The White Room (20 page)

She should have been happy, but she was still dissatisfied. Jack was doing more and more work for Ralph Bell with no increasing recognition. He was holding both the company and the man together and not getting his due reward. And Jack seemed fine about that. And that annoyed Sharon.

The familiar litany:

We should be further on than we are.

You're too nice to people.

You should stand up for yourself.

Said over and over again. Jack had stopped hearing it, she was sure.

Sharon looked at Jack. Tried to see him dispassionately, as a stranger would. He was looking old, worn. Always thin, he was now stringy. His hair was not as well dyed as it used to be. The white shone through, like bleached bone beneath a skin or cloth covering.

She wondered what she had once seen in him, then felt guilty for the thought. She was only thinking that because of Ben Marshall.

Ben Marshall.

She smiled at the name. At the memory of her night.

He had been trying to impress her, she knew that. Sounding like a big shot. And it might have worked. It was years since a man had found her attractive enough to buy her champagne, take her to dinner. Listen to her when she talked. Men had always found her attractive, and she had often rebuffed those who wanted to have flings and affairs with her. But no one had gone to the trouble of making her feel special, unique. Not for a long time.

She looked over at Jack and Isaac on the sofa again.

Safe. Homely. Familiar.

Overfamiliar?

She put that thought out of her mind. She felt the happiest she had for a long time, and that had nothing to do with her husband or son. And everything to do with a man who bought her champagne and dinner. Who wanted to take her driving in the country.

Who wanted to offer her a job.

With prospects. That might lead to bigger things.

She closed the door of the living room, leaving the side light on, not wanting to disturb them. She made her way slowly upstairs and undressed.

Before getting into bed she opened her handbag and took out his card again. She looked at it, smiled. She ran her fingers slowly over the embossed lettering. Felt his name as it stood out. She smiled again, replaced it in her bag.

She crossed to the bed, pulled back the blankets and climbed in, snuggling herself down.

She felt happy. Confused, but happy.

She heard a small, feathery tapping on the window, gave a small start.

She looked.

It was a moth. Only a moth. Drawn to the bedside light.

She turned off the light, settled down to sleep.

Only a moth. Drawn by the bedside light.

A moth to a flame that could burn its wings.

August 1963:

The Great Escape

‘There you go, pet.'

‘Thanks.'

Ralph Bell took the cup of tea. His hands were still shaking.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed in Monica's back room. Her workroom.

White walls. Deep shadows where the light couldn't reach. Crucifixes. Christ in agony: nailed, bloodied, cut. Dying. The sinners watching.

Ralph was perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. He couldn't sit fully on; it still hurt too much from his session with Monica.

But hurt him good. A purging, cleansing pain.

He took a sip of his tea. Too hot. Scalded his lip. He placed it on the floor, straightened back up painfully.

Monica sat down next to him, cup of tea in her own hand. She had covered her work clothes with a dressing gown of pink, frilled, faded nylon. What she usually wore between punters. Her blonde wig sat rat-tailed and askew on her head. She sipped her tea. Found it bearable.

Ralph smiled at Monica. She automatically returned it.

He enjoyed this part. Almost as much as the sex. Sometimes found himself racing through the session, he looked forward to it so much.

‘Thank you,' he said.

Monica smiled. She didn't know whether he meant for the sex or the tea.

‘You're welcome,' she said.

She knew what she had to say next. Which role to play.

‘So how are things for you?'

Ralph sighed.

‘The same, I suppose. Kenny's … well, I think he's making progress. The others, Jean and that, she tells me I shouldn't … y'know. Have hope. But I do. I have to.'

Monica nodded.

‘I mean, last week I was there and—' he gestured with his hands, formed them into small, atomic cradles; held atoms within ‘—I'm sure he knew it was me. Sure of it. He smiled at me. Nodded.' Ralph sighed. Opened his hands, split atoms asunder. ‘The staff say he does it all the time and that I shouldn't read anything into it. I don't know. He's my son, y'know? I should know him.'

Monica nodded, kept her mouth closed to stifle a yawn.

‘What about your other son?' she said.

Ralph shook his head.

‘Still never see him. I know he works down the abattoir, got one of the new flats in Scotswood. I helped him with that. Well, Dan sorted it for him. He wouldn't take any offers of help from me. I had to make it look like I had nothing to do with it.' Ralph sighed, lost in his own thoughts. ‘Fancy. Your own son. And I don't know what he's doin'. Dan asked if I wanted to get someone to keep an eye on him. I said no. I was tempted, but I said no. He's grown up; he can do what he likes. But I don't even know what he's doin'. Where he is half the time.' Ralph sighed again. ‘Like I've lost two sons. And they're not even dead …'

Monica nodded, affecting understanding.

‘I'm amazed Joanne turned out as well as she did.' Another sigh. ‘I've been a terrible father. Terrible. I was either working or meetin' people, tryin' to fix up deals. Work, though, always work. Or at meetin's. Giving me time to the party. Labour, y'know.' He gave a bitter laugh. ‘That was just work as well. If I'm honest. Socialism's all well and good and that, and it's a nice idea, but … it was where the deals were made. Relationships cemented. Everyone knew Dan Smith was going places. Everyone wanted some of that. Well, I got it. I was lucky.' Another bitter laugh. ‘Lucky. Well, not really luck. I mean, Dan might like to think of himself as a visionary, a Trotskyist even, but he likes money as much as the next man. I got the contracts, all right. But I had to make sure he was taken care of too. Mind you, I saw meself all right. On the Elms. But then everyone does. Cuts corners, y'know, we all do, pockets the difference. Mind I didn't tell Jack. He's too honest. He'd have left. And he's too valuable, too good at his job. I need him.'

The same speech every time. Monica had been listening to it for over a year now. She knew where the gaps came, what her lines were, what prompts she needed to give. It was as much a part of the ritual as the sex. She was still acting out a part.

She knew what was up next: guilt and indulgence.

‘I used to spoil them, you know' He smiled distantly. He was lost to Monica now, adrift on his own.

Monica nodded, no longer even pretending to listen, just a movement out of habit. She sipped her tea.

‘It was guilt, I suppose. I had to indulge them, especially the boys. Because I was always out. Like I said, work, meetings. So when I saw them I'd spoil them. Take them to the football, the pictures, anywhere. Let them have anything they wanted. Anything. Jean didn't like it, but then, as I told her, it wasn't her as was going out to work every day. Wasn't her bringing the money in. First few times she would argue, but a quick slap soon shut her up.' Ralph nodded to himself. ‘You have to, though, sometimes, don't you? Keep them in line.' His words were for himself. Monica sipped her tea. ‘It's different hittin' a woman than it is hittin' a man. Different. But it worked, though. She didn't argue again.'

Monica drained her teacup, placed it on the floor. Ralph hadn't touched his. It would be cold by now.

‘I even gave them jobs in the firm. Ones they didn't have to work at. I knew it was wrong. Even at that time I knew it was wrong. But I had to do somethin'. They turned out bad. I know they did.' Another sigh. ‘And look where it got them. Look where it got me.' He shook his head. ‘One's a vegetable and one's … I don't know what. And look at me. Look where I am.'

Monica looked up. This was her cue to tell him that things weren't so bad and that he was a good, successful man. Not a failure, as he saw himself. Once that was said and he believed it, she then had to tell him how much he was loved.

She opened her mouth to speak, summoning up the feeling to say her usual lines with conviction.

I deserve an Oscar for this, she thought.

Ralph turned to her.

‘No,' he said. ‘Don't say it. Don't.'

There was a strange fire in his eyes, a curious light.

Monica looked at him. Her mouth closed on the words she would have said.

‘Listen to me,' he said. ‘I mean, really listen. This is important.'

Monica looked at him, slightly startled at the script deviation.

‘You've got a little girl, haven't you?'

Monica's heart skipped a beat. She nodded.

‘Does she know what you do for a living?'

Monica made to stand up.

‘I don't think this is—'

Ralph grabbed her wrist, pulled her down again.

‘Please, just listen.'

Monica sat down. She had lost control of the situation.

‘Do you love your daughter?'

Ralph was looking at Monica, eyes intensely boring into her. She wanted a drink. Needed one.

‘She's me daughter.'

Monica's voice was dry despite the tea.

‘But do you love her?'

‘I …'

‘Be honest.'

No, Monica. Mae had just always been there. Since her father disappeared. There. Holding Monica back, being a burden, in the way. Not even going when she tried getting rid of her. No. She had hated Mae, told her so. Screamed it into her face.

Love?

‘I … I don't … know …'

Ralph grabbed her hands. Held them within his own.

‘Love her. Let her know it. Don't do what I did. It's never too late to change. Never.'

Monica's heart was racing. Beneath her nylon dressing gown, her stiff, unyielding working clothes, her body was sheened with a cold, prickling sweat.

‘I … I think you'd better go now.' She tried to pull her hands away but he had them firmly. ‘I've got someone … someone else. Coming.'

Ralph sighed, shook his head. He slackened his grip. She pulled her hands quickly away.

‘Sorry.'

He couldn't meet her eyes. He stood up.

‘I'd better go. I'm sorry.'

Monica nodded. ‘It's all right.'

‘I shouldn't have …'

‘It's all right.'

Ralph nodded, made his way numbly to the door. He turned.

‘I didn't mean …'

‘I know.' Monica's voice was calm, even. Held the veneer of control. ‘I said it's all right.'

‘I'll see you again, I hope.' Ralph was mumbling, red-faced.

‘Soon.' Monica tried to invest the word with steadying warmth.

Ralph opened the door, left the room. She heard him go down the hall, open then close the front door. Gone.

She breathed a huge sigh of relief. Sat back on the bed.

Love. All that talk of love. Where did that come from?

She gave a small laugh.

‘Love.'

She laughed again. It rang metallic and hollow around the empty room.

What was he on about? Poor addled man.

Love.

She looked around the room.

White walls. Deep shadows where the light couldn't reach. Crucifixes. Christ in agony: nailed, bloodied, cut. Dying. The sinners watching.

Love.

She went in to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. Gin. A large one. Very large.

Mother's ruin.

She gulped it down.

Her hands were shaking.

Ben Marshall couldn't believe his luck.

He'd always thought luck was something you made for yourself, but here he was being proved wrong.

The evidence: Ralph Bell and Monica Blacklock.

Together.

Talk about the proverbial. Two birds and one stone.

This was brilliant.

He had been trailing Ralph Bell for months. All part of the long-range plan. Ralph's work, his play. Ben building his findings into a chain, looking for the weakest links.

He'd just found another one.

He had been thinking of Kenny, something to do with Kenny. But this was even better.

This could be the one.

In all the time of trailing, it was the first time he had recognized Monica. She had been there, greeting him at the door. And he had recognized her. The wig and sometimes the dark glasses had thrown him off. Her body had changed its shape too: fat deposits shifting, settling in new, permanent places like undersea topography. Her face, when not made up, was gin-blotched, alcohol-inflated, but it was her.

And still on the game. Specializing in pain and humiliation.

And the kid. He'd seen the kid.

Small, with dead eyes. Staring at her mother, hiding her emotions, masking her fear with a film of indifference. But Ben knew what lay behind it.

Because that's how Brian had been.

That was where the family resemblance ended. She was Monica's kid, not his. Brian Mooney was dead. Monica's kid's father was dead.

Ben Marshall had nothing to do with it.

Ralph Bell and Monica, though.

Ben smiled. He had to think. He had to plan how to deal with this. How best to turn it to his own advantage.

He turned the key in the ignition, put the Sprite into gear.

Turned the radio on.

‘Devil in Disguise'. Elvis Presley.

Number one.

He drove away, smiling to himself.

Monica tossed. Monica turned. She clenched and stretched. But it was no good. She couldn't reach the kind of sleep she wanted. She wanted peacefulness. Stillness. Black dreamlessness. But its reach exceeded her grasp.