What You Don't Know

by David Belbin

  ‘I hoped you’d like some company.’ It wasn’t Paul. It was Eric. The recently separated chief constable swayed slightly. He held a bottle of Armagnac, two thirds full, in his left hand. ‘You look fantastic tonight, by the way.’

  ‘And you look pissed. Eric, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You know how long I’ve … I thought that, now I’m free, well …’

  There was another knock on the door.

  ‘Answer it, would you?’ Sarah said. ‘Or would you prefer to hide in the wardrobe to make the bedroom farce complete? I think it’s big enough.’

  Her suitor turned to the wardrobe in question and appeared to contemplate the suggestion.

  ‘It’s open,’ Sarah called.

  ‘I brought you those papers about that project.’ Paul Morris had a folder in one hand and a bottle in the other. Sarah swore under her breath. Paul’s eyes met Eric’s. Each wore a sheepish yet defiant expression: schoolboys who had been found out. Sarah took the folder from Paul, then held the door open.

  ‘Looks like you boys are set to party all night,’ she said. ‘Try not to wake me when you come up to bed. I have to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for my surgery tomorrow.’

  She locked the door behind them.

  2

  Nick’s flat was above a locksmith’s on the run-down Alfreton Road. The entrance was on a side alley, via a cast-iron stairway that doubled as a fire escape. He did not get casual visitors. He didn’t get many callers, full stop. The postman. His brother Joe. That was about it.

  At first, he ignored the knock on the door. It was quarter past seven and he was about to go out, didn’t want to be late. He hadn’t been sure that Nancy would agree to meet him for a drink. She was going to do him a favour, although she didn’t know it yet.

  The knocking resumed: masculine, insistent. Nick buttoned his shirt, then opened the door. The guy standing there was thirty-ish and slight. His smile was familiar, but Nick couldn’t place him.

  ‘Nick. My man. I heard you were out.’

  Hearing his voice, Nick remembered how they knew each other. ‘Wayne. You’d better come in. But I’ve only got a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Smart shirt. Hot date?’

  ‘It’s kind of a professional thing. What can I do for you, Wayne? I’m not in the supply business any more.’

  ‘I know, I know. It was all over the papers nearly, what? Six years ago. How long did you do?’

  ‘I did five, got out in April.’

  ‘Keeping body and soul together?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I? Don’t want to be rude, but I am in a hurry.’

  Wayne glanced around Nick’s Spartan flat, made instant judgements. ‘Some of your old friends, they thought you might be looking to make some proper money again. People liked you, Nick. You were always very trustworthy, reliable. When you got busted, you didn’t name names. Things like that don’t get forgotten.’

  ‘Nice of you to say, but…’ Nick hesitated. He had no intention of getting involved in drug dealing again. It was only happenstance, an unlikely opportunity provided by a cave network beneath his old flat, that took him into the game in the first place. For more than a year, money had poured in, but every penny had cost him, several times over. ‘Thing is, I’m on probation. I have to keep my nose clean or I’ll be sent back to serve three more years. So it’s good of you to think of me, but …’

  Wayne shook his head, as if in wonderment. ‘I understand your situation. It’s just that a vacancy has arisen and my employer wants to make you an offer. You wouldn’t grow, just supervise the guys who look after the grow houses. Serious money for virtually no risk. Sky’s the limit – that’s the message I was told to give you. Will you at least think about it?’

  Nick didn’t ask who ‘my employer’ was. Probably a guy he used to supply. Six years ago, Wayne was a runner for one of the bigger dealers in the Meadows estate. He was bound to have been promoted several times since then.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Nick said.

  Wayne scribbled his number on a bus ticket, which Nick stuffed into the back pocket of his black Levi’s. ‘Going into town? Let me walk you there.’

  ‘Best we’re not seen together,’ Nick said.

  ‘Already thinking like a pro. Call me soon.’

  ‘I said I’ll think about it. But if I don’t call, don’t contact me again. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Wayne said, and let himself out.

  Nick checked his hair and looked at his watch. Five to. The bar was nearly ten minutes’ walk away and he didn’t want to work up a sweat. He gave Wayne a minute, then left. Into the first bin that he passed, Nick threw away the bus ticket. You could never be too careful.

  He got to the Fat Cat late, but needn’t have worried. Nancy wasn’t there yet. He examined the cocktail menu. Six years ago, Nick could have afforded to drink here all night. Then the most exotic drink on offer would have been a glass of bad wine. Nancy had suggested the venue. He hoped she’d be happy to move somewhere cheaper after a drink or two.

  Here she was, nearly six years older than when he’d seen her last, in the public gallery at his trial. She was lightly tanned, despite the time of year. He stood to greet her with a kiss on the cheek. She pressed her heavy breasts against his chest.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ Nancy said. ‘Filled out. I like your hair short.’

  ‘It’s not that short.’

  ‘No, but people started to grow it longer while you were away.’

  Nancy was always a straight talker. He liked the way she acknowledged his imprisonment up front. For a few minutes, they discussed her latest boyfriend, whom she described as ‘a guitarist’. He doubled as a supply teacher, which was how she’d met him. Once she’d got the issue of her unavailability out of the way, Nancy gave Nick a quick summary of the comings and goings at the comprehensive school where he used to teach. She didn’t talk about herself except when asked a direct question. Nick admired that in her.

  ‘How are you getting on with teaching?’ he asked, after a while. ‘I remember how exhausted it used to make you.’

  ‘Some things get easier. Class control, preparation. People say I should go for promotion, but I don’t want more paperwork. I want a life.’

  Six years had made Nancy more womanly and less anxious, dissipating some of the nervous energy that used to make people awkward around her. She was slender, with skinny legs, a flat bottom and a chest almost too prominent for her frame. She wore her dark, straight hair in a bob that set off her finely boned face, with its intelligent, deep blue eyes and perfectly proportioned nose. Only her chin, a little pointed, prevented her from being drop-dead beautiful.

  ‘The kids still talk about it, you know,’ Nancy told Nick, lighting a Silk Cut. ‘How one of the teachers got busted for growing tons of dope in a cave. You’re a school legend.’

  ‘No chance of them hiring me back, then?’

  ‘That’s what you were after? I’d ask the head, only …’

  ‘I’m kidding. Stoneywood’s the last place I’d want to work if I went back into teaching. Not that anywhere would have me.’

  ‘I owe my job to you,’ Nancy said.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  Seven years ago, Nancy had been a teaching student at Stoneywood, Nick her mentor. After she qualified, he went part-time to tend his hydroponics operation, freeing up a half-time job for his protégée. Not long after he was arrested and forced to resign, she’d taken up the job full-time.

  ‘I really thought you were writing a novel,’ Nancy said, as though she’d just read his mind. ‘That was your reason for going part-time when we started working together. Have you got any ideas? A prison novel, maybe?’

  ‘I spend as little time as possible thinking about prison.’

  ‘There must be lots of good stories there.’

  ‘Not much good goes on inside, believe me.’

  ‘People are interested in prison stories. There’s this great TV show –’
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  He and Nancy always used to talk about what they watched on TV. Nick remembered her as having better taste than that. ‘You mean Prisoner: Cell Block H?’ Nick asked.

  ‘No, that’s over. This one’s about a men’s maximum security prison, very realistic, very bleak: Oz. On Sky. Have you got Sky?’

  ‘Can’t afford it.’

  Nancy winced slightly and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I could tape it for you, if you’re interested.’

  She looked away as she said ‘if you’re interested’ and Nick didn’t reply. He rolled himself a slim cigarette, remembering the crush she’d had on him during teaching practice. That was a vulnerable time for anyone, working all hours, under huge pressure to perform. Then, she was too immature for him. He’d only have been interested in the sex. Not that he had been above such behaviour, back in his drug-fucked days, but even at his lowest he wouldn’t have taken advantage of someone he was meant to be caring for. Six years on, the age gap was immaterial. Nancy was staring thirty in the face and still seeing blokes who had no intention of settling down.

  He remembered getting mildly agitated at school when she described the men she went out with, thinking she deserved better. The only one he met was an actor with a small part in a Shakespeare at Nottingham Playhouse. He’d had an inflated ego, a weak voice, no chin and no feel for iambic pentameter. They took a class to see the play and even the kids took the piss out of him afterwards. But Nancy had been devastated when he dumped her.

  Nick lit his cigarette.

  ‘You’re not interested?’ she said, turning to look him in the eye.

  He let himself fall into her blue gaze for a moment before he remembered what she was asking him about. ‘No, thanks. Too close to the bone, most likely.’

  ‘I’d like to hear what it was like some time,’ Nancy said.

  ‘I’ll tell you some time, when it’s further behind me.’

  ‘And you never tried to write a novel?’

  ‘Not a sentence. I hardly read books now. They remind me of being inside, where there was fuck all else to do.’

  ‘You wrote me some great letters that first year you were inside,’ Nancy said. ‘I’m sorry I stopped writing back. The guy I was with at the time got jealous. You know how it is. I’m really glad you got in touch.’

  ‘Me too. Actually, if you don’t mind talking shop for a bit, I wanted to pick your brains about teaching English before the vodka kicks in.’

  Nancy affected disappointment. ‘I figured you must have had an ulterior motive for meeting me.’

  Nick explained how, as a convicted felon, he couldn’t get a job in a state school, but was allowed to give private tuition for GCSE and A-level students. He needed up-to-date subject knowledge, particularly on exams. Nancy told him what he needed to know. Nick made notes, and bought her a second, overpriced drink. When a bell went for last orders, he was relieved that she had to catch the bus. He accompanied her to the stop. He liked to watch her walk in her short brown leather skirt.

  ‘So that’s it, then,’ she said, as he waited with her at the bus stop. ‘You’ll call me for another drink when they next change the GCSE syllabus?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve really enjoyed seeing you. It’d be nice to do it again.’

  ‘Let’s.’ The bus pulled in. It would take her home, going past his flat, which was only a ten-minute walk away. ‘Getting on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, grabbing his hand. ‘I’ll pay your fare for the pleasure of your company.’

  She knew he was short of cash. Nick almost said he preferred to walk, but pride was a foolish thing. He followed her. When she’d paid their fares, Nancy took his hand again. Although his was a short journey, she led him to the upper deck, then to the very front.

  ‘Sure you want to be seen out with me?’ Nick teased.

  ‘You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,’ she said, squeezing his thigh. ‘You’ve paid your penalty. More than paid it, I’d say.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He squeezed the hand that was squeezing his thigh. Nancy took this as a signal to move her pretty head towards his: not to kiss her would have been incredibly rude.

  ‘That was nice,’ she said, breaking away a little earlier than he would have liked, then giving him a coquettish grin. ‘But I think this is your stop. I’d invite you back to mine, but I really am going out with Carl – at least until I get a better offer.’

  Nick stood and pressed the bell, then leaned down and kissed Nancy on the forehead. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said.

  The bus ground to a halt. Downstairs, he thanked the driver and got off. That was one thing about Nottingham that hadn’t changed while he was away. It was a hard city, but passengers always thanked the driver.

  A fine rain had begun to fall on the Alfreton Road, a strip of shabby stores that, if you followed it far enough, joined the motorway north, towards Sheffield, where Nick was born. He’d thought about moving back when he got out, but had nothing to return for. His only family was in Sherwood, a couple of miles away, where Nick’s kid brother, Joe, had his own taxi firm.

  Nick pulled a loose brick from the wall halfway up the iron staircase that led to his flat. That was where he kept his small stash. Too dangerous to leave it inside. The hash was brittle and needed heating before he could crumble it onto the tobacco.

  He’d recently switched from Samson to Drum Milde, looking after his lungs.

  In prison, he’d exercised regularly – there wasn’t a lot else to do – but he’d never managed to give up smoking tobacco. He’d stopped smoking dope after getting caught out on a random drugs test, losing three months of his remission, then started again as soon as he got out. His brother always had a good supply.

  Dope made some people paranoid, but it had the opposite effect on Nick. It helped him to chill out, to feel centred. It prevented him from dwelling on the past.

  The hash, on top of the booze, took the edge off the frustration he’d felt since leaving Nancy. He slept easily, dreaming that Nancy was a schoolgirl and he was her teacher. He kept telling her that, if they did what she wanted to do, he’d be sent back to prison.

  ‘I’m worth it,’ she told him.

  Then another of his prison nightmares started. He snapped awake with an ashtray throat, sank half a pint of tepid water that he kept by the bed, then tried to go back to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t return. He thought about Nancy. He’d not been surprised when she stopped writing to him. Prisoners expected to be forgotten. It made life easier all round.

  Inside, Nick had spent a lot of time thinking about the women in his life. There had been many, but only two with whom he might have stayed for good: Nazia, whom he’d nearly married. She had left him for a dentist. And Sarah, his first real love. They had lost touch soon after splitting up, fourteen years ago. While he was away she had become an MP. If Sarah hadn’t been re-elected earlier this year, they might have got back together. The old flame was still there. They’d spent a lot of time in each other’s company in the spring, but hadn’t spoken since two days after the election. Sarah had scraped back in, then been made prisons minister, a job that made it absolutely impossible for her to associate with him.

  He missed her.

  3

  Sarah’s parliamentary office was in Norman Shaw House, the old Scotland Yard, part of the Commons estate. She could get to a vote in two minutes. This space was three times the size of her stuffy room at the Home Office, where she spent more of her time. She came here because it was important to be seen on the estate, to keep up connections with fellow MPs. On Monday evenings she went to parliamentary Labour party meetings. She also hung around on Wednesday afternoons, following Prime Minister’s Question Time. This used to be a twice weekly, fifteen-minute slot, but Tony Blair had changed it to thirty minutes on a Wednesday. This meant he only spent one morning a week preparing for any question that might come up.

  As a junior minister, Sarah could not ask questions, but she was expected to be present. It fel
t a bit like being a prefect at school. She and other juniors stood at the front side, near the speaker’s chair, since they did not need to catch her eye. The new Conservative leader was no match for Tony Blair. Five months into New Labour, the government was still in its honeymoon period.

  On her way out of the chamber, Sarah was cornered by Pete Rugby, the East Midlands party whip.

  ‘Having a little trouble with the lone parent benefit issue. Like you to talk to one or two of the new girls, bring them into line.’

  Sarah hated being put on the spot like this. This was one issue she’d been hoping would go away.

  ‘Actually, Pete, I just signed a letter to Gordon, asking him to rethink the whole thing. So I’m not the best person to ask. Must rush.’

  She hurried away, but not before she’d registered the whip’s frown. There was no chance that Gordon Brown, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, would change his mind about the welfare cuts. He had committed the government to sticking with the outgoing government’s spending plans for its first year in office. A needless promise, given that the economy was in a better state than Labour had expected, but Gordon rarely changed his mind. Sarah was convinced that the cuts being proposed for single parents were mean, destructive and unnecessary. However, as a member of the government, she had to vote for them, or resign from the Home Office.

  Sarah went to the Tea Rooms, which were close to the voting chamber. Despite the change of government, Labour MPs still congregated at the same end of the long, narrow room. The green leather sofas were all full. She cast a rapid eye around the low tables, each of which sat four MPs. Alison Blythe, one of the new Labour intake, gave her a small wave. They had stood together in the ‘Blair’s Babes’ photo taken back in May. Ali, as she was to her friends, had a mop of short blond hair and a mark in her nose where she had recently removed a stud. She had escorted Sarah on a prison visit in her Birmingham constituency. The two of them had hit it off, kind of. Both thought of themselves as being on the left of the party, but not the hard, ideological left. Sarah could use some friends in the new batch of women MPs. She waved back, deposited her bag on the free chair next to Alison, then got herself a drink.