David Belbin - Bone & Cane

‘You’ve got a nerve.’

‘I’m canvassing for votes,’ Sarah apologised. ‘I felt I ought to call on you, see if there’s anything . . .’

‘I’m Labour, always have been,’ Polly interrupted. ‘You vote for the party, not the person.’

Her legs kept moving, straining against the pedals. This was, Sarah remembered from her cycling days, the least efficient way to use energy for movement, but maybe it worked best for the figure.

‘Is there anything I can help sort out for you while I’m here?’

Sarah meant benefits or legal fees, but didn’t need to spell this out.

‘I get what I’m entitled to,’ Polly replied. ‘No more, no less. People say Ed Clark’s back living round here again. You’ll probably get his vote, too.’

‘I don’t want it,’ Sarah said. ‘I . . .’ There was nothing she could say without revealing what Ed had said to her. And Polly was the last person she could tell.

‘Still seeing that Tory MP?’ Polly asked.

‘I was never . . . I’m not seeing anybody. No time to meet men. You?’

‘I don’t have time to meet men, but I found one anyway.’

‘Worth getting into shape for?’ Sarah said, regretting the intimacy of her words as soon as they came out of her mouth.

‘He’s worth two of you.’ Polly gave her a cold, judgmental look. ‘It’s true,’ she added. ‘You could stand to lose a few pounds.’

‘I’m too busy to exercise.’

‘Lose this election and you’ll have all the time in the world.’

‘If I get back in, and you need help, you know where to find me.’

Polly’s wheels began to turn more quickly. Sarah saw herself out. From the hall, she glanced into the front room, where four primary school-aged kids stared at The Simpsons . She’d had an easy escape, but felt bad about it. Sarah had come into this job to help people like Polly, not make their lives worse.

13

Nick was getting the hang of the city. He knew most of the shortcuts, where the road works were and which streets to avoid because they had the new speed bumps. He knew most of the new buildings around what used to be called the Boots Traffic Island, on the railway station side of the city. The Boots building had just been demolished and was to be replaced by a new BBC broadcasting centre. A magistrates’ court was being built round the corner.

Nick could even find his way round hell-holes like the Maynard Estate, where he dropped off his first call. Bob had to go to a parents’ evening, hence his early start tonight. There was a fair bit of work at this time, so it would be mad for Nick to go and leaflet for Labour, losing himself forty-odd quid in the process. Maybe he would call in on Polly. Her eyes had lit up when he told her he might be able to pop in for an hour mid-evening. ‘You’d better watch out,’ she’d said. ‘The neighbours might notice and think you’re a real boyfriend.’

Nick still let her think he was married. Polly never pushed him. He wasn’t ashamed of having been in prison. What he had done was against the law. It turned out to be a stupid risk. But not a bad deed, like murder. Not even wrong, by Nick’s code. Polly might accept that part of his past if he told her. Only she had no time for drugs and her brother had been a copper, so chances were she wouldn’t. When push came to shove, things were the way Nick wanted them. No way could he take on four kids. He didn’t like the idea of four kids of his own, never mind someone else’s.

At twenty, Nick thought by the age he was now, thirty-five, he’d have met the right woman and started a family. Instead, he didn’t even have a proper job. Probation were on at him to apply for an opening as a warehouseman at Arnold Asda. He’d been to a couple of teaching agencies about doing private tuition. But he’d had to come clean about where he’d been for the last five years. After that, they lost interest.

This week he’d put a card in a shop window on the Alfreton Road, HELP WITH GCSES AND A-LEVELS, at a price undercutting the standard rates for English tuition. There were plenty of Asian families with money, anxious to push their kids on to university. At Nick’s prices, they were unlikely to press him for watertight references. His card made it clear he would provide home tuition. There would be no worries about leaving him alone with their daughters. He’d had one query so far. It was the sort of career Nick could declare to Probation and the dole while driving on the side. He’d enjoyed teaching, once upon a time. In prison, he’d enjoyed helping a few blokes with their reading and writing. Once, he would have objected to parents buying an advantage for their children by paying for a private tutor. Now he saw this was the way of the world, their main alternative to the private schools only the wealthy could afford. Until you abolished all privilege in education, you couldn’t blame people for buying the best for their kids.

Polly was newly showered when he let himself in, drying her hair.

‘Someone came round just after seven,’ she said. ‘There I was, cycling away, sweating like a pig, but I said “come in” anyway. Thought it was you. Know who it turned out to be? That bloody MP, Sarah Bone. Wanted me to vote for her.’

Sarah seemed to be following him around, yet they hadn’t met. Suppose she had found him here, with Polly?

‘Did you tell her where to go?’

‘She only stayed a couple of minutes. Asked if I had a boyfriend. Can you believe the cheek?’

‘What did you say?’ Nick asked.

‘I told her I did and asked if she was still seeing that Tory.’

‘And is she?’

‘She said she was too busy to meet men. I said I was too, but it didn’t stop me finding you.’

She put down the hairdryer and kissed him, her robe falling open. Polly’s tummy was flatter than when they’d first slept together, nearly two months before. She was losing weight for him.

‘How long have you got?’ she asked.

‘I need to be back on the road when the closing time calls start.’

‘Plenty of time, then.’

He kissed her and put his hand between her legs.

‘Wait.’ She pushed the table in front of the door so one of the kids couldn’t barge in. Nick took off his shirt. Polly spread her dressing gown across the floor, then unzipped him and took him in her mouth. After a while, he went down on her. Nick found himself pretending he was in a beach hut, going down on a knowing fourteen-year-old, an athletic girl who slowly transmogrified into Sarah.

When he and Sarah first made love, they barely knew what they were doing and had to experiment, make up a language to talk about it. Those baby words came back to him now, killing the fantasy. Polly didn’t taste or smell or sound like Sarah. When she pulled his head up and he entered her, she sensed that he wasn’t fully with her, and became less responsive.

Nick worked harder to please her, first on the floor, then bent over the table. He wanted to want this. He had five years of missing sex to make up for. He should be present in the moment, not fantasising about something that, in real life, wouldn’t turn him on. Inside, fantasy was a necessary habit, but he was out now, free. Unless it really was like the long-term lads said. You never got the old feeling of freedom back. The only freedom you got was to carry your own cage wherever you went, weighing you down at every step.

After they’d finished, he lay beside her. Not cuddling, but close. Time passed. They were woken by a child at the door.

‘Go back upstairs. I’ll bring you some water in a minute.’

While Polly was gone, Nick made them both a cup of tea. At half past ten, he got up to go.

‘I can get a babysitter if you want to make a proper night of it.’