What You Don't Know

by David Belbin

  ‘I certainly will.’

  She hung up before he could think of anything else to say. Nick kept walking. He passed the Forest recreation ground, where the football team of the same name used to play. Some of the trees were old enough to remember those early games. Nick saw movements in their shadows. Boys barely in their teens were waiting for trade. They would give a punter a blow job for the price of a ten pound bag of crack, take it in the arse for double or treble that. The police did nothing to stop the trade. The boys would only go somewhere else, they argued.

  Opposite the Forest was the High School, which had educated ministers in this government and the last. At the end of its tall stone walls, a girl who couldn’t be more than seventeen asked Nick if he was looking for business. He told her that he wasn’t, then, fleetingly, felt tempted. She was fit-looking. He had money in his pocket, could take her back to his. He craved the feel of flesh on flesh, the oblivion of orgasm. But he had never succumbed to paying for it, no matter how drunk or horny he was.

  If he kept walking along this road, he would find himself opposite Alexandra Park, where Jerry would have just finished her exams. Alice might be on shift. She no longer used the drop-in centre, so he hadn’t seen her for a while. He liked Alice. And she’d made it clear that she liked him. Hell, she’d even gone to Jerry’s parents’ evening for him. If he turned up at the hostel, she might invite him to her room when the girls had all turned in for the night.

  But something had happened to Nick this last three months. He had become a professional again. Jerry and Alice were entwined in the world of his work. He could not turn up at the hostel, half cut, bent on seduction and still retain his sense of pride.

  Then he remembered that Alice had quit her job. She was backpacking in India. Nick used to dream of going on the road. Lately, he didn’t look more than one day ahead.

  He turned on his heels and headed home.

  39

  Sarah opened the blinds and stood at the window, trying to choose her words. The street, so busy last night, was quiet now. There was a light rain. The few people on the pavement walked rapidly, on their way to work. Only a girl in a black cagoule lingered near by, perhaps waiting for the phone box to be free.

  ‘Babe?’ Paul was awake. His bare chest gleamed in the morning light. He sweated in his sleep. The few times they had spent the night together, she had woken to find him clammy beside her. He didn’t snore, but he’d often woken her up by talking in the early hours. Sometimes he had nightmares that made him writhe or cry out, but, in the morning, he never had any recollection of what he had done or said.

  ‘I’ve put the kettle on,’ she told him. ‘I’m going for a shower.’

  When she got back, he had made coffee. They drank in what should have been companionable silence.

  ‘I bumped into Annette in the constituency last week,’ Sarah said. ‘I asked how you were. She said you were fine, but the kids weren’t seeing enough of you. She said it sometimes felt like you were separated.’

  ‘She doesn’t like to admit what’s going on,’ Paul told her.

  ‘You can imagine how shitty I felt. I don’t want to be the cause of pain in a marriage, Paul. I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with me.’

  When he didn’t answer, she left the table and began to dress, with her back to him. Only then did he begin to speak.

  ‘It’s not easy for me to leave Annette. She put me through university. She knows me inside out. It’s more like we’re brother and sister than a married couple. She knows I see other women. She accepts that I have another life in London. But we’ve not talked about divorce, or a legal separation. So, to that extent, yes, I misled you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Sarah said. She felt humiliated. Served her right for breaking one of her own rules. She needed to leave – now – but hadn’t done her make-up. That was okay. She could stand the scrutiny on the morning train to Nottingham. ‘I’m going. I don’t want you to call me again. I’ll see you at the ABC committee next week but, from now on, we keep it strictly professional. Agreed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then, tough, we’ll have to disagree. It’s over. Try to make things work with Annette. She deserves better.’

  ‘I know, but –’

  Sarah didn’t want to hear the rest. She wouldn’t hang around and wait for a taxi. If necessary, she would walk to St Pancras in the rain.

  ‘Wait!’ Paul called as she left the flat, shutting the door behind her. She hurried down the stairwell and let herself out into the street. Somebody pushed past her into the building, but Sarah didn’t pause or look round, not even when she was on the street and heard Paul, from the outside door, yell his last words.

  ‘Sarah, wait! I need you!’

  Need, she thought, walking as fast as two-inch heels would allow, was not the same as love. She had never come close to loving Paul. Last night, after they got back, she had tried to talk about the play with him, to use it as a launch for discussing their relationship. His every response was either trite or irrelevant.

  Loneliness and lust, that was all she’d felt. She walked faster, head down. Had she ever got anything out of the relationship beyond the physical? Even that had never been particularly good.

  There were no other MPs in the first-class carriage to Nottingham. With luck, she would manage a doze. She needed to catch up on her sleep.

  This Friday was Nick’s last morning at the Power Project. He showed up before nine, determined to finish things properly. There would be no leaving do today, no farewell drink. He was the only worker left. If he wanted to he could spend the day using the project’s phone, internet and stationery to pursue his next job.

  Instead, he tied up loose ends. There might be no new career in prospect, but he had lived cheaply and managed to put a bit away during the last six months. He still had most of the five grand Andy Saint had given him last year. Guilt and gratitude money, for Nick had never mentioned Andrew to anyone, even though he had given him the contacts to get started in the wholesale cannabis game. Tall Paul, whom they had discussed last night, had worked for one of those contacts.

  Curious, Nick loaded the page for the search engine, Alta Vista. Andrew said that Paul’s surname was ‘Morris’. He typed in the name. Thousands of them. Could he narrow it down? He tried adding ‘Nottingham’ and it worked. Nick was directed to BBC Radio Nottingham’s website, where there was a short item about his leaving the city.

  Mr Morris, who has been chair of the police committee for two years, is stepping down from the County Council in order to take up a special adviser job in the Home Office.

  Wow. Andrew was telling the truth about Paul’s rise. It was possible to move from dealing drugs to advising the government, at the highest level. Provided you’d never been caught. Provided your past never caught up with you. Provided a dealer from your old world didn’t identify you to an MP in your new one.

  The failed bust had nothing to do with Jerry, or Beany, or Carl. The person who planted the crack was Tall Paul.

  He clocks you at the top of the stairs and stops. He blinks. You still have the hood of your cagoule up, to protect you from the rain, but he recognizes you. ‘Jerry! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I had to see you.’

  ‘How did you –?’ He stops himself. ‘You’d better come in.’

  You are getting angrier by the second, but you follow him into the flat. The place is like nowhere you have been before. His house in Nottingham is ordinary, the sort of boring home you see on TV soaps. This place is in a different class. Big African painting on the walls. Bare, polished boards, glass dining table. Books with dust jackets. A wooden wine rack, every space full. He took you to shabby hotels for a screw when he could have moved you in here.

  ‘Why don’t you take your anorak off?’

  You shake your head. ‘How long have you been with that MP?’

  His eyes dart from side to side. He didn’t expect you to recognize her and doesn�
�t know what to say, so you say it for him.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what the pimps tell their whores? You can love two women at once, more than two if you want. User.’

  ‘It’s not that way. Listen.’ He takes a step forward and you take a step away from him, so he stops, reconsiders. ‘You’re right. I am a user. I’m ambitious. But it wasn’t you I was using, it was her. You know what I like. You think I enjoy doing it with an old woman like her? She’s not just an MP, she’s a minister. A high flyer. She can protect me, promote me. And, in return, she gets a taste of me, that’s all, a tiny piece compared to what I give to you. It’s just the game, sweetheart. You and me, we’re the real thing.’

  For a moment, half a moment, you let yourself be convinced. Then you remember that he told her he needed her, yelled it across the street. You remember how he hasn’t called you once to ask how your exams went, or talked to you about the flat that he promised to move you into. He’s a liar. He’s always been a liar.

  ‘It’s me you’re playing games with.’

  He pleads. ‘No. I love you. I don’t want her, I want you.’

  You stare at him, rage building up inside you. Everything he’s said to you was a lie. You’re his dirty, underage bit on the side. Not even the side. The side of the side.

  ‘Where did you sleep last night?’ he asks in a fake, caring tone.

  ‘I didn’t. I went to an all-night caff after I saw her come in with you.’

  ‘How did you get this address?’ His front has gone for a moment and he’s treating you like a child again.

  ‘Your wife gave it to me.’

  That gets him. The panic in his eyes is sweet to see. You’re tempted to take the lie further. Your lover wants to keep it all: you, his wife, that MP woman. There’ll be other girls you don’t know about. He holds his breath.

  ‘It’s all right,’ you tell him. ‘I pretended I was delivering a package for you. She doesn’t know.’

  He smiles. ‘I need a shower,’ he says. ‘I’ll bet you do too.’

  You stand, stern-faced, enjoying the power you have over him. He breathes out. He thinks you’re going to forgive him. He thinks you have no choice, that he’s the only thing you have going in your life.

  ‘I’ll join you in the shower,’ you say.

  He turns his back on you. He’s never done that before. You hate it. Full of rage, you reach into your pocket, grip the shaft of the knife. But then your brain kicks into gear and you remember to think. Only a fool uses their own knife that way, gets blood on her clothes. You check out his kitchen. Then, when the sound of water starts, you begin to undress.

  The Nottingham train was delayed by signalling problems but Sarah was still back in the city by midday, with time on her hands. She decided to stop in at the Power Project on her way through town. It was Nick’s last day. She wanted to wish him well. Maybe a drink with him would help drive Paul from her mind.

  The Power Project offices were almost deserted. Only Nick was inside, sitting at Kingston’s old desk, writing a report. He looked up when she came in, grinned. She felt her heart begin to beat more quickly.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ he said.

  ‘I thought I’d see how you were, maybe take you for an early lunch.’

  ‘That’s a nice thought,’ he said. ‘Give me five minutes. I’ve nearly finished up here.’

  They went down the road to the Old Angel Inn. The food wasn’t up to much, but it was the sort of dingy pub where nobody recognized an MP, never mind hassled her. Nick had a pint and Sarah stuck to tomato juice.

  ‘Any joy with finding a new job?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘No time. I’ve been too busy winding up the Power Project.’

  ‘There’s still plenty of money in drugs rehabilitation. Alcohol too. I’ll always be happy to provide you with a reference, if that helps.’

  He thanked her. ‘I’m surprised you don’t steer clear of me.’

  ‘If my job forced me to abandon people I care about, I’d be in the wrong job. How are things with you and that teacher you were seeing?’

  ‘Over.’

  She made the appropriate sympathetic noises, but it was clear he didn’t want to discuss it further. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Seeing anyone?’

  She shook her head.

  Nick lowered his voice. ‘There was something I wanted to tell you. About the last time I visited your flat.’

  ‘That was ages ago.’

  ‘When I was leaving, this guy arrived. Tall guy called Paul.’

  Sarah tried to keep her expression neutral. ‘Paul Morris. I work with him.’

  ‘So you said. And I’m not sure I should tell you this. I mean, the past is the past.’

  ‘What?’

  Nick took a gulp of his pint. ‘I didn’t give anybody up when I was sent down. They offered me a lighter sentence if I did, but I couldn’t stomach it. Plus, the dope business is full of heavy people. Chances were, I’d’ve been knifed in the back before any of them came to trial.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘One of the guys I used to work with. A middle man. For all I know, he might have come clean and you might know about his background already. I didn’t recognize him at first because he had big hair back then. Full beard too. But I used to sell to the guy you had round your flat when I was last there. Paul Morris.’

  40

  You get off the train at quarter past five. You can’t go back to the hostel. Not yet. You don’t know if you’ve been missed. You don’t know if the police will be waiting for you. All the way home, you have been thinking about this. You need protection, now that your protector is dead. Who to turn to? Beany is just a lad, and not a very bright one at that. Talk to the police or social services and they will put you away. There is only one adult who might help. You think he likes you, even though he turned you down. You think you can trust him, but there is only one way to find out.

  You have money, because you took some from his flat after cleaning up. Maybe the police will decide it was a burglary. You queue for a taxi, and give the driver Nick Cane’s address. You hope he’ll be in. What if he isn’t? The taxi edges through the Friday rush-hour traffic. It would have been quicker to walk. The car inches along Maid Marian Way, up the hill. This city is full of hills to climb. At the top of Derby Road, with the traffic virtually gridlocked, you thrust a fiver at the cabbie and say you’ll get out. He grunts disfavour, but takes the note and unlocks the door.

  You dash across to the island that’s called Canning Circus. Three big roads circle the island’s two pubs like a medieval moat. You get to the middle and wait again for the pedestrian lights to take you across Alfreton Road. Why would Nick be home? It’s Friday evening and he’s the sort of bloke who goes to the pub after work. There is no café opposite where you can wait like you waited last night. You climb the metal staircase to his flat. A window is open, which is a good sign. You press the doorbell.

  When the doorbell rang, Nick was asleep. He wasn’t used to drinking at lunchtime and, after Sarah had burst into tears in the Old Angel, he’d bought them both a proper drink. Then she bought a third round and told him what he had already worked out from Andrew’s guess and the nature of Sarah’s reaction – she was sleeping with Paul Morris. Or had been. She’d given him the chop, that very morning. Now she was in a quandary over what to do. Nick couldn’t help her with the decision, not without more information. There was Home Office stuff, she said, government stuff she couldn’t share. There were things he thought best not to tell her, too. Things that, so far, he only suspected, like Paul being behind the attempted bust.

  He ignored the doorbell. He never had casual visitors. Probably someone selling something. In a way, he was sorry he’d told Sarah about Paul’s past. Their affair was already over and Paul can’t have ever been investigated, or he wouldn’t have been appointed to the police authority. Six months ago, Nick would not have believed that such a transformation was possible. Now he suspected there were ple
nty of people in government with a criminal past they’d managed to keep quiet.

  Something else bothered him. Andy’s eyes when he mentioned Paul had been shifty. He knew more than he was letting on. Nick hadn’t told Sarah that it was Andrew who had set up the meeting with the guy who’d introduced him to Paul. Andrew, who used to be his middle man for dope deals, on an industrial scale. Andrew, who now liked to hang out with MPs.

  ‘You know what I worked out about Paul in the end,’ Sarah had told him, after her third brandy. ‘He wasn’t interested in me for me. He was interested because I had some power. He was after my connections. Funny thing was, I didn’t do anything to help him, apart from joining the Power Project board. And I was glad to do that, because it helped you. In fact, he even got me onto … No, I can’t tell you that.’

  Sarah began to moan about how it was always a mistake to sleep with married men, especially when they claimed to be separated. Nick didn’t argue, nor ask what other experience she had in that area. He didn’t want to know. It was hard enough knowing that Paul had been giving it to Sarah while Nick had been wasting his time with Nancy.

  Nick wasn’t sure that he liked the shift that had taken place in his relationship with Sarah. He’d gone from former lover and potential future lover to old friend and confidant. Nick wanted the potential part to remain, even if the resumption of relations lay at some distant point in the future – say, if she failed to be re-elected. That was highly likely, given her slender majority. If she were still single in 2001 or 2002, and Nick had managed to remake his life by then, both of them would only be forty. Still time for a family, even.

  This was a fantasy. But everyone needed fantasies to sustain them.

  The doorbell rang again. It was followed by an urgent knocking. What if this was Sarah, here to see him about some fresh disaster? The thought propelled Nick out of bed, to the door, wearing only his underpants. He half opened the door and saw a girl in a black cagoule, its hood up, despite the warm weather outside.