‘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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Maddie woke me with a swift elbow jab to the nose. I shouted at her. She burst into tears. I apologised, explaining how much it hurt. I wished it would bleed, to prove my point. I took her downstairs and left her with Ray and Tom.
‘You look awful,’ said Ray. ‘Any luck?’
‘Yes and no. I’ll tell you later.’
I snuggled back under the duvet and shut my eyes tight. Sleep wouldn’t come. I ran a hot bath, added scented oil and climbed in. Put a facecloth over my eyes. When the water cooled down, I topped it up. When the wrinkles on my fingers and toes began to look revolting, I climbed out.
At least I was clean. I had that spacey, see-through feeling that comes from too little sleep. Vulnerable. A cross word and I’d weep like a child.
I ate a huge breakfast. Digger lay in the hall, a spot he’d claimed as his own. He deserved a walk. I called him and he sprang to attention. Tail wagging, ears pricked up. I took him into the front garden first. If he was going to shit, I wanted it to happen in private, behind the tall privet hedges. The kids never played in the front. Was this how other dog owners managed? For years, I’d railed against dog dirt in the streets, the park, the playground. Now I had a dog. Thankfully, he did his business to order. I waited, squirming with embarrassment in case the next door neighbours were peering down at us. I recoiled at having to gather up the results and traipse down to the cellar toilet. Give me slug traps any day.
It was a warm, still day. Picture book clouds hung isolated in the blue sky. The scent of wallflowers and cut grass mingled as we walked the half mile to the park. I’d found an old tennis ball that Digger liked to fetch. I watched him run. He was a stereotype dog. Pointed nose and ears, brown fur, long tail. Having rescued the dog, I was now ashamed at my lack of affection for him. Was it something that grew with time, as happens with babies sometimes?