What You Don't Know

by David Belbin

  ‘Has Pete been onto you?’ Ali asked, when Sarah sat down.

  ‘Just now. I told him I’d signed that letter. Did you?’

  ‘Yes. Over a hundred signatories, I heard. Will he back down?’

  ‘You don’t know Gordon. It’ll make him more stubborn. It’s Harriet I feel most sorry for.’

  They discussed the health and social security minister, who was currently stuck between a rock and a hard place. The word was that she’d been given a choice between cuts to disability benefit or the single parent benefit. Either would hit Labour’s heartland vote.

  ‘There’s somebody over there trying to catch your eye,’ Alison pointed out.

  On the other side of the partition, Sarah saw Andrew Saint. Her old friend was sitting with Gill Temperley. The former Conservative minister had let her blond hair grow since leaving office.

  ‘I’d better go over and say hello,’ Sarah said. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Will you join us? We’re celebrating.’ Andrew stood and kissed her on the cheek. They used to be the same height but, since university, he had become taller than her by at least two inches. Did he have lifts in his shoes? ‘You’re looking great,’ he said.

  ‘Running on pure adrenaline. What are you celebrating?’

  ‘Gill’s my public face,’ Andrew said. ‘She’s going to help me take Saint Holdings to the next level.’

  ‘First move,’ Gill said. ‘Find a better name. Thank you so much for putting the two of us together, Sarah.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Sarah replied. No point in letting Gill know that this was a job she had been offered and might have taken, had she failed to be re-elected. The two women’s positions had reversed. Sarah was now the Home Office minister; Gill, the back-bench MP with time on her hands.

  ‘How do you two know each other?’ Gill asked.

  ‘We were at university together in Nottingham,’ Andrew told her. ‘I helped win Sarah’s first campaign, to be union president.’

  He hadn’t helped much. More often he’d whinged about how much time Nick Cane, his best friend, spent on Sarah’s campaign, when they could be going to gigs, getting out of their tree and talking metaphysical mush – the way heavy stoners are prone to do. Still, to be fair, he had come to a few hustings, asked the questions Nick had planted to help show Sarah in a good light.

  How had Andrew made his money? Nick might know how his best friend had become a millionaire, but Sarah had never got to the bottom of it, not even when Andrew was offering her a well-paid job. Saint Nick, the two of them used to be called at uni. She wouldn’t be telling Gill any of this.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve run into you,’ Gill said, ‘because I wanted to invite you to a party. It’s short notice. Jeremy wanted to surprise me.’ Jeremy was her husband, a Tory Euro MP. ‘Then he realized that there might be a few guests – like Andrew here – who I’d want to invite, but he didn’t know about. It’s at the London Planetarium, a week on Friday. Do say you’ll come.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Sarah had to think of a quick get-out. The last thing she wanted to do was give up a Friday night for a party full of Tories. ‘Oh, but I’m tied into something else, a police authority thing. The chief constable twisted my arm. I owe him a favour.’

  ‘It always does to keep in with the police,’ Gill said. ‘But you could come to me afterwards. We tend to party very late.’

  ‘Do,’ Andrew said, as though he were hosting the party, rather than the MP’s husband.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s in Rutland. Hambleton Hall.’

  ‘Very nice place,’ Gill admitted. ‘Luxurious. Almost worth putting up with dull company for.’

  Gill had been a minister since the 1983 election, when she would have been the same age that Sarah was now, thirty-six. The party, therefore, was for her fiftieth, but she looked much younger. Was Andrew interested in her as more than a well-placed consultant? It wasn’t an impossible combination. Andrew was on the short side, but taller than Gill. A dark, tightly trimmed beard hid his chin, which had always been wobbly. He was hard-faced, not really handsome, but rich and clever with a rough charm. Even so, the idea of an affair was far-fetched. Like Gill, Andrew liked them young. At uni, he always went for first years. Before that, according to Nick, he was prone to the sixth-form girls who served at formal dinners in their hall of residence.

  Excusing herself, Sarah returned to Alison, who was trying to work up the courage to rebel against the Labour whip.

  ‘Maybe it won’t come to that,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t understand why these cuts are necessary. The single parent benefit cut only saves sixty million quid next year, less than two hundred million by year three.’

  Alison blinked and said nothing. Such numbers still seemed huge to her.

  ‘Are you going to sign the letter to Gordon?’ Steve Carter asked Sarah later. Both were waiting for a ministerial car to take them back to the Home Office. Steve was her closest friend in parliament and, like her, had been made a junior minister in the new government, covering transport.

  ‘I already have,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Mistake. You’ll just piss him off. We’re in government now. We have to support everything the government does, right or wrong.’

  ‘My mum was a single parent for most of my upbringing,’ Sarah reminded him. ‘This is personal.’

  ‘You only reel out that detail when it’s convenient,’ Steve teased her. ‘Otherwise, as I recall, you had a rather happy childhood. After your dad pissed off, there was a wealthy knight of the realm in the picture, making sure nobody starved. He’d have told you all about collective responsibility.’

  Steve was referring to her grandfather, Sir Hugh Bone – as he had become after he left parliament, where he was a Labour minister.

  ‘Collective responsibility only applies to the cabinet,’ Sarah said, pretty sure that this was true. ‘We’re not in the cabinet. We didn’t get to discuss this.’

  ‘Do you think the cabinet did? I doubt it.’

  ‘And the decision hasn’t been made yet.’

  ‘On your head be it. Should please your local party, anyway.’

  Sarah’s local party had its share of hard-left activists, who would have liked it if she had joined the Campaign Group, which comprised fifty or so left-wing MPs. But Nottingham West was the least active, most right-wing of the Nottingham constituency Labour parties. Usually, Sarah could persuade her members to back whatever stance she took. Indeed, there were probably a few who would support slashing benefits to single mums by up to twenty pounds a week. After all, there were parallel cuts being made in income support, jobseeker’s allowance and council tax benefit. But it was worse for single parents. Many claimants would be between five and ten pounds a week worse off. That was a significant amount of money when you were scraping to get by.

  She’d heard all the arguments in favour: there was usually a man somewhere in the picture, not living up to his responsibilities. Young mothers allegedly saw having multiple children as an easy career choice. But those stories didn’t fit with Sarah’s experience. Polly Bolton, for instance, was bringing up four children, two of them not her own, and worked every hour she was allowed to before it cut into her benefits. Sarah hoped a deal would be reached to water down the cuts. The vote was still weeks away.

  You don’t know what he does for a living. You don’t want to know. The first time you saw him, over a year ago, he was visiting the home. You never found out why. Everyone else was at Goose Fair. You were the only girl there. Alice introduced him. She had to go, so you offered to show him round. He asked how old you were. When you said fourteen he acted surprised, made a joke about how he’d better behave himself. The look he gave you was knowing yet hungry, the same look you get from older lads at school: pure lust. Made you feel warm down there. Made you reckless. You asked if you could have his number ‘for when I’m a bit older’.

  ‘Not too much older,’ he said. Then he asked what time you got out of school and checked the coast was clear before
squeezing your bum. A week later, his car was waiting at the top of the road.

  He’s had you a hundred times since. But he’s not been round much lately, says he has to work a lot. You’re starting to think he’s gone off you until this afternoon, when he shows up and takes you to a hotel room on Mansfield Road. He’s brought you special stuff to wear. While you’re in the bathroom, changing, he takes a call on his mobile. You listen, wanting to hear how he is with his wife, if he has a wife. But it’s business. He keeps his voice low, talks big numbers. You don’t understand what he’s up to.

  The call finishes. You open the door. He says you look tasty in black rubber. Fantastically fuckable. He’s been working up to this. You know what he wants tonight and you know that it’s going to hurt. You don’t mind, just as long as he’s with you.

  An hour later, he gives you a lift home, says you both have to cool it for a while, shoves a hundred quid in your hand and kisses you on the cheek.

  Next time you try his mobile number, it’s disconnected. Takes a good week for you to figure it out. He will never call again. You’ve been dumped.

  4

  Dave Trapp, Nick’s probation officer, had gradually reduced their regular sessions to a few minutes once a month.

  ‘And the flat? Comfortable? You’ve been there, what? Six months? It must be hard, getting by on the money you scrape from private tuition.’

  ‘It’s better than the dole,’ Nick said.

  ‘There’s a job advertised,’ Dave said, pulling a sheet of cream-coloured, headed A4 from his top drawer. ‘The Power Project. Drugs rehabilitation and all the rest. Might be up your street.’

  ‘Didn’t know I had a street.’

  ‘You’re still volunteering at the drop-in, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m on tonight,’ Nick said.

  ‘You should be able to get a reference there. You’ll need two. If there isn’t anybody from your teaching days, I’ll be happy to write one for you.’

  ‘I expect I’ll be okay,’ Nick said, glancing at the details. ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘Be my guest. Let me know how you get on.’

  Nick hadn’t heard of the Power Project, but had followed news stories about the disbandment of the Crack Action Team, with all the rumours flying around about it being a front for dealers. The story had broken just after his visit from Wayne. Was Wayne’s offer related to the CAT arrests? Probably not. Anyway, Wayne hadn’t been in touch since.

  When he got to the drop-in centre at Victor House, three hours later, Nick showed the job spec to his supervisor, Rob. Rob was one of two full-time, paid workers who supervised the volunteers.

  ‘Dave says I might be in with a shout.’

  ‘Fourteen grand a year!’ Rob said. ‘That’s more than I get paid. Maybe I’ll apply.’

  ‘Know anything about this Power Project?’

  ‘I’ve heard of the bloke in charge, King Bell. Religious. Respected figure in the Afro-Caribbean community. He’s about your age, forty or so, maybe a bit older.’

  ‘I’m thirty-six!’ Nick pointed out.

  ‘Sorry. Everyone over thirty looks the same age to me.’ Rob grinned. He was about twenty-five, with a social work qualification. ‘You thinking of applying for it?’

  ‘I’d need a reason not to.’

  Rob reread the form. ‘It says ex-offenders are welcome to apply. You don’t often see that on job specs.’

  ‘You’d do me a reference?’

  ‘No problem.’ He looked over Nick’s shoulder. ‘There’s a queue outside. We’d better start letting them in.’

  Nick glanced at the men waiting to enter the former church. Badly dressed, with worse haircuts, they were a poor advert for hard drugs. Most had smack or methadone habits. Nick had never been tempted to experience the escape that heroin provided. Nor crack, which, from what the guys in the nick said, gave a heightened coke buzz that wore off in minutes and was addictive as fuck. These days, the haze from hash and grass was enough for Nick. His younger brother, Joe, liked skunk, the killer form of grass that had dominated the market since Nick went inside. Nick wasn’t a fan. He liked a mild, spacey buzz, not being wasted for hours.

  At first, when Dave suggested that he volunteer at this centre, Nick had been dubious. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t told his probation officer that he still smoked dope. He thought he’d feel like a hypocrite, advising people not to take drugs. Then he went for a chat with Rob. He admitted to having had a bit of a problem with coke, mentioned having talked to a lot of users in prison, even helped a couple of them when they were in withdrawal. He didn’t say how he’d lost three months’ remission for failing a drugs test. Cannabis stayed in your system for a month or more, unlike heroin. Later, when they knew each other better, Nick mentioned the test. Rob didn’t have a problem with it. Nick’s fuck-ups actually gave him cred for this new role.

  There wasn’t much training. At first, he had to make it up as he went along. Then he managed to get on a two-day cognitive behaviour therapy course. He used to hate courses when he was a teacher, thinking that he could get the same information over in half the time. That was true of the CBT one, to a degree, but the pointers he picked up were useful when used as a loose guide, rather than a fixed mantra. Clients had to accept that they had a problem, then a drugs worker could help them find the tools to deal with the problem. You had to identify the triggers that set off cravings for the drug and, where possible, eliminate them. Trouble was, for a lot of clients, the only hope of escape was to stop hanging out with their drug-using friends. That required serious motivation.

  Sometimes, people came to the drop-in centre because their parents had pushed them into it, or a partner was bugged by their drug use and was threatening to leave. But that never stopped people using. Nick saw how families wanted advice agencies to focus on the moral arguments against drugs, but he didn’t think drugs were a moral issue. People had to accept that the drugs they took were causing them problems and want to change. If their only drug problem was that their drug of choice was illegal, good luck to them.

  Nick had a sit-down with Shug, a teenage crack addict who was waiting to go on trial for a dozen shoplifting offences. Shug’s main concern was how he’d cope with his habit inside. Depending on where he was sent, chances were Shug would be on smack within a week, which he would pay for by renting out his arse. Nick could only see one way forward.

  ‘You need to cut down steadily,’ Nick told him. ‘Reduce your dependence before you go in. You can get anything in most prisons, but they do random tests and a positive will cost you a lot of remission.’

  ‘Cut down steadily,’ Shug repeated. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  Talking to junkies sometimes felt like dealing with special needs kids in his teaching days. Except most junkies had less incentive to listen and the drugs they were on depleted their already limited attention spans.

  But not all of them. Blond, willowy Alice came in, glanced in Nick’s direction, then went to the drinks table. According to Rob, Alice only showed up evenings Nick was working. Nick was pretty sure the lad was teasing him, although Alice did seem keen. She used to have a bad habit, but was now maintaining on next to nothing, with occasional relapses, and holding down a steady, responsible job.

  ‘Come and see me next week,’ Nick told Shug, dismissing him as he once would have done a pupil. Some clients might take offence, but Shug was near enough to his school days to think he deserved to be treated this way. ‘Cut down on the crack.’ He tried a joke. ‘See if you can develop a nicotine habit instead.’

  ‘Nicko what?’

  ‘Cigarettes.’

  Shug shook his head. ‘That shit’ll kill you.’

  Alice wore black Paul Smith jeans and a dusty blue T-shirt with an FCUK logo. She worked in a hostel for teenage girls. Nick watched her spoon three sugars into a polystyrene cup of weak tea. When she joined him, she stood closer than was strictly necessary. Her hair smelled good.

  ‘How’s it going
?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Could be better.’

  ‘Seen Jerry today?’

  Nick’s only source of income at the moment was GCSE tutoring. He currently had five teenagers he helped with their English. Jerry was one of them. Jerry lived in the hostel where Alice worked, and Alice had put her on to Nick.

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She seemed a little low the other day, said something about not being able to afford as many lessons.’

  ‘She didn’t offer to … you know?’

  Nick shook his head vigorously. ‘She’s a smart kid. I can’t imagine that she works the streets.’

  ‘Me neither. But she’s got at least one generous regular, that’s what the other girls say.’

  Nick shook his head. ‘She barely looks fourteen.’

  ‘She’ll look sixteen soon enough, and her price will go down,’ Alice said, with a sad look. Nick remembered she hadn’t come here to talk about her job.

  ‘You said things weren’t too good,’ he said, softly. Alice had been addicted to smack since a boyfriend turned her on to it when she was seventeen. She was twenty-four now and had been trying to stay clean for more than a year.

  ‘Two wraps yesterday,’ Alice admitted.

  ‘Trying to keep it down to one today?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  *

  Beany wants to run you. That goes without saying. He’s already running Shaz, and a couple of girls a year older. They have their own flat. Beany’s all right. Lots of lads hang around the hostel. Most of them are stupider than him. He’s mixed race, nineteen or twenty, with good clothes and a shaved scalp. You suspect that, some of the time, he lives with his mum. Compared to other guys who hang round here, he’s clean and healthy-looking.