Bone and Cane (14 page)

‘I’ll tell you what – I’m doing this debate on Tuesday. Should be over by nine. I could meet you for a meal afterwards. Or come along if you like. It’s at the ICC. Might be a laugh. Remember how you used to go over every word I said at hustings when I stood for union president? The standard isn’t that much higher, believe me.’

‘I might have to work.’ Nick’s tone was apologetic. ‘I do a lot of evenings.’

‘I won’t book a table then. If you can’t come, we’ll have lunch, or a drink over the weekend. Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘If you can make it Tuesday, I’ll see you there. Otherwise, why don’t you take my home number?’ She began to explain too much, aware that she was being overeager but unable to stop. ‘I’ve rung before, you see, and not found you in . . .’

‘I’ve just got an answering machine.’

The conversation ended awkwardly. She could have mentioned seeing Andrew Saint but that might have been awkward, too. He and Nick used to be such close friends and now they weren’t. Sarah wanted to know the score with the job Andrew was offering her. It was ridiculous he wouldn’t tell her more until she’d signed an agreement. How could she work out the right thing to do?

In an alternative world, she and Nick had never split up. They had lived together for nearly fifteen years now, without the need for marriage or children. Nick was always there to give her counsel and support. He made sure that she had a life outside politics, keeping in touch with old friends and all the simple shit that Sarah generally forgot to do.

Sarah didn’t need a man. Being with a bad one was worse than being single. But she’d held on to this idealised vision of how life might have been with Nick. She’d been so pig-headed when she was twenty-two. She’d thought that if she and Nick were right together, it was bound to work out. If things didn’t work out, there were bound to be plenty more, equally interesting fish in the sea. Wrong on both counts.

16

I
t was a quiet Saturday night, the quietest since Nick started doing the job. Everyone who was going out had already done so and the pubs didn’t close for another two hours. Nick needed to go to Polly’s. He hadn’t seen her for four days, the longest gap since they got together. He wanted sex, but he wanted to see her, too. Speaking to Sarah had disturbed him. She was a ghost from the past. Polly was real. Yet he still hadn’t given her his phone number. He avoided calling her from the flat – since he went inside, you could dial 1471 and check the number of whoever last called you. He didn’t want Polly calling him. Joe said there was a code that withheld your number, only Nick didn’t know what it was and even if he did, to use it would look underhand.

Polly would be expecting to see him tonight, but they’d made no arrangements. In the Meadows, Nick collected an Afro-Caribbean lad who said he wanted to go to the top of Radford Road in Hyson Green. This meant the Black and White cafe, although the youth didn’t mention the place: it would have marked him out as a dealer or a user. A dealer, Nick reckoned – a young black guy in the Meadows wouldn’t need to go across the city to score.

‘Got a mobile?’ he asked his fare.

‘Course.’

‘Can I borrow it? Quick local call. I’ll knock it off your fare.’

‘Tell me the number. I’ll dial it for you. Call it your tip.’

He handed Nick the phone when it began ringing. Polly took a while to answer.

‘Just putting the last one to bed.’

‘Can I come round for an hour? I’m heading your way.’

‘I’ve got some wine in the fridge.’

‘Magic.’

‘On a promise, huh?’ The fare asked, as Nick turned down Bentinck Road.

‘Looks like it. Where do you want dropping?’

‘My friend lives just over there. Anywhere round here will do. Nah, you’re okay. Keep the change. I’m on a promise, too.’

Nick waited at the lights, watched the youth head up the hill and turn into the drive of one of the big houses on the left. A lover, not a dealer.

There were wine glasses on the table, nibbles and dips in a plastic tray from Asda. Polly was wearing a short red skirt that showed off her arse to its best advantage. But this wasn’t the main thing he noticed. She’d cut her hair short, almost a pageboy. It was still blonde, but more artificial looking, with pink highlights. Nick hated it.

‘Looks like you’re ready to go out.’

‘What do you think to my new summer cut?’

‘It’s great,’ he said. ‘You look five years younger, very sexy.’

Both of these things were true. For the first time since he met Polly, she looked her age, years younger than him. He wanted to fuck her but he didn’t fancy her any more. She looked artificial. Everything about their relationship was artificial, he realized. Who were they kidding?

‘What made you change your hair?’ he asked, an hour later, when they were watching
Match of the Day
. Polly assumed that, since he was a bloke, he must be interested in football, and he hadn’t corrected her. It was useful fodder for cab conversation and gave them something to do.

‘I used to wear it like this. No need to act older than you are.’

‘Right.’ He preferred a woman who looked more mature, but wasn’t foolish enough to say this. Earlier, he had screwed her standing up, from behind, with Polly leaning over the sofa and biting on a cushion to keep herself from crying out when she came. Urgent, anonymous sex was the kind they were best at. Since they finished, she’d been quieter than normal, as though something was on her mind. Him, probably, the way he used her, only showing up when it suited him. Nick ought to offer her more. If he hadn’t arranged to see Sarah, maybe he’d be ready to.

‘Is there something you want to talk about . . . about us?’

She gave him a look that said she wasn’t used to having this kind of conversation and Nick regretted opening his mouth.

‘There isn’t an
us
, is there? Maybe there would’ve been, if you were free to be more than a back-door man. But we agreed from the start.’

If you were free to
. Nick sipped his second small glass of wine, wondered how to reply. He hadn’t heard the phrase
back-door man
for a long time, but knew what she meant. ‘Agreed what?’

‘This is just for sex, comfort. We’re convenient for each other.’

‘It’s more than that,’ Nick said.

Polly stroked his groin. ‘Not a lot more. Being with you’s made me realize I need someone proper. It’s five years since I’ve felt that way.’

He held her. They kissed. It was real, all right. But if anything was to come of it, Nick had to be honest. He couldn’t mislead her any longer.

‘There are things about me you don’t know,’ he said.

‘You’re not going to tell me you’re happily married?’ Her voice had taken on a whinging tone he’d not heard before. ‘You wouldn’t be working all hours, coming to me three times a week if you had everything together at home.’

‘I’ve never been married,’ Nick said. ‘But I’ve been in prison. I only got out two and a half months ago.’

A moody silence followed. Nick had blown it. Most women, he guessed, would prefer a cheat to an ex-con.

‘How long were you in?’ she asked, finally.

Not what for but how long? The length of the sentence would tell her the severity of the crime. She was not a policeman’s sister for nothing.

‘I did five.’

‘How come you’re driving a taxi then? Thought they had rules.’

‘I’m not on the books.’ For a moment, he nearly told her that his brother owned the firm, but he had never told Polly his surname and if he did, that would mean she could always find him through Joe.

‘You’re a fool. Do you want to go back inside?’

‘No. I need to get a bit of money behind me, that’s all.’

But now he had The Saint’s five grand, there was no excuse.

‘You’re not going to tell me what you did?’

Nick shook his head. Polly never mentioned drugs. It might freak her out. ‘It wasn’t violent, if that worries you.’

‘No. You’re not violent. Five years, eh? Explains why you’re so horny for a used-up slapper like me.’

‘Don’t denigrate yourself, it’s not . . .’

‘I don’t know what
denigrate
means,’ Polly said. ‘Did an Open University degree while you were inside, did you? Terry always hated that – crims who got an education while they were doing time.’

‘I already had a degree,’ Nick told her. ‘I used to be a teacher.’

‘Interfered with kiddies, did you?’ She slapped him on the face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I’m telling you now. It was nothing like that.’

She slapped him again, harder. ‘What did you do?’

‘I sold drugs,’ he told her.

‘To kids?’

‘No. Wholesale. Homegrown. Nobody got hurt, except me.’

‘Did you see
him
inside?’

‘Ed? We were in the same nick for a while. I might have seen him, but I didn’t know him.’ Nick should tell her that Ed worked for Joe, but couldn’t work out how to do this tactfully. Anyway, he still held out some hope that he would persuade his brother to get rid of him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me? How many more secrets have you got?’

Polly had begun to hit him now. Hard. She was hurting him so he had to fend her off. Nick didn’t want to hit back. He never hit women. When Polly kept coming at him, he had to push her away. She kept attacking, ignoring the concerned calls from children upstairs. He pushed her down onto the sofa, grabbing both wrists so that she couldn’t hit him any more, pushing her legs down with his right knee so that she couldn’t kick him. Polly stared at him, her eyes hard, resentful.

‘I’ll bet this gives you a hard-on,’ she said.

It was true.

‘This isn’t over,’ she told him. Then she gave him a full-mouthed kiss and, when he let one of her wrists go so that they could be more comfortable, she unzipped him.

‘Now it’s over,’ Polly said, as she pulled on her knickers afterwards. Her voice was matter of fact. ‘I’m not having a drug dealer around these kids. We’ve had a good time, but I need to move on. Stay away.’

17

I
t was a sparse crowd, considering that this was the only debate of the election, but events like this belonged to the past. A modern election was about phone canvassing and spinning the TV news, not engaging floating voters in a musty public hall. Sarah had been scanning the audience while the other speakers took their turn. She’d spotted Nick, two thirds of the way back. He was talking to an older bloke on the row behind but appeared to be on his own. That must mean their meal was on. Despite her excitement, she trotted out the rehearsed answers with ease. Nothing she said would affect a single vote in nine days’ time.

When a blonde woman stood up, Sarah knew she knew her, but only when she spoke did Sarah take a closer look and work out where from. Polly Bolton, Terry Shanks’ sister, had cut her hair since Sarah saw her last.

‘I’d like to ask each candidate what they are going to do for victims of crime. Seems to me that you lot are more interested in the criminals than the innocent people who get hurt by them.’

The replies started at the other end of the panel, so Sarah had plenty of time to think about her answer. Jeremy Atkinson covered compensation and counselling. The Liberal wanted more funding for victims’ groups and the Green talked about better lighting and urban planning. Sarah wasn’t left with much to say. She worried that Polly had an awkward supplemental saved up to throw at her. Best, therefore, to head her off before she could land a direct hit.

‘I agree with most of what’s been said, especially about compensation. I know – without going into details – that you and your family have been terribly affected by a serious crime where the perpetrators have not been brought to justice.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Polly interrupted.

‘And that isn’t good enough. I’ll be pursuing the matter with the Chief Constable when we meet tomorrow,’ Sarah said, suffering a rush of blood to the head. She was due to meet the police chief for a photo op, not a pep talk on the murder of Terry Shanks. ‘Please don’t think that I’ve given up your case. But we have to follow the law.’

Polly tried to ask another question. The chair wouldn’t let her. ‘We only have a few minutes left. There are several people with raised hands.’

Instinctively, Sarah looked for Nick, to see how he was reacting to the one tricky encounter of the evening. He had his head turned, so his expression was hard to read. He was looking at Polly.

The debate drifted on for another twenty minutes. Sarah tried to stay focused, but it had already been a long campaign. Constituents often thought that MPs led cushy lives. When voters asked Sarah if she’d ever had to work hard, in a real job, she usually mentioned her two-year spell in the police. The reality was that most police worked set hours, during which there was plenty of downtime, whereas an MP, if she were at all conscientious, had to knock herself out every day. But that story didn’t play with voters. Electoral politics was all about perception, not principle or, God forbid, the reality of being a politician trying to get things done.

The event finished just after nine. The candidates nodded at each other, mumbled acknowledgments that it had been a fair fight. Jeremy looked pleased with himself. He was no Barrett Jones, but he hadn’t slipped up, so the local party would be happy with their man. This time, he might find himself with a seat in the Commons for life.

‘Coming to the Peacock?’ Tony Bax asked.

‘No, thanks. I’m meeting an old friend for a meal. I thought I’d take the rest of the evening off politics.’

‘Good idea. You did very well. Bet you’re glad it’s out of the way.’

‘Thanks.’ Sarah was sorry not to spend time with Tony, who was radical Old Labour personified. She looked around. Winston was smiling, fending off a couple who wanted to press her about traffic calming. There was Polly Bolton. Was she going to come over? Sarah ought to speak to her if she did. But no, Polly wasn’t waiting for Sarah. She was waiting for Nick. Sarah tried to interpret the look that passed between the two of them, but it was hard to make out. All she could see was Nick and Polly leaving the hall together. What the hell was that about?