Towers of Silence

by Cath Staincliffe

  It was just after five and I was early for my last doorstep call so I walked through to Wilmslow Road and treated myself to a vegetable biriyani with naan bread and all the trimmings. It was warm in the restaurant and pretty quiet. I watched the world go by through the plate glass windows strung with fairy light and lanterns. People were coming home from work, traffic heavy from the direction of town. Buses chugged past, plastered with advertising slogans. I watched two students window-shop, arms wrapped about each other. Both had startling hairstyles; his was closely shaved and striped black and white, while she had hair to her waist, cobalt blue. I smiled. Diane would approve. A man selling the Big Issue got rid of his last copy and walked off.

  I paid my bill, accepted some scented cachou sweets to suck and drove back to Ladybarn. Mrs Bell answered the door. She remembered me and called out, “Nicholas, it’s the lady I told you about.”

  He came downstairs slowly as though age was stiffening his joints. I waited for his wife to withdraw before I made my enquiry. “Hello. I’m Sal Kilkenny, I’m a private investigator working for Miriam Johnstone’s family. We’re trying to trace someone who called on Miriam the day she died - a gentleman from the church. I wonder whether you can help?”

  He glared through his spectacles at my question and unceremoniously shut the door in my face.

  I dealt with my hot sense of rejection by speculating on the reasons for his action. Was he the grey-haired caller panicking at being traced? Or simply outraged at the implication that he, or another churchgoer, may have visited Miriam with less than platonic intentions. But I hadn’t said anything like that, I’d kept it innocent enough. Suppose he was seeing Miriam - wouldn’t slamming the door on me have aroused his wife’s curiosity? A discrete denial, or even admission, would have been a cannier response. Mind you, sudden discovery doesn’t always lead to logical or considered reactions. Then again, maybe one of the amenable denials of the other three men concealed a secret relationship. I was getting nowhere fast with the identity of that caller and it may have been completely insignificant. The man hadn’t found Miriam at home, and there was nothing to suggest that he’d seen her later that day. I wasn’t sure that there was much point in pursuing that line of enquiry at this stage. I could always come back to it.

  And I did.

  Oh, boy, I did.

  I’d been home an hour when Patrick rang to tell me Roland was back. They had not pressed him for an explanation of his absence but told him Martina had answered all my questions.

  “Have you thought about bereavement counselling for him?”

  “We’re working on it,” he said. “There’s a teacher at school who Roland gets on really well with. He knows someone who’s done a lot of work with teenagers. Roland’s not taken him up on it yet but there’s also a book he’s recommended. Connie’s got it on order. I think Roland might find it easier to read something first of all. Talking to people ... well ...”

  “Yes. Thanks for letting me know anyway. I’ll be in touch.”

  I was glad that the lad had come back and was okay but a small crumb of doubt tickled away at me. Was it just grief that drove him away at the prospect of talking to me or was there anything else? I needed that edge of scepticism to do my work but I hated the taste it left in my mouth. I wanted to think the best of people, to find the good in them, to see that triumph. But I’d learnt enough to know that life wasn’t like a fairy tale, that people go wrong - some people. They make mistakes and mess things up; they hide and cheat and choke themselves with secrets and guilt. Suddenly, like missing a step in a dream, their world changes. And it can happen to anyone. It had happened to Miriam through her illness. That lunge for destruction, annihilation. Her act, her loss had created a tidal wave of change for her children. I wasn’t sure how Martina was dealing with it, though her tears seemed healthy enough. Connie was searching for facts, a schedule, sightings, details, anything to throw into the yawning ‘why’? She was still at the stage of anger, disbelief, almost denial.

  And Roland? Was Roland drowning? I would leave him be for now but I wouldn’t forget that sliver of uncertainty I had. I’d learnt to trust my intuition; it is a skill I use in the work, it’s imprecise, shadowy even, but when I get that tug in my gut and the tightening sensation on my skin then I know something’s going on. I hadn’t felt it when I’d been so rudely banished from Nicholas Bell’s doorstep but I had when Roland Johnstone stood me up.

  File under pending.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My world seemed full of teenage boys. Unhappy teenage boys. On the second morning that I trailed Adam Reeve he wagged college. He set off in the same direction as before but as soon as he reached Kingsway he crossed the road and walked to the bus stop that was served by buses running into town.

  I followed on. There was a cluster of people waiting and although I didn’t expect Adam to notice me, the extra numbers would help. I watched him now and again out of the corner of my eye. He had a sleepy look, created in part by the way his eyes turned down at the corners. A crop of spots had erupted over his nose. He was slightly stooped and his hands in pocket and head down stance made it clear to all that he was not up for any idle chit chat.

  The two women next to me were. They talked in a desultory way about the appalling bus service and tried to cap each other’s stories of nightmare journeys. I was glad it wasn’t raining. The wind had dropped and the temperature too. The sky was airbrushed with touches of breathy cloud. A nip of frost threatened. Gloves and hat weather. I had both. Adam had neither. Was he hunched partly against the cold?

  At long last two buses careered into view. We all piled onto the first as the second swooped past. Playing leapfrog all the way to town. Adam went upstairs and I sat down, the better to maintain my status as the invisible woman.

  The journey to town was excruciating. Road works were a permanent feature of life in Manchester. The place had mushroomed in Victorian times, the centre of the cotton trade and a mercantile capital. Now a hundred and fifty years on things were crumbling, repairs went hand in hand with renovation to create a constantly changing city. The sewers had been dug up and shored up, new Metro Link lines installed for the successful light rapid transport system, old warehouses were converted into swanky apartments overlooking tarted up canals, city living was in vogue. Cafe bars and restaurants sprang up along the canal sides and under the railway arches where once goods had been lifted on and off the barges, carts had been repaired, paint mixed or candles made.

  The latest transformations were in honour of the Commonwealth Games. There were new roads being made and stadia built. The journey would have been slow at the best of times, commuters streaming into work in their cars but with lane closures along Birchfields Road and work on Upper Brook Street I could have walked there in the time it took the bus. I thanked my lucky stars that this wasn’t part of my daily routine.

  Adam got off at the bus terminus in Piccadilly Gardens. They were rebuilding here too, in the square which lay between the old parade of buildings on Piccadilly and the shabby, stolid concrete, sixties-built Plaza Tower opposite. It was a controversial scheme to re-landscape the site and take part of the gardens for a new building. Planning had been approved in spite of protests about green space and parks in the city, and work was cracking on apace.

  The sun was shining and had climbed high enough to reach over the buildings. It spread golden light but little warmth. Adam set off away from the shopping centre and along to Portland Street. His loping gait was easy to see and I could keep some distance between us without losing him. Where was he going? Chinatown? The gay village? Neither as it turned out. He went into Chorlton Street coach station, into the ticket office.

  Were we going on a coach? I got in the queue, next but one to Adam. There were two clerks behind the counter. Their turnover seemed painfully slow. I could feel the tension in the queue as our wait ground on, hear muttered complaints and regular heartfelt sighs.

  My mobile startled me. It was Susan R
eeve. “Adam’s not in college. They’ve phoned.”

  “I’m dealing with it,” I said, “I’ll get back to you later.”

  “Oh, good.” She said with relief. “Right. Thank you.”

  I closed my phone put it away.

  At last it was Adam’s turn.

  I strained to hear what he asked for from my place near the head of the queue but couldn’t catch a word. I began to feel panicky. How could I buy my ticket if I didn’t know where he was going? Would they let me pay on the coach? My dilemma was resolved by the clerk dealing with him who said in ringing tones, “Return to York, ten pounds fifty.”

  Adam muttered something.

  “On the hour, change at Leeds.”

  Adam nodded and stepped away. No ticket, nothing. Was he paying on the coach? I didn’t want to lose him nor attract his attention. I waited until he’d left the office before sighing in supposed frustration and abandoning the queue. Given I was now next in line they must have thought I’d lost my marbles - or maybe missed my bus.

  I scoured the lanes in the depot for Adam, my eyes flicking fast in search of the boy with a bag on his back, stooping a little, gangly stride. No sign. I ran out onto Bloom Street. Nothing. I went up and round the corner. There he was, heading back towards Piccadilly. I let my heart settle back in my chest.

  I followed him across the tram lines and down to Market Street. The pedestrianised area beside the Arndale Centre was always busy. A stall in the centre of the thoroughfare was selling cheap socks, inflatable reindeers and Santa hats. There were Christmas lights slung between the shops. The patterned paving was littered with chewing gum like urban lichen. A pair of buskers, accordion and sax were playing carols in a jazzy style. Two middle-aged women hovered with clipboards, out to recruit new takers for a mail order catalogue.

  Adam went into the Arndale Centre. The next three hours were a prime example of the numbing boredom of most surveillance work. Adam Reeve mooched. I followed. He never bought anything, not even a drink or a sandwich, never tried anything on or spoke to anyone. He wandered in and out of the shops though I noticed he avoided the women’s fashion shops where he’d look out of place. Occasionally he’d pick something up, examine it for a bit, then replace it. I wondered if he was building up to shoplifting but nothing transpired. I trailed behind him, increasingly hot, tired and thirsty. I loathe the Arndale centre; I would nominate it for a sick building award - sick in the old-fashioned sense of the word - along with every other shopping mall I’ve ever been dragged into and I’d count Ikea as one too. I just can’t hack it. I am not a mall rat. Not even a mall mouse and I pride myself on never having set foot in the massive out of town Trafford Centre. Maddie is always pestering me to take her.

  At one point he sat on a bench. For a whole half hour. Killing time. I pretended to browse my way through discount books and children’s clothes in the front section of nearby stores. The beginnings of a headache cupped my forehead and I was desperate for the toilet. The toilets were tucked away in a corner of the lower mall about a million miles away from our present spot. If I built a mall there’d be a toilet on every corner, and somewhere to rest. And I’d arrange all the shops in a row with a street between them open to unlimited daylight and fresh air. I mean, what is it with all this emphasis on everything being under the same roof. Can’t we cope with a spot of rain or a gust of wind? We were designed to be weatherproof when all’s said and done.

  I resolutely ignored the dull pain in my bladder and hung on. Hordes of people circulated through the building. I watched one young woman pushing a buggy laden with boxes and bags. She had a toddler as well as a baby. He was beside himself, screaming and red-faced. His mother looked exhausted. “Shurrup,” she screamed at him, yanking the hood of his coat and dragging him up close. “Shut yer bleeding noise,” she released his hood and slapped him across his head.

  I felt sick. And sorry. I knew how she felt. There were times when I’d come so close with Maddie. Times I had to leave the room, go and vent my inept rage on a pillow or let it out in scalding tears. I counted myself lucky, I’d had the resources to hold back, to walk away, to count to ten or fifty or whatever. Managing to stay one side of the line. Just. How did the child feel? Did that shouting face and the swipe of her hand make him angry inside, did it hurt still or was he learning not to feel it? And what about her? Did she feel guilty? Justified? Too strung out to care? Depression is a common side-effect of motherhood. Comes with the territory. I thought about Miriam. She had to raise three children, most of the time on her own. She wouldn’t have earned much as a cleaner at the hospital and the break with her husband had been irreparable. He wouldn’t have helped with maintenance. No child support agency back then tracking down absent fathers. His leaving had made her ill. Had she had any help with the children? Connie was ten years older than Roland. Had she played mother when Miriam was too sick?

  The tape loop was on its third rendition of ‘The Holly and The Ivy’ when Adam got up and wandered back to the bus. I held my pelvic floor muscles very tight as we lurched and bumped our way south to Burnage. As I expected he got off near home and went straight back there.

  I was released.

  Back at mine, once I’d answered the deafening call of nature (oh bliss, oh bliss), I made myself a bowl of carrot and coriander soup and soaked it up with a slab of bread. I felt my blood sugar levels climb back to a reassuring level. I get cranky as anything when they’re low. There was some fruitcake too so I cut a large piece of that and had it with a chunk of Wensleydale cheese; an old Yorkshire tradition that I’d acquired from my father.

  Appetites sated - well, some of them anyway - I rang Stuart. He runs a cafe bar in Didsbury but he’s often at home doing paperwork in the daytime. Not today though. I was disappointed. It would be nice to see him soon. I wondered why he hadn’t rung me, I knew it was a really busy time at work for him plus he’d had his children all weekend but it was Wednesday already. I left a message suggesting we fix up a drink or something. I was most interested in the something.

  I rang Susan Reeve. I could hear the clamour of family life in the background and kept my call short. Told her there wasn’t much to report, Adam had hung around town all day but there was something I wanted to follow up with her and I arranged to pop round in the morning.

  Adam’s enquiry about travel to York was the only item of any interest. Why York? Friends? Relations? A girlfriend? I’d see if Susan knew. But he’d obviously not been there on previous jaunts, not by coach anyway. Had he just been sitting round the Arndale? They didn’t stay open that late. Even for Christmas shopping it was shut by ten.

  I pictured Adam sat on the bench, chin practically on his chest, arms crossed, gaze faraway. What was he doing? One word sprang to mind. Brooding. That’s what it looked like. Miserable, introspective, lonely. Adolescent angst? A lonely boy with nowhere to go. Except York? Why York? Was there something there to give him hope?

  Chapter Twenty

  I was in the middle of mopping the kitchen floor when my mobile rang. It was Eddie Cliff from the Whitworth Centre. He had spoken to the Craft Club the previous day and he thought tomorrow would be all right if I still wanted to talk to them. Some people were a little edgy about it but he could be there and give me the nod if he felt anyone was getting uncomfortable.

  “I know the signs,” he explained. “It’s not always obvious.”

  It was short notice but fitted in with my plans to do anything other than spend another day bored rigid watching Adam Reeve brood at the Arndale Centre.

  Digger slunk in while I was finishing the call. I shooed him away with my foot. He shot me a doleful look, resentful that he couldn’t occupy his favourite spot beside the old armchair by the bay window in the kitchen. Originally I thought he liked it there because it was handy for any food dropping events but it’s actually just where the central heating pipes run under the wooden floor to the radiator. Warmth plus the prospect of table scraps.

  Mopping complete, I sh
ut the door on it and plugged the hoover in the hall socket. First I needed to sweep the stairs with a stiff brush. I don’t enjoy housework but I try and do it as energetically as possible and consider it exercise. Well, I try. I duly swapped the little brush from hand to hand and went down the stairs like the clappers. Digger was now stretched out alongside the radiator in the hall. When I switched the hoover on I swear he rolled his eyes at me before getting to his feet with an air of resignation and padding off into the playroom.

  I had been responsible for arriving home unannounced with Digger. But my role in his care stopped there. Digger adores Ray and sees me as a bit of an irritant. It’s mutual, every which way. Oh, he’s a pleasant enough dog but I am not a doggy person.

  Looking in the playroom there was precious little carpet visible beneath the tide of bright plastic bits that reached from wall to wall. I couldn’t face the sort and tidy ordeal required to excavate the carpet for hoovering and I didn’t have the time anyway. It was ten to three. The lounge was okay. I wheeled the hoover in there.

  The garden looked glum at this time of year, even though there were plenty of evergreen shrubs. I’d left most of the herbaceous perennials as they were, hoping that a coating of frost would redeem them and preferring old stalks to bare earth. However we hadn’t had such low temperatures yet and they all had that sodden, battered look. Half-dead and neglected. A hardy fuchsia still sporting tiny deep pink flowers, hanging like delicate lanterns and a snowberry bush heavy with masses of small white balls were the only bright colours in among the muddy browns and straw shades. Oh, of course the grass was green. The grass was drenched. I could have grown rice out there. Or farmed trout. Well - almost.

  A squirrel dug in the lawn, stashing some nuts or seeds. Another month or so, maybe six weeks and the snowdrops would be starting. The days would get a little longer. Everything would start to grow again. I couldn’t wait.