Sharon nodded slightly.
‘So I’m giving you the chance. And I’m going to say this only once. It’s either Ben Marshall or me.’
Sharon’s mouth fell open. After so long spent tiptoeing around the subject, Jack had finally brought it out into the open. The words hung between them, then dissolved. Like a great, unspeakable evil that, once named, loses its power. Sharon looked at him almost admiringly.
‘Well …’ she said, ‘it’s not just … like that. I mean … you have someone else too. I know it.’
‘I do,’ said Jack. ‘But I just wanted to give you one last chance. Just to see if there’s still something there. Something salvageable. A spark. Anything.’
He looked directly into her eyes. She found his gaze unnerving. Looked away.
He knew what her answer would be. Hoped what her answer would be. Jack felt nothing for her now; even the rage had long dissipated. He kept looking at her. The opposite of love is not hate, he thought: it’s indifference.
‘I …’ Sharon looked up. ‘I’m going to have to choose Ben, Jack. When you put it like that. Sorry.’
She attempted a weak smile. Jack ignored it, stood up.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to know.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away from here. I’ll take Isaac out at the weekend. Explain it to him then. Here.’ He handed her a piece of paper. ‘That’s where I’m staying. At least until we find somewhere together.’
‘We?’
‘Joanne and I. Joanne Bell.’
Sharon looked stunned.
‘Joanne …’
‘Oh, come on, Sharon. You must have heard. I thought everyone knew by now.’
‘Oh, Jack … Joanne?’ Sharon laughed.
Jack reddened. ‘You think it’s funny? Well, here’s something else. I’ll be going to see my solicitor later today to start divorce proceedings. Then I’ll put the house on the market. Start looking for somewhere else for you and Isaac to live.’
Sharon had stopped smiling.
‘Me and Isaac?’
‘You’re his mother, aren’t you? You’re going to take him with you, aren’t you?’
‘Yes …’
‘Good. Because if you don’t, I’ll take him. And you’ll never see a penny out of me.’
‘But what’ll I do?’
‘You’ve got your job, haven’t you? The one that makes you proud of your independence. Or there’s always Ben. You could throw yourself on his mercy. But I wouldn’t bother. He hasn’t got any. You’re made for each other.’ Jack sighed, tried to swallow away the bitterness. ‘I’m going now.’
Sharon placed a hand on his arm.
‘Jack, wait—’
‘No, Sharon. I’m going.’ He took a deep breath, let it go. ‘And I wish I’d done this years ago.’
He walked out of the bedroom, out of the house. He stood on the pavement, smiled. It was like a great weight had been lifted from his chest. He still had to deal with Isaac, and that would be difficult. But better in the long run. Maybe then he could start to have a proper relationship with his son. Be a good father to him.
He walked away from the house, off to meet Joanne, tell her the good news.
Sound wailed and coalesced. Built and subsided. Became angry and impassioned, cold and aloof. Hendrix lost to his guitar, his fingers moving almost imperceptibly, a sonic union. He threw it out, built it up, then, with a glance at the rhythm section, reined it in again. They played foursquare and tight, with just enough raggedness to make it exciting. Jack was struck by how good they sounded together.
They built higher and higher, harder and harder, and the song ended. Again, wild applause, this time from Jack too. He knew nothing of music beyond Presley, Orbison, Cash and the blues, but he knew he was witnessing a unique talent.
He looked at Joanne, smiled again. She was taking a toke from a spliff that was doing the rounds of the crowd. She passed it to him. He took a deep drag, passed it on.
‘This is our last one for now,’ said Jimi Hendrix, and counted the band in for another song.
Jack felt the weed hit behind his eyes. He nodded his head to the music, as lost as he would allow himself to be.
Jack let himself in to the house, looked around for Joanne. She wasn’t there.
Now that Joanne’s housemate had moved out, they were the only two living there. Jack was taking care of the rent. Joanne now had her own studio space, and they both had the run of the house. Much better than having to scurry off to her room any time they wanted a bit of privacy.
He took his coat off, opened a bottle of red wine, put on a John Coltrane album and settled down on the settee, waiting for Joanne. She had decorated the room herself, all Indian fabrics, knick-knacks and psychedelic posters. Jack liked it, made him feel young, not old.
He sipped his wine, listened to the music, smiled in anticipation of what he had to say.
A Love Supreme.
The door opened. Joanne entered, looked surprised to see him. He held up his wine glass.
‘Got yours here,’ he said.
She smiled, took her coat off, kissed him and curled up beside him on the sofa. She wanted to talk about looming exams, pressure of studying, but instead she said: ‘This is a surprise.’
‘You’d better get used to it.’
She looked quizzical. He told her.
She listened, open-mouthed.
‘So what d’you say?’ said Jack at the end of it. ‘You’ve got me all the time now.’
Joanne looked away, smiled.
Jack looked at her, concern in his eyes.
‘I thought that’s what you wanted,’ he said. ‘For us to be a proper couple.’
‘Well, yes … but … it seems a bit … now that it’s happened, it feels a bit …’
‘What?’
‘Final.’
Jack sat back, Coltrane’s sax-blowing sounding suddenly discordant.
‘Oh.’
‘No, I mean, it’s just … going to take some getting used to, that’s all.’
Jack just looked at her. ‘Are you seeing someone else?’
‘Course not. It’s just … I want you to know what you’ve done. You haven’t just swapped one marriage for another. Now that you’ve moved in properly, don’t expect me to be a housewife.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’ve got my finals coming up, Jack. I want to get a good result. And then I want to do a postgrad course in art therapy.’
‘I know.’
‘I mean it. I’ve found one that does Jungian art therapy. It’s perfect for me. I don’t want to let that go. If there’s cooking and cleaning to be done, then don’t automatically assume I’ll be doing it. Just because I’m a woman.’
‘I won’t.’
‘We either do it together or get someone in to do it.’
‘Fine.’
‘Good.’
‘So what’s for dinner, then?’
Joanne looked at him uncomprehendingly. Jack smiled. She realized he was joking and hit him.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘enough. I know what’s for dinner. Because I’m taking you out.’
The Blue Sky Chinese restaurant, Pilgrim Street, Newcastle. Three hours, one bottle of wine and one bout of lovemaking later.
Spare ribs, satay chicken, prawn crackers and seaweed.
Sweet-and-sour pork, monks’ vegetables, roast pork and fried rice.
Another two bottles of red wine.
And slight indigestion for Jack. There were things he still had to say.
He waited until the dinner was well under way, the wine half-drunk.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘there’s something else.’
Joanne looked up, red-dripping pork ball chopstick-poised before her mouth. Jack caught her eyes. Saw Ralph in them. A dark shudder passed through him.
The tumour flexing its tendrils.
‘What?’
‘I’m … leaving the company.’
; She replaced her pork ball on her plate, gave him her full attention.
‘Yeah,’ Jack continued. ‘I don’t want to run it, and your dad had already been holding talks with someone about selling out.’
‘But what will you do?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Don’t know. We’ll be fine for money, though. Since the company went public, my shares have done well. I’ve made investments over the years like a good little capitalist, got savings … we’ll be all right.’ He smiled. ‘I could even pay for that postgrad course if you want me to.’
Her response was a beaming smile. It fell on his heart like a shaft of warm sunlight.
Then her face darkened slightly.
‘What about Sharon?’ she said.
‘She gets nothing,’ Jack said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘She’s made her bed.’
‘And Isaac?’
‘Well, that’s another matter.’ Jack took another mouthful of wine. ‘He’s staying with her for now, but there may come a time when he might stay with us. I might want to get him out of there.’
Joanne nodded, unsmiling.
‘What?’
‘Well,’ she said slowly, choosing her words carefully, ‘I know he’s your son. And I know you love him. And I know that being with you involves being with him too. That’s fine. But … well, it goes back to what I said earlier. I don’t want you to think I’m going to be a surrogate mother for him.’
Jack looked at her.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound harsh. I know you love him and you want him to be a part of your life. Just like I love you and want you as a part of mine. And it’s fine if he comes to stay for weekends or days at a time. But not full time.’
Jack nodded. ‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’
He took another swig of wine.
‘That’s fine, though. I think it’s best if Isaac stays where he is. If there was ever a time when I could look after him properly or even if we both could—’ he looked at Joanne; she nodded ‘—then, OK. But until then, leave things as they are.’
‘I like just being with you.’
Jack smiled.
‘Good.’
Later that night they made love in the most gentle, intimate manner. They fell asleep in each other’s arms. Woke up in the same position.
‘So what d’you think?’ said Joanne, drink in hand, eyes glassily spliffed over. They were waiting for the show to restart.
‘Never heard anything like it,’ said Jack, ‘in any respect.’
Joanne giggled. ‘Good, wasn’t he? Go far, I reckon.’
They chatted some more, spoke to people they knew in the crowd, waited for the main attraction.
Cream.
The lights went out, the cheers went up. Three instantly recognizable figures, even in silhouette, took up their places. Ginger Baker on drums, Jack Bruce on bass, Eric Clapton on guitar. Jack’s favourite. No one could play the blues like Eric. And he would never have heard of them if not for Joanne. Something else to thank her for.
They launched straight in with a song from their new album.
The White Room.
Jack smiled, clapped in recognition.
It was going to be a good gig.
Ben had been in the site office in Ralph’s old chair again, feet up on Ralph’s old desk again, when Jack walked in and announced that he was leaving the firm. Ben smiled.
‘That might be a silly move to make, Jackie boy.’
‘Too late. I’ve already quit.’
Ben swung his legs to the floor, sat looking at Jack, arms folded. ‘You remember what I’ve got for safekeeping?’ he said.
‘What?’ said Jack. ‘My wife?’
Ben laughed. ‘That too,’ he said. ‘I was referring to a certain blade with certain fingerprints on the handle.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Jack. ‘I’m not the slightest bit interested. Yes, you could make a case against me, but so what? I don’t want this firm, Ben. I don’t want Sharon. I don’t want anything you’ve got. And I don’t want anything to do with you.’
Ben looked at him, head cocked, listening.
‘You’re a businessman, Ben. You’re very busy. Why would you take the time to come after me? Eh? You’ve got what you want, Ben. You’ve won. You hear? You’ve won. I’ll sell my shares, cash in, whatever. You’ve won. It’s all yours.’
Ben kept staring at Jack, eyes hard and unflinching, the whirring of calculations hidden behind them.
Jack swallowed hard. Tried not to let his fear show. He had brazened it well this far, but it could still turn out badly.
Eventually Ben smiled. Jack took no comfort from that. It could have meant anything.
‘All right,’ he said, and stood up.
The two men stood facing each other.
‘I’ll let you go,’ said Ben. ‘Make whatever financial arrangements you want.’
‘Thank you.’
Ben stepped in close to Jack. Jack could see the unquenchable flames dancing in Ben’s eyes.
‘But if you step out of line, or so much as think about stepping out of line, I’ll know about it. Don’t think you’ve got away free, because these things have a nasty habit of coming back and biting you on the arse.’
Jack just stared at him.
‘By that I mean it might not be a knife finding its way to the police. It might be a knife finding its way across your throat. Or your girlfriend’s. Or your son’s. Do we understand each other?’
Jack swallowed hard. ‘Perfectly,’ he said.
‘Good. Then get off my property.’
Jack turned and left, walking out of the site and away down the street. Never once looking back. His head throbbing mildly.
The tumour, going into remission.
But reminding him it was still there.
‘Thanks a lot.’
Eric Clapton acknowledged the applause.
‘This one’s called “Deserted Cities of the Heart”.’
Nine months after Ralph Bell’s disappearance, Jean Bell died.
Nine months. Grief’s own gestation period.
Cancer, supposedly, although Jack suspected the real reason was a broken heart. She seemed to have lost the will to live.
The funeral was sparsely attended. Most of Jean’s friends had faded away in their own way as she had in hers. Joanne clung to Jack, told him many times she didn’t know what she’d do without him. He had often thought the same about her but said nothing in those instances. She needed his strength. He supplied it.
Johnny Bell turned up. It was the first time Jack had seen him since that night at the abattoir. He watched him talking to Joanne, pleased he kept his butcher’s hands in his pockets. Jack knew he was only talking to her to annoy him. Unnerve him. It wasn’t something he would normally do. He kept glancing across at Jack, smiling at their shared, unacknowledged secret. Almost daring him to say something, challenge him. Jack didn’t. Jack couldn’t even look him in the eye.
The coffin was lowered, the sparse spattering of mourners then walked back to the black car. Jack held his arm around Joanne. Johnny Bell walked behind them. The smell of old meat and stale blood billowed from him. It turned Jack’s stomach, vomited unpleasant memories into his mind.
All he wanted was peace. Life with Joanne.
And he would damn well have it.
The band had finished, the encores done with. Jack and Joanne walked home, arms wrapped around each other.
‘Good night?’
She snuggled into him. ‘The best.’
‘Want to stop off anywhere? Last drink? Club?’
Joanne shook her head. ‘Got some wine at home. Let’s go to bed. I want you to play me like Hendrix played that guitar tonight.’
Jack laughed. ‘I thought you’d be sick of sex with me after all this time.’
‘Think again,’ she said.
Jack sighed. Eric Clapton and the love of a good woman. A perfect night out. He thought they would have been beyond ge
tting excited about each other after two years. But neither was. In any respect.
‘You’re something special, you know that?’ He felt his heart would burst with joy when he said those words.
Joanne didn’t reply. But she squeezed his arm.
And he knew she was smiling.
They walked home. Jack’s head didn’t hurt at all.
August 1965–August 1966:
Aftermath
Monica didn’t know what to do with herself.
Back and forth it came, ebbing and flowing like a sick tide in and out of her brain. Weeks turning into months. Sometimes she would forget, allow whole days to go without thinking about it. Other times it was all that was there in her mind. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that the man she had seen was Brian Mooney.
She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus on her life. She was going through the motions with her clients even less than usual. She found it all so tiring, so draining. She stopped seeing some of them. Some of them sensed the change in her, found other outlets. Her trade dwindled.
She had never saved money, preferring to invest in gin rather than pensions. Her income began to dry up. She forced Mae to work harder, made a half-hearted attempt to get herself going again.
But he was there, his grinning face in her head.
Brian Mooney.
And Ralph Bell had never returned.
She was quite relieved, in a way. His self-pitying monologues had finally become too tiresome. He had probably found a more sympathetic listener. Shame. He was a good customer. Regular. And she thought no more about him.
Until one night she came across an old – months old – newspaper wrapping her post-pub fish and chips in. And there, grease-stained and vinegared, was Ralph’s picture. And the headline:
MISSING: Property developer presumed
to have ‘walked off into the night’
Her stomach gave a Spanish City rollercoaster flip. Missing. Her hunger forgotten, she read the article through fully. She read the date he was last seen alive, tried to work it out in her head. It took a while, but she got it. The same date as his last visit to her.
The same date she saw Brian Mooney.
With Ralph.
She read on. His company was due to be sold to Northern Star Properties, run by London-born business entrepreneur Ben Marshall.
The White Room Page 26
