer of the grant and he was sounding somewhat jaded. I couldn’t tell whether he was being his usual un-emoting self, whether he was irritated by the fact that we had been offered over half a million and would no longer need the support of his social enterprise loan, or whether he had a cob-on because he still felt crappy because of the shingles. So, I said;

  “Anyway, Martyn, you shouldn’t be calling me. You’re supposed to be ill.”

  “I am. I feel lousy. I’m calling you from my sickbed. Marianne’s banished me to the spare room. But I’m still trying to keep my hand in with the emails.”

  What is it with these people and their all-consuming careers?

  “So how did you hear the news about the funding?”

  “Ah. Shaun Elliot managed to drop it into a cryptic little email from his PA. Issuing her with commands from Manchester Royal Infirmary, no doubt.”

  “I'm so sorry, Martyn, I really didn't mean for this to happen.”

  “What on earth are you apologising for, Rachael?”

  “Well. I thought that you might be pissed off after all the trouble that you’ve gone to. All of the work that you lot at New Banks did, getting us the bleeding loan…”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m delighted that you’ve been awarded this. It’s really difficult to get any kind of grant these days – let alone something as big as this one! Much, much better for you than a loan – in the long run.”

  “God, I’m so frigging glad to hear you saying that! If I were in your position, I’d be well fucked-off as…”

  Yet again I had to stomp on the verbal brakes far too late. What is it about me and cursing around Jehovah's Witnesses? I’m never like this around Muslims or Sikhs.

  Martyn did his best to disregard my profanities.

  “But as always, I'm not best pleased at the way Shaun Elliot goes about things. He couldn’t resist dropping the news in on me, whilst he’s meant to be on sick leave and whilst I’m out of the action with the shingles. I had really hoped that having a near-death experience might have shown him the error of his ways. You know, perhaps have turned him onto a different path.”

  I wanted to say ‘Sorry, Martyn, but you won’t be seeing Shaun Elliot down the Kingdom Hall anytime soon. Unless you have a new recruitment idea that involves offering sinners test drives of the latest Lexus model.’ But instead I said;

  “Sadly, not. Leopards. And spots.”

  “Hmm. Quite.”

  I hung up as I saw Bev storming into
my office. The police's deep cleaning team had mopped up the worst of the mess in the hall and we were now allowed back into it. But Bev's face was like thunder.

  “Don’t be looking at me like that,” I said. “Promise I’ll be with you all in a just a minute, to help finish off with the clearing up.”

  She lobbed a plastic bag onto my desk. Curled her lip.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Brenda. Her what owns ‘Brenda’s Big Baps’ round the corner. She’s just been in. Made a load of butties up for us. Said they were on the house. ‘Cause she felt awful for us all – said she can’t get over what ‘appened here on Saturday.”

  “Really? Oh, bless. That’s so sweet!”

  Bev shook her bushy barnet at me;

  “Well, it would have been if there were ‘owt that I fancied. I mean – it’s like these days – even your scruffy sarnie shops like hers… think that doing your bog-standard cheese butty is beneath them.”

  “Well, I for one am grateful,” I replied. “And it’s come just in the nick time. I’m ruddy starving.” Brenda had written on the paper bag 'warm chilli chicken'. I ripped it open and bit into the sandwich. “Lush,” I said, smearing half of the concoction down my chin, “So you - with your boring cheese preferences - will just have to go hungry then, Miss Fussy Pants.”

  Bev tutted and turned on her heel. I was all ready to enjoy my second mouthful, until she called over her shoulder;

  “Well, enjoy your menstruation on a muffin, then. You look like you've just wiped a used sanitary towel all over yer face.”

  At least some things at Sisters’ Space would never change.

  Ten minutes later and we were all busying ourselves in the – now - blood-and-bodily-fluids free Sisters' Space hall. Gemma trundled over to me as the final remnants of rubbish and stampede-deposited items were collected and catalogued for our lost property box. I recognised the child’s scooter that she was dragging behind her.

  The sight of this abandoned child’s toy gave my heart a momentary squeeze. It was too symbolic of Mason - of his existential journey to date. From annoying little kid with relatively low life chances anyway, due to class and accident of birth - to a pre-pubescent killer. And all of this in the space of a few minutes, on a November Saturday afternoon at Medlock’s Sisters’ Space.

  Gemma prodded me out of my melancholy, twisting the corner of her mouth as she tried to keep her voice low.

  “I’ve just seen this scooter and wanted to get it into the lost property before Dee clocked it. Not being a grass, like, but there were a right nice – like, proper fake Prada handbag - what someone had dropped at the other end of the hall. Where Dee were supposed to be cleanin’. An’ no one’s seen it since.”

  I took it from her and asked her to rally the troops. I was calling a quick meeting of all the women who had turned up to help with the clean-up operations. Gill, Marsha and two other paid members of staff had arrived - as was normal for that time on a Monday. But in addition to the employees of Sisters’ Space, today we had far more women than usual, milling about the centre. Maybe Gemma had been right about the sense of solidarity, of loyalty at this place.

  Although perhaps not, in terms of all the service users. Before Gemma had showed me the scooter, I had already noted that rather magpie-esque gleam in Dee’s eye. I had seen her cast a quick scout about; to see if anyone was looking - and had witnessed her stuffing some unidentifiable object or another down the elasticated front of her jeggings.

  Eighteen women squashed themselves into our small meeting room. I thanked them for their help in cleaning up the place, informed them how Dawn was doing – and then finally moved on to providing them with the news about the funding. Until that point, the collective body language had been pretty wretched. Slouches, folded arms, hunched shoulders, the odd sigh and the irritating twiddling of piercings (Jade). But when I spilled the beans, the combined reaction was like I had doled out speed to them; plenty of whoops, Gill punching the air and Dee giving it;

  “Bleedin’ hell. Who’d a-thought it? You get people killed and then someone gives you more than half a million. Who else finks that Rachael must work for the Mafia, eh?”

  After Bev had told her to shut the fuck up and Gill had managed to prevent Dee from answering Bev back with a Glasgow Kiss, the questions began to flow. Even though I had anticipated that the announcement might have taken the edge off our collective dejection, dampened down the doom, gloom and the despair – I really had not expected such jubilation and positivity. The overwhelming consensus was this; that Sisters’ Space should Carry On As Was. That it would be crazy not to open the café and the shop the next day. That it would be sending out all the wrong signals if we stayed closed. I was even more surprised when Kirsty, oh-so-painfully shy Kirsty, piped up with;

  “Why don’t we make the most out of all of those rubber-neckers hanging around outside? You know – the journalists and that… who’re wanting to have a nosey at where The Medlock Massacre took place. Can't believe that they're calling it that!”

  Bev glowered. “Bloody tabloids. Bloody massacre? All that happened was some bastard who deserved it ended up getting’ shot. And some crappy local politician who no-one liked much anyway… met her maker a bit sooner than she were bankin’ on.”

  Gill winced.

  “Jeez, Bev. That’s a bit harsh. And I mean… what about Dawn?”

  Bev was unrepentant. “True. Shit stuff for Dawn. Big time. But even that’s got a good side. She’s finally gotten rid of that fucker, Vinnie Murray.”

  “Anyway,” said Shirley, primly “Whatever people think about comeuppance, I think that Kirsty’s right. There’s about a dozen people palming around outside. I bet they’d like a decent brew. And – yes - every cloud does have a silver lining - think of all the free PR that we’ve had. Half of Britain knows about Charlene’s Chocolate Factory and Café now.”

  Jade took up the idea with gusto, “Yeah! They must be freezin’ their tits off outside. Come on. Let’s make money out of the sicko bastards!”

  I wasn’t sure of the ethics behind it all, or whether indeed the idea of sipping cappuccinos amidst a recent murder scene would appeal to the average shopper in Medlock. But what was life without risk? Why play the victim? Why not start to act like the social enterprise we were trying to become? Beat the capitalists at their own game.

  Our meeting was interrupted by the arrival of Dawn's mother. I nipped outside, to hand Mason’s scooter over to her, to tell her about my visit to see her daughter and ask her thoughts about us opening the café and shop. She pursed coral pink-painted lips and commented;

  “Well, Dawn would agree with you all. Get the frig on with it, that's what she'd say. If that fucker hadn’t mashed her in, like he did.”

  Her mum had left the three grandchildren with a friend, saying that she had felt that it would be too traumatic to bring the kids back to the centre. Although I did notice that she was decked up to the nines in her bling and that her young squeeze - ‘Giovanni’ - was sitting outside in his BMW. Apparently, they were off to the cinema at Salford Docks and then heading for dinner at the Brewer’s Quay.

  I asked her how Mason was;

  “Dunno really,” she said. “He's never been one for sayin’ much, has our Mason. They’re givin’ him counsellin’. Social services or whoever. He won't tell me nothin’ of what happened on Saturday, so apart from what the telly’s said - I've no idea. Other than, that fucker is dead. An’ fuckin’ good riddance too - is what I say. One of these days it would have been me shootin' the bastard, for the way that he always treated our Dawn.”

  “Well, I can understand you feeling like that,” I replied. “Course I can. But… he was still the kids’ father, wasn’t’ he? West and Poppy-Rose, I mean.”

  Her eyes flashed contempt.

  “He were never a fuckin’ father to no-one. World’s a better place without that fucker.”

  I wondered whether her hatred for Vinnie would be less vehement if she
– when she – learned that her grandson had pulled the trigger.

  No. Probably not.

  With only half an hour to go before I needed to leave and collect my own children, my mobile rang. It was Michael on his ‘unknown’ number again; I was beginning to recognise the digits from the SIM card that he used. I answered with a laugh;

  “Hey… is that my man of international mystery?”

  “Ah yes. Something like that. How have things been today – you and your lot at Sisters’ Space?”

  I gave him a cursory outline of the day’s events. His voice stiffened when I mentioned the visit to see Shaun. And then I had to hold the phone away from my ear when I told him that Shaun had admitted responsibility for the appearance of Simone Shaw's media cronies.

  I agreed with him that he had behaved like a “total and utter first-class shit,” but told him that Shaun had redeemed himself somewhat in my eyes – thanks to his support for the new grant. Michael sounded jubilant at the news and told me;

  “Really and truly, Rachael – it's so thoroughly well-deserved. For all of you. But all the same – you simply mustn’t go giving Shaun Elliot any of the credit for this. I mean - did he spend weeks of his own time, writing the funding application for you?”

  “Well… no.”

  “And didn’t he have plans to close Sisters’ Space down only a few weeks ago?”

  “Er yes… but his take on it was that it was all the fault of your government and your austerity cuts.”

  “Well, of course it would be. But let’s get this straight. Cut to the chase. All that he’s done, is to tell a very nice group of people – who seem to be quite determined to give you nearly half a million anyway – that Rachael Russell and Sisters’ Space aren’t complete incompetent idiots.”

  “Well… yes. I guess — ”

  “And so, there’s no two ways about it, Rachael. The man is a brilliant manipulator. A master of his own small-fry in Medlock and Mancunian political games. Someone as smart as you – falling for that sort of rubbish? He does nothing at all to help the survival of your women’s centre – no – he actually tries to make life more difficult for you – and doubly difficult for me – and yet you still want to thank him.”