Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  The older policeman, though, had the wit to realise that he might be able to do a further bit of damage limitation. “All the same, Madam, we would appreciate your professional view on the situation. Mr Chiswick did assure us that you’re an expert on such matters.”

  I eyeballed Michael. He gave me an innocent shrug. I replied, “Well. If the minister wants to ladle on the charm, who am I to refuse? That’s his area of expertise, after all.” With the emphasis being on ‘his’. I noted that Michael had cast his eyes to the heavens now. Ha.

  So I spent a couple of minutes outlining my take on what had happened and told the boys in blue that it might be worth them checking out any outstanding injunctions against Vinnie Murray. Then I nodded towards Brenda, who was now hovering at the entrance to Lancaster House. After speaking to her, they disappeared upstairs to see if Dawn wanted to press charges against Vinnie. And Michael was busying himself with taking phone calls. His mobile had been chirruping non-stop during the last ten minutes. Brenda turned to me. Hands on hips. Squinting into the sun.

  “Well, I’d best go and finish off sorting your old lady out. She’s been asking for a toasted currant teacake. Speak to you Monday, no doubt.” She began to close the door.

  I called out, “You’re a gem, Brenda. Snack preparation for inmates isn’t in your job description, you know.”

  “Ha! Feckin’ job description – load of bollocks, so it is.”

  And the door closed with heavy thud.

  Finally, it was just the two of us again. Standing a couple of yards from a dead and very rancid fox. Next to the three-foot-high ‘Dos House’ graffiti.

  “What time is it?” I wondered aloud. “I’ve lost all track of it since we got here and started having various mini-crises.” There was no time-telling instrument on my wrist. Matthew had bitten through my watch strap the day before. (Strange child. Always biting things.) But Michael’s phone told us that it was 5.30 p.m.

  “Well now. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun?” Michael murmured. He put his hand between my shoulder blades, perhaps with the aim of propelling me into action. Perhaps not. Either way, I flinched. And then felt embarrassed at my sudden movement.

  “Speaking of time,” he added in a low voice, “come on, Jumpy. I think we need to go and retrieve a certain watch from a certain taxi driver.”

  Our taxi was parked around the corner from the hostel. And our driver was still in possession of the watch. Ali handed it back to Michael and stepped on the accelerator, barely giving us the chance to close the car doors. His eyes glanced at the rear-view mirror.

  “Vat was it with the cops, hey? I saw you on that guy’s bike. And then them bringin’ you back in the cop car. Did they charge you, man?” Ali was thirsting for information. But Michael smiled enigmatically. The driver prattled on.

  “Nice one. ‘Cause I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, if they is pullin’ him in … keep hold of the blingy for him, Ali-boy. Your cops round here like, would take it off you. And you is never going to see it again, innit!”

  I gave Michael a knowing-nod. At least I had only indicated that the policemen were plebs. Ali’s inference was much more slanderous. Michael just gave me That Look.

  “Anyway. You’s got to be havin’ some friends in high places, eh? Friends the cops maybe don’t vanna mess with, innit?” Ali also seemed to have got the impression that Michael was some kind of posh drugs baron.

  We sped out of the estate and onto a B road, cutting through a long sliver of countryside and back over the Greater Manchester county division between Lancashire and Derbyshire. I mused on the Dawn scenario. There she was, trapped in your classic, abusive relationship cycle. Probably not even aware of the hows or the whys of it all. But despite that, she possessed an inner confidence, a sense of self that even years of therapy couldn’t give to a person. Surely it was all about upbringing. All about where your own little life was created, where it began in the entire sweep of the social pecking order. I noticed it a lot in my current line of work – in the lower strata of society (“Who the fuck are they to talk down to us?”) But I had also witnessed it at the higher end of the spectrum (“Of course I deserve to be well educated, rich and powerful. Goes without saying.”)

  And sure, I wouldn’t want Dawn’s life. Certainly not the Vinnie-baggage side of things. But I wouldn’t have minded a bit of that internal self-possession. Or however your sociologists or psychologists referred to it.

  (A woman like Dawn wouldn’t give a toss about the correct way to behave. To live. To die. Or to grieve. Of the opinions of others and what they thought about you…)

  Speaking of which.

  “This being pulled over by the police stuff,” I spoke in hushed tones to Michael. “Are you playing all of that down? I mean … Could it cause problems for you?” He shrugged.

  “Probably not. But you can never accurately predict things in politics. Even tiny little incidences like we experienced today. It’s a little bit like gambling. You can guess the likely outcome of aggregate actions. But that’s as far as it goes.” He turned towards me, wagging his finger.

  “And anyway, shouldn’t you be more worried about your own professional standing? It sounded like a certain person was bending the rules in order to get an old lady some help.”

  “No,” I replied. “No ‘bending’ involved. Circumvention, perhaps. If you know how the system works, you can sometimes get it to work a bit faster for you.”

  “Rightio. So … if you hadn’t been there, this afternoon. What would have happened to her? And to Mr Bridges?”

  “Difficult to say. Mr Bridges was struggling, but he had his daughter, after all. He could have moved in with her for a bit.”

  “So, Miss Simpson?”

  “Well. Mr Bridges was completely pissed off with her. As you saw. So even if he had wanted to help her …”

  Michael finished my sentence: “The poor chap clearly didn’t have a clue about who to contact.”

  “Exactly. Too many organisations involved. Those of us who have the joy of working in the social sector get confused enough ourselves. So, yes, Mary Simpson might well have ended up dying of hyperthermia overnight. These things aren’t uncommon.”

  He smacked the palm of one hand with his fist. Exasperated.

  “Maybe not. But they damned well should be! This is precisely why we needed to get the Social Care Bill through its reading. And the opposition bloody scuppered it yet again last week!”

  “Well. That would have all been very nice for your lot, of course. But I doubt if it would have helped Miss Simpson today.”

  A noticeable judder of Michael’s head, and a puckered brow. Switching cerebral channels to debating mode a la the Commons, perhaps.

  “But, Rachael – think of all the Miss Simpsons of the future. We can improve things, streamline the system. Make things more seamless.”

  I pulled my face. “Oh, I can see that you’ve got noble intentions, Michael, but do you really think that civil servants will want to streamline themselves out of a job? Because that’s what you’re talking about, ultimately. Even if your bill gets through there’ll be all kinds of seamlessness review groups and streamlining inquiries and cost-efficiency assessments…”

  I stopped myself. Had I overstepped the mark? Been too glib about protocol with ministers? After all, you never know when you need a politician in your pocket to pull some strings for your battered ladies. So I decided to put the brakes on. Smooth over the wrinkles.

  “Sorry, Michael. You probably think that I’m being very facetious.”

  But he just shook his head at me, “Well. I’d have to disagree with you on your rather tabloid-newspaper-sounding thoughts about our marvellous civil servants, of course. Lots of the poor devils are being streamlined, left, right and centre. But don’t apologise for your honesty about things. That’s what I miss about the army, actually. A bit of straight-talking does everyone the world of good. And one tends to forget that in politics. But anyway, Rachael. I have to sa
y that you do show an appalling lack of faith in things —”

  “Ha,” I interrupted him, relieved that he was at least pretending that he didn’t mind my offhand attitude, even if his private thoughts were that I was an opinionated gobshite. “I’ve got plenty of faith, Michael. But not in our archaic political system. In fact – and I know that it’s hardly fashionable these days – I’ve probably got more faith in the existence of God than —”

  “And I, on the other hand, have no faith in religious matters. Despite having had the best Catholic education in the UK, at Ampleforth College.”

  “Oh. Not Eton then? Surprised at that…” I rubbed my bare arms. Ali’s air con had successfully transformed the car into a refrigerator on wheels. “Right, well. I’ve heard of Ampleforth, but I thought it was for very well-to-do Catholic lads who were hoping to enter the priesthood.”

  “Well, some of them were up for that. But not me. Although Vinnie clearly has me pinned down as a religious nut. Anyway – speaking of our newfound friends – will your women’s centre end up helping Dawn out? I think that she’ll be needing it, now more than ever.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, when I took the bike back for him – just as the police pulled me over when I was nearly at the house, I saw these two white vans screeching away from outside of their place. Off at a cracking speed. Next thing, Vinnie arrives as the police are asking me questions. He goes inside and starts shouting. Apparently, everything had gone. Furniture. The lot.”

  “Oh, God. The bailiffs?”

  “Maybe. Money owed to someone, that’s what I was thinking. Vinnie ran straight back outside. ‘Where’s my bike?’ Checking it’s still there.”

  “Typical!” I spat.

  Michael didn’t reply now, although he kept eye contact with me, perhaps surprised at the venom in my voice.

  “It would have been his bloody drug habit that caused it!” I continued. “So there he is, terrorising his family, causing them to lose everything that they own … and all he gives a shit about is his sodding motorbike! Bloody men!”

  My head jerked ninety degrees away from him. Staring into the blinding sunshine outside. (Don’t blink, Rachael.) We were now in a nondescript outgrowth of Stalybridge. An elderly man sporting a flat cap was standing at a zebra crossing with a bedraggled greyhound. The traffic wasn’t stopping for him. But Ali waved man and dog across and then sped on towards Mottram. Our taxi driver’s benevolence somehow took the edge off my outrage.

  I looked down at my lap. Broken nails, dry hands, freckled fingers. Getting older, Rachael. Definitely.

  “I’m sorry. You must really think that I’m a bit of a man-hater. Saying stuff like that.”

  “No. Not precisely. Rather more like a bike-hater, I would say.” Michael answered quietly. “Perhaps also, a hater of men who beat up women. And if they have a bike and slap women about … Well. You’d probably like to crucify the bastards.”

  Perceptive.

  “But anyway,” Michael led on gently, “the furniture vanishing from house aspect. It might have made the police think that I was involved. Part of some crew who were trying to extract payback from Vinnie.”

  I nodded, woodenly. I had been acting out the Ms Professional role all afternoon, but in one split second I had lost the plot. Erosion of the cool, coping veneer. Still, maybe the counselling sessions with Fran on Feelings (as I liked to refer to my bereavement counsellor) after Adam’s death hadn’t all been a complete waste of parking fees and additional nursery-hour costs. I was becoming a tad faster on running what Fran called those ‘spot-check emotional inventories’ these days.

  I had been narked by the fact that someone like Michael could fall so easily into conversation with someone like Vinnie. Point of commonality between nice chap and utter twat? The love of motorbikes and all things male, military and macho. And at the end of the day, the bit that really got on my tits was this one – Bloke Choosing Bike Over Family.

  I was about to apologise again, but Michael simply reached over and tapped my hand. No need to. And then he changed the subject.

  “But anyway. Now you need to reveal that little secret to me. When you were chatting to the police before, Brenda mentioned that you had managed to get Dawn’s family into the hostel by blackmailing her son. Something about a birthday party.”

  “Ah,” I grinned, my mood brightening. “That was all about Neal’s birthday party in the warden’s flat at Lancashire House. About eleven years ago now. Back then, I was doing one of my first housing-officer jobs. Got landed with Brindleford. And one day I popped in to see Brenda about something, and there was this tea-time birthday party going on. Loads of little lads tripping out on excess E-numbers and sugar overload. Utter bedlam.”

  “Sounds like my idea of hell.”

  “Yeah. And halfway through it, Brenda had a new family turn up, out of the blue – an emergency admission. So she asked me if I could keep an eye on the boys while she sorted it out. The kids were all ready for their next party game. ‘Pin the tail on the donkey’. But it turned out that there were no drawing pins for the tails. So I managed to find some superglue and I agreed with the boys that just a tiny smidgen on the paper ‘tails’ would work well enough if we were all very careful. Bit daft of me really, looking back. I didn’t know about the lack of frontal cortex development in small children, back then.”

  “Is that your polite way of saying that children can be stupid and annoying little swines?”

  “Ha. You don’t sound too fond of children, Michael.” He pulled his face.

  “Well, Rachael, I might as well admit it. No. I can’t stand the little buggers. Even when I was a child myself, I never really had much time for other kids. In my mind, until a human being can have a rational, adult conversation … well. They’re not really worth bothering with. Oh, I’ll do the kissing the babies stuff on the campaign trail and all of that. But quite frankly, small, slobbery creatures that either babble or talk inane drivel make me feel physically sick.”

  Well. Points for honesty, at least.

  “But don’t tell anyone I said that. It’s hardly an acceptable view in today’s child-centric society. The headline would be ‘Minister Eats Babies for Breakfast’ or something. Now. Continue with your story.” I nodded.

  “Right. Well, we carried on with the game, but in the middle of it Brenda called me out of the flat to ask me a question. Meanwhile, Neal – full of the typical birthday-boy bravado – had his turn with the blindfold. He decided it would be funny if he got his willy out. Waggling it around a bit. And he thought it would be hilarious to stick it up against the wall and demonstrate to his friends what a big tail for the donkey it could be.”

  A wide grin split Michael’s face, revealing deep dimples in his cheeks. I hadn’t noticed them before. I wanted to press my thumbs into them. But I resisted the urge.

  “Well – he must have kept it there for a good ten seconds or so. And of course, globs of stray glue were all over the donkey picture. So it got stuck. Good and proper.”

  Michael erupted with laughter.

  “Oh, bloody hell! What a scenario! You couldn't make that up, could you? But yes. Oh, yes. It rings so very true for a boy of that age!”

  “That’s right,” I pointed my finger at him, “and don’t tempt me to get all negative about the male of the species again.”

  Michael tried to compose himself, nodding sagely.

  “Well, you, Ms Russell, might want to use this example as another battering ram for your feminist diatribes against us male oppressors, but look at it this way. Young fellows like Neal might be unappealing as a child, but it’s chaps like him who grow up to be the great explorers and world leaders, you know.”

  I stared hard at him. Unimpressed by the logic.

  “I beg to differ. Perhaps you’d be right if Neal had experienced the benefits of a public-school education. If he possessed the family connections, vast amounts of patronage and friends in the media … perhaps then
he could have become your explorer and world leader type. Being led onwards and upwards by his Wonder Willy, no doubt. But Brenda reckons that he’ll be lucky to ever get a job. He’s been unemployed for two years now – since leaving school. Can’t even get shortlisted for an interview. Though, knowing Neal, he probably isn’t that bothered about trying to. Best thing that Brenda could do would be to kick him out. Make him stand on his own two feet.”

  My thoughts turned to Matthew. Of his incredible flashes of brilliance, his frighteningly astute pre-schooler intelligence. His ability to take apart an entire DVD player without being asked to. To melt a whole cache of Mummy’s make-up down the side of the radiator. But of his sheer backwardness when it came to any attempt to wipe his own little arse, as long as muggins here was on scene to do it for him. My commonly reoccurring worries about The Future Of Matthew were interrupted by Ali.

  “This it?”

  We were crunching up the gravel hill that led to Michael’s cottage.

  “Yes. Home James and all of that.” Michael replied. “And thank you for everything that you’ve done for us today.” On top of the return fare – steep enough in itself – I noticed that Michael had added a more than significant tip. Ali looked astonished, but this quickly turned to bemusement, when I asked him to write me a receipt (“who’d have thought the Manchester Mafia keep an audit trail, innit?”) As we got out of the taxi, he called to us.

  “Glad we got out of that place alive, innit! Anyvays. Look after your lovely lady. Have a nice time. I’m off for me first Stalyvegas call!”

  Then Ali headed back down the hill and out of Mottram. The depressing ambition of a Saturday night in Stalybridge. Picking up binge-drinking teenagers. Praying that none of them would chuck up in the back of his cab.

  “Nice chap,” commented Michael.

  “Nice tip!” I added. “Would it be eligible for one of those controversial MP expenses claims? Or will you be submitting a claim to your Mancunian drugs baron overlord?”