CHAPTER 11
I made sure I followed the paper in question for a few weeks afterwards, which amused Ruth when she caught me reading it one day as I got outside a coffee and a ham and cheese toastie.

“Not exactly your sort of rag, girl!”

“Ah, a running story I’m looking for an update on”

“Would that be the one about the little shit who got a kicking from people you definitely didn’t know?”

I could feel my face heat up, and as was her habit, she took a quick look around before sitting down opposite me.

“I know who you run with, Debbie, and I know what they can be like. I know at least one of them was banged away for years, and no, I am not going to make any guesses about how several others of that kind all seemed to die on the same day. End of, as far as I am concerned there”

“Then what’s your interest? Sorry. That sounds rude; not meant that way, OK? Just curious why you seem to be reading the same stuff I am”

She shrugged, gave a jaunty smile and a bright “Local interest!” before slumping and giving a long sigh.

“It’s the little bastard who got the kicking, Deb. Rather, it’s his family. They’re big in the City, in the Council. Main man’s an absolute pig called Ashley Evans. He’s a builder, and somehow seems to get a load of contracts, all of them by, er, fair and open competition. If something nasty’s happened to young Joe, then there’ll be interest in it from all sorts of people. I am sure the people you definitely don’t know are well aware of who the Evans clan are and I really doubt they’re worried about them”

“So?”

“It’s you, Debbie. Evans is a loud-mouthed pig, but he’s also a coward. He’s a bully, and his sort are always cowards. If he works out who smacked his boy around, he’ll be looking for an easy target. If anyone spots you being too interested in Joe’s accident, they’ll see who you mix with, and Ashley Evans will find out in double-quick time. Watch your back, as well as your mouth”

She grinned.

“And I KNOW that you understand how I meant that last bit! Refill?”

Ruth’s words set me thinking, and not in a nice way, as they swam so close to my experiences in Cheshire, where that big bastard of a Sergeant had literally had his feet under the table in Mersey View. There were coppers involved in this case as well, and one thing I didn’t need was their attention turning towards me. Life was OK, if a little empty at times, but I had my rallies and weekends in the hills to keep me alive rather than just existing. I made sure from then on that I kept my interest in the Powell/Evans story as close to my chest as possible, and Ruth’s advice turned out to be spot on.

Two coppers lost their jobs, and while it was ostensibly for driving while pissed, it was followed not that long afterwards by a settlement out of court “in an undisclosed sum” to Sarah Powell.

Two coppers, both stopped and breathalysed on the same night. One of them called Evans.

I ran the story past Marlene one evening, and she sat and stared at me for about thirty seconds without speaking, before simply saying that it was a place I didn’t want to explore any further.

“When I say that, woman, I don’t mean that you don’t feel some spark of curiosity. I mean that it would not be good for your health. That family has fingers in all sorts of shit pasties, so don’t poke anything in or it might get sliced off, and I don’t mean what you already have had snipped”

With that last cutting remark, she was off back to the bar, and in the end, I was left with nothing more in relation to the case. No news, no more reports, no sudden press revelations about the men responsible for Joe Evans’ beating.

Nothing.

My attention was diverted, in the end, by other matters, much closer to home. I had settled into an odd division in my life, where those days of rallying and wildness bookended weeks of work where I came home each evening and simply locked the front door until the next morning. Apart from a meal at Ruth’s, a night-time drive to do something for the homeless, or a quiet drink with Marlene, life was solo until the moment I left the house with my tent on the back of the bike, now a 550cc Suzuki, or a sleeping bag in the back of the van. That was when I started to smile, feel the tension easing in my shoulders despite the drive or ride that lay ahead of me.

What caught my attention was the increasing noise coming from a small but persistent group of people, other transsexuals, as I called them. Other people like me.

Their demands were simple and obvious, being limited to the simple fact of being recognised as who they said they were, but the government kept coming up with loads of shitty reasons why that could never happen, how it would destroy society, corrupt all the children, maybe even cause ten Biblical plagues; I forget all the shit reasons they gave, and I just kept my head down, my nose clean and lived for those days of release.

The other thing I did was count my blessings, as each time I came home after dark, there were figures in doorways, and the odd cup of tea I distributed did little visible apart from the smiles of welcome, of recognition, mixed with all too many looks of utter despair.

I fitted an urn into the van one day, just to be able to make as many cups as I could, and it was emptied so quickly I frequently ran out. Shitty weather did that, as well as the shitty times we lived in. Things changed one night, as sleet splashed down around me and a small group of figures wrapped in bin liners sat on the step of the rear door or huddled under sheets of cardboard, both hands wrapped round the cheap plastic mugs I was using. I had a couple of regulars there, one I knew only as Sparky, and he was clearly worried.

“What’s up, mate?”

“All sorts of shit, Deb, all kinds of crap, but it’s a little better with something hot. You know I’m grateful, we all are, so no gushing. You probably save a couple of lives a month, girl, and that’s the point. Girl over there, in the alley behind the bookies”

“Eh?”

“Don’t think she’s got anything left, Deb. Tried to wake her up when you came around, but she just told me to fuck off. Worried about her, I am”

“Show me”

“Er, thing is, not sure she’s really a girl, if you see what I mean. And not that old”

“Show me, mate. Please”

He uncurled from his seat on the van’s sill and led the way to a dark alley, unlit apart from the flicker of a TV behind a curtained upstairs window. There was a pile of sodden cardboard boxes partly covered by a sheet of old pallet-wrapping plastic, and I could just spot a mass of dirty hair at one end. Sparky reached down to shake the girl.

“Kim?”

“Fuck off”

The voice was weak, and even in the dim light I could see the sparkle of drops of water falling from the tangled hair. Sparky was insistent.

“Debbie’s here, Kim. Woman I told you about. Got a hot drink going, if you want”

A fit of coughing was the only response, and I had a flashback to that horsebox, the rubbish bins.

“Sparky, give me a hand. Get her to the van, aye?”

“Fuck your fucking van, nonce!”

Life still there, then.

“Sorry, girl, but I don’t think a cuppa will be enough. You coming or being carried?”

“Fuck off”

I nodded to Sparky, and he called over another couple of men, and as they peeled off the layers of soaking paste that had been sheets of cardboard, the two of us hauled her to her feet and almost dragged her to my van, where I laid her out on the floor, her skin so hot it seemed to burn my hands. All through the process, I was being told where I could go, and I quickly realised there was only one place available.

She, or perhaps he, was filthy, but I had a quick internal debate, which I won on the basis of owning a washing machine, and pulled out a sleeping bag I kept under the front seats, wrapping her in it.

“Sparky?”

“Aye?”

“You know where I live?”

“Yeah. That a problem?”

“No. You don’t worry me, mate!”

He barked out a laugh.

“Your mates fucking worry me, Deb! Why’d you ask?”

“I’m taking her there. Get her warmed up. Just in case anybody comes looking for her, butt. She’s a bit young; might have family after her”

He nodded in swift understanding.

“Where’s your GP? Might be willing to do a call-out, state she’s in. Breathing sounds clear, so don’t think it’s pneumonia, at least not yet”

I stared hard at him, and he shrugged, looking away.

“Basic battlefield medicine, Debbie. All you need to know, isn’t it? I’ll pass the word if someone comes looking, but to you first. Let Kimberley decide if she wants to talk to anyone”

He looked at the mug, wistfully.

“Well, no more tonight. Want me to collect them up?”

“No, mate. I’ve got enough hot for another round. You gather them up and keep them safe for my next run, OK?”

“You are a fucking saint, girl”

“No, butt. Just someone who’s been there. See you once she’s sorted, right?”

Things went almost exactly as they had done for me, but I didn’t end up in the shower with her, and despite Sparky’s suggestion, I left the doctor well alone, as I couldn’t be sure she needed to be found, never mind wanted. A quick call to Rosie brought a back-door knock from two patches, one of whom was a nurse, and from god knows where he had turned up with a stock of antibiotics. He made a quick examination, wrote out guidance for how many and for how long, stared hard at both of us, and then they all cleared off.

I understood the stare, because I was absolutely sure the club members knew all about my history, and as for ‘Kim’…

I had got her out of the van, and somehow upstairs, where I set the bath running and started to undress her. She looked about sixteen, and it was quickly clear that ‘she’ was preferred as a pronoun rather than real. She almost fought me until I managed to make it clear that I didn’t want to see her naked, just make sure that she was out of soaking wet clothing. I gave her my brightest smile along with a fizzy bath bomb, and went to leave.

“Take as long as you like, girl. I’m going to put some soup on to heat, and I’ll leave you some dry clothes outside the door. Just warm up a bit, get some food inside you, and then make your mind up what you want to do. I’m just here to help. Nothing weird, nothing nasty. I’ll leave the back door unlocked if that’s what you decide”

I found some old pyjamas in the airing cupboard, along with a spare dressing gown and some slippers I had nearly worn out, and set myself the job of separating the rags she was in for washing, which was a task I quickly abandoned due to their utterly shitty state of repair. I piled them by the back door; her choice, in the end.

I turned the heating up, and pulled a clean sleeping bag out, leaving it ready on the settee. The girl, boy, was down in an hour, but almost terminally; I heard the bath draining, and I only just managed to catch her as she half-fell down the stairs.

She hardly reacted when the bikers arrived, but when they had left she asked quietly if there was any more soup left.

“Yes, girl. Want a hot drink as well? I’ve got some cocoa; always does the job for me”

She nodded her thanks, and I rose to go to the kitchen just as she spoke, her voice weak and croaky.

“You say that so easily after seeing me in the bathroom”

“Say what?”

“Girl. You know that isn’t what I am”

My tears were fighting to escape, as so much of my life sat on my settee wrapped in a sleeping bag, so I simply said “I think it is”, and hurried out of the door to make the hot chocolate, and leave her to choose her path.