Towers of Silence

Chapter Forty

The storm had hit, gusting wind, heavy rain falling as I unlocked the car. I put the heater on and the windscreen warmer. I put a tape on too. If I was going to cruise the streets of South Manchester on this foul night at least I’d have some decent sounds to accompany me. The Buena Vista Social Club swung into life and I pulled out of the drive and headed for Burnage.

If Adam had no money then he’d be limited to travelling on foot, unless he tried hitching. I decided to work methodically starting with the streets near to his home and gradually working my way further out. The rain spattered across the windscreen with each surge of wind. It was very hard to see much of anything. I meandered along the roads off Burnside Drive then I drove down Kingsway towards town and circled the roundabout at the bottom and drove in the opposite direction. I scoured the pavements, bus shelters, shop doorways. Nothing. At one point I came across a group of lads outside a boarded up shop and slowed right down but I couldn’t see Adam among them. I wove my way through the council estates that straddled Kingsway. There were lots of cul-de-sacs and small avenues. Plenty of privet hedges to crouch behind and every house had a garden; he could be in a shed somewhere or under someone’s pergola.

The tape finished. I substituted it for Macy Gray but that made me think about finishing with Stuart so I swapped that for Fat Boy Slim. My mobile went off and I pulled in to the side of the road and answered it.

“Ken’s back,” she said, “I can hear the car.”

“Has he got Adam?”

“I don’t know, I can’t see… wait a minute. No,” she sounded defeated. “No, he’s on his own. He’ll have had enough. If it was me… Please will you…”

“I’ll keep looking a while longer but if he’s found somewhere out of sight to shelter then it’ll be impossible to find him. He has run off before.” I reminded her. And he came back.

“But the row. I’ve never heard him like that. I’m really worried. If he did something stupid…”

“You could call the police,” I suggested. Though I wasn’t sure how much help they would give her. After all Adam had run away several times even if the circumstances hadn’t been exactly the same. But if she thought he was at risk? Wind buffeted the car and the connection began to break up.

“I’ll try a while longer,” I said.

“Thank you so much.”

Where would he shelter? Would he pass in a pub? Soaking wet and on his own? He’d draw too much attention. Besides, I reminded myself, he’s no money. I thought of his previous outings. Sitting on the bench at the Arndale Centre, on the bench at the bus stop. The vigil that had left him in tears. Where would he sit down round here. Forget about garden no way could I start looking in them. I’d passed the main bus-stops. I got out my bumper size A-Z and my Maglite and studied Burnage. Kingsway and the railway line divided the area in half. It was heavily built up. The only open spaces were at Cringle Fields which was quite a way away and Ladybarn Park. I couldn’t recall any shelter at Cringle Fields. I’d only ever been there to the travelling funfair. It was a wide, flat, open space ideal for the large fairs. Ladybarn was smaller and nearer. I drove there and parked on Mauldeth Road. The park was fairly open, a large row of poplars marked the southern boundary. It was pitch black, impossible to see if anyone was hiding beneath them. I played my torch over them, the beam rippling over the trunks and saw nothing. A squall of rain hit again and I tightened my hood. There were two deserted picnic areas, tables with fixed chairs, I think they’d been put there as a place for the youngsters to hang out. But not on a night like this. I walked along and round the corner so I could see into the bowling green and the basketball courts. Empty. Thunder cracked and rumbled in the distance and there was a single flash of sheet lightning that lit the sky momentarily.

But no Adam. I made my way back to the car. A train rattled past on the bridge above. The station? There was a modicum of shelter there. Only two platforms but express trains ran through all night; this was the airport line. I did a three-point turn and drove up the slope which led to both the railway station and B &Q. I parked by the steps which led up to the platform.

He was there. Hunched on one of the fixed metal seats in the shelter, his back curved, shivering. The wind was barracking the plastic glass, making the overhead wires sing and the trees roar. A torn poster advertising the Snow White pantomime at the Palace Theatre whipped against the shelter. He didn’t hear me approach.

“Adam,” I called.

He started and stood, emotions flashing across his face; confusion, fear, defiance. “Go away. Leave us alone.”

He didn’t even know who I was but he didn’t want company. He took clumsy steps to the platform’s edge, his shoulders shaking with cold, his lips blue. It was only a few feet down to the rails and the gravel around them but there was a recklessness in the movement that scared the shit out of me.

“Your mum sent me,” I told him. “She wants you to come home.” It was impossible to talk intimately, the racket of the wind meant that I had to shout to be heard. “She’s worried about you.”

Behind Adam at the farthest point of the tracks I saw the unmistakable yellow pinprick light of a train appear. My heart stammered. I swallowed. “I’m a private detective,” I told him.

“She knows?” he said incredulously, shock startling in his eyes.

“What?”

He looked as puzzled then as I was.

“Come and get in the car,” I yelled.

He shook his head.

The train light had grown a little larger. I willed him not to look back, not to get any daft, dramatic ideas. He shivered, a violent jerk that made his teeth rattle.

The wind flung more rain at us, bucketfuls. It sounded like stones hitting the shelter. It ran off my cagoule and soaked my knees, I could feel tiny cold rivulets running down my neck and soaking into my clothing. “Adam, she’s really worried. She asked me to find you.” He shook his head, his brow creasing.

“Adam.”

“Is he there?” he said with loathing.

“Your father? He went out to look for you. He’s back home now.”

“Did she tell you about him?”

“She told me that you had a row.”

He waited as if there was more. He looked down at the track.

I thought I could hear the beat of the train galloping along the wires. A different rhythm from the wind. The light was bigger. I wiped rain off the tip of my nose and my forehead.

“Adam.”

“What’s the point?” He turned away from me. He could see the train.

My pulse drummed quicker.

I stepped closer trying to judge the distance so I could possibly reach him if needed but not get so close as to crowd his space and maybe force his move. His sweatshirt was plastered to his back. He was painfully thin, his neck looked white and scrawny, his elbows sharp points, the hand at the end of his arm too big for the rest of him.

“She cares about you,” I answered him. I inched a bit closer. “She loves you.” The train was much nearer now, I could make out the shape of the cab. It was travelling at great speed, clattering towards us. The Airport Express, it wouldn’t stop here.

He was standing on the very edge of the platform beyond the white line which marked the safety zone. One of his trainers was gaping open at the side where the stitching had gone.

I glanced at the train again and its hooter blared like a foghorn, loud and urgent and unending. Adam flinched at the sound. I shifted one foot forward stared at his neck. I’d use my right arm to grab him and pull back. Safer than trying to clutch his sweatshirt which could tip him over the edge.

“She needs you, Adam,” I yelled. “She needs you.” Remembering how Susan had talked of his protective attitude towards her.

Was he going to jump?

I got ready to spring then he turned my way, just as the train entered the station. It hurtled past us and we both ducked and moved back as the force of the air pushed at us and the scream of the hooter sounded again.

It clacked away leaving us with only the moan of the wind. I tried to read his face but I couldn’t. He looked glazed. Would he have jumped? Had he been bluffing? Had it been a show for me or had my arrival thwarted his plan?

If things were so bad what on earth was going on in his head? He needed help. But first he needed to go home, get warm and dry.

“Adam, come on.”

He followed me silently, bowing into the wind.

We got in the car and I found an old j-cloth in the glove compartment and used it to dry my hands.

Adam stared at his knees. He’d shut down on me. He shook spasmodically. I drove him home. I was wet through to the skin. I concentrated on the physical not wanting to dwell on the emotional trauma of the last half-hour.

I drew into Burnside Drive and stopped opposite the house. The lights were on. I wondered if the heating was. If there was hot water. The car was in the drive. Ken Reeves’ car. I stared at it.

Shock rippled through my cheekbones, made me swallow fast. Silver Mondeo, and in the barley-sugar glow of the streetlight, a crumpled bumper.

Adam moved to release his seat belt.

“Don’t.” I started the engine and drove on round the crescent, stopped again.

“York,” I said to him. “Blandford Drive. It was your father.”

And he began to cry.