by David Belbin
‘What do you want, Carl?’ Nancy asked.
‘How long have you been fucking this guy?’
She could hardly deny it. Nick wondered if she’d actually finished with Carl. Or had she just told him that?
‘Nick and I go back a long way,’ Nancy said.
‘This is Nick? The one who’s just got out of prison? Nick from the nick?’ Carl laughed. ‘The grass is always greener, eh, Nick?’
Nick tried for a tolerant smile. He’d heard them all.
Carl pulled off the panel behind the right speaker and reached into it. ‘Where’s my tin?’
‘Kitchen table.’
‘I hope you haven’t given this shit any of my coke.’
Nancy didn’t reply.
‘Isn’t he a bit old for you? What are you, mate, forty?’
Nancy used her matter-of-fact teaching voice. ‘If you’re taking the tin, leave me a bit of hash, Carl. You know I can’t sleep without it.’
Carl opened the green Golden Virginia tin and pulled out a half-ounce lump of hash. He broke off a small piece and tossed it to Nancy.
‘That’s the last you’re getting from me.’ He disappeared into the bedroom. Ignoring Nick, Nancy followed him.
‘You’re the one who said you didn’t want to be exclusive.’
‘You knew I was coming round. That’s why you had him here. That’s why you’re wearing that underwear I bought you, to rub it in my face. Fuck it, Nance, we’re really through this time.’
‘You’re not through until I say you are.’
Nick wished he hadn’t had the coke. His brain was rushing. Last time he’d had coke was five and a half years ago and he’d been arrested while high. He ought to get out of here.
In the bedroom, the row raged on. Nancy was detailing all the women Carl had fucked, groupies who followed his band.
‘I wasn’t there but Mel was and she said you went home with the little slapper after the gig. Then there was …’
Nick’s bike was still locked to the railings outside the flat. He was so high that, in no time at all, he had cycled home.
12
Sarah accepted Eric’s dinner invitation because she had nothing better to do. Parliament didn’t restart until the twelfth. She had made two visits to prisons in the break between Christmas and New Year, even though both governors had told her it was beyond the call of duty. She’d even eaten Christmas dinner at Wormwood Scrubs, which was about to appoint a new governor, to demonstrate that New Labour took problem prisons seriously. Her Tory predecessor had visited every single prison in the country during her term. Sarah didn’t know how she’d managed it. When parliament was sitting, her days were so full that she barely had time to visit the loo.
When Eric called her to say that he’d got a table at a new restaurant not far from her flat, she’d hesitated. He added that there was something he needed to tell her in person.
‘What’s so sensitive that you can only tell me face to face?’ she asked, as soon as they were seated.
‘I wish you’d talked to me before you agreed to join the board of the Power Project,’ Eric said.
They were in a restored building on the edge of the old City General hospital site, overlooking the Park. Hart’s had only opened the month before. It was already near-impossible to get a table. The decor was smart, cool. The tables weren’t packed together. Best of all were the smart leather booths that seated four. Eric had managed to secure one of these for just the two of them. A chief constable must have more clout than an MP. Eric introduced her to the maître d’, who assured Sarah that, in future, she would always be found a table at short notice. They took their menus, then resumed the conversation.
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked, chewing on a freshly baked breadstick. ‘You were at the meeting in which we all agreed to support it.’
‘There’s support and support. Let’s talk about it later, when we’ve relaxed properly into the evening. I do recommend the calf’s liver.’
‘I like the look of this place,’ Sarah said. Hart’s felt like a New Labour restaurant. Wooden floors, airy, with geometric, multicoloured paintings. It used to be the reception wing of the General and it had retained a temple-like, healing air. Eric began to show off.
‘The chef used to be at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, Raymond Blanc’s place. Have you ever eaten there?’
Sarah had to confess that she hadn’t.
‘Maybe I can take you some time.’
She ordered a crab starter, followed by duck. Eric went for the pâté and calf’s liver. Sarah had a glass of Sauvignon Blanc with her first course while Eric ordered a bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin and started it with his.
‘You didn’t really bring me here to talk about the Power Project,’ she said. ‘Why such short notice?’
Eric gave what was nearly a blush.
‘Someone let you down?’
‘My wife, to be honest. This was meant to be a conciliatory family dinner before I went skiing. After which I have the new flat to move into … as I think I told you. When it became clear that my moving plans were definite, she … what do they say, these days, threw a wobbler?’
‘I think it’s throw a wobbly.’
‘One of those, anyway. Doubtless I deserved it.’
‘Doubtless. Now, since you brought up the subject, stop fooling around and tell me why you wanted to warn me against the Power Project. You got me into it.’
‘I can’t go into operational detail about ongoing investigations. All I will tell you is that the corruption generated by the project’s predecessor goes very deep. The council, my own force, even. It’s too early to set up a new project that has any chance of keeping clear of such systemic, far-reaching corruption.’
‘Drugs are a huge economy,’ Sarah said. ‘Corruption seems to be inevitable. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to protect vulnerable people. Unless you’re saying that Kingston Bell is as bad as Frank Davis was.’
‘I don’t have anything against Bell as yet. He’s out of his depth, perhaps, but he’s well-meaning. None of our investigations link him with the previous regime.’ Eric’s explanation, as it went on, was prosaic and a tad patronizing. Kingston Bell was employing people who were too immersed in drug culture. He himself was lucky to have escaped a custodial sentence for cannabis possession in his teens.
‘Come on,’ Sarah said. ‘Nearly everybody I know dabbled with drugs in their youth. First-hand experience is almost a qualification for the kind of job that Kingston’s taken on.’
‘And you know he’s just hired a convicted drug dealer?’
‘Nick Cane? Yes. In fact, I wrote a reference for him.’
‘I remember your connection with Cane and I think it’s unwise of you – especially now that you’re a Home Office minister – to retain it. Yes, in principle, a drugs agency like the Power Project has a lot of potential benefits, but you should let other, less ambitious MPs soil their hands with this one.’
‘I am ambitious and I hope Kingston’s ambitious, too. For that matter, I hope Nick Cane’s still ambitious. He was, back when I knew him well. Rehabilitation’s not a dirty word, is it?’
‘Not a dirty word, but a precarious one. I wanted to warn you about the company you keep. Now I’ve done it. You’re a bit of an idealist, Sarah.’
‘Only a bit?’
‘Tell me how an idealist deals with prisons.’
This time his smile was more generous than patronizing, and Sarah remembered what a useful ally he could be.
‘It’s hardly the most fashionable of subjects, is it? Not many prize-winning novels or zeitgeist movies about the state of the prison system. I visited two last week. God, it’s depressing …’
Ninety minutes later, Eric took her home. Despite the half-bottle of wine and large vodka and tonic he’d drunk, he drove, saving her a seven-minute walk. Maybe, when he offered her the lift, he’d hoped she’d tell him to leave the car at Hart’s, pick it up in the morning. But she wasn’t te
mpted. He got out to open the passenger door. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that for her. She gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘Happy new year,’ she said.
‘Don’t forget what I’ve told you about the Power Project,’ he reminded her. ‘Extricate yourself.’
‘I’ll think it over.’
In bed, not long afterwards, she found herself thinking, not about Eric, or Nick, but about Paul Morris. Eric had given her a good excuse to call him the next day. Was it okay to phone a family man at this time of year?
Nick was immersed in a video of Hill Street Blues, which he’d salvaged from the stuff he had stowed in Joe and Caroline’s attic. He’d religiously taped the show, editing out the ads, because he knew he’d want to watch it all again one day. Now he had the time. The phone rang. He looked at his watch. Not far off midnight.
‘I’ve dumped him properly this time,’ Nancy said. ‘Come round.’
Nick carted his bike down the iron steps and was at hers in ten minutes. Nancy looked distracted, but happy that he was there. They hardly talked. She took him straight to bed, where Nick took his time making love with her. He couldn’t get her to come, but she didn’t seem to mind.
‘Here, I have something for you.’ She opened the drawer of her bedside table. ‘I made Carl give this back. Now you’re the only man with my key. Use it any time.’
Nick didn’t know how to react. He hadn’t asked for a key, nor whatever commitment came with it. Were they in a relationship? Okay, fine, they were.
‘Is this you keeping your new year’s resolution?’ he asked, kissing her on the forehead.
‘I guess so. Do you want to get up and have a drink, or a smoke?’
‘I’m happy just to lie here and hold you until we fall asleep.’
‘Okay, I guess,’ Nancy murmured.
They spooned, though Nick had the sense that Nancy would have preferred it if they’d got dressed, got smashed, maybe made love again later. But it was too late to suggest that, for she had fallen asleep. Nick stared at the ceiling. The room was partially illuminated by light seeping through from a street lamp. Nancy dressed well, but she was a slob. Piles of clothes littered the floor. Polly, despite a houseful of kids, had kept her place meticulously clean. Nancy began to snore. Nick thought how he should have brought the video with him. He wanted to know how the episode ended.
The morning after her evening with Eric, Sarah thought, Sod it, and called Paul Morris on his mobile.
‘I have one or two concerns that I need to go over with you before the next Power Project board meeting.’
‘Sure,’ he said in his warmest voice. ‘It’d be great to catch up. How about this evening?’
He suggested a small trattoria in an alley a stone’s throw from the Old Market Square. They drank good Chianti and ate mediocre cannelloni. He certainly hadn’t brought her here for the quality of the food. They discussed Labour’s continuing popularity and the conspiracy theories that were going round about the death of Princess Di. Paul’s knee kept brushing hers. She thought about him in her bedroom at Hambleton Hall, wondered what would have happened if Eric hadn’t shown up too.
‘You had some concerns about the Power Project?’ Paul said, while they waited for their main course.
Sarah had forgotten the pretext for tonight’s dinner. But, once reminded, she got straight to the point. ‘Paul, when you asked me to take this on, you didn’t tell me that Kingston Bell had a drugs conviction.’
‘One minor count of possession, when he was nineteen. If we want people working for us who know the scene, they’ll have been involved in the past. They have a white guy working there who has a much more recent conviction for a much more serious offence. But he’s rehabilitating himself.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘Who told you about Kingston? The police?’
Sarah didn’t reply.
Paul took her silence for a ‘yes’ and carried on talking. ‘Nottinghamshire has one of the most racist police forces in the country, we both know that.’
‘We do, and we’ve both done a lot to try and change the situation, but I’m not convinced that racism is what we’re talking about in this instance. You got me into this, Paul. Would you personally vouch for Bell’s integrity?’
Paul’s eyes met hers for a moment, then she watched him go into himself, looking for another answer. He was the sort of person whose first answer was usually taken as gospel. As was she.
‘He’s a religious man. We go to the same church.’
‘As I recall, the head of the Crack Action Team claimed to have seen the light in prison. Once bitten.’
‘You can never be one hundred per cent sure of anything,’ Paul conceded, ‘but I wouldn’t have asked you to join the project’s management committee unless I was convinced of Kingston’s probity.’
‘If there’s the slightest doubt about that, I’ll have the place closed down. His speaking at a legalize cannabis conference recently didn’t help.’
‘Understood. That was naive. I know that, in a sense, King’s continuing the philosophy that’s associated with the old regime. But we both know that the philosophy was spot on. It’s the implementation that stank.’
His smile was reassuring, but she noticed a flicker of doubt around the edge of his lips. She moved the conversation on. Both tried to resume the flirtatiousness of the earlier part of the evening, but they had run out of safe topics. After a cursory discussion of their respective Christmases, neither of them felt like ordering dessert.
In the shadows at the brow of St James Street, they shook hands, then walked off in opposite directions.
13
On Friday afternoon, Kingston Bell flicked through Nick’s timesheets and glanced at his evaluation form. They both knew the timesheets were an elaborate fiction. There still wasn’t enough work to occupy Nick. If he hung around the office waiting for clients as much as he’d claimed on the form, he’d go crazy. King didn’t seem bothered.
‘The paperwork is the pits but you have to do it,’ he told Nick. ‘I’ll get Chantelle to fill in my part later.’
Nick nodded. Chantelle gave the impression of holding the place together. Only thing was, the evaluation form was meant to lead to an interview that set objectives for Nick’s future development. Without it, he couldn’t pass his probation period.
‘Did you want to say something about targets?’ Nick asked.
‘Don’t be telling me what I want to say.’
King had a temper that leaped out when you least expected it. Nick wasn’t sure if it was genuine, or merely a means of maintaining control.
‘Sorry. I only meant …’
King shook his head as if to negate his previous outburst.
‘Are we done?’ Nick asked.
‘Yeah. Take it easy. Always quiet this time of year. Be grateful you don’t have to go to the Release conference in Manchester with me, waste your weekend.’
Nick knew that King relished his conference appearances. He liked to dress up in a suit and present himself as a God-fearing friend of the oppressed. It was a big difference to how he appeared at work, dressed down in sweatshirts and trainers. He made Nick, in his button-down shirt, blue jeans and bomber jacket, feel smart.
‘He give you the form for me?’ Chantelle asked Nick on his way out.
‘Nope, sorry.’
Chantelle gave one of her expansive shrugs then returned to her book of crossword puzzles. She wore thick glasses for reading that, combined with the shorter afro she had come back with in the new year, made her look academic. Nick would like it if she was sweeter to him, so he made an effort.
‘How was your Christmas?’ he asked, as his boss breezed by, dropping Nick’s evaluation form onto Chantelle’s desk. Chantelle did not attempt to hide the crossword book, but picked up the form, ignoring Nick’s question. Then, when he was at the door, she called him back.
‘There was a message for you. Client, I think.’ Chantelle w
rote down a number. The 0797 code told him it was a mobile. Without asking, he used Chantelle’s phone. The call went straight to answerphone, no personal message. He hated leaving messages on mobiles. Clients often didn’t check their messages because it cost them credit, so you never knew if they’d got the message anyway. He hung up without leaving one.
Sunday was the last day before the parliamentary recess ended. Sarah had made a loose arrangement to visit Chesterfield on Boxing Day, but Mum had cancelled, for vague reasons. Sarah suspected that she had a new man friend. There had been various male friends over the years since Dad left, but no official boyfriend, no hint of remarriage. Last year, Mum had retired from the council, where she’d had a job in housing. Sarah had asked if she planned to move elsewhere.
‘What, and leave all my friends?’ Mum replied. But there was precious little evidence of friends when Sarah visited. Sarah had joined the Labour party here, as soon as she was old enough to, twenty years ago. She still had friends in Chesterfield, friends she only saw when she had to come over and give a speech. Comrades, perhaps, rather than friends, although ‘comrade’ was a loaded term these days. Nobody used it at the Commons.
This was her last chance to visit Mum before the new session started and Sarah’s free time became even more precious. She had left it late. Sundays were often given over to the contents of the red boxes she brought home in a locked briefcase. This dark afternoon, there was no such excuse. Driving into Chesterfield, a Derbyshire town dominated by the crooked spire of an old church, it occurred to Sarah that she had wanted to get away from her mother since Felicity was thirty-six, the same age that Sarah was now.
Felicity Bone was sixty-one. Sarah’s father, Kevin, were he still alive, would have turned seventy last year. Mum had been Grandad’s constituency secretary when she met his only son. Dad was a bright, bohemian Cambridge graduate. He had gone to the same college, Caius, as his father had before him. Dad would have liked Sarah to go there too, but, in a minor act of rebellion, she chose Nottingham instead. Not that, by then, Dad was around for her to rebel against.
