by David Belbin
Nick took the tube to Notting Hill. When Andrew bought this place, it was dirt cheap. The house was a white-walled, six-bedroom wreck that had been squatted in throughout the seventies, abandoned and boarded up in the early eighties and finally sold for a song just before the property boom got under way. Andrew’s place was freshly painted in Sherwood green. The windows looked new. Smart paving tiles had been laid at the front where there used to be scrub and weeds. A Merc was parked in the drive. It was in the same league as the other vehicles on the street. Most were big cars with child seats and plenty of leg room in the back for the teenagers they dropped off at Holland Park School.
The bell used to be two bits of wire you pushed together. At least then you could hear it ring. The new one made no noise. There was an intercom. A round aperture high in the porch might be a security camera. Nick wasn’t expecting Andrew to be at home. He may have to wait hours before he returned. Would Andrew have been expecting him to show up at some point? If Nick hadn’t failed that drugs test, he could have been out three months ago. But people on the outside were liable to forget that prisoners could earn remission of part of their sentence for good behaviour. Andrew might think that Nick was still serving his full time.
The footsteps Nick heard would be a housekeeper. Nick would ask when the boss would be home and refuse to leave his name. He was ready to hang around for a couple of days if that was what it took.
But, to Nick’s surprise, the figure who half opened the door was Andrew – a smarter, less portly Andrew than when Nick had last seen him. His glasses were mildly tinted. Nick thought he saw momentary confusion. Then a warm smile spread across his old friend’s face.
‘Nick! You’re back with us. Come in, come in.’
They hugged.
‘I’d have rung first but you’ve changed your number,’ Nick said.
‘No need, no need. It’s great to see you.’
Nick followed Andy into the kitchen. The house was an odd mix of shabby and swish. Old floor tiles, new kitchen units. A cork notice board displayed only a couple of takeaway menus and a taxi card.
‘Sorry, mate. I should have stayed in touch when you were inside, but life got insanely busy. Things are so much more complicated when you go legit.’
Nick smiled. ‘Completely legit?’
‘Completely. For years now.’
Nick had suspected as much from Andy’s pruning of old friends. He wondered how long it would be before Andy tried to get rid of him.
‘That’s good to hear, Andy.’
‘No one’s called me Andy for years. We’re grown-ups now. That’s the time of life we were given full names for.’
‘Okay, Andrew, as long as you don’t start calling me Nicholas.’
‘Remember what they used to call the two of us?’
Nick laughed. Saint Nick. There’d been a time at university when they were inseparable. Mates would talk about going to see Saint Nick, meaning the two of them. ‘Long time ago,’ he said.
‘Starting to feel like that. Is it too early in the day for a drink? Have you heard the news?’
‘What news?’ Nick asked.
‘Major’s finally called the election. May the first. The last possible date. Wine? Beer? Something stronger?’
Andrew had one of those huge, American fridges you saw in sitcoms. If you were to take out the shelves, it would be big enough for its owner to stand up in. He got out two bottles of Budvar.
‘Sarah’s an MP now,’ Nick told him. ‘In Nottingham.’
‘Yeah, she got in at a by-election. Unlikely to survive, though. Safe Tory seat, as I recall. Not been to see her, have you?’
‘No,’ Nick said. ‘I’ve thought about it.’
Andrew poured Nick’s beer for him. ‘Wouldn’t if I were you. Last thing she needs is the press finding out she used to live with . . . you know.’
‘That had occurred to me.’
They went into the living room to talk. The room had a new, polished wooden floor and a gold shagpile rug. It was dominated by a huge TV with a wide screen.
‘Never seen one like that before,’ Nick said.
‘Latest thing.’ Andrew turned it on. ‘Fantastic for movies.’
The politicians being interviewed on some satellite news channel looked bloated, stretched. A Liberal candidate was protesting that, while Labour was likely to win, it would be a hollow victory. ‘They’ve watered down so many of their promises that expectations are low. As far as their activists are concerned, Labour’s already betrayed all its principles. Anything good they do will seem like a bonus. But what’s the point of winning if all you have to offer is a cleaner version of business as usual?’
‘Do you think they’ll stay clean?’ Andrew asked, turning the set off with a swollen remote.
‘Power corrupts,’ Nick replied, falling easily into what felt like an old conversation. ‘But it corrupts some more than it does others.’
‘Tell me about it. You’d be amazed at the number of backhanders I have to pay in London: permits, planning permission, this and that license, mostly going to Labour councillors or the twerps they employ. It’s all graft.’
Nick wondered if Andrew intended a warning. He didn’t like hitting his friend up for money. But the only alternative was to ask for a job. That would be more uncomfortable for both of them. Family was different. Having your younger brother for a boss might be humiliating, but it was an acceptable temporary solution. Joe was helping him out, not ordering him around. Whereas Andrew was a natural boss, always had been, even back when they both despised bosses. It wouldn’t work.
‘How did you deal with prison?’ Andrew asked. ‘As bad as they say?’
‘At first. Then you go into a kind of limbo, pace yourself. It’s the only way to get through.’
Few people asked about life inside. That was the point of prison. It was elsewhere, a place civilized people needn’t think about. But Andrew didn’t flinch from the tough questions.
‘No beatings, attempted buggery, the stuff you hear about?’
‘There’s a lot of bullying, but I’m big enough to make people think twice and I kept myself fit. A few lads came on to me. You learn to say “no”, firm but polite.’
‘You’re heavier, in a good way.’
‘Mostly muscle,’ Nick said, dismissively. ‘Plenty of time to work out inside. It stops you thinking too much.’
Andrew’s voice became more serious.
‘It could have been me in there, some of the tricks I used to get up to. I don’t think any the worse of you for it. Sorry I didn’t stay in touch.’
‘You and all the rest,’ Nick told him. ‘I kept your name out of it anyhow.’
‘Appreciated,’ Andrew said, stroking his beard the way he did when he had something to think about. ‘Mind, I really was out of it by then.’
‘Pull the other one,’ Nick said. ‘You gave me the contacts.’
‘And left you to it,’ Andrew told him.
‘You took a cut,’ Nick reminded him, gently.
Andrew gave a faint smile. ‘Nothing traceable.’
‘Sounds like you have a flexible definition of legit.’
Both men allowed themselves a wide smile, the grin of old friends who understood each other.
‘What do you need, Nick? You know you only have to ask.’
‘Money,’ Nick replied.
‘How much?’
‘As much as you can afford to give me.’
10
The Commons had no system for boxing up and returning an MP’s possessions when they lost their seat. Sarah locked the door of her office for the last time as an opposition MP. She’d have to return before the next parliament to clear out her room.
‘Sarah?’ It was Gill Temperley. The minister’s light-haired, blue-eyed young researcher stood a respectful few yards behind. ‘I wanted to wish you luck. There are too few of us here and you’ve made such a strong start.’
‘Thanks. It’ll be a tough one, but you
never know.’
Gill smiled gamely at this show of bravado, then swept off. Her years as a minister were over, but she’d had a good run. There would be many more women in the Commons when Labour won the election. Labour had instituted women-only shortlists for candidate selection meetings to ensure that. A legal challenge had stopped the policy, but not before dozens of female candidates had been installed. There would be plenty of women to take Sarah’s place.
‘Ah, I caught you.’ Jasper March intercepted Sarah in the lobby and handed her a brown envelope. ‘I don’t know where you got this,’ he said. ‘I suspect it was dug up by some diligent reporter on your local paper. Make sure he gets all the credit.’
‘Or she,’ Sarah said. ‘Thanks for . . . whatever it is.’
‘We’re even,’ Jasper said. ‘Or maybe when you’ve used that, you’ll owe me. But I won’t call in the favour until you’re in government.’
He leant forward and placed his hand on Sarah’s back, then made the affectionate rubbing gesture that was currently prevalent in London but had yet to penetrate Nottingham. The gesture was a kind of polite, implied hug, both too subtle and too shallow to catch on north of Watford.
Tories wishing me luck, Sarah thought. What does that mean? She wanted to open the envelope straight away but to do so would mean returning to her office for privacy and she was already late. She placed the envelope beneath the New Statesman in her briefcase. So many MPs were leaving the building that she had to wait ten minutes for a cab to St Pancras, where she was just in time for the 17.04.
Sarah took a seat in first class but couldn’t open the envelope. There were too many other MPs around. David. Alan. John. Graham. Tony. She tried to work out what juicy morsel might puncture Barrett’s balloon. Extra-marital affairs were two a penny. Domestic violence, maybe. Or bribery. Another cash-for-questions scandal would be hard for a Tory to live down. Better, some straightforward, old-fashioned kind of corruption.
The train was delayed. Sarah thought about taking the envelope to the loo, opening it there. But you couldn’t flush the loo while a train was in the station. Her going there would look strange. Outside the carriage, a familiar figure hurried by, clutching one of those large, cheap, pre-booked tickets. This time, Sarah was sure it was him. Nick. No different at this distance from the way he looked twelve years before. His hair was the same length, not short enough to be fashionable now, not long enough to be fashionable then. Even his leather jacket was the sort of thing he wore when she knew him. And he was getting on this train. To talk to him, all she had to do was walk down a few carriages.
Dan had been gone for a month now. She missed him, but only a little. Not the way she had missed Nick, for years and years. Nick would never have let her get away with not telling him about Ed Clark’s assault. He would have noticed her change of mood, wormed it out of her.
The train started to move. Sarah sat stock still for several minutes. The PA system announced that the buffet car was open. There was a trolley service in first class that most passengers used. Her presence in second class might strike some as strange, if they knew MPs could travel first class for free, but she set off anyway. None of the seats Sarah passed had the reservation slips sticking out of the top. Nick would be in one of the reserved seats. It wasn’t enough that the railway made you travel on particular trains in order to get a cheap ticket. They also made you sit with all the other cheap ticket holders.
There was a large queue at the counter in the buffet car. She stood in it for a few moments in case Nick might come by. But he didn’t. Now she was faced with the choice of returning to her seat or walking through the remaining four or five carriages, looking for him. She would be recognised. Constituents might try to draw her into conversation. Even were she to join Nick, find a free seat next to him, there was every chance that somebody would eavesdrop on what was bound to be a delicate conversation. No, she decided. She would leave it for now. After the election, when she was a free woman, then she would find him.
The train got in at quarter past six, twenty minutes late. Nick watched as the suits hurried to get to the front of the taxi queue. Andrew had given him a couple of grand, in cash. Enough to be going on with, not enough to flash on cabs or a hotel in London. He’d felt uncomfortable in London. Nottingham was home. And he’d soon be out from under Joe and Caroline’s hair. Provided he could sort out a couple of references to convince the letting agency, Nick now had the deposit for a small flat on Alfreton Road. Probation would wonder how he got a decent place without a job, but Nick had a couple of lies prepared for them, too.
After eating, he drove for a couple of hours, then stopped off in New Basford. The kids were in bed and, soon, so were he and Polly. They could hear arguing in the next room.
‘Do they do this often?’ he asked Polly, when she came up for air.
‘One can’t sleep, so they wake up the other, who’s bad tempered. Then they start to fight. They only do it if they think I’m asleep. I’d go in there, except I sometimes bring one of them back to this room and . . .’
‘It’s okay.’ It wasn’t okay. The only way he could focus on sex was by making it more intense.
‘Turn over, would you?’
She did as he asked. He entered Polly from behind, one hand propping up his body so that he didn’t crush her.
‘Harder!’ She panted, and grabbed his spare hand, guiding it to her clit. The rougher he was, the more she seemed to like it. Polly had to bite the pillow to keep from making a noise. Both came quickly.
In the next room, the bickering seemed to be over.
‘Think they heard anything?’ he whispered as they lay together in the dark.
‘I don’t care any more,’ she said.
‘How long ago did you say it was?’ he asked, because if he didn’t ask soon, it would sound like he wasn’t interested. ‘The murder?’
‘It was five years ago today.’
Ouch.
‘What happened?’ he asked, when she’d been silent for a while.
‘Their dad, my brother Terry, he was in the police. This bloke Terry put away got out. Soon as he got out, he took his revenge. At least, that’s what the court said at the time. This bloke, Ed Clark, got out on appeal. That’s what I was seeing the MP about, the time you picked me up.’
‘And Ed Clark was found guilty of killing them both?’
She spoke quietly, on the edge of tears. ‘Shot them. Raped her first, the prosecution said, but the evidence was always slim. Look, I don’t . . .’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’ There were no words, so he held her tight. ‘How much do the kids know?’
‘They were too young to really understand. But one day . . .’ She began to cry. He kissed away her tears. Then he made love to her again.
‘I needed that,’ she said afterwards. ‘Stay the night if you want.’
He kissed her tenderly on the side of her lips. ‘Too complicated, love. I’ll be off soon.’
She kissed him back. ‘I like it when you call me love. Go on then, get back to your wife.’
He ignored the taunt. Easiest to let her think there was a wife.
He left ten minutes later and drove for a while. When he got back, Caroline was up, drinking cocoa in the living room. She had been sleeping badly for a couple of weeks now.
‘Long night?’ she asked. ‘Make much?’
‘Enough to get by. I should be out of your hair soon. Seeing a flat tomorrow. Then I can make a bit of space in the attic and give you the spare room back.’
Caroline gave him a tired smile. ‘I like having you here some of the time, Nick. But now that I’m on leave . . . Joe and I want this baby all to ourselves when it comes. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I do. I need my own space too. I’m going to go outside for a quick smoke before I turn in. Helps me sleep.’
‘I’ll join you.’
He found the joint he’d left half finished two nights before. The three-inch tube was dry and flared whe
n he lit it, illuminating the night. A half moon hid behind metallic grey clouds. He took care to blow the smoke away from Caroline.
‘When you came out,’ she said, ‘I thought you’d go on an enormous binge and take Joe with you. But you soon calmed down.’
‘I know what I was like before. I’m not going to make those mistakes again.’
‘We’re all condemned to repeat our mistakes, aren’t we?’
Nick didn’t answer.
After Sarah had opened the envelope, there hadn’t been time to see Brian Hicks from the Evening Post. She’d had a long session with the Nottingham West party executive to plan the local strategy. The meeting made clear that, for Sarah to have a real chance, she needed to give herself an extra edge. Jasper March had already provided it. She couldn’t tell the exec members that. Not tonight. Probably not ever.
She wasn’t able to catch up with Brian until midnight. Two hours ago. The contents of Jasper March’s brown envelope lay spread across Sarah’s kitchen table.
‘Quite a start to the campaign.’ Brian Hicks drained his third glass of malt. He was over the limit, but that was his problem, not Sarah’s.
‘You aren’t going to tell me where you got this, are you?’
‘Not likely. Am I wrong to use it?’
‘Good God, no. Though better that it doesn’t seem to come from you. Let me try another tack: where do you suggest I say I got the story?’
‘I thought journalists protected their sources.’
‘Only when the source has something to hide.’
Brian picked up his laptop. He had the story almost written, thanks to Sarah’s assistance, but it wouldn’t appear for another day. The final edition of the paper went to bed at eight in the morning. Brian needed to pass Legal and get a quote from Barrett Jones. He would talk to Jones at the last possible moment, not giving away how much he already knew. By then, he also hoped to have spoken to the girl’s father.
