by David Belbin
‘Are we even now?’ Sarah asked.
‘Oh yes. But you stand to make a lot more out of this than I do.’
‘I’ve given myself half a chance, that’s all.’
‘I always thought you were ruthless, when it came down to it. I like that in a woman.’
Sarah smiled, and sidestepped the kiss she could tell Brian was about to plant on her.
‘Looks like I’ll be keeping you up all night, Brian,’ she said, giving him a friendly wink.
‘A man can dream,’ he said, then saw himself out.
11
Cane Cars’ Sherwood waiting room was for drivers and walk-in punters alike. Nick read the Mirror’s sports pages. He’d followed football before he went inside. Since getting out he’d struggled to reconnect with the game. When Joe was playing, Nick often went to see him at Meadow Lane, but these days Joe kept his distance from the club.
‘A’right, kid?’
Nick nodded at the bald-headed driver who’d just walked in.
‘Don’t come in here much, do you?’
Nick avoided the cab office when he didn’t have a reason to be there: he didn’t want the other drivers to connect him to Joe. Only Bob and the switch operators knew. This guy had given him a lift back to Joe’s one night but, as far as Nick knew, had not made the connection between the brothers, even though they looked similar. Maybe he didn’t know Joe. This afternoon, Nick was waiting for Joe to return and give him a lift to the flat-letting agency, where he would collect a set of keys.
‘I’ve seen you, anni? Inside.’
‘Sorry, I don’t recognise you.’
‘I was in wi’ the lifers. Got out on appeal.’
The lifers had their own separate block at Nottingham prison. There’d been no reason for Nick to associate with the men there.
‘Been out long?’
‘A few weeks. Look . . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ the guy interrupted, mouth twisted into a wry smile, ‘I won’t mention it round here. Paid your debt, haven’t you?’
‘S’right.’ It wasn’t as simple as that. Your crimes followed you around. ‘How long did you do, before the appeal?’
‘Five year. Thought I were screwed until I got the local MP on my side.’
‘You must have had a good case, for an MP to take it up.’
‘Not bad. Sarah Bone, she’s called. Knew I had her hooked once she came to see me. Wanted a feel of my bone, she did. Couldn’t wait to get me out and have her wicked way wi’ me.’
Nick winced. Inside, he’d developed a nose for sexual braggadocio. He’d been pretty enough to get advances. Chat-ups were often preceded by sexual boasting. The idea was to demonstrate that the suitor was straight on the out, that whatever the pair of them got up to inside was done out of necessity. It didn’t stop them being men. Nick looked at the shaved head, square jaw, slightly piggy eyes. The driver looked like a bouncer, maybe an ex-soldier. There were lots like him inside, which was why Nick hadn’t recognised him. Sarah wouldn’t touch a guy like Ed in a million years.
‘Still seeing her, are you?’ he asked, keeping the cynicism out of his voice.
‘When the mood takes. Not serious, like.’
Nick had never liked discussing sex with blokes. He’d left that stuff behind as a teenager. Once you started doing it, there was no need to talk about it. This guy was a tosser, yet Nick couldn’t leave it alone.
‘Good looking, is she, this MP?’
Ed grinned, and got a leaflet out of his pocket. There was Sarah, smiling as she shook hands with the leader of the opposition. She wore a trouser suit that did nothing for her, but Nick liked her hair. It looked more natural than in the Sun photo.
‘Nice,’ he said.
‘Goes like a rocket,’ Ed told him. ‘What were you in for?’
‘Drugs. You?’
‘Murder. A policeman, and his wife.’
Nick stiffened. ‘Ed, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye, and you’re Nick. I never forget a face.’
Another driver came in, threw a set of keys at Ed.
‘Ta.’ Ed got up to go, grinned at Nick. ‘See you around.’
Ed was sharing a cab, like him. Nick was about to ask the other driver how he knew him. Then his brother came in, accompanied by Nas.
‘You want to watch out, arriving together,’ Nick told Joe. ‘People talk.’
Nas glared at Nick. Joe gave him one of his more bashful grins. Nick was only joking. Even Joe wouldn’t be mad enough to fool around with a married Pakistani woman. Would he?
‘Want me to help you move?’ his brother asked.
‘That’s the plan. But, before we go, did you see that guy with the shaved head, left as you were arriving?’
‘Ed Clark? Yeah, I know about him. Sharing with Mike Dawes, paying a reduced tariff. You got a problem with him?’
‘I’ll explain in the car.’
All Tuesday, the phone rang. Sarah was so busy fielding calls, she had to miss most of the canvassing, joining Winston at the Elm Park old people’s home at quarter past four.
‘Well?’ He was checking the signatures on postal voting forms.
‘Tories are meeting this evening. Barrett’s nomination papers aren’t in, so they could substitute another candidate.’
‘Pity the Post didn’t hold on to the story for another couple of days.’
‘They’d’ve had trouble with electoral law if they had. As it is, the Tories have to back Jones or sack him. He isn’t denying it, so they can’t claim dirty tricks.’
‘Story must have come from the father,’ Winston said. ‘Angry sod must have waited until the moment of maximum damage before taking his revenge.’
Sarah mirrored his knowing smile. ‘I hope they manage to keep the daughter’s name out of it. Think Jones will do the decent thing?’
‘It’d be the first time.’
Sarah did the round of the old folks. A handful of them seemed to know who she was. Not one mentioned the story in that day’s paper, although it had been out since midday. Maybe the story had no legs. There’d been so many corruption stories, what was one more?
Then, as they were leaving, the paperboy arrived. Of course, no evening papers were delivered until school was over.
‘Better than a dozen leaflets, that,’ Winston said, watching the lad heave a bag full of City Finals into the reception area. ‘We’re in with a chance.’
Sarah closed the door behind her. ‘Here comes trouble,’ she told Winston.
The Merc pulling up outside the home had shaded windows, one of which was half open. This was the first time Sarah had seen her Tory opponent in the constituency. She’d brushed by Barrett a couple of times in the Commons, but they had never spoken, not even to acknowledge that they were about to fight each other. Now there was no avoiding it.
‘Hello, Barrett.’
‘Sarah.’ Her main opponent wore a three-piece suit, with shiny black shoes. His shirt lapels were too wide, but seemed in keeping with the unfashionable sideburns he had chosen as his trademark. Hard to imagine him in a torrid tryst with a fourteen-year-old. Fifty was a long way from thirty-five, she realized. It was the distance between nursery school and university, between Jones and her.
‘You’re wasting your time in there,’ Sarah told him. ‘And the evening papers have just arrived.’
‘Maybe I can beat them to the door,’ Jones said, with a suave, unruffled smile. ‘Get my side of the story in first.’
‘Your side being?’
‘A misunderstanding combined with an exaggeration. Nothing to get excited about. It’ll be forgotten by the weekend.’
Jones tried to get into the building but the door was locked, as such doors always were. While his agent buzzed the manager, the minister stared at the ground. He looked tired, run down. Sarah didn’t feel sorry for him. He had come to her patch, looking for a soft landing. The least he deserved was a good fight.
In politics, your whole life was up for grabs. In 1995, wh
en her Tory predecessor died suddenly, forcing a by-election with no Labour candidate in place, the shortlist for Nottingham West’s Labour candidate was drawn up by a Labour Party national executive subcommittee. Sarah came clean with them. She’d smoked a little dope at university and had once had a brief affair with a married man. These were the only things she could think of that might be used against her. They weren’t enough to disqualify her as a candidate, though if she’d told them who the married man was, the committee might have been more concerned. He was still in the Shadow Cabinet.
Tony Bax, who’d fought the seat before, was excluded from the shortlist, being seen as too left-wing. Sarah was the nearest to a local candidate on the shortlist. She was selected on the first ballot.
The flat was on Alfreton Road, at the top of a hill overlooking the city centre. This road was the city’s main artery to the M1. It was a noisy area, but the windows were double glazed. The flat was on the first floor, above the storeroom of the locksmith that owned the building. The road itself was run down, with a quarter of the shops empty. Alfreton Road had always been shabby, whether the economy was poor or prospering. Nick had lived near here when he first started teaching, liked it. You could walk into the city centre in ten minutes.
Once they had everything inside, Nick told Joe what he knew about Ed Clark. Joe listened, said he’d think about it, then changed the subject.
‘Think this still works?’
Nick’s hi-fi had been in Joe’s attic since he was sent down. Time was, the first thing he’d do on moving into a new place was set up the stereo. Nick looked at his CD player. The machine was state of the art six years ago but now appeared bulky, with far more buttons than was currently fashionable. Nick couldn’t remember how much money he’d paid for it. A fortune, in cash. He never put much money in the bank, in case there were questions about where it came from.
Caroline was due in five weeks. Once they had everything inside, Joe hurried home to her. Nick moved boxes around, unpacked his meagre supply of kitchen equipment, turned on the fridge. He needed some stuff to fill it: milk, a pizza maybe, a couple of beers for when he got in tonight. He’d been scrounging off Joe and Caroline for so long, he’d forgotten what it was to provide for himself. The two grand Andrew had given him wouldn’t go far, and there would be no more, Nick suspected.
‘Gotta keep moving on, Nick. It’s the only way to do business,’ were Andrew’s farewell words, after handing over what amounted to little more than his walking round money. ‘Move on to where?’ Nick failed to ask. Despite the distance between them, the first call he made on his new phone was to Andrew. Nobody home. He left his new address and number on his old friend’s machine.
The Co-op on Alfreton Road had closed down, leaving Nick to try a minimart on the opposite side of the street. It sold newspapers. Before Nick went away, only newsagents sold newspapers. He saw the Evening Post and was intrigued by the headline. THE MINISTER, THE HOLIDAY AND THE UNDERAGE GIRL. It wasn’t the usual sort of Post headline. Beneath it was a photo of Sarah’s opponent, Barrett Jones, the paunchy minister for whatever was being privatised this week. Alongside was one of Sarah. ‘Distressing if true,’ she was reported as saying.
Nick bought a copy. Barrett Jones was alleged to have had sex with an unnamed fourteen-year-old girl, the daughter of friends he was on holiday with in Southwold. The Minister was thirty-five and between marriages at the time. He now had a daughter aged thirteen and a nine-year-old son with his second wife. The underage girl and her family weren’t named. It seemed the father had made strong protestations when, only a few months after the affair, Jones became an MP.
If she’d been fifteen and looked older, Jones might get away with it. But Jones knew the parents. That made it worse. What kind of man went on holiday with a couple and their kids, unless he had an unhealthy interest in the wife or daughter?
Maybe Sarah had a chance in this election after all. Nick would like to help her. He used to enjoy working on the elections. They’d canvassed together in 1983, even though it was just before her finals and he’d had loads of teacher training work to do. They’d worked hard for the Labour candidate in Nottingham South, Ken Coates, a veteran left-winger whom they admired hugely. The canvas returns were promising. Ken seemed to have a good chance, but lost by several thousand votes. That election campaign, when Labour was nearly overtaken by an alliance between the SDP and the Liberals, was the last time the two of them had been really happy together. It was the last time that Nick had been really happy, full stop.
Winston drove Sarah to the campaign headquarters, a three-bedroom council house on the outer edge of one of the constituency’s better estates. The canvas team were watching East Midlands Today on BBC1. Barrett Jones was the lead item.
‘The MP insists that the story has been hugely exaggerated and will answer the charges at a special meeting of his constituency party tonight.’
‘Like hell he will,’ one of the canvassers said. ‘According to the main news, the girl’s already hired Max Clifford to sell her story to the papers.’
‘Splendid,’ Winston said. ‘Nothing like a tasty tabloid interview to keep the story bubbling away for days.’
The local news report concluded with the chairman of the local Tories.
‘We’ll see what he has to say,’ John Pike told the reporter, tight-faced.
‘Wanted a go at the seat himself,’ Winston said. ‘Maybe he can still get one.’
‘Come on,’ Sarah told the others. ‘Let’s get out on the knocker.’
Much of the canvassing this time was being done on the phone, but voters still liked to know you’d been seen on their street. Tonight, most of the ones who wanted to talk wanted to talk about Jones.
‘I wasn’t going to vote for him anyway, but now I know he’s a kiddy-fiddler, he’d better stay away from our estate,’ said one of the fancy-front-door-to-show-she’d-bought-her-own-council-house brigade.
According to the dossier that Jasper had given to Sarah, when the Conservative party investigated the allegations made by the girl’s father, they discovered that no report had ever been made to the police. The girl, who had been studying for O levels, did not want to make a statement. The father had been warned of the dangers of libel and told that if somebody wanted to nominate him for an OBE for his charity work, the application would be approved. The girl’s name wasn’t in the letter Sarah had given Brian Hicks, but the father’s was. Brian had found him easily enough. The OBE had been relegated to an MBE without a by-your-leave. His daughter’s seduction still rankled and the father had been happy to confirm the story as long as her name was left out of it.
Sarah rang the journalist when she got in at eleven. There was nothing on the evening news about the Tory party meeting.
‘It’s just broken up,’ Brian told her. ‘They didn’t reach a decision. Word is, Barrett denies sleeping with the girl but the tabloids are having a bidding war over a kiss and tell, so the constituency can’t stand by him until it sees what she says.’
‘But nomination papers have to be in by Friday.’
‘Exactly. So they’re meeting on Thursday night to decide whether to select a new candidate. Central office want to take over the process but John Pike put his foot down. I’ve got to go. Cheers.’
Sarah poured herself a brandy. The flat was cool, but not cool enough to justify turning the heating on. She went upstairs for a sweater, warming the brandy glass in the palm of her hand. She thought about ringing Dan, inviting him over for a drink. It was late enough for him to be pretty sure what she really wanted.
She and Dan had been fine until he moved in with her, upsetting the equilibrium of what had been a casual, low-maintenance relationship. They were not quite in love with each other and didn’t want quite the same things, not in the long run. Dan, for instance, wanted children. She didn’t. Bed was fine, but, after two years, bed wasn’t enough. Tonight, though, bed was all she cared about. They hadn’t even had a farewell fuck. The thing wi
th Ed Clark had put her off that.
Sarah checked her watch. Dan would already be asleep, most likely. If she put in a booty call, there was a distinct possibility that he’d say no, in which case, her pride would never let her call him again. So, instead, she got the vibrator out of her underwear drawer.
For Sarah, masturbation was always about memory. There’d been a big evening party at her grandad’s, the last one he’d had and the first that, not quite sixteen, she’d been invited to. She’d bought a push-up bra and was experimenting with hard contact lenses and hard liquor at the time. There were no boys her age so she’d flirted with a married man. Around midnight, she’d found herself in the bathroom, being felt up by this handsome, inebriated Scot twice her age. She’d gone further with him than she had with the boys who’d taken an interest in her. She might have gone all the way. Only, when he’d said ‘I’ll bet we could find an empty room upstairs’, she replied foolishly, ‘My room’s got a lock on it.’ Her randy Scot swiftly ascertained that he had a hand down the knickers of his host’s granddaughter and hurried back to his wife.
Sarah replayed this scene, as she had many times before, with one crucial dialogue change. In the attic bedroom, her sexual initiation was brief but satisfying. When the fantasy was over, though, she felt emptier than before. In real life, just after this failed seduction, acne set in. The hard contact lenses hurt her eyes. They kept falling out and, in the end, had to be discarded. Male interest shrivelled and, partly in retaliation, Sarah adopted a hard feminist line. Short skirts were out. It was four years until Nick arrived and she found out how good sex could be. Better than it had been since.
‘You want to hang on to that one,’ Grandad said, after meeting Nick, not long before he died. ‘He’ll go a long way.’
12
You’re letting him stay?’
‘The only convictions on his record are so old they don’t count against him. The city council say he can have a license. I’ve said I’ll give him his knowledge test next week.’
