Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The door opened and closed behind them. I ran back. Heat, smoke and noise hit me like a wall. I craned my neck, looking for Martin. I spotted him at the other side of the room. The group were squeezing into seats, while one of them set off for drinks. Martin was by far the youngest in the party. The other three men were in their fifties, I guessed. At Martin’s side sat a man with craggy features; he looked like Kirk Douglas with grey hair. Next to him was a gaunt man with sunken eyes, thinning hair, a long face. And returning from the bar with a tray of drinks was a short, stocky man with a pudding-bowl haircut and lots of jewellery. I studied them for a while, wondering which was Martin’s partner, or pimp. Mind you, if they’d only just arrived it seemed unlikely that Martin was working here. Just a group of friends relaxing? Maybe. Even so, I wanted to approach Martin on his own.

I found a free high stool at one end of the bar. From there I could watch them easily enough. The conversation mainly involved the three older men. Occasionally Martin joined in, usually in short energetic bursts, waving his arms around a lot and laughing. At one point, the gaunt man leant over and slapped his arms down. It wasn’t a violent act. Just as if he was restraining an unruly child. A little later, the gaunt man leant over and spoke to Martin, passed him a ten pound note. Martin nodded, got up and made his way to the bar. My heart began to putter in my chest. My head thumped in response. People were queuing two-deep at the bar, shouting conversations above the din from the disco. I slipped off my stool and edged along till I was standing next to Martin.

‘Martin.’

He turned to face me, a puzzled look on his face. His eyes were bloodshot. He struggled to focus.

‘I’m Sal. J.B, said I might find you here.’

‘What d’you want?’ he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder towards his friends.

‘To talk. It might be a bit difficult in front of your friends.’

He was suspicious. ‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s a private matter. Get your drinks and I’ll wait for you on the dance floor.’ I moved away before he had the chance to ask any more questions.

The next ten minutes crawled by as I leant against the wall. The dance floor was bouncing like a trampoline as the bodies leapt and flailed in the harsh, flashing lights. At last, I saw him come through the narrow passageway that led from the main bar.

He was none too steady on his feet. His clothes were casual, well made. Slacks and sweat shirt.

‘What’s all this about?’

‘I’m a private detective…’

We had to lean close and shout above the music, to be heard.

‘Shit.’ He glanced back towards the bar. He was about to bolt.

‘Wait – just hear me out. Your mother asked me to find you; she was worried sick. When you left, she…’

‘What?’ Incredulity distorted his elfin features.

‘She wants to know if you’re alright.’

‘Fuckin’ ‘ell.’ He grimaced. ‘Tell her to go frig herself.’

My mouth dropped open. ‘Martin, she cares about you. She’s desperate.’

He began to giggle. Stopped abruptly and rounded on me. ‘He put her up to it. The bastard.’ He rubbed his eyes.

A steady stream of people pushed past us, coming to and from the dance floor, fracturing the conversation.

‘Your father?’

He nodded.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but I told her I’d try and find out where you were. She just wants to know if you’re alright.’

‘She never fucking cared before.’ His eyes glared with hatred. Was this the shy, withdrawn boy people had told me about? ‘I got to go.’ Martin wheeled away, lost his balance and slid to the floor.

‘Martin.’ I helped him up. He was shaking. ‘What do you mean, she never cared before?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’ he shouted. ‘She knows why I went.’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘I gotta go.’ He pulled away from me.

‘Wait.’ I grabbed the back of his shirt. His arms went up around his head for protection. Astonished, I let go. He was crying. I steered Martin ahead of me and into the Ladies, which was tucked in the corner, between the main bar and the disco. I hoped we wouldn’t be disturbed.

In the strip light he looked yellow; cracked lips, a bruise on his forehead. I propped him up against the pink tiled wall. Leant against the basin myself. I saw another large bruise on his neck, yellow and purple. Or was it a lovebite?

‘What happened, Martin?’

He rolled his head from side to side. ‘Bastard.’

‘Your father?’

‘Bastard.’

‘What did he do?’

He covered his face with his hands. ‘He…he messed about with me, didn’t he.’ He spoke the words quietly, softly.

‘What do you mean?’ Stupid question. I knew what he meant, I just didn’t want to believe it. Hoped I’d got it wrong.

‘He buggered me, didn’t he, the fucking bastard.’ His shoulders shook. I didn’t want to hear this.

‘Oh. Martin, I’m so sorry.’ My mind ran riot with questions I wouldn’t ask. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I gotta go.’ He lifted his head, wiped his face with his hands.

‘You better wash your face,’ I said. I turned, ran water into the plain white basin. Then I stood to one side while he splashed his face.

‘Did your mother know?’ My question came out abruptly. I felt clumsy, insensitive. But I needed to know. I pictured Mrs Hobbs; lace-trimmed hanky, sad brown eyes. Surely not?

‘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.