What You Don't Know

by David Belbin

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘No. I’m here now.’

  ‘You’d better come in, then.’

  Once they were inside, Nancy took off her Afghan to reveal a short skirt and sheer blouse, through which he could make out every aspect of her Wonderbra. She had either dressed up for him or, more likely, she was still wearing what she went out in last night.

  ‘Did you get any more dope?’

  Nick patted the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Picked some up this aft.’

  ‘Maybe you could sort me out. Now that I’ve given Carl the push.’

  ‘Maybe I can.’

  ‘Skin up and I’ll make you happy.’

  Nick was still feeling vague from his pre-match smoke with Joe, but sat at the table and did as she asked. Next thing he knew, Nancy was on the floor, beneath the table, pushing his legs apart. It was a long while before they got round to smoking the joint.

  Nancy had to teach the next day, so at half ten Nick walked her to the bus stop, both of them very stoned on Joe’s grass.

  ‘When can I see you again?’ he asked.

  ‘Whenever you want,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe we should do a normal date thing, like go to a movie.’

  ‘I like going to movies,’ she said. ‘By about Wednesday, I’ve adjusted to the teaching week and can stay awake through a whole film.’

  ‘Wednesday it is then. I’ll give you a ring.’

  The bus was coming. ‘Okay, lover,’ she said, kissing him once more.

  She waved from the bus, giving him a warm buzz. This was real. He had a good job and a girlfriend most men would envy him for. If anyone had told him this a year ago, when he was still banged up and suffering from the inevitable accompanying depression, he’d have said ‘dream on’. There was a TV series called Dream On that he used to watch before he was sent down. He hadn’t thought about it for years: a surreal comedy, full of old film clips.

  Nick knew that he would always have this five-year hole in his life. Prison didn’t count. He hadn’t grown or developed there, however much he’d read or worked out. He had closed down. Those missing years counted for nothing. In a sense, he had not long since turned thirty. Which made Nancy just the right age for him.

  When he got back to the flat, the phone was ringing.

  ‘Nick. Sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘Andrew! No, I just came in. It’s been a while. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m in Nottingham this week, thought we might have a pint. How’s Wednesday?’

  Not a good idea to stand up Nancy, Nick thought. ‘Wednesday evening’s no good. Tuesday or Thursday?’

  ‘No, I’m just there for one night. Do you get a lunch hour? Why don’t I come and see where you work, Thursday lunchtime?’

  Nick gave him the address. He wasn’t sure about bringing a figure from his old world into the new. But this was Andrew. He had never been able to say no to his oldest friend.

  15

  You seem to be losing focus, your maths teacher says. You suck at science. Your form teacher asks if anybody from social services will be coming to the parents’ evening. You swear at her. Social services haven’t got staff to cover parents’ evenings. One time, the form teacher made the mistake of asking about your parents: like you know, or care, what happened to them. All you know is that your mother was your age, sixteen, when you were born, and twenty-three when she pissed off and you were taken into care.

  Your lover wants to do it without condoms. That’s how much he loves and trusts you. He knows you don’t do it with dirty lads, no risk there. He doesn’t want to give you a baby. He wants to give you an education.

  You go to see the school nurse. She tells you where to go to get put on the pill. The safe sex clinic is on the next street to the Power Project. You’re early, so you stand outside the place King runs, where Teach works. You’re tempted to pretend to have a drug problem, see how they treat you. There’s a lad you see sometimes says you should try acid, says it’ll blow your mind. But you want to keep your mind straight so that you can pass exams. You want your lover to be proud of you so that when you can get together properly he’ll want to make babies with you, to bring up a family.

  You’re not stupid. You know he probably has kids already. You don’t want to know how many, or whether he’s married to the baby mother. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters when you’re with him. The doctor tells you to keep using protection for at least two weeks. He says that, after that, it might be okay to forget one day, but never two, or you’ll have to use protection for the rest of your cycle. He asks you a bunch of personal questions that you answer truthfully. Sex doesn’t embarrass you. Sex is something you’re good at. Sex, you enjoy. Sex and study are the two things in life that you want to get right.

  On the street, you see Teach. He must be leaving work.

  ‘What are you doing round here?’ he asks.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ you lie.

  He offers to buy you a coffee, takes you into a place called George’s where nobody gives a toss about him being with a girl in school uniform. You talk to him about school. He gives you some advice. Then you tell him about the parents’ evening. You don’t tell him that you’ve already rung him once, bottled out of leaving a message.

  ‘Ask Alice to go,’ he says. ‘I’ll bet she would.’

  ‘Alice doesn’t know the right questions to ask,’ you tell him. ‘Would you come with me?’

  He gives you a funny look. Not nastily, though. Like he’s confused, or moved, even. Maybe he’s remembering that time you came onto him. Still, he must get that a lot. Nick might be pushing forty, but he’s still got it. Today, you’re trying to treat him like a dad, but you don’t really know how that works.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to ask. If there was anybody else …’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘I’ll have a word with Alice, see if she’ll go. I’m not being mean. Thing is, if I go, people might get the wrong idea. But I’ll brief Alice, make sure she asks the right questions.’

  You try not to give him too big a smile, for you know that he doesn’t want to flirt and neither do you, you’re in love with someone else. Instead you thank him, hoping you sound like you mean it, because you think you do.

  ‘You’re all right.’

  ‘I still take your money off you.’

  ‘But you don’t like doing it. And you never ask where it comes from.’

  ‘Should I ask?’

  Your eyes meet. You have a couple of lies ready, but this is not a guy you want to lie to.

  ‘Probably not,’ you say.

  A light drizzle fell on the city’s Lace Market. Nick was heading towards the Old Market Square when he remembered something and hurried back to the Power Project. He had left his Walkman in the drawer. Over the last couple of nights, he’d made a mix tape for Nancy. He wanted to give it her tonight. This was the first mix tape he’d made since leaving prison. Making it was, he told himself, another sign that he was getting back to his old self.

  It wasn’t six yet. The office was still open and Chantelle was there, flicking through the contents of a filing cabinet. When Nick breezed past, she gave him a flustered look. Nick unlocked his office. There had, inevitably given their client base, been a few thefts. Kingston had had locks fitted on all the office doors during the Christmas break.

  Nick’s phone rang. He had no need to answer it, but he did.

  ‘Hi, I’m Roger Curtis from …’ Nick didn’t catch what paper the guy was from. ‘Been trying to get you. I’m doing a piece on allegations about the Power Project, want to get your side of the story.’

  ‘I’m not the …’

  ‘We’ve had reports that workers have allowed crack cocaine to be consumed on the premises. Any comment?’

  ‘No. I … uh …’ Nick had heard similar stories. Far as he could tell, they all related to the disbanded Crack Action Team.

  ‘You yourself have
a conviction for possessing cocaine, Mr Cane. Quite a lot of the stuff. Are you clean these days?’

  ‘Listen. I think …’

  ‘I’ve done an interview with an underage girl, a working prostitute, who insists that she has been offered cannabis by her drugs worker, who told her that if she replaced her crack habit with a cannabis one she’d be much safer and happier. Is that official Power Project policy, Mr Cane? Do you have any comment about the quality of that advice?’

  ‘What paper did you say you were from?’

  ‘Perhaps we can meet and I can talk this through with you?’

  Nick put on his most formal voice. ‘The person you need to talk to is Kingston Bell. I’m not an official spokesperson for the Power Project, so I am not in a position to answer any of your questions.’

  ‘Mr Bell refused to talk to me. What do you think he’s trying to hide?’

  ‘I’ve finished work for the day,’ Nick said. ‘I’m going to hang up now.’

  On the way out, he told Chantelle. ‘Just had some journalist on the phone, didn’t say where from, sounded like he wanted to stir the shit.’

  ‘He’s been calling everyone. Hope you hung up on him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nick said. ‘Almost at once.’

  She smiled in a curious way. ‘See ya. Wouldn’t want to be ya.’

  This was a catch phrase that Nick’s clients used from time to time. Must be from a song, but Nick didn’t know which one. He was out of touch. He put his headphones on and left the building, tried to forget about work.

  There were two things about mix tapes. The first was that the person who most enjoyed listening to them was almost always the guy who made them. The second was that by the time he gave the tape to the recipient, he would be sick of half the songs on it. Nick had tried to second guess Nancy’s reaction to the songs, not get too self-indulgent. For instance, he’d chosen the Verve’s ‘Lucky Man’ rather than ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’, even though he liked the latter song more. He wanted a song that reminded her of the first time they slept together, but one that gave a positive message, too. ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ was mournful. Even the title was a downer. The single came out the day after Princess Diana died, and was all over the radio for weeks, during which time he’d tried to puzzle out its meaning.

  Often, you could bend the lyrics of a song to fit your own preoccupations, but these were oblique. The words might be about watching somebody die. The drugs that didn’t work were painkillers. But most illegal drugs were used to kill pain, too. Nick didn’t want the mix tape to give Nancy morbid thoughts. He wanted to tell her that he was lucky to know her. Walking home, he sang along with the next track on the tape; ‘The Man Who Loved Life’ by the Jayhawks. He checked each lyric carefully for irony and unintended messages. A mix tape was like a love letter. Every line might be pored over for significance and sincerity. You’d better say what you meant.

  Sarah was surprised when Paul Morris invited her to dinner again, so soon after their awkward Italian meal. Doubly surprised when he offered to cook for her.

  ‘I got the feeling,’ he said, as he poured tonic over her vodka, added several ice cubes and a slice of lime, ‘that you don’t get out much in London. You’re all work, work, work.’

  Was he saying that she didn’t have friends here? If so, it was true.

  ‘I do eat out in nice places when I can, but often there’s some work agenda. And I don’t cook, not really. Plus my kitchen in London is crap.’

  ‘Mine’s not exactly great.’ Paul’s place was in what, technically, might be described as lower King’s Cross but would soon, she suspected, be rechristened Clerkenwell. ‘I’d better just check the starter.’

  Sarah wasn’t sure what kind of food to expect. He returned with a tray. Four kebabs on wooden skewers. Monkfish with peppers and courgettes. A spicy dressing. A yoghurt dip. Pitta bread on the side.

  ‘Nothing too fancy, I’m afraid, but it should go rather well with the Petit Chablis you brought.’

  It did. By the time they had finished the beef stroganoff he’d made for a main course, they had got through both the Chablis and a bottle of Pinot Noir. He couldn’t be trying to seduce her, Sarah thought. She was decidedly drunk and far too full. But then Paul began talking about his wife and children.

  ‘We were only kids when we met and we had our own kids too early. It’s an old story. The guy gets an education, broadens his horizons. The wife works hard, looks after the kids, doesn’t change, doesn’t want him to change. What would you do?’

  Paul was younger than Sarah, yet he had been with Annette since before Sarah met Nick. His wife, like Paul, had a Guyanese background.

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ said Sarah. ‘Kids complicate things. How old are yours?’

  ‘Youngest is ten. Oldest does GCSEs this year.’

  ‘It sounds like you know what you have to do. Hang in there until the youngest leaves home.’

  ‘Another eight years? That’s asking a lot.’

  ‘You’ve got a separate life in London now. Doesn’t that make things easier? I’m guessing that you haven’t been entirely faithful to Annette.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ he murmured.

  ‘That’s a stupid question from a man who turned up in my hotel bedroom at midnight with a bottle of champagne,’ she pointed out.

  Paul laughed. Then his expression became serious. ‘I don’t mess around in Nottingham. I’ve seen a couple of women since I moved here in the week but nothing … significant happened. I took a silly risk when I came to your room that night. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’

  ‘You embarrassed yourself.’

  ‘I don’t mind that. You’re the sort of woman who’s worth making a fool of yourself over.’

  His hand squeezed hers, hard. Sarah tried to work out what signals she was sending. She wanted to come over as kind but serious, yet suspected that she was semaphoring ‘randy’. ‘I’m really flattered,’ she said, ‘and I’m not turning you down flat. But, for now, I think I’d better phone for a taxi.’

  When she’d made the call, he stroked her hand.

  ‘Are you saying that you’ll only see me if I leave her?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t want to be the cause of you leaving your wife and kids.’ She decided to be open with him. ‘Thing is, I haven’t got time for a real relationship, and I’m not sure about a fling.’

  ‘Because you don’t do flings, or because I’m married?’

  ‘Because …’ Sarah stood up. ‘I don’t know. I had a thing with a married man once. It was nice. It was useful to my career. But, afterwards, I felt dirty. I felt guilty. I don’t want to feel like that again.’

  ‘I understand.’ He stood too. She let him hug her. The hug became a kiss. A lovely, long kiss. The more it went on, the more their hands roamed. Sarah wasn’t feeling so full now. She could go to bed with him. It had been the best part of a year since she’d been to bed with anyone.

  Outside, a taxi sounded its horn.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ he said, and they both laughed.

  He saw her to the front door. ‘Next time, you won’t get away so easily,’ he told her.

  16

  Nick and Andrew met for a lunchtime drink in town. ‘I can’t stand all that what if crap,’ Nick said, describing the romantic movie he and Nancy had seen the night before. ‘It’s infantile. For people who can’t face up to what’s really happened.’

  ‘“Mankind can stand only so much reality,”’ Andrew quoted. ‘Where’s that from, Hamlet?’

  ‘I think it’s John Donne.’

  ‘Odd. The ones I remember are usually Shakespeare. You sure?’

  ‘No. Anyway, I’ve told you about my love life. What about yours?’

  ‘I continue to like them young and impressionable or older and experienced, but discreet.’

  ‘You mean you’re still fucking married women and waitresses.’

  Andrew smiled enigmatically. ‘Let’s talk about the place w
here you’re working. You said you wanted advice.’

  Nick told him the background. ‘I need to make a success of this job. I’m on three months’ probation with just over a month to go and I have trouble filling my hours. It’s not for want of trying.’

  ‘Shouldn’t your boss be telling you what to do?’

  ‘He says that if users don’t come in I’m meant to go and find them.’

  ‘Sounds like a shit job.’

  ‘It’s the best one I’m likely to get.’

  ‘Why don’t you show me the place?’ Andrew asked. They were in the bar of the luxurious Lace Market Hotel, which was where Andrew was staying. He hadn’t told Nick what business he had in Nottingham.

  ‘I’d need to think of a story about who you are.’

  ‘A potential donor.’

  ‘I don’t do fund-raising.’

  ‘Introduce me to the boss. I’ll impress him. I might kick some money his way. Or to the charity that funds the place. Long as it’s tax deductable.’

  The Power Project was a five-minute walk away, past St Mary’s Church, through the old Lace Market, across Hockley. There was, as usual, no sign of King. Nick introduced Andrew to Chantelle and Leonard. Then they sat in Nick’s small office.

  ‘I can’t see you doing this for the rest of your working life,’ Andrew said, looking at the unimaginative advice posters blutacked to the wall. ‘You want my advice, work out the real chain of command. Not the city council side of things, the drugs charity. Go to London. I can’t employ you, but if you need a place to stay, there’s always a room at mine.’

  Nick briefly imagined himself working for a charity, living in Notting Hill instead of Nottingham.

  ‘Drugs work’s got a big future, but you want to be at the policy end, not the sharp end. How many other people in your line of work have got a good degree, a teaching qualification?’

  ‘Nobody round here.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’ve only been out nine months. I’m lucky to have a job.’

  ‘Think positively. What you did wasn’t wrong, just illegal. You’ve already turned it into a positive. You’re an intelligent guy with expertise in both drugs and prisons. If you’re going to stay in Nottingham, you ought to figure out how to take your boss’s job. What’s he like?’