Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Day-break. I was cold. No matter how I pulled the duvet round me, my insides were shivering. My mouth began to water. I reached the toilet just in time, retched until my stomach was empty. My skin felt raw all over as though I’d been peeled.

I filled a hot water bottle. Went and made a cup of peppermint tea. It was six-thirty. The rain had stopped. Clouds gone. The morning sun streamed into the kitchen. I put the cans and take-away wrappers in the bin, gagging at the smells. Settled in the armchair. Digger came and lay at my feet. I was honoured.

What did I really have to do? Visit the Hobbs’. It could wait a day. At seven, Ray and the kids emerged. Maddie and Tom were amused at us both being there so early. I sat huddled in the chair while they had a lively breakfast. Once they’d left for school, I topped up my water bottle and went back to bed.

I was woken by the doorbell. Ringing persistently. I fumbled for my dressing gown, struggled into it then discovered it was inside out. It’d have to do. I fell down the last stair – my body didn’t work on automatic anymore – and cracked my funny bone on the banister.

When I opened the front door, the light made me wince. Jackie Dobson was on the doorstep.

‘Sal, you look awful.’

‘Bug.’

‘This came yesterday.’ She waved a white envelope. ‘I meant to drop it in, then Jessica fell off the bunks and I forgot all about it till tea-time. Then, what with swimming lessons and…’ The fact that Jackie could deal with a full-time job plus four daughters and still manage to forward a letter, was nothing short of a miracle as far as I was concerned.

“S alright. Thanks. I was in bed.’

‘You get back there,’ she said. ‘There’s a lot of it about at the moment.’

I made myself another herb tea. My belly rumbled, but I wasn’t going to throw any food at it. I slit open the envelope. There was a second one inside, addressed to Martin Hobbs, and a note. ‘Please take this to Martin.’ No name, no signature. I knew who it was from. A dead woman. I couldn’t deal with it. I foraged for my pocket and stuffed it all in there.

‘Lady of leisure,’ Clive brayed. I started and spilt my tea. I hadn’t heard him come downstairs.

‘It’s ‘flu, actually. I’m going back to bed.’

‘I’ve heard that one before. Fancy a day off, did we?’

‘Excuse me.’ I squeezed past him.

‘Hey, Sal,’ he bellowed up the stairs after me, ‘what’s the dog doing here?’

‘He lives here, He’s called Digger. I’ll explain later.’

I slept the day away, waking a couple of times from feverish dreams. Disturbing images melted away before I could grasp them. I surfaced briefly at six o’clock, to make more herb tea and wish the children good night. Ten minutes on my feet and I was ready to collapse. Back to bed, clasping my hot water bottle. I slept the clock round. It was only a twenty-four hour bug. I felt weak, a bit spaced-out, the following day, but well enough to eat. Ready, if not eager, to visit Mr and Mrs Hobbs. I scraped the burnt edges off the toast before Maddie spotted them. Mr Hobbs may well be at work but it’d probably be easier to talk to Martin’s mother alone. The neighbour hadn’t said anything about her working.

‘I don’t want to go to school, Mummy.’

‘You’ve got to, love, everyone goes to school.’

‘But I feel sick.’

‘I feel sick,’ Tom chimed in, beaming.

‘You ate three lots of Krispies, Maddie, no wonder you feel sick.’ Malingering or not? I never knew with Maddie. She tried it on every now and then. The last time I’d kept her off school, she’d bounced round the house like Tigger all day. She didn’t look pale. I felt her forehead. No temperature.

‘Ray’ll tell Mrs Cummings to keep an eye on you. Now get your coat.’

‘Aww.’

‘Come on, Maddie.’ Ray guided her out.

I rang the Coroner’s Court to see if they had any information on the inquest for Janice Brookes. They had. It was scheduled for eleven o’clock Friday, the following morning, Court number one. I’d be there. So would the family. A chance to make contact.

Before I could get back upstairs, the phone rang. It was Pete, Clive’s friend, though he didn’t sound all that chummy. Clive hadn’t been in touch about the money he owed him. Was he back? Yes. Had, I passed on the message? Yes. I began to feel I was to blame. I promised Pete I’d make sure that Clive knew he’d rung. I dutifully wrote a note and left it by the phone.

I felt unclean after my sojourn in bed. I stripped the sheets and made it afresh. Thick, cotton sheets that I’d bought in the old days of regular income. I gathered up towels, sheets, face-flannels, my dressing-gown. Crackle in the pocket. The letter. I prickled with apprehension. The letter to Martin. From a dead woman. A love letter? A warning? The rantings of an obsessed stranger? I’d no way of knowing. Unless I opened it. But I couldn’t do that. It was probably the last thing she’d written. She’d trusted me to deliver it. I would if I could.

I put the letter in my bag, put the load in the washer, put myself in the bath.

Something was worrying me as I lay there. I ticked off in my mind all the things that I knew were worrying me: JB’s death; Janice Brookes’ murder; having to visit Martin’s parents; having to deliver the letter; money – no-one was paying me any, would have to apply for Family Credit again. Still something else. I fished around. Diane? Maddie? Ray? Clive. Yes, it was Clive.

‘You’re pathetic,’ I told myself, as I pulled the plug. But there it was. An unpleasant task waiting to be tackled. And all the worse because it didn’t belong to the big, bad world out there. I couldn’t face it, then come home, safe, and shut the door on it. It was here, in my home. I hated that.

I got ready to leave for Bolton, ignoring the enquiring glances from the dog. Walk? No chance. The phone rang. Maddie had been sick. Would I go and fetch her. Shit. Guilt.

On the way there, I worked out the options. There were two. Stay home with Maddie and put my visit to Bolton off another day, or ask Nana Tello, Ray’s mum, to mind Maddie for a couple of hours. I’d psyched myself up to visit Mr and Mrs Hobbs, but it was hardly urgent. Was it worth grovelling to Nana Tello, who I usually reserved for dire emergencies? She always sent me double messages about minding the kids. She’d hum and haw when asked and complain about their behaviour afterwards, then throw a fit if she heard we’d asked anyone else to mind them. ‘Why don’t you ask me? I’m a grandmother. I never see them.’

I collected Maddie, her face paper-white, dressed in ill-matched spare clothes. Made my apologies. The smell of vomit and disinfectant still lingered in the air. Poor kid.

On the way home, she solemnly related the saga. She’d thrown up three times: in the home corner, by the paints and in the toilet. Now she was tired.

I rang Nana Tello to sound her out. She wasn’t home. Hah! Probably at the bookie’s. She had a passion for the horses and a little flutter made her day. She’d spend hours pouring over the odds and selecting the winners.

Maddie’s not the easiest invalid in the world. Petulant and full of self-pity. Still, I summoned up loads of patience and nursed her through the day. Got plenty of water down her. Resisted her tears when I forbade any biscuits. I heard Clive stirring in the early afternoon. Clattering round the kitchen. Maddie was asleep. I sat quietly in the lounge beside her. The door slammed. He’d left. I wondered whether Ray had said anything to him about the bills, his rent or having a meeting. I doubted it, somehow. I’d have to take the initiative. Later.