Bone and Cane (12 page)

‘And is she?’

‘She said she was too busy to meet men. I said I was too, but it didn’t stop me finding you.’

She put down the hairdryer and kissed him, her robe falling open. Polly’s tummy was flatter than when they’d first slept together, nearly two months before. She was losing weight for him.

‘How long have you got?’ she asked.

‘I need to be back on the road when the closing time calls start.’

‘Plenty of time, then.’

He kissed her and put his hand between her legs.

‘Wait.’ She pushed the table in front of the door so one of the kids couldn’t barge in. Nick took off his shirt. Polly spread her dressing gown across the floor, then unzipped him and took him in her mouth. After a while, he went down on her. Nick found himself pretending he was in a beach hut, going down on a knowing fourteen-year-old, an athletic girl who slowly transmogrified into Sarah.

When he and Sarah first made love, they barely knew what they were doing and had to experiment, make up a language to talk about it. Those baby words came back to him now, killing the fantasy. Polly didn’t taste or smell or sound like Sarah. When she pulled his head up and he entered her, she sensed that he wasn’t fully with her, and became less responsive.

Nick worked harder to please her, first on the floor, then bent over the table. He wanted to want this. He had five years of missing sex to make up for. He should be present in the moment, not fantasising about something that, in real life, wouldn’t turn him on. Inside, fantasy was a necessary habit, but he was out now, free. Unless it really was like the long-term lads said. You never got the old feeling of freedom back. The only freedom you got was to carry your own cage wherever you went, weighing you down at every step.

After they’d finished, he lay beside her. Not cuddling, but close. Time passed. They were woken by a child at the door.

‘Go back upstairs. I’ll bring you some water in a minute.’

While Polly was gone, Nick made them both a cup of tea. At half past ten, he got up to go.

‘I can get a babysitter if you want to make a proper night of it.’

‘I’d like that,’ Nick said, ‘only I’ve got to earn as much as I can right now. Getting a place of my own.’

Her smile seemed to speak of patience. Polly never asked questions, only chewed over whatever he told her. He wished he hadn’t said that about getting a place. Polly might think he was on the verge of leaving his wife, because of her.

Dan rolled off and removed the rubber he’d worn without asking.

‘We should do this more often,’ he said, when he came back from the bathroom. Sarah didn’t reply. She didn’t want to make love with him ever again. He had been attentive enough and she didn’t mind condoms. Only, now it was over, she felt crap. Worse than she sometimes felt after using the vibrator. Much worse than she had before accepting her ex’s invitation to inspect his new flat. But Dan, it seemed, couldn’t tell the difference between the empty sex they’d just had and what it used to be like. Which was really depressing. He pushed his luck.

‘Can we do this every time I canvas for you or was tonight a one-off?’

‘A one-off,’ she replied, then added, to let him down easy, ‘otherwise we’ll forget we split up.’

‘Shame,’ Dan said. ‘I thought we could be fuck buddies.’

‘
Fuck buddies
?’

He explained the term to her. Sex as a friendly transaction between temporarily single people who had firmly ruled out having a relationship.

‘I don’t think so,’ Sarah said. ‘I need the bathroom. Can you call me a taxi?’

‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Dan asked, when she was dressing, with her back to him.

‘I wouldn’t have come round here if I was. You?’

‘There’s a woman at work. It’s messy. She lives with someone, wants to leave, but this place isn’t big enough for two and it’s still early days between us. She isn’t sure how good a bet I am.’

‘She’s right to be cautious, if you’re cheating on her already.’

Dan looked affronted. ‘I’m not sleeping with her. We’ve talked and kissed, that’s all. Taking it slowly. She says I’m still not over you.’

‘Doing this won’t help, then.’

‘No, it has. I mean . . . you were right to finish it. We weren’t going anywhere. I might even tell Clare what happened.’

‘Including the “fuck buddies” bit?’ Sarah asked.

‘Glad to see you’re as sardonic as ever.’ Dan gave her a wry smile. Outside, a taxi sounded its horn.

‘That was quick.’

‘I told them it was for
Sarah Bone, MP
.’

Dan signalled to the driver while Sarah finished dressing.

‘Now that we’re finished, will you tell me something?’ she asked.

‘Anything.’

‘Were you faithful to me, all the time I spent in London?’

Dan hesitated. ‘Not entirely. You?’

‘Not entirely,’ Sarah lied. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that out of our systems. Let’s be buddies, but without the
fuck
bit. Okay?’

He saw her out to her taxi. Sarah was sorry it had come so quickly. She wanted details of Dan’s infidelities. Had he slept with anyone she knew? How often had he strayed? As soon as she was inside, the taxi set off towards the Park. It was a Cane Cars taxi, Sarah noticed, and, for the first time, looked up to see the driver, just in case it was Nick.

It wasn’t. Nor was the driver the person in the ID photograph hanging from the sun guard.

‘Let me out,’ she told Ed Clark. ‘This is not a good idea.’

‘Just doing my job,’ he told her. ‘I’m taking you home. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.’ He pulled up at some lights.

‘I want to get out,’ she said. When he didn’t react, she tried the door. It was locked.

‘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

S
arah 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.