The Runaway. Ali Harper
futile. ‘And that’s all you got?’ I asked. ‘A list of people who lived in the flats and a train ticket?’
‘They’re a subclass of people,’ said Jo. ‘Cynics might think these women are bred for abuse and murder. Most sex workers grew up in care.’
‘We don’t actually know she was a sex worker.’
‘Abusers, murderers know they stand a good chance of getting away with the shit they get away with—’
‘She wasn’t murdered. And we don’t know she was abused.’ Jo obviously wasn’t going to let any of the facts stand in her way.
‘Because no one cares,’ she said, her eyes boring into mine. Her voice was so loud the people at the other table had stopped speaking.
‘I do care,’ I said. ‘I just think we need to be clear—’
‘They’re the world’s missing, the world’s lost.’
‘OK.’ I held my hands up.
‘They’re so missing, so off radar, no one even knows they’re missing. They’re more than missing, they’re fucking invisible.’
‘That’s the thing,’ said Martin, nodding with approval at Jo. ‘There was no one stamping feet, demanding answers. The case got pushed aside. She had no one. That’s why it won’t let me go.’
‘If the kind of men who prey on these women knew there were people like us out there, people who care and want to find out what happened, maybe, just maybe, it might make them think twice before they do the fucked-up shit that they do.’
‘OK,’ I said. The expression on Jo’s face made me feel like crying. ‘I guess it wouldn’t hurt, having a look at it.’
I turned to Martin because I couldn’t bear to look at Jo anymore. ‘You don’t have to pay us though, we owe you one.’
‘We owe you more than that,’ said Jo.
He drained his pint and waved at the barman, indicating another round, the same again. I wanted to point out it wasn’t waitress service, but the barman smiled and reached up for a pint glass from the rack above his head. Martin turned back to us.
‘I do have to pay you. And I’ll tell you why. If I don’t, I have to be nice to you because you’re doing me a favour. There’s no pressure on you to succeed.’ He grinned at me and the twinkle returned to his eye.
‘You want to be able to boss us around, is that what you’re saying?’ said Jo.
‘Precisely.’ Martin patted Jo on the hand. ‘And besides, that battleaxe you’ve hired as your receptionist, sorry, office manager … she’d kick all our backsides if you said you’d taken on a freebie. I need to be able to stand my ground with her.’
Jo shook her head. ‘You’ll learn. Complete surrender is the only way with Aunt Edie.’
‘Yes, well, I’m too old. And you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. I don’t surrender to anyone. Never have, never will.’
Jo laughed and it struck me that I hadn’t seen her laugh for ages. Not like that, head back, square white teeth on show.
We stayed in The Brudenell till closing time. Martin had booked himself a couple of nights in a B&B on Cardigan Road in order to watch the cricket. As Jo tried to wheedle another round out of the barman I noticed the skin on my forearms was scratched red and tugged my sleeves down. Once the barman had convinced Jo there wasn’t going to be any after hours, we poured Martin into a taxi from the rank opposite and I linked arms with Jo as we waved him off, Jo swaying as I held onto her. When the taxi turned the corner, I half-pulled, half-pushed her up the hill towards our flat on Hyde Park Road.
She stumbled over the kerb on Royal Park Mount and fell on her arse. I tried to pull her up, but Jo found it too hilarious for words and I gave up and sat next to her at the roadside. We shared a fag, which got so damp from the tears streaming down her face I had to light another. I put my arm around her shoulders and her body warmth seeped into me. Must have looked like a right pair. Just as I thought she’d fallen asleep and I’d have to roll her up the hill, she clambered to her feet.
‘Chris Goodall.’
‘Who?’
‘The bloke from The Wranglers.’
‘Right.’ I had no idea what she was talking about, and I’m not sure she did either.
‘The one who went out with Gabby Fairweather. After she finished with Jimmy McFly.’
I nodded.
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not important.’ She took a moment to steady herself and then set off at such a pace that I had to jog to keep up with her.
When we got to the flat, I let us in as quietly as possible so as not to disturb our downstairs neighbour, who happens to be the only full-time worker within about a two-mile radius. She hates us and our unsociable hours. I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on while Jo crashed into the front room. When I joined her with a freshly brewed pot of tea – milk in a jug, just how she likes it – she was out cold on the settee with her Doc Martens still on. I put the tray down, untied her laces, tugged the boots off her feet and fetched the duvet from her bed. I floated it over her body. She looks different asleep, less fierce, her face softer, unlined.
She didn’t stir so I took the crumpled Rizlas, the tobacco tin and the tea tray upstairs. My bedroom is in the attic, a bolthole from the hustle of the streets. My bed nestles in the space beneath the dormer, and the garret window looks out over the treetops of Hyde Park. Here I can convince myself that I’m not in the city, that there’s clean air and a world of space. I lay half-propped on my pillows, trying to memorize the star constellations. I made a spliff, but my heart wasn’t in it and I stubbed it out before I was halfway done. A line from an old Billy Bragg song looped in my head. It’s never the same after the first time, but it doesn’t stop you coming back for more.
The next thing I knew the alarm clock glowed out 4:03 a.m. I lay in bed feeling unsettled and trying to remember my dream, but it floated just outside my grasp, leaving me worried but without knowing why. I’d fallen asleep without closing the curtain and when I saw the first trace of dawn across the park, I pulled on a pair of denim cut-offs and my T-shirt and went downstairs.
Jo was still comatose on the settee, so I opened the front room curtains, knowing that before long the sun would be beaming down through the tall sash windows. Jo grunted and turned away.
I laced my trainers on the bottom stair, shoved a jacket and notebook in my backpack, then jogged, slowly, my usual two laps round the park. I intended to stop there, then walk round the corner to the office and pick up the van, but the sun was breaking through the red clouds, and I got into my stride and decided to run down into Woodhouse and then up The Ridge to Headingley. Leeds 6 doesn’t really stir much before lunchtime and I live for these glimpses, the moments when I’m the only one awake.
By the time I got to Headingley sweat dripped from my forehead, but the voices had gone. It was almost eight, so I sat on the brick wall of a flowerbed until Sainsbury’s opened, bought a bottle of water and made my way through the empty streets to The Turnways.
As I got close to number 24 I saw the curtains were still open and the house looked just the same as it had the previous day. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps it wasn’t just Matt that had done a disappearing act. I walked up the path, hammered on the door and jumped when it opened straightaway.
‘Yes?’ said a young woman in a round-necked striped jumper. She had mid-calf-length boots on and I had the impression she was about to go out. I felt underdressed next to her, in my T-shirt and knee-length shorts. I wished I’d put my jacket on before knocking on the door.
‘Sorry to