Looking for Trouble

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 reported 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…