Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  “Well, yeah. I can see that. But getting Miss Simpson over to Manchester and to Lancaster House was totally justified. She’s elderly. She was soaking wet. And she’s got dementia. She couldn’t afford to wait while you rang round all Medlock’s B & Bs. We agreed that on Saturday.”

  Jake shrugged. “True. But you know and I know that those two won’t see it like that. Once they’re out there and comparing the size of their dicks.”

  Martyn and Shaun had worked together at Manchester Housing at the same time as Jake, Linda and me. Shaun thought that Martyn was a smart-arse. Martyn thought that Shaun was a smart-arse. It was that simple. And over two careers spanning various local authorities, associations, boundaries and jobs in the north-west, they had carried a track record of being stupidly obstinate over minor things. And now into their most recent roles. Shaun heading up a huge part of Medlock Council, and Martyn’s New Banks Housing Association managing what used to be the Council’s housing stock. If Jake was correct in his analysis, Shaun would accuse Martyn and New Banks of riding roughshod over their homelessness contract with the council. And Martyn would want to defend Jake’s actions.

  And to get up Shaun’s nose as best as he could.

  It was all quite pathetic, really. Shaun might be slightly superior to Martyn these days in terms of the overall local authority pecking order, purse strings and pension contributions, but Martyn would still do anything to square up to Shaun. Which was a bit futile really because Shaun had almost a foot in height on Martyn. Ha-bloody-ha.

  Jake’s smirk had faded by now and he spread his fingers out, beginning to examine his oh-so-manicured nails.

  “You know. Martyn can be a pain. A whinge-bag. What with his bible-bashing and all of that Jehovah’s Witness ‘life on the straight and narrow’ stuff. But he’s OK in general. And when compared to Shaun … well. Sometimes I really can’t believe how Shaun changed. From when we were all working together at Manchester, I mean. He was a good laugh. It’s insane, isn’t it? That we're fretting about how that wanker will react to helping some old dear out.”

  I folded my arms and let Jake finish. I didn't want to get into a discussion about Shaun and the past.

  “Or did we ever really know him, Rachael? Well, it took me a while to see his true colours. Which I did when I realised how he was messing you about. Way back then …”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Warning. But he waggled his fingers at me.

  “Yes, yes. I know that you don’t like me even talking about it. And don’t worry – I’ve never mentioned it to anyone else. God knows why it all had to be secret back then. But at least you met Adam a bit after that and got the idiot out of your system.”

  “Jake!” I snapped. “Move on, please. I have.”

  He sighed and returned to fiddling with his car keys.

  “All right. All right. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. But I’m not exaggerating about Shaun. Since he’s been heading up stuff in Medlock, it’s been redundancies left, right and centre. I’m run ragged with all the union representation that I’m having to do. Trotsky was right when he said that once the proletariat —”

  I interrupted him again.

  “Yes, but before you try to flog me a copy of Socialist Worker – like you usually do, Jake – can we crack on with the stuff about Miss Simpson? It’s all fine by me. You can go and tell Martyn that he’s got the ammunition he needs. I’m happy for him to say that I was the one who refused to let her sit in a puddle while you rang round all the B & Bs. It was me who took her over to Manchester and to Brindleford, after all. That might shut Shaun up, at any rate.”

  He considered this for a moment and then nodded. “Nice one. I’ll let Martyn know. Cheers.”

  Moving away from my desk, he was getting ready to leave when he added:

  “Anyway, Rach. We still have another ace up our sleeves, don’t we? A certain politician that you had there with you. When you called me…”

  I shook my head. “That wasn’t planned, Jake – that was a total, weird fluke sort of thing.”

  He held his palms up and out towards me – all innocence.

  “I’m not saying that it was planned. I for one know how you have a tendency to attract all kinds of nutters and freaks. It’s a Rachael Russell speciality. And I don’t see why this wouldn’t exclude politician-type tools of the Establishment.”

  Hands on hips now, I scowled at him.

  “Oh, you can huff and puff all you like, Rachael. But you know damned well what your junior management are like. Terrified of the senior managers above them … that lot with their narcissistic personality disorders and their rampant self-obsessions. So, why not make the most of your new friend’s heavyweight credentials if we need to?” He stopped and cocked his head to one side. Eyes dancing with mischief. “What were you doing with him anyway, honey-bun? It was a Saturday afternoon! I mean. What on earth were you doing in some filthy maisonette with a Tory boy? The mind boggles…”

  “Jake!” I moved over to the office door and closed it again, doing my best not to sound too defensive. I hissed at him, “Look – stop calling him a ‘Tory boy’, will you? He’s not. As you damned well know. And he’s hardly a boy. Anyway. The reason I happened to see him on Saturday was to do with this place.” I jerked my head towards the corridor. “He’s been helping us out with the publicity for Sisters’ Space. Our Chocolate and Cafe project. We’ve had some brilliant press coverage since he visited us. Plus … he’s all right, actually. Even if my politics are a little bit left of his.”

  At this, Jake spluttered out, “Left? Does he know that you were with me at Marxism 2002 and plotting to blow up Parliament?”

  I folded my arms and gave him the daggers.

  “Hilarious. And that was donkey’s years ago. And I only went to your Marxist conference because I managed to get cheap train tickets and we could kip over at one of your boyfriend’s in —”

  “Ah, yes. Stevie the Slinky Stalinist … I remember him well …”

  “So while you were transfixed by your lectures on Revolutionary Workers’ Councils in the Baltic States, I spent most of the time in the British Museum looking at King Alfred’s jewels.”

  A wicked smile now.

  “And I bet you’ve been taking an equal interest in King Michael’s jewels, eh? Maybe you’ve always had a secret thing for the Eton boys, Rach.”

  “He’s not an Eton boy! He went to Ampleforth. Even though he’s Jewish,” I began. And then decided that I was giving away too much.

  Far too much.

  “Ah – so he’s Jewish? He’s Jewish. Rachael, please, please tell me that you found this little bit of information out in the way that I am truly hoping you did…”

  I was doing my best to keep a straight face but somehow, the laughter began to leak out. I knew that I couldn’t pull the wool over this old pal’s eyes. Jake took this as license to descend into Camp Minciness. He clasped his hands together, gave a girly-shriek, then seized my hand and commenced trying to waltz me around the room.

  “Oh, sweetie pie! I knew that sooner or later you’d be back on the scene, breaking blokes’ hearts. And stomping all over the affections of a Tory boy would be our finest, most anti-Establishment plot to date! Come here and let me ravish you!”

  He stopped the prancing and held me by the arms, attempting to kiss my neck with his tickly new beard. I was laughing and trying my best to swipe him away from me, so neither of us heard the knock or noticed the office door opening until Gillian cleared her throat.

  “Erm ... Rachael?”

  Jake and I paused, looking over to the doorway. Our struggle had involved my blouse being pulled off one shoulder, exposing rather a lot of bra. A file had been knocked off the desk during our tussle, scattering papers across the floor.

  Gillian’s eyes widened, but then she smiled.

  “Oh. It’s just you, Jake.” She had worked with Jake on various rehousing cases in the past and knew that the two of us were good friends. But her smile quic
kly vanished and she pulled a face, gesturing behind her. Because the next visitor might not be too tolerant of such manifestations of office friskiness.

  And all six foot five inches of Shaun Elliot entered the room, stooping slightly in order to avoid knocking his head on the door frame.

  Chapter 11

  ENTER HADES

  Gillian’s normally brash voice sounded slightly on edge. Embarrassed, perhaps, on my account.

  “I did explain to Mr Elliot here that we work on an appointment system at Sisters’ Space…”

  “And I told her that I’m the fella here who pays all your wages. So of course you’d make time to see me. Like you’ve no doubt made time to see Bamber-boy.”

  That voice. It’s hard to describe Shaun’s voice. Deep, but hoarse. Reverberating. As though he had been gargling with gravel. (I told him this once. He claimed that Yorkshire males were so well-hard that their mams weaned them on aggregate.)

  He was still standing in the doorway. Suited and booted immaculately, with his arms folded. Sizing up the frivolous scene in front of him. Then he shook his head slowly.

  “Hope that’s not a client’s file all over the floor.” A quick tut. “I mean, I know that you’re a bit last century here. Using paper files. But surely you do your data protection? Proper security and storage. Due diligence. All that shit?”

  I tugged my blouse straight again and tried to catch my breath. I was struggling to find sufficient oxygen, and not because of the freakish foxtrot with Jake. My hands moved to my throat. Fingers already cold. I moved my hand to the warmth at the back of my neck. Thawing out the shock.

  And then the words came easily enough.

  “Nice to see you too, Shaun. And you might be a VIP in the local municipal celeb stakes, but Gillian is right. We do have to be strict about the appointment system. Especially with male visitors. Even if they are dressed in really lovely and expensive designer suits, like you are.”

  A sneer and a jerk of his head. “So what about Bamber-boy then? Did the cuff-links bleep him through the security system? Have you had him chipped?”

  Jake glared back. Having finished with the camp-clown act, he decided to move into more defensive mode, biting back, “Obviously, I don’t quite cut the dashing hetero real male presence. So I’m no threat to the ladies in this place. Unlike others.”

  I gestured for him to help me pick the papers up off the floor, before he came out with anything too close to home.

  Shaun turned to Gillian, “Get us a brew, would you?”

  Gillian curled her lip and came up trumps.

  “Sorry,” she said. “We’re a bit short-staffed. And we like to empower people here. Kitchen’s round the corner. Help yourself.”

  I grinned at the floor as I fished for the paperwork. Shaun was clearly used to having his own personal tea-maid these days. And Gillian had been untypically restrained, for once. I’d half expected her to tell Shaun to get his own sodding brew.

  The Director of Very Important Things in Medlock walked over to the window and looked out onto the playground.

  “Depressing view, Rachael. Should see mine, from the Town Hall. Can see to Jodrell Bank on a clear day.”

  On the floor, putting the file back together, Jake sang under his breath, “Mnnneerr … Should see mine…” I did my best not to snigger.

  Shaun turned away from the window as we both stood up. I placed the file back onto the desk and he addressed Jake again.

  “Anyway, what are you doing here?” He looked down at his phone, scanning messages. “What’s the betting that Martyn Pointer sent you over? So that Pointless and his New Banks crew can cook up some bullshit story about why I’m paying for some pensioner to be temporarily housed over in Manchester. When she should have been put up in one of our B & Bs in Medlock. You lot at New Banks have tried to pull too many fast ones on us over the last few months.”

  I was trying not to get too side-tracked by Shaun’s accent. Sure, I lived in West Yorkshire these days and I was more than aware that my kids would grow up with that gentle west-Yorkie burr that Adam had possessed. That my offspring had become tiny white-rose traitors to my Lancastrian red-rose upbringing. With their ‘Nor’ instead of ‘No’ and their occasional broad-as-beans ‘Mummeh’ instead of ‘Mummy.’

  But here was Shaun with that particular patter and pronunciation from the Leeds area. Shaun said ‘Arr’ instead of ‘I’. He said ‘Bratfort’ instead of Bradford. And maybe I needed to get out a little bit more, but such tiny aberrations of articulation for this Mancunian lass had somehow always represented Exotica.

  Sod it. I could always blame my Emily Bronte obsession for that kind of thing.

  So I quickly answered him, before Jake could.

  “Funny, Shaun. Now that you’re in charge of most of the council, I would have thought that the issue of a little old lady needing a bed for the night would have fallen way, way down your list of important local-government golf tournaments to attend.”

  Jake didn’t miss a beat either, looking directly at me.

  “Well, Shaun has always had a big heart when it comes to the well-being of vulnerable people, so I’m sure that his interference – sorry – interest here is quite genuine. I guess we’ll no doubt have his utmost sympathies when he hears that I’m checking up on a case that I’m working on with the women’s centre.” He turned back to me. Eyes subtly widened. “So you can tell your client, Rachael, that we’ve just had a three-bedroom come available in one of her preferred areas. She can call me if she wants to chat about it. OK?”

  “Cheers, Jake.” Shaun had no doubt rumbled us, but I went along with the fabricated excuse.

  Jake ran long fingers through his now elegantly tousled hair and informed me, “Right. I’m off. Unless you don’t want to be left on your own with the Big Bad Wolf?”

  Shaun had already become bored with the conversation and was now tapping away at his phone. He looked up, though, surprised at the remark. He was probably getting more than his fair share of front-line insubordination this morning. Good. I ignored Jake’s words and followed him over to the door, opting for the professional mode again.

  “Thanks, Jake. I wish more housing officers would make proper use of Sisters’ Space like you do. You’re not doing a bad job, you lot at New Banks, you know. I hope that Martyn appreciates you all.” Jake nodded.

  “He’s not a bad ’un. Thank God I don’t work for the council, though. It’s only my opinion of course, but the senior managers there don’t really seem to take it seriously … the subject of tackling domestic violence.”

  “Jesus!” Shaun’s stare was incredulous. He looked up from his phone and then back down at it as he continued. “I am still here, you know. It’s like listening to Woman’s Hour on Radio 4 with you two. Are you both suffering from PMT this morning or something?” He raised a hand without even looking at Jake. The classic, rude ‘I’m too busy to even say goodbye properly’ gesture.

  Jake was out of the door. But then he stopped and turned around. He’d changed his mind about something.

  “So, Rachael, I’m going to be glued to the evening news tonight. Now there aren’t many men who are that good-looking and also have screen presence. And real intelligence, too. But he’s the lucky one – bagging you, I say! I shall be taping it actually so that I can —”

  “Go on! Go!” I called out at him. Half-amused at what he was trying to do, but half-irritated by the reckless but playful attitude.

  Shaun rose to Jake’s bait as he left us, putting away his phone and wandering over to my desk. Hands in pockets now, he looked out of the window again.

  “What’s Bamber-Boy on about?”

  “Nothing,” I answered, under my breath. “Just Jake being Jake.”

  “Stirring it,” Shaun replied, folding his arms. “Never changes. So what does he mean about the evening news? You going out with a newsreader or something?”

  “No,” I sighed. “Anyway. I only just got your message on the phone. I was goin
g to call you back. When I got a minute …”

  “Thought I’d beat you to it. Couple of things I need to sort.” He jerked his head at me. Perhaps expecting me to grab a pen and pencil and Take A Letter, Miss Jones. Shaun’s time and priorities these days were clearly so much more important than mine.

  “Firstly, I’ve been in post at Medlock for three months now. So I need to have a once-over of this place. And, as the council mostly funds you – what is it we give you? Seventy-five per cent?”

  “Sixty-five.”

  “Whatever. We’re keeping you afloat. And secondly, you’ve been getting lots of publicity about this new so-called business venture of yours. So we need to talk.”

  “Right, then,” I turned on my heel. “You can have a quick tour of the place. We’ve got a chocolate-creation workshop starting in a minute…”

  “Nah, hang on.” Something had taken his interest. He picked up a photo of Matthew on my desk. Taken only a few weeks ago. My youngest was in the paddling pool. Holding up a decapitated doll of Lydia’s, while shouting with glee at the camera.

  “This Matthew?” he looked up at me.

  “No. It’s some random kid I abducted and tried to drown in a paddling pool. Of course it’s bloody Matthew.” Shaun ignored me.

  “God he’s grown. Must be – what – how long? Since I saw them …Look at him! Just like … just like Adam. The image of him …God.”

  My defences went up. So different to the way that Jake had mentioned Adam. Jake had been warm-hearted and natural in his turn of phrase. Shaun had stumbled over his words. Shaun was acting as though he had nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to even try to conceal from anyone. I twisted the rings on my fingers. Round and round.

  Then he picked up the photo of Lydia. A typical Liddy prima donna pose where she had wound several of my mum’s colourful silk (well, probably polyester) scarves around herself. She was hanging over the edge of a chair and the camera had captured her with a vivacious, mischievous expression.