Bone and Cane

by David Belbin

  ‘We get a lot of runners,’ he told her. ‘It’s a standard precaution.’

  ‘Ed, I don’t want to ride with you. I don’t want you to know where I live.’

  ‘I already know where you live,’ he told her. ‘I’ll prove it to you.’

  They sped up. Had Dan given the firm her address? Taxis didn’t normally ask for a precise address on the phone.

  ‘Why do you know where I live?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I’m interested in you. You know that. You’re interested in me, too. Otherwise you’d still be living with that Dan guy, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Stop!’ Sarah said. ‘I want to get out, now!’

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Ed told her. ‘I was kidding, in that hotel, last month. I didn’t like getting knocked back, so I had a go. Childish, I know, but it was a stressful day and I’d had too much to drink. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Sarah said, as he turned off Derby Road into the Park with its wide, unlit avenues. ‘I can walk from here.’

  ‘No, you can’t. It’s dangerous.’

  Ed didn’t ask directions, but pulled up right outside her flat. It was two o’clock. None of the flats in her building had any lights on. He still didn’t unlock the door.

  ‘What do I owe you?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Nothing. Are you going to invite me in for a drink?’

  Nick wasn’t sure what he was doing in the club. He liked to chill after driving for several hours, but he could do that at home. He didn’t need company. Especially when the music was so loud you had to shout over it. Ed Clark wasn’t here, but several street girls were. All looked dog rough. Two had the sallow, used-up demeanour of junkies. Most of the girls sat together in the corner opposite the entrance, talking loudly, laughing, showing no interest in the men who hung around the bar, watching.

  A Motown tune rattled the speakers. Finish this pint, Nick thought, and I’ll be gone. His desire for the evening was spent and he’d never, anyway, slept with a professional. The idea didn’t appeal to him. He watched the girls laughing, gossiping, smoking like chimneys. He had an inch of his pint left and was about to down it when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Another?’ Without waiting for an answer, Ed ordered Nick a strong lager.

  ‘Meant to finish earlier but I had a special job,’ Ed said when he returned with their drinks.

  ‘Yeah?’ Nick downed his old drink, trying to look mildly interested.

  ‘My Sarah. She called my cab, asked for me special, took me back to hers for a good seeing to.’

  ‘Surprised you didn’t stay the night,’ Nick said, careful not to let it sound like an insult. Ed grinned.

  ‘Nah, I’m her bit of rough. She don’t want a gorilla like me around in the morning, when her fancy mates show up. She likes a good shafting last thing, full length at both ends.’

  Nick, to hide his distaste, began drinking his new pint too quickly. He knew that Ed was lying, but couldn’t stop himself picturing the sex he described. Nick had good sex with Polly. He’d soon learnt that she liked things a little rough and only came when he took her from behind. With Sarah, sex was always romantic: exciting, but not dirty the way it was with Polly. It was part of being in love, a state that had only happened to Nick twice. With Polly, it was something else. Passion, yes. But also a release, a means of expression, even a kind of revenge.

  The booze had gone to his head. He blurted out what was on his mind. ‘Did Sarah Bone really think you were innocent? Or did she get you out of nick simply because she wanted to screw you?’

  ‘A question I often ask myself,’ Ed said, with a smug grin.

  ‘Because,’ Nick leant forward, speaking into Ed’s ear on the side of his head that was away from the bar, ‘I reckon you did it, but had a good brief who got you off on appeal. And I’ll bet she thinks the same.’

  ‘S’right,’ Ed said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘That’s exactly what she thinks.’

  The next question was the clincher: And is she right? but Nick didn’t ask it. Let Ed tell him in his own good time. One of the two junkie girls, seventeen at most, was giving Ed the eye. He raised his glass to her.

  ‘Not had enough?’ Nick couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘Sarah isn’t the only one who likes a bit of rough. Catch you later.’

  Ed downed his drink and headed out. He must be one of those people who found it hard to distinguish between lies and the truth. Whatever came out of their mouth was the truth and God help you if you disagreed with them. A sociopath, near enough. If Ed were to confess to killing Polly’s brother and sister-in-law, Nick wouldn’t know whether to believe him.

  What was Ed doing here, in this seedy dive, at half three in the morning? Nick left his drink unfinished on the bar. Outside, in the alley, he could see Ed’s bald pate, gleaming in the moonlight, as he did to the girl what he claimed to have just done to Sarah.

  ‘Not so hard,’ the girl was saying. ‘It really hurts.’

  ‘That’s because it’s meant to, duck.’

  14

  Sarah slept fitfully and didn’t check her messages until ten. She called her agent. Winston was trying to set up a public debate between her, the Liberal Democrat and the new Tory candidate. The Tories had selected Jeremy Atkinson, the candidate she had seen off in the by-election. She had wiped the floor with him during all three public debates then. Now that he was the favourite to win the seat, Jeremy wasn’t so keen, but Winston thought her opponent could be strong-armed into doing it.

  ‘Barrett Jones suggested the debate in the first place, so Atkinson will find it hard to refuse, even though he hasn’t got the public-speaking skills you have.’

  ‘My public-speaking skills don’t feel so sharp this morning,’ Sarah confessed.

  ‘International Community Centre, Tuesday week.’

  ‘Evening? Okay, I suppose.’

  ‘And I fielded a call from a bloke claiming to be an old friend of yours, wanted you to give him a ring. Name of Nick Cane. Know him?’

  Sarah reached for a pen. ‘Used to. Give me his number. I’ll call him.’

  She called Nick as soon as Winston rang off, her heart leaping. Nick’s phone rang and rang. No machine. Sarah hung up. Where was Nick living, she wondered? Was he a partner in his brother’s cab firm? There was probably more money in that than teaching. Neither teaching nor cab work was the career she’d expected Nick to end up in. She’d seen him as a journalist or a campaigner of some kind. He might have become a politician, if he hadn’t been so keen on getting stoned all the time. She’d liked a smoke herself, but not several, every night. Nick used to get so spaced out, she felt lonely when she was in the same room as him.

  The phone rang again and, because she was distracted, Sarah picked it up herself instead of screening with the machine.

  ‘Sarah Bone.’

  ‘Sarah, long time no see.’ The voice was only vaguely familiar.

  ‘I’m sorry. This is . . .?’

  ‘It’s Andrew . . . Andy Saint.’

  Jasmina was fifteen but looked older. Her father let her wear jeans at home when most Sikh families insisted on traditional dress. Working in the family newsagents had made her comfortable dealing with white adults. When she and Nick were alone, she got straight down to business.

  ‘Can you write it for me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Nick told her. ‘This is coursework. It counts as part of your GCSE result.’

  ‘I hate Shakespeare and my parents pay you to help me.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Jasmina, but . . .’ The girl’s mother was in the next room. He could call her in, explain the situation and make sure that this didn’t come up again. But suppose mother backed daughter? He’d lose twenty quid an hour and Nick couldn’t afford that. He only had one other pupil. So he prevaricated.

  ‘The thing is, if you get caught using essays written by somebody else, it’s not just English Lit. you’ll fail. They’ll assume you cheated in all your coursework.’


  ‘You just don’t want to do it,’ Jasmina complained. ‘The other girls with private tutors say they tell them what to write. Otherwise what’s the point? I get normal teaching at school.’

  ‘I can teach you how to structure an essay. That’s better than telling you what to write. Look, let’s go through this.’

  Nick ended up staying over an extra twenty minutes, more or less writing Jasmina’s first paragraph and planning the rest of the essay for her. At least the result would look like Jasmina’s work. Her English teacher should recognise the improvement, but also the mistakes.

  Mr Sahor thanked him at the door and paid him in cash. Nick insisted on giving him a receipt.

  ‘It’s not necessary. I do not need to know whether you declare it or not.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but I want to make an honest living,’ Nick said. ‘Please tell your friends about me.’

  ‘I will, I will. In fact I have a cousin whose son is struggling with . . .’

  This could build up, Nick thought, as he wrote down the number. An hour or two every evening would never pay as well as full-time teaching but, combined with the late-night driving, it might keep him going.

  ‘There’s my taxi,’ he said. ‘See you next week.’

  Bob was picking him up here so that Nick could drive him home.

  ‘Knocking off a Paki, are we?’ Bob slid over to let Nick take the wheel.

  ‘I’m hiring myself out as a stud,’ Nick said. ‘Know where I can get a cheap answering machine? I don’t want to miss calls from horny housewives.’

  Bob chortled. ‘If you’re serious, I might be able to fix you up with one.’ He didn’t quiz Nick any further about why he was where he was. Probably thought Nick shared Joe’s taste for a risky Asian bit on the side.

  Nick had another reason not to miss calls. On an impulse, he’d rung the number on Sarah’s leaflets. Better, he’d thought, to arrange a meeting than bump into her on the campaign. That would be awkward, given how close they’d once been. He’d meant to leave contacting her until after the election, then Ed’s bragging got to him. But Sarah would have already rung by now if she was going to. Nick guessed she’d heard that he’d been inside. No way would she call him after hearing that, especially just before an election. She’d be better off hanging out with Ed Clark.

  Sarah had suggested the restaurant. He was already there when she arrived.

  ‘Andy!’

  He stood up to greet her, planted a kiss on her left cheek.

  ‘It’s Andrew now. I got fed up with having a kid’s name.’

  ‘Andrew, then.’ They exchanged a half serious hug.

  Andrew Saint had changed little in the thirteen years since Sarah last saw him. His hair was thinning slightly. The once messy beard was neatly trimmed, with no hint of grey. He was a little paunchier maybe, but not much. Andy had always been on the stocky side. He had always been an inch or two shorter than her, too, but was now the same height. She assumed lifts in his shoes.

  ‘I’m impressed you’ve come to Nottingham to see me,’ she told him, as they sat side-by-side in the bar of the Lace Market Hotel. ‘I was looking you up on the web. Your name pops up all over the place, but not in the East Midlands, as far as I could tell.’

  ‘It’s good to have an excuse to come back,’ Andrew told her. ‘I don’t think I’ve been in the city since 1991. Were you here then?’

  ‘No, I was in London. I only moved back after the by-election.’

  ‘Did having been union president help with getting the nomination?’

  ‘A little. But I fought an unwinnable seat in 1992. I paid my dues.’

  ‘They say Nottingham West can’t be won this time.’ Andrew pointed this out in a tone that was rather too droll for Sarah’s liking.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘You’re confident? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘No, I’m sorry for snapping at you,’ Sarah said, quietly. ‘The chances aren’t good. But during the campaign, you have to rev yourself up, convince yourself that you have a fighting chance.’

  ‘Have you thought about what you’ll do if you lose?’

  ‘Take a holiday. Then go back to London, get a job.’

  ‘Anything lined up?’

  ‘It’d look awful if I was touting for jobs. That’s what Tories do when they’re about to lose. We’re about to gain power, unless something goes massively wrong in the next thirteen days.’

  ‘Which makes you a valuable commodity, with very good contacts.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Sarah began to see where this was leading. The waiter came with their glasses of Moët et Chandon. Andrew leant forward.

  ‘If the worst does happen, I’d like you to come and work for me.’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘Lobbyist, public relations, policy adviser . . . name your own title. I can take you on full-time, part-time or as a freelance consultant.’

  ‘Why do you need me? Don’t tell me it’s a favour for a friend.’

  Andrew replied with his Cheshire cat grin. ‘We aren’t real friends, not yet anyway. Never were. We had a mutual friend, that was all.’

  ‘Do you ever see Nick?’

  ‘Not since . . .’ Andrew thought. ‘I don’t know when. You?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him in twelve years.’ Something stopped her telling Andrew that he’d tried to phone her. ‘I think he might be in Nottingham though. I saw someone who looked like him, driving a cab.’

  ‘He could be helping out his brother. Doesn’t Joe have a cab firm?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I hear things. Will you consider working for me?’

  ‘I will,’ Sarah said. ‘But you haven’t really answered my question. As what? What aspects of your business do you need help with?’

  ‘I have emerging interests. Stuff I can’t tell you about until you’ve signed a job contract and a confidentiality agreement. I don’t mean to insult you. That’s the way business is these days.’

  ‘I see,’ Sarah said. ‘For the sake of argument, if I agreed to work for you, say, three days a week, what kind of deal are we talking about?’

  Andrew told her. It was far more than her MP’s salary.

  ‘There’d be fringe benefits, too. A very large expense account.’

  ‘You must be doing well,’ Sarah told him.

  ‘I’m doing extremely well,’ Andrew said, and there was a lascivious edge to his smile that made Sarah wonder whether this job offer wasn’t just an attempt to get into her knickers. Andy had tried it on fifteen years ago, even though he was supposed to be a big mate of Nick’s. She’d made it clear then that she didn’t fancy him. But Andrew was rich now, and Sarah was still single. Hardly surprising if he assumed she’d lowered her standards.

  She ate duck and Andrew had veal. While they ate, they gossiped, neither of them dwelling on the past. Andrew told her stories about people he’d worked with in New York, dropping famous and familiar names in a casual but well-rehearsed manner, making it very clear that he’d stepped up in the world. Sarah fed him some juicy morsels of political tittle-tattle. They parted on a warm note.

  ‘I’ll think about it very seriously,’ she said, before agreeing to have lunch with him the week after the election.

  15

  There were still mornings when Nick woke and was surprised not to find himself inside. Late night working had cured him of waking early, but he doubted he’d ever get rid of the prison dreams. Today, he didn’t hear the doorbell ring, but did hear the voice shouting his name. He thought it was a cellmate and he had overslept. Then he remembered where he was.

  ‘Hold on!’ Nick pulled on a sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms before opening the door. He expected a meter reader, but found a familiar face.

  ‘Are you going to invite me in or just stand there like a dummy?’

  Nick had given his old friend the new address, but never expected him to visit. Andrew stood at
the window while Nick put the kettle on.

  ‘Alfreton Road,’ Andrew said with a sigh. ‘We used to come here for pizza when we were flush. What was the place called? Gino’s?’

  ‘Reno’s,’ Nick said. ‘Next door to the Red Lion.’

  ‘That was it.’ He looked round the sparsely furnished flat. ‘I paid for this, did I?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Sorry I didn’t have more when you called. I brought you the rest.’

  Andrew pulled a brown envelope from the inside pocket of his Armani jacket.

  ‘Thanks, Andy.’ Nick used the old name uncomfortably. He opened the envelope. There was around three grand in it.

  ‘It’s starting-up-somewhere-else money,’ Andrew said. ‘You can’t hang around here for ever, not when everyone knows you’ve been inside.’

  ‘Where else do I go?’ Nick asked. ‘Are you offering me a job?’

  ‘I would if I could,’ Andrew said. ‘But it’s a delicate time. I need to be whiter than white. I can’t take on ex-cons.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ Nick tried to keep sarcasm out of his voice. His friend had given him five grand, after all. ‘Maybe I should move to Wales, set up another hydroponics operation.’

  ‘That game’s moved on while you were away. A lot of dangerous, greedy bastards are in on it. You might find it’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

  ‘I wasn’t serious,’ Nick said. ‘I’ve got form. I have to stick around here, report to probation, keep my nose clean. But the money’ll help.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, but I’d still move if I were you. You can’t make a new start in a place where you’ve got so much history. What are you working as, a cab driver?’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ Nick asked.

  ‘I hear lots.’

  ‘I’ve done a bit for Joe. But I’m trying to set up a private tuition business. Schoolkids wanting help with GCSEs, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Not much money there. You ought to get yourself a nice cushy job in some boarding school. Most of those places don’t do criminal record checks. If you’re stuck for references, I know people who know people.’