13
The newspaper reporter took out his pen, flipped open his notepad and made a beeline for a group of kids milling around the crime scene. They were making fun of a puny bouquet and a teddy bear tied to the black railings outside number twenty-three. Chantelle Fox glared at them. She’d stolen the flowers from a neighbour’s garden and wrapped them in paper that was entirely inappropriate. But it was all she could manage at such short notice.
Improvisation, she called it.
It was another fabulously sunny day. Yet most of the curtains in the houses were drawn, the neighbours still half-cut from the party the night before. A team of police officers at either end of Ralph Street obviously hadn’t heard of letting sleeping dogs lie. They were working their way from house to house, banging loudly on doors, refusing to take no for an answer. They’d get to her eventually. Not that Chantelle had anything to say. Not to them, anyhow. Or to the young journo who was eyeing her from across the road.
He gave her a smile, testing the water.
A lad not much older than herself, he was wearing a shiny suit and open-neck shirt. Couldn’t be very important if he didn’t warrant a photographer. Chantelle looked away. What was this? Some kind of a joke? She’d tonged her hair to within an inch of its life, put on her slap and made herself presentable. So where were the nationals, the TV crews and stuff? Probably stuffing their faces at a café on Westgate Road. Best fry-up for miles around. As much toast as you could shake a stick at – white not brown – with lashings of butter and mugs of watery tea to wash it all down. Lovely.
‘Miss, have you got a moment?’
The skinny journo had arrived at her side, News Desk written on his press badge.
Divvi. Did she look like she was in a rush?
Chantelle didn’t answer. She spat her chewy on the ground to show some respect as a handheld recording device was pushed under her nose. Deciding to make him sweat a little longer for her comment, she put on her saddest face and wiped away an escaping tear. It wasn’t just an act either. Torching a house was one thing. Killing the folks inside was something else, an innocent kid especially. Chantelle dropped her gaze and hung her head in shame, knowing full well that a phone call from her might’ve saved them. She felt really bad about that. But what was done was done. It made her snaps all the more newsworthy.
Sensational even.
She could name her price.
The journo turned away as a car approached. Across the road, a Toyota pulled up behind a fire engine on standby in case any embers in the house should reignite. The same cool lady cop who’d arrived in the middle of the night got out with a fat fucker in tow. Cameras flashed as they ducked under the police tape. Suddenly there was a riot of activity as the press surged forward, seemingly out of nowhere. The journo ran too, leaving Chantelle standing on the pavement like a spare part. Affronted didn’t quite cover it.
Damn cheek!
‘Well, piss off then!’ she yelled, almost stamping her feet. ‘And don’t come crawling back to me! You’ll get fuck all from her!’
14
George Milburn drew himself away from the grim scene beyond his blackened window. As the curtains settled back in position, a million dust particles hung in the air forming silver streaks across the room where the sun streamed in through the living-room window.
He sat down for a moment to think.
Word on the street was that two had died in the fire, a man and a young child. Tragic. In the forty-odd years he’d been living there, bad news had been a frequent visitor. Even so, this event set a new low that sent him spiralling into a deep depression. Draining his tea, he carried the mug to the kitchen sink where he rinsed it under the tap. He dried his hands, opened the kitchen drawer and took out a Philips screwdriver. Then he walked upstairs, got down on his hands and knees, and pulled back the bedside rug.
Unscrewing the floorboard, he lifted it out and reached inside for the plastic bag, hell bent on giving the contents away. He couldn’t think of a finer recipient than his grandson, Elliot. A great kid. Always lent a hand down the allotment when George wasn’t feeling up to the heavy stuff. Never asked for so much as a red cent for the hours he spent there.
Counting the cash into hundred-pound bundles took George a while because his hands became stiff. He kept losing his place and had to start all over again. When he was satisfied he’d calculated the total amount correctly, he bundled it up in a brown paper parcel and called Elliot, arranging to meet him within the hour at the Ford garage on Scotswood Road where his daughter once worked. There was a car there, in good condition with a manufacturer’s warranty, according to the lad. Only the price tag was too steep. Well, not any more. Not if George had any say in the matter.
‘I’ve decided to help you out, lad. Call it an early nineteenth-birthday present.’
‘What?’ Elliot was excited. ‘Why? Are you sure?’
‘You want the money or not?’ George asked. ‘You can pay me back in spadework.’
‘I will, Granddad. Every weekend, I promise.’
‘Aye, that’ll be reet. You’ll be too busy driving the bloody thing. I’ll probably not see you for dust. Can you meet us off the ten-past bus?’ George realized he’d have to get a move on if he was going to reach the bus stop in time. ‘It’s a secret, mind, Elliot. No telling your dad.’
‘Are you OK, Granddad?’ Elliot’s excitement faded. ‘We heard the news. Mum and I were worried about you. You should have called. I would’ve come round.’
George felt his anger rising. There was no mention of his son being concerned for his welfare following the fire next door. Some things never changed. The bastard wasn’t interested in anyone but himself. Wouldn’t know how to show affection if his life depended on it. He was like one of them psychopaths George had read about in the papers. Hard on the outside. Same on the in.
‘I know you would, son. That’s why I never asked.’
George put down the phone. Pulling his jacket and cap down from a peg on the wall, he put them on, then picked up his parcel and left the house. As soon as he closed the door, he was mobbed by reporters wanting to talk to him, get his take on things, probably after some dirt on the folks next door. A community beat officer held them back, allowing George to scurry off.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Elliot met him off the bus as it pulled into the stop. They crossed the road, then the boy set off towards the showroom as if he were in a race to get there. George toddled along behind. His pins weren’t so good nowadays. Bit of arthritis in his hips and knees made him waddle like a duck. He’d considered getting one of them motorized scooter things but decided against. He figured it would make his legs even worse than they already were.
‘Use ’em or lose ’em,’ his GP had told him.
They entered the yard round the back where the garage stored the second-hand trade-ins.
‘Show us which one it is then,’ George said.
Elliot’s face dropped. The car he’d set his heart on had gone. It had been parked near the perimeter fence yesterday. Now only a space remained. They looked around for another but couldn’t find one he liked for the price they were willing to pay. Reluctantly they agreed to wait a week or two and try again. The boy seemed to accept that. If it was worth having, it was worth waiting for.