‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘What’s your name?’
His voice was as shaky as his hand.
‘Mae.’
‘Mae, eh? That’s a pretty name. D’you live round here, Mae?’
‘Over the road.’
The man looked, eyes settling on Mae’s house. He nodded as if confirming something to himself. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger.
‘Why don’t you get in, Mae, eh? Sit next to me.’
He patted the green leather of the passenger seat.
Mae opened the door, got in, closed it behind her. The car smelled of old, anticipatory sweat. She could see the man’s erection through his suit trousers. He was squirming around in his seat, eyes saucered, lit by dark fires.
Mae looked at the man’s groin.
‘D’you want me to play with your cock?’
The man gasped. Mae almost smiled. She felt something like electricity surge through her body.
‘Yuh – yes.’
He sweated, squirmed, some more.
‘Cost you,’ she said.
‘Huh – how much?’
‘A tanner.’
The electricity swelled and surged.
‘That all?’ he said and, laughing, reached eagerly into his trouser pocket.
Mae felt herself flush with a sudden rage. The man was laughing at her. Belittling her. She couldn’t have that.
The man pulled some change from his pocket, handed her a sixpence.
‘And those pennies there,’ Mae said, pointing.
The man handed over the pennies. Mae pocketed the money. She leaned across and undid the man’s trousers, her fingers still shaking with a residue of anger. She pulled the man’s penis out and began moving it up and down, her little hand holding on tight.
He settled back in the seat, face a study of pleasure.
Mae kept pumping.
‘You see that house there?’
Mae pointed with her free hand. The man reluctantly allowed his gaze to follow her finger.
‘That’s me uncle’s house, that.’
The man grunted.
‘He’ll be in there now, I reckon. Watchin’.’
‘That’s what he does for pleasure, is it?’ the man said between gasps.
Mae kept pumping.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t like us doin’ this. Tries to stop us.’
The man moaned.
‘Found us with one bloke last week. I had his willy in me mouth.’
The man moaned louder.
‘I told ’im it was all the bloke’s fault.’
Mae kept pumping. She felt the man’s penis soften slightly.
‘Don’t talk,’ he gasped. ‘Just keep going.’
Mae acted as if she hadn’t heard him.
‘He got a hold of this bloke, an’ ’e was all “I hate perverts, I hate poofs” an’ that, an’ ’e was ganna cut this bloke’s willy off.’
Mae kept pumping. The man’s penis was rapidly softening.
‘Just … shut up … keep … going …’
‘Well, ’e just beat the bloke up,’ said Mae. She giggled. ‘Had to go to hospital afterwards.’
‘Shut … up …’
Rapidly softening.
‘Said ’e would kill the next one.’
Mae pumping away.
‘Shut up!’
‘Cut ’is willy off.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Stuff it in ’is mouth.’
‘Shut up!’
Rapidly softening.
Mae looked up, didn’t stop pumping.
‘I think this is ’im now.’
‘Fuck!’
The man reached across Mae, fingers scrabbling frantically, and opened the passenger door.
‘Get out! Just get out!’
He pushed Mae bodily from the car, scrambled to close the door. He pulled away from the kerb, tyres screeching, trousers around his knees.
Mae picked herself up, watched him go.
She smiled to herself. Electricity lit up her whole body. She felt like some kind of Christmas tree, bright, alive and pulsing with power.
An angry, rage-driven power.
She checked the money in her pocket. Her smile widened. All hers. None for her mother. All hers.
She put it back, enjoying the weighted clink of the coins against her thigh. She walked away.
Thinking what she would spend it on.
Thinking how she could make some more.
Sharon threw the last of her tea down the sink, rinsed her mug, stood it on the drainer. She turned around. She was, all things considered, happy.
If she thought of her job and how it made her feel valued and the degree of independence it gave her, then yes, she was happy. If she thought of her lover and the fact that after all this time he could still move her and thrill her. How dynamic and uncomplicated he was. Charismatic and genuinely funny. He didn’t want to move in with her or marry her but, as he had explained, that was a good thing. They would never have to go shopping together. Do the housework. Buy insurance. They would never have to be mundane; they would always be exciting for one another.
Happy.
And then there was Jack. And Isaac. And their house. She had given up with Jack. She had given him every opportunity to improve, every chance to change. And he hadn’t done any of it. It was his own fault. He had brought her indifference on himself. Lately, though, he had been more relaxed, spending more time away from the house. If he had a lover, she would love to see the boring old hag who would have taken him on.
And Isaac. His school reports were showing an increasingly violent, angry child. At home he was sullen and withdrawn. Sharon had tried talking but received no response. She felt guilty but didn’t know what else to do. But he was a boy. They did that. It was a phase he was going through.
The house. No longer a real, functioning home. Just a series of compartmentalized areas. The three of them living in three separate worlds. Even with the heating on in the winter, the air between them felt cold and brittle. They rarely spoke, as if sound wouldn’t be carried and received from one person to the next. They had become used to it. Accepted it. It was the way they lived. She would spend as little time there as possible. Cook, clean, shop. Fuel the engine. Hope that by doing that it would need no maintenance.
Sharon tried not to think too hard about these aspects of her life.
Sharon was, all things considered, happy.
And then the phone rang.
Jack sat on the sofa, tired after a day at work.
He had seen Isaac, tried to talk to him, but the boy had just gone to his room, shut himself in. Shut everyone else out.
Jack despaired of him. Didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t talk to Sharon about it. Or about anything. If it weren’t for Isaac he would have left by now. Walked out and set up home with Joanne.
Joanne. He smiled to himself. The best thing in his life. He truly loved that girl. Felt younger with her. Dressed and acted younger. He felt alive, on fire with life for the first time in years. And it was all due to Joanne.
The firm was doing well. Jack was running it now in all but name. He was trying to reconcile his work with his politics. Something might have to give eventually, but for now all was smooth.
He sighed.
Maybe he should just take the chance. Move in with Joanne. Even take Isaac with him. Find somewhere for them all to live together. Or just kick Sharon out and stay in the house with Isaac. Invite Joanne to move in.
So many options. For the first time in years he felt able to examine each one clearly and face the future with confidence.
And then the phone rang.
Jack waited for Sharon to emerge from the kitchen and answer it. It rang. She didn’t appear. Reluctantly he prised himself from the sofa, walked into the hall and picked it up.
‘Jack Smeaton.’
‘Hello, Jack. How you doing?’
Jack felt his earlier good mood rapidly dissipate to be rep
laced by a churning rage within him.
Ben Marshall.
‘She’s in the kitchen,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll get her.’
‘Well, actually, Jack, it’s you I want to talk to.’
Ben Marshall’s falsely chummy voice grated on Jack’s ears, but he was nonetheless intrigued.
‘What about?’
Ben Marshall gave an irritating laugh.
‘Business, Jack. What else?’
‘What kind of business could I have with you?’
Ben Marshall told him. Told him where, when, who else would be there.
Jack reluctantly agreed and put the phone down with shaking hands.
Rage.
A rage he knew he’d never be able to express.
‘So how are things for you?’
Ralph sighed.
‘The same, I suppose. Kenny’s … you know, gone now …’
Ralph sighed again. Stopped talking.
Monica looked at him, untouched cup of tea at his feet.
‘Gone …’
Ralph shook his head.
This was how it had been since Kenny’s death. Ralph stumbling, halting, barely articulate. Monica watching him virtually disintegrate before her eyes. No script any more. Just improvization. Guesswork.
‘Gone.’
Ralph sighed again.
Monica searched for words that would help, soothe. Found they were beyond the reach of her vocabulary. She settled for nods, smiles. Sympathetic looks. But not hand-holding. He had tried that once but she had shrugged him off. Sympathy, yes. But not intimacy.
Ralph had stopped talking, the words, feelings dammed up.
Monica sighed, looked at him.
Then a knock at the door.
Monica stood up, relieved at the interruption.
‘Now who can that be? I’ll be right back, pet.’
She left the white room, went down the hall, opened the door.
And nearly died on the spot.
The hair was a different colour, the glasses weren’t there previously. The suit was well tailored and up to date and, of course, he was nearly ten years older. But it was unmistakably him.
Brian Mooney.
He spoke.
‘You all right, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
The voice was all wrong. Cockney. Chirpy. More like Michael Caine.
Monica opened her mouth. No words emerged.
‘Listen, love, d’you want to have a sit-down or something?’
She looked at him again. The hair wasn’t right. The glasses. He even stood differently. And the voice. All wrong. No, she thought. It wasn’t him.
‘Sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I thought I knew you.’
He laughed.
‘Sorry, love. I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.’
‘Sorry.’ It was all she could think of to say.
‘No worries, darling. Listen, I’m here to pick up Ralph Bell. Got to take him to a meeting. He here?’
‘Yes … yes. I’ll just get him.’
Monica was aware that she was making vague hand gestures.
‘If you could, please. We have to be there by eight.’
Monica drifted back into the house, told Ralph he was needed. He stood up numbly, followed her to the door. He looked at the other man, a quizzical expression on his face.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Ralph Bell. What can I do for you?’
The man repeated what he had said to Monica. A meeting. At eight.
‘Oh. Who with?’
‘Jack set it up. Potential new business associate.’
Ralph looked confused.
‘But Jack normally deals with that.’
‘Well, he needs you there this time.’
Ralph shrugged. ‘Oh, well,’ he said.
He apologized to Monica for the abrupt departure. She told him not to worry about it.
She watched Ralph cross the street, got into the Michael Caine man’s sports car. The Michael Caine man looked back, gave her a wink.
Her heart flipped over. It’s him, she thought. He’s just playing with me.
And then, the engine roaring, the two men were gone.
Monica slammed the door, stood behind it, panting.
Was it him? Brian? She had been so convinced. Then unconvinced. Then … she didn’t know what to think.
She looked around frantically.
She would follow them. Get a taxi. Go to Ralph’s company offices, spy on them. Find out more.
But she would have to get changed first.
She started up the stairs. Another knock on the door. Thinking it was them, she rushed back down to answer it.
She opened the door.
And stared.
‘Hello, pet,’ said her father.
‘Wh – what d’you want? I’m goin’ out.’
‘Not any more, you’re not.’
Her father walked past her into the hall. He closed the door behind him.
‘I said I’m goin’ out.’
He looked around.
‘Where is she, then? That lovely little girl of yours?’
‘She’s not in.’
‘I’ll wait.’
He walked into the living room. Monica followed him.
‘I said I’m goin’ out.’
He turned to her, smiled. His pupils were like razor-sharp chips of obsidian.
‘And I said not any more, you’re not.’
He stared at her. She sighed, slumped against the wall. He took his coat off, sat down in an armchair.
‘That’s better,’ he said.
‘D’you want a drink?’
‘Well, we’ll have to do somethin’ to fill in the time. A drink’ll do.’ He looked at her. That smile again. ‘For starters.’
Monica turned, went into the kitchen.
It was all she could do not to cry.
The sun was beginning to set over the Tyne. The newer tower blocks, the older, dying factories to the west of the city, all thrown into picture-postcard silhouette by the dying sun. A monochrome snapshot.
Ben drove to the site of the half-completed abattoir, parked his car as far from the main road as possible, got out.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Paradise.’
He looked towards the car.
‘Come on, Ralph, out you come.’
Ralph Bell did as he was told. He looked around as if not recognizing the place. Surprised to find himself there.
‘This is … the new abattoir.’
‘That’s right, Ralph,’ said Ben. ‘It is. One of yours. Come on inside.’
‘Not the site office?’
‘No. Inside the abattoir. Get the feel of the new place. A progress report. Come on.’
Ben ushered Ralph inside. The building was just a concrete shell for the most part. Structurally sound yet unembellished. Dying sunlight and distant streetlights the only illumination. Shadows fell, were cast, claimed whole areas as their own.
‘Watch your step here,’ said Ben. ‘This way.’
He steered Ralph towards an area that looked more finished than the rest. The walls were white tiled, the floor bare. Ben patted the wall, searching.
‘Here we are.’
A light came on overhead. A bright, harsh, temporary working lamp, it threw the whole room into stark relief. Not warming, just clinical, deadening.
Ben let the box containing the light switch hang. He looked at Ralph, smiled.
‘Shouldn’t be long now.’
As if on cue, there came the muffled trips and stumbles of someone making their way through the darkened building.
‘This way,’ called Ben. ‘Follow my voice.’
A distant shadow came nearer, took shape. Jack Smeaton.
‘Hello, Jack,’ said Ben with a large smile. ‘Glad you could make it.’
Ben looked at Jack. Took in his long dark hair, his suede jacket and jeans, his boots. He didn’t look like a building contractor at all. He looked like some ageing student ban the
bomber.
Jack nodded a hello to Ralph, kept staring at Ben.
‘What’s this about, then?’
‘Well,’ said Ben, ‘since we’re all busy people, I’ll come straight to the point.’ He looked around. ‘Like the tiles. Nice touch. Death just wipes away. Now, to business. I’m an entrepreneur. A property developer.’
‘You’re a slum landlord,’ said Jack, bile on his tongue. ‘The worst kind of capitalist bastard.’
Ben shrugged.
‘I prefer entrepreneur and property developer. But never mind. I’ll come to the point. I’ve been talking to Dan Smith. Giving him some ideas. He likes them. But I need a construction company. So I’m taking over yours.’
Jack laughed.
‘Piss off. It’s not for sale. Come on, Ralph. Let’s go.’
Ralph looked up. He had been fiddling with his hip flask, trying to get the lid off. He hadn’t been listening.
‘Erm …’
‘He wants the company.’ said Jack, pointing to Ben. ‘He wants Bell and Sons Construction.’
Ralph weakly shook his head.
‘No … no …’ he said. ‘It’s not for sale. It’s for … it’s for Kenny … for Johnny …’
His voice trailed off.
‘There’s your answer,’ said Jack.
Ben looked quizzically at Jack.
‘How d’you run that company, knowing you’ll never be in charge of that company? How d’you put up with him?’
Jack stared hard at Ben.
‘None of your fucking business.’
Ben shrugged.
‘Fair enough.’
‘So no,’ said Jack. ‘The company’s not for sale. We’ll be off now. Good night.’
Jack turned to leave.
‘Just a minute,’ said Ben.
Jack turned back.
‘I thought you might say that,’ said Ben. He reached inside his jacket pocket, brought out a brown envelope, held it out to Jack. ‘So I brought this. Go on, take them. Have a look.’
Jack took the envelope, opened it. Inside were photographs. Black and white. Jack looked through them. They were all of Ralph: spread-eagled and tied; whipped by a woman with a ruined face in a blonde wig; having his genitals mauled. And more. Jack looked up.
‘Not pretty, are they?’
‘You bastard.’
Ben shrugged again.
‘Take a good look, Jack. This is how your boss gets his pleasure.’
Jack looked at Ralph. The older man held his head down, pretended to be absorbed in the workings of his flask lid.
The White Room Page 24
