Stone Cold Red Hot (11 page)

“Good,” he said. His face closed down. There wasn’t any warmth in the comment. I knew he was thinking about previous occasions when my work had come far too close to home. It was an area we skirted round now. I had a rush of irritation with him. The past was over and done with. How long was he going to cradle his disapproval? We needed to talk about it, but not then. I was in a hurry.

Traffic was light and I reached Canterbury Close in fifteen minutes. It was drizzling, the soft, steady veil of damp that Manchester does so well, creating balls of diffuse orange light around the street lamps.

I could see a huddle of people outside the Ibrahims’. There was a van parked outside Mr Poole’s house so I drove on and found a space further down the Close. The fine rain made it hard to see clearly what was going. I fiddled with my rear-view mirror and pretended to mess with my hair. Though there’s not a lot to do with a plain grey wig. I could see the Brennan twins and Micky Whittaker, no sign of the two adults or Darren. A fourth boy was bouncing a football from one knee to the other.

I got out of the car and locked up. I felt the attention swivel my way and a silence stretched the seconds. My shoulders tensed up and my stomach contracted. The football slammed against the far side of my car.

“Hey,” I shouted, “pack it in.”

Someone echoed me in a falsetto voice. There were jeers from the group. It would be unwise to antagonise them further. I needed to get inside, set the camera up, do my job. I walked quickly towards Mr Poole’s. One of the twins intercepted me at the gate.

“Where you think you’re going?” He dripped insolence.

I moved to side-step him and he shadowed me. I was close enough to see the fuzzy hair on his upper lip, the cold sore at one corner of this mouth, to smell the cooking fat on his clothes. I avoided eye contact: common sense, don’t challenge him.

“Those glasses are well sad, you look like Elton John, anybody ever tell you that?”

“Let me past,” I said, “or I’ll report you to the police.”

“Yeah,” he raised an eyebrow, “got a mobile phone in there have you?” He made a grab for the sports bag. I swung it backwards out of his reach.

Mr Poole’s door swung open and light spilt across the path. “What’s going on?” he barked. There were two women close behind him in the doorway.

“Aw, fuck off, grandad,” yelled the boy who I’d not seen before.

“Clear off,” shouted Mr Poole, “go on, clear off. We’re sick of the lot of you.”

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” one of the women spoke up.

Catcalls and clapping. The twin inched out of my way. Mickey Whittaker gave us two fingers.

I hurried into the house. Mr Poole shut the door. There was a hard thump from outside. It made me start.

“Football,” said Mr Poole, “they’ve been kicking it over the road against the door for the last ten minutes.” He closed his eyes momentarily, shook his head. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m OK.” But raging inside.

“This is Mary,” he introduced the woman who’d called out. She was small, energetic, bright-eyes and a quick smile. We shook hands.

“And Pauline.”

Pauline’s hand was cool and frail, everything about her looked pale, faded.

“We’re his secretaries,” joked Mary, “help him sort his files out.”

“More like gaffers,” he joked, “keep me on my toes. Local history buffs,” he explained, “know all about Hulme, these two do.”

The women both grinned.

“I’d better get going,” I gestured upstairs.

“We’ll get you a brew. Tea?”

“Thank you.”

“They know what you’re doing,” Mr Poole said to me.

“It’s not all like this, you know,” Mary tapped my arm. “You look in the paper and it’s all ‘estate from hell’ and ‘crime and despair’ but there’s some good people round here, proper little communities. This side of the road, we’ve not had all the changes they have over there.”

“We’re not the New Hulme,” added Pauline, “they’ve knocked that down twice in my lifetime. St Georges has had a different history. Lot more settled.”

“Thought we’d died and gone to heaven when we moved here, didn’t we Pauline?”

“Oh, aye. We was all moved from the slums, see. Beswick and Salford. You’ll not remember but they was terrible places, really terrible. We came here and there’s indoor toilets - cos we only had a privvy in the yard before that.”

“Hot water out the tap and all,” added Mary, “I cried first time I saw that. Tears of joy.”

“She does exaggerate,” teased Mr Poole. Mary slapped him on the arm.

“You go on up,” he said, “I’ll bring your tea up.”

I opened the window a couple of inches then set the camera up as before. I was smarting with outrage at the bullying I’d had to deal with. I knew I’d done right to play cautious, to save my skin but I had been in many similar situations and every time there was a small part of me, enraged at the injustice of it, at the brutal cocksure arrogance of these men (for they always had been men) and each time I had swallowed that anger. One day, I fantasised, I’d let go, let all that rage free, let it come pouring out and I’d kill someone, batter them to death with whatever was to hand, strangle them with my bare hands, beat them to a pulp...and more. And then how would I feel? Better?

I checked the focus, I couldn’t see the lads at all then I realised that they must be leaning against the van parked directly outside the house. The football would appear now and then and they began to target the Ibrahim’s house, kicking the ball hard against the door and windows. I couldn’t film them but I took some footage of the ball to establish what was happening.

Mr Poole brought me some tea. “I thought what had happened on Friday would be enough to convince the council.”

“It may be but they’re waiting for the lawyer’s say-so.”

He grunted, not impressed and told me to call him if I needed anything.

I looked back at the house opposite. The football slammed against the door and bounced back. How did the Ibrahim children react to the bombardment? Could they sleep? Did they have nightmares and wet the bed? Did they huddle under the covers trying to shut out the noise? What would Mrs Ahmed do? Try and keep life normal: bedtime now, brush your teeth, I’ll tell you a story. Or did she gather them all together, ready for another night’s siege, snuggled on the sofa with the video turned up loud playing the Lion King or Jungle Book.

After five minutes or so a man came from the bottom of the road, climbed into the van and drove off. I zoomed in and got a head shot of each of the twins. I couldn’t tell them apart; only different coloured sweatshirts marked one from the other. Black and red. I panned round to take in Micky Whittaker with the bulldog tattoo on his skull and the fourth boy who wore a Manchester United cap backwards and had a close cropped beard on his chin. None of the boys wore coats in spite of the incessant drizzle. The kicking continued, they concentrated on the lounge window. Thump, thump, thump. They took turns to kick, keeping the rhythm up like footballers in training. At last a powerful kick from Micky Whittaker smashed the window. I filmed their jubilation as they leapt into each others arms and crowded round Whittaker. There was no sign of anyone inside the house. I used my mobile phone to call the police.

I reported malicious damage and threatening behaviour. I gave the location and my name. I pulled back the zoom till I had a general view of the scene and left the camera running.

Mr Poole was already opening the front door as I came downstairs. Mary and Pauline were in the hall in their hats and coats.

“They’ve smashed the window,” I told him, “I’ve called the police.”

The group were by the gate lighting cigarettes.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” Mr Poole demanded. “The council can take you to court for breaking stuff like that.”

“Oooh, I’m scared,” minced Whittaker. “Not.”

“They’re not gonna do ‘owt for a fuckin’ broken winder, are they?” One of the twins spoke.

“Was an accident, anyway,” his brother added.

A gust of wind stirred the curtains opposite.

“Clear off,” shouted Mr Poole, his voice rich with fury, “clear off.” His jowls shuddered as he yelled. “You’ve done enough damage.”

A few curses then the group began to play with the ball in the middle of the street.

“Shocking,” said Pauline, “brass-necked cheek, they’ve no decency.”

Mr Poole turned away. “I’ll ring emergency repairs,” he said, “they’ll need that boarding up tonight.” He went through to his phone.

I went back to the doorway and stood there staring at the gang while they had their kickabout. I hoped to discomfort them. There was little reaction though I caught a few obscenities which I was sure were for my benefit. There was no sign of the police.

A private hire car came down from the main road and tooted at the boys who took their time to edge out of the way. The car drove down the Close to turn and drew up outside Mr Poole’s. “There’s a taxi here”, I called.

“That’s ours. Be seeing you Frank.” The women came to the door.

“I’d ring the police again you know,” said Mary, “they don’t always come unless you pester them.”

They said goodbye and walked slowly to their taxi.

Mr Poole came back out. “They shouldn’t be long, the repairs.”

“I thought they always took forever.”

“Not the emergencies. It’s the rest that’s a problem. They’ll board that up tonight but it might be months before they get round to replacing the glass.”

“Mary said I should ring the police again.”

He nodded. “Can’t hurt.”

I dialled and got put through to the same man.

“I rang fifteen minutes ago and no-one’s arrived yet.”

“They should be there soon, there’s no immediate danger is there? Things haven’t escalated?”

“Well, no.”

The lads were heading the ball now. Still outside the Ibrahims’ but not directing their attention at their victims at present.

“It’s a volatile situation though,” I said. “The people in the house must be absolutely petrified. There’s children in there. The police need to move these youths away before they do anything else.”

“There’s a car in the area,” he said, “should be with you soon.”

By my watch it took a further seventeen minutes before the white squad car appeared. During that time the Brennan twins nipped down home for some cans of lager and brought them back along with a large spliff which the four of them shared. When the car came into view the lads moved closer together on the opposite pavement. The car stopped beside them and the two occupants, a man and a woman got out. I couldn’t hear what was being said but it seemed very light-hearted. The twins were grinning and at one point the whole group laughed aloud. The police turned away and crossed over to join Mr Poole and I by his gate.

“Mr Poole.” The man was older than Carl Benson, the policeman who’d come out the previous time, he moved languidly as though he was experiencing gravity differently from the rest of us. “Miss Kilkenny.” He nodded at me. “PC Doyle.” He turned his head slowly to the woman at his side, “WPC Gilmartin. You reported the incident?”

He was grinning nearly all the time, nodding his head to some slow beat. He reminded me of a Jack Nicholson character, all lazy amusement and hidden menace. I wondered if he were stoned, his eyes were glassy, lids drooping a bit. Maybe he’d had a long shift.

“Seems like a little horseplay got out of hand. I’ve had a word with the lads and...”

“Hang about,” interrupted Mr Poole, “it’s not horseplay. This lot are terrorising that family. The council and the police know all about it. Your lot have been called out here countless times these last few weeks.”

He went on to outline all the forms the harassment had taken. PC Doyle didn’t like being corrected. The grin faded, was replaced by a pained frown and he looked to the sky while Mr Poole spoke. A belittling gesture. His colleague was doing her best to be invisible. She neither spoke nor even watched what was going on. Feet close together, eyes down, she rocked now and again lightly on her heels and waited.

When Mr Poole finished Doyle grinned again. “I’ve made a note of the incident, it’s been recorded.”

“Aren’t you going to see Mrs Ahmed?” I demanded. “Reassure her?”

“Mrs Ahmed?” He gave a little extra weight to the name, very subtle but enough to signal that he was a bigot too. “Mrs Ahmed doesn’t speak any English.”

“I still think you should show her you’re here. We can tell her the window will be boarded up tonight.”

He sighed. His eyes flicked to me then away. They looked hard, reptilian. He turned and walked in a slow roll over to the house followed at a distance by the WPC, Mr Poole and myself. The gang still hovered round the gateway. Why hadn’t he sent them away? He banged on the door hard four times and shouted ‘Police’. He sounded like he was going to launch a raid on the place not reassure a frightened citizen. There was no response. Surprise, surprise.

I went up to join him. As I passed the youths one of them made sucking noises.

PC Doyle banged again. “Police.”

I spoke too. Maybe a woman’s voice would be less threatening. After all how did Mrs Ahmed know whether this wasn’t yet more aggro from the gang, a trap set to get her to open the door?

“Mrs Ahmed,” I said, “my name’s Sal, I’m staying with Mr Poole, are you alright? Will you open the door?”

I waited for a minute then repeated it. Mr Poole, at my elbow, called out too. “It’s Mr Poole - the police are here and we’re going to get the window fixed.”

“She doesn’t speak English,” PC Doyle rolled his eyes at our stupidity, “there’s no point in trying to talk to her.”

“The children will though,” I retorted. “One of them’s at school, they’ll probably be used to translating for her.”

He looked affronted.

I knocked again, gently. “Mrs Ahmed, please open the door.” There was the sound of bolts being drawn back and then the door opened a crack. She kept the chain on. She stood there, five foot nothing, face still, scarf over her hair. Her eyes glanced rapidly over us all. At her side a small boy, Tom’s age I guessed, in faded Batman pyjamas.

I spoke to him. “Please tell your mother that Mr Poole has called someone to come and fix the window tonight.”