by David Belbin
‘I’m not sure Barrett knew how old I was before, but he found out then.’
Nick laughed out loud. He became aware of the other driver looking over his shoulder.
‘Silly slut,’ said Ed Clark. ‘She thinks she’s doing him a favour, telling the world he let her wank him off when he could have fucked her. That’s not a man.’
‘Hardly a vote-winner,’ Nick said, carefully.
‘I reckon my Sarah’s gonna get back in now.’
‘Follow elections closely, do you?’ Nick asked, trying not to let a sardonic note slide into his voice.
‘Only this one. Personal interest, like. You’re same as me, aren’t you?’
This threw Nick. Ed wasn’t talking about prison. ‘How so?’
‘Shouldn’t be driving. Doing it on the side. No choice.’
‘No choice,’ Nick agreed. Was there an implicit threat? Be sweet to me or I’ll shop you to the taxi authorities or Probation.
‘Blokes like you and me, we ought to stick together.’
‘Right,’ Nick said, though his crime hardly equated with rape and murder.
‘There’s a club a few of us go to when it gets quiet. The Ad Lib.’
Nick remembered a club with that name. He’d seen bands there in the 1980s. Ed told him where the place was. Not the same.
‘There’s women, if you need one. They’re all pros, like. But they go there to relax, too.’
‘I might come along later,’ Nick said. He ought to stay friendly with the other drivers. Suppose Polly was wrong about Ed? The only thing Nick had against Ed was his claim to have screwed Sarah. It was bollocks, but it didn’t make him a murderer. If Sarah believed Ed, then, regardless of whether she fancied or fucked him, maybe Nick ought to believe him too. At least give him the benefit of the doubt, for now.
Bob announced himself with a chummy ‘Ay up’. Nick had to drive him home before starting his shift.
‘Might see you down there, then,’ Nick told Ed as he left.
On the drive to Bob’s, Nick passed a trade union office he hadn’t noticed before. It had a big new sign in the window: SARAH BONE MP, CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS, surrounded by red and yellow NEW LABOUR – SARAH BONE posters. Nick decided to go in later, see if they wanted help.
This election, the party insisted that all candidates be reachable by mobile phone. Sarah kept forgetting to turn hers on. It rang as she was driving to the campaign HQ, distracting her to the extent that she nearly hit the car in front. She pulled over at a bus stop. She had only given out the number to a handful of people: her staff, her agent and Brian Hicks. Important calls only, she’d said.
‘They’ve booted Jones out,’ Brian told Sarah.
‘For making a fool of himself or claiming to be good at cunnilingus?’
‘They’re having an emergency selection meeting later tonight.’
‘Won’t Central Office impose somebody?’
‘The Tories aren’t Stalinists like your lot. Local parties have complete autonomy. They’ll choose a local candidate.’
‘Jeremy Atkinson?’ Sarah said. He was the businessman she’d beaten in the by-election.
‘I doubt it. They don’t like losers. Got anything for me?’
‘A quote? How about: It doesn’t matter who their candidate is, New Labour won’t let this seat go back to the Tories.’
‘Perfect. Catch you later.’
In any canvas, there were a handful of people the MP ought to see in person. Not party members. They were either ignored or gently nagged to put up a poster. Sarah needed to see community leaders. She also had to visit vociferous voters with outstanding grievances, to reassure them that their case was still being looked at. Even when it wasn’t true, like in her first call tonight. Best to get it over with. Sarah rang the doorbell of Polly Bolton’s council house.
‘Mum!’ A seven-year-old in a Batman T-shirt yelled. ‘Visitor.’
Sarah was led through the crowded hall, past the blaring telly in the front room, into the kitchen-diner. The dinner table had been folded up to make room for an exercise cycle. Polly, in a baggy T-shirt and sweat pants, was pedalling away. She glanced up expectantly, the look of a woman hoping to see a lover. Finding Sarah instead, her face fell.
‘You’ve got a nerve.’
‘I’m canvassing for votes,’ Sarah apologised. ‘I felt I ought to call on you, see if there’s anything . . .’
‘I’m Labour, always have been,’ Polly interrupted. ‘You vote for the party, not the person.’
Her legs kept moving, straining against the pedals. This was, Sarah remembered from her cycling days, the least efficient way to use energy for movement, but maybe it worked best for the figure.
‘Is there anything I can help sort out for you while I’m here?’
Sarah meant benefits or legal fees, but didn’t need to spell this out.
‘I get what I’m entitled to,’ Polly replied. ‘No more, no less. People say Ed Clark’s back living round here again. You’ll probably get his vote, too.’
‘I don’t want it,’ Sarah said. ‘I . . .’ There was nothing she could say without revealing what Ed had said to her. And Polly was the last person she could tell.
‘Still seeing that Tory MP?’ Polly asked.
‘I was never . . . I’m not seeing anybody. No time to meet men. You?’
‘I don’t have time to meet men, but I found one anyway.’
‘Worth getting into shape for?’ Sarah said, regretting the intimacy of her words as soon as they came out of her mouth.
‘He’s worth two of you.’ Polly gave her a cold, judgmental look. ‘It’s true,’ she added. ‘You could stand to lose a few pounds.’
‘I’m too busy to exercise.’
‘Lose this election and you’ll have all the time in the world.’
‘If I get back in, and you need help, you know where to find me.’
Polly’s wheels began to turn more quickly. Sarah saw herself out. From the hall, she glanced into the front room, where four primary school-aged kids stared at The Simpsons. She’d had an easy escape, but felt bad about it. Sarah had come into this job to help people like Polly, not make their lives worse.
13
Nick was getting the hang of the city. He knew most of the shortcuts, where the road works were and which streets to avoid because they had the new speed bumps. He knew most of the new buildings around what used to be called the Boots Traffic Island, on the railway station side of the city. The Boots building had just been demolished and was to be replaced by a new BBC broadcasting centre. A magistrates’ court was being built round the corner.
Nick could even find his way round hell-holes like the Maynard Estate, where he dropped off his first call. Bob had to go to a parents’ evening, hence his early start tonight. There was a fair bit of work at this time, so it would be mad for Nick to go and leaflet for Labour, losing himself forty-odd quid in the process. Maybe he would call in on Polly. Her eyes had lit up when he told her he might be able to pop in for an hour mid-evening. ‘You’d better watch out,’ she’d said. ‘The neighbours might notice and think you’re a real boyfriend.’
Nick still let her think he was married. Polly never pushed him. He wasn’t ashamed of having been in prison. What he had done was against the law. It turned out to be a stupid risk. But not a bad deed, like murder. Not even wrong, by Nick’s code. Polly might accept that part of his past if he told her. Only she had no time for drugs and her brother had been a copper, so chances were she wouldn’t. When push came to shove, things were the way Nick wanted them. No way could he take on four kids. He didn’t like the idea of four kids of his own, never mind someone else’s.
At twenty, Nick thought by the age he was now, thirty-five, he’d have met the right woman and started a family. Instead, he didn’t even have a proper job. Probation were on at him to apply for an opening as a warehouseman at Arnold Asda. He’d been to a couple of teaching agencies about doing private tuition. But he’d had to come clean a
bout where he’d been for the last five years. After that, they lost interest.
This week he’d put a card in a shop window on the Alfreton Road, HELP WITH GCSES AND A-LEVELS, at a price undercutting the standard rates for English tuition. There were plenty of Asian families with money, anxious to push their kids on to university. At Nick’s prices, they were unlikely to press him for watertight references. His card made it clear he would provide home tuition. There would be no worries about leaving him alone with their daughters. He’d had one query so far. It was the sort of career Nick could declare to Probation and the dole while driving on the side. He’d enjoyed teaching, once upon a time. In prison, he’d enjoyed helping a few blokes with their reading and writing. Once, he would have objected to parents buying an advantage for their children by paying for a private tutor. Now he saw this was the way of the world, their main alternative to the private schools only the wealthy could afford. Until you abolished all privilege in education, you couldn’t blame people for buying the best for their kids.
Polly was newly showered when he let himself in, drying her hair.
‘Someone came round just after seven,’ she said. ‘There I was, cycling away, sweating like a pig, but I said “come in” anyway. Thought it was you. Know who it turned out to be? That bloody MP, Sarah Bone. Wanted me to vote for her.’
Sarah seemed to be following him around, yet they hadn’t met. Suppose she had found him here, with Polly?
‘Did you tell her where to go?’
‘She only stayed a couple of minutes. Asked if I had a boyfriend. Can you believe the cheek?’
‘What did you say?’ Nick asked.
‘I told her I did and asked if she was still seeing that Tory.’
‘And is she?’
‘She said she was too busy to meet men. I said I was too, but it didn’t stop me finding you.’
She put down the hairdryer and kissed him, her robe falling open. Polly’s tummy was flatter than when they’d first slept together, nearly two months before. She was losing weight for him.
‘How long have you got?’ she asked.
‘I need to be back on the road when the closing time calls start.’
‘Plenty of time, then.’
He kissed her and put his hand between her legs.
‘Wait.’ She pushed the table in front of the door so one of the kids couldn’t barge in. Nick took off his shirt. Polly spread her dressing gown across the floor, then unzipped him and took him in her mouth. After a while, he went down on her. Nick found himself pretending he was in a beach hut, going down on a knowing fourteen-year-old, an athletic girl who slowly transmogrified into Sarah.
When he and Sarah first made love, they barely knew what they were doing and had to experiment, make up a language to talk about it. Those baby words came back to him now, killing the fantasy. Polly didn’t taste or smell or sound like Sarah. When she pulled his head up and he entered her, she sensed that he wasn’t fully with her, and became less responsive.
Nick worked harder to please her, first on the floor, then bent over the table. He wanted to want this. He had five years of missing sex to make up for. He should be present in the moment, not fantasising about something that, in real life, wouldn’t turn him on. Inside, fantasy was a necessary habit, but he was out now, free. Unless it really was like the long-term lads said. You never got the old feeling of freedom back. The only freedom you got was to carry your own cage wherever you went, weighing you down at every step.
After they’d finished, he lay beside her. Not cuddling, but close. Time passed. They were woken by a child at the door.
‘Go back upstairs. I’ll bring you some water in a minute.’
While Polly was gone, Nick made them both a cup of tea. At half past ten, he got up to go.
‘I can get a babysitter if you want to make a proper night of it.’
‘I’d like that,’ Nick said, ‘only I’ve got to earn as much as I can right now. Getting a place of my own.’
Her smile seemed to speak of patience. Polly never asked questions, only chewed over whatever he told her. He wished he hadn’t said that about getting a place. Polly might think he was on the verge of leaving his wife, because of her.
Dan rolled off and removed the rubber he’d worn without asking.
‘We should do this more often,’ he said, when he came back from the bathroom. Sarah didn’t reply. She didn’t want to make love with him ever again. He had been attentive enough and she didn’t mind condoms. Only, now it was over, she felt crap. Worse than she sometimes felt after using the vibrator. Much worse than she had before accepting her ex’s invitation to inspect his new flat. But Dan, it seemed, couldn’t tell the difference between the empty sex they’d just had and what it used to be like. Which was really depressing. He pushed his luck.
‘Can we do this every time I canvas for you or was tonight a one-off?’
‘A one-off,’ she replied, then added, to let him down easy, ‘otherwise we’ll forget we split up.’
‘Shame,’ Dan said. ‘I thought we could be fuck buddies.’
‘Fuck buddies?’
He explained the term to her. Sex as a friendly transaction between temporarily single people who had firmly ruled out having a relationship.
‘I don’t think so,’ Sarah said. ‘I need the bathroom. Can you call me a taxi?’
‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Dan asked, when she was dressing, with her back to him.
‘I wouldn’t have come round here if I was. You?’
‘There’s a woman at work. It’s messy. She lives with someone, wants to leave, but this place isn’t big enough for two and it’s still early days between us. She isn’t sure how good a bet I am.’
‘She’s right to be cautious, if you’re cheating on her already.’
Dan looked affronted. ‘I’m not sleeping with her. We’ve talked and kissed, that’s all. Taking it slowly. She says I’m still not over you.’
‘Doing this won’t help, then.’
‘No, it has. I mean . . . you were right to finish it. We weren’t going anywhere. I might even tell Clare what happened.’
‘Including the “fuck buddies” bit?’ Sarah asked.
‘Glad to see you’re as sardonic as ever.’ Dan gave her a wry smile. Outside, a taxi sounded its horn.
‘That was quick.’
‘I told them it was for Sarah Bone, MP.’
Dan signalled to the driver while Sarah finished dressing.
‘Now that we’re finished, will you tell me something?’ she asked.
‘Anything.’
‘Were you faithful to me, all the time I spent in London?’
Dan hesitated. ‘Not entirely. You?’
‘Not entirely,’ Sarah lied. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that out of our systems. Let’s be buddies, but without the fuck bit. Okay?’
He saw her out to her taxi. Sarah was sorry it had come so quickly. She wanted details of Dan’s infidelities. Had he slept with anyone she knew? How often had he strayed? As soon as she was inside, the taxi set off towards the Park. It was a Cane Cars taxi, Sarah noticed, and, for the first time, looked up to see the driver, just in case it was Nick.
It wasn’t. Nor was the driver the person in the ID photograph hanging from the sun guard.
‘Let me out,’ she told Ed Clark. ‘This is not a good idea.’
‘Just doing my job,’ he told her. ‘I’m taking you home. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.’ He pulled up at some lights.
‘I want to get out,’ she said. When he didn’t react, she tried the door. It was locked.
‘We get a lot of runners,’ he told her. ‘It’s a standard precaution.’
‘Ed, I don’t want to ride with you. I don’t want you to know where I live.’
‘I already know where you live,’ he told her. ‘I’ll prove it to you.’
They sped up. Had Dan given the firm her address? Taxis didn’t normally ask for a precise address on the phone.
&n
bsp; ‘Why do you know where I live?’ Sarah asked.
‘I’m interested in you. You know that. You’re interested in me, too. Otherwise you’d still be living with that Dan guy, wouldn’t you?’
‘Stop!’ Sarah said. ‘I want to get out, now!’
‘We’re nearly there,’ Ed told her. ‘I was kidding, in that hotel, last month. I didn’t like getting knocked back, so I had a go. Childish, I know, but it was a stressful day and I’d had too much to drink. I’m sorry.’
‘Apology accepted,’ Sarah said, as he turned off Derby Road into the Park with its wide, unlit avenues. ‘I can walk from here.’
‘No, you can’t. It’s dangerous.’
Ed didn’t ask directions, but pulled up right outside her flat. It was two o’clock. None of the flats in her building had any lights on. He still didn’t unlock the door.
‘What do I owe you?’ Sarah asked.
‘Nothing. Are you going to invite me in for a drink?’
Nick wasn’t sure what he was doing in the club. He liked to chill after driving for several hours, but he could do that at home. He didn’t need company. Especially when the music was so loud you had to shout over it. Ed Clark wasn’t here, but several street girls were. All looked dog rough. Two had the sallow, used-up demeanour of junkies. Most of the girls sat together in the corner opposite the entrance, talking loudly, laughing, showing no interest in the men who hung around the bar, watching.
A Motown tune rattled the speakers. Finish this pint, Nick thought, and I’ll be gone. His desire for the evening was spent and he’d never, anyway, slept with a professional. The idea didn’t appeal to him. He watched the girls laughing, gossiping, smoking like chimneys. He had an inch of his pint left and was about to down it when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Another?’ Without waiting for an answer, Ed ordered Nick a strong lager.
‘Meant to finish earlier but I had a special job,’ Ed said when he returned with their drinks.
‘Yeah?’ Nick downed his old drink, trying to look mildly interested.
‘My Sarah. She called my cab, asked for me special, took me back to hers for a good seeing to.’
‘Surprised you didn’t stay the night,’ Nick said, careful not to let it sound like an insult. Ed grinned.
