The White Room (32 page)

‘Families, eh? Who'd 'ave 'em?'

Ben walked towards Ralph.

‘I think we can safely assume I'm going to get my way with your company, gentlemen, yes?'

They said nothing.

‘Good.' He crossed the room, reached Ralph. ‘Because there's one more thing I have to say before we conclude our business here. But it's for Ralph's ears only. Sorry, Jack.'

Ben bent in close to Ralph, smelled old sweat and alcohol coming off him in waves. He blocked the smell out, leaned into his ear, whispered:

‘I'm. Brian. Mooney.'

Ben stepped back, removed his glasses, looked right into Ralph's eyes. He saw the comprehension slowly dawn, the recognition come. He saw Ralph realize he was staring into the face of the man he blamed for the death of his son. The loss of everything.

‘You understand, now, Ralph? Why it had to be you? Your company? How this makes it perfect?' Ben laughed. ‘Best thing that ever happened to me, Ralph. Best thing. Just wanted you to know that.'

Ben snapped his fingers. A shadow detached itself from the darkness beyond the bulb's glare, entered the room. Ben moved as far away from Ralph as he could. It took a few seconds to recognize who the figure was walking towards Ralph. With a jolting shock Jack recognized him.

Johnny Bell. Ralph's son.

At a nod from Ben, Johnny walked up behind Ralph, pulled a gleaming blade across his neck, cleanly slit his throat.

Jack watched, stunned beyond word or action, as the blood arced across the tiled walls of the white room, as Ralph gurgled and thrashed his way down to the floor, to lie twitching in a pool of his own blood, his son smiling, eyes dancing to a manic tune only he could hear.

‘Nice little symmetry,' said Ben quietly. ‘Almost biblical. Hey, catch!'

Jack looked at him, extended his hands by reflex. Johnny's bloody knife slap-landed on his chest, leaving a grotesque red flower on his suede jacket and shirt. His hands gripped the handle of the blade, leaving his smudged fingerprints on the handle, blood on his hands.

‘I'll have that,' said Ben.

He was holding open a polythene bag. Jack looked at him.

‘In,' said Ben.

Johnny stepped forward, smiling.

Jack saw the movement, numbly dropped the knife into the bag.

‘Thank you,' said Ben. ‘Bit of extra insurance. Never goes amiss. You might have to throw the jacket, though. It's a bugger getting blood out of suede.'

Ben replaced his glasses, smiled.

‘Looks like I've got you over a barrel, doesn't it? Looks like you killed your boss because he disapproved of you shagging his daughter. Or because he wouldn't hand over the company to you. Or because he's a pervert. Who knows? Who cares?'

‘You bastard.'

‘And I wouldn't open your mouth about this to anyone. Not if you want your son to have a mother. Or your girlfriend to keep her pretty face. Know what I mean?'

Jack stared at Ben. Ben looked around the room.

‘Bit of a mess in here, isn't it? Blood on the walls, a body on the floor. Got a bit of tidying up to do, haven't you?'

‘What? Me?'

‘Who else? You don't think I'm going to do it, do you? And where else? This is a building site. Perfect.'

Ben laughed, then crossed his arms, attempted to look serious.

‘I heard that in olden days builders used to put a live cat or something in a building when they'd finished it, brick it up, keep the bad spirits out. Or even a live woman, so I heard. Well, what about a dead man?'

Jack stared at him.

‘You'd better get the concrete mixer going, add a little something to the foundations, hadn't you? Then hose the place down.' Ben sighed. ‘You've got a busy night ahead.'

Jack stared at him.

‘No arguments, Jack. I'm the new boss.'

Ben smiled. ‘Welcome to the firm, Jack.'

PART FOUR

Deserted Cities of the Heart

At night she dreamed the city.

But it doesn't start in the city.

There's a land of sun and warmth, a fairy-tale place with castles, fields, enchanted forests, streams of jewels. And she can fly: she can soar over the hills and valleys of this rural idyll, happy in the knowledge that this is where she belongs. This is her true kingdom.

She stops to help an old beshawled beggar woman. She doesn't know what's wrong with her except she claims to be in pain. As soon as she touches her, the fairyland has gone. She can no longer fly. The old woman has somehow tricked her.

With dream jump-cutting, she's now in the city.

It's small and dark. Not always night, but always dark. Narrow streets and tall, oppressive buildings. Soot-blackened brick walls surround her. Industrial smoke and rolling fog choke her delicate fairyland lungs. Factory sirens make her shiver, glance over her shoulder. It's cold. Sparse streetlighting throws out meagre light, creates deep shadows.

And in those shadows lurk monsters.

She can hear them: whispering as she walks past, their big, pointed teeth chattering, laughing at her, planning what they would do to her. Some snake out parts of their anatomy to touch her, test her.

She walks, shivers.

Always the same walk on the same street. Always the same shiver.

She knows she has to walk down the street. If she can reach the other end without the grazing monsters grabbing her, claiming her, she will be free. She has never managed it yet.

She begins to walk, trying to hurry, dream feet not moving quickly enough.

Laughter from her left, then a grab. She flinches, feints, moves out of the way. Keeps walking.

Another to her right. This one grabs her, holds her. She struggles and pulls, bites and hits. And she is free.

She runs on as fast as her dream legs can carry her.

Then feels fingers around her throat.

She knows this monster. It's the old woman without her disguise. Shiny black carapace like an oily beetle. Yellow gorgon snake hair. Stinking breath. The monster speaks to her. Holds her captive with its words. It doesn't need anything else. It promises, it taunts. It pleads. Dream words.

She listens, allows it to cast its spell, believes its lies again. Wants to believe.

And the monster drags her away, into the shadows.

Too late, she realizes she has been tricked. Again.

The monster had her, embraced her, clutched her to its breast.

The monster has friends. Other shadow lurkers. All around, she can see eyes and teeth. Cruel eyes. Cruel teeth. Narrowed slits and bad smiles. All moving closer.

She closes her dream eyes but can still see them. Wills her dream body rigid but can still feel the touch of them on her skin. She tries to think herself small, shrink insignificantly out of their clutches. Tiny, tiny, so she doesn't exist.

Her legs feel wet. Smell unpleasant.

‘You've wet the bed now,' says the gorgon monster. ‘She won't like that.'

She nods. She knows she won't.

‘You know what she'll do to you.'

She nods. She does.

She closes her eyes. Waits for the monsters to do what they are going to do.

Knows she will never see her real, fairy-tale home again.

August 1965–August 1966:

Bold as Love

Jack looked at the stage. On it was a man dressed in a deliberate clash of colour, all ruffles and feathers, playing a right-handed guitar in a left-handed fashion. He was a pale-skinned black man, his big afroed hair held in place by a wide silk band. He was coaxing sounds from his guitar, sounds Jack and most of the audience had never heard before. He had started playing the song with his drummer and bassist, both nearly as flamboyantly dressed as their front man, but he had left them way behind, relegated them to timekeeping observers. He wasn't much of a singer, but he gave the guitar a voice it had never had before. He was making it sing songs never heard before. It was blues, but all colours of the rainbow blues. Psychedelic.

The Jimi Hendrix Experience. August 1966.

Jack didn't know whether he liked it or not, but he was mesmerized by the sounds. Staring, transfixed, at the stage. The Mayfair ballroom in Newcastle had seen nothing like it before. It was the first time they had hosted an event like this. But then the world was changing. And with it the audience: the beatniks, peaceniks and refuseniks were coming together with the Mods. Metamorphosing. Coalescing and colliding to become a new counter-cultural entity: hippies.

Joanne had fully embraced the change. She was dressed almost exclusively in denim and printed India cotton; chiffon and silk scarves adorned her. Her hair long. Smoking dope and meditating. Reading philosophy and comparative religion. New writers: James Baldwin, Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson. And Carl Jung. Joanne loved him, read his philosophy, studied his works with an almost religious fervour. She was perfectly in tune with her times, the times in tune with herself. A revolution in the head, heart and soul. Her psyche awakening.

Jack loved Joanne. With all his heart. But he could never fully relax, never totally enjoy the feeling. Always like that, yes, but the past year had added another layer. No matter how hard he tried to forget, to convince himself that the future was bright, that he had as much right to happiness as anyone else, a thought, an action, a word, an image would send a sudden electric jolt through his body:

Ralph Bell's son murdered him / I buried Ralph Bell / I'm in love with Ralph Bell's daughter.

The same unholy triptych.

And the other one:

Ben Marshall / Johnny Bell / Ralph Bell.

That night. That memory.

Always there in his head, lurking in the back of his mind like a tumour.

Waiting, wondering when it will grow to malignant proportions, threaten his life. And Joanne's.

Jimi Hendrix joined with his rhythm section for a final crescendo, then the song ended. The audience, as if waking from a hypnotic slumber, burst into huge applause. Jimi Hendrix nodded, turned to his other two band members, grinned at them. Enjoying himself. Knowing the effect he was having.

‘Thanks, man. This is, uh, this is a Bob Dylan song. This is “All along the Watchtower”.'

Applause broke out at the mention of the title and the namecheck for Dylan. Hendrix started, got his guitar singing again. Jack knew the song, the Dylan version. He had never heard it sound like this before.

He looked at Joanne. She was gone, her expression enrapt. A combination of the music, plus the red wine and spliffs before they had left the flat. He envied her that ability to lose herself, connect with something else. She felt him looking at her, smiled at him. He smiled back.

They squeezed hands. Happy. For now.

That last, hard year, starting with:

Ralph's death. That night. That memory.

Jack would never forget.

He had mixed concrete, dragged Ralph's body to an area that would become a concrete-floored loading bay but was still a huge pit, rolled it in, covered it. Smoothed down the surface, let it harden. All on his own. No help from Ben and Johnny. He had cleaned the floor and the walls, hosed down any trace of murder. He worked all night without a break then, beyond tired, drove home, bathed and changed, got ready for work. Bagged up his filthy, bloodstained clothes, left them in the boot of his car. The physical demands of the night's work left him no time to think about what had happened. Sharon just thought he had stayed out for the night.

He went to work as usual. Later in the day Jean contacted him, asked if Ralph was there.

‘Not today, Jean,' said Jack, swallowing the lie hard. ‘Haven't seen him.'

‘He didn't come home last night.' Her voice was weak, trembling. The phone gave it a disembodied, ethereal quality.

Jack said he would let her know if he heard anything.

He put the phone down. Ben Marshall was sitting next to him in the office. Sprawled in a swivel chair, feet up on the desk.

‘Got to tell her something, Jackie boy.'

Jack said nothing; just stared at the phone, hand still on the receiver.

‘I think it best,' said Ben ruminatively, ‘if we wait till Ralph's disappearance has blown over to announce that I'm running the show now. Timing, and all that – know what I mean?'

Jack said nothing.

The police were, inevitably, brought in. They questioned Jack, who stuck to the same story. He had been due to meet Ralph to discuss a business matter that evening. Ralph never turned up. Ralph had friends in the police force. They had sympathy with him for what had happened to Kenny. They knew Jack had been good to Ralph, went easy on him, privately confided that they reckoned Ralph had got himself drunk, taken a stroll along the Tyne, fallen in. They were hoping the body would turn up eventually, but they weren't holding out much hope.

‘Best to just treat him as dead, really,' the detective inspector had said. ‘Get on with life without him.'

Jack could breathe a sigh of relief.

But he couldn't look Joanne in the eye.

She was taking her father's disappearance hard, needing Jack more than ever. Jack was scared of committing himself to her, scared of getting too close, scared about what he might say in an unguarded moment.

Scared of what her brother could do to her if she found out.

But she needed him. So for her sake he cast out as much fear from his soul as he could. He found that by giving her strength he was able to receive it in return.

It was a difficult, trying time. It was painful, but that pain bonded them closer than ever.

Joanne was throwing herself into studying. Gearing up for her finals, hoping for a 2:1.

Jack knew he had painful, long-reaching conclusions to come to.

Sharon was sitting in the bedroom, dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. She was sitting on the floor, legs apart, bending over, touching her toes. Five one side, five the other, five in the middle.