The White Room

by Martyn Waites

  He sliced again. Johnny stumbled back, dodging the impact. Hit a stool, fell.

  ‘Not so fuckin’ big now, are you, cunt?’

  Brian aimed a kick at Johnny’s balls. He tried to move away but was too slow. The kick connected. Fear etched itself on Johnny’s face, fear and pain. Brian kicked again. And again. Not caring where he hit, only that he connected. Again. And again.

  And then a searing pain lanced across the small of his back. He fell to his knees, dropping the knife on the floor as he went. He turned his head. Kenny Bell, blood soaking through his suit trousers, running up his arms, stood there, cue in hand.

  ‘Leave him alone, you bastard.’

  He swung the cue again. Brian dodged out of the way. The cue landed painfully on his leg. He pulled his leg away, rolled under the table. He saw two pairs of legs at the other side, saw Brimson’s prone body on the floor, saw the unconscious body of the Bell gang member he had felled. He made out one of the pairs of legs as Eddie’s. He couldn’t make out who was winning. He reached into his sock, expecting to find his back-up blade.

  But it wasn’t there.

  It must have fallen out when the pool cue hit his leg. Breathing hard, swallowing down panic, he surveyed his options. With nothing to lose, he rolled out from underneath the table and attempted to get as quickly to his feet as his injured leg would allow.

  Kenny was kneeling by his brother. Brian saw the broken brown ale bottle lying on the table, picked it up.

  ‘Oi!’

  Kenny turned. Brian swung the bottle, felt it connect with skin. With Kenny’s face. Kenny’s hands went up. Brian swung again. And again.

  Kenny curled into a foetal ball. Brian, seeing no retaliation coming, dropped the bottle.

  He was aware of movement behind. He turned. The Bell gang member had seen what had happened to Kenny and made his way out of the door, quickly. Eddie, out of breath again, bruised and dishevelled, came over to join Brian. Johnny looked at Kenny’s face, looked up.

  ‘Get an ambulance!’ he said.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Look what you’ve done to ’im, man! Look at his eyes! Call for a fuckin’ ambulance, man!’

  Brian and Eddie looked at the mess left of Kenny Bell’s face. At his leg, the blood pumping out.

  ‘Hell’s teeth,’ said Eddie. ‘You’ve done it now, Brian.’

  Stars of hate were still dancing in Brian’s eyes.

  ‘He asked for it, he wanted it …’

  ‘I think you’d best make yourself scarce.’ Eddie looked at Brimson. He was lying on the floor, twitching. ‘I think we all should.’

  The barman appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I’ve called the police an’ I want youse all out. Youse bastards, you’ve done it again …’

  He stopped, saw Kenny. Kenny had stopped moving, his breathing shallow.

  ‘Oh, my God …’

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ said Johnny. ‘Please.’

  The barman turned away.

  ‘Please!’ shouted Johnny to his retreating back.

  ‘You’d better go,’ said Eddie to Brian. ‘I’ll get Brimson.’

  Brian looked around.

  ‘No, I should …’

  ‘Just fuckin’ go, man. The coppers’ll be all over this place soon. They’ll have you. Doesn’t matter what me an’ Brimson say. They’ll have you.’

  Brian nodded, seeing sense in what Eddie said.

  ‘See you, then. I’ll lie low for a bit. An’ I’ll see you soon.’

  He turned and walked out of the pub. The drinkers watched him go.

  Jack Smeaton looked in the mirror, straightened the knot of his wool tie. He fastened the top button of his shirt, fitted the tie snugly up to the collar. Checked the symmetry, smoothed the tie down. Picked up his comb, ran it through his hair. The dye was working well. Holding the colour, almost back to the brown it used to be. He shrugged on a zip-fronted, woollen, collared cardigan, pulled the zipper halfway up, adjusted it. He stepped back, looked again. The evening was to be casual, not formal. Jack reckoned he had pitched it just right.

  Sharon came downstairs, adjusting the earring in her right ear. Blonde and slim, well dressed. Jack watched her approach, saw her calf muscles sliding slowly up and down beneath her skin as her stockinged legs moved, the fabric of her dress rustling and swaying. Married over three years now, and he still experienced the same mix of emotions as when he first met her: shafts of love, pangs of lust. Intermingled, intertwined, indivisible. He wanted her in every way.

  ‘You ready?’ he asked her.

  She nodded, picked up her handbag. She crossed the hall and stood next to him, looking in the mirror. She raised her finger to her bottom lip, rubbed an invisible smudge of lipstick from her chin.

  Jack watched her do it: the movement of her fingers, the slight pout. He watched and found perfection. He still couldn’t believe she was his wife. That it was him she had chosen to marry. His colleagues and friends had joked that she was too good for him. That he would never keep up. Jack had smiled, not replied, but he knew they were right. She was too good for him. And he hoped he could keep up.

  She was all he wanted. A nation of two.

  She saw him in the mirror, looking at her. Turned to him.

  ‘Do I look all right?’ she said, smiling, guessing she knew the answer.

  He took her in. Hair styled perfectly. Dress all Dior New Look ruched extravagance, Grace Kelly elegance. Heels the right height. Jack felt something melt inside.

  ‘You look wonderful.’ He felt himself blush as he spoke.

  Sharon smiled, moved in close to him.

  ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’ She put her arms around him. ‘You big, chunky man. My big chunky man.’

  Jack smelled her perfume. Something French and expensive. She had been so happy when he bought it for her. Her happiness had made him happy.

  He inclined his head to kiss her. She let his lips brush lightly against hers.

  ‘Not too much,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to smudge my lipstick.’

  She laughed as she said it. He laughed too.

  Sharon looked at him, opened her mouth ready to speak, then closed it again.

  ‘What?’ said Jack.

  ‘Nothing.’ Sharon smiled.

  ‘Is there something you wanted to say?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.’

  She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a faint, red O. She smiled, began to rub it off.

  ‘I’ve marked you,’ she said.

  Jack smiled.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘No, but I’m sure Ralph Bell wouldn’t want to see you wearing lipstick.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  They both smiled, eyes locking.

  A nation of two, he thought, the words feeling warm within him.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ he said.

  He grabbed the car keys from the hall table and, hand on hand, they left the house.

  Ten years. Since Jack first met Ralph Bell. And T. Dan Smith. Ten years. Sometimes it felt like a long time; other times it felt like no time at all.

  The two men had changed Jack’s life. Along with Sharon, saved Jack’s life.

  Jack had turned up at Ralph’s builder’s yard the morning after the night in the Royal Arcade. Ralph, good as his word, had set him on. Labouring at first: mixing cement, carrying bricks, transporting goods, erecting scaffolding. Jack had done anything and everything asked of him. The work was physically demanding and tiring, but Jack enjoyed it. It blotted out the memories during the day, and at night he went home too exhausted to dream.

  He was a good worker and this didn’t go unnoticed. Ralph found Jack honest, trustworthy, reliable. He began entrusting more and more tasks to him, responsibility mounting incrementally with each one. Jack rose to his challenges, more than equal to the work.

  Gradually the nightmares visited less and less frequently, the flashbacks dimme
d, became smaller. Things became manageable. He was able to box the memories away, contain them. Face the future.

  And there was Ralph Bell: ‘I’ve got two sons,’ Ralph had once told Jack on a boozy night out, ‘and, to be honest, neither’re much cop. I won’t say this any other time, mind, because they’re still me sons, and I have to do the best for them. One pretends to be interested in the firm, but I know he’s just payin’ lip service, man. The other … you know what he’s like. He’s a waster, man. Couldn’t care less.’

  Ralph had given a deep, alcohol-fuelled sigh.

  ‘I don’t know which is worse. But I tell you. When I’ve got a lad like you workin’ for us, why should I bother givin’ the firm to them?’

  Another sigh.

  ‘I dunno … I dunno …’

  Jack had said nothing, but inside had felt a huge yet conflicted pride.

  Eventually Jack became second in charge of the company in all but name. With responsibility had come confidence and with confidence had come success. He was building the future. Living the future. The traumatized boy he had once been was no longer visible. Buried beneath fine clothes, hair dye and strong, positive living.

  Jack was a changed man. A lucky man – he never stopped thinking how lucky.

  And a card-carrying Labour Party member.

  Dan Smith had been elevated to personal hero status in Jack’s life. He had followed Smith’s rise closely, felt connected to him. Felt his life mirrored his own. Smith had gone from Independent Socialist firebrand to council chairman in less than a decade. That pivotal night in the Royal Arcade when Dan Smith had stood before an audience opened windows and doors to Jack: showed futures, made faith, built strength. Smith was one of the greatest orators Jack had ever seen. He watched him whenever he could after that. But it was in the soapbox arena that he really excelled: holding forth down the Bigg Market in Newcastle, Hedley Street in Wallsend or the Market Place at Blyth. Smith would stand there and, armed only with a brain, a heart and a voice, turn an open space into a crowded one. Then he would hold that crowd, take it on a journey, tell it the way it was, the way it could be. Then let them go, disperse them back into their lives, leaving them thinking and discussing.

  Smith had joined the Labour Party, standing for Walker in Newcastle’s municipal elections in 1950. He had got in. By 1953 he was chairman of the City Labour Party.

  Jack knew that Dan Smith still carried with him a vision. A radical agenda. Jack knew that Smith had been trying to push it through. Jack also knew that he and Ralph Bell would be heavily involved. That, he thought, was what dinner at Ralph Bell’s that evening was all about.

  ‘I suppose I’m going to be exiled to the kitchen again, am I?’ Mock annoyance laced itself through Sharon’s voice.

  Jack shrugged.

  ‘Dan’s going to be there. He wants to talk to Ralph and me. It’s business.’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  Jack looked at her, taking his eyes off the road momentarily.

  Sharon managed a smile. ‘It’s just … it gets very boring for me, sometimes. I know I have to support you, and much as I like them, Jean Bell and Dan’s wife aren’t really my cup of tea.’

  Jack faced front. Looked at the road. Stared at it. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, nothing big. They’re just so much older than me. Than us. I don’t have anything in common with them. Nothing to talk about. That’s all.’

  Jack sighed. Sharon had said similar things recently. Not the right kind of people. Wanting more. Should be doing this. Should be doing that. Nothing huge, and always politely stated. But the refrain seemed to be uttered more and more frequently.

  ‘I know, pet,’ he said tentatively. ‘But I think this is going to be important. I’ve got a feeling. This could be the big one we’ve been waiting for. So please. Put up with it for one night. For me, eh?’

  He risked taking his eyes off the road again, smiled at her.

  She smiled back.

  He drove on. Carefully and expertly.

  He looked over at Sharon, smiled again. She smiled back. Hesitantly, thinly, but a smile nonetheless. Jack drew what comfort he could from that.

  He looked again at the road ahead, smile still in place.

  Dinner was lamb in a cream and brandy sauce with potatoes and vegetables, bread-and-butter pudding, German wine. The meal was now over and the tinkle and chime of wine glasses, the bubble and simmer of polite conversation and the scrape and clink of steel on bone china had faded from the dining room along with the wives. The men had been left to talk.

  ‘Fabulous dinner, Ralph,’ said Dan Smith.

  Ralph smiled. ‘Thank you, Dan. We aim to please.’

  ‘Jean’s a marvellous cook. Never tasted lamb like it.’

  Jack nodded, the movement setting off his heartburn again. He wondered how much of Dan’s remark was politeness.

  Ralph, Jack and Dan Smith sat in the lounge of Ralph’s four-bedroom house in Gosforth. The furniture was comfortable, the décor mahogany reproduction. The room smelled of food and furniture polish.

  The wives, along with Ralph’s eleven-year-old daughter Joanne, were in the kitchen washing up.

  Brandy and cigars. Ralph was doing things properly.

  Dan Smith sipped from his snifter, swallowed. Inhaled, exhaled a long, controlled line of blue smoke.

  ‘To each according to his need,’ he said, relaxed and comfortable in the armchair, ‘and my need at the moment is for a touch of luxury.’

  The other two men smiled, drank from their glasses. Jack sipped, hiding his grimace; Ralph almost gulped the burning liquid down, his already red face deepening. It looked like only the latest and not the first brandy of the evening.

  ‘Business good, Ralph?’ said Dan Smith.

  ‘Can’t complain.’

  Dan Smith smiled. ‘Good. Because if everything goes to plan, it could be a lot better.’

  Jack and Ralph exchanged glances. Dan Smith savoured the moment; drawing deeply from his cigar, exhaling slowly, his sense of theatre and presentation to the fore. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I asked for a dinner invitation tonight.’

  Get on with it, thought Jack. Just say it.

  ‘In about two years’ time—’ Dan Smith had taken the cigar from his lips, was examining the glowing end, watching the curling smoke ‘—by my reckoning, we should be in a position to redesign this city.’

  Jack knew the tone, the pitch. Dan Smith was building to oratory.

  ‘It’s radical stuff. If we get backing, we’re going to demolish Scotswood. Clear it away. And Byker too, hopefully.’

  Ralph and Jack exchanged glances once more. Dan Smith smiled.

  ‘You’re going to demolish it?’ said Ralph, a smile birthing on his lips. ‘Then presumably you’ll want someone to build something in its place, then?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Another exchange of glances. Jack saw something dance behind Ralph’s eyes.

  ‘So where do all the people go?’ said Jack.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Just leave that to us.’

  Jack smiled. ‘You mean you don’t know yet.’

  Dan Smith smiled in return. ‘Not exactly, but we’re working on it. The important thing is,’ he said, ‘that we demolish those slums and replace them with something better. Something people will be proud to live in. You’ve probably heard rumours about suchlike. Well, they’re all true. But hey—’ he looked between the two of them ‘—mum’s the word, eh? We’re not ready for it to be news yet.’

  ‘For what to be news yet?’ said Jack.

  ‘What we’re going to replace them with. I’ve been talking with artists and architects, and we should have something really amazing to show soon. Really put Newcastle on the map.’

  ‘What?’ said Jack.

  ‘Tower blocks,’ said Dan Smith. ‘Cities in the sky.’ A shiver ran through Jack. A ghost of a memory. ‘Cities in the sky?’ said Ralph.

  Dan Smith placed his brandy glass on th
e table, left his cigar to smoulder elegantly in the ashtray.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Instead of terraces that go along and down, these go up and up. Come on, Ralph. You must have seen pictures of them in magazines. In Europe and America.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ralph, ‘but that’s Europe and America. This is Newcastle.’

  Dan Smith’s eyes kindled, caught fire, his fervour increased. ‘Imagine whole families,’ he said, ‘living in state-of-the-art, push-button housing. All mod cons. And around them playgrounds for the kiddies, parks, sculpture parks, even. Bringing beauty and life. There’ll be garages. And shops. And libraries on their doorsteps. And schools, good schools, where they can be proud to send their children. That’s what I want to build. That’s the way this city should be. The North should be. The country should be.’

  Dan Smith talked on, communicating his plan, sharing his vision. New roads for Newcastle. New hotels. An international airport. A university that would become a centre of excellence and access, so young people from every level of society could be educated.

  He talked on. His plan. His vision. Communicating it, sharing it. Infecting Ralph and Jack like an airborne virus, so that they, too, would carry it. They listened, agreed, were swept up.

  ‘And you want my firm to do the building, is that right?’ said Ralph.

  ‘I do,’ Dan Smith said, looked at them and smiled.

  Like a preacher to willing converts, thought Jack.

  Ralph was fidgeting in his chair, as if unable to sit still.

  ‘I think we’re in, don’t you, Jack?’

  Absolutely,’ said Jack, not entirely still himself.

  ‘Good,’ said Dan Smith, picking up his brandy glass. He swirled the liquid, watched it catch the light.

  ‘Marvellous play at the Royal last week,’ said Dan Smith, looking up. ‘Rules of the Game. Pirandello. Did you catch it, Ralph?’

  Sharon dried the plates, stacked them carefully on the patterned Formica work surface. The other two women were at the sink, talking: houses, theatre, schools and children. Sharon stood happily apart from them, claiming autonomy through the tea towel.

  Joanne, Ralph and Jean’s eleven-year-old daughter, danced between the three of them, smiling. Supposedly helping by putting things away, in reality staking a claim to be the centre of attention.