Looking for Trouble (8 page)

‘Yeah,’ he said bitterly. He grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at his face. ‘I told her. I were about ten. Fat lot of good that did.’

‘She didn’t do anything about it?’

‘She said if I ever made up such disgusting lies again, she’d have me put away. Said I was sick in the head. Christ.’ He shook his head at the memory.

‘Shit,’ he said, ‘he’ll be looking for me. What’m I gonna tell him?’

‘You mean your friend with the Aston Martin?’

‘How d’you know?’

‘JB told me.’

‘I’ll kill him,’ he said. I felt sick.

‘Martin, JB’s dead. He died of an overdose, on...’

‘What? But he didn’t use...’ He laughed shortly. ‘That’s great, that is.’ He nodded as though he’d recognised some deep irony. ‘Great.’ Then again, ‘I gotta go.’

He swung out of the door with me behind him. The gaunt man stood at the junction of thoroughfares, his back to us.

‘Fuckin’ ‘ell,’ Martin looked wildly around. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’

The man turned. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ He spoke quietly, with great venom. Had a clipped Scottish accent.

‘I got a bit dizzy,’ I said. ‘Your friend helped me to the Ladies. I’m much better now – think I panicked a bit.’ I turned to Martin and thanked him.

The gaunt man grunted and marched off with Martin at his heels. Only then did I notice the smell of sweat from my armpits. My headache rose to a sickening peak and I returned to the Ladies and threw up.

On my way out, I glanced over at Martin’s group. Nothing untoward. Outside, a light drizzle fell. The sort of gauzy rain that can run for days in Manchester. I got into the Mini.

Martin’s revelation had appalled me. And I felt duped. Pictures swam in my mind. A small boy, buggered, beaten. Summoning up the courage to tell, only to be betrayed by his mother. I pictured Tom screaming, hiding, holding his secret. Christ. If Ray ever did anything like that, I’d kill him. I’d know, wouldn’t I? Surely I’d know.

I wrenched my thoughts in another direction; Martin’s relationship to the older man. Was he a jealous lover or a pimp? Martin was frightened of him. I’d established that Martin Hobbs was alive and I’d discovered why he’d left home. But his troubles hadn’t ended there. The boy I’d met was ill, fearful and unhappy.

I was still sitting in the car when Martin’s party came out of the club. Walking briskly, they rounded the corner. I wondered where they were going. Go home and sleep, my body begged. But my curiosity wouldn’t hear of it. I started the car and drove slowly round the corner, in time to see a small red Aston Martin pulling away. I followed them out of town, heading south past the back of the Infirmary. Whoever was driving kept to a steady thirty-five miles an hour, which meant I could drop back now and again and hide behind other vehicles. We drove out along Kingsway, past the Tesco superstore, then towards Cheadle. Here, there was no other traffic. I hoped they wouldn’t notice the battered Mini. I also hoped they weren’t going far. My mouth was sour, my headache pulsing. I followed several right and left turns past large semi-detached houses, each a different design. The car pulled into a driveway. I sped past, stopping at the next junction to mark the spot on my A – Z. Then I worked out my route home.

It was after three when I got home. The birds were clamouring away. I longed for a hot bath, but didn’t dare wake the household. I made a cup of tea, took two Paracetamol and got ready for bed. I sat up in bed sipping the tea and staring into the middle distance. Shattered.

As I clicked off the light and slid under the duvet, an unmistakable wail from Maddie made my stomach lurch with anxiety and my heart seethe with resentment. I marched into her room.

She sat in her bed, face creased with tears.

‘C’mon Maddie.’ I gathered her up and took her to my room.

‘In your bed?’ Her eyes were wide with surprise. I’d broken all the rules about nightmares and what we do. I simply couldn’t face another half-hour getting her back to sleep in her own room.

‘Yes. Now lie down, be still, don’t kick and no talking. Straight to sleep.’ I snapped off the light.

‘Mummy.’

‘Sleep.’ I admonished.

‘Yes. I like your bed.’

‘Good. Now sleep.’

We did.

Maddie woke me with a swift elbow jab to the nose. I shouted at her. She burst into tears. I apologised, explaining how much it hurt. I wished it would bleed, to prove my point. I took her downstairs and left her with Ray and Tom.

‘You look awful,’ said Ray. ‘Any luck?’

‘Yes and no. I’ll tell you later.’

I snuggled back under the duvet and shut my eyes tight. Sleep wouldn’t come. I ran a hot bath, added scented oil and climbed in. Put a facecloth over my eyes. When the water cooled down, I topped it up. When the wrinkles on my fingers and toes began to look revolting, I climbed out.

At least I was clean. I had that spacey, see-through feeling that comes from too little sleep. Vulnerable. A cross word and I’d weep like a child.

I ate a huge breakfast. Digger lay in the hall, a spot he’d claimed as his own. He deserved a walk. I called him and he sprang to attention. Tail wagging, ears pricked up. I took him into the front garden first. If he was going to shit, I wanted it to happen in private, behind the tall privet hedges. The kids never played in the front. Was this how other dog owners managed? For years, I’d railed against dog dirt in the streets, the park, the playground. Now I had a dog. Thankfully, he did his business to order. I waited, squirming with embarrassment in case the next door neighbours were peering down at us. I recoiled at having to gather up the results and traipse down to the cellar toilet. Give me slug traps any day.

It was a warm, still day. Picture book clouds hung isolated in the blue sky. The scent of wallflowers and cut grass mingled as we walked the half mile to the park. I’d found an old tennis ball that Digger liked to fetch. I watched him run. He was a stereotype dog. Pointed nose and ears, brown fur, long tail. Having rescued the dog, I was now ashamed at my lack of affection for him. Was it something that grew with time, as happens with babies sometimes?

Ray had often talked of getting a dog. I’d always opposed him. All that responsibility, all that shit. It was Ray who sorted out dog food and bowls, leads and worming tablets in the first day or so while I still reeled around in shock.

Digger had quietly recognised Ray as his new master. Sitting in the cellar while Ray worked at his carpentry, emerging at his heels with a frosting of sawdust on his fur. The kids were all over him and he was tolerant of their prodding and patting, slinking away when he’d had enough.

The phone was ringing as we arrived back.

‘Is Clive there?’

‘No, he’s not. We were expecting him back last Thursday actually, but...’

The young man on the other end sighed. ‘Look, can you tell him Pete rang? Tell him the cheque bounced, will you? You don’t know where he is, do you?’

‘No, just said he was visiting friends.’

‘Great,’ he said. Didn’t sound like he meant it. So we weren’t the only ones having money troubles with Clive. And where the hell was he? Surely he could have rung to say he’d be away longer? I jotted the message down and left it with the pile of mail for Clive.

I made fresh coffee and debated when to ring Mrs Hobbs. Did she work? I could leave it till after tea. What if her husband answered? Did he know she’d hired me? Had he put her up to it, as Martin had suggested? I dallied around, watering plants, tidying corners, sorting newspapers and bottles for a recycling trip. Displacement activities.

‘Oh, get on with it, Sal.’ I spoke aloud. Checked the number in my phone book. She was in.

‘Mrs Hobbs, Sal Kilkenny here. I’d like to arrange to see you.’

‘Have you found him, Martin, have you found him?’ Eager, hopeful.

‘Yes, I’ve been in touch with him.’

‘Is he alright? What’s happened to him? How’s he managing?’ Her questions tumbled out, edged with relief and excitement. I was angry with her; gripped the receiver tight, spoke formally. ‘He’s alright. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.’

‘Oh, it’s such a relief. If anything had happened...But he’s alright, you say. Thank God.’

‘She never cared before.’ Martin’s words.

I made an appointment with Mrs Hobbs for the following morning. Her effusive thanks rang in my ears as I slammed down the receiver and rubbed at the cramp in my fingers.

It obviously hadn’t occurred to her that Martin might tell me about the situation at home. Or had she repressed those horrible revelations for so long that they’d ceased to exist? Denial. What did I know? Martin’s leaving might have forced her to face the truth; perhaps she wanted to do all she could to make amends, even prosecute her husband.

It wasn’t fair to condemn her before I’d confronted her about it. But I don’t always feel fair. And I couldn’t shift the image of that small boy gathering the courage to tell, waiting for the right moment, watching her face contort as she whispered her own threats and denials. Knowing it would happen again and again.

In the precious time before the school run, I worked in the garden. I cut the grass with our old roller mower, emptying the grass box on the compost heap, savouring the crisp sweet smell. I watered tubs and window boxes. I thought about JB, re-running in my head our meeting, freezing the frame on my favourite moments. Before long those memories of him would be concentrated in one or two images. I’d forget what he actually looked like; those fine cheekbones, warm brown eyes, the olive complexion, the quality of his smile. I wondered if there was a photo or a self-portrait of him in the squat. What would happen to his pictures, his things?

I tidied up the rampant clematis round the back door. Mourned over the stumps of marigolds that the slugs had got to. The slug traps were brimming. It could have been worse. I’d killed a fair few of the buggers. There was satisfaction in that.

I hadn’t told Martin about the funeral. Would he like to be there? Would he be allowed to come? He wasn’t a free agent, I’d gathered that much. Though not the whys or hows of it.

I was eager to wash my hands of the whole affair. I wanted to forget about it. I’d tell Mrs Hobbs what I knew. And what I’d learned. Give her a rollicking for lying to me. Work out my bill and give her the change she was owed. Close my file on Martin Hobbs. Or so I thought. Just shows how wrong you can be.

Mrs Hobbs was waiting on the Dobson’s doorstep when I arrived. That threw me. I’d hoped to gather my thoughts, prepare myself to tackle her.

‘Sorry I’m early,’ she said, ‘I thought the traffic would be worse. I don’t often come in on a Saturday.’ She looked so respectable in her beige lightweight suit, a moss-coloured blouse with one of those old-fashioned cravat collars. Oh, I know abuse happens in every sort of family, but it still seemed incongruous that the plump, middle-aged woman who stood clutching her handbag and smiling nervously at me, had that dark secret.

‘Come in.’ I unlocked the door and led her downstairs. The office still smelt of paint and looked dingy and unwelcoming. I pulled up a chair for her, opposite mine.

‘He’s alright then? Where is he? How did you find him?’ She was grinning through the questions. She had a nice smile; it reminded me of the picture of Martin with the fish. ‘Oh, I was so pleased when you rang, you can’t imagine...’ I wasn’t returning her smile. She noticed. ‘Is something wrong?’ Worry enlarged those brown eyes. ‘I thought you said he was alright. What is it?’

‘Martin’s okay,’ I said. ‘He’s found somewhere to stay in Cheadle.’

‘Yes?’

My mouth was watering, a small muscle tremoring in my knee. ‘Mrs Hobbs, Martin explained to me why he left home. He told me what had been going on.’ I paused. Expecting some reaction. I got bewilderment. ‘I’d never have agreed to take the case if you’d told me the truth. Is that why you lied to me?’

‘What do you mean?’ She was alarmed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, come on, stop pretending.’ I spoke roughly, my cheeks burning. ‘Martin was abused by his father for years. When he tried to tell you about it, you threatened to send him away, called him a liar.’

‘No...No...’ A strangled cry. Her hand flew to her mouth.

‘That’s what happened. Or are you still calling him a liar?’

She began to rock, back and forth, moaning, ‘ Oh my God, oh my God,’ over and over. She seemed genuinely shocked.

‘Don’t you remember? Did you really think Martin had made it up? Children don’t lie about things like that. Did you even ask your husband about it?’ No reply. She continued that disturbing motion. She was a long way away. She’d forgotten I was there.

‘Mrs Hobbs.’ I spoke sharply. She stopped rocking. Her hand still covered her mouth.

‘I can’t explain,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She cried silently then. Shoulders jerking up and down. I waited for her to stop. Perhaps I’d misjudged her. Maybe she, too, had been abused by her husband. Robbed of the ability to protect herself or her child.