Towers of Silence

Chapter Twenty Seven

We were queuing up for Santa’s Grotto. Santa was very obviously the caretaker in costume. Bernard was a stick-thin man with eyelashes to die for, bottle glasses and a thick Scouse accent.

“Aright den little fella,” he plumped Tom onto his bony knees. “Whorrayawan’ fer Christmas?”

Tom reeled off the first part of his list.

“Yer jokin’ aren’t yer?” exclaimed Bernard. “‘Ow am I gonna get tha’ lot in my sledge, eh? Think again, pal. I’ll bring you a ball, how ‘bout that, eh? A red, rubber ball?”

Tom squirmed and protested.

“Ey, go on then, lah. Have a lucky dip.”

Tom slid down and rummaged in the sack. Brought out a parcel.

“Next,” yelled Bernard.

Maddie had already been. We collected Tom who had ripped the paper off to find a stamp pad and animal stamps.

“They’re all the same,” Maddie complained. “You either get them or gel pens.”

We had nearly exhausted the delights of the upstairs school hall.

We made our way through the crush and down the stairs. There was a Tombola, a White Elephant stall, a place to make Christmas decorations out of pasta bows; lots of glue and glitter. I bought some hand-made cards at the next stall. Maddie wanted her hair doing. If we queued long enough and paid 50p she could have brightly coloured cotton wound round some strands of hair. “Last thing, then,” I told her.

Tom went into the playground with Jade from over our road. People had set up play equipment and a large trampoline out there. The rain had held off and it worked well to occupy the kids who were less than interested in the stalls.

The woman in the queue ahead of me turned round to survey the scene and we recognised each other.

“It’s Sharon,” I said. The woman from the Whitworth Centre. “Sal.”

“Hello.”

“I’ve not seen you at school before.”

“My niece,” she said, ducking her head towards the child beside her. “Our Julie works Saturdays so I said I’d bring Chantelle.”

“Maddie,” I gestured. “What year’s Chantelle?”

“Year one.”

“Maddie’s year two,” I said.

“It’s our Fair at the centre next Saturday so I’ll have to bring her to that as well. She likes it up there. She goes to all our do’s, don’t you Chantelle?” The child nodded.

“It’s great for me,” Sharon confided. “Working there. I’m only a few minutes away. When we were setting up the centre we all wanted jobs to go to local people. I was on the committee back then, something to do really.” She wrinkled her nose. “I made a mess of school and I was out of work. I got one of these New Deals. Had to go through all the proper procedures and that but it’s great. If we get the extra funding we want there should be another two part-time posts so it’s creating local jobs and all.”

“Eddie’s not local, is he?”

“No, he was in Hull before, place called Horizons, same sort of project. He’s from Bath originally. But that post, there wasn’t really anyone local with the right experience. And it’s not brilliant money, not compared to similar jobs in other places. We did have a couple of applicants from Manchester but no one in Rusholme, and Eddie was head and shoulders above them. You should have seen his references from Hull. Sit down now Chantelle, that’s it.” She bent to discuss what colours her niece wanted, then straightened up.

“You’re working for Miriam Johnstone’s family?” she asked me. I nodded ready to deflect her curiosity by pointing out it was confidential.

“Such a shame,” she said.

I guided Maddie round near to the other chair where a tiny child, probably three years old, was protesting loudly at having to sit still and clearly wanted out. Her mother relented and moved her away. Maddie sat down. “Silver, pink and purple,” she said.

“Did you see Miriam leaving that day?” I asked Sharon.

“No. It was chaos. Eddie had the people from the grants unit at the City Council coming. One of the Craft Club had burnt her fingers and you’d have thought she’d lost an arm all the palaver, there was. And Melody…” She stopped abruptly. “You won’t have met Melody, will you?”

“Yes, at the church sewing circle.” Shaking, fine-featured, her hair like a close-fitting cap.

“Did you hear about her?”

I shook my head.

“Suicide attempt. It was in the paper last night. Cut her wrists. She’s all right, but…” Sharon tutted.

“Oh, God,” I murmured.

“It’s not the first time,” said Sharon. “But still.”

“How come it was in the paper?” Overdoses weren’t routinely reported. Only if they were successful and had an angle to them; a particularly young person, a double suicide, that sort of thing.

“Fire brigade had to break in. She’d locked herself in the house. Her mother knew straight away. Good job and all. Can you imagine…” She shook her head sadly. “Anyway, about Miriam. I saw her leave but not where she went. And she can’t have been gone long when this chap comes in looking for her.”

I felt my heart squeeze. “Who?”

“Middle-aged, grey hair. I told him if he hurried he might catch her. He can’t have done, can he. More’s the pity,” she shrugged.

A cold chill slithered the length of my spine.

Sharon bent to Chantelle. “That is drop dead gorgeous.”