The list of suspicious t.., p.21
The List of Suspicious Things, page 21
I wondered about the Ripper. Did he have two faces too? Was that why no one had caught him? Did he look like a normal, good person on the outside? Like Mr Spencer? I swallowed my words and feelings as I opened the front door to the silence of Mum in her armchair and the rest of the empty house.
31
Mr Ware
As he pulled up to the house, Mike saw two familiar figures, one carrying a large sports bag, both doing what he could only describe as ‘loitering’. He sat in the car, the engine idling while he waited for Paul, watching them closely. He had told Hazel he wouldn’t be coming up to the house to collect his son, nonchalantly implying it was for practical reasons when it was really because he couldn’t bear to even catch a glimpse of her.
His instinct was to question them. What were they doing here? What was in the bag? But of course, he was no longer their teacher; they were nothing to do with him. He couldn’t stop watching them though, and as he stared, seeing them go from house to house, he realised that they were posting pieces of paper taken from the bags, and it made him smile. Maybe they had turned over a new leaf? Maybe they were gainfully employed now? He was surprised by how much they had changed in the months since he’d left Bishopsfield. They had broadened and hardened.
The tap on the car window made him jump.
‘Hi, Dad.’ Paul opened the car door and folded into the seat next to him, all limbs and awkwardness.
‘Hi, son,’ he replied, suddenly self-conscious, as if this were a stranger.
They set off in silence, and as they passed the two boys, Mike became aware that Paul had turned to stare at them, only settling again when Neil and Reece were in the distance. Mike turned the radio on to cover up the silence between them and sat thinking about what he might say. Before the separation, he and Paul had never spent time alone together unless it was to complete homework. Conversation between them was as difficult to navigate as learning a new language.
‘Have you come across those two at school?’ he said, unable to let the two boys go.
‘Yup,’ he said, his voice low.
‘I can’t imagine them being reliable paper boys,’ Mike said, aware that his attempt at a joke was weak.
‘Hmm,’ Paul replied, turning to look out of the car window. Mike took that as a sign that the conversation was already over and turned up the volume on the radio to hide his embarrassment.
When they arrived at the flat, Mike found himself desperately wanting to make excuses and prepare Paul for what he was about to see.
‘It’s the best I could get, and it’s only temporary,’ he said as they walked up the empty, echoing stairs. His sense of embarrassment and shame only increased when his neighbour, Gary, appeared from his flat and leaned on the grubby magnolia wall, observing them.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ he called out, in that matey way he had, which made Mike cringe from the bottom of his feet upwards. He hated his snobbishness, but this artfully dishevelled young man with his overconfidence brought out the worst of his father’s judgemental beliefs, reincarnated in him.
‘Gary.’ He nodded his head briefly at him, hoping to discourage any further conversation.
‘And this handsome lad must be yours. I can see the resemblance,’ Gary said, looking at Paul.
‘Yes, this is my son, Paul.’
‘Gary Andrews,’ Gary said. ‘Pleased to meet—’
‘We’d better get on,’ Mike cut in, and turned to open his door. He tried to avoid Gary as much as possible, suspecting that, given the yells and bangs that came from the flat he shared with his wife, Gary’s mask of charm hid something more sinister.
‘Of course!’ Gary said, his sneer only half hidden by his smile. ‘We all know you’re always busy, busy, busy, Mike.’
Mike knew this was intended as a slight, from the expression that accompanied it, but chose to let it go, especially in front of Paul. His son had seen too much of his anger already.
‘Hah,’ he said, and ushered Paul inside.
The emptiness of the flat felt more pronounced now that Paul was with him, despite more of the space being filled by the two of them. He looked around at the tiny room in which he now existed. There was a kitchenette, with a barely used hob and an old, rusted fridge to the left; a single bed, which doubled up as his sofa, to the right; and a small square table and two chairs. While he could have asked his father for help, he felt unable to, pride getting in the way of confessing to the mess he’d made of his marriage.
‘I thought we’d get fish and chips from Barry’s for tea, as a treat,’ Mike said, his voice overly bright.
‘Sounds good,’ Paul replied, putting his bag down on the chair that Mike pulled out for him.
‘Like I said, it’s only temporary,’ he repeated. ‘There’s no TV yet, but I’ll get one …’
‘It’s OK, Dad. Really,’ Paul replied, with a sincerity that made Mike tearful for a moment, the sudden emotion surprising him. ‘I don’t mind, I brought my book and my homework with me.’
He opened his bag and pulled out the battered copy of Fahrenheit 451 Mike had given him, and Mike experienced a wave of pride.
‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘I can maybe help you with that.’ He reached for the sheet of paper that had come out of Paul’s bag.
‘That’s not my …’ Paul started.
Mike read the words in front of him, written in red, accompanied by a garish Union Jack.
PUT BRITONS FIRST
STOP immigration
REJECT common market
RESTORE capital punishment
MAKE Britain great again
Mike looked up at Paul’s pale face, two burning-red patches on his cheeks giving him a doll-like appearance. ‘What the hell is this?’ He couldn’t contain his fury.
‘It’s not mine,’ Paul said firmly, his voice echoing off the bare walls.
Mike had heard similar from pupils over and over down the years, and looked at his son hard, hoping that the truth he saw in his face was genuine.
‘If it’s not yours, whose is it?’
‘It’s a long story, Dad.’
‘Well, I’ve got all night.’
He hated the scolding tone that overcame him, the well-worn teacher’s phrase.
‘It belongs to Reece, or at least I got it from him. I was talking to him earlier. It fell out of his bag and I picked it up,’ Paul said, now looking down at the floor.
What Reece and Neil had been doing clicked into place, like a puzzle he hadn’t realised he was trying to figure out. Mike sank onto the chair, indicating for Paul to sit down too.
‘Those boys, they’re not your friends, are they? What they’re involved in, it’s …’ He thought about his father and what he would say about them, probably something along the lines of ‘I didn’t fight against Hitler to see my own countrymen turn into him.’ Mike could even picture his father’s face, puce with rage, as he said it.
Paul perched on the edge of his seat as if ready to run.
‘It’s dangerous, not to mention ignorant.’ Mike tried to modulate his voice to take out the echoes of his father.
‘I know. I really do. I wouldn’t have anything to do with them and I won’t. I was helping someone else. A girl,’ Paul replied, the high pink on his cheeks spreading over his face and neck.
‘A girl, eh?’ The realisation that he had underestimated his son made him begin to smile.
‘Daaadddd,’ Paul said, the blush deepening.
The relief was enough to make Mike laugh out loud. He looked at Paul’s cross, embarrassed face and watched while it changed, infected by his laughter, and they smiled at each other for the first time since Mike could remember.
32
Miv
‘I saw you yesterday,’ I said to Sharon as we walked to church the next day. ‘You were with Ishtiaq.’ I kept my eyes on the pavement in front of me.
There was a pause before Sharon replied, ‘Oh, right. Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I felt weird about it,’ I said, and shrugged. Then, because I couldn’t resist, even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t, I asked, ‘So is he your boyfriend?’
‘Yes. Yes, he is.’
Her nervous voice was accompanied by a shy smile.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want you to be upset. I thought you might feel left out or something.’
‘I’m upset cos you didn’t tell me,’ I said, though I knew this wasn’t strictly true. I was upset because if Sharon loved someone else, she might not have enough room to love me.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just … well … me dad. He wouldn’t want me to be with someone like, like Ish. And I know you wouldn’t tell him, or anyone, but I also know how things can be for you. At home, I mean. God, this is hard.’ She fell silent for a while, her face serious and sad. ‘The thing is, I was worried. About how you might feel. I didn’t want to make you any sadder.’
We carried on walking in silence. We never spoke about things at home. I didn’t even know how much she knew. Was she only going along with things like the list because she felt sorry for me? The thought made my throat close.
‘Is it serious? I mean, do you think you’ll stay together?’ My voice wobbled with wanting to know and not wanting to know.
Sharon gave a small laugh. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice quiet, hesitant. ‘All I know is that I really, really like him.’
We were nearing the church as she put her arm on mine to turn me towards her. ‘But we’ll always stay together. Me and you, I mean. We’ll always be friends.’
I nodded, unable to speak.
Much of the day was spent separately, as I was rehearsing ‘The Good Samaritan’ story at Mr Spencer’s direction, and Sharon disappeared happily into the back row of the chorus, led by Mrs Spencer. I got totally lost in the story, and Mr Spencer remained on the outskirts of my awareness.
At dinnertime we went to sit in our usual spot, and as we passed Paul Ware he nodded at me. I nodded back, trying to look nonchalant but failing, the heat rising in my cheeks. I decided not to tell Sharon about following him home. I could have my own secrets. Over jam sandwiches and warm orange squash I described to Sharon the limited observations I had made of Mr Spencer’s behaviour and we both decided that we needed to keep a closer eye on him. Even though I suspected that Sharon was only doing so to please me after the awkwardness of the morning, I didn’t mind if it meant that we were united.
Thanks to some unexpectedly sunny weather, brightening the day if not warming it, the afternoon session was a game of British Bulldog, held outside. As we ran from one end of the church garden to the other, kicking leaves as we went, avoiding being caught, Sharon and I didn’t let Mr Spencer out of our sight. He seemed to spend much of the game slumped against the church wall, a flask of tea beside him, his only contribution an occasional call of ‘Be careful!’ or ‘Now, now!’ if the game got rowdy. As the day drew to a close, he slowly got up from the floor, staggering slightly and holding on to the wall for balance. He picked up his flask and steadied himself again. ‘Right, everyone’ – he clapped his hands – ‘home time!’ It wasn’t until that evening that I realised he hadn’t closed the day with a prayer.
The next morning, we were back to rehearsals. I had spent the previous evening learning my lines to make sure I was of the same standard as Stephen, whose acting had become more impressive each time we ran through the story. Mr Spencer was full of energy, praising our efforts in a voice so loud it jarred, and clapping furiously whenever a scene was particularly well done. I found myself feeling tense and unable to explain why.
At one point I noticed that the unsteadiness we had observed the day before was back again, and after one exuberant round of applause he seemed to trip over his feet and was only saved from falling head-first by gripping on to a pew at the last minute. I wondered if he was unwell.
I discussed this possibility with Sharon at dinnertime. She was still indulging me, if a little less enthusiastically as the day passed.
‘There’s definitely something wrong,’ I said. ‘He’s all wobbly and slurry.’
‘I know,’ she nodded, and I was relieved.
‘And it’s not just that. It’s like one minute he’s all happy and that and the next he’s asleep and the next he’s cross,’ I said. ‘Do you see what I mean?’
Paul Ware leaned in. He was stood next to our table, and I hadn’t even noticed.
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he said, and we both jumped, startled.
‘Sorry, it’s just I heard you talking as I was going to get a drink. I think it’s weird too. It’s not just this week, it’s when we have youth club as well.’
Before I had thought it through, I found myself saying, ‘Do you think he’s suspicious?’ to Sharon’s obvious surprise at my asking the question in front of someone else.
‘Actually, I think he’s drunk,’ said Paul, and I felt my eyes widen. The thought was shocking to me. Then I remembered that what had sparked all this was seeing him in Chapeltown. There was more to Mr Spencer than met the eye.
Before I could respond, Mrs Spencer called Paul’s group back in, and I just got chance to say ‘Thanks’ before he disappeared. Sharon and I looked at each other, and I jumped up and down inside, not only at the thought that we were on to something, but also because I’d managed to have a relatively normal conversation with Paul Ware.
The following day was the church concert. That afternoon, we would perform for the parents the play, songs and skits the groups had been working on all week. All thoughts of Mr Spencer, the Ripper and even Paul Ware were put to one side as I repeated my lines over and over until I was word-perfect and required no script, even though as the narrator I was allowed one. I wanted to be as good as Stephen. I had no expectations of anyone coming to watch me but decided to mention it anyway – just in case – saying to Mum, Dad and Aunty Jean the evening before, ‘We’re doing our show tomorrow and I’m narrating. I just thought I’d say cos all the mums and dads are coming to watch …’
I left the rest unsaid.
Mum didn’t react. Aunty Jean nodded tightly.
‘Is Ruby going to watch Sharon?’ Dad asked.
I nodded.
‘Well, I’ll leave work early and come and pick you all up afterwards, how’s that?’ he said. ‘We could go to Caddy’s for an ice-cream float?’
Caddy’s Café was a magical grotto of good things to eat and was known for its cherryade ice-cream floats. I was momentarily stunned at this unexpected offer. All my concerns that no one was coming to watch me vanished. There was also the hope that Hazel Ware would come to see Paul and the promise of a glimpse of her elegance.
As parents started arriving the next afternoon, Sharon ran to join the chorus and I stepped behind the hastily put-up curtains that divided the makeshift backstage area from the stage. Peering around one of the curtains, I sneaked a glimpse at the audience, their heads bobbing and bodies bustling. Stephen was back there too, standing tall and smiling. I smiled back, noticing how different he was from the cowering little boy he’d been at school. I felt oddly proud of him. After a while all the parents and choir were seated. Uncle Raymond, who was the photographer for the concert, was ready with his camera and the full cast was assembled behind the curtains.
We waited for Mr Spencer to open the show.
And we waited.
I looked around, realising that I couldn’t remember having seen Mr Spencer for a while, and started shuffling uneasily. Eventually Mrs Spencer’s head appeared around one of the curtains. Uncle Raymond peered over her shoulder, so close behind she had to move forward, making him stumble.
‘Where’s Peter?’ she hissed, glaring at us as though we had hidden him somewhere. We all looked at each other and shrugged. I could see a giggle rising in Stephen’s body and had to look away to avoid becoming infected with it. After some discussion it was determined that Uncle Raymond would have to open the concert as Mrs Spencer had to conduct the opening song.
‘I can’t be in two places at once!’ she said, talking to him like she talked to us.
I felt sorry for him as he stood there, perspiration forming on his forehead and under his armpits. He finally stuttered some words of welcome, then Mrs Spencer instructed the choir to begin, her face frozen in a furious rictus. As the audience’s attention turned to a loud rendition of ‘Cross Over the Road’, Uncle Raymond scuttled to the back of the church and put his camera up to his eyes, hiding behind it, training its gaze firmly on us.
Peering out from the side of the curtain again, I spotted Ruby in the crowd and waved wildly at her. She waved back. Then, two rows behind her, I spotted Hazel, wearing the same headscarf she had worn the day I went to their house, and when she caught my eye, she smiled and waved too and I blushed, feeling the warmth of her attention like the summer sun. The glow of being watched, even if it wasn’t by anyone related to me, made my heart soar and when it was time I gave my performance my all, even garnering an unexpected round of applause after my introduction.
After the play the older group sang some songs and performed sketches, so Stephen and I headed to the back room to get changed out of the towelling robes which constituted biblical costumes. Thanks to my newly found shyness about getting changed, I headed to a small storeroom at the side, which contained spare Bibles and hymn books. As I opened the door, an acidic, foul smell hit my nose and I recoiled.
‘Eurgh. Yuck!’ I said, stepping back.
‘What is it?’ said Stephen, walking over to me. ‘Oh, that’s disgusting,’ he said as soon as the smell caught his nostrils. We both held our noses and looked into the darkness. In the corner I could just make out a mound of clothes, which was where the smell seemed to be coming from. I pointed it out to Stephen, and as I did so the mound moved and we both took a step back.
At the sound of a muffled groan, my thoughts went straight to the Ripper and I gave a little gasp at the idea that we might have come across someone who had been attacked. But as the mound unfurled, I recognised the eyes now trying to focus on us, and the mouth with trails of vomit dripping from it.
