Those dust-blighted, velvet curtains open. I see several people on either side of me jump at the Shock of the Rock.And it’s Adam’s favourite. His own request.
“If I kick the bucket before you do, Rach – I want to go out to AC/DC’s ‘Highway To Hell’.”
And I’m laughing and I’m crying.
I’m laughing and I’m crying.
Chapter 1
PANDORA ON THE DOORSTEP: REAL TIME
“I’m piggin’ sick of this Indian summer malarkey. I’m sweatin’ bloody cobs, I am,” the bulky and perspiring man installed behind the counter at Mottram Post Office had felt the need to tell me. But after waggling the collar of his shirt in order to emphasise his sogginess, he had been surprisingly helpful in providing the directions to the constituency home. Apparently, I was “too blonde and too good-looking to be a terrorist,” or to be any other kind of random nutter who might have ambitions to blow up an innocent politician. So he didn’t mind telling me where the fella lived. Providing that I convey a message from Post Office Man to the Right Honourable Michael Chiswick to “get his lot to do something to sort out all the bloody immigrants here. And all the dog muck. Ruining our country, those sort of things are.”
I managed to keep my gob shut. For once.
Two minutes later I had found the cottage and parked my tiny about-town car outside. I was enjoying the fact that for the first time in over twenty months I was not accompanied by two small people. So, no one to argue with over whether the use of seat-belts was some kind of odd whim that Mummy liked to inflict on them out of sheer malice.
I half expected to see some sort of bodyguard-type person hanging around. I knew that government ministers usually had some kind of protection. But perhaps the weekend beefcakes had been culled in the latest round of government spending cuts. Maybe these days they were only herded out for public events. I grabbed the parcel from the cool-box again and locked my car. It was a sweet-looking cottage, for sure. Morning glory going a bit wild, but that added to its charm. A snug-looking little home, tucked well behind the railway line. Away from prying eyes.
Somebody had invested quite a bit of money in the front door. Top-notch security model, by the looks of it. But crafted to look olde-worlde, with stained glass and a brass fish-shaped door knocker. I gave it a tentative rap. Then waited a minute. Must be no one home. I decided that Michael Chiswick would be doing the usual thing that his social class got up to at the weekends. Punting down the Cherwell, sipping Pimms, no doubt. Shooting pheasants (or peasants?) Or maybe he was halfway through some seedy session with a high-class whore in Kensington. A bit of bottom-spanking of a Saturday afternoon. I was about to turn and leave, but then the door opened. The man himself.
“Why, hello there!”
A cheery greeting. He seemed to recognise me, but looked slightly puzzled. Probably not expecting the woman who hung out with battered ladies to be prancing about on his doorstep. He was wearing a stained T-shirt (the stain appearing to be something like oil) accompanied by a pair of long shorts. And carrying a screwdriver.
This was a stupid idea, Rachael. Should’ve just dumped the damned parcel at his constituency office or something.
“Look, I’m sorry to bother you at the weekend,” I began, “only the women at Sisters’ Space forgot to give you their thankyou gift when you came to visit us at the centre the other week. The publicity’s already been helping us with early sales. Even before we’ve actually opened the shop and cafe.”
“That’s good to hear! We aim to please. It’s excellent stuff – what you’re doing there.”
“So, anyway. Here’s the gift that they made. I said I’d drop it off. I live just over the tops – in Holme village. I’m not a constituent of yours, but my parents are. Down the road in Stalybridge.”
Too much information, Rachael. Like he gives a toss.
But he beamed at me, and then at the parcel. I wasn’t sure whether it was Politician-Smile or Genuine Smile.
“How very kind of you all. It’s got to be chocolate, right?”
I nodded. “Yes. So pop it into your fridge straight away or it’s going to melt pretty fast in this heat. I’ve had it in a cool-box while I drove here. I don’t have air con in my car. Well. I don’t have the flashiest of cars. As you can see. But we decided to put more than the usual amount of chocolate into your gift pack. So you probably shouldn’t eat all of that yourself. Maybe you could give some to your mother or something?”
I stopped in horror.
Advice to the Minister for Communities on the refrigeration of foodstuff? Excuses about owning a farty little car? Assumptions about his private life? And – oh, God – his mother is probably dead or something. A hideous skiing accident. Or the result of a malfunctioning stairlift in her Georgian mansion perhaps …
And now he was frowning. And patting his stomach. Looking up at me. Brows furrowed.
“Are you saying that I need to lose some weight?”
I gave up all pretences of polite, professional chit-chat now. I semi-panicked, free-wheeling into:
“Well, come to mention it, Michael, you have been giving Eric Pickles a bit of a run for his money these days …” I sniggered. Quite the wit.
But he didn’t seem to be sharing the joke. In fact, he looked rather taken aback.
Faux pas. Michael Chiswick won’t be used to sarcastic bints from Stalybridge. The females that he will be more familiar with, will no doubt be your fawning types. No. Having the mickey taken out of Michael by the opposite sex would not be the done thing.
I half-flung the parcel towards him.
“That was a joke. Obviously. I mean, you’re probably the fittest minister in the Cabinet. Well, I don’t mean ‘fit’ in the northern sense of the word. That people would fancy you or anything. I mean – you look like you enjoy a good workout. Pumping your iron, or whatever they call it.”
He simply looked at me. Quite amazing, unusual clearest-grey eyes. He hadn’t taken the parcel from me. I gabbled on.
“Oh, God. Look. Just ignore me. I’d better be off.”
My cheeks were tingling. And not from UVA/UVB over-exposure. He was leaning against the door frame now, fiddling with the end of the fish’s tail on the door knocker. After a short silence he gave me his considered response.
“Your pedicure choices are interesting.”
I looked down at my sandals. That morning I had yielded to Lydia’s demands to get the nail varnish out (“you never do girly things with me!”). Consequently, my toenails were various shades of electric blue, magenta and fluorescent green. Classy. Plus a home-made ‘tattoo’ that she had lovingly scrawled onto my foot in order to complete our pampering session. In felt-tip. Mummy Smelz .
“Clearly not a trend that’s reached London yet,” I tossed my head. Holding the gift towards him still (please take the sodding parcel).
“Certainly not something that I’ve seen the ladies of Chelsea wearing recently.” He took the parcel at last and gestured towards his mucky T-shirt.
“Still, as you can see, I’m not one to talk about style. Been messing with my bike all morning.” He gestured to a Triumph parked at the side of the house. A bloody bike. My thoughts began to drift. But his voice called me back to planet earth.
“Listen. I’ve just made some coffee. Do you want some? It’s the finest Oromo Ethiopian stuff.”
Trepidation.
I blamed Lydia for all this. This caution. Her stranger-danger obsession must be infectious. Yesterday I had overheard her trying to drill it into her three-year-old brother.
“ And, Matthew, you should always make sure that a grown-up knows where you are. And who you are with. Even though you’re a stinky bum and no one would want to murder or kidnap you anyway!”
So I told my mind to cut the crap. Just accept the offer of a brew. I nodded. “But only if you’re not a serial killer. Because no one knows where I am.”
“Strictly speaking, I’m not a serial killer. I don’t do it regularly enough
to qualify for the accolade.”
He beckoned me to follow him into the house, calling over his shoulder, “Leave the front door open. It’s stifling today, isn’t it?”
I followed him down the hallway, under a low ceiling, original beams exposed. Probably late eighteenth century, like a dozen or so other cottages in Mottram. Just before the end of the passage I paused to peer at a framed photograph on the wall. Four men, all grinning manically at the camera. Tanned and sporty looking. Michael was on the far left. His hairline had barely changed since the photo had been taken, but these days silver rivalled the auburn. The men were padded out in identical black skiing jackets, goggles and other protective paraphernalia. White-capped mountains in the background. Ha. I had been right about his family. Wealthy skiing sorts, no doubt.
My thoughts were interrupted by the crunch of gravel at the cottage gates. Craning their necks to see past the open door were two children. A boy and a girl. Aged about twelve. Both astride bikes and both out of breath.
“Hey, Missus – Missus!”
I moved back outside. The girl had a chubby face and bright pink cheeks, splashed with freckles. She was bubbling over with High Drama.
“There’s a fingy – a disaster! Can you come and ’elp?”
Michael was behind me now.
“What’s the problem?”
The boy had two jagged front teeth. A bit accident-prone, no doubt, giving him a cheeky pre-pubescent vampire look. He gabbled,
“It’s that old lady – she’s gone an’ ’ad a flood!”
“Which old lady?”
“You know – the mad old one round the corner. With the dodgy cat. Come on!” They manoeuvred their bikes back around. I glanced at Michael.
“Probably nothing,” I said. “But I’ll go and take a look.”
“I’ll come with you,” he answered, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve not got much else on the agenda for this afternoon. So, let’s go and see whatever it is that Freckles and Fang are on about!”
After locking the front door, we both broke into a run down the hill after the speeding pedal-kids. I was glad that I had chosen a sturdy bra that day. Not wanting to be afflicted with Jogger’s Black Eye. I called over to Michael.
“Freckles and Fang, you said. Do you know those two, then?”
“No idea. Don’t know any neighbours, I’m afraid. Made the names up. Don’t tell anyone though. It’d be ‘Minister Insults Chavvy Children’ all over Twitter, before you know it.”
The children dumped their bikes on a communal lawn outside some former council-owned maisonettes at the bottom of the hill. They vanished inside. The front door of one flat was wide open. Water was trickling out and over the threshold.
“Hello?” I called, as I approached the front door. No answer. I slipped my sandals off and Michael followed, kicking his scruffy Tevas onto the lawn. The water wasn’t too cold, but the sensation of sodden carpet on my toes was most unpleasant. I swished my way into an old-fashioned but smart-looking little home. Now a watery mess. Freckles and Fang were balancing on the furniture. Standing on sofas in wet trainers was clearly something that these children didn’t consider to be a discourtesy. Water was pouring down the walls and dripping in rivulets from the ceiling.
A memory uncorked itself. Bobbed to the surface.
This maisonette’s layout was exactly the same as the one that Shaun and I had carried out some late-night surveillance at. Over in Manchester. Well over a decade ago now.
The police had been hard-pressed on time and officers available. Told us that if we wanted to get the drug-pushers evicted – and convicted – it would be quickest to catch them on camera ourselves. As usual there were more than a dozen empty properties in that part of Whalley Range and there happened to be one, a void – exactly opposite to where the dealers were living.
And Shaun and I had performed more than a bit of discreet surveillance on the druggies that night.
I remembered it had been hard, rough stuff. Up against the wall of Bedroom Number One.
I remembered that at one point Shaun had knocked over the tripod that the video camera was balanced on.
I remembered thinking, “It used to be gentle, but now it’s frantic. Frenetic. But maybe this is just us? Me and Shaun. How it will always be.”
I didn’t understand why, then. I probably thought, “Better this than nothing.”
Brought back to reality with a bang. Or rather, a squelchy farting sound. Clearly a speciality of Fang’s, who was squeezing his wet palms together and chuckling away at his ingenuity as he bobbed up and down on the sofa. Delighted to have an audience to present the catastrophe to, he chanted, “He’s gone upstairs. The man what lives here. To the flat above. Where the woman what’s flooded it lives. An’ he’s goin’ mental at ’er! He —”
I interrupted him.
“Has anyone switched the electricity off? Or the water?”
“Dunno!” they chimed in unison. Fang added, “Woah! Maybe there’ll be a massive explosion an’ we’ll all get killed!”
The girl continued.
“We only just found it, like, five minutes ago. We saw the old bloke what lives ’ere get back from town on the bus. He went in his house – in ’ere – and saw all the water. And then he came runnin’ out and was bangin’ on ’er door. Then he went into ’er place an’ started totally freakin’ out at ’er. The weirdy old lady.”
“He’s goin’ loop-the-friggin’-loop at ’er!” Fang agreed. “Can you ’ear ’im up there?”
I turned to Michael. “I’ll go up to the next flat. See if they’ve made things safe up there. You stay here with these two. Find some pans in the kitchen or something. Start bailing out.”
I squished back outside and found the entrance to the upstairs flat. The door was wide open and I could hear shouting. Water was gently flowing down the poor-quality stairs carpet. No point in trying to announce my arrival. They probably wouldn’t be able to hear me above the yelling.
As I reached the top of the stairs, the stench hit me. A combination of soggy, mildewed material, accompanied by ‘animal pong’. And something else more acrid. Urine. Great.
Now, I would never describe my own home as being on the right side of ‘clean’. It contained plenty of kiddy-generated muckiness. But my house wasn’t crawling dirty. And my home wasn’t sofa-sticks-to-your-arse minging. This place was, however. And this smell was considerably worse than the ‘social-housing whiff’ that you sometimes encounter in rented properties at the lower end of the market – that sickly concoction of sweat, dirt, stale air, mould and damp. Here was good old-fashioned Filth. Here was years of grime and neglect.
The flat belonged to an elderly woman. In her early nineties by the looks of it. Sitting in a wing-backed armchair and clad in a mauve, badly stained polyester dress. She had wild, candy-flossed white hair and crumpled skin the colour of an old, yellowed elastic band. Like me, she had bare feet. But unlike me she seemed to be enjoying the experience, attempting to swish the soggy carpet beneath her toes. The TV was blaring out some dreadful daytime quiz show at maximum volume and standing opposite her, hands on hips and puce with rage, was her neighbour. Stout and seventy-something, with tufts of white hair springing from everywhere except from his head. He acknowledged my presence by jabbing his finger at the armchair-lady.
“The bloody silly cow’s gone and wrecked my house! Left a tap on in her kitchen! I told the council to move her, God knows how many times! I’ve told ’em that Miss Simpson is bloody doolally and they want to sort her out. But did they take any notice? Oh, no! It’s all about civil liberties these days. Even if they’re off their trolley, like she is!” His trousers were soaked, almost up to the knees.
I spoke quietly, trying to take the edge off his anger.
“Have you made the place safe? Turned the stopcock off? We need to turn off the electrics, too.”
He shook his head. “Yes. No. I should have done. I turned the tap off. Should’ve thought about the others.
She bloody hasn’t moved from her sodding chair. Stupid old bat!”
“I’ll do it. Tell me where they are.”
He gestured to the tiny room next door.
The kitchen stank. Flies free-wheeling around an overflowing bin. Rubbish ready to float in the water. Whether the flood had been caused by a running tap or a blocked sink, the situation hadn’t been helped by several dozen half-empty tins of cat food on the counter, which covered the kitchen work surface, and filled the sink. Those, along with a similar number of empty HP sauce bottles and what seemed to be hundreds of empty cellophane wrappers for Supasave currant teacakes.
Interesting dietary habits.
Nestled on a sideboard stacked with yellowing newspapers was the lady’s object of affection. A mackerel-rippled and lardy old cat. One closed-up eye, and its nose scored with scars. It shifted when I moved towards it, starting to hiss and arch its back. I ignored the horrid furball and managed to locate the stopcock under the sink and the fuse box in another cupboard, turning off the electrics.
Back in the living room, things were considerably quieter now that the TV had been silenced. The man’s yelling seemed to have petered out. He was wheezing away, though. Shuddering breaths of fury. I asked him his name (“Bridges. Jim Bridges.”) and whether he had reported the flood yet.
He raised his palms aloft now, shaking them in despair.
“I’ve tried! I don’t know who I’m bloody ringing. It’s all answering machines or call centres. It’s a Saturday so no one gives a bloody damn! We bought our place off the council years ago. And they’re sayin’ I have to sort it out my bloody self! I don’t know what … the wife used to do all that stuff. And she only died a couple of months ago …” He broke off in a half-sob, rubbing his bald head.
Poor bloke. I turned to the old lady.
“So, did you buy your flat off the council too, Miss Simpson?”
Mind Games and Ministers Page 2