The White Room (11 page)

Neither of them were good workers, Jack had told her. They were happy to coast along, doing the bare minimum in the firm in the jobs their father had arranged for them. Virtual sinecures, in fact. The boys were Ralph's soft spot, and they knew it. They could get away with anything, and Ralph knew it.

The door behind Sharon and Joanne opened. Jack and Dan Smith stepped into the hall.

‘What's happening?' said Dan Smith.

Sharon told him.

‘Right.'

He walked to the closed door, knocked and entered. They heard his voice.

‘Hello, gentlemen, I'm Councillor Smith. Can I be of any help?'

The policeman explained. Jack, Sharon, Joanne and Dan Smith's wife listened. The policeman's voice was muffled by the door and Dan Smith's body. They picked up key words, filled in the rest themselves: brothers hurt. Fight in a pub. Hospital. Critical. May lose his life. If he's lucky he may just lose his sight. Damaged hand. Hospital will see what they can do. Still looking for the attacker.

Joanne pushed the door open, knocking Dan Smith aside, rushing into the room. Her mother opened her arms, numbly enfolded her.

‘They're good lads, really they are,' Ralph was repeating, mantra-like, but no one was listening.

‘We'll have to go and see them,' said Jean, her words urgent, her voice sounding like it came from the opposite end of a long tunnel.

‘Of course,' said the first policeman. ‘I know this isn't a good time, but I'm afraid we'll need to ask you some questions.'

Ralph and Jean nodded dumbly.

‘Can't that wait, constable?' said Dan Smith. ‘These good people are suffering a great deal.'

‘I appreciate that, councillor, but if we're going to catch whoever did this, we're going to need as much help as we can get.'

‘Of course, of course.' He turned, addressing the room. ‘Well, we'll give these good people the time they need.'

He motioned with his hand, gestured everyone but Ralph, Jean and the two policemen from the room. Outside in the hall he turned to his wife.

‘I think we'll all have another cup of tea.'

She nodded, went to the kitchen.

‘I'll help,' said Joanne. She followed.

Dan Smith looked at Jack and Sharon.

‘Shall we have a sit down?'

The three of them entered the living room. Sharon coughed slightly at the cigar fug, the brandy fumes, waved her hand before her face.

‘Sorry about the smell,' said Dan Smith, concern in his voice. ‘That's men for you, I'm afraid.'

Sharon smiled out of politeness and sat down. Her head spun from slight nausea. Jack sat on the settee beside her, rubbing his stomach. Dan opposite in an armchair. He sighed but said nothing. None of them spoke. There was nothing to say. Silence hung in the air, more pungent and sickening to all of them than the cigar fumes had been to Sharon. To speak would have been to dissipate the hanging silence, weaken it, dilute its gravity.

The door opened. Ralph entered. His face was ashen. When he spoke, it sounded like ashes had lodged in his throat.

‘We're going to the hospital. We've told them what we can. Which wasn't much. They wanted to know if anybody … if they had any … enemies …'

The words fell from his mouth as heavy as bricks. He shook his head. The others waited.

‘Sorry,' Ralph said.

Dan Smith stood up, crossed to him, placed his hand on Ralph's arm.

‘You've got nothing to apologize for, Ralph.'

Ralph gave a weak smile.

‘What a way to end an evening.'

‘Don't worry about it. Look, if there's anything I can do, anything at all … I'll make some phone calls. Ensure they have the very finest care.'

‘Thanks, Dan.' Ralph sighed again. A huge, tectonic shift of a sigh. ‘They're not bad lads. They're good workers. They're just … a bit wild.'

‘I know,' said Dan Smith, voice dripping sincerity.

Jack remained silent.

‘Listen, would somebody mind staying here to look after Joanne? She's got school in the morning.'

‘We will,' said Sharon, deciding before looking at Jack.

‘Thanks, pet,' said Ralph, his voice quiet, wheezy. ‘You're a good 'un.'

A policeman's voice came from the hall. Ralph turned towards it.

‘Aye, I'm comin'.'

Then back to the room.

‘Look, I'm sorry, I've got to …' He made a feeble gesture towards the front door.

‘You do what you've got to do,' said Dan Smith. ‘Everything'll be all right here.'

Ralph nodded.

‘And don't worry about what we were talking about earlier,' said Dan Smith. ‘The offer still stands. That's your job, Ralph.'

Ralph looked at him as if he didn't know what he was talking about, then backed out of the doorway. They heard the front door close. They looked at each other.

‘Well, what a night,' said Dan Smith. He looked at Jack. ‘I was hoping it would be memorable for other reasons.'

Jack nodded, said nothing.

Sharon looked between the two men.

‘I'll go and see where the tea's got to.'

‘You do that, pet,' said Dan Smith.

Jack and Dan sat slowly down.

‘Dear, dear, dear,' said Dan Smith, and made to retrieve his cigar from the ashtray.

‘Oh, no,' he said, examining it. ‘It's gone out. Got a match, Jack?'

Jack shook his head. He said nothing.

Outside, the air seemed colder, the night darker than when he had entered. Brian stood on the pavement, looked around. He either heard, or imagined he heard, sirens in the distance growing louder. Not wanting to find out if they were real or not, he turned away from the pub and began to walk briskly up the hill and back to the city.

His heart was slowing down, adrenalin dissipating throughout his system, coming down. He began to see things more clearly. Grasped for perspective. Kenny Bell dying, perhaps dead. Johnny injured. The other one he didn't know about. Eddie and Brimson injured. A pub full of witnesses who he knew would talk. Fighting was one thing, along with handling stolen goods – something else the Ropemakers was famous for – but murder was another thing entirely.

He walked on, trying not to let the panic, the sense of hopelessness well within him. Halfway up Glasshouse Street the sirens became real.

Brian looked around, tried to find somewhere to hide. A warehouse was on his left, fenced and gated. Chained. He looked at it, looked up the street, saw nowhere else to run. He took a run at the fence, managed to get a grip, began to climb. Reaching the top, he hauled himself over and fell to the ground. The sirens became louder. He ran around the side of the warehouse, away from the road. He pressed himself up against the brickwork and waited, breathing heavily.

Panic set in again, along with a new thought: what if there were guard dogs on the site? He hadn't thought of that. He stood still, allowed the sirens to come nearer, listened for growling or barking. The sirens approached, became louder, then receded as they sped to the pub. Brian breathed a sigh of relief. He waited until he thought the police and ambulance had passed then pulled himself over the fence and back on to the street.

He walked briskly, sticking to shadows and backstreets, hiding in the patches of dark between streetlights, staying away from other people. As he walked he thought.

He couldn't go home. That would be the first place they'd come. He couldn't go to Noel's for the same reason. He couldn't go back to his mother's. Ever.

He walked into the city centre. The streets were not particularly full; cinema- and theatre-goers mostly. Brian tried to keep away from them, keep his face hidden. He had to get away. Leave. He checked his pockets. He had money but not enough to get him far. He couldn't bargain, a bus driver would remember him. He couldn't steal a car as the owner would report it and wherever it was found would bring the police searching for him. He stood in the middle of Grainger Street, considered his options.

And had an idea.

He walked down to the Central Station, keeping an eye out all the time for police cars. He reached the station: tall, imposing, built in a neo-Georgian style to blend in with the rest of the area. He walked along the front, not wanting to go through the main entrance, and made his way around the side. The fencing was low. He hauled himself quickly up and over, looked around. Trains were slowly making their way in and out of the station. Only a handful; the service was winding down for the night.

He checked them out, ticking off items on a mental list of suitability, until he came to the one he wanted.

The mail train.

He crossed over to it, looking out for station staff all the while. Bags were being thrown on, men standing around drinking mugs of tea. No hurry, no urgency.

No security.

Brian waited until the mail workers and station staff moved away from the train then put his head around the door. The mailbags had been thrown into a large carriage. It was full of sacks.

Perfect, thought Brian.

He climbed aboard, stepped through the bags until he had found a particularly high pile, then began to burrow his way into them. Eventually he had bags piled up on all sides of him and he was safe, cocooned within.

He heard the door shut, felt the train move off. He breathed a sigh.

Newcastle was left behind. And not just Newcastle: Monica. Kenny Bell. His mother. They were all gone. His past, behind him.

He allowed himself a small smile, felt the train rock on the tracks.

His future, ahead of him.

‘She off?'

Sharon closed the door quietly behind her. The well-oiled click sealed them off from the rest of the house.

‘Yeah. She was worn out, poor dear.'

Sharon sat on the settee beside Jack. She sighed.

‘I made you a cup of tea,' said Jack.

Sharon gave a wry smile.

‘Well done,' she said. ‘I didn't know men could do that.'

‘Very funny.'

She picked up her cup, drank, replaced it in the saucer, set it down.

‘Ah,' she said, ‘society's palliative. The real opium of the masses.'

‘Don't start all that university talk with me.'

Sharon smiled.

‘Once a student, always a student,' said Jack.

‘Don't be a grump.'

They looked at each other, smiled. Jack put his arm around Sharon. She snuggled in.

‘Kids, eh? Who'd 'ave 'em?' Jack's voice aimed for levity, shook with heaviness.

Sharon said nothing.

The Smiths had left soon after Ralph and Jean had departed for the hospital. Sharon, Jack and Joanne had continued clearing up, then Joanne had got ready for bed. Sharon had sat with her, settled her down into what would be an unsettled night's sleep for the girl. Sharon had promised to stay the night.

‘You'd better go home,' she said to Jack. ‘You've got work in the morning.'

‘I can go from here,' said Jack. ‘It's no problem.'

She snuggled in further. She was glad he had said that.

‘Dan was right,' he said. ‘What a night.'

They sat that way for a while in companionable silence, listening to the old house settle.

A nation of two.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?' said Jack drowsily. He was beginning to drift off.

Sharon stiffened.

‘What?' She knew what.

‘Before we came out, you said you had something to tell me. What was it?'

‘Oh,' she said, ‘I'll tell you later. This isn't the best time.'

‘You may as well tell me now. Everything else that's happened tonight.'

Sharon couldn't see his face, couldn't read his expression. She took a deep breath.

‘Well,' she said, ‘it's not a hundred per cent certain, but I'm fairly sure.'

‘What?'

‘You've probably guessed. I'm pregnant.'

Jack hadn't guessed. His stomach flipped over, his mouth dried up.

Jack said nothing.

PART TWO

The Brasilia of the North

At night he dreamed the city.

No vast, Technicolor pans, no panoramic swoops. He just found himself
there,
posited in the centre, standing straight at the heart. Feeding off it, feeding into it.

He looked around: lights in the darkness, colour, speed, noise. Colour: neon and electric brilliance, a dazzling, artificial day for night, the adverts brighter than the stars. Speed: heart was right. It was pumping, living, sending tin and steel and expectant people around its body, arteries all tarmac and pavement. Noise: voices raised, shouting, laughing, screaming. Music wailing and thumping, rhythm tuned in to the city's beat. And at the centre, surrounded by movement, Eros, Greek god of love. Still and frozen in time, bow raised, arrow flying. Aiming for anyone, everyone. Love in the city, love at the heart.

He stood there, beneath Eros, arms out, and slowly rotated, head up, eyes sucking in everything, mouth wide, grinning. Alive. No cars hit him, no one shouted at him to get out of the road. Everyone smiled, laughed as they passed. Because he belonged here. He was part of the city as the city was a part of him.

He gave a sigh of pleasure, turned, and walked back on to the pavement. He was protected. Charmed. He walked down backstreets, darker now, the contrast greater: the neon and electric light still bright, but sparser, more strategic, the darkness and shadows between now deeper and wider. He began to feel that familiar tingle, that thrill in the pit of his stomach. The thrill of the streets. These streets. His streets.

He walked. His mind could see behind doors, down alleys, up and down stairways. Through walls. Could see the flesh sold cheaply but bought dearly. Could see the drinks drunk, the pills popped, the hop inhaled. The moods altered. The money eagerly parted with, gratefully taken. The money. The love. The love of money. He smiled.