David Belbin - Bone & Cane

‘Not had enough?’ Nick couldn’t resist asking.

‘Sarah isn’t the only one who likes a bit of rough. Catch you later.’

Ed downed his drink and headed out. He must be one of those people who found it hard to distinguish between lies and the truth. Whatever came out of their mouth was the truth and God help you if you disagreed with them. A sociopath, near enough. If Ed were to confess to killing Polly’s brother and sister-in-law, Nick wouldn’t know whether to believe him.

What was Ed doing here, in this seedy dive, at half three in the morning? Nick left his drink unfinished on the bar. Outside, in the alley, he could see Ed’s bald pate, gleaming in the moonlight, as he did to the girl what he claimed to have just done to Sarah.

‘Not so hard,’ the girl was saying. ‘It really hurts.’

‘That’s because it’s meant to, duck.’

14

Sarah slept fitfully and didn’t check her messages until ten. She called her agent. Winston was trying to set up a public debate between her, the Liberal Democrat and the new Tory candidate. The Tories had selected Jeremy Atkinson, the candidate she had seen off in the by-election. She had wiped the floor with him during all three public debates then. Now that he was the favourite to win the seat, Jeremy wasn’t so keen, but Winston thought her opponent could be strong-armed into doing it.

‘Barrett Jones suggested the debate in the first place, so Atkinson will find it hard to refuse, even though he hasn’t got the public-speaking skills you have.’

‘My public-speaking skills don’t feel so sharp this morning,’ Sarah confessed.

‘International Community Centre, Tuesday week.’

‘Evening? Okay, I suppose.’

‘And I fielded a call from a bloke claiming to be an old friend of yours, wanted you to give him a ring. Name of Nick Cane. Know him?’

Sarah reached for a pen. ‘Used to. Give me his number. I’ll call him.’

She called Nick as soon as Winston rang off, her heart leaping. Nick’s phone rang and rang. No machine. Sarah hung up. Where was Nick living, she wondered? Was he a partner in his brother’s cab firm? There was probably more money in that than teaching. Neither teaching nor cab work was the career she’d expected Nick to end up in. She’d seen him as a journalist or a campaigner of some kind. He might have become a politician, if he hadn’t been so keen on getting stoned all the time. She’d liked a smoke herself, but not several, every night. Nick used to get so spaced out, she felt lonely when she was in the same room as him.

The phone rang again and, because she was distracted, Sarah picked it up herself instead of screening with the machine.

‘Sarah Bone.’

‘Sarah, long time no see.’ The voice was only vaguely familiar.

‘I’m sorry. This is . . .?’

‘It’s Andrew . . . Andy Saint.’

Jasmina was fifteen but looked older. Her father let her wear jeans at home when most Sikh families insisted on traditional dress. Working in the family newsagents had made her comfortable dealing with white adults. When she and Nick were alone, she got straight down to business.

‘Can you write it for me?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Nick told her. ‘This is coursework. It counts as part of your GCSE result.’

‘I hate Shakespeare and my parents pay you to help me.’

‘That’s as may be, Jasmina, but . . .’ The girl’s mother was in the next room. He could call her in, explain the situation and make sure that this didn’t come up again. But suppose mother backed daughter? He’d lose twenty quid an hour and Nick couldn’t afford that. He only had one other pupil. So he prevaricated.

‘The thing is, if you get caught using essays written by somebody else, it’s not just English Lit. you’ll fail. They’ll assume you cheated in all your coursework.’

‘You just don’t want to do it,’ Jasmina complained. ‘The other girls with private tutors say they tell them what to write. Otherwise what’s the point? I get normal teaching at school.’

‘I can teach you how to structure an essay. That’s better than telling you what to write. Look, let’s go through this.’

Nick ended up staying over an extra twenty minutes, more or less writing Jasmina’s first paragraph and planning the rest of the essay for her. At least the result would look like Jasmina’s work. Her English teacher should recognise the improvement, but also the mistakes.

Mr Sahor thanked him at the door and paid him in cash. Nick insisted on giving him a receipt.

‘It’s not necessary. I do not need to know whether you declare it or not.’

‘I appreciate that, but I want to make an honest living,’ Nick said. ‘Please tell your friends about me.’

‘I will, I will. In fact I have a cousin whose son is struggling with . . .’

This could build up, Nick thought, as he wrote down the number. An hour or two every evening would never pay as well as full-time teaching but, combined with the late-night driving, it might keep him going.

‘There’s my taxi,’ he said. ‘See you next week.’

Bob was picking him up here so that Nick could drive him home.

‘Knocking off a Paki, are we?’ Bob slid over to let Nick take the wheel.

‘I’m hiring myself out as a stud,’ Nick said. ‘Know where I can get a cheap answering machine? I don’t want to miss calls from horny housewives.’

Bob chortled. ‘If you’re serious, I might be able to fix you up with one.’ He didn’t quiz Nick any further about why he was where he was. Probably thought Nick shared Joe’s taste for a risky Asian bit on the side.

Nick had another reason not to miss calls. On an impulse, he’d rung the number on Sarah’s leaflets. Better, he’d thought, to arrange a meeting than bump into her on the campaign. That would be awkward, given how close they’d once been. He’d meant to leave contacting her until after the election, then Ed’s bragging got to him. But Sarah would have already rung by now if she was going to. Nick guessed she’d heard that he’d been inside. No way would she call him after hearing that, especially just before an election. She’d be better off hanging out with Ed Clark.

Sarah had suggested the restaurant. He was already there when she arrived.

‘Andy!’

He stood up to greet her, planted a kiss on her left cheek.

‘It’s Andrew now. I got fed up with having a kid’s name.’

‘Andrew, then.’ They exchanged a half serious hug.

Andrew Saint had changed little in the thirteen years since Sarah last saw him. His hair was thinning slightly. The once messy beard was neatly trimmed, with no hint of grey. He was a little paunchier maybe, but not much. Andy had always been on the stocky side. He had always been an inch or two shorter than her, too, but was now the same height. She assumed lifts in his shoes.

‘I’m impressed you’ve come to Nottingham to see me,’ she told him, as they sat side-by-side in the bar of the Lace Market Hotel. ‘I was looking you up on the web. Your name pops up all over the place, but not in the East Midlands, as far as I could tell.’

‘It’s good to have an excuse to come back,’ Andrew told her. ‘I don’t think I’ve been in the city since 1991. Were you here then?’

‘No, I was in London. I only moved back after the by-election.’

‘Did having been union president help with getting the nomination?’

‘A little. But I fought an unwinnable seat in 1992. I paid my dues.’

‘They say Nottingham West can’t be won this time.’ Andrew pointed this out in a tone that was rather too droll for Sarah’s liking.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘You’re confident? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’