Bone and Cane (11 page)

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

Y
ou’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.’

‘What about the customers, when they recognise him?’

‘All they’ll remember is that he got off. But you know how it is, most people don’t even look at their taxi driver.’

‘His victims’ kids still live round here!’

‘Nick, he’s innocent. What’s your problem?’

Nick couldn’t explain, not without letting on about Polly. He didn’t want Joe to know about her. His brother would let it slip to Caroline, then Caroline might invite Polly round and Polly might think there was more to their relationship than there was.

‘Ed got off, Joe. Doesn’t mean he’s innocent.’

‘Whatever. He’s a good driver. I don’t take people on because I like them. I take people on because they’re reliable and they make me money.’

‘He could lose you money, too.’

‘I’ll take that risk. I met the bloke. He seems okay. A lot of people reckon he deserves a decent shake.’

Nick gave up. Nobody likes their big brother telling them what to do. Ed might fail the test. If not, Nick would have to warn Polly not to use Cane Cars. Joe had lots of drivers but, one day, Polly was bound to draw Ed.

‘Time I was getting back for dinner.’

When Joe had gone, Nick picked up the tabloid on the table and folded the paper back to the front page: ‘NOTHING SLEAZY ABOUT MY TRYST WITH TORY’ SAYS UNDERAGE GIRL. According to the daughter, now nearly thirty and hanging onto her anonymity, her father had inflated the incident with Barrett Jones out of all proportion.

There were several crucial differences between this story and the one Nick had read three days before. Jones wasn’t a friend of the girl’s family. He happened to be staying in the next holiday cottage. The family had taken pity on him because he’d just split up with his wife, who was meant to be there with him. The girl insisted she had come on to Jones, not vice versa. He had not taken full advantage of the situation.

‘I would have slept with him if he asked me,’ she said. ‘I prefer older men, always have. My current boyfriend’s forty-six.’

Absorbed by the story, Nick didn’t look up when he heard the door open and close. ‘Things got physical,’ the article went on. The paper used innuendo to describe how the teenager had masturbated Jones beneath a towel on the beach. Later in the day, she had offered her virginity to him. He demurred and gave her oral sex instead, saying it was safer and he was very good at it. Her father, unknown to her, had a second key to their hiding place. He’d found the minister-to-be going down on his fourteen-year-old daughter on the floor of the family’s quaint old beach hut.

‘I’m not sure Barrett knew how old I was before, but he found out then.’

Nick laughed out loud. He became aware of the other driver looking over his shoulder.

‘Silly slut,’ said Ed Clark. ‘She thinks she’s doing him a favour, telling the world he let her wank him off when he could have fucked her. That’s not a man.’

‘Hardly a vote-winner,’ Nick said, carefully.

‘I reckon my Sarah’s gonna get back in now.’

‘Follow elections closely, do you?’ Nick asked, trying not to let a sardonic note slide into his voice.

‘Only this one. Personal interest, like. You’re same as me, aren’t you?’

This threw Nick. Ed wasn’t talking about prison. ‘How so?’

‘Shouldn’t be driving. Doing it on the side. No choice.’

‘No choice,’ Nick agreed. Was there an implicit threat?
Be sweet to me or I’ll shop you to the taxi authorities or Probation.

‘Blokes like you and me, we ought to stick together.’

‘Right,’ Nick said, though his crime hardly equated with rape and murder.

‘There’s a club a few of us go to when it gets quiet. The Ad Lib.’

Nick remembered a club with that name. He’d seen bands there in the 1980s. Ed told him where the place was. Not the same.

‘There’s women, if you need one. They’re all pros, like. But they go there to relax, too.’

‘I might come along later,’ Nick said. He ought to stay friendly with the other drivers. Suppose Polly was wrong about Ed? The only thing Nick had against Ed was his claim to have screwed Sarah. It was bollocks, but it didn’t make him a murderer. If Sarah believed Ed, then, regardless of whether she fancied or fucked him, maybe Nick ought to believe him too. At least give him the benefit of the doubt, for now.

Bob announced himself with a chummy ‘Ay up’. Nick had to drive him home before starting his shift.

‘Might see you down there, then,’ Nick told Ed as he left.

On the drive to Bob’s, Nick passed a trade union office he hadn’t noticed before. It had a big new sign in the window:
SARAH BONE MP, CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS
, surrounded by red and yellow NEW LABOUR – SARAH BONE posters. Nick decided to go in later, see if they wanted help.

This election, the party insisted that all candidates be reachable by mobile phone. Sarah kept forgetting to turn hers on. It rang as she was driving to the campaign HQ, distracting her to the extent that she nearly hit the car in front. She pulled over at a bus stop. She had only given out the number to a handful of people: her staff, her agent and Brian Hicks. Important calls only, she’d said.

‘They’ve booted Jones out,’ Brian told Sarah.

‘For making a fool of himself or claiming to be good at cunnilingus?’

‘They’re having an emergency selection meeting later tonight.’

‘Won’t Central Office impose somebody?’

‘The Tories aren’t Stalinists like your lot. Local parties have complete autonomy. They’ll choose a local candidate.’

‘Jeremy Atkinson?’ Sarah said. He was the businessman she’d beaten in the by-election.

‘I doubt it. They don’t like losers. Got anything for me?’

‘A quote? How about:
It doesn’t matter who their candidate is, New Labour won’t let this seat go back to the Tories
.’

‘Perfect. Catch you later.’

In any canvas, there were a handful of people the MP ought to see in person. Not party members. They were either ignored or gently nagged to put up a poster. Sarah needed to see community leaders. She also had to visit vociferous voters with outstanding grievances, to reassure them that their case was still being looked at. Even when it wasn’t true, like in her first call tonight. Best to get it over with. Sarah rang the doorbell of Polly Bolton’s council house.

‘Mum!’ A seven-year-old in a Batman T-shirt yelled. ‘Visitor.’

Sarah was led through the crowded hall, past the blaring telly in the front room, into the kitchen-diner. The dinner table had been folded up to make room for an exercise cycle. Polly, in a baggy T-shirt and sweat pants, was pedalling away. She glanced up expectantly, the look of a woman hoping to see a lover. Finding Sarah instead, her face fell.

‘You’ve got a nerve.’

‘I’m canvassing for votes,’ Sarah apologised. ‘I felt I ought to call on you, see if there’s anything . . .’

‘I’m Labour, always have been,’ Polly interrupted. ‘You vote for the party, not the person.’

Her legs kept moving, straining against the pedals. This was, Sarah remembered from her cycling days, the least efficient way to use energy for movement, but maybe it worked best for the figure.

‘Is there anything I can help sort out for you while I’m here?’

Sarah meant benefits or legal fees, but didn’t need to spell this out.

‘I get what I’m entitled to,’ Polly replied. ‘No more, no less. People say Ed Clark’s back living round here again. You’ll probably get his vote, too.’

‘I don’t want it,’ Sarah said. ‘I . . .’ There was nothing she could say without revealing what Ed had said to her. And Polly was the last person she could tell.

‘Still seeing that Tory MP?’ Polly asked.

‘I was never . . . I’m not seeing anybody. No time to meet men. You?’

‘I don’t have time to meet men, but I found one anyway.’

‘Worth getting into shape for?’ Sarah said, regretting the intimacy of her words as soon as they came out of her mouth.

‘He’s worth two of you.’ Polly gave her a cold, judgmental look. ‘It’s true,’ she added. ‘You could stand to lose a few pounds.’

‘I’m too busy to exercise.’

‘Lose this election and you’ll have all the time in the world.’

‘If I get back in, and you need help, you know where to find me.’

Polly’s wheels began to turn more quickly. Sarah saw herself out. From the hall, she glanced into the front room, where four primary school-aged kids stared at
The Simpsons
. She’d had an easy escape, but felt bad about it. Sarah had come into this job to help people like Polly, not make their lives worse.

13

N
ick was getting the hang of the city. He knew most of the shortcuts, where the road works were and which streets to avoid because they had the new speed bumps. He knew most of the new buildings around what used to be called the Boots Traffic Island, on the railway station side of the city. The Boots building had just been demolished and was to be replaced by a new BBC broadcasting centre. A magistrates’ court was being built round the corner.

Nick could even find his way round hell-holes like the Maynard Estate, where he dropped off his first call. Bob had to go to a parents’ evening, hence his early start tonight. There was a fair bit of work at this time, so it would be mad for Nick to go and leaflet for Labour, losing himself forty-odd quid in the process. Maybe he would call in on Polly. Her eyes had lit up when he told her he might be able to pop in for an hour mid-evening. ‘You’d better watch out,’ she’d said. ‘The neighbours might notice and think you’re a real boyfriend.’

Nick still let her think he was married. Polly never pushed him. He wasn’t ashamed of having been in prison. What he had done was against the law. It turned out to be a stupid risk. But not a bad deed, like murder. Not even wrong, by Nick’s code. Polly might accept that part of his past if he told her. Only she had no time for drugs and her brother had been a copper, so chances were she wouldn’t. When push came to shove, things were the way Nick wanted them. No way could he take on four kids. He didn’t like the idea of four kids of his own, never mind someone else’s.

At twenty, Nick thought by the age he was now, thirty-five, he’d have met the right woman and started a family. Instead, he didn’t even have a proper job. Probation were on at him to apply for an opening as a warehouseman at Arnold Asda. He’d been to a couple of teaching agencies about doing private tuition. But he’d had to come clean about where he’d been for the last five years. After that, they lost interest.

This week he’d put a card in a shop window on the Alfreton Road,
HELP WITH GCSES AND A-LEVELS
, at a price undercutting the standard rates for English tuition. There were plenty of Asian families with money, anxious to push their kids on to university. At Nick’s prices, they were unlikely to press him for watertight references. His card made it clear he would provide home tuition. There would be no worries about leaving him alone with their daughters. He’d had one query so far. It was the sort of career Nick could declare to Probation and the dole while driving on the side. He’d enjoyed teaching, once upon a time. In prison, he’d enjoyed helping a few blokes with their reading and writing. Once, he would have objected to parents buying an advantage for their children by paying for a private tutor. Now he saw this was the way of the world, their main alternative to the private schools only the wealthy could afford. Until you abolished all privilege in education, you couldn’t blame people for buying the best for their kids.

Polly was newly showered when he let himself in, drying her hair.

‘Someone came round just after seven,’ she said. ‘There I was, cycling away, sweating like a pig, but I said “come in” anyway. Thought it was you. Know who it turned out to be? That bloody MP, Sarah Bone. Wanted me to vote for her.’

Sarah seemed to be following him around, yet they hadn’t met. Suppose she had found him here, with Polly?

‘Did you tell her where to go?’

‘She only stayed a couple of minutes. Asked if I had a boyfriend. Can you believe the cheek?’

‘What did you say?’ Nick asked.

‘I told her I did and asked if she was still seeing that Tory.’