The Cover Up Read online

  ‘Sounds smashing. So did Lev call you?’

  Bob picked up another of her ‘Get Well’ cards, studying the message inside; moving his lips as though he were absorbing the syllables one at a time. ‘It must have been a nightmare. Fancy being in an explosion!’ He set the card down. Picked up another, scanning it with similar undisguised curiosity. ‘It’s like something out of a film. You’re like a dusky Jason Bourne, aren’t you?’

  Dusky? Had he seriously called her dusky? Be nice, Gloria. This is the first man in decades to show an interest in you. This is the new you. The fresh start. He polishes his shoes, so he must be decent! ‘Ha. Jason Bourne wouldn’t have ended up in Hope Hospital, miles from home.’

  ‘And where is home?’ he asked, resting the card on his lap.

  Above the pain of her persistent headache and the strange sensation of her chest having been compressed beneath a great weight, some other gnawing sensation rang out in Gloria’s body. She couldn’t put a finger on it exactly, but it was something akin to wariness.

  ‘I told you on the speed-dating and I told you at lunch,’ she said. ‘South Manchester.’

  ‘The posh side of town, eh?’ Bob chuckled, though his taut face refused to match the apparent amusement. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you give me your address? You can trust me. I won’t stalk you. But I might send you something lovely to cheer you up, when you get out of here.’

  ‘Oh! How considerate of you. What a gent!’ Gloria looked up at the clock. Visiting time was coming to an end. Still no sign of Sheila or Lev, and she had had enough of her admirer’s attentions. Wonderful though they were, they felt like too much white chocolate in one hit. She yawned dramatically. Closed her eyes. ‘I’m feeling so sleepy.’ More yawning. She let her head loll to the side, facing away from him. ‘Such lovely chocolates. I bet the pralines are …’ Closing her eyes tightly, she allowed her words to drift away.

  He’s bound to go in a minute, she thought. Keep your eyes shut, Gloria. You don’t want him to think you’re a pushover. Leave him hankering for more. The hard-headed cynic within her acknowledged that the reason she wanted him gone was his over-familiarity. It made her feel more than a little uncomfortable. Though it was nice. Very nice, to think that a man desired her in real life, rather than in the confines of her imagination. She was torn.

  The bed rose as he stood. She heard him clear his throat. The squeak of hinges made her wonder if he was opening her bedside cabinet. There was a shuffling of papers and moving around of her personal effects, perhaps?

  Gloria cleared her throat. Started to cough, though she kept her eyes steadfastly shut. The shuffling ceased and was followed by the sound of footsteps click-clacking away. Then more footsteps, growing closer. Coming towards the bed.

  Opening her eyes, Gloria rolled over quickly, determining to confront him for rummaging through her things. But it wasn’t her new beau who was standing over her bed.

  ‘Sheila!’ She started to cough violently, the sooty particles from the smoke rattling in her chest, as though she’d been on thirty a day for her entire adult life. ‘At last!’

  Her business partner pulled up a plastic chair beside the bed. Opened her camel coat to reveal a dress that was too short and tight for a woman of her years. All knees and thighs, as usual. Flung a Mulberry handbag onto the floor, pulling out some fashion magazines and dropping them onto the bed. ‘Jesus, Gloria! You’re acting like I buggered off on you for a month and left you like a dog in a manger. I brought you these.’ She examined her nails. ‘Anyway, I felt rough myself. Obviously. I did pass out, you know!’

  Gloria pushed the magazines onto the floor. Vogue and Cosmopolitan, indeed! Eyeing the rosy glow in Sheila’s cheeks, Gloria snorted with derision. ‘You look like you’ve had a week on a health farm, you do. And here’s me, coughing chunks up in a hospital bed in Salford – Salford, I ask you! Why on earth couldn’t they have taken me to Wythenshawe?’ She glanced over at the kidney dish full of blackened sputum. Grimaced.

  ‘They had a bed for you here, I suppose. Or maybe it was nearer. I dunno. But you’re getting the care you need.’

  ‘I bet you’d have gone to the Alex in Cheadle. It’s like a hotel there. Your own room and three course meals on tap.’ Gloria couldn’t quite keep the antagonism out of her voice, thinking of the gulf in personal circumstances that lay between them. She reminded herself that the good Lord wouldn’t take kindly to coveting Sheila’s private health care plan, however understandable it seemed under the circumstances. ‘Anyway, how come you’re all pink-cheeked and shiny-eyed?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Sheila said, dropping her voice to a whisper, seemingly avoiding making eye contact with Gloria. ‘Conky reckons the fire investigators have got my phone. If that’s true and Ellis James gets hold of it, we’re stuffed. I’ve got everything on there, proving every last shitty bit of business I conduct. Access to email. Texts connecting me to all sorts of people, including Bancroft. Phone logs to people-traffickers. Facebook messaging with wholesale coke suppliers. WhatsApp with Conky about beatings, dog fights, debt-collection, executions, stolen art. The lot!’ She rubbed her face. ‘What are we gonna do?’

  ‘You mean, what are you going to do?’

  Sheila picked up the magazines and slammed them back onto Gloria’s lap. ‘We’re in this together. We’ve always been in this together. I know you think you’re holier and godlier than me, and you’re not wrong. You’ll definitely get through the pearly gates before I ever do. But just remember who’s on the receiving end of a good chunk of my texts and emails!’

  Swallowing hard, Gloria swung her legs out of bed. ‘We’ve got to get it back. Don’t you have people on the inside?’

  ‘Not in the fire service. No. Only the cops.’

  ‘Won’t they pass it onto the police?’ Gloria could visualise the scene of her downfall now – standing in the dock with the other elders of the church looking on from the viewing gallery. All of them, judging and moralising. Aghast, as a magistrate or some such issued a harsh sentence. The pastor would turn his back on her for good, with Kitty Fried Chicken grinning smugly as her love rival was sent down. She would be an outcast. She would be reduced to even less than the Gloria of old, who had married a heart-breaking wastrel and who had lived a shameful life of the dirt-poor and blasphemous. Smoking and drinking in Sweeney Hall pubs. Taking her clothes off for money, which all went in The Wastrel’s back pocket. Occasionally pleasuring men behind the bins at the back of the local cinema for twenty pounds here and twenty pounds there, when Leviticus needed nappies and The Wastrel wouldn’t provide. No. It couldn’t happen. ‘You’ve got to get it back!’

  Sheila patted her hand, exhaling heavily and closing her eyes, as if she realised the buck stopped with her. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see to it. Money talks, right? And everyone’s got a price. There’ll be a way.’

  ‘What’s your price, Sheila?’

  The man’s voice permeating the women’s ward made Gloria jump. She looked up to see her son standing by the lavender curtain that afforded her some privacy from her immediate neighbour in the next bed.

  ‘Leviticus,’ she said. ‘And my little Jay.’

  Stretching out her arms, she encouraged the child to come to her, hoping to put on a grandmotherly show that might make Sheila envy something that money couldn’t buy: her family, within arm’s reach.

  ‘Are your girls coming up for a visit, Sheila, to check you’re all right?’ She savoured the sight of Sheila’s lean, heavily made-up features visibly sinking into an expression that was positively sullen.

  ‘I told them not to bother. I’m fine.’ Thinned lips said she was anything but fine. That rosy glow had subsided quickly.

  Gloria beckoned her grandson to her, but Jay started to protest. He clung to Lev’s hip, burying his head in his father’s chest.

  ‘His bandages are off,’ she said, annoyed at the slight.

  ‘I took them off last night,’ Lev said. ‘It was time. And it’s also time
I got full custody of him from that cow, Tiffany.’ He looked at Sheila pointedly. ‘All I need is some cash for a good solicitor and a place I can call my own that’s not in some damp high-rise in Sweeney Hall where the lifts are always broken and stink of piss.’

  Why was he looking at Sheila in that way? Gloria wondered. She could sense that something unspoken was passing between them as they glared at each other.

  ‘So, come on, Sheila,’ he said. ‘What’s your price?’ His words seemed loaded.

  ‘You’ve got a cheek,’ Sheila said, picking up her oversized bag and holding it in front of her with whitened knuckles. ‘I already pay the rent on you and your Mam’s place.’

  ‘But I’m not fifteen and I don’t want to live with my Mam. And the only reason we’re down the road from you, cooped up in a shitty, boring semi, is the Fish Man. And the only reason he’s after me is because of the favour I did for you.’ He was pointing. Gloria had never seen her son this riled since he had been a perpetually angry teen.

  Sheila stood abruptly, rounding on Lev. ‘You didn’t do me no favours, you cheeky sod. You did a well-paid job for a good bleeding cause. You want a round of applause for earning your money?’

  The nurses on the desk in the centre of the ward were beginning to watch this conflict unfolding. Exchanging knowing glances and whispering to one another. Nudging. Nodding.

  ‘You’re attracting attention to us!’ Gloria said, whispering too loudly.

  Sweeping the curtains around Gloria’s bed defiantly shut, Sheila trapped them all inside the makeshift lavender cocoon. She reached past Jay and poked Lev hard in the shoulder with a manicured red fingernail.

  ‘Ow,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you blackmail me, young man.’ The ferocity in her voice and the lavender glow gave her a demonic air. ‘Now, what the hell do you want?’

  Lev kissed Jay on his blond curl-covered head. Held the child close so that their cheeks were pressed together. ‘I want out.’ He looked at the boy with undisguised love emanating from his every pore. ‘And if I’m getting out, I need money to take Tiff to court. I need money to buy a little house in a nice place, far, far away from Manchester, where everyone will leave me alone.’

  Gloria opened her mouth at the mention of his moving away. She was just about to protest when the sister of the ward whipped the curtain aside. Hers was a formidable presence in that dark blue uniform with that wide bottom that spoke of too many shifts sitting at the desk, eating the tubs of Roses that thankful relatives brought in. She wore a dour expression, exacerbated by a utilitarian haircut with a blunt fringe.

  ‘Is everything all right in here?’ The sister treated Gloria to an accusatory stare.

  ‘Fine,’ Gloria said. ‘But you can shut that curtain, dear. We’re having a family conference.’

  Sheila wrenched the curtain from the disgruntled-looking sister and drew it brusquely, shutting her outside. ‘Nosey bitch!’

  ‘And while you’re at it, tell the doctor I want discharging!’ Gloria shouted through the fabric. She turned to her son. ‘You’re not moving anywhere, Leviticus. Not with my grandson.’

  Lev sat on the end of the bed, allowing Jay to play with the remote control that manoeuvred the bed up and down. The boy started to press the buttons, giggling with glee as he threw Gloria into varying states of collapse; raised her by a foot or more, then dropped her back down abruptly.

  ‘Control him, Leviticus! He’s going to injure me. He’s feral!’

  ‘See? You’re full of shit, Mam.’ He grabbed the remote from Jay’s chubby little hands. ‘You don’t give a monkey’s flying arsehole about him or me. In fact, you didn’t give a stuff about either of us until I came to you, asking for help.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘What’s his birthday then? Eh?’ A pregnant silence permeated the space. ‘See? You haven’t got a clue. You’re only ever interested in what’s in it for you. Jay makes you a bit more popular at church, doesn’t he?’

  Gloria breathed in heavily and looked to Sheila for support. When none was forthcoming, she merely gathered the honeycomb blanket to her chin.

  ‘And that’s why I want out.’ Lev grabbed at Sheila’s slender wrist. Lowered his voice. ‘I’ve done stuff that will stick with me forever. My boy deserves a better chance than I had.’

  ‘Cheek!’ Gloria yelped.

  But Sheila was studying his face. Biting the inside of her cheek in a contemplative manner. ‘Tell you what,’ she whispered. ‘Get my SIM card out of my phone for me and you’ve got a deal. I’ll pay your legal fees. I’ll give you a hundred thou in cash. It’s dirty money, mind. How you get it clean so you can buy a house is your responsibility, not mine. But you get me the SIM card and you keep your gob bleeding well shut about what you’ve seen.’ She nodded and winked. Raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Judas, would you betray the Son of Man with a kiss?’ Gloria said. ‘Luke 22:48.’

  ‘Shut it, Glo. You’ve got a car. You can drive to see him. I need that damned phone or we’re all screwed.’

  ‘Why can’t Conky do your dirty work?’ Gloria asked.

  ‘No.’ Sheila’s lips thinned. ‘This is a job for Lev. His last job. And he’s got to do it tonight or the deal’s off.’

  Chapter 25

  Youssuf

  Swaying in the toilet cubicle of the coach, Youssuf had tried desperately to urinate but was annoyed to find he couldn’t. Where was Tariq when he needed him? With a broken lock on the door and the facilities covered in the waste of other careless, selfish travellers, he couldn’t even sit down. Tariq would have sorted something out for him.

  ‘Pee, will you?!’ Youssuf chided himself in Urdu.

  There was a rap-rap on the door.

  ‘Anyone in there?’ The door was pushed ajar by several inches.

  Turning around, Youssuf spied a young black man’s inquisitive face through the crack. His hair was tucked into a knitted hat of the same style worn by that oik that had tried to abduct him.

  He yelped, feeling the urine in his bladder turn to ice. ‘Go away!’ he shouted. He slammed the door shut in the intruder’s face, realising with relief that it wasn’t Dreadlocks from the car wash but just some hapless boy who happened to have a similar hat.

  Darn it. Now he really couldn’t pee! It was no use.

  Unsuccessful and with a stabbing pain in his bladder that didn’t bode well for the rest of the journey, he returned to his seat. The feeling of unease was intense, though he didn’t spot any obviously hostile faces among his bored-looking fellow travellers. The woman that clutched at a squalling, snotty baby at his side flashed him a look of utter hatred when he asked to access his place by the window.

  ‘So sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s fine.’ Her thin-lipped half-smile told another story.

  By now, as the flat plains of Cheshire gave way to the furred arteries of Birmingham’s industrial heartland, Youssuf could only worry that he had forgotten his medication. With nobody to pack his bag for him, he had been at a loss to remember the sort of things one might take on a long journey. Nothing to read. No change of pants. And with the food he had snaffled from Anjum’s Tupperware stash of pre-cooked nibbles in the fridge already eaten by the time they had pulled onto the M60, not a single thing left to eat. He still wrestled with a queasy feeling that somehow, he was being observed, though he’d already spent two nights at an old friend’s in Levenshulme to allow his trail to go cold. Stop it, you old fool. There’s nobody there. Just normal people on a coach like you.

  ‘You visiting family?’ the woman asked once the baby had finally passed out with its red-cheeked head on her bosom.

  ‘Sightseeing,’ Youssuf said.

  ‘Oh yeah? Where are you planning on going, then?’ the young mother asked. She stroked the fluff of her baby’s golden hair.

  ‘Buckingham palace. Changing of the guard.’ Youssuf panned for a nugget or two of tourist gold among the dust of his many memories. He happened upon the recollection of
him and Saffiya, having taken Tariq and their two younger daughters, Zeeba and Aisha, to London in the late 1970s. A quicksilver sliver of a memory that tried to wriggle away from him like a glittering anchovy in the fast-disintegrating bait-ball of his past. It was one of the only times he could recall when they had all been together. ‘A musical. I’m going to see a musical.’

  ‘Nice. Which one?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Superstar,’ he said, enjoying the obvious and flagrant fib.

  The miles passed by slowly with burgeoning queues of traffic and diesel stink from the juggernauts that flanked the coach on all sides. By the time he reached Victoria, Youssuf’s body had almost moulded itself into the shape of his seat. He could no longer feel anything below the waist and the lurching motion of the coach, as it had woven its way through central London in rush-hour, had left him feeling beyond nauseous.

  Jostled on all sides by Londoners and bewildered tourists barging their way across the busy concourse at Victoria station, Youssuf found himself careening away from the Underground sign he had planned to make for. No idea where the toilets might be.

  Anxiety sent a blur of colours and abstract lines whizzing around him in go-faster stripes made from people and neon signs. He glimpsed Tariq’s kindly, patient face everywhere and nowhere in every dark-skinned, black-haired man. The pressure in his bladder had gone beyond simple discomfort now. Tariq. He needed Tariq. But his boy was not in that unfamiliar, hostile place full of impatient strangers, hurrying hither and thither, always looking down at their feet or up at the giant electronic timetable, never looking at one another. Youssuf was alone.

  Taking slow, deep breaths, he spotted the toilets; reminded himself that he was not a lost, defenceless child but a grown adult with a reasonable bill of health for a man with his dubious medical history.

  The relief at being able to pee in a cubicle that was locked and unmoving was intense.

  ‘Colin Chang,’ he said in the mirror as he washed his hands among travelling businessmen and Spanish backpackers. He remembered the point of his mission: salvation beckoned.