The Mercy Seat

by Martyn Waites

  And there could be no going back.

  The food arrived. They ate. Made appreciative noises, swapped small portions for tasting. The starter dishes were cleared away. They emptied the wine bottle, ordered another. The waitress brought it, departed, and they were left with only each other.

  ‘So,’ said Donovan after taking a hefty mouthful of Merlot, ‘you seeing anyone? Thought you’d be married by now.’

  His voice aimed for lightness, but the words came out tight, strangulated.

  Maria sounded equally forced in her reply.

  ‘Married?’ she said, voice straining to laugh. ‘No. I’m a successful, independent woman. Most men have a problem with that. You know, good for a shag, if you’ve fantasies about dominance, but not wife and mother material.’

  ‘Not unless you marry another journalist.’

  ‘Who’d have to be the same level or higher. I know what you inky cowboys are like.’

  Donovan smiled. ‘Inky cowboys? You still have a facility for the apt phrase.’

  Maria smiled, almost blushed. ‘Thank you. It’s a gift. But you know what I mean. Terrible egos.’ She took another sip, continued talking. ‘But I am seeing someone, yes.’ Her eyes dropped to the tablecloth as she spoke. She buttered a piece of bread from the basket, gave her hands something to do.

  ‘Serious?’ asked Donovan, eyes on her hands.

  She hesitated before speaking, as if reaching a conclusion within herself. ‘Not … really.’ She smiled, as if in surprise at her words. ‘There. I’ve said it now. Made it real.’

  Donovan frowned. ‘This something you’ve been thinking about a long time?’

  ‘Well …’ She cut her bread in half, looked at it. Then quartered it. ‘He’s very good to me and we enjoy each other’s company, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, he’s got his work, I’ve got mine. Like two separate lives that occasionally collide.’

  ‘So what does he do?’

  Maria began moving quarters of bread round her side plate with her knife.

  ‘A dentist,’ she said.

  Donovan gave a little laugh. ‘A dentist?’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘You sound defensive.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said defensively. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Donovan, smiling. ‘I just expected you to say lawyer or, I don’t know, media big knob. Something like that.’

  It was Maria’s turn to smile. ‘Media big knob? Nice to see your gift for the apt phrase hasn’t deserted you.’

  Donovan reddened slightly. ‘Touché,’ he said, looking at her quartered bread.

  She put the knife down, left the bread alone.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘But it took me a lot of hard work to get where I am now. A lot of sacrifices. A marriage either wouldn’t have lasted or would have just turned into something of convenience. So I’ve got Greg. He’s divorced, sees his kids every other weekend and when I’m not working we get together. There you go. Not perfect, but then life isn’t.’

  ‘And in the meantime you’ve become the Daily Mail’s worst nightmare. The all-powerful career woman who doesn’t know her place.’

  Maria smiled. ‘It’s worth it for that.’

  ‘How are your parents?’

  On the occasions he had met them, Donovan had liked her parents. Her mother had worked in Poundstretcher, her father for the council. They had scrimped and saved to get Maria to university; consequently Donovan felt she had always worked twice as hard to prove herself.

  ‘Fine. Mum’s retired now. Dad’s still going strong. Down the pub, Old Trafford, shouting at the telly. You know.’

  Donovan nodded.

  ‘I’m sure they wished I’d given them grandchildren, but there you go. Can’t have everything.’

  ‘There’s still time.’

  Maria made a face, drank. ‘How are yours?’

  Donovan explained that his father was dead and his mother was living in Eastbourne, his brother in Indonesia. ‘Running a sweatshop or something, I don’t know. We were never a close family.’

  Donovan had never felt he had anything in common with his family. He was the second son and all of his parents’ expectations seemed to have been poured into the first one. Consequently he was free to do what he wanted. He had wanted to get away, make a name for himself. On his own terms.

  They had started at the Herald at the same time. They were the only ones on the staff, apart from the cleaners and caterers, who were northern and working class. They took every opportunity to mention it. Compared matching shoulder chips. When she was stressed, North London would drop away and her Salford vowels would come to the fore. He had never bothered to lose his Geordie accent.

  Donovan noticed that another button had become undone at the top of her dress, exposing the curve of a white breast, the shadow of a lace-edged bra. He tried not to stare. Too much.

  ‘Anyway,’ Maria said, ‘what about you? You seeing anyone?’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No strapping milkmaid from some nearby farm?’ Maria smiled as she spoke.

  Donovan smiled, shook his head, laughed slightly. Maria laughed also.

  ‘Must get lonely up there. Just you and your—’

  She froze as she spoke the words.

  Donovan’s eyes were on the table. His earlier good mood was gone, like a thin sheet that had been yanked away to expose a never-ending pain.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ Maria said. The words seemed small. ‘I just thought you’d have started to …’

  Something rose within him. Something heated and poisonous that needed to get out. He wanted to say it to Maria, punish her for reminding him of his pain, for allowing him to think he could ever forget, for her happy life, imperfections and all.

  ‘Put my life back together? No. But it does get lonely up there. So you know what I do?’ He began to feel hot as he talked. ‘I come down here, to Newcastle, pick up a girl, take her back to the hotel. It’s not too difficult. ‘Sometimes …’ The heat was rising inside him. ‘Sometimes I’ll even pay for her.’ He waited, making sure the words had sunk in, breathing hard. ‘Does that shock you?’

  Maria looked nervously at him, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘No … no …’

  Donovan nodded, taking a perverse thrill in the fact that his words were hurting both of them. The poison spreading. ‘Yeah, Maria, that’s how far I’ve fallen. I didn’t want love or involvement. Half the time I didn’t even want to fuck.’

  ‘Then what did you want?’

  Donovan looked at Maria, saw the fear in her face, felt shame that he was the one who had instilled it. His pain wasn’t her fault. He shook his head, looked up, saw the artificial stars. His own eyes began to glitter. The heat, the poison started leaching out of his body.

  ‘Release,’ he said tiredly. ‘A way to let the demons out. Or keep them away for another night.’ He sighed and continued, his voice small. ‘Just something I could take back with me. Help me cope.’

  Their main courses arrived. They fell on them gratefully and silently, occasionally making appreciative noises, offering portions for tasting, but mainly spending the time in their own heads. Thinking.

  They finished. Dishes were cleared, pudding menus offered and refused. They drank coffee.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Maria said eventually.

  ‘No,’ said Donovan. ‘It’s my fault. You’re the first person I’ve … spoken to … really spoken to, for years.’ He shook his head, sighed. A world of words passed through his head. None would come out of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry. We used to be … friends.’

  Maria looked at him. ‘We still are.’

  They sat in silence. John Coltrane played. ‘A Love Supreme’ to ‘The Damned Don’t Cry’.

  The bill arrived; Maria put it on the company credit card. They rose from their seats. Donovan placed a hand on her arm. She jumped slightly.

  ‘D’you want to g
o for a walk?’

  The rain had ceased during the afternoon, leaving the city exhausted but cleansed.

  The night was still, and the air promised winter. The sky was cloudless; real stars above the city. Donovan and Maria walked along the quayside; Saturday-night revellers moved round them. They walked by the Tyne, the river making oily, feathery slaps alongside them. They were side by side. Occasionally they would touch accidentally. Neither pulled away when this happened. They had hardly spoken since the restaurant.

  The river not the only thing with undercurrents.

  Away from the hotel, past the sights Donovan had seen the previous night. The Gateshead Hilton. The Sage. The Baltic. The Millennium Bridge. All beautifully lit with cinematic drama and clarity.

  Past the Crown Court. The Pitcher and Piano. Malmaison. Running into Byker. Running out of space.

  ‘I bet this place has changed for you,’ said Maria.

  ‘Hardly recognize it from when I was a kid,’ Donovan replied. ‘Like coming back to a different city. Who’d have thought a flour mill could become a modern art gallery? Or that an old warehouse would become a Malmaison hotel? Everything changes. Nothing stays the same.’

  They stopped walking, looked across the Tyne, the lights catching their eyes. Donovan sneaked a glance at Maria.

  ‘All the industy has changed, too,’ he said. ‘It used to be all heavy stuff, mining and shipyards. Now, it’s all call centres and culture. And the biggest growth industry of them all up here is technology. IT and creative software companies. Even in Northumberland.’ He sighed, smiled. ‘It’s gone from “whey aye, man” to “whey imac”.’

  Maria laughed. ‘Good one. You been working on that?’

  Donovan kept a straight face. ‘Just thought of it. Honest.’

  Maria smiled, shook her head. Donovan was still looking across the river.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, eyes on whatever she thought he was looking at, ‘about before. In the restaurant. It was … I shouldn’t—’

  Donovan turned her towards him. ‘Let’s try and forget it.’

  They looked at each other. Their eyes locked.

  ‘Everything changes,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing stays the same,’ Maria replied.

  They kissed.

  The Tyne made oily, feathery slaps alongside them. The stars above them were real.

  12

  Sunday morning and the rain had held off. No matter: Alan Keenyside would have still had to go out.

  He pulled up in the Ponteland golf club car park, Blaupunkt blaring.

  Amy Winehouse: ‘Fuck Me Pumps’. Say the word, darling.

  Got out of the Jag, saw it lined up next to the Mercs and Beamers, gave an appreciative nod at the way it fitted in, locked it, took his clubs from the boot. Titanium, leather bagged. The best. Unsnapped the wheels and trolleyed them over to the course.

  The air was cold; he was glad of his fleece. The rest of his clothes were designer-bright golf chic; both practical and, even though he thought so himself, stylish. All the right labels. Labels were important.

  He looked up at the sky, saw heavy clouds. His mood changed as he felt the equivalent creep into himself. He sighed. Couldn’t put it off any longer. Pulling his trolley, he set off for the fairway.

  Water squelched around his feet, leaving mud on his shoes, damp in his socks. He cursed inwardly.

  As a young man with ambitions and aspirations beyond the housing estate in the West End of Newcastle he had grown up on, he imagined golf to be a symbol of contentment. A sense that he had succeeded in reaching, and now belonged to, a higher level of society. He now looked on his increasingly occasional forays on to the green with dread.

  Think of it as tax, he thought. Just paying your taxes. Well, if that was the case, it was time for a new fucking accountant.

  He saw them on the third tee. They hadn’t waited for him. Stride unconsciously slowing, he walked towards them. They saw him coming. Didn’t acknowledge him. He reached them.

  ‘Started without me,’ said Keenyside, attempting to affect a cheeriness he didn’t feel.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d mind.’ The man who spoke was slightly older than Keenyside, early forties. Hair greying but trimmed short, clothes well fitting, more understated than Keenyside’s, accentuating the fact that he was in good shape.

  Chief Superintendent Palmer. Keenyside’s boss.

  He was about to take a swing. He demanded, and got, concentration and silence. He hit the ball; a straight arc down the fairway.

  ‘Good one,’ said the other man.

  ‘Yes, well done,’ echoed Keenyside.

  Palmer acknowledged the other man’s response, ignored Keenyside’s.

  The other man: larger, steel-wool hair cropped close to his skull. Older than Palmer and heavier, like a boxer whose muscle had been coated with a layer of fat. Keenyside knew who he was. Most of the police in Newcastle knew who he was. Keenyside also knew that his lucrative sideline could only continue to flourish because of this man’s magnanimousness. And because of what Keenyside told him about his business rivals.

  The other man teed up, swung. Not as good a shot as Palmer’s. No one dared mention the fact.

  Keenyside teed up. The other two, not impatiently, waited for him to strike the ball. He did. They began to walk.

  ‘Business good?’ asked Palmer.

  Keenyside didn’t know how to answer. If he said yes his contributions would be increased. If he said no he would be made to work harder. ‘Not bad,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ Palmer said, eyes ahead. ‘Got anything for me, then?’

  Without stopping and barely slowing, Keenyside lifted a plastic-wrapped bundle from the top of his bag and placed it in Palmer’s. He did the same with the other man.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked the other man, voice rough and rasping, like an industrial file on a stubborn lump of hardwood.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Keenyside. He passed on the information Mikey Blackmore, and his other informers, had told him. The big man listened impassively, nodded.

  ‘Good. Good work.’

  The other two gave their attention back to the game in hand, ignoring Keenyside once more. They waited, again not impatiently, while he took his shot, then set off again, not waiting for him to catch them up.

  He hated this. Hated it all the more because he knew Palmer did it deliberately. Invited him along, took his money, his information; tolerating but patronizing him. Reminding him of his place.

  So far, no further.

  He looked around. Palmer and his companion had moved on without waiting for him.

  Not even bothering to remove a club from his bag and take his shot, he trudged after them.

  Keenyside drove home, up into Northumberland.

  He rotated the CDs in the player, found an album he wasn’t familiar with, something his wife must have left there.

  Elton John. The song: ‘Border Lines’.

  He sighed.

  Borders. Lines. The story of his life. Lines to cross, borders to obstruct him.

  Palmer taking every opportunity to remind him that he wasn’t one of them and never would be.

  He had grown up in the West End of Newcastle. And hated it. He remembered as a child being desperate for escape. The only options open to him were the police or the army. He didn’t like the idea of the army, so he settled for the police. And worked hard to get in. Crossed several lines to become a policeman.

  Once on the force, he worked even harder. Proving himself. Made detective inspector in record time. Then: transferred to the West End of Newcastle. His patch, it was argued, his old home area. One of their own; they would respect and respond to that.

  Work was work: he did it. But wanted nothing to do with them, felt nothing but revulsion for his former neighbours. They represented a barrier he had broken free from. He wouldn’t be going back. He married. A woman the opposite to the ones on the estate and in his family. Suzanne was socially ambitious. Almost sociopathically so.
She complemented him well. They were on the way.

  Then Suzanne fell pregnant. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t wanted. But as a Catholic, Suzanne couldn’t bring herself to terminate the pregnancy, no matter how much she wanted to. She went full term. Gave birth to twins.

  Now the lifestyle the Keenysides aspired to was unattainable on his salary, even with overtime. Something had to change. Suzanne couldn’t work because of the children. Keenyside thought of night school; get a qualification, advance his career to maybe a solicitor or something. But that took so long. Instead, he hit on a better idea.

  It meant another line to cross. It meant he would have to become something other than that which he had prided himself in. But he had to do it. The twins were approaching school age. He didn’t want them to go to school in the West End. Mix with the offspring of the children he’d had to mix with, the scum he dealt with every day. And Suzanne was demanding certain things for their lives. He didn’t begrudge her them; he wanted them, too.

  He would catch dealers on the estate and give them a choice. Surrender their supply and dealing network to him, or face arrest. They always chose the former.

  The idea was a success. So much so that he needed help. Well-chosen colleagues were approached. Sympathetic allies found within his team. Soon, they were all at it. And it was very lucrative. He had no compunction about exploiting his old neighbours, friends and family, even, on the estates he had left behind. Those that were stupid or thick enough to stay, he reasoned, deserved all they got.

  Another line had to be crossed. On the strength of his sideline, Keenyside had soon moved his family out of the West End of Newcastle, to a place more commensurate with his increasing earnings. A private community of new executive dwellings (he loved that word) in Wansbeck Moor, Northumberland. The car, the private schooling, had followed. He was stretched to the limit, but he knew the money would continue to come in, the lifestyle to improve.

  And then Palmer found out about his scheme. Keenyside was terrified that his empire would come crashing down. But instead of turning him in, he surprised Keenyside by demanding a cut in exchange for silence. A big cut.