by Guy Johnson
He didn’t answer.
It was much later – a while after everyone’s bedtime – that the next instalment of Ian’s drama played itself out.
I woke from just a few hours’ sleep, my mind thick, filled with imaginary wool; my eyelids heavy. I pulled the covers close to me, hoping to snuggle straight back to sleep, but muffled voices downstairs caught my attention. I looked over to Ian’s side of the room – even through the midnight shadows, I could see his bed was empty. I strained to hear the voices better; it was just two of them – Dad and Ian.
Slowly and as quietly as possible, I turned out of bed and took tiny steps out to the landing and down the stairs as far as I could, hoping I wouldn’t be detected. They were in the backroom. Reaching the eighth stair, I sat down and listened.
‘What the hell were you playing at?’ Dad. ‘What the hell made you go there? After everything that happened…’
‘I wanted to see her. Wanted to confront her.’
‘Ian, we agreed, didn’t we? I made it clear, didn’t I?’
A pause – but I had the sense he was shrugging. Shrugging and thinking through his answer.
‘How come you knew where she lived?’ Dad.
‘I’ve been following her,’ Ian confessed. ‘Ever since Scot and me saw her at Mum’s place,’ – he said that last word with slow, deliberate disgust – ‘I’ve been following her. I wanted to know where she was staying. I went back to see Mum a few times on my own and a couple of times she was there too. She didn’t see me. I wasn’t sure she was gonna recognise me. Last week, when I was leaving, she was just ahead of me. So, I followed her back to that address.’
‘Was today the first time you went in, Ian?’
Ian’s reply was small, hardly audible. ‘No.’
A deep long sigh from Dad stalled their conversation a few seconds.
‘You have to stay away, Ian. After what happened, after what Jackie did.’ Dad stopped, his words lost for a moment. ‘You have to put that past behind you. Now more than ever. You understand, boy?’
There was another pause. I guess they were looking at each other, sharing looks of understanding and acceptance. Or maybe they had run out of words. Eventually, Dad asked a question.
‘What did you tell him?’
They meant me; I knew it instinctively. They were talking about me.
‘What does Scot know?’ Dad added, restricting his question, confirming my assumption was correct beyond doubt.
‘Nothing.’
‘Good, keep it that way, okay? Last thing we need is him getting dragged into this.’ Another conversation-stifling sigh ensued. ‘Anything else, Ian?’
There was a pause: still, silent, like someone had pressed pause on the Betamax.
‘Ian?’
Ian eventually got the tape going again, shocking the scene back onto play with a single, forbidden utterance.
‘Jackie,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘The boy,’ Ian expanded. ‘That’s his name - Jackie.’
Another gap; its soundtrack a deep exhalation from Dad.
‘Jackie, eh? Well I never. Ian?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Stay away from her, ok? No going back. Not to visit her or the boy. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean it. We know she’s bad news, and this only makes the situation worse. And not another word to Scot, either. Not a word. He asks you about her, you don’t know anything. Make something up, I don’t care. Anything but the truth, okay?’
I had made my way back to bed by the time Ian sneaked in himself. I wasn’t asleep however. My mind was buzzing with a hive of confusion and questions, and I was unable to relax it. I still didn’t know who Shirley was, and now Jackie had turned up as a little boy, the same little boy who had been in the family tableau I had spied earlier that day. But whatever was going on, whatever the truth, Ian was now on instruction to keep it all from me: anything but the truth, Dad had told him. Why; why couldn’t I know the truth?
‘What’s going on?’ I eventually asked through the darkness.
Ian said nothing. I knew he wasn’t asleep. He was lying on his back and I could tell his eyes were open.
‘Ian, please, tell me.’
But he wasn’t answering any of my questions and a stubborn muteness ensued.
I lay on my back, too, eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling, simultaneously trying to work it all out and put it from my mind. In my chest, like a second heart, a fist of anxiety was clenching and pulsing, supplying my whole body with a perpetual rush of anguish.
Who was this Shirley White?
Who was this woman who I seemed to know, who seemed to know me, too, but was also a complete stranger?
Just who exactly was she?
And why was Dad so determined on my not finding out?
Eventually, my exhausted brain took control, cutting my supply of angst, and I fell into a coma of restless, broken sleep.
16.
My suspicions that there would be a price to pay for Adrian Tankard’s help in getting Rory and his gang off our backs weren’t entirely misplaced. A fortnight after I followed Ian to Shirley White’s flat, a little request came our way.
One Sunday morning, Adrian turned up at our house to deliver some white boxes to Dad. Once they were stacked in the front room, Dad took a few minutes to inspect the stock, and Adrian took this opportunity to pull Ian to one side.
‘I’ve got a job for you lot,’ he said.
It wasn’t quite the dodgy favour I was expecting.
‘It’s bad enough, though,’ Ian cursed, when he shared Adrian’s request with the rest of us. We were sitting out the front of our house, on the low wall that separated our property from the road.
‘What’s bad enough?’
Russell had arrived.
‘What’s bad enough?’ he repeated, his initial enquiry ignored.
‘Adrian Tankard wants his pound-of-flesh,’ Ian answered, indicating me, acting jokey, trying to be the old-Ian.
If I had been the old-me, I would’ve asked him what he meant: what did money and skin have to do with Adrian’s request? But I wasn’t the old-me anymore. I didn’t have time for all those word games; I’d seen exactly what happened when you played them. They took you further and further away from the truth, and I was far away enough as it was. So, I’d decided: Dad and Ian could mess with the truth all they liked, play with their words till they got lost in their own stories, but from now on, I was playing it straight.
In the end, it was just three of us who completed what Ian referred to as Adrian’s task: me, Della and Russell. A different version of the three-of-us.
Initially, Dad had objected to me going.
‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate,’ he muttered to Ian, thinking I wasn’t listening.
‘He won’t be on his own, and circumstances are different this time,’ Ian had replied and Dad agreed.
In the end, I did go along, but Ian didn’t, excusing himself from the whole operation by volunteering to help Dad move boxes for the afternoon. There was an unspoken sense of relief I shared with Della; a brief glance that said it was best not to have him around.
So, that left the obligation to me; Della and Russell joined me out of concern and intrigue, respectively.
‘Not leaving you there on your own.’ Della.
‘Seeing is believing.’ Russell. Then he added: ‘Where did this Crinky chap live then?’
I hadn’t been back to Crinky Crunkle’s since my first visit: dashing out of there on Boxing Day, in my quest to get back the money Justin had stolen from Nan Buckley’s replacement at Beverly Courts. And it was strange going back, for several reasons.
Firstly, because Justin was going to be there. With Chrissie, Sharon and Stevie-the-little-shit. All of them knowing that Justin had taken that beating on my behalf, and worse. Even though Rory and his lot nearly had me too, that wasn’t going to make much of a difference. I was still a coward. W
orse, a coward that their husband or father had felt worthy of saving from a noose.
‘It won’t be that bad,’ Della had said, looking at my attire, rolling her eyes, as we headed off.
I was wearing the parka, hood-up, fully-zipped, so my face was looking out of the fur porthole. She hadn’t objected this time – she was trying to impress Russell with a warm sisterliness - but her disapproval was obvious to me all the same.
‘Anyway, they’ll have other things on their minds.’
It would also be strange because of what had happened to Crinky ten nights earlier.
‘But he won’t actually be there,’ Della reassured me, just as we turned into Crinky’s road.
We stopped for a minute, looked at his short, fat bungalow, with the little picket fence and extra-wide front door.
‘Will he?’
Although I’d never established exactly how the Tankards were connected to Crinky Crunkle, it was clear they thought of him as family. At least, they felt obliged to pop in on him from time to time. As long as I’d known them, he’d always been around. Not in their house or anything like that – he couldn’t fit through any of their doors, in any case. But he was around; he was part of their existence.
‘Was,’ Chrissie reflected, as we came through the front door.
As expected, the whole Tankard clan was there, apart from Adrian - who was still with Dad and Ian - and Tina, who was at home holding the fort, according to Justin – the first words he had voluntarily spoken to me since Rory had pissed on him in the Jubilee Park toilets. But I didn’t get the treatment I was expecting – no one was overly friendly, but, equally, no one was hostile either.
They’ll have other things on their minds, Della had rightly predicted.
Much to Della’s relief, Crinky wasn’t in residence.
‘The police released his body to the undertakers yesterday and we got permission to sort through his things this morning,’ Chrissie explained, as she ushered us in.
‘Not treating it as suspicious then?’ Della inquired, and several sets of Tankard eyes glared at her. She’d definitely said the wrong thing.
Chrissie broke the spell of apparent ill-will.
‘No,’ she said, throwing her kids a look that said thought-you-had-things-to-get-on-with? ‘No, not being treated as suspicious.’ She stopped for a minute, caught up in something, but then the moment was over and she was back to the task in hand. ‘Now, we’ve got a system going and what we really need is your elbow grease.’
Della gave me a look that said don’t-make-any-stupid-comments-you-know-exactly-what-she-means; yet it wasn’t necessary - that look. I wasn’t playing word games anymore, was I? Then, Della asked Chrissie where she’d like us to start.
‘We’ve only cleared one of the back rooms so far, so if you can make a start cleaning in there, that’ll be great. You two talking yet?’
Suddenly, Chrissie had switched from talking to all three of us to just me.
I shrugged, not certain of what to say.
‘Bad as each other,’ Chrissie eventually uttered over my silence, before walking off. ‘Della, put the kettle on and then get your two chaps started up. Sooner we start, sooner we can get out of here.’
Russell followed her into the kitchen.
‘Not suspicious?’ I heard him whisper, urgently. ‘How can it not be suspicious?’
I think Justin heard, because he looked up from what he was doing – wrapping up cups and plates in newspaper and putting them in a thin wooden crate – and gave Russell a silent glare.
‘Right. Justin, Scot. You follow me.’ Chrissie was back. ‘Della and loverboy will be fine in here on their own. I want you two to pack up the stuff in the spare bedroom.’
I followed Chrissie, and heard Justin behind me, scuffing his feet against the floor as he went, making his presence known without speaking. I wasn’t sure if this was some kind of threat or just his way of showing a little reluctance at being in the same place as me.
‘Right, as with the other rooms,’ Chrissie instructed, ignoring the icy atmosphere that was evident between me and her son, ‘you need to clear out all the newspapers and magazines first. Take them to where Stevie is in the garden. Once it’s clear, come back to me for some boxes for the other stuff. Okay?’
We both nodded: okay.
‘Oh good,’ she said, a little sarcastically, as she went to leave. ‘And while you’re at it, you sort out whatever you need to sort out. I know stuff has been going on, but if you ain’t talking by the end of the day, I’ll bash your heads together until you are. Get it?’
I nodded, allowing a small smile to curl up on my lips. I liked Chrissie’s tough-love ways; if she ever told you off, there was always an element of fun involved, even if it was just a parting comment. I looked to Justin: his face kept its cold, stony exterior and it looked like nothing was gonna shift it, short of one of Chrissie’s fearful slaps.
‘Break a smile, or I’ll break a tooth,’ she threatened, and, whilst his mouth kept its pose, his eyes twinkled a little in response.
Once his mother had left us, however, it was back to where we’d started: glaring looks and unyielding silence. So, I simply focused on the task in hand and began to sort and remove piles of old papers, magazines and letters from the late Crinky’s spare room, carrying them out through the hall, into the kitchen, out the back door and into the garden, where Stevie-the-little-shit was in charge of the next stage: a bonfire to incinerate the lot.
The spare room at the back was no different from the rest of Crinky’s house: every possible space filled with paper. Paper he had collected and kept over many years. As we started to clear it, I wanted to talk about it, maybe find out a bit more about Crinky, but I knew I’d get nothing from Justin, so I kept all my questions inside. It took us nearly two hours just to clear the mess we could see. Once done, the room appeared like any other bedroom. The floor wasn’t carpeted – just bare boards, with loose rugs. There was a double bed, with a thick, purple eiderdown across it. There was bedside furniture and a chest of drawers, all made from mahogany wood. However, once we’d cleared up what was initially on view, further areas of work appeared: under the bed, inside a double wardrobe, inside drawers, and inside a built-in cupboard in the corner.
‘We’ll be here all day,’ I said, hoping to catch Justin off-guard, but he was on full friendship-attempt-alert and didn’t pull a single facial muscle in response.
Crinky’s collection wasn’t just newspapers and letters. He kept a whole range of paper-based items: food wrappers, including a whole pile of Heinz Baked Bean tin labels; paper bags of all shapes and sizes; wrapping paper – Christmas, birthday, plain-brown; used notepads; old school books; bills for the electric, gas and telephone; shopping receipts. The wardrobe itself was solid with books: not books you could still read, though, because Crinky appeared to have torn off the covers and simply kept the loose pages, and they weren’t in any order, either.
I kept expecting to find something interesting along the way. Maybe something dodgy? Crinky had a strange reputation after all. Or maybe I’d find something that gave a clue about Crinky’s life, or revealed a secret. But there was no pattern with this hoarded material; it was all random. The books in the wardrobe were anything from Charles Dickens to car manuals; the newspapers covered the Sun, the Express, the Times, the Guardian, the lot; and his magazines were anything from Women’s Realm to copies of Smash Hits.
‘How come you know him?’ I said, without thinking, lost in my reflections for a minute. Then I remembered. ‘Oh yes, you still ain’t talking to me. Oh, well done, you’re doing a great job,’ I added, grabbing a pile of the books and taking them out to the garden, to where Stevie-the-little-shit’s little bonfire was letting off a fair bit of heat.
‘Just keep an eye on it!’ Chrissie cried out from a window, fag flapping in her mouth. ‘Don’t let it spread!’
When I got back to the room, Justin was sitting on the bed, like he was waiting for me. When I ent
ered, he spoke to me for the first time.
‘He’s sort of a relation,’ he said, shrugging as he said it. ‘On Dad’s side. No one really speaks about it. Mum doesn’t like to, either. She’ll defend Crinky. Defended. Made us come here – Christmas, Easter, birthdays. Despite the weirdness. But she didn’t like to talk about it. He’s just a relative, one of your Dad’s, that’s all you need to know. So, that’s all I know.’
‘Okay,’ I said and we half-smiled at each other, melting a little bit of the frostiness between us. I had another question too, another question about Crinky that maybe Justin would answer. ‘Was he really a danger to you lot?’
He screwed his face up, as if he didn’t quite understand.
‘Just something I heard once. From your mum. In the Chequers one lunchtime.’ I lowered my voice, suddenly feeling conscious. This was Crinky’s house after all, even if he was dead. ‘She said you couldn’t be left with him, that you guys didn’t feel safe.’
Justin shrugged, then he seemed caught up in his thoughts for a bit, before he spoke again.
‘There was one time. Ages ago. We were left with him for the evening, and we were a bit freaked.’
‘What did he do?’
A pause – as if unsure he should share; maybe wondering, like me, if our discussion wasn’t just a bit disrespectful.
‘It was Stevie. What Crinky did to him. Nothing pervy or anything. He got a bit tipsy and gave Stevie this big hug. He was only about six or seven at the time. He wouldn’t let him go. And he was crying.’
‘Stevie?’
‘No, Crinky. Really crying, like a baby. We were a bit freaked out. I shouldn’t be saying.’
‘Sorry.’
Another shrug from Justin. ‘S’okay. Guess that must be it. Don’t remember Mum leaving us with him again. Quite glad, though. He was a bit odd, you know?’
‘Thanks.’ I paused, thought about my next word, and then decided to go for it. ‘I’m sorry. Really sorry. I was just so scared. But I’m sorry.’