‘That’ll really put them off,’ Grace said wryly.
Lois laughed. ‘OK, but let’s give it a couple more days. You never know who might get in touch, and we don’t want to miss out if the best opportunity of all hasn’t quite got to us yet, do we?’
Two days later, having fitted in a lunchtime shift at the Bear Street chippie, Angie was at the food bank on Wesley Street, two roads back from the Promenade, in what used to be a betting shop. Balloons and bunting were pinned around the door to try and make people feel welcome, and tea and biscuits were in plentiful supply for those who’d been referred from doctors, the local authority, and various churches.
At her reception table just inside the entrance, one of eight spread out around the wood-panelled room, Angie had spent the last two hours listening sympathetically, fearfully and even in shared anger to the stories of why today’s hungry and largely blameless were there. In most of their stressed and often embarrassed faces, she kept seeing herself in the near future. She imagined coming here in some ludicrous disguise as some of them did, hoping no one would recognize her. How crazy was that when all the volunteers knew her and she could already see the shock on their faces when they realized her predicament, and feel their eagerness to help her in any way they could.
‘You’re only two pay cheques away from the streets,’ one of them would undoubtedly comment soulfully, using a phrase – a truism – that was often heard in this place. It obviously wasn’t a certainty for all, but it was for those who came here. They weren’t homeless – an address was required for a referral to the food bank – but many were known as the working poor, for they had jobs, in some cases more than one. Their earnings were so low and outgoings so high, however, that they were no longer able to put food on the table. So, as one dear old soul had put it in a husky, tearful voice today, they had to come here and beg.
‘You’re not begging,’ Angie had told him softly. ‘You’re just accepting a little help to get yourself through this difficult time. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
The old man was in his eighties, well dressed, hair neatly combed, he even smelled of aftershave. He’d clearly gone to some effort to make himself presentable today, probably hoping no one would think the worst of him. He was even wearing his service medals; a reminder to others that he’d mattered once. Those medals had made Angie’s heart ache. Apparently his wife had died a few months ago. She’d always been in charge of the money; she sorted their pensions, did the shopping, paid all the bills and since her passing he’d fallen into a depression. They had no family, just each other and a kind neighbour who popped in now and again to check up on him. He might be lonely and crushed by sadness, but at least he had money, it just needed to be sorted out so he could access it. (Why did banks make these things so difficult?) In the meantime his doctor had referred him here to make sure he had enough food in his cupboard to see him through the coming week.
There were so many stories, tragedies, involving people of all ages and backgrounds, some with mental health issues, and those who were so riddled with shame to be in this position that they couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Then there were the druggies and alcoholics who’d all but stopped caring about themselves so they were missing teeth, had sores on their faces and piercings that were going septic. Each time she came in for a shift Angie could feel the web of hardship tightening around them all. Their needs, their sadness, anger and bewilderment, combined with the unfairness, even hostility of a system that relied on food banks and charities to provide for vulnerable citizens were becoming increasingly hard to take. She wanted to help them, she really did, and she would, it was why she was here, but today she couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit sorrier for herself than she did for them.
After making sure that a middle-aged, disabled woman with speech difficulties and a sad, sallow face was being taken care of by one of the helpers who filled the grocery bags in the back room, Angie quickly checked her phone.
No messages.
Her heart contracted with a painful stab of panic. She was waiting for so many callbacks, mostly from job agencies for some night shifts or anything else she could add to her hours at BtG, but apparently nothing had come up yet for which she was suitable.
‘Angie? Hello? Are you with us?’
Angie looked up into the kindly grey eyes of Brenda Crompton, a fellow volunteer. The ex-Salvation Army major was regarding her curiously, seeming to sense something was amiss and trying to decide whether or not to ask. Apparently concluding she should, she settled herself into the chair that the disabled woman had just vacated.
Angie smiled at her. She saw that there were only a couple of clients left at the other tables, and noticing the time she realized no more were likely to come now.
Brenda signalled to someone in the kitchenette and a moment later Bill, an elderly man with a cheery demeanour, put a fresh cup of tea in front of Angie. At the same time Brenda pushed a half-empty plate of biscuits towards her.
Angie’s mouth watered almost as stingingly as it had earlier in the afternoon when the snacks had first come out. But the jammy dodgers and Hobnobs, donated by Brenda and her husband, were for the clients, not those who were supposed to be helping them.
Brenda winked and taking a biscuit herself she bit into it, cupping a hand beneath her chin to catch the crumbs.
Though Angie understood this was Brenda’s way of telling her it was all right to have a little treat, she still couldn’t allow herself to take one. If she did she might never be able to stop and she couldn’t bear anyone to know just how hungry she was. ‘Watching my waistline,’ she joked, and suddenly, out of nowhere, she felt her spirits lift a little, for she’d been paid cash in hand at the chippie. This meant she should be able to dish up a decent meal tonight.
Brenda watched fondly as Angie’s conscience allowed her to crunch into a Hobnob. It appeared she was about to say something, but there was a sudden crash in the back room so she got up to go and investigate. ‘I’ll be back,’ she promised Angie, and added with a nod at the plate, ‘why not finish them off before they go stale?’
Wondering how Brenda had realized she was so hungry, Angie watched the older woman go, hips swaying like a saucy tambourine, and felt grateful and embarrassed and so ready for another biscuit that she crammed a whole one in her mouth at once just as her mobile started to vibrate.
She should have let the call go to messages instead of blowing crumbs on to the table and down her front as she tried to say hello, but she didn’t.
‘Mrs Watts?’ Luckily the caller didn’t wait for her to confirm it. ‘It’s DC Leo Johnson here from Kesterly CID. I have some news regarding Liam’s DNA.’
Angie stopped chewing, every crumb turning to dust in her mouth as her heart dropped to a dull, heavy beat of dread. Realizing she was unable to swallow, she grabbed a tissue and emptied the half-chewed biscuit into it.
‘Are you there, Mrs Watts?’
‘Yes,’ she replied thinly. ‘I’m here.’ Oh God, please don’t let this be … She couldn’t even put her fear into words, it was too awful.
Leo Johnson was saying, ‘… so I thought you’d like to know that Liam’s DNA wasn’t a match to the DNA taken from the victim …’
Angie didn’t hear what else he was telling her. She could hardly bring her own voice past her throat as she said, ‘Did you say that it wasn’t a match?’
‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘They got the results back this morning. I called as soon as we heard. I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she mumbled, feeling oddly light-headed and something else she couldn’t understand,