Looking for Trouble Page 2

  I needed photocopies of Martin’s photographs. There was a photocopier at the library. The library was shut. Industrial action. The council had promised to regrade the staff years before; the staff were still waiting. And fed up to the back teeth. So was I.

  I cycled over to the newsagent’s that had a photocopier and got five of each of the photos and ten enlargements of the newspaper cutting. It was time to go and collect Maddie from nursery school. My working day was over. Paid work, that is. The second shift was just beginning.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Home is a large, slightly shabby Victorian semi in Withington, south Manchester. Solid red brick with crumbling stained glass, high ceilings, big rooms and a wonderful garden. Withington houses a mix of people; families, students, workers from Christie’s hospital. The area has an old-fashioned swimming pool, a library, a health-food shop and its very own fleapit style cinema.

  Maddie and I share the house with Ray and his little boy, Tom. It’s a strictly platonic arrangement. We rent the attic flat out to a lodger.

  Tom’s a year younger than Maddie, a fact he’s never allowed to forget. He’s developed the resilience of a second child. The four of us get along pretty well, though Ray and I have our moments, a bit like the kids. Just like the kids. Resentment and squabbling, usually over the chores. Ray sulks, I bully, he flies off the handle and flounces off to do whatever hasn’t been done (it’s always a one-way nag) and peace is restored. Life is humdrum, domestic. We take turns babysitting but neither of us paints the town red when unleashed. We just shuffle along to the local for a couple of pints with old friends. Every few months Ray meets a new woman and takes to wearing aftershave and trimming his moustache. But it never seems to amount to much and he appears more or less content with his lot. He potters around, building furniture in the cellar, which is a labour of love rather than an economic proposition, and spends hours hunched over his computer. Ray’s doing a part-time computing course at Salford Tech. He hopes it’ll help him earn a decent income. To date, all it’s generated is a lot of indecent language.

  I made tea for Tom and Maddie and let them eat it picnic-style in the garden, then slung some vegetables into a pan with half a jar of Nazir’s Vindaloo Sauce for Ray and I to eat later. Chris arrived in the gap before bedtime. We sat in the kitchen, tea in hand.

  ‘How’s the new lodger?’ she asked, raising her eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘I think so. No sign of improvement. He’s away till Thursday. But then...we’re going to have to do something. We can’t go on like this. It’s getting so I dread coming into the kitchen in case he’s brewing up. It’s your fault,’ I rounded on Chris, ‘if you hadn’t moved out, we wouldn’t have ended up with him.’

  Chris giggled. ‘I’ve got the stuff you wanted.’ She foraged in a battered briefcase and drew out a large manila envelope. Inside were lists of hostels.

  ‘These are the two direct access ones: the Direct Access Centre and Peterloo. I’ve marked them with an asterisk. They take people straight off the street, always keep a few beds free, sort people out with Welfare Advice the next day, try and get them into a B & B. The rest are the general hostels, men’s and women’s; some are church-run. Most of them expect payment, unlike the direct access ones. What do you want them for?’

  ‘I’m on a case, missing person. He left home with no money, nowhere to go, as far as his mother knows. It’s possible he came to Manchester, stayed in a hostel. I can check these...

  ‘No chance,’ Chris interrupted. ‘They won’t tell you anything. It’s confidential.’

  ‘But if I explain...’

  Chris shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter, they have to protect people. No-one’s given that information.’

  ‘But all I need to know is whether he’s stayed in any of the hostels, nothing else.’

  ‘They can’t tell you that, Sal. They won’t even tell family. It’s a strict rule. It has to be.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘C’mon,’ Chris remonstrated, ‘if they start giving out that sort of information, no-one would trust the hostels...’

  ‘I know, I know...I didn’t think. It’s just, how am I supposed to start looking? I don’t even know if he came to Manchester.’ I cleared away the mugs. ‘What about kids who don’t use the hostels? Are there any places they regularly sleep out?’

  ‘Well, we haven’t got a cardboard city or anything like that. There used to be quite a lot of people under the arches, round Ardwick and down Whitworth Street in town. The council have got heavier on people sleeping rough; they don’t like to admit it still goes on. There’s still a bit of squatting, too, mainly in the old buildings in town – warehouses, places that are waiting demolition or re-development.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll just have to ask around. Thanks anyway. At least I didn’t go making a fool of myself trying to get blood out of a stone.’

  ‘Be careful. Visitors aren’t exactly welcome. A lot of those kids have good reason for leaving home, but there’s no provision for them. They’re constantly hassled by the police; after all, a lot of them have to thieve or beg to get by. They might not take kindly to anyone snooping around.’

  ‘Point taken. I’ll be careful.’

  Later, when Ray had put the kids to bed and we’d eaten, I wandered into the garden to clear up the toys. It was still light, though the cloudy sky threatened rain. I spent an hour staking up straggling carnations and gathering up mammoth brown slugs that had been munching their way through my bedding plants. I dropped them in the beer traps. The traps had been fairly successful but had begun to smell appalling. I’d have to clean them out and replenish them. Tomorrow. By the time I’d finished, a light rain had begun to fall along with darkness.

  I climbed into a hot bath and soaked the lilac paint from my hair. The weekend stretched ahead with its pattern of chores and outings. Martin Hobbs was on hold till Monday. I wondered where he was sleeping tonight. Somewhere safe and dry, or out there in the warm wet rain?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  St. Matthew’s was a redbrick Victorian school which had been added to, over the years, with an assortment of prefabs and a single-storey extension. Boys and girls in maroon and grey uniforms swarmed over every available inch of playground. Parking the car took some manoeuvring. Adolescents seem to move at two speeds; manic or catatonic. I made liberal use of my horn but half of them seemed to have some sort of death wish. I managed not to fulfil it.

  I asked a huddle of boys on the entrance steps the way to the staff room. One of them offered to show me the way. We walked through endless corridors strewn with pupils and adorned with displays of work. En route, I let slip that I wanted to talk to Martin Hobbs’ form teacher. He shrugged his shoulders.

  At the staffroom door, I knocked and entered. The room was cramped. Low pvc chairs surrounded coffee tables. At the far end of the room, the smokers sat. Open shelving lined all four walls and papers spilt from every nook and cranny. Piles covered the coffee tables too. I approached the nearest group. Half-a-dozen women eating Pot Noodles, sandwiches and fruit. A couple were marking exercise books at the same time.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Martin Hobbs’ form teacher.’

  ‘What year’s he in?’ one of the Pot Noodles asked.

  ‘Fifth, I think. He’s sixteen.’

  ‘Five Delta – Russ O’Brien – the one with the beard, in the corner.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Russ O’Brien was a smoker. Pipe. Eyes closed, feet on the table. Stout, hairy. Looked a bit like a mountain climber.

  ‘Mr O’Brien?’

  He opened one eye, realised I wasn’t a pupil and opened the other. Slid his feet from the table and sat up in his chair.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello.’ I sat down on the chair next to him. ‘I wanted a word about Martin Hobbs.’

  ‘Yes?’ He loaded the word with caution, sizing me up.

  ‘Martin’s been reporte
d missing. His family have asked me to make a few enquiries on their behalf.’

  ‘I see.’ His eyes narrowed slightly and he re-lit his pipe.

  ‘How long is it since Martin was in school?’

  ‘Have you any identification? After all,’ he spread his hands, ‘I’ve only your say-so.’ I blushed and fished in my jacket for one of the cards I always carry. I brushed off the fluff and crumbs and handed it over.

  ‘Mmmm.’ He wasn’t impressed. I know it’s only a simple photocopy job, no colours, no trendy graphics, but it states my name, number and business. He sighed and turned over the card, sighed again. I felt like I’d handed in the wrong homework.

  ‘You can ring Mrs Hobbs if you want to confirm my identity.’

  I was getting rattled by his attitude.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he smiled. It wasn’t much of an improvement. ‘Just testing. Well, Martin’s not been in for a month or so. I asked the secretary to ring home after a couple of weeks. Family said he’d left. End of story.’

  ‘Did Martin ever say anything to you, give you any idea?’

  He laughed. ‘Martin wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Chronically shy.’

  ‘Friends?’

  He grimaced and sucked on his pipe. ‘Not really. Bit of an odd bod, really. Tended to get left with the other spare parts, you know. Could try Barry Dixon or Max Ainsworth. He usually had to sit next to one or the other of them in his classes.’

  ‘Where can I find ‘em?’

  ‘Barry’ll be in the library – back of main building, then ask. Bright as they come and twice as loopy. No social skills, you’ll see what I mean. Don’t know where you’ll find young Ainsworth. Hiding, no doubt. Still, that shouldn’t bother you, eh? Elementary, my dear.’ He gave a wheezy laugh. I smiled but I wasn’t amused.

  ‘Did Martin have any favourite subjects? Any other teachers he might have confided in?’

  ‘Nope. He scraped through a couple of his mocks, GCSEs. Didn’t shine at anything. Kept his head down. Could ask Julia over there,’ he waved his pipe. ‘The skinny one. Religious studies, encourages the wall flowers, stands up for the underdog. Bit of a social worker.’

  Julia wasn’t much help. She confirmed Martin’s shyness, described him as a loner and rued the fact that he’d never confided in her in or out of the classroom.

  I made my way back to the school library. It was pretty full. Exams, I suppose. I was directed to the small cubicles at the back of the room. There I discovered Barry Dixon. When he began to talk, I realised what Russ O’Brien had been getting at. The boy’s speech was spattered with asides, tangents, classical and philosophical references and quotations. He also spoke incredibly fast, like Patrick Moore on speed. He only ever broke eye-contact to blink and he broke all the rules about personal space, so I felt as though he was hemming me up against the wall of the tiny cubicle. I asked Barry if he knew where Martin had gone, if he knew why he was unhappy and if he’d ever talked of a place or people he’d like to visit. I drew three blanks in amongst the barrage of chatter.

  Max Ainsworth had everything to attract the bullies. His face was raw with acne, he wore thick glasses and a brace, he was lanky and round-shouldered. He sat alone on a bench in a quieter area of the playground.

  I explained why I was there and began my questions. Max thought before replying and seemed to know a great deal more about Martin than Barry Dixon had. It struck me that Barry was oblivious to other people, locked in his academic world. Max had the more common ability to hold a conversation where you take turns speaking.

  ‘Do you know why he left home?’

  ‘He was fed up with it. He never said much, just used to say he’d leave home soon as he was sixteen.’

  ‘Where would he go?’

  ‘Dunno. Try and get a job, I suppose. Not easy.’

  ‘No. Did he ever mention other friends, places he might stay?’

  ‘No, he was very quiet. Fishing. That was his big thing. He’d talk about that. I went with him a few times, Dean Clough, Rumworth. It was alright but I didn’t have all the gear. Bit boring really. He were good at it. Won competitions and that.’

  ‘Why was he fed up at home? What were his parents like?’

  ‘Dunno, never went round. He came to mine a few times.’

  I reckon Max was the nearest thing to a friend Martin had. I gave him one of my cards and asked him to get in touch if he thought of anything else, or if he heard from Martin.

  ‘Like telly,’ he flashed a smile. Then his voice filled with concern. ‘Do you think he’s alright?’

  ‘Yes.’ Reassurance came automatically. I hadn’t really considered whether Martin could be in trouble, he’d not shown any leaning towards crime before...and teenage suicides don’t usually leave home to escape. ‘Do you?’

  Max shifted on the bench. ‘S’pose so, it’s just...’ he paused. ‘There was this one time...he was getting really riled...they were giving him a hard time,’ he nodded towards the kids in the playground, ‘and he just went mad, lost it completely. He nearly killed this guy. Had his head, banging it against the floor, there was blood everywhere. We had to drag him off. He was in a daze, like he didn’t know what he’d done. They laid off him after that. Passed it round he was a bit of a nutter.’

  ‘Do you think he was?’

  ‘No. It was just that once. Rest of the time he was just quiet. Scared the shit out of me, I can tell you, seeing him like that.’

  ‘Wasn’t he disciplined?’

  Max shook his head. ‘No-one reported it. Gibson went to hospital, his mates took him, said he’d fallen off a wall or summat like that. Martin was back the next day like it had never happened.’

  I got caught in heavy traffic driving back to Manchester. I always come in through Salford, our neighbouring city, and there was only one lane open due to repair work.

  The sun shone and it was hot in the car. I wound the window down and mentally crossed off my list as we edged slowly forward. It wasn’t a long list. I could ask around up at Martin’s old fishing haunt, though I suspected that anglers were a solitary breed. And I could wander the streets of Manchester, in search of other young runaways. See if anyone recognised Martin’s photo. It was a long shot but I didn’t have much option. I didn’t exactly relish the prospect of trawling round town for the young homeless, so I decided to get it over and done with as soon as possible. I hadn’t time to fit it in before picking the kids up but I’d do it first thing the following morning. And on Wednesday I’d go fishing...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was a June morning, just like the good old days. Not a cloud in sight, warm sun, blossom. But nobody relied on it. As I drove into town, I noticed everyone sported rolled up umbrellas. And most of the old folk were still in winter coats and hats. It was going to take more than this to convince them that summer was on its way.

  I parked in a side street off Piccadilly Gardens, more of a back alley than a street. I hoped it was small enough to miss regular visits from the traffic wardens. I threaded my way through the debris that littered the alley. Rubbish from the clothing wholesalers who occupied most of the old buildings. Here and there, a pile of ripped bin-bags spilt out bones and vegetable peelings, marking the back entrance to the occasional restaurant. Tuesday must be bin-day.

  I wandered through the gardens to Piccadilly Plaza. The row of shops faced the bus terminus. It was one of the busiest parts of town but had always had a seedy, run-down feel. Most of the shops were discount stores, selling tacky goods at give-away prices. Or charity shops, Oxfam and Humana. Above the parade rose the ugly Piccadilly complex; hotel, radio station, electronic billboards. It was an area I shopped in regularly, buying second-hand clothes rather than new tat and I’d often seen youngsters begging here.

  I was in luck, or so I thought at the time. A couple of lads were sitting quietly in the entrance to one of the empty shops. A cardboard sign announced they were hungry and homeless. In an old Kentucky Fried Chicken carton they’d collected a handful
of coins. Hardly enough for a chicken drumstick, let alone a decent meal.

  ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’

  The boy on the left sniggered, dug his fingers deeper into his anorak pockets.

  ‘What about?’ I judged the boy who spoke to be older, eighteen or so. He had a savage crew-cut and baby-blue eyes. ‘You making a documentary or summat?’

  His friend erupted into childish giggles.

  ‘No, I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s missing. I wondered if you’d seen him?’ I pulled out the photo of Martin with the carp. I’d cropped off most of the fish. Blue Eyes barely glanced at it and shook his head. He passed it to Giggler who seemed to find it hilarious.

  ‘You got any change?’ Blue Eyes nodded at the carton. With a rush of embarrassment, I realised I hadn’t any money on me. I knew a cheque wouldn’t be any good to them.

  ‘I’m sorry. I came out without any money.’

  ‘Great,’ he sneered. The younger boy was beginning to roll the photo into a tube. I held out my hand and took it back.

  ‘He went missing about a month ago. His name’s Martin, Martin Hobbs. I heard he was in Manchester.’

  ‘Big place,’ said Blue Eyes aggressively.

  An old woman stopped beside us and fumbled in her purse for change. She dropped some silver into the box then hurried away.

  ‘Is there anywhere else you know I could look? Any squats you know about?’ Blank stares. ‘Look, there’d be a reward for useful information.’

  ‘How much?’ Blue Eyes was interested, if sceptical.

  ‘Well, it’d depend on what it was...’ I faltered.

  ‘Fuck this. C’mon.’ He scooped up the tray and leapt to his feet. Giggler followed suit.