Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  Then I told her – hoping that I didn’t sound like a total grassbag – that Dawn and her family had barely made it into the hostel in time, thanks to Neal’s ineptitude.

  “The little shit. Not letting them in! Lazy fecker will have been sittin’ watchin’ the telly and stuffin’ his face with biscuits, so he will! And if his so-called girlfriend is with him then you would have had no chance. She’s got the manners of a monkey, that one.”

  By now we had reached the entrance. She noticed the door immediately.

  “Oh, Jaysus! Would you look at it! Look at the damage! Cost a fortune! Oh, that Neal. He's feckin’ for it, so he is.” She placed her shopping bags on the paving stones, shaking her head. “So, how did you manage to get the little toe-rag to open it for you in the end?”

  I smiled serenely and explained how the mere mention of Neal’s seventh birthday party had quickly moved the state of affairs on. She snorted her best piggy-laugh.

  “Oh! Ah, now, that would have spurred him on, of course. I had forgotten all about that, so I had!” Chuckling, she used the key to unlock the door and heaved her shopping bags inside, turning to gesture towards Michael with her thumb.

  “And the chappie – man off the telly – there,” she jerked her head towards Michael and Vinnie. “What the feck is he doing here?

  Right on cue, Michael weaved his way over to us. The door to the hostel was still wide open. But by now, Vinnie had lost all interest in gaining access to the refuge and was pulling his bike upright. I introduced Michael to the warden as “a neighbour of Miss Simpson’s”. The concerned citizen nodded agreeably, “I’ve managed to persuade Vinnie to go home. But he won’t leave his bike on the lawn. Says that someone will steal it. And. It seems to me that he’s been drinking.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Yes. And the more hardcore stuff by the looks of it. Smack?”

  Brenda pulled a face. “Oh, yes. Or crack. Whatever the hell the idiot can lay his hands on.”

  “So, because he shouldn't be driving,” Michael continued, “I offered to take the bike back for him. I’ve had a tinker with it and it’s rideable. And he says that he trusts me. What with me being a minister and all.”

  He shot me a cheeky grin. Very boyish. My heart engaged in a sudden kick-start. I shoved a mental stick into its spokes.

  “No. Hang on a minute, Michael. What about insurance? His bike probably isn’t covered. And what about a helmet?”

  Back to Black. And a suffocating blanket of panic-sodden thoughts. Dragging me backwards. Heart frozen in horror when I opened the envelope that morning. An unbelievably formal and cruelly detached letter from the insurance company. It had taken several minutes for the realisation of what it meant for us to sink in …

  But Michael’s voice was singing at me. Pulling me back to the present.

  “Yes, I didn't like to ask him about insurance, really. But I’m covered for third party. And he told me it will only take a jiffy, so we can forget about the helmet for just a few seconds. He lives just round the corner from here. Anyway, what's life without a bit of a risk every now and then?”

  I ignored his flippancy and focussed instead on the fact that somehow, I couldn’t imagine Vinnie uttering an expression such as ‘jiffy’.

  “Well, that’s all well and good, Michael. But what about your protection?” I offered. Aware that my voice was wavering slightly. “If you come off that thing in your shorts, without leathers, you’ll really —”

  Michael interrupted me and playfully pushed my shoulder. He spelled it out to me.

  “I’ll go slooowly!”

  Turning to Brenda now, he cocked his head. “Has she always been such a worrier?”

  He left us, jogging off to the bike and patiently observing Vinnie who gave him a cursory introduction to its marvels. Then, when he was finally permitted to mount it, he threw his leg over the seat, revved up and moved off, looking over to me and mouthing “ Slooowly ”. Followed by a Cheshire cat grin. Vinnie cast a scowl at us over his shoulder and then loped off down the road after Michael. Brenda shook her head at me.

  “Well, he’s either an insensitive sod, my love, or he doesn’t know much about you.”

  I tried to sound pragmatic. No need for the mother of all martyrs impersonation.

  “No. Well I’ve only met him once before today. On a constituency visit to us at Sisters’ Space. He knows nothing about me. Or my life. And actually … it might be best if neither of us mention the fact that he was here today. No one seems to recognise him. And Vinnie seems to think that he’s some sort of posh vicar.”

  Brenda nodded, and then I remembered to tell her about Miss Simpson and our little infestation, questioning whether she would want me, as well as the pensioner, inside the building. Two potential flea-bags in residence. She gave me one of her looks.

  “Rachael, most days of the week here I’ve got people riddled with bugs and the like. So I’ve got a sure-fire method of killing every feckin’ creepy crawly known to man … but you mustn’t ask me where I buy the stuff from. It’s something only a few of us in the hostel de-lousing business know about. So you won’t be finding it on any of the supermarket shelves, so you won’t.”

  “Sounds a bit …”

  “Illegal. So it is. But it kills the little bastards. Although I swear to God that me, our Donny and Neal have started glowing in the dark … been using the stuff for some ten years now. Bound to affect you one way or another. So, yes. You and your nice gentleman friend are welcome inside. Once he gets back from his mercy mission.” She grinned at me, showing a missing molar and nudged my shoulder, teasing me. “And didn’t I notice a bit of the old chemistry between you two there, just now?”

  “Oh give over, Brenda. You should stop reading your Mills & Boons. Or have you graduated on to the Fifty Shades of Grey sort of things these days?”

  She laughed. “Oh, I don’t do porn. I’m too old for all that fiddling about with your private parts, so I am. And speaking of which … let’s go and rescue Dawn and the others before Neal gets the superglue out.”

  Chapter 5

  SANCTUARY OF DELOS (OR THE DOSSHOUSE)

  We encountered Neal at the top of the stairs. As a small child he had worked hard to develop a facial expression that perpetually conveyed the message ‘Do I give a shit?’ As a lanky adolescent, he had mastered the look. Although today the attitude was literal, because he was holding a dirty nappy at arm’s length. Horror etched upon his face. No doubt wondering what on earth had happened to his lazy Saturday afternoon with girlfriend and scoffing Jammy Dodgers. Dawn must have been throwing her weight about with him. Her voice echoed down the corridor.

  “Bleedin’ ’ell, Neal! Don’t be a thick twat! You just shove it in a plastic bag and tie it up. Dump it in the normal black bin. Typical innit? I knew that she’d shit in it as soon as I managed to get it on her. Little get!”

  “But … God – it stinks !” he wheedled.

  Dawn’s elegant answer came hurtling back.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s only baby shit! I bet your room smells a lot worse than her arse does!” Eighteen-year-old Neal descended into three-year-old mode, making puppy-eyes at Brenda climbing the stairs towards him.

  “Mum!” he groaned. “Can you do this?” Holding the dirty nappy towards her.

  “I’ve got my hands full of shopping, Neal. In case you hadn’t noticed. Act like the adult you keep telling me you are, for feck’s sake! And then come and help me unpack the shopping before you get back to slobbering over whatsername in your bedroom!”

  I left the shopping bags outside Brenda’s family living quarters and made my way to the hostel end of Lancaster House and to the communal living area. The place still bore the hallmark scent of Cup a Soup, but today it was accompanied by a strong whiff of baby poo. Dawn’s youngest was crawling around the chairs, looking a little happier for being fed and now clad in nappy number two. Brenda would have to try to sort out some baby clothes for her, though. Miss Simpson was sitting in a h
igh-backed chair and the baby’s two brothers were slumped in front of a TV. Neither of them took their eyes off the screen to register my presence. I was half-tempted to fetch them a bucket in order to catch their TV-slobber.

  “You OK, boys?” I asked.

  “Hrrghh,” the older one replied.

  The younger one chipped in with, “Well, at least they’ve got satellite here now. They didn’t ’ave it last time we were ’ere. But the telly’s shit. It’s well tiny.”

  Neal peered in through the doorway, a packet of Jaffa cakes in his hands. No doubt already having managed to avoid helping his mother out. He paused to see what the boys were watching on the TV. The smaller child asked him, “Hey, Neal! Bet you've got a better telly in your room, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What size?”

  “Forty-two inch.”

  “Cool. Can we come and watch yours, then?”

  “’Kof!” said Neal, nonchalantly, as he left the room.

  The younger boy took aim and fired at Neal's back with an imaginary gun. The older, fair-headed lad couldn’t seem to remove his eyes from the screen, but mimicked the accents of the actors, drawling to himself:

  “The man teeell mee to fook off; I keeell him.” He drew a finger across his throat in a parody of mafia-style execution.

  “Is this a Welsh film, then?” I asked.

  “Eh?”

  My attempts at humour were lost on blondie buzz-cut. His little brother continued to whinge on.

  “That’s so not fair! That’s a load of bollocks, that is. Why do we ’ave to put up with shitty nob-sized TV? Cheap twats.”

  “Oi!” I raised my voice. They both looked at me now. “Mind your language!” One pair of lips curled, and the other tutted in disgust at my prudish attitude. Then their attention was turned back to the film, where a gunfight had erupted.

  I tried again. “So. What are you two called? How old are you both?”

  “He’s Tony Soprano. An’ I’m Scarface,” the older boy commented.

  Blam! Somebody else had been shot on the TV now. Hang on a minute … this was Saturday afternoon. Shouldn’t we be viewing some kind of genteel whodunnit? Apparently not. And splat! Camera effect now showing crimson brain material oozing down the viewer’s screen. No. This definitely wasn’t Midsomer Murders . And I couldn’t recall Miss Marple ever calling someone a ‘stupid motherfucker’ in between mouthfuls of her egg and cress sandwiches. The smaller boy now jerked his thumb towards Brenda’s family’s living quarters, where Neal had sloped off to.

  “That Neal, eh? He wants to watch his step. Messin’ with us. What’d our weapon of choice be then, Mace? I reckon we should use the Glock on ’im. Ha!”

  “Yeah.”

  The younger one checked out my reaction with a gappy grin. He had caramel-coloured skin and collar-length hair, braided into cornrows. He was a cutie, all right. Squarely built and a real replica of his dad. Mini-Vinnie. His brother was taller and more sinewy, with that almost white-blonde hair. Different fathers, probably. Seeing that I wasn’t impressed by his words, the smaller boy decided to reply to my question after all.

  “Alright. Well, he’s Mace and I’m West. I’m seven and he’s ten.”

  I’d encountered plenty of kids called West before. But Mace was a new one on me. Why would anyone want to name a child after an anti-mugging tear-gas spray?

  “Mace?” I asked the older brother. “That’s an unusual name you’ve got there.”

  Mace looked at me as if I was an imbecile.

  “Mace. For Ma-son. You know – Mason. I mean, that’s like, hardly un-yoo-shu-wall. Got three of us in our year six at school.”

  “Oh. Right.” I said. “I get you now.”

  Of course. So, maybe Mason had been named because Dawn was a highly skilled stonework artisan. And perhaps West had been christened for Vinnie's love of all things nautical and geographical.

  Still, I could hardly talk. It wasn’t like I had named Lydia after my love of Greek mythology or a romantic encounter on that particular Greek island. Nah. My Liddy had been named after The Muppets’ performance of ‘Lydia the Tattooed Lady’ back in the 1970s. Classy chick, me.

  “So what’s your little sister’s name?” I asked. The baby had raised herself onto her feet, wavering at Miss Simpson’s chair and patting the old lady’s papery knee with a podgy hand.

  “Poppy-Rose,” came the answer.

  Perhaps a result of Vinnie and Dawn’s shared enthusiasm for flora and horticulture.

  I turned my attention to Miss Simpson, who seemed to be telling Poppy-Rose a story. It wasn’t your usual fairy tale or Disney saga though. Something about the growing numbers of asylum seekers in the UK. She was reading from a copy of News Of The Nation , one of our country’s more rabidly right-wing tabloids.

  “What balderdash!” she exclaimed, rattling the newspaper. “What utter twaddle!”

  A fleeting memory caused me to smile to myself. If Adam ever saw a copy of News of the Nation he would say to me, “Sad bastard rag. Wouldn’t even wipe my arse on it.” Miss Simpson would no doubt have been in agreement with my husband. And this was all very interesting. Since leaving her flat in Mottram, the elderly lady’s communication skills seemed to be improving. I had been led to believe that it was the other way round with Alzheimer’s – that moving someone from their home would cause further distress and confusion. But maybe Mary Simpson was a one-off. I hoped so.

  A sudden movement from the corner of the room caught my eye. Dawn was leaning out of an open window. I hadn’t noticed her there before. I walked over and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She looked back at me. Smiling apologetically and lop-sidedly, thanks to the swelling on her face.

  “Oh. Hiya. Just having a quick smoke out the window. Friggin’ needed one. Can’t really go outside with ’im hangin’ round, can I?” But before I could reply, Brenda marched into the kitchen.

  “Now, you – Miss Fag Ash Lil. If you want to smoke, go and stand in the courtyard downstairs like everyone else has to do. You know damned well that it’s secure out there. It’s not like you haven’t been here a million times before, so you have! And go to the freezer there and get some ice on that eye now. Silly girl!”

  Dawn ignored her. Dropping her cigarette butt out of the window, she gave a low whistle and uttered, “Hey! It’s the pigs! Who called them out, then?”

  I scuttled over to the window to witness the Minister for Communities emerging from a police car.

  Back at the front door, Michael was wiping perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. He was accompanied by two police officers – one of them a handsome hunk in his mid-twenties, and the other even younger, his face pockmarked with acne. Michael might have been sweating somewhat, but he still managed to greet me with a confident smile, explaining, “Just a bit of a mix-up. Chaps here had to pull me over. Incorrect attire and all that. I’ve given them phone numbers for them to check out my ID.”

  The two police officers were busy, juggling various radios and phones between them. Michael whispered, “They seemed to think that I’m some kind of aristocratic drug-pusher. They’ve been rather snippy with me actually. But don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  But it wasn’t looking good. No, indeed. In fact, it was all going rather tits-up. On this, my first weekend ever without kids in tow, I had somehow ended up spending the day with a posh but socially curious senior politician, a demented and incontinent water-logged pensioner and an ex-squaddie psychotic wife-beater and his abused family. And now, on top of that, two coppers – one who turned out to be a bit of a smart-arse and the other a groveller.

  The phrase, “Michael. I told you so. You daft sod” was on the tip of my tongue, but I managed to swallow it. We waited for several rather agonising minutes, and finally beefy-copper put his radio back into his pocket, turning back to us. Full of apologies. Looking ever so slightly paler now, under that glowing tan. The man had definitely caught a glimpse of his career i
n the force taking a sudden nosedive into the cack. Michael grinned.

  “Smashing. So I came up squeaky clean with Scotland Yard, then? No formal warning even?” His eyes twinkled. He knew the answer, damned well.

  “Not at all,” said Mr Square-Jaw. “As you say, Sir – your actions were in the public interest … assisting with removing a violent man away from a domestic abuse scenario. I’m sure we can let this one go.”

  The younger officer was less experienced in the art of back-peddling, however. He gabbled, “But it’s a tough job here? You know? Like, you can’t believe what anyone on this estate tells you, you know?”

  He had a rising inflection. And he used the ‘like’ rather too much as a vocalised pause. Two of my pet hates. And they reminded me of just how young he was. Perhaps a good seventeen years younger than me. The git.

  The other officer stepped in again. Wanting to silence his wet-behind-the-ears colleague. “Yes, and the bike doesn’t have insurance. So we’ll be checking that out with the owner.”

  “No problem, chaps.” Michael was all magnanimous mirth. “Bet you didn't think you’d end up having to call the prime minister's office direct today, though, did you?” His mannerisms had turned ever so slightly Boris Johnson again. Friendly buffoon. They both shook their heads. Chastened. But I couldn’t resist my own sideswipe.

  “Well, I think that the minister has been extremely reasonable in his reaction to you on all of this. I, for one, wouldn’t have blamed him if he had decided to refer to you both as a ‘pair of plebs’ or —”

  Michael cut me off with a dirty look.

  “Quite. Thank you. Anyway, Rachael, I think that you’d better brief our friends here. About this case of domestic violence. That is your area of expertise, after all.”

  With the emphasis being on ‘your’. As though he seemed to think that I couldn’t deal with the odd officious copper. So I shook my head, correcting him. “Well, no. Not today, Michael. I'm not working. I’m just a bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time.”