Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  Still, it made a change from violent death, maternal distress and destructive sexual encounters with Shaun.

  Chapter 10

  PAN HANDLING IT

  Back in my office, I commenced with the usual multitasking. Hammering out one-line replies to emails while picking up voicemails. There were six new messages on my phone. The first was from Brenda at Lancaster House.

  “Just to let you know about Mary Simpson. She’s fine, so she is. She will insist on trying to brew up by putting tea bags into the electric kettle, so she will, but there’s nothing else to worry about. New Banks say it’s going to be at least a week before her flat’s ready to move back into. So let’s hope your Medlock Council lot can shell out a few more pounds to keep her with us until then. Also – I hope you don’t mind – but I’ve given your number to Dawn – the girl with the kids who came in at the same time as Mary. Maybe you can help her. She’s still saying that she doesn’t want to press charges against that idiot. So help me! I despair of that one – I really do …”

  It was a pity that Dawn hadn’t wanted to report Vinnie. Not exactly unusual, though. Sometimes, if the violence escalated – perhaps became focussed on the children – a woman might finally decide to report a case to the police. But not always.

  I moved on to the next voicemail. My mother. But not an intentional message. Once more, she had called me by mistake. Resulting in an inordinately long message that seemed to centre around her making a request to the local butcher. The conversation was as clear as a bell. Even if she had probably dialled me from her handbag.

  “I’ll have that shoulder, please, Colin; less fat, though, if you don’t mind. Our Terry’s got quite enough of that on him already, eh, Anne?” Mother was out shopping with her friend.

  “And I’ll have one chicken pie please, Colin. And a medium pork. Not that I should really get one for Terry at all, really, Anne. What with his cholesterol and everything. But he deserves a bit of a treat this week after laying that stone flagging all by himself. Because I can’t really help him, not with my feet. And our Rachael’s never been much use in the DIY department …”

  Then a crackle and the call ended. The next message was from Mum again. Now on the subject of Anne’s impetigo, followed closely by, “We’ve been asking the council for a pelican crossing here for fourteen years now.” I decided to delete it when we got to “and the price of lamb is just shocking, isn’t it?”

  Then, hot on the heels of my mother’s liaison with Anne and the butcher, came another woman’s voice.

  “Hiya, it’s me, Dawn. I just wanted to say thanks and all that for helpin’ to get me into Lancaster House the other day. Brenda said yer could maybe help me with the housin’ an’ shit. I don’t wanna press charges and all that, but I’m not gettin’ back with Vinnie. And I just need to get off Brindleford and away. Me sister lives in Medlock not far from your centre place, so maybe you could help me to transfer over there. But I can’t be havin’ a maisonette thing ’cause of the buggy.”

  She paused. There was a rustle. And a whining child.

  “Will yer just shut it?! I’ve told yer! I’m on the bleedin’ phone and it’s important! Here! Just eat yer crisps!” she growled. Then she continued.

  “Right. And I can give yer the money back for the … er … vicar bloke at the same time. For all the nappies an’ shit. Anyway. Can you call me? ’Cause I've hardly got no credit left on this phone. Ta.” She left me her number and I noted it down. I would get one of the caseworkers to give her a call.

  Then another message from my mother. A muffled, “Well, Anne, I’m going to get these little skeletons here, because Lydia’s already asking for some decent Halloween decorations this year. Yes, I know it’s ages away yet but our Rachael hasn’t got much of a clue about doing things like that with the kids. It’d be Christmas before she —” I deleted her.

  The final message. Not Mother. Even more ominous than Mother.

  I was halfway through attacking a stack of overflowing papers on my desk. But this new voice abruptly halted my shuffling. Causing a paper-cut. It was a familiar voice. A deep but gravelly Yorkshire accent.

  “Rachael. It's me. Shaun. Been ages, I know. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. I’m run off my feet as per usual. But yeah. Call me.”

  He left his number. I recognised it. Same as it always was. Although I’d deleted it from my contacts last year, I remembered it well. It contained three consecutive sixes.

  I sucked my finger, and turned around. Staring out of the office window.

  What the hell was going on with my heart rate? Had someone wazzed a bit of speed into my cup of coffee when I wasn’t looking?

  I focussed on the outside. My little office overlooked the clapped-out local park. Scruffy patches of rhododendrons, drab-looking grey squirrels and the sun-faded children’s playground equipment bordered Sisters’ Space. Inside the perimeter of the playground was an all too familiar sight. A worn-down mother going head to head with a wilful toddler. The child was refusing to come off the slide and get back into her pushchair. I could faintly hear a one-sided conversation.

  “Jordan! Come on ! We’re going to Nanna’s!”

  Then, “I’ve told you ten times now. I’m not tellin’ you again!”

  Followed by, “If you don’t hurry up you can't have no fizzy cola bottle sweeties!”

  Next: “I’m countin’! One. Two. Three.”

  And finally, “Right. That’s it. I’m goin’ without you! You can stay here on yer own!”

  I watched her march away, pushing the empty buggy. Jordan wasn’t remotely bothered that her mother was now a hundred yards away and outside the playground fence. The woman stopped and bellowed back to her daughter. Something about a new pink tricycle that would now be forfeited to the Gods of Small Child Misbehaviour, no doubt. But the tot didn't flinch. She had zoned out. Continuing up the steps of the slide. Then down the metal chute. Finally, Mum cracked, storming into the playground, snatching the reprobate toddler off the slide, parcelling the now kicking and screaming child under one arm and dumping her back into the pushchair.

  Two other mothers with kids in tow arrived at the playground as she steamed past them. The other parents didn’t even register the incident, although two elderly ladies sitting on a bench just outside the playground looked up and shook their heads. Whether the gesture was aimed at the behaviour of the mother or of the daughter, I wasn't entirely sure.

  (“It seems so much easier for you Rachael, to focus on the problems of others. Rather than to feel the discomfort and pain of your own negative emotions…”)

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. The softly spoken words of Fran On Feelings. She meant well. However, she seemed to think that this strategy of avoidance was something I had chosen to develop since Adam’s death. (Nah, Fran. This is a lifelong thing, this is.)

  But now Fran’s words, the tired mother, awkward offspring, old ladies and mangy squirrels had faded away. And here I was. Still clenching the phone. So ferociously hard that it was making indentations into the flesh on my palm.

  The buoyant moment, the buzz of seeing Michael on the telly. That bubble had been burst now. And here was Shaun. With his I’m So Busy And Important and his Give Us A Call.

  The good news was that I had been so preoccupied over the last two days, that I had completely forgotten Linda Beveridge’s words about Shaun. The bad news was that the mere sound of his voice had tipped me into a tailspin. I continued to stare out of the window. One of the mothers was now pushing the children on the roundabout. Round and round. The kids were screeching happily. It made me feel sick, just watching the damned thing. I wondered if other parents found it amusing to watch their own child lose their balance when disembarking from a roundabout. Skittering to the left or to the right, and then falling over.

  Or perhaps it was just me. Shades of sadism present in my parenting skills?

  Either way, there was only so much that anyone, adult or child, could take of the roundabout ride. It
was probably the least-used playground equipment in the park. And there was a damned good reason for that.

  I moved away from the window. No. I would not be calling Shaun back. That particular little mini-series had been repeated after Adam’s death. And there would be no further re-runs in this lifetime. My sister’s words were always helpful at a time like this.

  “Some people learn lessons the hard way, Rachael. You might be a tough sod in many ways, but I can’t see you making it through any more Shaun-induced self-harm. And I’m not looking after your kids when you’re locked up in a loony bin and eating your raffia basket weaving while trying to convince people that you’re really Joan of Arc…”

  Vicky’s pearls of wisdom might be hard. Grown from your typical east Manchester grit. But they were usually spot-on.

  I sat down at my desk and immersed myself in paperwork. After half an hour my mobile rang. Mother again. This time it was a live call. The specialist subject was ‘rude bus drivers’. I tried to shout down the line at her in the hope that she would hear my voice emanating from her handbag. No such luck. Three minutes later the phone rang again. I went through the same ritual. Then after two minutes, another trill. I snatched it up and bellowed, “For God’s sake, Mum! Will you please get Dad to show you how to lock your keypad?”

  “Blimey, Rachael – you’re scary!” came Michael’s voice. “What’s your poor mother been doing to make you so cross with her?”

  “Oh. It’s you, Michael! I’m so sorry.” I gabbled, “My mum and her inability to use a phone properly…”

  He had called to ask if I had seen his TV appearance that morning. And what did I think of it. I was surprised. A vision of Matthew sprang to mind. My youngest, proudly handing me a sticky piece of paper covered in glue, tinfoil and sequins. “Mummy – do you like my bestest picture ever?”

  Why the hell would someone like Michael Chiswick want to know what I thought of his press conference? I told him this in not so many words (minus the tosh-collage analogy, of course.)

  “Yes, I did see it, actually. And have you heard from the prime minister about it yet? What he thought?”

  There was a smile in his voice. He was in good spirits.

  “Oh, yes. We had words. He seems to think that I’m very clever and very cunning in relation to how I handle the press. ‘Well done on throwing the buggers a left-fielder’ was his exact turn of phrase.”

  “That’s great, then. And I’m sure that what he thinks … is a little bit more important than my take on your performance.”

  “Ah, no. I care deeply what you think of my performance. In every sense of the word.”

  “Fnar Fnar. Get on with it.”

  “All right. No, I just wondered what the female perspective might be about it. You know, you being a woman with … with …” He was searching for the right word.

  I provided him with one.

  “With breasts?”

  “No!” he chuckled, “I was going to say ‘with principles’.”

  “Right. OK. Well. I watched it here with some of the women. Service users. They were quite impressed that you stood up to ‘Big Tits Brainless Bint’ as one of them referred to Simone Shaw.”

  “I like that. Rather un-politically correct for your place, though, I would have thought.”

  “Well, I do my best, but I can’t brainwash people as much as I’d like to. What else? Oh, yes. They liked your anti-homophobia rant. Although that’s because you’re as ‘bent as a nine bob note’ yourself.”

  “Of course. But blimey. They’re very gifted with adjectives at your place.”

  “And overall, we all thought that you handled it really well until you allowed it to degenerate into a bad episode of a Benny Hill show. And then we switched it off, in general disgust at the usual male behaviour.” He laughed.

  “What a scathing bunch you all are! So I suppose that I’ve failed miserably in your eyes. I was hoping that my favourite feminist friend could reassure me that I hadn’t made too many sexist remarks in one sentence.”

  “Well, I’m with the prime minister for once, on all of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t believe for a minute that you suddenly morphed into Bernard Manning this morning. I’ve got you sussed out. I think that you employed a few diversionary tactics there.”

  He began to protest, but there was a knock at my door.

  “Hang on a min.” I called out.

  “Sounds like you’re as busy as I am,” he replied. “Anyway, I have to scoot. Got a lunch date with Baroness Golding. She might be pushing ninety but she’s still hot to trot in high heels. Speak later.”

  I hung up and headed for the office door, yanking it open and nearly falling into the arms of Jake Bamber.

  “Steady on, sweetie!” he grinned, enveloping me in an enormous hug. Jake was as lean, handsome and tanned as ever. Now sporting a very sculpted beard. (“Do you like my wee goatee?”) And a couple more earrings than when I had last encountered him.

  “You’re looking beautiful, Rach! You were so thin and pale the last time I saw you. A scrawny little thing. Plus, you’ve caught the sun this weekend, by the looks of it. I see your little freckles there … and thank goodness you’ve grown your lovely boobs back!” He held me at arm’s length for inspection. Jake should have known me well enough not to comment on my personal appearance. (And why did every male in the land – gay or straight – seem to be wittering on about breasts today?)

  “Thanks. And you’re looking far too suave and immaculate for someone in your line of work. I mean, I swear to God that you’re turning into some kind of champagne socialist … look at the cuff-links. What’s that all about?”

  Jake ignored me and upped the ante with his mock-camp voice.

  “Well, Marxist or not, some of us are born with an infinite sense of style. Nature, not nurture. And for once, Ms More Shabby Than Chic, you’re not doing badly today. OK – wearing a Gypsy Rose Lee elasticated top isn’t the best way to place your breasts on display, but if you pull it off each shoulder like this,” he tried to fiddle with my blouse, “you’ll be getting every hetero bloke from here to Liverpool all hot and bothered. Listen to Gok here!”

  I swiped at him to stop it.

  “Leave my clothes alone. I’m happy without either style or grace. And pack it in with the Alan Carr act. This is me, remember?”

  He held up his hands.

  “OK, OK, I'll stop it with the stereotypical gay male stuff. I’ll go back to my true Mr Testosterone mode. See, I’m frowning and baring my teeth.” He did his best to glower at me as he drifted over to my desk, sitting down on the corner of it. But then cracked me a grin and began to twirl one of his earrings around.

  “It’s been ages, Rach. I wish I saw more of you. You should never have had those kids. They put a real spoke in the wheel of the Rachael and Jake show, those little varmints did. Or was that Adam? Bless him…”

  Jake was one of the few people who could speak freely and easily about Adam. Without having to whip out a qualifier or anticipate me running off into the loos to slash my wrists.

  “Well, I wish I saw more of you, too. When was the last time? February, wasn’t it? Yeah. I think we said our goodbyes on the Curry Mile in Rusholme. You were throwing up outside The Purple Harem, if I remember correctly.”

  “Oh, God, was it that long ago? The Manchester Council Survivors Club is always a good night out,” he mused. “Although you had to go home at 9 p.m. to get back to the kiddies, I recall. But, yes. We must sort a night out. You can invite the Manky Posse. Girls are annoyingly good at that staying-in-touch-with-people thing.”

  “And men are usually lazy arses. Whether gay or straight.”

  “Oh, I do so miss our gender-based bitch-fests … no one quite rises to the challenge like you do, dear.”

  He fiddled with his car keys. I noticed that the keyring had a mini-portrait of Steve McQueen, Jake’s favourite pin-up. I could see the Steve attraction for sure and was just g
rateful that Jake wasn’t into the motorbike side of things, like bad-boy McQueen had been.

  Adam used to say that my knowledge of all things car, bike, engine or non-human moving item was so paralysingly bad that I should try to make a claim for disability benefit. That I was the most mechanically challenged person he had ever met .

  “Anyway, missy. I’ve popped over to see you because Martyn Pointer reckoned I should check out the party line with you. About this little old lady that you were gallivanting about with on Saturday. And who am I to argue with Martyn about that, now he dwells in the lofty land of senior management? So. Because the bunch of shysters who make up our maintenance team at New Banks can’t get her flat shipshape for another week, it looks like Medlock Council are going to be shelling out another week’s stay for her over in Manchester at Lancaster House. Something that a particular wanker at the Town Hall won’t be happy about.”

  I clicked my tongue. Khoisanesque.

  “Are you referring to Shaun there, by any chance?” I asked. Jake coughed, “Fucchar!” and covered his mouth with his hand, continuing, “Sorry. My Tourette’s again.”

  “Very amusing – and not at all un-politically correct, Jake. But anyway, given the fact that Shaun is the council’s director of … what the hell is the name of it again?”

  “Leisure and communities. Or the other way around. Can never remember.”

  “Yes, that. Which is probably the biggest job going at Medlock Council after the chief executive’s. I can’t imagine that someone so important as he is these days would be arsed about whether a flea-ridden and incontinent old lady is costing his temporary rehousing budget a few extra quid.”

  Jake jangled his keys and then pointed one at me.

  “Ah. That’s where you’re wrong. Mr Shaun Elliot is quite happy to neglect his swimming pools and his community centres if the issue at hand has anything to do with housing. Housing is his first love. And because our lot at New Banks has the contract for delivering Medlock’s crappy excuse for a homelessness strategy … and because Martyn Pointer is the big boss at our marvellous housing association … well. It’s just too tempting for Shaun not to wade in and have a bit of a cat-fight with his arch-enemy of old.”