Ardent Justice

by Research Professor Of Social Policy Peter Taylor-Gooby

  He felt in his pocket. ‘Something to show you.’

  He placed a pile of cards on the table and leaned forward to fan then out. She loved his hair, the rich smell of an oil she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Mariska helped. She knows someone who does printing.’

  His eyes were on hers, his face ready to smile.

  The cards were identical: the silhouette of a woman, caped, in a tight-fitting costume against a full moon, a logo in the corner, and writing in gothic script.

  ‘They’re business cards,’ she said. ‘Who are they for? And who’s this? A super-hero?’

  ‘It’s you. Read what it says: it’s Tax Woman – Champion of the Welfare State.’ He couldn’t help grinning, proud as the dog that brought back the stick.

  ‘I’d never fit into the costume. And I can’t do press-ups.’

  ‘Look at it properly. She’s a real woman. She isn’t as thin as a rake, she’s tall and she stands like everyone else and she’s not sucking her stomach in and poking her chest out. And she’s got normal muscles and – look – she’s carrying a brief-case. She’s lovely,’ he said. ‘She’s like you.’

  He paused and waited.

  ‘That’s me?’

  ‘Certainly is.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘You’re Tax Woman. Number one.’

  ‘What – you mean I safeguard the city by night and strike fear into the hearts of tax-dodgers everywhere? It’s not like that. Wish it was. It’s mostly spreadsheets.’

  ‘Don’t matter. When you told me your dream, I knew. I could see you there, looking out, watching over the city, all of them, the grabbers and the givers, the rich and the poor. It’s how I see you. I can’t help it.’

  He looked up at her with his gentle eyes and she felt a rush of feeling for him. Why not? Just for once, do what you want to do and don’t listen to the bit that says ‘Let’s just think about this.’

  Why ever not?

  She seized his hand. ‘OK. And you can be part of it. We’re a team!’

  She pulled him towards her across the table and kissed him, full on the mouth. She felt his arms tight round her. If I could stop time now, just now, us together like this, in front of everyone, not caring about anything, that would be … number one.

  Someone coughed next to her. ‘Double burger and beans twice, one real, one veggie, one chips, two coke, one diet.’

  The young woman slapped the two plates down on the table. She was about eighteen, freckled, with fine fair hair and pallid, slightly greasy skin. There was a burn mark on her wrist. She stared incuriously at them, caught Ade’s eye, winked and turned away.

  ‘The two of us,’ said Ade. ‘We don’t fight crime. We make the thing work. I’m tax and you’re spend. I help get the money in, you run the Centre, supporting people who need it. But it’s not going to be easy.’

  ‘You’re cool. You can make a difference, like I said: you’re number one.’

  She looked at him. He really believes it.

  ‘I nearly killed Webster. I hate him.’

  ‘You got issues. All heroes have issues. Makes you stronger. If you’d just gone home after the restaurant, licked your wounds, nothing would have happened.’ And I wouldn’t have met you again, she thought. And there’s the wad of cash, snug in my pocket.

  Paul stared at her across the table. ‘It’s cool.’ He grinned, then frowned.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You should tell me. It’s no good if we don’t tell each other things.’

  ‘OK,’ he looked away, then back at her, his eyes serious. ‘It’s just… I thought of something. The black buddy.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? You’ve seen the movies. The black buddy.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘The black buddy,’ he said ‘always takes the bullet in the final scene. For Whitey. Whitey’s fine, everyone’s sorry for black buddy. I’m the black buddy.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I can dodge.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not going to be that kind of movie. We’re writing the script.’

  ‘Sure. It’s just… forget it. We got to think about a transport, a long low black car, with ejector seats and afterburners. And gadgets.’

  ‘Push-bikes. Better for the environment.’ A voice in her said: Trust your feelings.

  She reached inside her jacket. ‘And I got something for the Centre. Get us started.’

  She pulled the envelope out of her pocket and laid it on the table between them, the wad of money showing at the torn end. Paul stared at it and then at her.

  ‘Cool,’ he said, very softly.

  16

  They were in the pub, warm and safe, with condensation on the windows and the comfortable feeling she always had in a pub, and dark brown woodwork and beautiful gleaming brass.

  ‘Have another one,’ she said, ‘we should celebrate,’ and pointed at his glass, missing it. Jesus, she thought, this is going to be a night. We should be making plans about Robyn Hood, but we can do that later.

  ‘Watch it,’ said Paul, ‘You’ll get pissed.’

  ‘You ain’t seen me drink. Not properly.’

  She put her hand against the wall to steady herself and dived into the crowd round the bar. Best pub in Bethnal Green. No one ever hassles you, everyone friendly. Never been here before. Show ‘em how I can drink.

  She was laughing at something when she got back to him, but she couldn’t remember what it was. He seemed to think it was funny too.

  ‘Whisky chasers,’ she said, ‘doubles. Down in one.’

  They were on the street and she couldn’t remember how they got there. Rain pattered on her face. She reached out and felt the drops on her palm, on the back of her hand. So soft, so gentle, like a butterfly walking on her skin.

  Paul grabbed her arm and stumbled against her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re lost.’

  She pushed at him. He was soft too, soft and gentle, like a big Wobbly Joe. You pushed at him, he went away, and he came back. You pushed at him again, he came back again.

  ‘You are pissed.’ He started laughing again. ‘Why do you keep pushing me?’

  ‘Course I am. So are you!’

  She had him clasped tight against her now so they could both walk together, from streetlight to streetlight, into shadow, into light, into shadow, into light. There must be an all-night bus somewhere, she was sure there was. She was off work, she could take him back with her, she didn’t have to get up tomorrow, they could lie there all morning … Don’t think about it.

  She heard the rumble of an engine and a glowing shape, all windows with rain on them and yellow light loomed up out of the darkness. She pushed Paul and he stuck out his arm, swaying towards it, suddenly bright in the head-lights.

  A horn blared out and she held her ears and it was sweeping past them, on and off into the night.

  ‘Missed it,’ he said. ‘We need a bus-stop. Let’s keep walking.’

  ‘Maybe there’s a café. There’s always a café.’

  They were somewhere else, there weren’t any pubs. There were tall concrete buildings all around them, white and faintly luminous in the moonlight. She couldn’t see anyone on the streets. Paul had gone quiet. He was concentrating on walking, holding onto her hand, guiding her along, keeping just on the edge of the path. She wanted to sit down.

  ‘Got a cigarette?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t smoke, gave it up. So did you. You said.’

  ‘Yeah. Mostly. Let’s get another drink.’

  There was a burst of noise, a babble of talking and the rattle of glasses, abruptly cut off. A group of men were standing on the pavement right in front of them outside an entrance with steps. She could see the glow of cigarettes.

&nb
sp; ‘Come on,’ she said.

  One of the men was looking at her. He was large, broad-faced, with fat round his eyes and a barrel-chest. A fedora hat was pushed back on his head. The image of a laughing village bobby flashed into Ade’s mind.

  ‘Whoa,’ he said, holding up a large hand. ‘It’s a private showing. Where’s your invitation?’

  ‘Don’t be mean, Ronnie,’ said one of the others. ‘You can let her in. It’s your gallery. Don’t know about her friend though.’

  He sniggered.

  ‘She big enough for you, Ronnie?’ one of them said.

  Everyone was laughing, even Paul.

  Ade had Paul by the arm. ‘Come on, you can’t leave him out in the cold. Show us your gallery.’

  They were all laughing, gathering behind her, pushing her forward.

  Then they were in a bright room with pictures on the walls and people standing in ones and twos looking at them. It’s an art gallery. Mum loved art. She knew nothing about it, but she loved it. She’d never been in a gallery – or maybe she had, before I was born. Dear Mum!

  The clothes they were wearing would cost a fortune. She was out of place, but who cares? It’s art. She knew she’d seen some of the people before, but she couldn’t think where.

  Ronnie looked out of place too. His clothes were probably expensive but they didn’t look smart on him, his gut bulging over his waistband. His expression was wrong too, the cheerful smile of someone pleased with himself who wanted to share his feelings, not the elegant closed faces and appraising eyes of the others. She looked round the room and a thought bobbed up in her mind: they’re all here because they think they can get something out of it. Not Ronnie, he just likes the occasion.

  There were tables with wine bottles on them at the corners of the room and someone holding out a glass, brimful. Ade downed the wine, the bubbles tickling her throat. She knew she didn’t belong here, but it was good booze. Another one and they’d move on. Paul grinned at her, a glass in each hand. She looked round. No one seemed to be enjoying the pictures, no one was even smiling. A woman in blue jeans and an elegantly cut crimson T-shirt next to her pointed at a delicate water-colour of the Windscale Plant: ‘Three hundred thousand! Saw one just like that go for a hundred in Amsterdam last week. Same artist. Euros.’

  Her partner, a younger man with impossibly smooth skin in a neat business suit, paused in front of a giant crucifixion, a collage of thousands of ATM receipts. He wrinkled his nose: ‘Two forty-seven for this! Ronnie’s pushing his luck. He’s lost it.’

  She felt a pressure in the small of her back and took a pace forward. Ronnie was standing next to her, moving her gently forward, like he owned her and was showing her off.

  ‘Pictures,’ said Ronnie. She could feel his breath, warm and moist on her cheek. ‘I love ‘em. I love art, all of it, modern, old, avant garde, retro, it’s so exciting. I love it. Good investment, too – never pay any tax on it, the way I do it, neither do my friends,’ he winked. ‘I got friends, lots of friends. See the one I just bought?’

  He pointed: a black canvas with a streak of lightning, jagged, brilliant white, searing across it and a scale in percentage of GDP up the left hand edge. The label said “Flashback”. When Ade looked closely she saw the black was made up of an infinite number of shades of dark grey, drab green, navy blue, so that it seemed to waver and recede in front of her and she felt sick and couldn’t really focus on it.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said. She had a glass in each hand now. She raised one of them to Paul.

  ‘Yes, got ‘em all at home, Tintoretto, Hockney, some my five-year old did.’

  He gave a bark of laughter, then looked at her appraisingly and ran his hand across his mouth. ‘You like art? You should come and see them.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Put lots of money in this gallery. Buy and sell, buy and sell – but only to people with too much money, that’s the secret. Put half a million pounds over your fire-place, that’s money. They all know me here. They love pictures, sure they do. They think they’re a good investment. They love money.’

  Those people. She’d seen them before in their business suits the other side of polished oak desks, at Somerset House in front of the Tribunal, one of them walking down the street in front of her once, chatting to the permanent secretary. She glanced round. They were here, everywhere, all of them, the men from the city, the bastards who sneered at her across the desk and never paid up. She felt instantly on her guard. None of them recognised her, she was alright with Ronnie. Where was Paul? We should leave soon, soon as I’ve finished my drink.

  Ronnie raised his hand to a crop-haired young woman with the face of a china doll and shrewd grey eyes. She wore a tight silvery dress and sat perched on the edge of the drinks table. She nodded to him, hardly moving her head, and continued to survey the room.

  He was laughing. ‘Artists! Hey, Annie, what do you think of my latest?’

  He touched the painting. The young woman glanced swiftly at it.

  ‘Chip-paper.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. It’s art.’

  He rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder. She jerked away from him, turned and ran her eyes over Ade as if she were a dress she couldn’t make up her mind about. Ade felt the blood rushing to her face.

  ‘Don’t think much of your other latest, either.’

  She stared at the woman. Ronnie nudged her.

  ‘See. Temperamental. But they’re artists. All my friends are artists. Don’t take it to heart. Come on Annie, give me your professional opinion.’

  The woman laughed: ‘I’m not bidding, not my oyster, and there’s so much competition around these days. Paintings, you know where you are, but… maybe ten, maybe twenty.’

  Ade took a pace towards her, slopping wine out of the glass. ‘Show some respect. I’m not for sale.’

  ‘You should ask him what he thinks, dearie.’ The woman nodded at Ronnie and stalked away.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of her. She’s upset, she did the Windscale one. Hasn’t sold.’ He stood back and studied Ade, his eyes running down her body. Ade felt suddenly anxious. She looked round for Paul. He was filling his glass at the next table.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

  ‘Just a minute.’ The fat man was holding her by the arm just above the elbow. ‘You’re worth a lot more than she thinks. Don’t be upset. You could take up modelling. I can help. I’m somebody in this world, you know.’

  He let go of her arm. There was an appeal in his eyes; he wanted people to like him, he wanted to show off to them. She could see them all around the room, drinking his wine and carefully avoiding him, and sneering at him to each other.

  He chuckled, he sounded pleased with himself. ‘I’m serious. Hey, Grant.’

  He waved to a sharp-faced man in a three-piece suit who reminded Ade of a younger Sergeant Jones, without the moustache. Improvement.

  The man glanced at him, mumbled ‘Excuse me,’ and pushed past.

  Ronnie raised his voice: ‘Grant. I want your advice.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wells. How can I help?’

  ‘This young man is Grant Forniss,’ said Ronnie to Ade. ‘One of my employees. He’ll go far.’

  Grant didn’t bother to hide his frown. ‘I’m an intern, Mr Wells, an associate. I was just checking on the guests.’

  ‘Well here’s one you should be polite to. Annie thinks she’s worth a lot more than my picture. What do you say?’

  The young man tilted his head on one side and ran his eyes down Ade’s body. She suddenly felt everyone was looking at her as if she had a price tag round her neck. She couldn’t see where Paul had gone.

  ‘I say, Annie always was an optimist. I have to go.’

  The fat man laughed happily.

  ‘I have to go too
,’ said Ade. She stepped forward, caught her foot against the table and swayed sideways, slopping most of the drink out of her glass.

  ‘Here, enjoy yourself, have another before you go.’ He winked again. None of the rich people were looking at them. She thought she caught sight of Webster with a silk cravat round his neck, at the centre of a group of people, but he was turning away, she couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I’ve got my own supply. Art and booze, booze and art. Nothing better.’

  He’s not like Webster, arrogant with his wealth, he’s vulnerable, he wants people to be his friends. He likes art, just like Mum did. Her thoughts came slow, like treacle. She wanted another drink. The air in the room was heavy and close. The fat man was busy at a side-table. He passed her a large bowl-shaped glass full of sparkling pink wine.

  ‘This is the stuff.’

  The drink tasted sharp and rich at the same time. She took another sip. Everything round her suddenly became clearer. She stared across the room. The person she’d thought was Webster had gone.

  The fat man was standing very close to her, drinking something that looked like water but smelled pure. He kept glancing over her shoulder to see who else was around.

  ‘Between you and me, you shouldn’t take much notice of ‘em. Artists, all jealous as hell. I dabble, and then it’s business of course. But I love the art.’ He took another swig out of his glass. ‘There’s always business. Everyone in the city wants pictures, investment, that’s all they care about. Money eh? Buy and sell and never tell the taxman. You’ve got to live.’

  His eyes sparkled. ‘We’re different, you and me. We know how to enjoy ourselves.’

  Ade felt dizzy. She wanted to find something to say to make him go away for a minute. He was standing too close to her. She made a motion with her hand and he seized it to steady her. She felt his other hand brush against her back and slide down across her bottom. She didn’t want him to do that. She put out her other hand and rested it on the edge of the table. Everything in the room seemed very near and jumbled together and far away at the same time.

  She heard Wells saying, ‘You’re good fun. Just hang on here. I’ll get us a taxi.’