The list of suspicious t.., p.28
The List of Suspicious Things, page 28
The pale street lighting was just enough to make him visible, but I made sure to keep in the shadows as I trailed after him. My heart felt as though it had taken over my body; I could feel it beating everywhere from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I didn’t dare think about where he might be going.
The familiar streets looked eerie and menacing in the darkness. My dad’s footsteps, thudding with purpose, were the only sound. I felt almost consumed with the desire to call out to him and pushed my hand into my mouth to stop myself. At the end of our road, he turned left and I ran the rest of the way up the street – grateful for the soft soles of my pumps – to make sure I didn’t lose sight of him.
He was getting further in the distance as I rounded the corner, but I watched as he turned right this time, into a small snicket I was familiar with as it was the way to Sharon’s. I sprinted to it, just in time to see him turning left at the end. As I made my way to the bottom of the snicket and peered out, a realisation started to dawn on me: was he was going to Sharon’s house?
Confused, my feet trod a path I could have walked blindfold. I took a sharp breath in every time he came to a junction, half hoping he would choose a different direction, but every step took us closer to my best friend’s house. When we got to the corner of her street, I hung back slightly, concealed by the bushes, and watched as my dad knocked on Sharon’s front door and Ruby came to answer it. They looked around as she ushered him into the house, and as he passed her his lips met hers.
The meaning of the kiss was unmistakable.
I stood there for what felt like hours, my heart thumping in my ears as I tried to make sense of what I’d seen. Eventually I turned round and trudged slowly home, my mind swirling. Events, conversations and phone calls started to become clearer in my brain like a scene in a snow globe when the snowflakes settle.
I wondered if Sharon knew. Their house was bigger than ours, and Sharon’s bedroom was part of an extension built over the garage. Could she really have not heard my dad creeping in and out of their house while Malcolm was away?
What should I do now?
The tears began as I opened our front door. My relief that Dad wasn’t the Ripper dissolved into a white-hot rage that bubbled up inside me as I thought about what he’d done. How could he?
I reached for a scarf of his which was hung on the coat hooks and took it to my bedroom with me. Taking off my coat and pumps, I climbed back into bed with the scarf, held it to my face and took a deep breath in. It smelled just like him. Musky sweat, Swarfega and a warm woodiness peculiar to him.
Or at least the person I thought he was.
I realised I no longer knew him at all.
46
Miv
Number Twelve
I lay awake into the early hours of the following morning, my mind churning as I went over the events of the last few months. I’d wanted to do good, but it seemed I had only succeeded in breaking things. Now I was holding on to a huge secret about Dad and Ruby. I thought about Sharon, and knew I didn’t want to break her heart the way mine was slowly cracking.
I made a decision. A plan unfurled. I was going to finish looking into whatever was left on the list, then stop, whether I found the Ripper or not. It was time to focus on real life. I got my notebook out and read through everything, shuddering as I was reminded of what had happened, my eyes filling with tears as I read about Brian. Everything seemed to have been completed, apart from one thing.
When morning came – though it was impossible to tell from the darkness outside – I felt strangely detached, as though I was floating. It was like watching the world on our black-and-white television with the volume and contrast turned down. Over breakfast I watched Mum, who had got up early for a change, making herself a cup of tea, while in a different place entirely in her mind. Now I knew exactly what that felt like. Dad rushed through the kitchen, late for work, and grabbed a piece of toast.
‘Bye,’ he said through a buttery mouthful as I tried to look at him objectively. I’d always known that he was considered handsome. I’d overheard Valerie Lockwood once saying that he reminded her of the dark-haired one in The Dukes of Hazzard , and I found it funny the way that women sometimes changed their behaviour around him. I’d just never imagined him acting on that. I could hardly bring myself to speak to him, and I just about managed to say ‘bye’ back.
A frost clung to the ground, glistening cold and white on the grey streets and buildings as I walked round to Sharon’s, hoping I wouldn’t see Ruby when I got there. I knocked on the door and was both surprised and relieved that there was no answer. I had forgotten that Sharon was going to the dentist that morning and would be late for school. The relief almost made me cry.
As I carried on to school, the cold entered my veins and sent a surge of energy and determination through my body. I outlined my loose plan to myself. After school I would head to Healy Mill – we’d been interrupted the last time we were there – and investigate it thoroughly, ghost or no ghost. Everything else on the list had been crossed off. This was the one thing left.
12. The Mill
It’s the last thing left on the list
47
Miv
The day passed in a haze, and more than once I had to be nudged into consciousness by Ishtiaq when a teacher called my name, though they all sounded like the teacher on Charlie Brown that day. I opened my schoolbooks and pretended to work, but the words danced in front of my eyes.
At lunchtime I went to the school canteen and took my tray over to a quiet corner where I could sit alone, Sharon not being back yet. I could barely swallow my food and was lost in my thoughts when Paul came and joined me. ‘You all right?’ he said, staring at me so closely I had to look down. I nodded, and he ate his food in silence while I pushed mine around my plate.
‘What you doing after school? Shall we go to choir together? Hang out before?’ he said, as I got up to leave.
‘Er, I’m busy with Sharon,’ I said. In my determination to finish what I’d started, I had forgotten about choir; I wasn’t going to change direction now. I would have to go afterwards, maybe be late. Paul looked so disappointed I almost laughed. I had spent years wanting to be noticed and cared about, but today of all days it was the last thing I needed.
At home time I told Sharon that I had arranged to meet Paul before choir, so I was going straight to the church, and set off to the mill. I passed the now-derelict corner shop, still a shell of a building with Danger – Do Not Enter signs all over it. Images of Mr Bashir’s smiling face and Ishtiaq’s refined features came to mind, and a lump formed in my throat as I realised how much I had missed them while they were in Bradford.
This thought opened the floodgates, and with each step I was assaulted with images of the people we had met while investigating the list, clicking through my mind as if they were on a View-Master. Hazel Ware, DS Lister, Arthur, Jim, Mrs Andrews. There was a part of me that felt sad it would be over, despite knowing what it had caused. What I had caused. I stopped for a moment and a familiar car drew up beside me. The passenger window was slowly being wound down by someone leaning over from the driver’s seat, and the opened window released a cloud of pungent cigarette smoke.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ said a voice I recognised as Mr Andrews. I started to walk again, fixing my eyes on the pavement ahead of me as the car kept pace, crawling along the street.
‘What’s the matter?’ His voice, trying for lightness, sounded like one of the mean boys at school. ‘I hear you and your mate have been interfering again. I thought we had an understanding. I must’ve been mistaken.’
I almost started to defend our actions. Then I thought about what he had done to Mrs Andrews, and I stopped. The car stopped too, and I looked inside. Mr Andrews had lost the slightly rogue-like handsomeness he’d once had, and just looked dishevelled. Like he’d not washed or slept for days.
‘You hurt her,’ I said, my voice quiet but resolute.
‘What?’ he said.
‘You hurt her!’ I repeated. Louder.
‘Get in,’ he said, opening the car door. ‘Let’s have a chat. We could go and see my lovely lady wife. She’ll tell you it wasn’t me. I was just heading round there now. It’s time she came home. We don’t want her getting spoiled by Arthur and Jim now, do we?’
I looked into the bright blue-green eyes that I had once thought of as twinkling and saw the cold glint of steel in them. Some sort of survival instinct kicked in and I started to run towards a nearby snicket. As soon as I realised he wasn’t following me I slowed and took stock. The same survival instinct warned me that Mrs Andrews was in danger.
For a moment I considered going round to warn Arthur and Mrs Andrews, but realised that if I did that, there would be no going to the mill. Instead, I ran to the nearest call box. Pulling out a 2p piece from my purse and putting it into the slot, I dialled Arthur’s number.
‘Arthur?’ I said as he picked up the phone, before he could even say anything.
‘Aye, love. Are you all right?’ He must have recognised my voice, and the urgent, frightened tone in it, straight away.
‘Yes, no, it’s just I saw Mr Andrews.’
‘Where was he?’
‘He’s on his way round. He said he’s coming to get Helen.’
‘Thanks, love. I’m hanging up now and calling t’police. You did right ringing.’
He put the phone down and I slowly breathed out, like a sigh. I felt a renewed resolution. Maybe I had just saved Mrs Andrews. Maybe I still had it in me to do something good. I carried on to Healy Mill.
48
Omar
As always, he thought about what Rizwana would have done had she heard about Helen’s injuries. She would have made food, taken it round there and talked to her, woman to woman. So he made biryani and gulab jamun, and put the curry and little balls into separate Tupperware containers, and the syrup in a cup with clingfilm over it, ready to take round to Arthur’s. At the last moment he wrapped some chapattis up in foil to take too.
He’d heard about her fall down the stairs from more than one person, the story told with knowing nods and eyes occasionally raised to the ceiling, the gestures a replacement for unsaid things. On his way round to the house, he decided he was going to talk to Helen about it, no matter how awkward it was. He also wanted to discuss the now fully shaven-headed boys with Arthur, determined to find out if they were the arsonists. According to Ishtiaq and the girls, they had been responsible for the attack on Arthur. No more of this Yorkshire way of talking around the things that mattered, of carrying on regardless.
Jim opened the door and let him in. He’d only met Jim once or twice when he’d come into the shop, and he’d been perfectly pleasant and chatty then, but today he looked downcast, as were his eyes, which would not meet Omar’s.
‘Come through,’ he said, and nothing else.
Helen looked up when he walked into the room, and he tried not to show his shock at her appearance. She too seemed different with him, her voice wavering as she said hello, her eyes flitting from him to Jim, then at the floor. It was understandable though, he thought, given what she had been through. Helen indicated the armchair next to her with a nod of her head and he sat down, perched on the edge, no longer sure about the wisdom of coming here, as well as overcome with a shyness he couldn’t fully explain. He held out the carrier bag, as if that might provide something to talk about.
‘I brought you this,’ he said. ‘I made it.’ He felt embarrassed, realising that he sounded like a child.
Jim stepped forward to take the bag. It looked like he was grateful for something to do, to get him out of the room with its awkward atmosphere, and he took the bag into the kitchen.
‘Is Arthur here?’ asked Omar.
‘He’s out back with the pigeons,’ Helen said. She smiled and rolled her eyes, and he felt himself relax a little, her smile so familiar.
‘So, how are you?’ he asked.
She nodded, her lips tightly together, and he could see she was trying not to cry. He wanted to hold her, to tell her it was all going to be OK, that he wouldn’t let this happen again. ‘Look, it’s none of my business,’ he said instead, ‘but—’
Before he could finish, a sob broke out from her with such force he jumped.
‘I know you know. You’ve always known.’
He nodded slowly.
‘Dad knows now too. And we’re, well, I’m going to go to the police.’
He nodded again, not sure what to say.
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘there’s something more.’
‘More?’ he said, surprised.
She sighed and looked up to the ceiling, and he let her draw strength from wherever she was seeking it. ‘I think’ – her voice was overtaken by another sob – ‘I think he had something to do with the fire.’
The words didn’t register for a moment. Instead, he just stared at her.
‘What did you say?’ he said, shaking his head as though to clear his ears out.
‘I think he had something to do with the fire. He said some things to me, while he was doing this.’ She looked down at her broken arm. ‘And I think he might’ve been the one who did it. I was going to tell you. I mean, I’m going to tell the police too. I just needed to get my head right first. And talk to me dad.’
Omar was standing before he’d even registered that he’d moved at all. The rage was a fierce burning in his hands and legs.
‘Omar?’
Arthur appeared at the door, having come in from the garden. He looked at Helen.
‘You’ve told him then?’ he said, his expression resigned.
At that moment the phone rang, and Arthur walked to the hallway to answer it.
‘Aye, love. Are you all right?’ he said, followed by ‘Where was he?’
‘Thanks, love,’ he said a moment later. ‘I’m hanging up now and calling t’police. You did right ringing.’
He put the phone down and immediately picked it up again, closing the door between the hallway and the front room. There was only one reason Omar could think of for ringing the police, and he clenched his fists in anticipation. After a while, Arthur came back in and sat down, Jim following him.
‘Gary’s on his way here,’ he said. ‘But I’ve rung the police. I’ve told them about you’ – he nodded at Helen – ‘and about the shop, and that you’re here.’ His gaze moved to Omar.
The four of them sat in the front room, waiting, the only sound the loud tick of a grandfather clock in the hallway. Helen eventually broke the silence saying, ‘I’m so sorry, Omar.’
He looked at her, incredulous. How could she even think he would blame her?
‘What are you on about? You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’
‘Well, that I didn’t tell you straight away. That I didn’t call the police straight away.’
He shook his head at her. He’d long mistrusted the police. For different reasons maybe, or perhaps they were the same. He knew how it felt not to matter to them. He also knew what it was like, to be paralysed by feelings so strong that you didn’t know what to do with them. All this he wanted to say, but for once words had left him. Instead, he reached out and touched her hand, removing it immediately, not sure whether that was the right thing to do.
Jim made them what seemed like endless cups of tea while they waited. When the doorbell rang and the sound of a fist thudded on the door, more than an hour had passed. Omar was up before anyone could stop him, flinging the door wide to the sight of a uniformed police officer.
‘Did you get him?’ he asked.
The policeman looked confused.
‘Can we come in and talk for a moment?’ he said.
And Omar knew this wasn’t about Gary.
49
Miv
Snow began to fall heavily, and as I walked up to Healy Mill, I stopped for a moment to stare at the scene. It looked like a Victorian Christmas card. Of course, underneath the clean white layer lay grime and dereliction, but in that moment the mill looked almost picturesque. Entering was trickier than last time. The door that had been propped open before was now locked, so I made my way around the building, looking for routes in, when I spotted that a board covering a large, low window on the ground floor was only partially secured, making it possible to slide through.
I recalled instantly how scary it had been on our first visit, though that felt like a mere echo now. The dank atmosphere seemed even denser in the winter cold. The air inside felt solid, like something you could take a bite of and taste. I switched my torch on and looked around nervously, keeping my eyes out for anything suspicious.
Spotting what I thought was a small side room at the end of the ground floor, I made my way over there, carefully treading across the dusty wooden floorboards, avoiding the large pillars and abandoned machinery. At one point I stopped sharp. There was a large sports bag in the corner of the room.
I tiptoed over, as though somehow the bag might hear me, and slowly unzipped it. Inside were leaflets, piles of them, along with various lengths and widths of metal piping. As I stared at them all, a memory came to me. Arthur had said that piping had been taken from Howden’s Scrapyard the night he was attacked.
I stood and contemplated what this might mean. The leaflets and piping could have been left here a long time ago, but if they weren’t, then there was a chance that I could find myself in unwanted company. I shuddered, tears threatening to override the adrenaline for the first time since I’d left school that day. I decided to search the top floor first, hoping that if anyone came for the bag, they wouldn’t get that far. I automatically reached for Sharon’s hand, grasping only empty, cold air.
