The Truth About Celia Frost (12 page)

Frankie knew that he had Julian over a barrel, but he didn’t want to push him too far and make him do anything irrational. So he decided against asking him to hack into the database for
the city housing. He was confident that he could get the information he needed without his help.

He started his inquiries at the main coach station but, after hours of effort, he came away with nothing. He’d shown the picture of Janice around and given them the story of his wife
running off with his daughter, but no one could remember seeing them. When he asked all the taxi drivers waiting for business outside the station, he got the same response. “You must be
joking. Thousands of people pass through here every day and you’re asking about a couple from over three weeks ago.”

He headed to the main housing office in the centre of the city. Positioning himself in the busy waiting area gave him a good view of all the workers behind their desks, who were dealing with a
constant stream of people. He watched and listened, soon picking up who were the more senior housing officers and who were the junior, inexperienced ones. The senior staff dealt with the clients
quickly and efficiently; they steered people away from spilling out their terrible life stories and kept it strictly to getting facts and dealing with the housing issue. On the other hand, he
observed that one of the younger workers was unable to control the interviews with his clients. He fumbled around with his papers while Frankie kept hearing him say, “Actually I’m not
too sure about our policy on that, but I’ll look into it for you.” At one point a colleague came and whispered in his ear. The younger man coloured up, saying, “I’m going as
fast as I can.”

Frankie knew that this was his man: inexperienced, kind and harassed – just the type to give out confidential information on trust. He walked up to his desk, politely interrupting his
current conversation, and motioned towards the pile of business cards there. “Yes, take one,” said the worker, “it’s got my direct line on.” Frankie smiled his thanks
and left.

He went across the road into the Tourist Information Centre, found a quiet corner and phoned the number.

“Mike Channell, housing officer, how may I help?” came a harassed-sounding voice.

“Hello, this is Paul Hughes from Newport District Housing. I was wondering if we could help each other. You see, we believe that a woman and her daughter have recently moved to your area
and have probably been housed by you. We just wanted to let you know that the woman left us owing substantial rent arrears and was classified as a nuisance tenant.”

“Oh,” said the housing officer, “we could do without that. You’d better give me their name and I’ll check on our system.”

“Janice Frost and her daughter, Celia Frost. They would have arrived about three weeks ago. If you do have their address we’d appreciate having it so we can begin proceedings to
recoup the rent arrears,” Frankie said, crossing his fingers for luck rather than because he was spouting a load of lies.

There was a long pause and Frankie could hear the tapping of a keyboard down the line.

“Do you know what, Paul? I’m going to have to call you back. I’ve got a big queue of people waiting and I’m having no luck finding them,” said Mike, sounding even
more hassled.

Frankie knew that he couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t give a mobile number when he was meant to be sat in an office in Wales – he would be rumbled straight away.

He thought quickly. “Please, Mike, could you keep looking? I’m actually meant to be on leave but the boss has insisted I come in to sort this out. I can’t go home until I
do.”

“You shouldn’t be coming in on your day off,” said Mike sympathetically.

“You know how it is with our job, Mike. We’re slaves to it, aren’t we? Always giving 110 per cent and even then they want more.”

“You’re telling me. Hold on for a minute while I keep looking.”

“Thanks, you’re a real pal,” replied a relieved Frankie.

The news came a couple of minutes later. “Sorry, Paul, but they aren’t on our system. She’s not come to us to be housed and it looks like she’s not claiming housing
benefit either.”

Frankie couldn’t disguise his disappointment. “Where else could I look?”

“They could be anywhere in the city, and then there are all the suburbs and outlying towns. They’ve all got tons of low rent, low quality private housing. It’ll be like looking
for a needle in a haystack.”

“Thanks anyway, Mike,” Frankie sighed.

He was just contemplating going to find a bakery to cheer himself up, when his phone rang and his day got even worse.

“She’s not on an admission list for any school in the area. Now leave me alone,” Julian said, switching his phone off before Frankie could even get a word out.

Frankie couldn’t believe it; he’d been relying on at least one lead. He walked over to the tourist enquiry desk.

“How many people live in this city?” he asked the smiling woman behind the counter.

“Just over a million, sir.”

Frankie stood, silently brooding.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” prompted the woman, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

“Only if you can find a needle in a haystack,” he grunted.

“Maybe we should just forget it. I can’t get the hang of it,” a frustrated Celia said, attempting to climb out of the lake.

“No you don’t,” replied Sol from the slabs. “Stay in there. You’re no mermaid, but you just need to keep practising. Go back and try again.”

“It’s all right for you, sitting there like Robinson Crusoe, with your fire and your sausages.”

“Yeah well, maybe if I see you putting some effort into your swimming, I’ll cook you one,” he said, teasingly lifting the spitting sausage from the frying pan and taking a big
bite.

Celia reluctantly waded back out into the water, making sure her feet could feel the solid ground.

“Okay. Now remember, I want to see clean strokes and strong kicks,” he ordered, demonstrating with his arms from the comfort of the slab.

Celia launched herself forward and started kicking frantically, while trying to scoop the water with her hands. Sol couldn’t stop himself laughing as she immediately headed under the water
like a submarine, only to emerge seconds later, spluttering, with a curtain of hair plastered over her face.

“Stop laughing at me,” she said, peeling her T-shirt away from her skin. She was glad that she’d invested in the baggiest, darkest T-shirt she could find. “If I’m
so bad then it’s your fault. You should be in here with me, not shouting orders from there,” she said.

“Okay then,” he replied, slipping into the lake. “If you get on your front, I’ll sort your arms and legs out.”

Celia felt Sol’s hand on her stomach, supporting her prostrate body. She fixed her eyes straight ahead, far too conscious of his touch.

“It’s all right if I hold you up, isn’t it?” he asked, feeling her body tense.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Right then. Now kick your legs. No...don’t bend them right up. Keep them straighter, closer together.” He pressed gently down on her legs with his free hand, trying to
keep them under control.

“Now do your arms like this,” he said, guiding her limb with his hand. “Don’t take them too far out of the water. It should be a smooth action – pull the water back
with your hands like this.” He put his hand over hers and dragged it through the water.

Her eyes strayed. She couldn’t help looking at him. She wasn’t used to being close to anyone and now here she was, half naked and practically entwined with a boy in a lake. It was
all too overwhelming; Celia stopped kicking and put her feet on the ground.

“What’s up?” Sol said, surprised. “Was I holding you too tightly? Sorry, I just didn’t want you to sink.”

“No, no, it’s fine, honest. I was getting tired,” she lied, flustered.

“No worries. We can get out and cook the rest of those sausages.” He smiled reassuringly.

Celia’s mobile rang out from her bag on the slabs.

“I’ll get it for you,” Sol said.

“No, don’t bother,” she said. “It’ll only be my mum.”

“Celia, why don’t you just answer your phone? Do you think I’m stupid? I know you’re ignoring my calls. Be a good girl, phone me. I’m just in the
precinct, on my way home. Let me know when you’ll be home – please, Celia!”

Suddenly, Janice heard a noise. Looking down the precinct, she could see a group of young lads sprinting towards her. Seconds later, another gang appeared, flying after them, a large, shabby
Rottweiler pounding by their side. The smattering of shoppers in the precinct deftly moved aside to avoid being knocked out of the way. Janice quickly followed suit. The first gang rocketed past
her; fear and exhilaration oozing out of them – and then, closing in, their pursuers came roaring past, their faces twisted with vicious intent.

The gangs vanished from view as quickly as they’d appeared and people in the precinct wordlessly resumed their business. Janice groaned as she went and sat down on a nearby bench. She felt
so weary, so completely knackered. But it wasn’t just because of this estate, overrun by gangs. It wasn’t even because she’d hardly eaten recently, or because she’d just
finished another long shift at the stinking chicken factory; Janice could cope with all of that. But what she couldn’t cope with was Celia running around God knew where, with God knew who.
Not letting her know if she was okay. Coming home late, barely speaking, full of secrets; her eyes brimming with contempt every time Janice asked her a question. Janice was aware that she was
pushing Celia further and further away as her anxiety became uncontainable. But she couldn’t help it. The more powerless she felt to keep Celia under control, the more desperate she was
becoming. She could feel her body and mind being eaten away by the stress. She didn’t know how long she could go on like this.

“Steady as you go, mate. See you tonight when you’ve sobered up.” A booming voice shook Janice from her morbid musings. She looked across the precinct to see a mountain of a
young man gently guiding a customer out of the Bluebell Inn. He gradually unhanded the intoxicated old gent, who wobbled away like a baby taking its first steps.

“Thanks, Abs. You’re a good lad,” the drunk called back with a wave and a lopsided smile.

Abs saw Janice watching the scene. “Another satisfied customer,” he laughed, walking back into the pub.

Yeah, he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world
, Janice thought jealously. And then it dawned on her.
That could be me. Not sloshed or anything. I could just have the
one. Something to take the edge off. What harm can it do?

Janice marched into the dingy pub before she changed her mind. She ordered a gin at the bar, sat down and braced herself. She’d gone through a phase of cider drinking when she was a
teenager – she’d found it deadened the loneliness for a while – but no alcohol had passed her lips since Celia was a baby. With Celia, she’d always felt that she
couldn’t afford to relax, but now, with the state she was in, she couldn’t afford not to.

She took a sip of the clear liquid. Her face screwed up as she spluttered out a dragon-breath gasp.

I’ve just wasted my money on something that did nothing but burn my throat and tasted like firewater,
she thought bitterly. But she persevered and after a few more sips she started
to notice subtle changes. Her shoulders had dropped from around her ears, the knots in her back seemed to be loosening, and the constant gnawing in her head began to dull. Janice relaxed into the
beer-stained chair and nodded to herself approvingly.

Well, once you get used to the vile taste I can see why it’s so popular. I suppose if it feels like this after one, it must only get better after two.

She was right; the second gin slid down without a fight and the gnawing disappeared. She was seeing everything with new, bright, optimistic eyes.

Abs came to wipe her table. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” he said.

“No. First time. I’m not a drinker.”

“That’s what they all say,” Abs replied with a conspiratorial wink.

Janice burst out laughing as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She couldn’t stop herself and the unfamiliar sound of her own laughter delighted her. Suddenly it
didn’t seem to matter that everything was out of her control. So what? Everything was going to be okay. Janice hadn’t felt this relaxed in years and all it had taken was a couple of
glasses of this innocuous-looking drink.

She suddenly felt a bit queasy. Her empty stomach was protesting at her liquid lunch. Janice knew it was time to leave.

Blinking in the bright sunlight, she left the pub and popped into the minimart next door. She picked up a loaf and a can of beans, smiling bounteously at the other customers, who gave her a wide
berth. On her way to the checkout she passed the heaving shelves of the Bargain Booze aisle, noting the bottle of “Supersaver Gin” that cost barely more than her drinks in the pub.

“What a temptation for the weak,” she tutted, walking on defiantly.