What You Don't Know

by David Belbin

  At three, he decided to cycle over to the hostel, keep his appointment with the girls. Now that this was his own time, King could hardly complain.

  Alice, on the other hand, could. She wasn’t pleased to see him. ‘I was given a written warning for inviting you in.’

  ‘I should have checked that you got permission,’ Nick said.

  ‘The wardens’ meeting was postponed and I didn’t want to let you down.’

  ‘Really sorry I got you in trouble. Did you cancel the girls today?’

  ‘I told Shaz to tell the others, but I don’t know if the message got through. Why are you here? Didn’t you get told off too?’

  Nick explained his situation. ‘But I’d better go, don’t want to get you into more trouble.’

  ‘Dunt matter. I’m leaving anyway.’

  ‘Why? Nothing to do with this, I hope.’

  ‘Don’t laugh,’ Alice said, ‘but I’m going to train to be a social worker.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I gave in my notice today. They’d already done my reference, so there’s nothing your boss can do to hurt me.’

  He and Alice went through to the TV room. Jerry was there, still in school uniform, along with two of the other girls.

  ‘We thought you weren’t coming,’ Jerry said.

  ‘I wasn’t supposed to, but I thought I’d poke my head in.’

  ‘Like a good poke, do you?’ Teri teased. ‘Jerry does.’

  ‘He’s too old for you lot,’ Alice told them.

  That provoked some hilarity. Alice stayed for the session, which was a replay of the previous week’s, but more relaxed, with less self-censorship. Alice, freed by her resignation, talked about her own experience of smack.

  ‘It’s great. It’s so great that it takes over your life. And it takes over your mates’ lives. And you see girls you went to school with selling their bodies so they can fill their system with shit, chasing a thrill that keeps getting further and further away.’

  The girls didn’t seem shocked that Alice had once been a user, but they didn’t think that what happened to her would happen to them.

  After half an hour, they were going in circles, and Alice’s shift was coming to an end. Nick decided to call it a day. He explained that his job as a drugs worker was over, but told the girls about the drop-in centre near the train station.

  ‘I’ll still be here every week or two to tutor Jerry, so if you want a word, you can catch me. It’s been good, getting to know you.’

  This was a civilized ending, he told himself, better than his sudden non-appearance would have been. He tried to find Jerry to arrange their next teaching session, but she wasn’t around. Alice saw him to the door.

  ‘You were good in there,’ she said.

  ‘You were better. You demonstrated to them that you can get clean, restart your life.’

  ‘You helped me with that,’ she said. ‘What will you do next?’

  ‘No idea. Keep volunteering, maybe try for work in London. My brother owns a taxi firm, he might give me a bit of work on the switchboard.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘You deserve some.’

  She kissed him on the side of the lips and was back inside before he had unlocked his bike. It was too cold a night to hang around.

  ‘Is this him?’

  Nick turned to see Shaz, accompanied by a black youth, who was both taller and broader than him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Shaz said.

  ‘You gonna walk with me, Nick Cane?’

  Before Nick could decide how to answer, Shaz had hurried inside. The lad, not much more than twenty, had both hands shoved in his pockets. Nick had seen him before, and he’d met plenty like him inside. This was the lad who Nick had thought he’d heard round Nancy’s not long ago, making a delivery. Best not to give him any clue that he’d made that connection.

  ‘Happy to walk with you,’ Nick said. He held the bike on his right side, making sure to position it between himself and the youth.

  ‘What you want with those girls in there?’ he was asked.

  ‘I was talking to them about drugs. It’s my job.’

  ‘Shaz said you tried to talk her out of working for me.’

  ‘I suppose that’s how she might have heard it.’

  ‘You saying she’s thick or something?’

  ‘No, I …’ Nick could hear himself sounding like a middle-class wanker, getting into territory he didn’t understand. ‘I was doing my job, right? As it goes, the job’s just finished, so you and me, we don’t have an issue.’

  ‘That’s for me to say. Shaz says you’re a dealer.’

  ‘Used to be,’ Nick admitted, sensing an imminent threat. He calculated how quickly he could lift the bike to protect himself.

  ‘You into running girls now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’d better not be. I know where you live. See?’

  ‘Seen,’ Nick said. He thought this was the cool response, but the lad reacted with an angry, uncertain frown. Did he think Nick was correcting his grammar? ‘Look,’ Nick went on. ‘We don’t have a problem. All I was paid to do was keep girls like Shaz from developing bad drug habits. That suits you too. Nobody wants to pay for a girl who looks like a raddled addict.’

  Raddled. Ouch. Wrong word, Nick thought. Condescending.

  The youth drew his left hand from his pocket, revealing a Stanley knife.

  ‘Don’t …’ he said, then thrust the knife at Nick so quickly that he barely had time to get out of the way, ‘… tell me my business. You go near Shaz again, I’ll cut you proper. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Nick said. The knife, he realized, had grazed his leather jacket, leaving a scratch.

  There was nothing further to say. He must resist the impulse to speak. Nick mounted his bike. They were still on the uphill, rough road out of Alexandra Park. The boy glared at him, but the knife was back in his pocket. Nick pedalled hard until he was safely ahead of his assailant. Then a thought occurred to him and he stopped.

  ‘Was it you,’ he called back to the lad, ‘who had me beaten up before?’

  The guy gave him a blank look. Nick wondered whether he had made himself clear. He put his foot on the kerb to steady himself. The youth had nearly caught up with him.

  ‘You said you know where I live. Does Jerry work for you? Is that why you did me over, to keep me away from her?’

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ the youth said. ‘Shaz reckons that Jerry, she’s working for you. You pretend to be a drugs counsellor, but you’re setting up your own stable. You better stay off my hood or you’re going to find yourself back where you just came from. See?’

  ‘I see,’ Nick said, ‘and, I swear to you, we don’t have a problem.’

  He pumped his legs as hard as he could and cycled to the brow of Woodborough Road. He could cut across here, have a flat journey all the way home. But he had been spooked and wanted to get away quickly, so he turned left and freewheeled down the long, steep hill into the city.

  The Home Secretary had a word with Sarah on the way out of Home Office questions.

  ‘I believe you know Paul Morris.’

  Sarah replied cautiously. ‘Yes, he used to be one of our county councillors. I worked with him when he was chair of the police committee.’

  ‘You’re aware that he came here to work for me?’

  The Home Secretary’s tone gave no sign that he suspected her relationship with Paul. They had been very careful so far.

  ‘Kind of. He was cagey about what his new job entailed.’

  ‘As he was asked to be. In confidence, then, he’s in charge of a small policy unit looking at drugs policy. Reclassification, how we deal with offenders, where we want to be in ten years’ time – that kind of thing.’

  ‘Legalization?’ Sarah asked, cautiously.

  ‘Partial decriminalization is one of the options on the table.’

  ‘And who does this policy unit report to?’ Sarah aske
d. ‘You, directly?’

  ‘Me and an ad hoc committee comprising …’ He named a senior police officer, two cabinet members and a chief government scientist. ‘The other day, Paul happened to mention you, said you were involved in a project in Nottingham. He intimated that you were liberal on policy but hardline on enforcement. Does that accurately reflect your position?’

  ‘To a degree. I meet the chief constable regularly to talk about enforcement issues.’

  ‘I know how frustrating it is to have to keep your true opinions to yourself. It must have been galling when Alison Blythe had a go on issues she knows you have to keep quiet about.’

  ‘That’s politics. The pressure groups I used to help haven’t got the same access now I’m in government, so they’ve found a new MP who wants to make a name for herself.’

  Sarah hadn’t spoken to Alison since Home Office questions. She was still angry with her, but it was best to be philosophical about it with her boss.

  ‘The committee I’m referring to meets once every six weeks. I’d like you to join it. Membership is not conditional on your remaining prisons minister, but is conditional on your being in the government. The committee’s workings are to be discussed with absolutely nobody outside the committee. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’ He was taking her acceptance for granted. Even so, Sarah wasn’t sure she should say yes. ‘Can I have some time to think about it?’

  Her boss frowned. ‘This is a step up, Sarah. A chance to change the way the country works. Don’t you want that?’

  ‘I do. It’s just …’ She couldn’t tell him that she was sleeping with his policy adviser. Why should she? But should she mention that she had an ex-lover who was a convicted drug dealer and now worked for the Power Project, thanks to a reference from her? It was a conflict, a potential embarrassment she ought to sidestep. Still, if the committee was secret, where was the risk? ‘It’s just that I want to do what’s best,’ she finished, weakly.

  The Home Secretary frowned. He didn’t like dithering.

  ‘You can have until tomorrow’s post-budget meeting to make up your mind. The committee’s just met, so it won’t convene again for five weeks or so. And, I repeat, discuss this with nobody.’

  Sarah returned to her poky office. She couldn’t sound out Steve Carter, as she normally would. The person she could most happily discuss the whole issue with was the last person she should talk to. Nick.

  Ought she to discuss it with Paul? But she already knew what her lover wanted – her on the committee. Sarah was annoyed that, in this, Paul was manipulating her even more brazenly than when he persuaded her to join the Power Project board. Yet she couldn’t help admiring his persistence, his commitment. He was a man who saw what he wanted and didn’t rest until he got it. Up close, she was beginning to see that work was Paul’s life. He spent time with his kids, but didn’t talk about them. He liked sex, but he liked it quick. She had let him think that she shared his view of the act – a physical need to be sated, not lingered over. She didn’t.

  *

  Spring is just round the corner. You’re nearly up to date with your coursework. In English, you’re on for As in both language and literature. You could probably afford to drop the extra lessons now. Your lover tells you to find someone to tutor you in science instead, that’s where you’re weak. But you’ve already given up on science. You can get by without it.

  Shaz crashes into your room.

  ‘Got a message for you. That Nick Cane. Steer clear of him.’

  You play it cool. ‘Why?’

  ‘Beany don’t like him.’

  ‘Why do I care what Beany likes?’

  ‘He thinks he’s trying to muscle in on his girls.’

  ‘That’s crap and you know it.’

  Shaz doesn’t know it. ‘You fucking him or fucking for him?’

  ‘I’m not fucking anyone,’ you lie.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never never.’ You know you’ve made a mistake as soon as the words have left your mouth. Shaz gets a grin on fast, gets out the room faster. You hear her stamp to the TV room, so you follow her.

  ‘Jerry’s a virgin!’ she shouts, announcing it to the whole hostel. ‘Jerry’s saving it for teacher boy until he marries her!’

  You go after her. You want to tell her about your lover, but you promised not to tell, no matter how much you’re provoked. Break that promise and he might break up with you. So let them think you’re a virgin. Let them think you’re wet for Nick Cane.

  ‘Is that right?’ Pamela asks. You shrug, like the question doesn’t deserve an answer. Shaz leans in close.

  ‘He’s a fucking user. They’re all fucking users. Beany doesn’t want him coming here again, or he gets hurt. Understand? He’s been warned.’

  ‘Warned by who?’

  ‘Warned by Beany.’

  You don’t have a class with Nick for another week. Maybe you’d better arrange to go to his. The decision can wait. Nick is built. He can look after himself, could take down Beany no trouble at all.

  Except Beany doesn’t play fair. Beany carries a knife. You’ve heard the girls he runs talk about stunts he’s pulled. Beany is part of a chain. The guys above him, you don’t get in the way of. Shaz, on the other hand, Shaz is nothing.

  ‘Fuck off,’ you tell her.

  She comes at you, sharp nails digging into your skin. You go at it for ages. The warden has to pull you off her. You’ve got a few scratches, but she has bruises, bad ones. She won’t be earning any money for Beany tonight.

  Other girls get into fights all the time. You don’t. Least, you never have until now. Winning doesn’t make you feel good.

  That night, you ring your lover. He came on Saturday but not on Sunday and you missed him. You want reassuring. Your face is a bit messed up and you feel like a kid, caught in a playground scrap. He isn’t there, but later he calls you back.

  ‘Everything will be all right, babe. Those other girls, they’re getting jealous cos they can see you’re going places. When you finish your exams, I’ll sort you out with a flat. Then, when you get to uni, I’ll be ready to leave home, live with you. Promise me you can wait that long.’

  ‘I can wait as long as you want. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too. We’re going to be together for ever.’

  You hear his other phone ringing. You wonder if he really is away, in another city, like he says. That day you spotted him in the Victoria Centre, he had an excuse about his daughter’s birthday. But he could be lying about that. You could go to his house, watch it, find out. Only you don’t want to do that. You want to trust him, about everything. Because if you can’t trust him, who can you trust?

  27

  At the second budget since the election, Gordon Brown kept within his self-imposed spending limit, set by the previous government. Despite the limit, he managed to raise child benefit by £2.50 a week above the rate of inflation, the largest increase ever. He also announced the new working families’ tax credit, which would give working parents up to £100 a week for the first child and £150 for two or more children. Whatever the thinking behind the cuts to lone parent benefits back in December, most of the financial damage had now been reversed.

  Sarah hadn’t seen this coming. Perhaps the rebellion had sharpened the Chancellor’s thinking. Or maybe this had always been part of the plan. A loyalty test, followed by hard proof that the government knew best. The announcement, when it came, got a huge cheer. Sarah joined in. Ali Blythe, leaving the chamber after the debate, looked happier than she had in ages.

  ‘Tea?’ Sarah suggested. ‘We have a prison visit to arrange.’

  ‘Got to talk to my local paper then pick up Petra from the childminder. But I’ll get my secretary to talk to yours, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sarah would have liked to know what Ali thought of the budget, particularly the benefits U-turn. She was sorry that they had fallen out. Sarah could use more friends in the Commons, especially female ones. One day, Ali wo
uld learn that she needed friends too.

  Sarah had a couple of messages waiting, asking her to comment on the budget. She ignored them and returned to the Home Office. There were three other Nottingham MPs. The Evening Post could do without a quote from her.

  The Home Secretary was running late and she had to wait ten minutes for her post-budget briefing. She checked the messages on her phone. Mum’s operation had been delayed. The surgeon had been taken ill. No wonder, given how over-committed and over-worked surgeons were. Meanwhile, Mum’s cancer must be spreading. Sarah could have made a phone call, got her seen quickly, but Mum wouldn’t let her. She’d already offered. No favours, Mum said. And as for going private, forget it. Mum might have little time for politics nowadays, but she was old Labour through and through.

  Sarah was still getting used to her mobile phone. She noticed an envelope symbol blinking on and off: messages. Most were from the whips’ office. Except for one, from Paul. Conflab later? Can get to your place for 9 p.m. ‘Conflab’ was their code for sex. She cursed when she realized that the text had been sent yesterday.

  ‘You should have known I wouldn’t read it!’ she told Paul on his mobile, two minutes later. ‘I barely know how to open my text messages.’

  ‘Then learn to. I was in a meeting and couldn’t get out to call you. Set the phone to vibrate when one arrives.’

  ‘I don’t think my phone does that.’

  ‘Then I’ll buy you a new model. Come round tonight and I’ll teach you to vibrate.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘Maybe. I have to go now. Talk later.’

  She was shown into the Home Secretary’s office for her budget debrief. There had been no money for building new prisons or restoring old ones. The EC law about paying prisoners a minimum wage for work done inside was not to be implemented. After talking to prisoners and prison officers, Sarah had started to come round to the idea of increasing prison wages, making them more than token. But her boss had told her it was too controversial. God forbid that prisoners might be rehabilitated by getting them to associate honest work with receiving honest pay. Let them sew mail bags and be happy.