Burial of Ghosts

Chapter Twelve

Absalom House was double-fronted, part of a terrace in a shabby street running up from the sea front. When family seaside holidays were popular and the workers of industrial lowland Scotland thought Whitley Bay would be a glamorous place to spend a couple of weeks in August, it had probably been a hotel. Now it was a place to dump homeless young people.

‘It’s not a hostel,’ said the woman who answered the phone when I rang. She sounded indignant. ‘I mean it’s not the sort of place where they’re pushed out of the door after breakfast and not let in until suppertime. We’re a real community.’

Maybe so, but from her voice – middle-class prim – I doubted that she lived there. More likely she went home every night to a nice home in a nice area. She could have been a neighbour of the Laings. I doubted too that she had much contact with the residents. I imagined her as one of the social workers of my childhood, locked in her office writing reports while we played fretfully outside, desperate for adult company and support.

This time I’d planned a different cover. I told the woman I was a journalist researching a feature on young runaways. She was sniffy until I implied that the publicity would be good for fund-raising and promised faithfully not to use individual residents’ details without their consent. If I’d said I was a social worker she’d probably have let me in more easily, but I knew I’d get nothing out of Thomas and his mates that way.

I conned a lift out of Ray again. It wasn’t much out of his way, he said, though I knew fine well his next job was in Berwick, in completely the opposite direction. He didn’t speak all the way down the Spine Road. He just sat with his eyes on the road and a daft, dreamy grin on his face.

‘What is going on with you and Jess?’ I asked suddenly. I wanted to know how things stood. I must have sounded like an angry father asking the intentions of a daughter’s suitor, because he blushed.

‘I think I want to marry her,’ he said.

‘What do you mean, you think?’

‘I mean I do.’

‘What does she say?’

‘I’ve not found the courage to ask yet.’

But he would. I could tell by the self-absorbed smile. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was there, with him, at every sooty boiler and leaking radiator. I wanted to ask what would become of me then. Would they sell the house in Newbiggin? Would they keep it for themselves? In the end I didn’t say anything. I left him to his marshmallow fantasies. But the thought of Jess as a married woman added to my edginess and uncertainty. If she settled down with Ray, where would I go? Somewhere like this?

There was another jolt when the door was opened to me by Dan Meech. We stared at each other on the doorstep. Inside there was the sound of music. Through an open door I saw a couple of lads bickering over a pool table, but they took no notice of us. I was embarrassed. It occurred to me that Dan was living there. He’d never made much money at work. Like most actors, he seemed to be without a job for most of the time. Perhaps Acting Out, his community theatre group, had finally disbanded through lack of interest. I suspect he felt equally awkward. I’d behaved very oddly when we met the day before, lurking outside an estate agent’s. Perhaps he’d heard rumours of the incident in Blyth – these things are hard to keep quiet – imagined I’d had a breakdown, been kicked out onto the streets.

The silence was broken by the prim voice from the phone. It sailed over the upstairs banister, followed by an eccentric woman in a long velvet skirt, trailing scarves and big boots. She had dyed ginger hair backcombed into a bush, and very bright lipstick which strayed wildly from the outline of her lips. She was more elderly than the voice suggested and quite different from the social work clone I’d pictured.

‘You must be Ms Bartholomew,’ she said. ‘Come in, my dear. Dan, this is the journalist who’s promised us some publicity. Dan Meech, one of my part-time staff. He and I are the only ones who live in.’ More shattered preconceptions.

‘Lizzie and I are old friends,’ Dan said. ‘We were at university together. Journalism is it now, Lizzie?’ Not giving me away, but making it clear to me that he didn’t believe a word.

‘Can you do the tour of honour?’ the woman said. ‘I’ve just had Charlie’s social worker on the phone. His mother wants him home. Apparently. I don’t believe a word. We need to talk.’ She drifted away towards the arguing voices, leaving a cloud of patchouli behind her. We watched her go.

‘That’s Ellen,’ Dan said. ‘She runs the place.’

‘A character.’

‘That’s the impression she likes to give. She’s not as dotty as she makes out.’

‘And she’s your boss?’

‘That’s right. I’ll show you upstairs first, shall I?’ Sarcastic, as if he knew I had no interest in the fittings and furnishings.

‘What happened to Acting Out?’

‘I still work there. It was never exactly a full-time commitment.’

I followed him along the top floor, peering round doors, interested despite myself. Ellen had been right. This wasn’t an institution. It was a big, shabby home. The ceilings were high and the rooms were airy. Most had their own bathrooms. If Jess did decide to sell up Sea View, I could do a lot worse.

He was leading me back to the main staircase when a door opened and I had a glimpse of two faces. Girls with dark eyes wearing soft white headscarves. The door shut again quickly, although they must have been on their way out before we appeared.

‘Who are they?’

‘No personal details, Ellen said.’ He was still hostile.

‘I’m not asking for names. I’m interested, that’s all.’

‘Looking for a story?’ He was sneering again.

‘That’s right.’

‘They’re sisters,’ he said. ‘Eastern European originally. They’ve been through a bad time.’

I would have liked to know more, but that wasn’t why I was here and I didn’t want to antagonize him with more unnecessary questions.

We went back downstairs and sat in the kitchen. It had that grubby untidiness which you always seem to get when young people live together. Biscuit crumbs on the floor and unwashed mugs piled up in the sink, a fruit bowl of shrivelled oranges and overripe bananas. But it was a pleasant room. An open door led into a glass lean-to and then an overgrown garden. Dan put on the kettle before he turned on me. Perhaps being in charge of all these people had gone to his head.

‘What exactly are you doing here, Lizzie? And don’t give me the crap you gave Ellen. Journalists make notes. I bet you haven’t even got a pen on you.’

So I told him. Not about Philip. Just that I was on the sick and that I’d been asked to trace a lad. He made a pot of tea and rinsed out a couple of the mugs. He didn’t ask about my illness, but I gave him something to be going on with. ‘Depression,’ I said. ‘Stress-related.’ I almost felt I had him eating out of my hand. Almost but not quite. Dan Meech was never a soft touch, except when it came to blonde dance students.

‘Thomas Mariner,’ I said, staring at him, hoping for a flash of recognition. None came. Perhaps I’d underestimated his skill as an actor.

‘I can’t tell you anything. I work here. It’s confidential.’

‘Look, all I’ve got to do is wait for one of those lads playing pool. They won’t stay in all day and I can be very patient. If Thomas is living here they’ll tell me. If I give them a tenner I’ll know the colour of his underpants and when he last had sex. But it’s delicate, isn’t it? He wouldn’t want them all knowing someone’s looking for him. Besides, if Thomas is here you’ll know him better than anyone. If you were involved from the beginning you’d be able to help.’

‘He isn’t living here.’ As if that was the end of the matter. Either he’d never known me very well or he’d forgotten how stubborn I could be.

‘But he did once. And you’ll know where he is now.’

‘He doesn’t want anyone to find out. I promised I’d not say. And how come you’re involved anyway?’

‘This is personal, Dan. Almost family.’ And really, that was what it felt like.

I was expecting more of a fight, but suddenly Dan gave in. Perhaps he could tell how much this would mean to me. He held up his hands, a gesture of surrender. ‘All right. You win.’

‘An address, then?’

‘Look,’ he said wearily, putting off the inevitable, ‘do you fancy a pint?’

There was a pub a couple of streets away. It was very small, one bar not much bigger than Jess’s kitchen. The landlord was a big-jowled man, flabby and loose-skinned. He nodded at Dan as soon as we walked through the door and had his pint pulled before we reached the bar. He seemed offended when I said I’d have the same. If ladies drank beer at all, it was clear he preferred them to have halves, which he’d serve in glasses with stems.

‘How did you get involved in Absalom House?’ I asked.

‘Acting Out did a workshop there for the residents. Ellen and I got talking. She offered me a job.’

‘Who funds it? Social services?’

‘They fund a few of the residents. Kids who’ve been in care and need a bit of support. But it’s a charity. Ellen set it up thirty years ago in memory of her son. He was sleeping rough in London, got mugged and died two days later in hospital.’

‘Is there a Mr Ellen?’

‘I suppose there must have been once. She never mentions him. She probably wore him out. She’s tireless. There are other trustees, but she does most of the work. She’s provided a home for hundreds of kids over the years. I don’t know how long she’ll be able to keep going. I don’t dare ask her age but she must be at least seventy. She was an actress in rep before she started up in this. Perhaps that’s why she took to me. In my darker moments I think she might be expecting me to take the place over when she can’t manage any more.’

‘Grooming you for stardom?’

He grinned. ‘Something like that.’

‘Thomas Mariner was one of your residents?’

‘Aye, for a couple of months. He had the room next to the lasses you saw. The sisters in the headscarves. But he’s working. It wasn’t hard for him to find his own place. Absalom House was always going to be temporary for him. Perhaps his mother thought it would bring him to his senses, send him home promising to be a good boy.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘He’ll do all right.’

‘Come on, Dan. You can give me more than that.’

‘He’d had a row with his family. Uptight middle-class bitch and a stepfather I never met.’

‘But you did meet the mother?’

‘She helped him move in, brought round some of his gear in the car. There was something heavy going on between them. Not just him moving out. I mean, he was old enough to be independent anyway. With a bit of time he’d have been able to find a flat. But she wouldn’t give him the time. There was something else. They’d fallen out big style.’

‘Did he ever tell you what it was all about?’

‘No. I was just starting to know him when he moved out. There was a student, a lad Thomas had been friendly with when he was at school, who needed a body to share a house in Seaton Delaval. The lad’s father had bought this place and done it up. The mortgage worked out cheaper than hall of residence fees apparently and I suppose he saw it as some kind of investment. Anyway, Thomas could afford the rent and he moved on.’

‘Did he talk about his work?’

‘Not much. He likes to impress, does Thomas, and moving paper around in the haulage firm didn’t give the impression he wanted to create. Not in front of the other lads. He’d rather be talking about the band he’s in, the gigs he plays.’

‘Is it paper?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’d be computers now, wouldn’t it? Any invoice and booking system?’

‘Well, he’d be all right, then.’ Dan was starting to get impatient. ‘He knows all about IT. Ellen’s system went on the blink and he got it going again. Bragged about it for weeks, but he certainly knows his stuff.’

‘You don’t sound as if you liked him.’

‘Like I say, he’ll do all right.’ He must have realized that wasn’t enough for me. ‘Look, he’s young, a bit cocky, a bit arrogant. Or maybe he’s just not very sure of himself and needs to put on a show. Whatever. None of them are angels.’

‘Why’s he still working for the haulage company if he’s so good with computers? He could get a job programming. It’d pay more.’

‘Perhaps he likes being a big fish in a little pond. The confidence thing again.’

Some mystical or telepathic signal must have passed between Dan and the landlord, because two more pints appeared on the bar. This time I paid.

‘Anything else you can tell me?’

‘He’d started doing voluntary work, fund-raising for some conservation charity. It was probably Nell’s influence.’

‘Nell?’

‘His girlfriend. The love of his life. At least she was while he lived at the hostel. They’ve split up recently.’

‘Does she live at Absalom House?’

Dan shook his head. ‘She’s still at school. Sixth form of Whitley High. Lives at home with Mummy and Daddy. Staid and respectable in an arty, theatrical sort of way. Mummy and Daddy are arty too. Very liberal.’ He paused, gave the sheepish grin which made me remember why I’d fancied the pants off him at university. ‘She did her work experience at Acting Out.’

I was relieved. That explained Dan’s ambiguous attitude to Thomas. There was nothing sinister and I hadn’t been imagining things. They were rivals for the affections of a pretty girl. Dan was still speaking. ‘Her real name’s Helen. Helen Ravendale. But known to all her friends as Nell.’ Suddenly he stopped short. A question he should have asked upfront had just occurred to him. ‘If his mother wanted to find Thomas, why didn’t she come and ask?’

‘Because you wouldn’t have told her where he was.’

‘It is his mother, then, who asked you to trace him?’

I tapped the side of my nose and told him that I had client confidentiality to respect too. ‘Let’s have that address in Seaton Delaval.’

‘Look, he really didn’t want anyone to know. He made a point when he left. If he asks, you didn’t get it from me.’

‘OK.’

‘It’s 16 Isabella Street.’ He stopped pretending to resist. ‘I remember because I was preparing to forward some mail to him this afternoon. If you come back to the hostel you can pick it up. You might as well take it with you. Save me a trip to the post box.’