The White Room (28 page)

‘I thought … I could talk about it. But I can't.' Another sigh. ‘I hope you never have to see what I saw then. Or anything like it. I'd hate those visions to get inside your head. Infect you.'

She kept her arms around him. They lay in silence for some time.

Joanne took a deep breath. Her eyes shone in the dark.

‘Always thought of you as sensitive. Like you can almost see your soul through your skin.'

‘Oh.'

‘It's a compliment.'

‘Oh.'

They lay wrapped in each other's arms. Not speaking.

‘Anyway,' said Joanne eventually, ‘you said you had answers.'

‘When?'

‘Seems like hours ago. To life? To why we're here.'

‘Right. Socialism, I was going to say. How it saved me. How I met your dad. Dan Smith.'

Joanne looked at him.

‘Socialism.'

‘Yeah. I thought after … Belsen and everything we couldn't let that happen again. Needed to work towards a new future. Build a bright new tomorrow. And all that.'

‘But?'

Jack smiled. ‘Didn't happen, did it? I mean, Dan's still doing a good job and that, but … I don't know. This doesn't seem to be the bright new future we planned, does it?'

‘Doesn't it?'

Jack sighed. ‘Oh, maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm just old and jaded. Maybe I've just lost my faith.'

‘Maybe you have.'

‘I don't know. Perhaps it's just the way you're supposed to feel. When you're young. And idealistic. I mean, if you can't be an idealistic Socialist when you're twenty, when can you be?'

Jack saw the look on Joanne's face.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I didn't mean to sound patronizing. But perhaps that's the way it is. Life. Maybe your fire's supposed to burn out as you get older. Settle for less. Accept things for being the way they are.'

‘Is that what you want?' said Joanne. ‘Is that the way you want to live your life?'

Jack sighed. Then he looked at Joanne. Saw her youth. Felt her life. Her vibrancy.

‘No,' he said. ‘No, it's not.'

A smile crossed Joanne's face. She immediately sat upright. Jack stared at her naked body, felt a stab of lustful desire.

‘Let's go out,' she said.

‘What?'

‘You and me.' She adopted a mock posh accent. Jane Austen of Fenham. ‘Mr Smeaton, I wish to take the air. And I wish you to accompany me as my beau.'

‘But … Are you sure? What if somebody sees us? Together?'

‘So what? Lots of people will. But where we're going, it won't matter at all.'

‘And where's that?'

‘Somewhere where you won't feel old and jaded.' Joanne smiled. ‘Somewhere that'll reignite your faith.'

The Downbeat.

Newcastle's nightclubs: New Orleans, Guys and Dolls, the Oxford, even the Club A Go Go. All bright, aspirational. The Downbeat the flipside of that.

A beacon to outsiders, a gathering place for the angrily dispossessed and disenfranchised. A dark, disused warehouse now home to the beats, the peaceniks and refuseniks, the revolutionaries. The atmosphere: heat, sweat, booze and fag and dope smoke. The soundtrack: hardcore heavy R & B, reverberating through chests and heads. On the wall in white paint:
BAN THE BLOODY BOMB
. Around the walls in brick-built caverns and deliberately dimly lit archways, human transactions caught in furtive, sidelong glances. Half-hidden by obscuring pillars, glimpsed in the gloom:

Art. Revolution. Drugs. Sex.

An easy, natural confluence. All there. All happening. All night.

Jack looked around, listened to the music, absorbed the atmosphere. Beside him Joanne, arm linked through his, holding on to him. Claiming him as hers.

‘What d'you think?' she said, smiling.

She had dressed him. Rummaged through her clothes until she found a black polo neck too big for her.

‘Too long for me,' she had said, ‘even with my big boobs.'

The suit stayed, as did the overcoat.

‘There,' she had said. ‘You look quite the French existentialist.'

He had taken that as a compliment, smiled.

Now, looking around the place, he realized that whatever he had worn would have made him overdressed. Blue and black. Denim and night. Raw.

Joanne smiled at him, waited for an answer.

‘It's … loud.'

He smiled as he spoke. She laughed and hugged him.

‘My old man. Come on, let's get a drink.'

She led him across to the bar. Figures were dancing about on the floor, working hard to the music. They walked through an alcove, away from the noise. Conversations could be overheard as they passed. Jack was surprised. People talked passionately, violently even. Art, theatre, cinema. And plenty about politics.

He was reminded of the old Socialist Party meetings in the Royal Arcade where he had first met Dan Smith.

And Ralph Bell.

Same arguments, same passion.

Different decade.

He glimpsed something more in a corner, stared. A writhing mass of cloth and flesh. Then another, further along in the gloom. Then another. Bodies having sex.

Same passion.

Different decade.

He looked at Joanne, pointed.

‘Over there, they're—'

‘Fucking,' she said.

He just looked at her.

‘Free love, Jack. What makes the world go round.'

He just looked at her.

‘Oh, come on, Jack. Don't be so uptight. You'll be taken as an undercover copper.'

He felt anger rise within him.

‘Maybe it's my age,' he said. ‘Your old man?'

Joanne looked at him, shocked.

‘I didn't mean it like that, Jack. I'm sorry. Age has got nothing to do with it.'

‘What has, then?'

‘Outlook. Attitude. It doesn't matter how old you are, or what you wear. It's what you've got inside you.'

‘Really?'

She put her arms around him.

‘Really. You're not some boring suit. Some straight. You're like me. Like everybody here.'

‘And what's that?'

She smiled again.

‘An outsider. You belong here. You belong with me.'

He kissed her then, full on the mouth.

His spontaneity, his passion, took them both by surprise.

He liked that feeling.

Three hours later and he was feeling tired. He and Joanne were sitting on the floor, backs against a pillar, listening to Muddy Waters over the PA, cans of beer in hands.

‘What time does it close?' he said.

‘When it gets light.'

He nodded.

Jack was drunk. He knew it. And stoned.

A couple of hours earlier, Joanne had introduced him to a friend of hers. Dave, she said his name was. She thought the two of them would get on. They both liked discussing politics.

Jack had felt a wave of resentment emanating from the scruffy young man, but he thought that had more to do with the fact that he was with Joanne than any conflict of ideology.

Jack had told him what he did for a living.

‘I'm a builder.'

‘A builder.'

‘Yeah. I suppose, if you want to be grand, you could say I implement Dan Smith's ideas. Dream the future, if you want to be pretentious.'

Dave sneered.

‘Dan Smith? Bloody Tory.'

‘Dan's a Marxist.'

‘Aye, he likes to make out he is. An' he might have been once. But scratch 'im an' 'e'll bleed Tory.'

‘I've known Dan for years …'

‘I don't doubt it. But it's the same story every time. They always start off on the right side. An' they always have dreams. But by the time they get themselves into a position to do anything about it, they've compromised, watered down their vision so much, made deals with an' courted all the people they used to hate that it's not worth doin'.'

‘I think you're wrong.'

‘An' 'e sends his kids to private schools.'

‘I still think you're wrong.'

‘I hope I am. But I think I'm right. If he wants to be a Tory, wants to be one of them, it'll all come to nothin'. One way or the other.'

And on they argued, until the two men became just two more Downbeat figures locked in the arms of a passionate discussion.

Joanne wandered off. Jack kept glancing at her through his peripheral vision. He saw her dance a few times, chat to friends. He wondered if he should break off his discussion, keep her company. He decided not to. She seemed happy enough.

And so was Jack. He didn't know if he was intoxicated by the atmosphere, the alcohol or the close proximity to Joanne, or by the fact that he was away from his unreal, strained life with Sharon, but he felt better than he had done for a long time.

On fire again.

Just as Joanne had said he would.

He saw her coming back to join them, cigarette in hand. As she got nearer, Jack noticed the cigarette was hand-rolled, thick, giving off a pungent, sweet smell. She sat down next to him, snuggled in to him, dreamily handed him the roll-up.

‘Have some,' she said.

‘I don't smoke.'

‘You'll like this.'

And then he realized what it was. A joint.

‘Go on,' she said.

He took it, more to please her than for himself. He put it to his lips, inhaled. Held it down, tried not to cough, exhaled. Mild euphoria gently washed over him. The smoky sickness in his stomach was negligible compared with the buzz he felt. He inhaled again. A mellow, prickly heat covered his body. He smiled.

‘Me next,' said Dave.

Jack handed it over. Thirty-six and having my first joint, he thought. He laughed. Better late than never.

They smoked and talked. The heat had gone from the two men's argument. They found themselves more in agreement as the night wore on.

Eventually Dave moved away, leaving Jack and Joanne alone. They drank, smoked and even danced a little. They sat back down again, backs against the wall, on the floor.

‘D'you want to go home yet?' Jack was slurring his words.

Joanne shrugged.

‘Happy here.' She was slurring too.

She looked at him, smiled. And in that gesture, that moment, he knew he loved her face, her body, her soul, her life. His heart about to burst.

‘I love you,' he said.

She looked at him again. Searched his eyes for doubt, desperation, untruth. Found none.

‘I love you too,' she said.

Then they were on one another, kissing, grappling, devouring each other in their passion. Unzipping, unbuckling, unbuttoning.

They shuffled along the floor, joined the other writhing shadows as a dark corner claimed them.

Jack threw his overcoat over them.

Then he was inside her.

They gasped together.

They moved together.

Same passion. But deeper now.

Jack: his heart about to burst.

January–August 1965:

Paradise

Ben Marshall walked through the double glass doors of the Newcastle civic centre feeling like a character in a science fiction film.

It was all so modern: blond wood, marble and steel in clean, geometric designs. Pristine. A huge, primary-coloured mural behind the main desk drew his eye, gave the lobby its focus.

He felt a thrill within. This was Dan Smith's design writ large. Un-English. Un-Northern. The future.

Ben loved it. Belonged to it.

He walked up to the main desk. A pretty brunette looked up expectantly. Ben assumed a winning smile.

‘Can I help you?'

‘Ben Marshall. Here to see Dan Smith. He's expecting me.' She checked the diary before her.

‘That's fine, Mr Marshall.'

She gave him directions to the private lift. He gave her another winning smile in return. She giggled.

He walked around the corner to the lift, which was inlaid in a huge wall of interlocking geometric wooden designs. Stepping inside, he pressed the one button. He straightened his tie in his brushed-steel reflection, glinted his cufflinks in the overhead light, smiled to himself.

Feeling good.

The doors opened. He was greeted by a suited and bespectacled middle-aged man.

‘Mr Marshall?'

The man stuck out his hand. Ben accepted it.

‘I'm Terry. Mr Smith's personal assistant.'

His handshake was warm, dry and firm.

‘If you'd like to follow me.'

Ben followed down halls, through corridors. Modernist wood and leather panelling on the walls. Green leather and chrome banquettes dotted about. Ben was led to a hall filled with glass display cases.

‘If you'd just wait here a moment,' Terry said. ‘I'll tell Mr Smith you're here.'

He disappeared through a doorway.

Ben looked around. The display cases contained items of regional significance dating back centuries. Ceremonial swords, gestures of friendship between countries and regions, trophies, cups and awards won. History. Highly polished, on display but ultimately compartmentalized and locked away. That fitted with what he had heard about Dan Smith.

The door opened. Terry stood there.

‘Mr Marshall?'

Ben turned.

‘Mr Smith will see you now.'

Ben entered Dan Smith's office. Stark white walls, the only colour being the blond wood desk and matching filing cabinets, the green leather office chair and matching sofas. On one wall, near the floor-length window overlooking the city, was a model of what looked like a miniature city in white and grey cardboard. Sweeping, multi-level roadways, huge, monolithic office blocks. A science fiction city, not one Ben recognized.

Dan Smith, suited, hair slicked back as usual, was seated behind his desk. He rose as Ben entered, extended his hand.

‘Happy New Year, Mr Marshall,' said Dan Smith.

‘And to you too,' said Ben.

‘Let's hope 1965 brings us plenty of things to be cheerful about.'

He directed Ben to a green leather armchair facing the desk. Dan Smith resumed his seat behind it.