Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  Michael grimaced as I continued.

  “And it was the mother – Michelle Murray – who wielded the mallet on the lad.”

  “Charming lady,” he replied. “But then, you get unsavoury sorts everywhere, don’t you? Wherever you live in the world.”

  I shrugged, and gestured to the streets outside. “No. Places like Brindleford shouldn’t be seen as some kind of microcosmic example of the good and bad of human nature. They’re more a product of organisational ineptitude. Places that grew to become nightmarish communities to live in – and directly because of government policy on the Right to Buy. Unemployment increasing. The gap between rich and poor widening. And also because central government allowed a load of talentless fat-cat local bureaucrats on massive salaries to head up all the urban regeneration and the housing organisations …”

  (And now Shaun is one of them. Oh, the irony).

  Shaun, who used to scorn all things senior management. Shaun, who, after a particularly drunken Christmas Party one year, pissed into a plant pot containing our chief executive’s prize Orchid.

  But Michael just held his hands up and smiled vacantly. “Well, Rachael. You have an interesting theory there. And some contentious opinions. But I’m sure that if we had the time, we would be able to find some points of commonality …”

  I sighed, inwardly. Classic politician’s evasive tactics. He looked away and checked his phone for messages. Dismissing The Ranting Bride Of Trotsky. Ever so politely.

  Ali slowed the car down again and glanced back at me for direction. I waved him ahead.

  “Lancaster House.”

  “Ah, yeah! Know where you mean! Place for people in trouble. Bit secret – innit?”

  Strictly speaking, the building was the local authority’s hostel for people who were temporarily homeless. But Ali’s take on it was fair enough. And Lancaster House did try to keep a low profile on the estate. Plenty of Brindleford residents needed to feel superior to your undesirable homeless sorts.

  Ali’s cab pulled up outside Lancaster House, causing Miss Simpson to pipe up with:

  “So we’re off to the Dinky-Doos then? Happy Valley in Llandudno?”

  No sign of any seaside variety shows, however. Just a bleak, monolithic landscape of more-than-usually-neglected social housing.

  Michael helped her out of the car and I took her arm, motioning her towards the front door of Lancaster House. But then I realised my mistake.

  “Sod. No purse. What am I like? I’ve left it in my car.” Michael brought his wallet out from his shorts, brushing away my thanks with a shake of his head. He handed a twenty-pound note to Ali, so I told the taxi driver, “We’re going to need a receipt. But also – would you mind waiting for us until we’ve dropped this lady off? We won’t be long. And we’ll pay you extra for the wait.”

  Ali looked doubtful. He shook his head. “Ting is, Miss,” he gestured outside of his window, “I don’t know any other drivers what’d be crazy enough to be hanging round here, innit? I mean, not on a Saturday afternoon. They’re already drinkin’ by midday here. I mean, if I’m sittin’ here I might get me vindows bricked in or some nutter havin’ a go – like what happened with me brother-in-law, innit? And I’ll be getting me other calls …”

  I began to chew my lip, wondering if there was anyone I could call on to pop over to the Brindleford estate and give us a lift home. Not likely. My parents weren’t even comfortable with the twenty-minute drive over the border from Stalybridge to my house in Holme (no doubt terrified of being hijacked on the Saddleworth moors by a marauding Yorkshire infidel).

  But Michael made a move. He took his watch off and handed it through the open window to Ali. I glimpsed a flash of royalty. He had tucked another twenty-pound note next to it.

  “Keep the money, regardless. And the watch as a deposit. Until we get back.”

  Ali peered at the watch, taking it from Michael. Ali beamed. Ali was impressed.

  “Hey, mister. Nice vatch. Rolex, innit?”

  “No. It’s a Breitling,” Michael replied. “So it’s worth a bit.”

  And the rest.

  “And I hope that it assures you we’ll be back here soon. And that I do have more than enough to be able to pay your fare for the wait. And for your taxi windows, should they get bricked in. Although I doubt very much that that would happen.”

  Our taxi driver had been convinced. He nodded slowly, but gestured to the prayer beads dangling down from his rear-view mirror.

  “But you knows … I’m a good Muslim. So I don’t need a vatch to be trusting you all.” He tried to pass the watch back to Michael through the open window, but Michael just flapped a hand at him, striding off to catch up with Miss Simpson, who had shuffled on ahead of us. I moved off after them both and called back to Ali.

  “Just hang onto it for us. It’s probably safer with you than it is on his wrist in the middle of Brindleford, anyway!”

  I caught up with Michael, who murmured, “Hmm. Now who’s building a reputation for the place?”

  He shielded his eyes from the sun as he glanced up and down the road, nearly tripping over a dead fox that was hanging off the kerb. It already had a bit of a maggot infestation, by the looks of it.

  Lancaster House was a 1980s red-bricked, narrow-windowed monstrosity, forged on the cheap. There was no signage, because of that need to foster an element of discretion. And if you weren’t already familiar with the place, it was easy to assume that it was just another cluster of social-housing flats. Its attempt at ambiguity however, was somewhat hampered by the fact that someone had added graffiti in enormous letters on its gable end, which misspelled:

  ‘Dos House Scum’.

  I glanced up at the building, vivid memories returning to me. Days before promotions, performance indicators and catering to the whims of Whitehall policy-makers. Brindleford was one of the first patches I had managed as a housing officer. Lancaster House’s resident warden, Brenda Kray, had been there some eleven years ago and was still at the helm today. I had spoken with Brenda a few times recently in relation to women from Sisters’ Space who needed a hostel place, but I hadn’t been inside Lancaster House for some years. I wondered if the building would still contain that suffocating stench of unwashed clothing and microwave meals. A fragrance that never left the place, despite Brenda’s use of bleach and disinfectant bordering on OCD.

  As Michael and I escorted Miss Simpson towards the building’s porch, from behind us came a sudden burst of squeals, yelps and the sound of running feet. A young woman, wearing a miniscule strappy top, a pair of jeans and sandals, sprinted past us. Her hair was dripping wet. Over her shoulder she held a squalling infant wrapped in a towel, and alongside her dashed two boys. The younger one – about the same age as Lydia – had braided, African hair. The other boy – probably about ten – had a blonde number-one cut. The woman threw herself towards Lancaster House’s intercom and jabbed the buttons desperately. Without waiting for a response, she shrieked:

  “Let us in! It’s Dawn. Dawn Hibbert! Brenda said we could come ’ere anytime if ’e starts kickin’ off!”

  The intercom hissed impotent static back at her. She booted the door. Hard. The older boy followed her lead. The baby sicked up a milky substance down the mother’s back, over her Betty Boo tattoo. This Woman Called Dawn still had soapsuds in her hair. And underneath her skimpy vest (declaring ‘Goodtime Girl!’) she was braless. The top clung to her in embarrassing, damp patches.

  I gestured to Michael. Keep an eye on Miss Simpson.

  “You all right?” I asked the woman. Her face moved away from the intercom. Decorated with a swollen lip and a deep red mark, indicating the bruises to come. She was attractive, although her face was currently contorted by a snarl.

  “Do I fuckin’ look it?” Turning her back on me, she began to thump at the door with one fist. The browner, younger boy pulled a face at me. Div. The blue-eyed, blonde kid began to attack the brickwork of Lancaster House with a red pen-knife.


  But I was less concerned about their bluntness and more mindful of the baby. She was a small tot, perhaps only nine or ten months old and she clearly wasn’t enjoying being subject to her mother’s attempt at battering down the door of the hostel. She had begun to embark upon a hysterical ik, ik, ik-ing noise. Looking like she was going to puke again.

  “Come on – hey – don’t do that to the door,” I directed at them all. “It’s a proper security door, that one is. Booting it won’t get you in any faster!”

  Dawn glared at me. Chin back, as she narrowed her eyes. So I adopted the ‘I can be as arsey as you but don’t want to be right now’ stance. Arms folded. Braving it out. Pretending not to care that one of her youngsters might try to stab me right there and then. They probably wouldn’t have done, of course. But you can never be too sure when kids are excited or angry and in possession of short, stabby things.

  The intercom crackled, interrupting the stand-off. A young man’s wheedling voice:

  “Me mum’s not here. Come back later.”

  The woman smacked the metal panel with her hand and shrieked, “Fucksake!” Her youngest son now began pounding the door with his pristine trainers. I tried again.

  “Look. Pack it in with trying to kick the door down, eh? I work with Lancaster House. I can get you in quicker. Just shift out of the way a minute.” I gestured for the woman to move aside and then pointed at Miss Simpson. “I need to get this lady in here, too.”

  Dawn turned to face me again with frantic eyes. For a second I thought that she was going to give me a Mancunian pow slap. Smack me one. But then she seemed to think better of it as she glanced over at the pathetic, bedraggled form of Miss Simpson, who had hobbled away from the disturbance and who had parked herself against a low wall a few feet away. Michael was hovering now. Looking unsure. Perhaps wondering whether he should act as guardian angel to the elderly lady or interfere with the family in crisis.

  “Fine! Whatever!” the woman growled, her nostrils flaring. “Just tell that dickhead – Neal – that Dawn Hibbert’s out here with two little ‘uns and a baby. And if we don’t get inside in the next thirty seconds, Vinnie Murray’ll be here an’ will be kickin’ the shit out of us! And then me …? I’ll be gettin’ someone to kick the shit out of Neal Kray!”

  I took over the intercom. Pressing the intercom button down, I held it for nearly ten seconds, until I heard the same nonchalant male, teenage voice answer:

  “Yeah? I told you. She's not in!”

  I, too, knew Neal. Of old. And I wasn’t putting up with any teenage twattiness right now.

  “Neal. Its Rachael Russell here. From Sisters’ Space – the women’s centre in Medlock. I need to speak to your mother. We need access urgently.”

  There was a pause and then a drawn-out, “You’ll have to wait. Me mum’s gone shopping. She’ll be back in bit.”

  Click.

  Little git. A girl’s giggle in the background. So, Neal had a friend over did he? Which might explain why he was being even more of an awkward sod than usual. And sure, the entire country was enjoying a glorious late summer, but Miss Simpson had been soggy for quite a long time as far as I could tell, so I was fretting about the whole pneumonia thing. And now there was this woman – Dawn – and her kids. And whatever – whoever – it was she was running away from. The baby began whining again. A low crescendo rising to a piercing howl.

  “She’s starvin’!” Dawn began to tell me as she jiggled the infant. “She’s not had her dinner. And she’s got no nappy on, neither. As me and her were havin’ a bath together when he started on me.” The small hand-towel wrapped around the baby was already sodden around her little bum.

  “So, I’ve got to get her some friggin’ nappies! Brenda didn’t have any in, last time.” She looked frantically down the road again. Then across it, to the seedy ‘24/7 Open All Hours’ shop. Which didn’t actually appear to be open at all, due to the fact that its metal shutters were down. But that was the way of Brindleford. Unless you wanted to be constantly forking out for new panes of glass, you kept your shutters down. Michael offered some advice.

  “Look. Why don’t you nip across to the shop and get whatever you need – pronto – and we’ll look after the children for you?”

  “Jesus!” The woman shot back. “You’re not from round here with a voice like that, are you? But no. Not being funny, like, but how do I know you’re not some kind of paedo? Leavin’ me kids with you … And anyway … shit. No time.”

  She cast furtive eyes up the road again. Her youngest boy added, “And you’ve not got yer purse on yer, Mum.”

  “Fucksake, yeah.”

  Michael tried again. “Look. I’ve got some cash on me. I seem to be making a habit of bailing ladies out today.” He took his wallet out and Dawn looked pathetically grateful at the offer, but she was jumpier than ever. Jiggling the baby up and down again.

  “Look. It’d be better if you went over to the shop – instead of me,” she said to Michael. “’Cause if I go … once he gets his bike out the lock-up and started up, he’ll be here any second. He knows I’ll be headed for Lancaster House. An’ knowin’ my luck he’ll end up rippin’ me head off in the middle of the fuckin’ corner shop.”

  I nodded at Michael. He looked unsure and began to say, “But I don’t like leaving you all here – if the person who has just done this to you is about to arrive —”

  I interrupted them.

  “To be honest, Michael, if the person who’s done this does pitch up … having another fella here probably won’t help matters. Blokes in a mood don’t like having other men around on the scene … Yeah?”

  I looked to Dawn. She nodded. Michael wavered. My turn to issue commands now.

  “Michael – please go to the shop. If it does kick off here, you can be back in a second. Tell him what you want,” I instructed the woman.

  A quick smile from her now. And then back to a pretty pout.

  “Oh, ta. I’ll pay you back. Size four nappies. Whatever brand. Don’t care.” Michael sighed and then nodded, breaking into a jog across the road. She gabbled after him:

  “And baby food. Jars. Whatever’s sweet.” A pause. She called out:

  “And a pack of ten Superkings …” Michael nodded without looking back as he skirted the bricks littering the middle of the road.

  “Oi!” she suddenly remembered something else. Bellowed over to him.

  “And some Tampax. Super size!” The magical ‘Tampax’ word rebounded starkly across the estate. Sending her two sons into eruptions of boy-giggles. Despite the gravity of the situation, I smirked. (Bet no one had ever bawled that at him from across the Commons lobby.) Michael, however, simply raised his hand in acknowledgement to us without turning around. Mr Cool.

  But the scale of Dawn’s voice had changed now, sliding into a high pitch.

  “He’s comin’! He’s comin’!” Five sets of eyes stared furtively down the main road. A buzz in the distance. Dawn moved back to the door; started pounding at it. Yelling, “Just let us in, you nobhead!”

  The tiny figure of a man astride a motorcycle appeared around the corner. Moving towards us at breakneck speed.

  “Come on! Just open the door! Come on!” She pounded harder. Genuine terror.

  Desperate measures were needed. Pressing the button on the intercom once more, I was met with an exasperated, “What? I told yer, she’s —”

  I cut him off with a rapid verbal warning.

  “Look, Neal. I know your mother very well. And you also know me, Neal.” (Best Headmistress approach. Mix it up with a bit of Annoying Salesperson On the Phone Technique, i.e. over-familiarisation via use of your victim’s Christian name.) “And I know several things about you. Especially one particular thing … from some eleven years ago. And I’m sure that you wouldn’t want me to start shouting across the whole of the estate about what happened to you at your seventh birthday party, hey, Neal?”

  Dawn’s face seemed to have aged suddenly. Etched with fear. The
motorbike had arrived now. It attempted to screech to a halt on the main road, some fifty yards away from us. But the driver lost control. The bike mounted the kerb and skidded on the grass embankment, delivering an ominous crunch. Its owner – this Vinnie guy – had managed to dismount before being dragged under the bike. He staggered upright and looked at us all. And then back at the bike. Get Dawn? Or check bike. He chose the latter. It bought us another five seconds.

  The Seventh Birthday Party Threat had worked. The miracle occurred. The buzzer sounded and the door-lock clicked open. Dawn shoved open the door and her family scrambled through it. I gestured frantically to Miss Simpson, trying to get her up and off the wall in time to make an escape. My elderly friend however, simply smiled vacantly at me, shook her head and then commenced with a chorus of ‘I Could Have Danced All Night’.

  My Fair Lady was not sodding budging right now.

  So the door slammed shut behind them, just as the man left his bike and sprinted up the path. He charged the door with his shoulder. It withstood the force. Then he let loose a string of obscenities about Dawn and directed, “Fuckin’ bitch!” at me, pounding on the door with his fists.

  I had already moved over to Miss Simpson and together we watched him working himself up into a frenzy. He was bare-chested, wearing baggy tracksuit bottoms, and his arms and hands were covered with tattoos. His cheek, too. One that I recognised – a gang tattoo from east Manchester. He shouted. He ranted. He swore. I couldn't make most of it out, but it finally ended with, “And now me bike’s totally screwed – and it’s all ’cause of you Dawn – you stupid fuckin’ cunt!”

  Anxious about the effect that this might be having on Miss Simpson, I put my arm about her shoulders (moving back slightly at the overwhelming whiff of Eau d’Urine). She didn’t seem to be remotely alarmed, though. In fact, she was humming away merrily – the melody sounding somewhat like ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business’ and she shuffled her plastic bags in time to the tune. In fact, she appeared to be quite content about the unusual occurrences unfolding before her. And who could blame her? It was probably more exciting than her Saturday tea-time telly.