Heaven's Light (17 page)

Chester uncrossed his legs. ‘Speak your mind, man,’ he said, with a yawn. ‘You’re the only one’s gonna tell us.’

‘No, Lola’ll tell us, won’t you … Lolly?’ Brent grinned.

Jessie watched Lola trying to fight her temper. Finally, she snapped. ‘I’m telling you fuck all,’ she screamed. ‘I’m telling you you’re a fucking liar. I’m telling you you’re scum. Worse than scum. No wonder you never used. No
wonder you couldn’t handle it. Junk’s too fucking good for you.’

Brent drew in his breath sharply, wagging his head in mock reproof. Lola had lost her rag. Time, now, for the last twist of the knife. He looked across at Jessie, the leer back on his face.

‘Takes two to break this rule.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘So what’s she like in bed, Tight Arse? Good shag or a waste of fucking time?’

Late afternoon, Kate inched through the Portsmouth traffic, determined to have it out with Billy. She’d phoned him twice since he’d told her about the candidate selection meeting but both times he’d been out. On the second occasion she’d managed a brief conversation with one of the students with whom he shared the house. To the best of his knowledge, Billy was working with the lads up at the arts centre.

Kate parked the Audi and let herself in through the big double doors, wondering how Billy had come to be working here. He’d always had a natural rapport with kids and he’d spent several seasons running a successful football team in one of the local tyro leagues, but to her knowledge he had absolutely no teaching experience. Indeed, he’d always made a virtue of his lack of educational qualifications. Street wisdom, he’d often told her, is the only knowledge that really counts.

The area that served as a classroom was on the top floor. The corridor was in semi-darkness and Kate walked towards the square of light at the end, hearing a low murmur of voices. She stood at the door. Billy was at the head of a long table. Eight kids were crouched over
the enormous sand tray that took up most of the working space. On it, in neat formations, stood dozens of model soldiers, one army ranged against another. The sand was carefully moulded into a series of features, and a winding blue line down the middle of a valley represented a river.

As Kate watched, Billy was leaning forward, rearranging a line of red-coated infantrymen. As he did so one of the kids disputed the move. Others joined in the argument. Voices were raised. Someone fetched a book from a nearby shelf. Heads bent over lines of text, fingers pointed to a map. Kate couldn’t imagine what lay at the heart of the wrangle. Were they fighting a real battle? Or was the encounter pure fiction? Either way, it didn’t matter. Far more important was the fact that the kids were well and truly engaged. As an example of education in the raw, of attention sought and offered, it was flawless.

Kate pushed at the heavy swing door and the conversation died as she came in. Heads turned towards her and she was conscious of the smile that ghosted across Billy’s face. ‘I’m interrupting,’ she said. ‘I’m just wondering whether you might be free for a drink later?’

There was a stir round the table. A couple of the kids exchanged glances. Billy evidently had a lot of credit already and this surprise invitation was doing him no harm.

‘We can talk here if you like.’ Billy was looking at his watch. ‘I was through twenty minutes ago.’

‘What about…’ Kate gesticulated at the table.

Billy reached for a big cardboard box. ‘It’s endgame,’ he said. ‘Prince Jerome’s over-committed on the left and it’s stalemate in the middle. The irresistible force meets the immovable object. Carry on, and we’ll be here all night.’

One of the taller youths looked troubled. ‘That it, then?’

‘Yeah, till next week.’

‘What about the gear?’

‘Comes back with me.’ Billy made to cuff him playfully round the ear. ‘You think I’m that stupid?’

The youth mimed an elaborate feint, grinning broadly. Then he pointed at a line of carefully sited cannon. ‘No barrage?’

‘Postponed.’

‘Until when?’

‘Next week. I just told you.’

Billy began to gather in his armies, stowing them carefully in the box. A couple of the youths helped him. The rest drifted across to the pool table in the corner and Kate heard the clack of balls being readied. There was a TV in the corner, bodies slumped in the circle of threadbare armchairs and someone with the remote control prowling aimlessly through the channels.

Kate picked up one of the lead soldiers. Billy had often told her about his passion for military history, and she knew how deeply he’d read on the subject, but not that his interest extended this far. The figures were intricately painted, every last detail carefully picked out. Red tunics. White cross-belts. Buff facings.

‘You did these?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You never showed me before, never mentioned it.’

‘You never asked.’

Kate sat down while Billy made coffee. He said he’d been doing special-needs sessions for several months. He came every week and, contrary to what everyone had told him to expect, the class had grown in size. At the start, he’d had just three kids. Now, as she could see, it was full house.

‘That’s a credit to you. You should be pleased.’

‘Yeah, I am.’ He was looking at the sand table. ‘They come for the violence, really. Even on this scale Waterloo’s better than the telly.’

He sat down beside her on the sofa. The mug of black coffee was scalding hot. She put it on the floor beside her foot.

‘It’s about the selection meeting,’ she said. ‘It was a bit of a surprise, that’s all.’

‘Me standing?’

‘Yes, to be frank.’

‘You thought you had a clear run?’

‘Not at all. Frank Perry’s the favourite. He’s got the union vote. You know he has.’

‘I meant a clear run against him.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Kate hesitated. ‘Then yes, I did. I thought it would just be the two of us. Not that you didn’t have a perfect right… Who nominated you? Do you mind me asking?’

‘Not at all. Tipner branch.’ Billy raised his mug. ‘Bless their hearts.’

Kate reached down for her coffee. Portsmouth was big enough to support a pair of MPs and the city was divided into two constituencies, East and West. The Tory MP in Portsmouth West, a young ex-banker called Philip Biscoe, was currently defending a majority of 2,700, a margin that put the constituency comfortably within Labour’s grasp.

‘I’m amazed they haven’t parachuted someone in,’ Billy was saying, ‘nice off-the-shelf candidate from Walworth Road.’

‘We prefer to keep it local. You know we do.’

‘Yeah, but that’s Old Labour, old thinking. Blair’s people will do anything.’

‘Is that why you’re standing? Bloody-mindedness?’

‘Partly that.’

‘Then it won’t make any difference. You’ll just split the vote.’ Billy had his eyes on the television across the room. The kids round the pool table were now watching
Neighbours.

‘What if it makes a difference to me?’ he said.

‘Then that would be selfish. And pretty pointless.’

‘I see.’ Billy glanced at her. ‘But what if there were people around, people in Tipner say, who might want a voice?’

‘I’d speak for them.’

‘
You
’d speak for them?’ Billy laughed softly. ‘What would you say? How would you know what they wanted? How they felt?’ He lifted his mug, gesturing towards the shadowed faces around the TV. ‘A couple of these kids come from Tipner. Broken homes. Shit schools. Dad on the piss every night, shacked up with some bird round the corner. Mother on the Social. Do you know what goes on inside their heads? Do you?’

Kate knew him well enough to recognize the anger in his voice.

‘I want change,’ she said simply. ‘Just like you.’

‘No, you don’t, you want power. They’re not the same thing.’

‘They are. The one follows the other.’

‘Not at all. Power’s something else completely.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘Yes, I do.’ He offered her a cold smile. ‘You want to be in the middle of it all, up in London, where you think it matters. Of course you do. It’s natural. It’s where people like you belong. That’s the power thing again. You’re junkies. You’re physically addicted. All of you.’ He shrugged. ‘Good luck. I hope it goes well for you. I hope
you get what you want. But God help the rest of us. Back in the real world.’

Kate thought briefly about leaving, then decided against it. Walking out would be an admission of defeat and she hadn’t got this far simply to jack it in. This is politics, she reminded herself, not friendship. And in politics, as someone up at last year’s party conference had remarked, only winning matters.

She picked at the loose threads around a hole in the upholstery. ‘Is there anything I can say to convince you?’ she asked.

‘Convince me of what? Of you needing to stand? Or about this wonderful new party of ours?’

‘Both, as it happens.’

‘You think they’re connected?’ He was incredulous.

‘I know they’re connected. We have to get our act together. Gesture politics aren’t enough. To do anything we have to get into power, and getting into power means persuading people to vote for us. The old slogans are wonderful but they frighten people stiff.’

Billy lifted his T-shirt and scratched his belly. Over the winter, he seemed to have put on a bit of weight and Kate wondered who he’d taken up with. He’d never had a problem finding a woman – in fact, he probably had more offers than he knew what to do with.

‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘So what’s your line on the Clause Four thing?’

Kate ducked her head. Of course, the question had to come. Blair had electrified the Blackpool conference with his plans to revise the party’s constitution. The language, as ever, had been carefully coded but everyone in the Winter Gardens had known exactly what he’d meant. The days of
public ownership were numbered. Privatization was here to stay. Exit Clause Four.

‘It has to go,’ she said. ‘And it will.’

‘With your blessing?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll vote in April?’

‘Of course.’ Blair had called a special conference on the issue. The votes against Clause Four were already stacking up. The April decision was a foregone conclusion.

‘What about water? Gas? Electricity? Where does profit belong in all that?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with profit. Sometimes the market does it better than we do. We have to use that. We have to be big enough to admit it. Profit’s an engine. It drives things.’

‘It drives greed, and it drives envy.’ Billy’s eyes were on the television. ‘So where does that leave my kids there? My faithful grenadiers? You think they’ll ever benefit? You think they’ll ever own shares? Get their snouts in the trough?’

‘They’ll have the option. Like all of us.’

‘Bollocks. The only option they’ll ever have is which fucking channel to watch, which soap opera. Still,’ he looked across at her, ‘I suppose that’s choice of a kind. Isn’t that the magic word? Choice?’

‘Be realistic, Billy. We’re talking about the wheel here. You can’t disinvent it, no matter how hard you might try.’ Then, encouraged by his silence, she plunged on. ‘OK, I admit it, the party’s moved to the right, no question. And yes, so have I. But not very far, not as far as you think. Make a list, put ten pledges down on paper and I bet I agree with every one of them. The only difference between you and me is gender. Women are realistic. Men are the
dreamers. We’re both after the same thing so why be awkward? Why make it so difficult for yourself?’

‘It’s not difficult. It’s very easy. Socialism’s about sharing. These kids deserve something better than a poor man’s Tory Party. And so do I.’

‘You really think we’re like the Tories?’

‘I think we’re worse.’

‘Is that why you’re standing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’re wrong. What’s happening is inevitable. We have to adjust. We have to modernize. Otherwise we’ll die. And what would be the point in that?’

Billy gazed at her without comment. Then he drained the mug and got up. The box of toy soldiers was on the other end of the sand tray. He picked it up and wedged it under his arm. When he called goodbye to the kids round the television only one bothered to answer. Making for the door, he stopped beside the sofa. Then he shook the box lightly and Kate heard the soft rattle of lead figures inside.

‘Death or glory.’ He smiled.
‘Plus ça change.’

Jessie sat at the corner table in the lounge bar, waiting for Lola to come back from the loo. They’d been in the pub for nearly an hour. According to the timetable in the village square, the last bus north left at ten past seven.

One of the local lads called from the bar again. The offer of a drink was still there. He and his mate had a van. He’d seen Jessie’s rucksack and Lola’s suitcase, overheard the girls talking. They’d have a couple of bevvies then they’d run them both up to Guildford. Be a pleasure. Jessie refused for the second time but asked herself if maybe it wouldn’t be better. The bus would take hours and they’d have to
change at Alton. Leaving Merrist had been the hard bit. Why make the rest such a trial?

The loo door opened and Lola came back. She was wearing a low-cut vest tucked into her jeans and the weight she’d put on during rehab had restored the figure Jessie had glimpsed in some of her photos. She sat down, ignoring a whistle from the bar.

‘OK, girls?’

Jessie grinned at her. The lads at the bar weren’t taking no for an answer. One was coming across, juggling two glasses of what looked like cider. He lowered them carefully to the table. Lola looked at them a moment then gave him a smile. He couldn’t take his eyes off her cleavage.

‘Cheers.’ Lola took a glass. She’d had two pints already.

The lad from the bar slid into the seat beside her. His mate did the same on Jessie’s side, trapping the two girls between them. Lola took a long pull at the cider, then returned the glass to the table. Her hand found Jessie’s and she squeezed it softly. The youth with the van was talking about another pub, out in the country, much quieter. Maybe they should go there
en route
to Guildford. It had a wood fire and a dart-board.

Lola smiled dreamily. Her tongue had found the inside of Jessie’s ear and her hand was circling her face, caressing it. ‘Great,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s do it.’