Dan Smith smiled.
‘That’s an audacious concept.’
‘It is. And I’m working towards it. I’m starting by moving into construction.’
‘Well, you’ll have to go a long way to beat Bell and Sons. Number-one company in the area. Our first choice.’
‘Well …’ Ben looked at his immaculately polished boot. ‘Not going to be around for ever, are they? Not the way Ralph Bell is.’
Dan Smith sighed sympathetically.
‘The man’s had a lot of misfortune in his life,’ he said. ‘Especially recently’
‘Perhaps he won’t be in business much longer.’
Dan Smith shrugged.
‘Perhaps you’d be open to a bit of … competitive tendering.’
Dan Smith looked at Ben, gauging him. Then he nodded.
‘If the time comes, we’ll talk about it then. I’m open to offers.’
Ben smiled.
The two men talked more. Ben found himself liking Dan Smith, being swept along by his vision. A visionary bureaucrat.
Accent on the visionary.
Dan Smith stood up.
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Marshall, I’ll have to be getting on.’
He stood up, offered his hand. Ben took it.
‘Pleasure to meet you.’
‘Likewise, Mr Smith.’
‘Call me Dan.’
‘Dan.’
‘I like your ideas. I’m sure we can do business together. Let’s keep in touch.’ He gestured to the door. ‘Terry will see you out.’
Terry did see Ben out, all the way to the lift. He made his way across the foyer, giving the brunette receptionist a wink, getting a giggle in return. Once outside in the fountained courtyard, he took a deep breath of cold, January air.
‘Let’s hope 1965 brings us plenty to be cheerful about,’ he said out loud.
He walked to the car park to pick up his car.
He had an appointment with his solicitor.
Mae Blacklock opened her eyes. But the nightmare was still with her.
Waking or sleeping, the nightmare was still with her.
She wanted to get out of bed, get a drink of water. Go to the toilet.
But she didn’t dare.
Her mother might be waiting for her. Might have things for her to do.
She clutched the stuffed rabbit close to her chest. The toy was threadbare, dirty and well handled. It was the only protection she had. It was no protection at all.
At least she hadn’t wet the bed this time. She hated that. Her mother would hang the mattress on the line so that the entire street could see what she had done. And rub her face in the wee on the sheets.
She lay there, covers pulled up tight, staring at the ceiling.
Trying not to breathe, not to exist.
After that first night, that first, horrible night, her mother had started in earnest. Men would arrive at the house specifically to see Mae. Mae would be taken into the white room with the crucifixes on the wall, the expressions of love and agony, and made to greet the men. Mae didn’t want to do it, refused at first.
‘Remember the prison,’ her mother said, ‘where they send the naughty children who won’t do what their mams tell them.’
Mae looked at the man, at her mother. Terrified. She nodded.
‘Well, that’s where you’ll be if you don’t do what you’re told.’
Her mother nodded at the man, who handed her some money and began to undress.
And he had her.
And he hurt her.
Sometimes her mother was there. Holding her down, forcing her mouth or legs open.
This just got the men more excited.
Sometimes the men would tie her up, blindfold her.
Sometimes they would hit her with things. Hard things. Soft things. It didn’t matter. They were all used with force. They all hurt.
Sometimes her mother was there, laughing and joining in. Sometimes she wasn’t.
It didn’t matter.
Sometimes her mother would take her to another woman’s house where the same things would happen.
Afterwards, Mae would have to wait while her mother drank gin and went to bed with the other woman.
She would hear them laughing together. Swearing together.
Mae retreated to a small place inside herself. A small cell that she couldn’t escape from but at least nothing could get in to hurt her.
She felt tiny, powerless.
She felt like she was dying slowly, a piece at a time.
The girl in the bubble. The small, dark bubble.
Other children seemed further away than ever.
Mae desperately needed a wee.
Slowly, she flung back the covers, swung her feet to the floor. She pad-padded over the lino, down the hall and to the toilet. The cold made her shiver through her nightie.
She finished up, wiped herself off. Gently, because she was sore all the time. Then she debated. To flush or not to flush. The sound might wake her mother. Make her angry. But then if she didn’t flush the toilet, her mother might be angry about that too.
She took a deep breath, pulled the chain. Kept the door tightly closed until the last of the water echoed away.
Then tiptoed back to her bed.
She risked a glance around her mother’s bedroom door; careful not to make the door creak, she pushed it open.
Her mother sprawled naked across the bed, bedclothes twisted and tangled about her body as if she were roped down. She was snoring loudly, head back, mouth open.
Booze-snoring, Mae called it.
Mae wondered what day it was.
Saturday.
Good.
She hurried out of her bedroom, began to get dressed.
Hopefully, she could be out of the house before her mother woke up.
She knew just where to go.
Bert sat at his kitchen table with a mug of strong tea, a Woodbine and the Daily Mirror.
Breakfast.
He turned to the back page, began to read the football news, planning on studying the form, too, put a bet on later. There was a knock at the door.
Bert pulled on his Woodbine, set it down in an ashtray and, pulling his braces up over his vest, went to answer it.
He opened the door. There stood Mae. Fully dressed in her winter coat, clutching her battered old stuffed rabbit.
She’s too old for that, he had thought on several occasions. Too old to be carrying a little kid’s toy around. He hadn’t said anything, though. He had heard that some of the kids at school had taunted her about that. He had also heard that at least one of them had required hospital treatment as a result.
Bert had said nothing about it.
‘Hello, pet,’ he said to her now. ‘This is a surprise.’
Her dark eyes bored into him.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Course you can, pet. In you come.’
She went into the kitchen. He closed the door, then followed her.
‘There’s tea in the pot still, if you want some,’ he said. ‘Or I’ve milk if you’d prefer.’
Mae didn’t reply, just helped herself to a cup of tea, sat down.
Bert looked at her. Mae was still a little girl, but sometimes she seemed so grown up. Drinking tea. What was she now? Nine or ten? Something like that, he thought. Maybe even younger. And she carried herself like a grown up. Talked like a grown-up. When she talked at all. Mostly just sat there. Stared.
Bert often found that unnerving.
‘Can I stay here today?’ she said.
‘Well, for a bit, aye. I’m goin’ out later, like.’
‘Where?’
‘The pub. At dinnertime. An’ the bettin’ shop an’ all.’
‘Can I stay here?’
‘Well …’
He looked at Mae. Her big eyes, her blank expression. There was something going on behind those eyes, inside her mind. He would get an occasional glimpse of what seemed like terror fluttering
and flickering, like a caged animal desperate to escape. He didn’t know what was wrong with her, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him if he asked.
And it probably wasn’t any of his business.
‘Aye, go on then. Will Monica be missin’ you?’
Mae shook her head.
‘All right, then, you can stay.’
Mae gave a slight smile.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Can I go and see Adam?’
‘Course you can, pet. You know where he is.’
She went out into the yard, looking almost happy.
Bert sat back down, picked up his Woodbine. It was nearly half ash. He took a few last pulls from it, stubbed it out.
Watched the smoke curl and drift to the ceiling.
He hardly saw Monica any more. She had never been a big part of his life; they were friends who had occasional sex more than anything else. In the last few months he had noticed a change in Monica. She had become harder, crueller. Maybe she had always been, he thought. Maybe, as their relationship was dwindling, he was seeing her in a more honest light.
There were other women around but, if he was honest with himself, the older he got the less interested in sex he became.
He read the paper, drank his tea and smoked for much of the morning. Mae played in the yard, talking to imaginary people, acting out imaginary scenes. Bert didn’t listen.
‘Mae,’ he said, putting his coat and cap on, ‘I’m away out now. Will you be all right, pet?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Champion. I’ll be in the Shovel if you need us.’
He left the house.
A few pints, conversations, wasted bets and hours later, he returned. Took up his position in the armchair and fell asleep with the newspaper over his chest.
Forgotten Mae was even there.
Bert began to feel an unfamiliar sensation in his groin. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Behind his closed eyes, he saw Ava Gardner appear before him. He was surprised to see her there but, as he had always liked her, he didn’t mind. She was wearing a black, see-through negligee, and seeing the outline of her body, the curve of her breasts and thighs, gave him an erection. He watched as she smiled at him, then bent over before him.
He felt Ava’s lips around his erect cock. Pushing up and down. Up and down. He smiled, opened his eyes.
And froze.
There was Mae. Kneeling on his legs with her mouth over his penis.
‘What you doin’?’
He jerked away. The movement sent her crashing to the floor. She looked up at him, eyes spinning different emotions, going round like fruit machine wheels: fear, incomprehension, disappointment. And more he didn’t recognize. Couldn’t name.
He quickly buttoned himself up.
‘What you doin’, pet?’
Mae scuttled herself into a corner, stared up at him. Tears were welling in her eyes.
She looked like a hurt animal.
Terrified.
He thought the best thing to do would be to play it down. Reassure her.
‘Come here,’ he said and held out his arms.
She stared at him, didn’t move.
‘Come on, pet, it’s all right. Come over here.’
He managed a small smile for her. It was an effort.
‘Come on.’
Slowly, she picked herself up off the floor and crossed towards him.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
He had meant on a chair, but she sat on his lap. It made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t have the heart to turf her off. She put her arms around his neck, buried her face into him.
‘Men like that,’ she said, her voice a small, fragile thing. ‘Men like it when I do that.’
‘Not all men, pet. Not all of them.’
He felt her hug him all the harder. He felt her tears on his skin.
Bert’s body was shaking. From anger or shock, he didn’t know which.
‘Come on, pet,’ he said, his voice soothing, ‘no harm done, eh?’
Mae kept sobbing.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘what about a nice cup of tea, eh? I’ll put the kettle on an’ make us a nice cup of tea. Would you like that?’
He felt her head nod slowly against his neck.
‘Right, then. You sit here and I’ll do it.’
She clung on even harder.
Bert forced a smile. ‘Come on, pet, I can’t get up if you won’t let go.’
She didn’t let go.
Bert sighed. ‘What is it, pet? Is something wrong at home?’
He felt her body go rigid. She froze in mid-sob. She pulled her head back, stared at him.
There was that look again, he thought. That scared, caged animal look.
‘All right, pet, you stay here. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
Bert stood up, leaving Mae in the armchair, and made his way to the kitchen. He busied himself filling the kettle and teapot, trying not to think about what had just happened.
Then he heard the door slam.
He went back into the room. Mae was gone.
Just her rabbit left on the chair.
He sighed, shook his head.
From the kitchen, the kettle began to whine.
Just what’s going on in that house, he wondered.
‘So how d’you want me, then?’
‘On top.’
‘You want me to do all the work, then?’
‘You don’t expect me to, do you? I’m paying you. Fucking do it.’
She was a whore, a cheap one. Young, but already beyond the point of redemption. Ben liked that. It turned him on, adding to her corruption.
Sweaty, dirty sex in a sweaty, dirty basement.
He loved it.
She wore a see-through baby doll nightie and giggled when she mounted him. A frisson ran through his body as she lowered herself on to him.
He thought of Sharon.
‘Just popping out to see a client, darling,’ he had said. ‘You’ll be all right on your own for an hour or so?’
She had smiled and nodded. Ben could still see the adoration in her eyes. He feigned it and returned it.
Sharon.
A means to an end. He had seduced her, corrupted her, and now had her where he wanted her. He still kept up the pretence of courting her, wining and dining her, but, like commuting to work or eating dinner, it was part of the routine. A workmanlike but necessary part of his day. Her ageing body no longer thrilled him, but he played along. Fucked her. Because he still had a part for her to play.
‘You’re smilin’. You like that?’
‘Yeah, I like that. Don’t talk. Just keep going.’
He had driven past his mother’s old place in Byker a few days earlier. He didn’t know why; he hadn’t felt the need to do it previously. Must be getting sentimental.
The house had been allowed to atrophy. He could imagine his mother sitting inside. Gnarled and twisted into a hate-filled old age.
He had parked and looked at the house.
And felt nothing.
Another person, another life.
He had driven away.
He felt an orgasm building inside him. This pockmarked, flabby-thighed whore was pulling it out of him.
He thought of his plan. How near it was to completion.
And came.
*
Summer arrived. School’s out.
The Animals had left the Club A Go Go, gone on to bigger things: ‘We Gotta Get out of This Place’ duking it out with the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’ and the Beatles’ ‘Help’ for the top spot.
And Newcastle was changing. Dan Smith planned, implemented. Dan the man who made things happen:
New homes. New roads. New office blocks. New civic centre. New airport. New university.
New city.
Newcastle.
And Dan Smith everywhere: the papers. The radio. The television. Calling for more money, more employers, more leisure facilities, more jobs.
More, more, more.
And Dan getting what he wanted.
Dan loved and adored. Admired and revered. Mr Popularity.
And the city remade in his image.
Dan’s Castle.
And Scotswood was changing too:
Not just tower blocks and attendant periphery, but a new abattoir. A fully automated, conveyor-belt-driven slaughterhouse. Costing two million pounds, filling eleven acres of land. Between Scotswood Road and Whitehouse Road, a place called Paradise.
Animals would be killed, bled, gutted, skinned, beheaded, dehoofed, carved, chopped. Passing down the line, being stripped back to their component meat products. Packaged and processed and freighted away. Reinforced-concrete and white-tile efficiency. No waste. Carcass after carcass.
Good for Newcastle, good for the area, good for jobs.
One lone voice of dissent: Professor M. M. Cooper, Dean of Agriculture at King’s College. ‘Any slaughterhouse built within a city rapidly creates slum conditions,’ he said. ‘I do not think it is a question of civic pride. Get the dashed thing out of town.’
No one listened.
The tower blocks and attendant periphery. The abattoir.
Paradise.
Summer, and school’s out:
Mae stood at the top end of her street, looked down towards the river. Her eyes were hard, dark and empty. Showing nothing, filmed over like emotional cataracts.
The car was there again: 1600 Cortina. Some suited man behind the wheel. Third day now. Sitting and looking.
At her.
Mae knew what he was there for. What he wanted. Even at a distance, she knew. A sense she had developed; forcibly planted, and violently encouraged to grow inside her. It enabled her to spot needs, pinpoint twisted wants. She had become a child alchemist, had found the whore’s philosophers’ stone: she knew how to turn base desires into money.
She walked down the street. Around her, other children played, people led their lives. She ignored them. She was working. She reached the car. The man looked at her, his eyes wide. She looked into them, saw what he wanted, what he needed, before he did.
The man kept staring. Mae didn’t move. The man licked his dry lips, swallowed. Mae didn’t move. The man realized she wasn’t going to go away so slid across and wound his window down. His hand was shaking.
The White Room Page 23