Stone Cold Red Hot - страница 34

“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.