The White Room (24 page)

‘Does what?'

‘Plenty. Primarily keeps recalcitrants in line, teaches lessons, backs up words, that sort of thing.' His voice dropped, his features hardened. ‘And fires. Insurance jobs. Best I've ever seen.'

Ben looked at Martin Fleming. The campness had fallen away and he was all business. The man he had imagined when Big Derek first mentioned him.

‘Sounds good,' Ben said. ‘How do I find him?'

‘I'll tell him you're looking for him.'

‘And what do you get out of this?'

Martin Fleming smiled, draped his hand across Ben's.

‘Don't. Or I'll fucking floor you.'

Martin Fleming shrugged. ‘Oh, well, nothing ventured … The usual fee, then. For introducing such obvious soulmates.'

Ben, his throat suddenly dry, drained his drink, stood up.

‘I'd better be off,' he said.

‘I'll be in touch.'

Ben left the Club A Go Go. The Emcee Five finished their set: the crowd applauded. Martin Fleming drained his glass, ordered another.

Smiled contentedly to himself.

The letter came two days later. Sharon bent to pick it up, thinking it was nothing, a circular.

Isaac was at school. She was at a loose end.

Unravelling.

She opened the envelope, took out the letter. The company name was unfamiliar: Northern Star Properties. She began to read, curious, but uninterested at first. By the time she had reached the end, read the signature, she was fizzing with excitement. She put the letter down. She couldn't wait to tell Jack.

She stopped, thought.

She picked the letter up, folded it, replaced it in the envelope. She would put it away. Somewhere safe. Somewhere Jack couldn't find it. Sharon would tell Jack, or at least let him know. But not yet. Not until she was ready to.

Not until there was nothing he could do to stop her.

He heart was pounding. She had to look at the letter again, remind herself what was written there.

She read it, smiled.

Her life was about to change. She could feel it.

Leazes Park, Saturday afternoon.

From his place on the park bench before the lake, Ben Marshall could hear the roars from nearby St James' Park as Joe Harvey led Newcastle United to what would be another glimpse of Saturday-afternoon glory ultimately tempered by harsh teatime reality. Someone would win, someone would lose. Ben didn't care which.

He pulled his coat close around him. He sighed, his breath coming out as a cloud of steam.

He checked his watch, looked around. Waited. He was due to meet the person Martin Fleming had recommended to him. He had received a phone call giving time, date, place. Nothing else.

He waited, sighed. Whoever it was, he was late.

There came a rustle from a bush behind him. Before Ben could look around he had been joined on the bench. Ben looked at the man, surprised by his speed and stealth. Blond hair cropped short, framing his moon face. Sheepskin jacket buttoned up tightly over his large frame. Straight-creased trousers. Work boots. Smelled of sawdust and old blood. Ben scrutinized him. It took a few seconds for Ben's memory to focus but then, with a jolt, he recognized the man:

Johnny Bell.

Ben recovered his composure, tried not to smile at the irony. He was glad he had chosen to wear his glasses. Glad he had had his hair restyled along John Lennon lines.

Glad he had changed sufficiently to be unrecognizable.

‘You're late,' he said, his London accent pushed to the fore.

‘No, I'm not,' said Johnny. ‘I was here on time. Before you. I was just makin' sure you were alone. That it wasn't a setup.'

Ben looked at Johnny. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes blank, his voice emotionless.

‘It's not a setup,' said Ben. ‘I'm hoping you and me can do a bit of business together.'

Johnny kept staring ahead.

‘What d'you say to that, then?'

Johnny shrugged.

‘Did our mutual friend tell you what I wanted?'

Johnny nodded.

‘And will you do it?'

Johnny nodded.

Ben felt himself getting angry.

‘Was that a yes or a no?'

Johnny turned to face Ben. His eyes were remarkable for two reasons: their vivid, robin's-egg-blue colour and their complete absence of anything approaching emotion.

‘Don't piss me about, Mr Marshall. I'm sure you've been told what I can do. I've been told what you want. As long as you pay me, we'll get on fine.'

Ben swallowed hard. He had been expecting some self-aggrandizing hard man talking up his credentials. Not this.

The St James' Park crowd cheered. One side had scored.

‘Is there anything you won't do?' Ben said.

‘If there is, I haven't found it yet.'

Ben smiled. ‘Then I think we can do business.'

Johnny nodded. ‘Contact me through our mutual friend.'

‘I will do.' Ben stood up, offered his hand for Johnny to shake. Johnny ignored it. Ben retracted. ‘I'll be off. Got a dinner date. I'll be in touch—'

Ben stopped himself. He nearly said his name.

‘What should I call you?'

‘Johnny.'

‘I'll be in touch, Johnny.'

Ben turned and walked away. He could feel Johnny's eyes follow him as he walked around the lake and out of the park. He shuddered from something more than cold. He remembered Johnny Bell as a follower, content to stand in his brother's shadow. This one was different. Ben was a hard man, but Johnny was something else: an ice man. Cold blew from him in waves like an arctic wind.

Behind him another roar went up. Someone was winning, someone was losing.

He pulled his coat around him, tried to get warm, tried to push Johnny Bell from his mind.

Hurried away to get ready for his dinner date.

Sharon smothered her hands over the Quant minidress, checked her reflection sideways on in the mirror. She smiled to herself. Nearer thirty than twenty, but showing no sign of losing her figure. Not yet, anyway. Her figure and her youth, or the impression of youth, were things she intended to hold on to for as long as she could. To her, they were symbols that she wouldn't give in, accept less, settle for half. Symbols that there was still plenty of life in her.

She looked again in the mirror, at her legs this time. Encased in opaque white tights, black-leather boots up to her knees. Was her skirt too short? Did it show too much leg? Would she send the wrong signals, give out the wrong idea?

What was the wrong idea, anyway?

Final check: hair, make-up, dress, legs. Her stomach gave a thrilling lurch. She looked fine.

She grabbed her coat, handbag. Made her way downstairs.

Jack was sitting in an armchair reading the paper. Isaac was at the dining room table gluing together the wings of a Spitfire from a model kit Jack had bought him. The TV was on: the small, black and white screen showing a new soap opera,
Coronation Street.
Sharon had seen it once or twice before: people in a backstreet in Manchester leading small, black and white lives.

Sharon stood in the doorway, trying not to strike a pose, unable to resist.

‘Right,' she said, ‘I'm off now.'

Jack looked up from his paper, did a double take when he saw her. She looked into his eyes, read them. Saw the love and lust – the dress, her legs. Saw him reconnect with what had made him love her, made him want her in the first place.

Then that look fall away as realization dawned: this – the dress, her legs – was all for another man.

Sharon watched him, daring him to speak, to challenge her.

He stood up, crossed to her. Motioned for her to step into the hall. She did so, he followed. Closed the door on Isaac.

‘Where d'you think you're going, dressed like that?'

‘You know where I'm going. I've got a meeting with Ben to discuss the job he wants me to do.'

‘Dressed like that? What kind of job does he want you to do dressed like that?'

Sharon sighed in exasperation. ‘It's 1964, Jack. Everyone dresses like this.'

‘Not you. Not my wife. Not when you're going out with another man.'

His temper was rising. Sharon knew she had to stop it.

‘It's not like that, Jack,' she said, her voice controlled and even. ‘And you know it. It's a business discussion. We can't meet during the day, so we have to meet on an evening. People always wear their best for a business meeting. They tend to get the job that way.'

‘What d'you need a job for? Don't I earn enough?'

Sharon sighed again. The same argument, over and over.

‘It's not like that. You know it's not. I just want some independence, that's all. I don't just want to be Isaac's mother or Jack's wife, or the person who looks after this place.' She swept her arm around the hall. ‘I want more than that.'

Jack's face was turning scarlet.

‘And what about us? What about your husband and son, eh? We never get to see you. You're never here.' He sighed, exasperated. ‘You belong here. With us. We need you.' His voice began to tremble. ‘I need you.'

He dropped his eyes, unable to meet her gaze. She looked at him. His white hair showing through, his tired face. Her haunted husband with his wounded soul and his idealistic heart. There seemed in that moment something much bigger and older between them than six years. An uncrossable distance.

She felt anger rise within. She hated him.

‘You stay here and look after Isaac,' she said, her voice rippling with barely suppressed emotion. ‘It's all you're good for.'

Jack looked up, his face turned from scarlet to purple.

‘You bitch! You fucking—'

He pulled back his hand to strike her. She flinched from the expected blow.

‘Dad! Mam!'

They both turned. In the doorway stood Isaac, his face full of incomprehension and fear.

Jack dropped his arm. Sharon stood still. Neither looked at the other.

‘Go on and get ready for bed,' said Jack. ‘Time for bed.'

‘But Dad—'

‘Just do it.'

Jack's voice rose higher than he had expected. He immediately regretted it. The boy ran quickly upstairs without speaking.

Jack sighed. The fire extinguished, the rage abated.

Sharon looked at him.

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

Jack nodded. Sharon looked around, shook her head.

‘We can't go on like this,' she said. ‘I can't go on like this.'

Jack looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed.

‘I love you,' he said.

She knew how difficult it was for him to say that. She looked into his eyes, tired and tear-ready. She could see his heart breaking behind them.

‘I love you too,' she said, then looked away from him. She couldn't face those eyes when her next words came out.

‘But I'm still going out.'

She turned from him, walked to the door. She put her hand on the lock, stopped. There was something more she had to say to him. She looked around. He was still there, staring at her. She opened her mouth to speak.

But the words weren't there.

‘I'll probably be late,' she said. ‘Don't wait up for me.'

She opened the door, slipped out, pulled it gently yet firmly closed behind her.

She walked away from the house, bracing herself in case Jack was to shout or follow her. Try to reason with her, get her to stay.

But no sound came.

She pulled her coat collar up against her neck, buttoned her coat against the cold.

She walked away.

Sharon woke with a start, gasped and reached for the bedside alarm clock. It wasn't there.

Panicking, she sat bolt upright, looked around. The curtains were unfamiliar, the room unfamiliar. The figure sleeping next to her unfamiliar.

Then she remembered. Where she'd been. What she'd done.

With Ben Marshall.

She threw back the covers, got out of bed. She stood there naked, scanning the room for her clothes.

Sharon had known what would happen. As soon as she had walked into the restaurant, blocking her home life, Jack, from her mind, she had known. Almost as if it had been preordained.

Ben had been sitting at the table waiting for her. She wasn't late – in fact she was slightly early – but Ben had arrived before her. He always did that. She had asked him why on one occasion.

‘Because it's not polite to make a lady wait by herself for a man in a bar or a restaurant.'

Sharon had smiled at that.

As he rose from the table to kiss her cheek, she noticed the appreciative look he gave her. A light, quivering thrill ran through her body. She was glad she had worn the minidress.

She moved around the room in her underwear. Even lit only by the curtain-filtered streetlight, she liked his room. It was modern, groovy. It looked like it had been designed rather than decorated. It struck a chord within her. This was what she wanted for herself. This life. She was still interested in fashion, she liked design. She would no longer allow herself to be housebound by housewifery, to be mummified by motherhood. This life. She didn't know how to get it yet, but she would learn.

She looked around the room again, trying to find her tights.

Talk had come easily at the table. As they ate and drank, Ben told her more about his new company.

‘Property management,' he said, swallowing a mouthful of red wine. Sharon smiled, looked suitably impressed.

‘Big money in that now,' he said. ‘Take over some of those old houses in Heaton or Byker or wherever, convert them into flats, rent them out to grateful families at an affordable price and there you go. Shorten the housing queue so you look good to the council, plus we get paid for it. What could be sweeter?'

‘I thought Dan Smith was going to slap compulsory purchase orders on lots of those old streets? What if he does that to you?'

Ben smiled. ‘Even better. Get a good price, start up again. And make more money.' And who is this “we”?'