Cut To The Bone Page 4
Named Dependants of Rita Jean Martin;
Jez Arthur Martin 11yrs. 2 mths.
Kayleigh Madonna Martin 6yrs. 9mths.
Freddie Francis Martin 2yrs.
Rita re-read the letter, shaking her head in disbelief. Scrub End Estate? No-one in their right mind ever went near the place, never mind live in it. It was SINK in capital letters. Full of cons and junkies, that's what she'd heard. Even worse than Downside or Ditch Hollow, and who knew if it wasn't crawling with extremists? Those with harm in mind? No way.
Despite wearing two thick jumpers under her puffa jacket, she shivered, buried her head between both blue hands, knowing it didn't matter a toss what she thought about that grim part of town. There was no choice.
Kayleigh was yelling again, setting Freddie off. Her chicken pox at its height had left her red and sore all over. There'd been no school for the past eight days, nor sleep for any of them. As if that wasn't enough, more bills had mounted up unpaid - some hand-posted, until she'd sealed up the letter box. That way, the demands came via the phone which at least she could ignore. Until last Monday when BT cut them off.
Kayleigh’s din was louder than ever, and Rita yelled at her to shut up.
Apart from bad period pains, her hair had frizzled from the morning's rain when she'd nipped to Shah's Stores for something for tea. The options growing more limited with every day that passed, and like yesterday, she'd chosen a packet of dried pasta shells (cheaper than fresh) plus peeled tomatoes at 20 pence less as the tin had been bashed about. That left her exactly £3.25 in her purse.
Mr Shah had mentioned Citizen's Advice. So, chicken pox or no chicken pox, she had to give it a try. The very name was reassuring, besides, Advice was what she most needed before making possibly the second biggest mistake of her life. The first had been Frank Martin, when she'd listened only to her stupid heart.
She stopped to phone them on the way into town but a pre-recorded message informed her that the premises were being re-furbished and wouldn't be operational until the end of the month.
"Dammit."
"Mum swearing again," announced Kayleigh crammed next to Freddie in the buggy.
‘Mum doesn't know what to do,’ was what Rita really wanted to admit, but couldn’t inflict her desperation on them. Instead, she turned the buggy into the main shopping area where the police station lay set back off the road beyond a new Tarmac forecourt full of yellow and blue chequered cars.
A small queue waited outside until, on the dot of 2p.m. the reinforced door slid open to a matted area where another inner door was controlled by a young woman in civilian clothes perched at a switchboard.
"Desk enquiries straight ahead. Anything else, turn right," she said, without looking up.
Rita chose straight on and waited until the tall, sympathetic looking policeman was free and beckoned her over. According to his sign, he was Sergeant Tim Fraser and, after the usual formalities, encouraged by the fact that he actually seemed to care, she told him about Frank. While he listened, she noticed there was no wedding ring on his hand and that his gaze often strayed to her bruised cheek.
She pulled out a spare page from Jez's school Homework Book in which she'd scribbled as much of Transline's letter as she could remember, then, having handed it over, relayed her frightening experience at the depot last September.
"Before I comment, may I ask you, Mrs Martin, if your husband was seeing anyone else? Has there been any evidence of, how shall I say, infidelity on his part?"
Rita's eyes met his, hazel-grey and intense, and in that instant, felt a fluttering in her stomach. Her cheeks turning red.
"You must be joking." Yet as the possibility of Frank cheating on her grew, and to hide her blushes, she covered Kayleigh even more with the blanket, thankful Freddie was still asleep.
"That's never occurred to me."
"It's quite common, Mrs Martin. Think about it."
Rita shook her head.
"The one thing about my Frank is he's always been transparent. At least until this business..." her voice tailed away.
"OK, but was he smartening himself up? Using extra aftershave etcetera? Watching his weight?"
"No. He's that untidy," she lied. "If I didn't leave his socks out in pairs, he'd go off in the wrong ones. Besides, he said after-shave was for nonces."
"I’m only trying to help. You don't have to cover up for him."
Her eyes met his. That same fluttering again inside her chest, but worse. "You can tell?"
A nod.
Sgt. Fraser then turned to his phone, tapped in an internal link and held the receiver to his ear while she regained her composure.
"I've a Mrs Rita Martin here, concerned about her husband's whereabouts. Can we run a quick check on the Transline truck people? See if a Frank Martin’s on their payroll?"
He began jotting down a record of her visit on his computer. Left-handed, she noticed.
"This'll take a few moments,” he said to her.
"Thanks."
“In the meantime, can we get back to you? What’s your landline number?"
Her cheeks burned once more, but this time from embarrassment. People were waiting behind her, listening.
"We're moving soon. It’s changing," she lied.
"Your mobile, then. And your address."
Rita moved closer to the desk so she could whisper them, ending with, "Flat 1, 11, Wort Passage, off Scrub Lane."
The young sergeant stopped writing, looked at her then the buggy where Kayleigh's bloodshot eyes were fixed on him. Rita didn't need to be clairvoyant to suss out what he was thinking. She turned away.
"I'll call in again when we're sorted,” she said. “And thanks for your help. Really."
She manoeuvred her youngest children through the door, feeling the copper's eyes on her. Most likely thinking pity, and just before the door opened, she glanced round to see if she was right. She was.
*
The afternoon sky darkened too early and rain fell as Rita finally reached the front door in Holly Road only to find a further clutch of long envelopes poking out from under the doormat. Their corners sodden, the ink smudged, but there was no doubting what they contained.
"'S not Christmas, is it?" sniffled Kayleigh, leaning out of the buggy to pick them up.
"They’re for me, and Jez'll be back any minute so I've got to get organised."
She let Jip out of the house to cock his leg then, having given Freddie a rusk, opened up the six folders she'd bought from Social Security Office's surplus stock sale. As she sorted URGENT from NOT SO URGENT and LEAVE FOR A MONTH, the TV news was still running the story of a missing schoolboy in Essex.
"You let your kids out in the morning, and just pray they'll be alright," said a shopper passing by in Epping.
"That's a joke." Rita snorted while making a separate folder for the C.S.A.
She heard the front door open and slam shut, and went to investigate.
"Jez? What's up?"
"Nuffink." He shrugged his thin shoulders and charged past her up the stairs, followed by Jip who'd already sensed things in the Martin household had changed. Another slam, which set Freddie off screaming.
"Talk to me." Rita tapped her elder son's door above the noise. "See if I can help."
"No-one can. Not you, anyhow."
She sank down against the landing wall, feeling if she'd not met that nice copper she'd be trekking down to the Oxford Canal and looking longingly at the water.
"Is it school?" She ventured, letting Jip sprawl across her lap.
"Yeah."
; "Look, you'll be going to a better one after Easter."
The lie stuck in her throat. “Then big school in September.”
"I won't see 'er again."
"Who?" Rita thinking girlfriend.
"Miss Landerman. She's goin’ on a course."
"You can still call in."
"What do you know about it, huh?" He shouted, making Jip tense up. "They don't let Scrub Enders near the place. Not since their Drama hut was wrecked."
There was nothing left to say. Rita fought back tears as she went into Kayleigh's room and looked out on to the dark, wet street and car lights muzzy in the rain.
"One day," she turned to pick up her daughter and held her by the window to stop her grizzling, "we'll be through all this. That's a promise. D'you believe me?" She planted a kiss on the child's raw cheek.
"No. I want Dada back to make me better."
*
Next day, Jez refused to go to school, so Rita too tired to argue, left him in bed with Jip sprawled on the cover. At least the house was warm again. Her Benefits Giro had just about covered the gas and electric, and the landlord had let them off paying rent till the 31st, which would, if Wort Passage was acceptable to her, be moving-in day.
*
With Kayleigh and Freddie squabbling under their buggy’s plastic cover, she pushed them towards her appointment with Wort Passage. Her umbrella soon collapsed against the wind, exposing her face to the driving rain trickling down inside her clothes.
"Thanks, you, Frank Martin!" Her anger with him made her push the kids faster until she was soon a mile further on and well clear of the shops.
She glanced left at the Downside Estate and was repaid by a nasty whiff from the chicken-processing factory dominating its surroundings. At least there were a few open spaces to play in, even though Friday nights saw rival immigrants fighting over their territories. Most yelling "fuck off white bread!" if they saw you. So maybe, on balance, Scrub End had its merits.
However, these were hard to see as she left Graves Way to cut through the dismal shopping Mall towards the dark blur of trees surrounding the estate.
Here, the overloaded buggy's wheels kept getting stuck along the track, and the rotting chicken smell replaced by something even less appetising coming from the nearby brook.
Nevertheless, her chin stuck out as if this dreadful place was firing her determination to be in it for as short a time as possible. She'd get a job, any job, as soon as Freddie was in Nursery School and somehow start afresh, somewhere decent with maybe a little car. No way would she ever depend on anyone again. No way would she ever follow her idiot heart.
She looked around with dismay as she reached Needle Walk. It was worse than anything she'd ever seen in her life, and thank God both Freddie and Kayleigh were fast asleep. Her resolve however, faltered further during her walk along the dog-shitty pavement to where an old man was about to cross the road. She asked the way to Wort Passage.
The tired eyes seemed to pin her to the awful reality of where she was. "Mrs Maxwell got done in there a week ago. What number ye after?"
"Eleven."
The stranger's frown deepened. "Oh dearie dear." His gaze transferred to the buggy. "'An’ ye got wee bairns..."
"Just tell me, please. Am I near it, or what?"
But he shuffled away, dodging a souped-up Fiesta which tried to run him off the road. Rita hesitated, unsure which way to go, and was about to move off when she heard the purr of a more expensive car’s engine slowing down and stopping behind her. Then the sudden thud of a car door being shut. The alarm set.
Fear froze her to the spot.
She spun round to see a black Mercedes, and a young man in a long brown mac approaching.
"Mrs Martin?"
"Yes. So?"
"Nick Little. Housing Department. Pleased to meet you." He preferred a leather-gloved hand which she didn’t take. Her trust in people had reached zero. "Nice weather, eh?" he tried, clearly used to such rebuffs. He pulled up his collar and led her down a narrow alleyway lined by mostly broken fencing festooned with razor wire. Rita noticed the sign, WORT PASSAGE. She wanted to turn back, to run and keep running, but knew there was no way out.
"You could soon make the place quite smart," her companion pattered on. "Flat 1 is two bed-roomed with a stainless steel sink, no damp, no vermin..."
"Is there a garden?"
"A small one."
He sprinted up a short flight of uneven concrete steps to a door with 11 scratched into the shabby paintwork. Rita could barely look. 74, Holly Road was Buckingham Palace by comparison. "Some old boy told me about a murder along here." She hung back, unwilling to go further.
"A Mrs Maxwell, yes. In the top flat. But don’t worry."
"I am."
“To reassure you, the husband’s serving a full life sentence." The official winced at Freddie and Kayleigh who'd woken up and were now fighting again. Rita lifted her from the buggy, trying to keep the rain off her head.
"Who lives there now?" She stared up at two bare windows.
"The Ishmaels. Nice couple. They’ll be in at the end of next month. From Nuneaton.”
Rita set Kayleigh down. Saw how the lower room curtains were like rags, the paint half off the sills, but worse were the knee-high weeds and litter strewn everywhere. "I don't know about this,” she said. “How much?"
"Eighty three pounds a week, excluding bills."
He ignored her gasp of protest, her audible mental arithmetic which would leave her fifty quid over for food and heating, instead hunted for the key in his mac pocket.
"Let's look inside, shall we? That might convince you to accept."
He unlocked the front door and held it open for her as she hauled the buggy backwards up the steps. Kayleigh followed, looking miserable, saying she’d rather be in school.
"I'd better warn you, we have ten other families waiting." Mr Little said as he switched on one shadeless bulb after another.
"Eighty three? For this?" Rita held her nose. The drains were bad.
"Poo," said Kayleigh, wrinkling her little nose. "Smells like Freddie's nappy."
The man coughed and retreated as Rita turned on the rusted kitchen taps for a trickle of brown water to appear. This, plus the grotty lino, blackened cooker and smeary, yellow walls made it worse than outside. Kayleigh had never been so silent, so clinging. Breaking Rita's heart.
"What are the schools like here in Scrub End?" she asked, as the man shone a torch into two meter boxes in the passageway beyond.
"Doing their best, like everywhere else." He clicked off the torch and looked up, changing the subject. "Nothing owing for gas or water, so you have tabula rasa, Mrs Martin. No mean asset for a new tenant."
"What d'you mean, tabula rasa?"
"Clean slate."
"Great."
He checked his watch, but Rita forestalled him. "If I accept this dump, I want a Dyna Rod job done and the plumbing checked. I've three kids and don't want any of them to..." Her eyes filled up. Her bottom lip trembled and Kayleigh gripped her hand even tighter, “…getting ill, OK?"
"Leave it to me." He produced an embossed card from his wallet. A string of letters after his name. "And if there are any other concerns in the meantime, let me know."
"I am. Now. I want those Ishmaels properly vetted. They might seem very nice, but we don't want any drug dealers, porn merchants whatever. Not with kids here, understood?" Her intense blue eyes had caught him unawares, yet after a brief tour of the other three rooms then a glimpse of the tiny, sodden garden, he escorted her out into the rain and back to Needle Walk.
"Someone will be here at 9 a.m. on the 31st with all services re-connected, and in the interim, you'll be sent written confirmation plus a rent book." His bare minimum wave was of someone keen to get away, and once his exhaust had vaporised into the air, Rita realised he'd not even asked if she'd wanted a lift back to Holly Road.
*
When they got home, Jez, still in his pyjamas, handed her the post. Two envelopes. Another Final Demand with the dreaded words THIS IS NOT A CIRCULAR on the flap, something from the Department of Social Security setting out her future entitlements, but the blue envelope was intriguingly different. She turned it over and over, noting her name alone was in block capitals on the front and it must have been hand- delivered. Having pulled out the enclosed letter with trembling fingers, her breath went on hold when she saw the heading BRIAR BANK POLICE STATION and recognised the writing.
23/3/09
Dear Mrs Martin,
I wanted to get back to you as soon as possible re; our enquiries into Transline plc, but regret to inform you that a) your husband doesn’t appear to be on their payroll, and b) the company has no record of irregular trading or any other business which might necessitate further investigation on our part.
I’m sorry not to be more positive, but should you require any other assistance, please don't hesitate to contact me.*
In the meantime, I hope your intended move goes smoothly,
Yours sincerely,
Sgt. Tim Fraser.
PS *As from April 8th, I shall be joining the Metropolitan Police Authority in London, targeting organised immigration, but my colleagues here will also assist you in any way they can.
Rita said little to the children that evening and at nine o'clock, just after Jez had walked the dog, she went to bed and, clutching the sergeant's letter tight against her pyjama top, cried herself to sleep, dreading what the future might hold.
BOOK THREE
Saturday 3rd July 2010