Looking for Trouble - страница 7

Max Ainsworth had everything to attract the bullies. His face was raw with acne, he wore thick glasses and a brace, he was lanky and round-shouldered. He sat alone on a bench in a quieter area of the playground.

I explained why I was there and began my questions. Max thought before replying and seemed to know a great deal more about Martin than Barry Dixon had. It struck me that Barry was oblivious to other people, locked in his academic world. Max had the more common ability to hold a conversation where you take turns speaking.

‘Do you know why he left home?’

‘He was fed up with it. He never said much, just used to say he’d leave home soon as he was sixteen.’

‘Where would he go?’

‘Dunno. Try and get a job, I suppose. Not easy.’

‘No. Did he ever mention other friends, places he might stay?’

‘No, he was very quiet. Fishing. That was his big thing. He’d talk about that. I went with him a few times, Dean Clough, Rumworth. It was alright but I didn’t have all the gear. Bit boring really. He were good at it. Won competitions and that.’

‘Why was he fed up at home? What were his parents like?’

‘Dunno, never went round. He came to mine a few times.’

I reckon Max was the nearest thing to a friend Martin had. I gave him one of my cards and asked him to get in touch if he thought of anything else, or if he heard from Martin.

‘Like telly,’ he flashed a smile. Then his voice filled with concern. ‘Do you think he’s alright?’

‘Yes.’ Reassurance came automatically. I hadn’t really considered whether Martin could be in trouble, he’d not shown any leaning towards crime before…and teenage suicides don’t usually leave home to escape. ‘Do you?’

Max shifted on the bench. ‘S’pose so, it’s just…’ he paused. ‘There was this one time…he was getting really riled…they were giving him a hard time,’ he nodded towards the kids in the playground, ‘and he just went mad, lost it completely. He nearly killed this guy. Had his head, banging it against the floor, there was blood everywhere. We had to drag him off. He was in a daze, like he didn’t know what he’d done. They laid off him after that. Passed it round he was a bit of a nutter.’

‘Do you think he was?’

‘No. It was just that once. Rest of the time he was just quiet. Scared the shit out of me, I can tell you, seeing him like that.’

‘Wasn’t he disciplined?’

Max shook his head. ‘No-one reported it. Gibson went to hospital, his mates took him, said he’d fallen off a wall or summat like that. Martin was back the next day like it had never happened.’

I got caught in heavy traffic driving back to Manchester. I always come in through Salford, our neighbouring city, and there was only one lane open due to repair work.

The sun shone and it was hot in the car. I wound the window down and mentally crossed off my list as we edged slowly forward. It wasn’t a long list. I could ask around up at Martin’s old fishing haunt, though I suspected that anglers were a solitary breed. And I could wander the streets of Manchester, in search of other young runaways. See if anyone recognised Martin’s photo. It was a long shot but I didn’t have much option. I didn’t exactly relish the prospect of trawling round town for the young homeless, so I decided to get it over and done with as soon as possible. I hadn’t time to fit it in before picking the kids up but I’d do it first thing the following morning. And on Wednesday I’d go fishing…

It was a June morning, just like the good old days. Not a cloud in sight, warm sun, blossom. But nobody relied on it. As I drove into town, I noticed everyone sported rolled up umbrellas. And most of the old folk were still in winter coats and hats. It was going to take more than this to convince them that summer was on its way.

I parked in a side street off Piccadilly Gardens, more of a back alley than a street. I hoped it was small enough to miss regular visits from the traffic wardens. I threaded my way through the debris that littered the alley. Rubbish from the clothing wholesalers who occupied most of the old buildings. Here and there, a pile of ripped bin-bags spilt out bones and vegetable peelings, marking the back entrance to the occasional restaurant. Tuesday must be bin-day.