Stone Cold Red Hot

by Cath Staincliffe

  Someone echoed me in a falsetto voice. There were jeers from the group. It would be unwise to antagonise them further. I needed to get inside, set the camera up, do my job. I walked quickly towards Mr Poole’s. One of the twins intercepted me at the gate.

  “Where you think you’re going?” He dripped insolence.

  I moved to side-step him and he shadowed me. I was close enough to see the fuzzy hair on his upper lip, the cold sore at one corner of this mouth, to smell the cooking fat on his clothes. I avoided eye contact: common sense, don’t challenge him.

  “Those glasses are well sad, you look like Elton John, anybody ever tell you that?”

  “Let me past,” I said, “or I’ll report you to the police.”

  “Yeah,” he raised an eyebrow, “got a mobile phone in there have you?” He made a grab for the sports bag. I swung it backwards out of his reach.

  Mr Poole’s door swung open and light spilt across the path. “What’s going on?” he barked. There were two women close behind him in the doorway.

  “Aw, fuck off, grandad,” yelled the boy who I’d not seen before.

  “Clear off,” shouted Mr Poole, “go on, clear off. We’re sick of the lot of you.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” one of the women spoke up.

  Catcalls and clapping. The twin inched out of my way. Mickey Whittaker gave us two fingers.

  I hurried into the house. Mr Poole shut the door. There was a hard thump from outside. It made me start.

  “Football,” said Mr Poole, “they’ve been kicking it over the road against the door for the last ten minutes.” He closed his eyes momentarily, shook his head. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, I’m OK.” But raging inside.

  “This is Mary,” he introduced the woman who’d called out. She was small, energetic, bright-eyes and a quick smile. We shook hands.

  “And Pauline.”

  Pauline’s hand was cool and frail, everything about her looked pale, faded.

  “We’re his secretaries,” joked Mary, “help him sort his files out.”

  “More like gaffers,” he joked, “keep me on my toes. Local history buffs,” he explained, “know all about Hulme, these two do.”

  The women both grinned.

  “I’d better get going,” I gestured upstairs.

  “We’ll get you a brew. Tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  “They know what you’re doing,” Mr Poole said to me.

  “It’s not all like this, you know,” Mary tapped my arm. “You look in the paper and it’s all ‘estate from hell’ and ‘crime and despair’ but there’s some good people round here, proper little communities. This side of the road, we’ve not had all the changes they have over there.”

  “We’re not the New Hulme,” added Pauline, “they’ve knocked that down twice in my lifetime. St Georges has had a different history. Lot more settled.”

  “Thought we’d died and gone to heaven when we moved here, didn’t we Pauline?”

  “Oh, aye. We was all moved from the slums, see. Beswick and Salford. You’ll not remember but they was terrible places, really terrible. We came here and there’s indoor toilets - cos we only had a privvy in the yard before that.”

  “Hot water out the tap and all,” added Mary, “I cried first time I saw that. Tears of joy.”

  “She does exaggerate,” teased Mr Poole. Mary slapped him on the arm.

  “You go on up,” he said, “I’ll bring your tea up.”

  I opened the window a couple of inches then set the camera up as before. I was smarting with outrage at the bullying I’d had to deal with. I knew I’d done right to play cautious, to save my skin but I had been in many similar situations and every time there was a small part of me, enraged at the injustice of it, at the brutal cocksure arrogance of these men (for they always had been men) and each time I had swallowed that anger. One day, I fantasised, I’d let go, let all that rage free, let it come pouring out and I’d kill someone, batter them to death with whatever was to hand, strangle them with my bare hands, beat them to a pulp...and more. And then how would I feel? Better?

  I checked the focus, I couldn’t see the lads at all then I realised that they must be leaning against the van parked directly outside the house. The football would appear now and then and they began to target the Ibrahim’s house, kicking the ball hard against the door and windows. I couldn’t film them but I took some footage of the ball to establish what was happening.

  Mr Poole brought me some tea. “I thought what had happened on Friday would be enough to convince the council.”

  “It may be but they’re waiting for the lawyer’s say-so.”

  He grunted, not impressed and told me to call him if I needed anything.

  I looked back at the house opposite. The football slammed against the door and bounced back. How did the Ibrahim children react to the bombardment? Could they sleep? Did they have nightmares and wet the bed? Did they huddle under the covers trying to shut out the noise? What would Mrs Ahmed do? Try and keep life normal: bedtime now, brush your teeth, I’ll tell you a story. Or did she gather them all together, ready for another night’s siege, snuggled on the sofa with the video turned up loud playing the Lion King or Jungle Book.

  After five minutes or so a man came from the bottom of the road, climbed into the van and drove off. I zoomed in and got a head shot of each of the twins. I couldn’t tell them apart; only different coloured sweatshirts marked one from the other. Black and red. I panned round to take in Micky Whittaker with the bulldog tattoo on his skull and the fourth boy who wore a Manchester United cap backwards and had a close cropped beard on his chin. None of the boys wore coats in spite of the incessant drizzle. The kicking continued, they concentrated on the lounge window. Thump, thump, thump. They took turns to kick, keeping the rhythm up like footballers in training. At last a powerful kick from Micky Whittaker smashed the window. I filmed their jubilation as they leapt into each others arms and crowded round Whittaker. There was no sign of anyone inside the house. I used my mobile phone to call the police.

  I reported malicious damage and threatening behaviour. I gave the location and my name. I pulled back the zoom till I had a general view of the scene and left the camera running.

  Mr Poole was already opening the front door as I came downstairs. Mary and Pauline were in the hall in their hats and coats.

  “They’ve smashed the window,” I told him, “I’ve called the police.”

  The group were by the gate lighting cigarettes.

  “What do you think you’re playing at?” Mr Poole demanded. “The council can take you to court for breaking stuff like that.”

  “Oooh, I’m scared,” minced Whittaker. “Not.”

  “They’re not gonna do ‘owt for a fuckin’ broken winder, are they?” One of the twins spoke.

  “Was an accident, anyway,” his brother added.

  A gust of wind stirred the curtains opposite.

  “Clear off,” shouted Mr Poole, his voice rich with fury, “clear off.” His jowls shuddered as he yelled. “You’ve done enough damage.”

  A few curses then the group began to play with the ball in the middle of the street.

  “Shocking,” said Pauline, “brass-necked cheek, they’ve no decency.”

  Mr Poole turned away. “I’ll ring emergency repairs,” he said, “they’ll need that boarding up tonight.” He went through to his phone.

  I went back to the doorway and stood there staring at the gang while they had their kickabout. I hoped to discomfort them. There was little reaction though I caught a few obscenities which I was sure were for my benefit. There was no sign of the police.

  A private hire car came down from the main road and tooted at the boys who took their time to edge out of the way. The car drove down the Close to turn and drew up outside Mr Poole’s. “There’s a taxi here”, I called.

  “That’s ours. Be seeing you Frank.” The women came to the door.

  “I’d
ring the police again you know,” said Mary, “they don’t always come unless you pester them.”

  They said goodbye and walked slowly to their taxi.

  Mr Poole came back out. “They shouldn’t be long, the repairs.”

  “I thought they always took forever.”

  “Not the emergencies. It’s the rest that’s a problem. They’ll board that up tonight but it might be months before they get round to replacing the glass.”

  “Mary said I should ring the police again.”

  He nodded. “Can’t hurt.”

  I dialled and got put through to the same man.

  “I rang fifteen minutes ago and no-one’s arrived yet.”

  “They should be there soon, there’s no immediate danger is there? Things haven’t escalated?”

  “Well, no.”

  The lads were heading the ball now. Still outside the Ibrahims’ but not directing their attention at their victims at present.

  “It’s a volatile situation though,” I said. “The people in the house must be absolutely petrified. There’s children in there. The police need to move these youths away before they do anything else.”

  “There’s a car in the area,” he said, “should be with you soon.”

  By my watch it took a further seventeen minutes before the white squad car appeared. During that time the Brennan twins nipped down home for some cans of lager and brought them back along with a large spliff which the four of them shared. When the car came into view the lads moved closer together on the opposite pavement. The car stopped beside them and the two occupants, a man and a woman got out. I couldn’t hear what was being said but it seemed very light-hearted. The twins were grinning and at one point the whole group laughed aloud. The police turned away and crossed over to join Mr Poole and I by his gate.

  “Mr Poole.” The man was older than Carl Benson, the policeman who’d come out the previous time, he moved languidly as though he was experiencing gravity differently from the rest of us. “Miss Kilkenny.” He nodded at me. “PC Doyle.” He turned his head slowly to the woman at his side, “WPC Gilmartin. You reported the incident?”

  He was grinning nearly all the time, nodding his head to some slow beat. He reminded me of a Jack Nicholson character, all lazy amusement and hidden menace. I wondered if he were stoned, his eyes were glassy, lids drooping a bit. Maybe he’d had a long shift.

  “Seems like a little horseplay got out of hand. I’ve had a word with the lads and...”

  “Hang about,” interrupted Mr Poole, “it’s not horseplay. This lot are terrorising that family. The council and the police know all about it. Your lot have been called out here countless times these last few weeks.”

  He went on to outline all the forms the harassment had taken. PC Doyle didn’t like being corrected. The grin faded, was replaced by a pained frown and he looked to the sky while Mr Poole spoke. A belittling gesture. His colleague was doing her best to be invisible. She neither spoke nor even watched what was going on. Feet close together, eyes down, she rocked now and again lightly on her heels and waited.

  When Mr Poole finished Doyle grinned again. “I’ve made a note of the incident, it’s been recorded.”

  “Aren’t you going to see Mrs Ahmed?” I demanded. “Reassure her?”

  “Mrs Ahmed?” He gave a little extra weight to the name, very subtle but enough to signal that he was a bigot too. “Mrs Ahmed doesn’t speak any English.”

  “I still think you should show her you’re here. We can tell her the window will be boarded up tonight.”

  He sighed. His eyes flicked to me then away. They looked hard, reptilian. He turned and walked in a slow roll over to the house followed at a distance by the WPC, Mr Poole and myself. The gang still hovered round the gateway. Why hadn’t he sent them away? He banged on the door hard four times and shouted ‘Police’. He sounded like he was going to launch a raid on the place not reassure a frightened citizen. There was no response. Surprise, surprise.

  I went up to join him. As I passed the youths one of them made sucking noises.

  PC Doyle banged again. “Police.”

  I spoke too. Maybe a woman’s voice would be less threatening. After all how did Mrs Ahmed know whether this wasn’t yet more aggro from the gang, a trap set to get her to open the door?

  “Mrs Ahmed,” I said, “my name’s Sal, I’m staying with Mr Poole, are you alright? Will you open the door?”

  I waited for a minute then repeated it. Mr Poole, at my elbow, called out too. “It’s Mr Poole - the police are here and we’re going to get the window fixed.”

  “She doesn’t speak English,” PC Doyle rolled his eyes at our stupidity, “there’s no point in trying to talk to her.”

  “The children will though,” I retorted. “One of them’s at school, they’ll probably be used to translating for her.”

  He looked affronted.

  I knocked again, gently. “Mrs Ahmed, please open the door.” There was the sound of bolts being drawn back and then the door opened a crack. She kept the chain on. She stood there, five foot nothing, face still, scarf over her hair. Her eyes glanced rapidly over us all. At her side a small boy, Tom’s age I guessed, in faded Batman pyjamas.

  I spoke to him. “Please tell your mother that Mr Poole has called someone to come and fix the window tonight.”

  “From the council,” added Mr Poole.

  The boy spoke to his mother. She inclined her head once. Her expression didn’t change.

  “The police are here and we hope these people will go to court very soon.” I waited while he passed on my words. “They will be told to leave you alone or they will lose their houses and have to leave the area or maybe go to prison.”

  She listened to her son then glanced at me. There was no hope in the look she gave me, just blank indifference. She didn’t believe a word of it, she couldn’t imagine it happening. Words meant nothing. Only actions, only when the victimisation stopped would our promises have meaning.

  “I’m staying at Mr Poole’s,” I repeated, “I’ll be there till your husband gets back. If there’s anything I can do let me know.” The boy translated,

  An empty offer really but I hoped that she would understand that I would be watching out.

  “PC Doyle is going to send the boys home now - he’ll come back if there’s any more trouble. Goodnight.”

  The child nodded and shut the door. Doyle smiled at me, angry and boxed in by my statement. If he didn’t do it he’d compromise his authority - we might suspect he couldn’t handle the teenagers. If he refused I was pretty sure I could register an official complaint about his conduct - though it probably wouldn’t be pursued beyond a quiet reprimand.

  He strolled down to the gate and spoke quietly to the boys. Eyes flicked my way. There was a burst of laughter and then the lads shambled away. The overwhelming impression was of a bunch of people in cahoots not that of an officer of the law dealing with lawbreakers.

  Mr Poole explained it to me as I made a drink in his kitchen. “He’s the one I told you about, bad penny. Agrees with that lot,” he said contemptuously.

  “Gave me the creeps. And the policewoman never said a word.”

  “Doesn’t dare, he’s the boss. He’s probably giving her a hard time of it already.”

  I poured water into my mug, stirred the coffee.

  “With tonight as well,” I said “they should have enough to go to court, they must have.”

  He moved to a kitchen chair, lowering himself cautiously to sit down. “I suppose they need to have a watertight case” he said, “make sure they’ve dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, it’s only right that you’ve got to have good grounds to take someone’s home away but even so when you see how they behave...”

  “She looked so...hopeless,” I said, “depressed. And there’s two other children?”

  “Aye, a baby few months old and a toddler. Little lad’s at school. I see her taking him up there, others in the trolley.”

  “Wha
t about Mr Ibrahim?”

  “He’s quiet, friendly enough considering. He was a teacher before the war - schoolteacher. He speaks a fair bit of English. I showed him the archives,” he gestured towards the back room. “He was interested in that.”

  We contemplated their savage change of circumstances. I sipped at my coffee. “I’ll take this up.”

  “I doubt that they’ll be back tonight. Pubs shut a while ago and there’s no sign of the men.”

  At midnight a van arrived and fixed a sheet of plywood to the broken window. After they’d left the man I’d seen before walked his dog along the Close and waited while it crapped on the pavement. I filmed them just for the hell of it. At one fifteen a cacophony of fire engine sirens rent the air, whooping past on the main road. At two thirty five Mr Ibrahim returned in a taxi. I saw him stop for a moment when he saw the boarded up window then hurry up the drive. Maybe I should have rung him at work and warned him about it but I hadn’t got the number. I thought about going over to ask him for it but all being well this would be my last stint on Canterbury Close. It was late, I was knackered and I was sure the Ibrahims could do without any more callers.

  Mr Poole was dozing in the lounge, I didn’t wake him. I pulled the door to behind me. It was cold but at last the drizzle had stopped. The wet had brought out the smells of the gardens, soil and rotting leaves, the tarmac and concrete. I walked down to my car. My stomach did a somersault, my mouth soured. Aw, shit. The bastards had nicked my car.

  Chapter eleven

  I reported the theft to the police on my mobile and rang a taxi. I sat on the low wall in front of Mr Poole’s to wait. The wig was driving me mad and I’d a headache starting. I wondered whether to ring Ray but decided against it - there was no point in waking him just to say I’d be half an hour later than expected.

  It was quiet on the Close. I could hear occasional traffic from the main road. My eyes felt hot and itchy, my back stiff from the tension and from peering into the viewer in the camera. I was ravenous too. Most nights I went to bed by eleven; my body was confused at being up hours after. It wanted breakfast.

  The taxi arrived and hooted loudly as it rolled down the Close, pretty inconsiderate I thought given the time of night.