‘I don’t think so.’ Christopher averted his gaze. He wanted to study the man and not, all at the same time. It was like looking into the steam-clouded mirror when he was a boy.
He scribbled down the address. He recognised the name of the estate, if not the address itself, and his chest tightened at the thought of going there. Southgate was a Lego-style block of flats in the new part of the town, next to the white hulk of the Shopping City, a commercial centre full of shops, as the name suggested. The estate had a reputation for drugs, for violence. The commercial centre was where the kids he was teaching went to hang out on Saturdays. Neither place was anywhere he wanted to go.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Actually, if you wouldn’t mind taking down our telephone number?’
‘Not at all.’
Claud recited the number, which Christopher duly wrote alongside Rebecca’s address.
‘Rebecca may not be there,’ said Claud. ‘But it is the last address we have for her. I wonder, would you mind calling and letting me know how you find her? She’s not well; she’s never been well. We did our best, but…’ He smiled but with an expression of sadness so deep as to be fathomless.
‘Of course,’ Christopher replied, thinking that sometimes a smile was the saddest expression of all.
* * *
It took him another forty minutes to find the housing estate; the road systems surrounding Runcorn were no less than a labyrinth. He parked the car on the far side of what was once a children’s play area and made his way over broken glass, cigarette butts, crisp packets, takeaway wrappers. A used condom, what looked like a syringe.
Forcing himself to look up, he headed towards the brightly coloured blocks – some architect’s idea of cheerful living, though he doubted the architect in question would find it cheerful to live here. The stairwell smelled of urine, as he had anticipated. More litter here – a smashed Coke bottle, its sticky brown contents dried on the concrete steps. He reached the first floor and read the numbers. Rebecca’s flat was on this level, to the right. Further along the walkway, a group of teenagers dressed in tracksuits were kicking something back and forth, expletives shouted into the grey air, words that even now made Christopher wince.
Thankful he did not have to pass the youths, he rang the buzzer. After a few minutes, he rang again, only to hear someone complain from behind the door:
‘Keep your wig on, will you? I’m coming.’
The door opened and a thin man with yellow skin and three teeth stood there. He was aged and ageless all at once. From him came a strong smell of cigarettes; other smells too that Christopher could not identify.
‘Can I help you?’ The man held onto the door. He was wearing grey jogging bottoms that were several sizes too big and a dirty green T-shirt. Despite himself, Christopher gulped, but he did not step back.
‘I’m looking for Rebecca Hurst.’
‘Who wants her?’ He lifted his T-shirt and pulled a silver packet of cigarettes from the elasticated waistband of his trousers. He opened the packet – Lambert & Butler – and pulled a cigarette and a plastic lighter from within. ‘She’s out.’ He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, sucked and blew smoke into Christopher’s face.
Christopher stepped back. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said. ‘I’ve got news concerning her son.’
The man appeared to flinch. ‘Who says?’
‘My name is Christopher. It’s a long story, but I have come on behalf of her son, Billy.’
‘Billy?’ This time the man blew his smoke to one side, but he was still squinting at Christopher as if he were a policeman, someone who could not be trusted. ‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Christopher. I’m a friend of Billy’s.’
The man said nothing. Moments passed. Embarrassed, Christopher looked behind him, through the slice of outside world between the waist-high wall of the walkway and the floor above, to where the white hulk of the shopping centre blocked what little sky remained. Further up, he could hear the lads larking about. They sounded as if they were fighting.
‘She’s here,’ said the man at the door.
Christopher turned back. The man nodded to him and went inside without inviting Christopher in. Christopher followed, closing the door behind him.
Inside, the flat smelled of dirt. What comprised that dirt he didn’t want to think about, but he couldn’t help his thoughts. The smell was body odour, cigarettes… really, he didn’t know what it was: food left to go off, possibly; an unclean bathroom. When he entered the lounge, he saw and understood. Plates smeared with traces of unidentifiable food, half-full cups of tea or coffee, blue balls of mould floating at their tops, ashtrays piled high, a sofa, its fabric burned away to form black lips rudely open to reveal partially melted yellow foam. Apart from the sofa, a television and something that looked like it had once been a chest of drawers, there was no other furniture.
But worse, much worse, was the sight of the woman on the sofa: thin legs splayed, head back, mouth open, eyes closed – as if she had died where she had been thrown. On her chin, a flaky trail of dried spit.
‘Bex,’ said the man, stepping over the debris that covered the floor. ‘Bex, there’s a man here says he knows Billy.’
Christopher covered his nose with his sleeve and inhaled his own fresh laundry smell. The man turned to him. He let his arm fall away.
‘Is she all right?’ he asked.
‘She’s fine. Bit out of it, that’s all.’ He turned back to the woman and bent over her. He slapped her several times, softly, across the cheek. ‘Bex,’ he said. ‘Becksy. It’s about your Billy.’
‘I can come back,’ said Christopher helplessly. If he left now, he would never come back to this place. He glanced towards the door. If he ran, he could be out of here in seconds.
At that moment, with a groan, Rebecca woke up. She looked emaciated. There were dark scabs the size of drawing pins on her hollow cheeks. She smiled and Christopher saw she had lost several teeth. It was all he could do not to shout his disgust aloud and run from that place.
‘Rebecca,’ he said. ‘I’m a friend of Billy’s. You remember you had a son?’
The woman peered at him, through what kind of narcotic haze only she could know. ‘Billy?’
‘I’m a friend of his. He’s looking for you. He wants to meet you. I can give you the place.’
‘Billy.’ This time she shouted the name. ‘I knew you’d come.’ She pushed herself forward, made to stand but could not.
The man – her boyfriend? – restrained her, gripped her by the forearms, though it seemed to Christopher he did so with care.
‘Stay there, girl,’ he said. ‘Don’t stand up quick or you’ll go arse for tit.’
‘Get off,’ she said.
The man relented, stood and addressed Christopher. ‘Do you want a cuppa?’
He shook his head, no. ‘Thanks. I’m not staying. I have a message from Billy.’
‘Billy!’ the woman shouted again. The whole thing was becoming a farce. The urge to run threatened to overwhelm him.