David Belbin - Bone & Cane

‘That was Sarah,’ Nick said.

‘Who drove the plants away? Shit, of course it was. I’d forgotten about that. You’d only just started seeing her.’

‘She’d borrowed her mum’s car to bring her stuff up to Nottingham. When she took it back, her mum wanted to know how she’d got earth into every crevice of the upholstery.’

Andrew laughed. ‘Maybe I will have some of that.’

Nick handed the spliff to him. Andrew took several hits.

‘S’nice,’ he said, handing back the nub-end.

‘What really brings you to Nottingham?’ Nick asked.

‘The university want to give me an honorary doctorate for my contributions to society,’ Andrew said.

Nick laughed. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously? A little business, that’s all. I wanted to see you, make sure you were okay. But now I need to be off.’

‘Want me to call you a cab?’

‘Only ten minutes’ walk to Slab Square from here. I can use the exercise.’ Andrew put on his jacket, then paused at the door. ‘We didn’t discuss this last time, but it’s been playing on my mind. Have you any idea who grassed you up?’

Nick shook his head. ‘The police claim they got a lucky break. Better to believe that than the alternative.’

‘I suppose,’ Andrew said, ‘but if you’ve got enemies, it’s best to find out who they are. Then you can watch your back if you need to.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ Nick said. ‘And the money. It’s appreciated.’

Andrew took his leave. When he’d gone, Nick lay on his bed, glad Andrew had come, and not just because of the money. Only two people knew about the growing operation in the caves below his flat. Nick had shown Joe the caves as soon as he discovered them. Andrew had advised Nick on security, and given him contacts to help sell the stuff. Nick insisted on giving him a cut. Andy was in the States when Nick was arrested. Nick had never seriously thought that Andy had betrayed him. But it was nice to be sure. Andrew didn’t need to bring the money. He didn’t need to ask that awkward question. He gained no advantage from Nick’s arrest. It was time to stop doubting him. Time to leave Nottingham, too? Andrew had a point. There wasn’t much for him here. The phone rang and he answered it.

‘Nick, hi. I’m returning your call. It’s Sarah.’

His voice on the other end of the phone was higher than she remembered. He sounded nervous, as though she’d caught him unawares.

‘Sarah? Um, thanks for calling. It’s been . . .’

‘An age. How long have you been back in Nottingham?’

‘Just a few weeks.’ She waited for him to fill in what he’d been doing, but there was another awkward pause.

‘I thought I saw you driving a cab the other day.’

‘That would have been me. One of my brother’s cars. I’m doing a bit of driving while I decide what to do next.’

‘Where are you living?’

He gave her the address of his flat on Alfreton Road. A relationship had broken up, Sarah guessed. He’d walked out or been kicked out and was rebuilding his life.

‘It’d be good to meet,’ she said.

‘Yes. But I understand you’re kind of busy for a few more days.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘I understand you’re kind of busy for a few more days.’

She laughed at the corny joke, one of their silly secret habits from their first days together. Nick chuckled too, but nervously. He might be intimidated by her being an MP. How could she show him she was still the person he used to know?

‘I could really do with a break from the campaign. Why don’t we meet sooner?’

‘I don’t want to . . .’ His voice trailed off. She remembered the times when he couldn’t be bothered to finish his sentences. He wasn’t stoned, was he? At this time of day?

‘I’ll tell you what – I’m doing this debate on Tuesday. Should be over by nine. I could meet you for a meal afterwards. Or come along if you like. It’s at the ICC. Might be a laugh. Remember how you used to go over every word I said at hustings when I stood for union president? The standard isn’t that much higher, believe me.’

‘I might have to work.’ Nick’s tone was apologetic. ‘I do a lot of evenings.’

‘I won’t book a table then. If you can’t come, we’ll have lunch, or a drink over the weekend. Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘If you can make it Tuesday, I’ll see you there. Otherwise, why don’t you take my home number?’ She began to explain too much, aware that she was being overeager but unable to stop. ‘I’ve rung before, you see, and not found you in . . .’

‘I’ve just got an answering machine.’

The conversation ended awkwardly. She could have mentioned seeing Andrew Saint but that might have been awkward, too. He and Nick used to be such close friends and now they weren’t. Sarah wanted to know the score with the job Andrew was offering her. It was ridiculous he wouldn’t tell her more until she’d signed an agreement. How could she work out the right thing to do?

In an alternative world, she and Nick had never split up. They had lived together for nearly fifteen years now, without the need for marriage or children. Nick was always there to give her counsel and support. He made sure that she had a life outside politics, keeping in touch with old friends and all the simple shit that Sarah generally forgot to do.

Sarah didn’t need a man. Being with a bad one was worse than being single. But she’d held on to this idealised vision of how life might have been with Nick. She’d been so pig-headed when she was twenty-two. She’d thought that if she and Nick were right together, it was bound to work out. If things didn’t work out, there were bound to be plenty more, equally interesting fish in the sea. Wrong on both counts.

16

It was a quiet Saturday night, the quietest since Nick started doing the job. Everyone who was going out had already done so and the pubs didn’t close for another two hours. Nick needed to go to Polly’s. He hadn’t seen her for four days, the longest gap since they got together. He wanted sex, but he wanted to see her, too. Speaking to Sarah had disturbed him. She was a ghost from the past. Polly was real. Yet he still hadn’t given her his phone number. He avoided calling her from the flat – since he went inside, you could dial 1471 and check the number of whoever last called you. He didn’t want Polly calling him. Joe said there was a code that withheld your number, only Nick didn’t know what it was and even if he did, to use it would look underhand.

Polly would be expecting to see him tonight, but they’d made no arrangements. In the Meadows, Nick collected an Afro-Caribbean lad who said he wanted to go to the top of Radford Road in Hyson Green. This meant the Black and White cafe, although the youth didn’t mention the place: it would have marked him out as a dealer or a user. A dealer, Nick reckoned – a young black guy in the Meadows wouldn’t need to go across the city to score.

‘Got a mobile?’ he asked his fare.

‘Course.’

‘Can I borrow it? Quick local call. I’ll knock it off your fare.’

‘Tell me the number. I’ll dial it for you. Call it your tip.’

He handed Nick the phone when it began ringing. Polly took a while to answer.

‘Just putting the last one to bed.’

‘Can I come round for an hour? I’m heading your way.’

‘I’ve got some wine in the fridge.’

‘Magic.’

‘On a promise, huh?’ The fare asked, as Nick turned down Bentinck Road.

‘Looks like it. Where do you want dropping?’

‘My friend lives just over there. Anywhere round here will do. Nah, you’re okay. Keep the change. I’m on a promise, too.’

Nick waited at the lights, watched the youth head up the hill and turn into the drive of one of the big houses on the left. A lover, not a dealer.