The White Room

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They made their way out of the building, walking slowly through their trail of destruction.

  Then into the night and away.

  September 1966–May 1967:

  Old Ghosts in the New Machine

  Nineteen sixty-six and the statue had long gone.

  Unveiled by Hugh Gaitskell and T. Dan Smith in 1962 as a piece of public art for the citizens of Scotswood, it soon became a target for vandals and graffiti artists. Huge metal mesh barriers were erected around it, imprisoning it in its own cage. Eventually the cage was smashed, the statue taken, the bronze sold and melted down.

  No one was ever caught or blamed.

  Then the tower blocks began to decline. The paucity of top-grade materials used in their manufacture became apparent. Lifts began to break down. Waste-disposal chutes became disconnected. Refuse piled up. Light bulbs on stairways and walkways would blow and not be replaced. Broken windows would go unmended. Opportunists began to emerge.

  Muggers sensed easy prey in darkened alleyways. Crimes were plotted and carried out in shadows. Police became more hesitant about entering the estates. Neighbours began to mirror the decline in other neighbours, let themselves go.

  A downward spiral. Starting slowly.

  The new abattoir continued to thrive.

  Dan Smith pressed on with his plans.

  It was the same house, although no one would have recognized it as such. It had been totally transformed.

  Sharon had walked without contesting. Jack had moved back, bringing Joanne with him. Gone were Sharon’s clean, clinical lines; in came Joanne’s warmth and softness. Her vibrancy and youth. Exciting colours replaced bare, muted tones. India prints replaced English severity. Jack was happy to let her do it, wanted her to feel at home, wanted Sharon’s ghost exorcised.

  They had kept a room for Isaac. He made occasional visits, stopped overnight sometimes. Always sullen, always near-silent.

  He would talk to Joanne more than his father. Found her easier to approach. Joanne, diffident at first, began to enjoy his visits, look forward to them even. He didn’t regard her as a surrogate mother, more as an older sister. Or a friend. Jack was pleased they got along.

  Joanne got the impression Isaac wasn’t happy living with his recently remarried mother and Ben Marshall at their big new house in Ponteland. So she should have expected the knock at the door.

  January 1967. Christmas had been a quiet affair for Jack and Joanne. They had spent the time almost exclusively with each other. Joanne was studying her course in art therapy, and she had some nights out with her college friends. Jack was reading a lot, thinking about taking a course in something, but he hadn’t decided on a subject. He was happy staying at home. They had spent Boxing Day with Isaac – Ben Marshall giving Jack a knowing smile that made his head ache when they returned the boy home – but apart from that they had been on their own.

  And they had loved it.

  They were true partners; they shared everything. The age difference fell away when they were together. Their love only deepened the longer they were together.

  Then came the knock at the door.

  A January evening, the air cold, threatening snow.

  Jack put down his book, made his way to the front door, opened it. There stood a ten-year-old boy, gloved hands in pockets, duffel coat toggled up, hood pulled around him.

  Isaac.

  ‘Hello …’ said Jack, surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’ Isaac looked up at him, his eyes wide.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Course you can,’ said Jack, stepping aside to let the boy in. Before he closed the door he looked up and down the street, expecting to see Sharon’s Mini. No sign.

  He closed the door, turned to Isaac.

  ‘You on your own?’

  The boy nodded. He was shivering.

  ‘Come on inside. Let’s get you warmed up.’

  Jack directed Isaac to the living room. It was warm with muted lighting. Comfortable. Joanne looked up from her textbook.

  ‘Got a visitor,’ said Jack.

  ‘Hello, Isaac …’

  Joanne got up, crossed to him, gave him a hug.

  ‘You’re freezing. Come by the fire and warm up.’

  Jack went into the kitchen, made coffee for himself and Joanne, warm Ribena for Isaac. He took the drinks in, handed them round, resumed his seat. He looked between the two of them. They had obviously been talking.

  ‘Well, this is an unexpected surprise,’ said Jack.

  Joanne and Isaac exchanged glances.

  ‘Tell him,’ said Joanne.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  Isaac looked at his father, gathered strength to speak.

  ‘I’ve run away,’ he said. ‘I want to come here and live with you two.’

  Jack looked between the two of them.

  ‘Well, that’s a … that’s a shock,’ he said.

  ‘Can I, then?’ said Isaac.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. We’ll have to talk about it,’ said Jack.

  Joanne leaned in closer to Isaac.

  ‘Why d’you want to stay here?’

  Isaac shrugged. ‘Cos I want to.’

  ‘Won’t they miss you?’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s taken me hours to get here. They haven’t even noticed I’m gone.’

  Joanne looked at Jack, then back to Isaac. She kept questioning him.

  ‘Are you not happy with your mother?’

  Isaac, looking at the carpet, shrugged.

  ‘Are you not, Isaac?’

  He shook his head, kept looking at the carpet.

  ‘Why not?’ Joanne’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘Cos … they hate me.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t, Isaac. They love you. Your mother loves you.’

  Isaac looked up, tears welling in his eyes.

  ‘No, she doesn’t. All she does is sit around all day. Drink. Then when she drinks she gets angry with me. I hate her.’

  He began crying. Joanne moved, put her arm around him. Made words out of comforting, soothing sounds. She looked up at Jack. Jack didn’t know what to do.

  Isaac’s tears subsided slightly.

  ‘And … and they want to send me away. To buh – boarding school.’

  And the tears started all over again.

  Joanne held him, gently rocking him. Jack looked on, helpless. Isaac eventually stopped crying. He looked up, hope and fear in his pleading boy eyes.

  ‘So can I come and live here? Please?’

  Joanne and Jack looked at each other. Neither could commit themselves to an answer.

  Jack stood up.

  ‘I think Joanne and I need to have a little talk. We’ll be back in a minute.’

  Joanne gave Isaac an anxious smile, followed Jack to the kitchen, closed the door behind her.

  ‘Well …’ he said.

  ‘What d’you want to do?’

  ‘Well, he can stay tonight, obviously,’ said Jack. ‘But beyond that … I don’t know. I mean, he’s my son, yes, and I don’t want him going back there if he’s unhappy. I’ve never liked him being there. But it’s you I’m thinking of. You told me you never wanted to be a surrogate mother, a housewife. You’re too young. And I agree. You want a career. And I’m all for that too. That’s the life we wanted for ourselves.’

  Joanne stared hard at the closed kitchen door before answering. She eventually turned back to Jack.

  ‘I don’t think … I don’t think it’s a question of want, any more. I think it’s a question of need. And right now that boy in there needs his dad.’

  ‘And you.’

  Joanne shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘But he needs help. And he needs love. And I don’t think either of us could live with ourselves if we sent him back.’

  Jack looked at her, put his arms around her, kissed her.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I kn
ow. And I love you too.’

  ‘And you’re right. Again.’

  Joanne smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about my mam since she died. Thinking a lot about families. My family. How I would hate history to be repeated like that.’

  Jack understood.

  They kissed again.

  ‘But I’m still going on with my course,’ said Joanne. ‘I still want a career.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ll have to do a lot of the looking after, Jack. Take responsibility for him.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  Joanne smiled.

  Good.

  They kissed again.

  When they went to tell Isaac the good news, they found him curled up by the fire asleep.

  Ben sat back in his black leather office chair, lit his cigar. He didn’t like cigars, but he smoked them. It was expected of him.

  The room was stark: minimalistic, functional and very, very expensively furnished. So little cost so much. A glass wall looking out on to the city. Blown-up framed photos of developments on the other walls. A white leather bag of golf clubs in the corner the only piece of individualism or personality. He didn’t like golf, but he played it. It was expected of him.

  Ben was thinking. About enemies.

  Dan Smith had just left. His last call before flying to London for some business meetings and a Desert Island Discs recording. Their meeting had gone well, businesslike. But Ben sensed Dan was not his usual ebullient self.

  ‘You all right, Dan?’ Ben had asked. ‘You seem a bit … distracted.’

  Dan sighed.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be fine, Ben. I’ll be fine.’

  Ben looked at him, said nothing. He sensed that Dan would elaborate. He did.

  ‘You don’t get to be in my position without making enemies, Ben,’ he said. ‘You know me. If someone comes out with an opinion that I know is wrong, I’ll tell them.’

  ‘Destroy them, more like.’

  Dan nodded. ‘If I have to, yes. I’ve never courted popularity. The work’s too important to be a people pleaser. But there are those against me. I know that. They’ve been manoeuvring, trying to find a weakness. Be on your guard.’

  Ben was confused. ‘I will, Dan.’

  Dan Smith leaned forward. ‘I’m not one of them. That’s what it is. Oh, yes, I’ve been to London. I know the way things work. I’m an outsider. I know what they think of me. Of us. Up here. They think they’ll let us go so far and no further.’

  Dan sat back, sighed.

  ‘Well, we’ve got to prove them wrong.’

  He stood up.

  ‘I’d better be off.’ They shook hands. ‘Be on your guard, Ben. Be careful.’

  And Dan left.

  Ben sat back down, frowning. Be careful. Enemies. He didn’t know what Dan had been talking about. He wasn’t usually so obscure. Must have a lot on his mind, be under a lot of pressure. But the words themselves. Enemies. Be careful. That got Ben thinking. About himself.

  He had gone legit now. That was the way forward. He was sometimes nostalgic for the old days, but that’s all it was. Nostalgia.

  He’d examined his actions, his mistakes, his enemies, his potential enemies.

  Jack Smeaton. Ben had nothing to fear from him. He valued his son and girlfriend too much.

  Martin Fleming and Derek Calabrese. They had parted company on good terms. Might even work together again in the future.

  Johnny Bell. A good soldier. But Ben still harboured doubts about him. He could never work out what Johnny was thinking. Only on the side of the highest payer, which was fine as long as Ben was the highest payer. He was also unpredictable. Ben felt that it wouldn’t take too much for him to become uncontrollable. And he knew a great deal. Too much. Perhaps Johnny’s usefulness was coming to an end. Perhaps he needed more professional enforcement.

  Monica Blacklock. Perhaps his biggest potential enemy. And his own entire fault. He should never have shown up on her doorstep. Smiled at her. Winked, even. And then walked off with Ralph Bell. What had he been thinking? So unprofessional.

  And now she’d been heard shouting her drunken head off in public about the money she was going to make from Brian Mooney.’s little secret. And the rag-and-bone man had been making a nuisance of himself for months. It hadn’t taken much to put them together. A little lateral thinking. A little surveillance work from Johnny. And the letters he had been receiving. Crudely written, but plainly spelled out:

  You ar Brian Mooney. I know you ar. you should shar your money with yor old mates.

  It was her. All her. Had to be.

  Ben looked down. His cigar had gone out.

  ‘Bastard …’

  He reached for his gold desk lighter, fumbled his cigar lit again, sat back in the resulting fug.

  Enemies. And potential enemies.

  He reached for the phone. To call Johnny.

  Get some work out of him before he took him off the payroll.

  Get him to teach that rag-and-bone man a lesson.

  Bert sat down in his armchair, lit up a Woodbine, held the smoke in, exhaled, relaxed.

  That was that. Unhappy it was over in a way. He had quite enjoyed himself. Been a bit of a James Bond. Done something exciting.

  But it was over. Definitely over. He had told Monica, been firm about it.

  ‘Keep trying,’ she had said.

  Bert had sighed.

  ‘What more can I do?’ he had said. ‘I go to the sites, I try to get some scrap from them, then make friends with them. Get talkin’. An’ none of them knows anythin’ about Brian Mooney. I’ve asked, an’ they’ve all said the same thing. They know nothin’ about ’im. ’Cept ’e’s called Ben Marshall, he took over the firm from Ralph Bell, an’ that’s that.’

  Monica didn’t even try to hide her disappointment.

  ‘Then you’ve got to try harder. It’s him, I know it’s him. You’ve just got to find somethin’ to prove it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Well, next time.’

  ‘No, Monica, there is no next time. I’ve done enough.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I don’t care. Maybe it is him, maybe it isn’t. Maybe we’d have got some money off him, maybe we wouldn’t. If you find another way, remember my cut.’

  He had left her then, gone home.

  Bert dragged, exhaled again. The Woodbine was reaching an end. He stubbed it out in an ashtray. He sighed. Wondered what was on television. He reached across for the paper, stopped dead.

  A noise. Coming from the yard.

  He froze, gasped.

  The thought: probably just Adam. Or something falling from a shelf. Stacked badly. There was that much stuff in there at the moment, all he’d picked up from the building—

  Another noise.

  Someone was in the yard.

  Heart beating fast, Bert slowly hauled himself from his armchair. Legs shaking, he made his way slowly through the kitchen and out into the yard. He looked around.

  The night was casting streetlamp shadows over the yard. The piled-up junk was accentuated, like a miniature city of discards with its own light and shade, its own dark alleys. But everything seemed to be in its place.

  Bert tried the light switch. Nothing. The overhead bulb must have blown.

  Through the dim, refracted light from his kitchen, he could see Adam in its stall. The horse was pawing the ground with its hoof, shaking its head in apparent anxiety. Bert crossed to him.

  ‘What’s up, feller?’ Somethin’ spooked you? Was that you makin’ all that noise, eh?’

  ‘No,’ said a voice behind him. ‘It was me.’

  Bert’s heart skipped a beat. He turned, but the intruder was too fast for him. Bert was roughly grabbed, one arm around his throat.

  He smelled old meat and stale blood.

  He felt a knife against his ribs.

  ‘Don’t turn around,’ said the intruder, voice like a dead man’s, ‘or I’ll gut you.’

  Bert stood so
still he began to shake.

  ‘If it’s money you want,’ he said, his voice vibrating with fear, ‘I haven’t got much. But if you—’

  ‘Shut up,’ said the dead man’s voice. ‘I don’t want your money. I’m here to deliver a message. And you’d better listen, because if you don’t I’ll skin and gut your horse alive right in front of you. Right?’

  Bert, not trusting his voice, nodded. He stood still, hardly daring to breathe, waited.

  ‘You’ve been hangin’ around buildin’ sites. Makin’ a nuisance of yourself. Askin’ about Brian Mooney’

  ‘I’ve stopped that. I’m not doin’ it any more. I was only—’

  The dead man’s voice laughed. It was a cold, chilly sound. ‘Following orders. I know. But you won’t do it again. I’m here to make sure you don’t.’

  The blade moved away from Bert’s ribs. Bert breathed a heavy sigh.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Bert. ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  ‘I know you won’t,’ said the dead man. ‘But just in case you forget, here’s somethin’ to remind you.’

  The arm holding Bert around the throat was removed. Quickly, Bert’s right hand was pulled out, flattened, and the knife slid across the palm, cutting deeply. Then back again. Then the dead man gouged into the centre of the wound with the knife tip.

  Bert screamed and dropped to his knees, blood pumping from his hand, pain indescribable.

  ‘I’ve severed the tendons that work your fingers,’ the dead man said. ‘Even if you get to a hospital in time and they patch you up, you’ll never be able to use it again. Not properly. And every time it fails you, remember me.’

  The dead man walked out through the door of the yard where the night enveloped him.

  The horse whinnied in fear.

  Bert kneeled on the ground holding his bloody hand, sobbing.

  He would never forget.

  *

  It was accidental but perhaps inevitable, Newcastle being the size of a city with the feel of a market town, that Jack would meet Sharon again. Since Isaac had moved in with Jack and Joanne, their only contact had been through the telephone. That suited Jack fine.

  Jack had been making one of his regular forays into the city centre. The money was holding up, and he hadn’t needed to take another job yet. Joanne was studying, Isaac was at school. He filled in the days with books. He had never used the library so much in his life. He was one of Morson, Swan and Morgan’s best customers too. And he read voraciously: literature, psychology, philosophy, history. He missed the physicality of his old work, but he had never previously used his mind to such an extent. That more than made up for it.