by A A Abbott
His eyes were twinkling now, probably at the prospect of money rather than any Christmas spirit. “I wouldn’t build a hotel, just sell the site to Hilton or the Holiday Inn. You can walk there from the station. It’s a thought.”
Tanya, a sprig of mistletoe pinned to her crimson-dyed bob, turned up at their table like a middle-aged, and very determined, elf. She clapped her hands. “Listen up, Marty and all! There are taxis outside to take us to the karaoke. Marty, you need to settle the bill.” She guided him away.
As they were leaving, Tim took Kat aside. “Amy thinks you aren’t a karaoke fan,” he said.
“No,” she admitted.
“I’ve got a hotel room just the other side of St Paul’s Square,” he told her. “Two minutes’ walk. Think you can manage it?”
She glanced around for Amy. Her friend was just stepping into a cab with Erik.
Tim’s younger brother, Dan, dashed after Amy. “Room for one more in that cab?” He winked and waved at Tim.
Kat realised how much she’d had to drink. “I’ll bale out with you,” she told Tim, draping her leopard-print mac around her shoulders.
“Allow me,” Tim said, removing it and helping her arms into the coat. “It’s mild for December, but not that warm.”
He held her close, supporting her as they walked uphill through St Paul’s churchyard. The handsome white church loomed in front of them, and then to their right as they crossed the square.
Marty was smart: there were hotels springing up all around the centre of Birmingham. Their destination, a modern grey cuboid which looked out of place amongst its Victorian Gothic neighbours, lay in a side street not far from the converted jewellery workshop where Erik and Amy had flats. Kat supposed her brother and best friend were singing with the rest of Marty’s workforce, most of them young people who had been born after Duran Duran’s heyday.
Tim checked in, showing the receptionist an email on his phone.
Belatedly, Kat wondered why he’d splashed out. As if echoing her thoughts, he said, “Dad’s paying. Tanya booked the hotel for him, in case he was too drunk to go home. But I’ve checked with Angela, and she’s collecting him from the karaoke bar. It’s a cheap room, and small, but it’s got everything we need.”
The bed, veiled in white, occupied half the space. Kat took off her coat and heels, lay down, and stretched. “Mmm, it’s comfortable,” she said. “Care to join me?”
Tim smiled. “Did I tell you earlier that your dress is fabulous?” he said. “Of course, I like what’s in it even more.”
Kat’s little black number was expensive and skimpy, a relic of the time when she’d lived with Ross in London and had more money than love. She pulled Tim into an embrace, feeling him unzip the back of the garment and ease it off.
He kissed her, teasing the tip of her tongue with his. The dress was suddenly a puddle of fabric on the floor.
Tim breathed in sharply. “You’re wearing stockings, Kat?”
“Just for you.” She’d expected to take him home.
Tim fondled her breasts, slipping off her silky bra and then her knickers. He began to kiss her thighs.
Kat lounged on the bed, excitement rising, happy for once for Tim to take the lead. “Aren’t you going to undress as well?” she asked.
“In due time,” Tim said. He flicked his tongue to the point where her legs joined, teasing her, his fingers reaching to pinch her nipples. “I don’t think you’re ready,” he said, his voice husky.
Kat felt herself flush. “I am,” she protested, pulling his mouth towards hers. She fumbled with his shirt buttons.
“Perhaps you are,” he said. Swiftly, he unbuckled his belt to show her that he was too. He threw his clothes onto the floor and entered her.
Kat relaxed, moving in time with her lover, basking in the excitement she saw in his eyes. Waves of intense pleasure filled her. Although usually controlled, she found herself screaming Tim’s name as their passion reached its mutual peak.
Tim withdrew. He stroked her hair, tenderly placing a towel beneath her bottom. She hadn’t noticed the fluffy white cloth before; perhaps it had been lying, folded, beside the bed.
“It’s just as well you didn’t go singing with the others,” he murmured. “They’d have heard you in Coventry.”
“Want a shower?” Kat asked. She was suddenly energised.
“Who knows? Maybe we’ll start again afterwards,” Tim said.
As he began running the shower in the adjacent wetroom, Kat reclined on the bed. She was going to enjoy every minute of this unexpected Christmas bonus.
Chapter 18.
Shaun
“Merry Christmas,” the screw said, his tone bored as he unlocked Shaun’s cell. “We’re going to the chapel. Don’t be late!”
Sidey shuffled after him as Shaun joined the cons being led to the circular space that served as a religious meeting-place for every denomination in the prison. It was a chance to stretch their legs, although the journey was slow because of the repeated unlocking and locking of metal gates that occurred on the way.
“You’re looking thin, Al. Losing weight?” This was a lag who had just returned to the wing after a month of solitary confinement.
Shaun was tempted to tell him to go to the top of the class, but resisted. “A bit. Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“You seen a doctor?”
“He gave me aspirin,” Shaun said. It was the medic’s standard remedy, but Shaun couldn’t fault him this time. His shrinking waistline resulted from spurning the stodge with which Belmarsh bulked out the prisoners’ meals. Tea-time sandwiches found their way to Sidey. Shaun ate little but protein, vegetables and fruit.
It was a balancing act. He was aiming to lose enough weight to secure a hospital referral, but without actually putting his health at risk. To be certain of holding his own in a fight, he still worked his muscles in the gym every day, although he wasn’t taking black market steroids anymore.
The lag scowled. “Keep on at him, Al. Don’t let him fob you off.”
They filed into the chapel. Shaun quickly looked around for Jon and the other wing bosses.
This was nominally an Anglican service, with all the prayers and hymns that involved. Many prisoners stumbled through them. Spiritual guidance wasn’t high on their agenda. They were here to gain respite from their cells, and to network. Any prisoner who could plausibly claim allegiance to the Church of England did so on admission to Belmarsh, regardless of their familiarity with the order of service.
Today, Shaun was looking forward to a longer ceremony in Jon’s company, with plenty of loud carols to mask their conversation. The feast day fell on a Sunday this year, so the weekly price-fixing, score-settling and intelligence-swapping would take place as usual. While much of the business was conducted on illicit mobile phones, there was no substitute for seeing the whites of a man’s eyes.
Shaun stood next to his son, waiting for one of the better-known carols to begin. ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ was always popular. As the prisoners belted out the first verse, Shaun turned to Jon. “Merry Christmas, son,” he whispered.
“Merry Christmas, Dad.”
“It will be. We’ve got hooch.”
“I can do better,” Jon said. “Vince sent in good stuff. A little Christmas treat.”
More rumours had reached Shaun’s ears. He decided to have it out with Jon once and for all. “Really? You’re telling me he’s no more than a friend?” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Like I said before, we’re just mates, Dad,” Jon hissed.
“Nothing more than that?” Shaun asked, peering at his son’s blue eyes. They were innocent as a baby’s.
“No, Dad.”
“I’ve heard otherwise. First, it was Lesley Mowatt...”
“That cow. It’s none of her business.” Jon paused. “It’s no one’s business. But I don’t need people, anyhow. Not the way Vince does. Not like you do.”
“Me? What do you mean?” Shaun sn
arled as he flushed. He surely couldn’t let that go. He’d worked hard for his reputation, one that inspired fear and respect in equal measure.
“You needed Mum,” Jon said. “I did too, once. Not now.” He lowered his voice. “We’ll get you out of here, Dad - out of it. Nothing else matters. Not who I have sex with, okay? That’s just for convenience. It could be anyone, and it doesn’t mean anything. But maybe I need Vince to believe it does. He’d have gone into meltdown if I hadn’t talked him out of it.”
“What’s he got to complain about?” Shaun asked. “He’s on the out.”
He saw Jon’s hands tense to fists, then relax. “Vince wouldn’t say anything to you, and he’d look all right, but he isn’t. I told him, don’t get mad, get even. He said he already did that, but the pressure’s getting to him.”
His son was talking in riddles. “You say Vince is falling apart without you. I’ve got no chance of getting out then,” Shaun said bitterly. “Ben’s as much use as an ice-cream van in hell. Soft to the point of melting. I should never have let your mum send him to Sunday school. Lucky I’d learned my lesson by the time you were old enough.”
“Don’t talk about Mum like that,” Jon said. His gaze hardened as if a switch had been flicked.
“Sorry.” Shaun realised he’d lost the high ground. He noted Jon hadn’t defended his brother.
Jon shrugged. “Vince will hold it together with my help,” he promised. “He’s had the odd bender, done too much coke, but he’s staying off the skag and spice, unlike our customers in here. They’re crazy.”
“Tell me about it,” Shaun said.
“You always said prison was a young man’s game,” Jon mused. “You can’t hack it in the nick forever, Dad, so we have to get you out. Vince has a gun. As soon as you swing a transfer to hospital, he’ll come for you.”
“I’d take you with me if I could,” Shaun said.
Jon shook his head. “I’ll do my bird. All right, in time, I’ll cut Vince loose and get another supplier. I’ve made contacts in here. It may be boring inside, but it’s an easy way to make money, the easiest I know.”
“Sales good on your wing, then?” Shaun asked. He was hardly satisfied with Jon’s explanation, but it was clear his son would say nothing more.
“Yes, well up for Christmas,” Jon replied.
The last strains of the carol ended. Shaun passed his son a coded price list. Jon nodded, giving it to another wing boss next to him. They had a more lively business chat during ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, although the quiet verse in the middle nearly caught Jon out.
The service ended with ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’. Shaun hugged his son. “Merry Christmas,” he repeated, before filing out of the chapel for the slow walk back to his cell.
He ignored Sidey and the others, his head full of past Christmases with Meg. They had been family fun times in which religion didn’t figure at all. The two boys would stagger out of bed mid-morning for their lavishly wrapped presents; latterly, the tell-tale square boxes of video games. There would be lunch: huge plates of turkey with all the trimmings served to at least a dozen family members. Shaun and the men would repair to the White Horse afterwards. The women and children stayed behind with a mountain of chocolates, Baileys and computer games.
At least two hundred cards festooned his lounge in Wanstead each year. In his cell, by contrast, he could count on his fingers the envelopes that awaited him today. Shaun had delayed opening them, planning to occupy himself before the pale parody of a festive meal that would be provided later. Now, he rolled a cigarette while he read the seasonal wishes of goodwill from devoted family and friends.
Shaun recognised all the handwriting apart from one envelope, postmarked London. He opened this first, puzzled to see a picture of a chubby Victorian gent framed by a holly wreath.
As soon as he read the message inside, he realised who had sent him, according to the card label, a portrait of Oscar Wilde: playwright and famous gay. Marshall Jenner, a disgraced MP, had once been Shaun’s cellmate. They’d rubbed along amicably, despite the MP’s predilection for younger men. Shaun didn’t consider himself homophobic, but then, Marshall wasn’t his beloved son.
‘Dear Al’, he read, ‘You’ll have heard that, after a brief “holiday” on the coast, my appeal against a custodial sentence was successful. I’ll be spending Christmas with my wife, who is standing by me. Best wishes for the festive season, Jens.’
Knowing Jens still had time for him felt like the finest Christmas present ever. Thanks to his heiress wife, Jens had money and contacts. If anyone could ensure an ailing con received medical treatment, it was the former MP.
Shaun retrieved his notepad. ‘It’s great to hear from you, Jens,’ he wrote. ‘Merry Christmas! I’m rather down in the dumps, in spite of the turkey leg and Christmas pud. I’m sure I’ve got prostate cancer…’
Chapter 19.
Kat
“And here it is,” Erik announced proudly, “a Bazaki beef stew with dumplings.” He towered over his sister. Tall and thin, he nearly bumped into the ceiling of his attic flat as he placed the dish on a table laid for two.
“The best Christmas dinner ever,” Kat said. “As long as we start with a toast of vodka.”
She’d brought a bottle from her latest batch. Taking it out of her bag, she nipped into Erik’s galley kitchen for a couple of shot glasses. Having stayed in his tiny flat before, she knew where to look.
“Your good health,” she said, filling the shot glasses.
“And yours,” Erik said, knocking one of them back.
It was traditional in Bazakistan to toast your parents. Kat glanced at Erik’s graduation photograph. A schoolgirl version of herself, sandwiched between Erik and her father, beamed back. Their mother, a hand on Erik’s arm, smiled too. The woman who now answered to Marina Aliyeva was coolly blonde, her husband dark-haired, green-eyed and handsome like their son.
Erik followed her gaze. A shadow passed across his face. “No. We’re English now,” he said. “Cheers.”
Kat sipped her drink. Perhaps it was the thought of her father, betrayed by his wife to the state for political reasons, that made the vodka unappealing. “This doesn’t taste right,” she said.
Erik wrapped his arms around her. “Kat, there’s nothing wrong with it. You make the best vodka on the planet.”
“That’s an intriguing strapline for Starshine,” she said. “I’ll run it past Amy.”
“Let’s sit down and eat,” Erik said. “Afterwards, we’ll have that British speciality, the Christmas pudding. I bought one at the supermarket.”
He spooned large portions of stew onto their plates, far more than she’d usually eat. “It’s Christmas,” he said, grinning.
“Happy days,” Kat said. “This is delicious.” If it hadn’t been, she’d have lied. She was grateful for the invitation.
“I learned how to cook as a student,” Erik said. “It was how I coped on a budget. I’ve long suspected that your solution was different. You just didn’t eat.”
“Could be,” Kat admitted. She didn’t see any problem with a diet of coffee and cigarettes, although she could microwave a meal and chill wine as well as anyone else.
“I wish Amy was here,” Erik said suddenly. “It would be wonderful to spend Christmas Day with both the women I love. She’s with Charles today, and seeing her mother tomorrow.”
“That’s kind of normal,” Kat said. “If you were married, you’d have to go with her.”
“Married?” Erik looked shocked. “What’s she been saying to you?”
“Relax,” Kat said. “Amy hasn’t dropped the slightest hint that she expects a ring on her finger. She’s also unimpressed by the trouble and expense that Dee and Charles are going to. If nothing else, that would put her off. Dee’s dress alone is costing twenty thousand pounds.”
“Dee’s a millionaire, so she’d expect nothing less.”
“Hasn’t Amy said anything to you about it at all, Erik? Here sh
e is, in a tiny flat in Birmingham, and they’re spending all this money on themselves. If you add up the designer dresses, top musicians and high-end hotel, they could have bought her a property instead.”
“I guess Charles would, if the money were his,” Erik said. “Most parents want to help their children out.”
Kat’s lips tightened. “Except our mother. And Marty Bridges. Tim’s had to pay for his flat himself.”
“Marty gave him a job,” Erik said.
“On condition he didn’t go to university,” Kat pointed out. “And he’s not paying Tim well. Or either of us, for that matter.” Her resentment was in full flow. “I wasn’t even invited to Christmas lunch with Marty, along with Tim and his siblings.”
“You’re not married,” Erik said.
Kat laughed. “That was quick, Erik. You’re right. And I’d rather spend Christmas with you.” She felt a pang of longing for Tim, though. She’d phoned him already before setting off to see her brother, but now she resolved to call again.
She seized her chance when Erik was occupied in the kitchen, heating the pudding.
Tim answered speedily. “I’m missing you too,” he said, his words coinciding with the microwave’s ping. “Are you wearing your present? Pretty in pink?”
“Yes. Want to see it?” She had unwrapped the delicate wisps of flowery lace and silk that morning. Tim had chosen the pastel colours she loved. He was so thoughtful. Ross, her ex, would have ignored her preferences and chosen black or red.
“How about Boxing Day brunch?” Tim asked. “Are you staying at your brother’s to sleep off the hangover?”
“Yes, I’ll be couch-surfing here, but…”
Tim cut in. “Hang on, Kat. Angela wants a word.”
Not Marty himself, but his second wife, Kat thought bitterly. “Hello?” she said.