The list of suspicious t.., p.13
The List of Suspicious Things, page 13
‘No fresh butter?’ she said.
‘Ah, no, sorry. There’s some marge in there though.’
He watched her grimace, took another look at her pointed face and narrowed eyes and decided against it. Mrs Spencer didn’t exactly exude sympathy or softness. She was all sharp edges and judgement. He decided he would wait until Arthur’s daughter came in and talk to her instead. Mrs Spencer moved over to the counter to pay, unloading an armful of items topped by a newspaper. Omar pointed at the headline as he rang the rest up on the till.
‘He needs catching,’ he said, indicating the main story: Help Us Find This Man. Have You Heard the Tape?
Mrs Spencer made a ‘hmmph’ sound. ‘He’s just another symbol of an increasingly godless country,’ she said loudly, with the clarity of someone used to making pronouncements without challenge. She looked at Omar properly for the first time.
‘No offence, of course.’
While she rummaged in her purse to pay, Omar exchanged the tin of beans she’d bought for the dented one that he’d dropped, then opened the door for her as she left – slamming it shut after her with satisfaction.
Later, while he was cooking tea for himself and Ishtiaq, he found himself making extra. So much so that he put a whole other portion into a piece of the Tupperware Rizwana had used constantly and that he would never get rid of. After tea, he instructed Ishtiaq not to answer the door, and drove down to Howden’s, the Tupperware on the passenger seat with some foil-wrapped chapattis balanced on top. As he drove down the lane leading to the scrapyard one-handed, the other hand keeping the Tupperware upright, he pondered calling out to Arthur, to make sure he was OK. He parked up at the locked gate and peered into the darkness of the yard, lit only dimly by a solitary lightbulb in the Portakabin. He could just make out the shadow of Arthur moving around before the light was switched off. He left the Tupperware on the gatepost, flashed his headlights three times until the light in the Portakabin came back on, then drove away.
15
Miv
The day after the attack we went and helped Arthur pack his things up and move back into the house he and Doreen had shared. As a treat he allowed us to sit in the cart, and we went through the streets of the town waving at everyone as we passed, like the Queen. As we clattered past the market, with its bustling stalls set on cobblestones and the shouts of offers on fruit and veg, I saw a figure I recognised, her blonde hair glinting in the sun.
‘Look, Shaz, it’s Mrs Ware. Hazel.’
We both stared, mesmerised, as though she were a film star picking up a pound of tomatoes. I strained my neck to keep watching as we got further away, and saw that she was laughing at someone behind her, someone who was holding her hand. It wasn’t Mr Ware. They looked like a golden couple, surrounded by a halo that marked them out as beautiful and different from everyone around them. Her: elegant, blonde. Him: tall, dark-haired, gruff-looking but handsome. I felt consumed by unidentifiable emotions as I watched them, a mixture of deep attraction and a jealousy that I would never be like her, I was too plain.
Trailing behind them was Paul Ware. He was looking at the floor, his fringe hiding his eyes. I wondered how he might feel about his mum holding hands with a man who wasn’t his dad.
Sharon jumped from the cart as we arrived at Arthur’s house, with its swooping net curtains in the windows, and said to the pale and quiet Arthur, ‘If you give me the key, I’ll open up.’
His face crumpled into a slow, sad smile. How did she know to go in first?
He swallowed. ‘Thank you, flower.’
We still went to see Arthur regularly, on a Saturday afternoon, while he picked up the reins of his life and moved through his grief. We would find him, more often than not, in his back garden tending to the pigeons he now owned.
‘Doreen would never let me get any. She thought they were mucky birds,’ he said.
He was always telling us to be safe and mind ourselves, so we decided not to tell him about our search for the Ripper, though one day when we arrived Arthur was reading the paper on a stripy deckchair in the garden. I could see from the front page that the Ripper formed the main content. I nudged Sharon.
‘What do you think about him then, Arthur?’ I indicated the front page.
Arthur flapped the paper back over and looked at the story.
‘He’s not for you to worry about,’ he said, his voice firm and expression closed.
‘But why not?’ I persisted. ‘He’s a “danger to all women and girls”.’ I pointed at the headline.
‘Yes, but not t’likes of you. ’ He got up slowly from the chair he was sat on. ‘Right, I’m going to put t’kettle on.’
With that, I took it that the subject was once more closed. No one ever seemed to want to talk to us about the Ripper.
16
Helen
Helen could have sworn she’d told Gary she was planning to see her dad that evening. She hadn’t been round to his for ages, a fact that had been nagging at her for weeks, and now that Omar at the shop had told her this strange story about Howden’s Scrapyard, she knew she needed to. She told herself she hadn’t yet because she’d been so busy with her new job, but she knew there was more to it than that.
She was stood in the kitchen area of their small bedsit, putting foil over his dinner, when Gary arrived home from work.
‘What you doing?’ he asked, nodding at the plate on the table. ‘Oh,’ he said when she reminded him she was going to visit Dad, his voice and expression plaintive, like that of a small child.
She knew what was coming, that he wouldn’t want her to go; she’d thought about this already. ‘You can put it straight into the oven to warm up, you don’t have to do anything,’ she said, trying not to sound as if she was patronising him, which he’d told her she was guilty of before.
‘It’s not that,’ he said, and she could see he was arranging his expression into his charming one, the one that everyone loved, that no one could say no to, particularly her. ‘I just wanted to take you to the pub. The lads from work are going out for a pint and I just like to show my beautiful wife off.’ He was closer to her now and nudged her shoulder gently, wheedling.
Despite herself, Helen found herself glowing at his praise. It was like a reflex action. She looked at the mournful expression in his eyes and laughed. ‘All right then,’ she said, not giving herself time to think about it. She could go and see her dad tomorrow.
Later, she was in the bathroom, applying what little make-up she had, rubbing some lipstick onto her pale cheeks, when the words ‘Actually, it’s been ages since we went out’ escaped from her mouth before she had thought them through. Immediately she felt the air in the room thicken with tension, and knew she’d said the wrong thing. She froze, her hand poised between the sink and her face, but at that moment the strains of a song by Dr Hook, ‘When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman’, began playing on the radio. Gary loved Dr Hook. The moment passed.
She emerged from the bathroom almost coquettishly, like a teenager going to her first disco. She’d made an effort, and was wearing a blouse she knew he liked: pale pink with lace around the collar, much fussier than she would normally wear. Gary smiled his approval. ‘We make a good-looking pair,’ he said with pride as he held out his arm for her to tuck hers into, all ready to go off to the pub together like they were a normal, loving couple.
It was late by the time they left and the Red Lion was busy as they made their way to the bar, weaving in and out of groups of people as though they were in a maze. Of course Gary knew everyone by name, and their progress was slowed by him stopping to talk to various men, clapping them on the back, winking at their wives and laughing uproariously at any given opportunity. Helen, trailing behind him, holding on to his hand, watched as his face and tone altered depending on who he was talking to, chameleon-like, the comments cruder and the voice louder when they reached the group of friends he worked with and their wives and girlfriends who were standing next to the bar.
‘You’ve all met my lovely wife,’ he said as he pulled her to him and flung his arm around her. Helen blushed and nodded at the sea of faces. The men she’d met before, but the women were new to her.
Gary leaned into the bar and loudly ordered a round of drinks from the barman, Pat. She knew he would offer again and again, buying round after round for his friends, basking in his image as a generous man, despite them being ill able to afford it. It made her cringe a little, but the lads worshipped him.
‘Way ay, man,’ Gary shouted at a man sat at the bar, slapping him so hard on the back that he spat out his drink and began coughing. The lads laughed raucously – at what, she didn’t understand – and the man turned his boyish face to Gary, smiling at him – humouring him, Helen thought. While Pat refilled the man’s pint, Gary looked at her confused expression and said, ‘Jim’s a Geordie. You know, like the Ripper,’ as though that made some sort of difference. She looked back at the bar and noticed Pat and Jim raising their eyebrows at each other. Pat saw her looking and Jim followed his gaze. When they both smiled at her kindly, Helen immediately felt embarrassed, detecting sympathy in their expressions. Pat nodded and mouthed ‘hello’. She was surprised he remembered her; she didn’t accompany Gary to the pub that often. She was just about to acknowledge him in return when she sensed that Gary had also seen the exchange. She gave Pat the smallest of smiles, hoping he would see it, and turned back to the group, joining in the hero-worship of Gary as enthusiastically as she could, laughing at his stories and hanging off his every word.
As they left the pub later, she went to slot her hand in his. He took it and held on tight, so tight she realised it was beginning to hurt, her fingers crushed.
‘Gary?’ she said, her voice gentle, questioning, not wanting to let the fear show.
But the charming man of a moment ago was gone.
17
Miv
Number Five
‘I can’t laik out tomorrow,’ Sharon said one August afternoon when we were parting for the day. ‘We’re going to the shops for school stuff – you know, new clothes and that,’ she added, rolling her eyes dramatically for effect. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment how close we were to the end of the holidays.
As I walked home, kicking stones as I went, scuffing my already worn shoes even more, I looked down at my faded, frayed jeans. They were flapping around my ankles, quite clearly too short. How had I not noticed until that moment? When I got home, letting myself in using the key I kept on a ribbon around my neck, I ran upstairs and pulled my school uniform out of the wardrobe. I took my T-shirt and jeans off, put my school shirt on and stooped down to look at myself in the mirror above the dressing table.
As I had suspected, the shirt now gaped in the middle. I had chosen to ignore the lines of my once straight-up-and-down body growing more fluid, even after someone, Aunty Jean I assumed, had left a ‘junior bra’ on my bed a few weeks ago. I had stuffed it into my drawer without even trying it on, but realised I could ignore it no longer. I pulled my school shoes out from under the bed and put those on too, feeling the pinch at the toes before I kicked them off and slumped down on the bed.
At the sound of another key in the door I jumped up, put my T-shirt and jeans back on and went downstairs. Aunty Jean was already bustling around the kitchen. She’d put the kettle on and was pulling tins, a pan and a wooden spoon from drawers and cupboards. I stood in the doorway and watched her, trying to work out how to bring up the subject of my school uniform and shoes.
‘What you lurking for?’ Aunty Jean said, without looking at me.
I screwed my eyes up, as though hoping to avoid the impact of something heavy falling on my head. ‘It’s nearly time to go back to school and my, well, my stuff doesn’t fit,’ I said, readying myself for a tirade about ‘when I were a lass’, likely involving not wearing shoes, or having to wear clothes that were hand-me-downs from Edwardian times. Instead, I was met with a brief nod and a long silence.
‘Leave it with me,’ Aunty Jean said in a business-like tone, still without looking at me, and I could sense her discomfort as she stood there, straight as a pencil, until I left the room.
The longer Mum was away, the more conversation took place at the kitchen table.
‘That driver I were telling you about, Jim Jameson, he came into the depot today,’ Dad said that evening to Aunty Jean, in between mouthfuls of corned-beef hash. Even though she was sat to one side of me, I could tell that Jim Jameson did not pass muster – it was something about the set of her shoulder – but I was not sure why. I was always amazed by how much disapproval Aunty Jean managed to convey with the tiniest movements of her body and face. A raised eyebrow from Aunty Jean had the power to decimate an entire character.
‘We gave him so much stick. One of the lads kept quoting the tape at him. I thought he was going to cry at one point.’ As he took a mouthful of tea, I dared to ask a question.
‘Who’s Jim Jameson?’
‘Oh. He’s one of the lorry drivers at work.’
‘Are you talking about the Ripper tape?’ I asked, hesitating to say his name, hoping I wouldn’t be shut down. Dad spluttered, then put his mug of tea down on the table and looked at me, concerned.
‘What do you know about the Ripper tape, young lady?’
‘Everybody knows about the Ripper tape,’ I answered, confident in the knowledge that actually everyone did.
‘Oh. Right.’ He paused as though weighing up the truth of this statement and deciding I was probably right. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, I am. Jim’s from Newcastle, you see, so not only does he have the shame of being a Geordie, but he’s also got this an’ all.’ Seeing my eyes widen, he laughed and added, ‘Don’t worry, love. He’s not the Ripper. He’s as much of a big girl’s blouse as you.’
But the seed had been sown and would only come to grow over the following days.
Dad oversaw the loading and unloading of vehicles, and the men who worked there. He was proud of his job, which he’d got after years of unemployment and casual labour. He’d started as a loader himself, and still considered himself one of the lads, despite now holding the grand title of ‘Supervisor’. He would always make sure people knew he’d ‘started at the bottom and worked me way up’. I’d never been to his work, but after this conversation I began to think up reasons for going to visit him and catching a glimpse of Jim Jameson the Geordie – but thinking about his work caused images I didn’t want to flash up in my brain. Images of that day. The day I tried never to think about. The day everything changed.
It was during the school holidays and Dad had gone to work as usual, despite the events of the night before – events I had only really heard from my bedroom, as I’d not been allowed out. ‘Stay in your room, Miv,’ Dad had shouted, when I’d opened the door a sliver, having heard Mum come home from the bingo. Halfway through the next day I had got home from laiking out and found Mum lying on the floor of the bathroom, a trail of vomit coming from her mouth. I’d tried to wake her up, but couldn’t, my own stomach lurching like I was on the waltzers.
Luckily, the number for Dad’s work was stuck on the wall next to the phone and I dialled it, saying to the person who answered, ‘Can you tell my daddy to come home? My mummy is poorly.’ There had been an ambulance and everything. Aunty Jean had come over to look after me while Dad went with Mum, then she’d never gone home.
That was the first time Mum went away for one of her ‘breaks’, a word which conjured up images of trips to Bridlington and Whitby, but which I somehow knew even then were very different. I hadn’t heard Mum speak since. That was the day I realised that life could change overnight, that you had to keep an eye out for danger. Be vigilant.
While I finished my tea, I wondered what reason I could give to go to the depot and investigate Jim Jameson. I was just starting to clear away our plates when I noticed that Aunty Jean was wiggling her eyebrows and nodding at me, trying to get my attention. With a quick movement of her head, she indicated for me to leave the room and, though confused, I did, retreating only as far as the settee so that I could listen to what was being discussed without being seen.
‘Can’t you do it?’ I heard Dad ask.
To which Aunty Jean answered, ‘She needs at least one parent to notice her existence. And I wasn’t made to raise children.’
‘What makes you think I was?’
‘If you used your eyes to see what’s going on inside your own home rather than concentrating on other stuff, you might notice these things,’ Aunty Jean said, her voice so ice-cold that even I froze, though it wasn’t directed at me.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Dad said, in a tone I didn’t recognise.
‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed where your attention is, Austin,’ Aunty Jean replied.
My throat closed, putting a stopper on the multitude of feelings swirling around my body, none of which I was willing to look at. I tried to think about the Ripper and the list instead. On his way out to the pub, Dad passed by me on the sofa.
‘Apparently we’re going shopping at the weekend,’ he said.
It was with a heavy heart that I got ready to go shopping that Saturday. It wasn’t just that the trip was taking me away from what little of the summer holiday was left, it was the fact that it was blatantly clear from the sighing and eye-rolling while waiting for me that Dad was doing this under protest.
‘Shall we walk or get the bus?’ Dad said, to my surprise. I had thought he wanted to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible.
‘Walk,’ I said decisively, and we headed off in the direction of the shops.
We made our way down endlessly repeating rows of identical houses, the streets branching into each other, connected like the nerves and veins we studied in Biology lessons, our pace leisurely in the heat of the summer sun. At one point we headed down a cul-de-sac, at the end of which was a cut-through that led straight on to the High Street. It was a small ginnel amid a row of lock-ups and parking spaces. It was there that Dad stopped and stared at the small lorry parked up in the corner, out of the way.
