The White Room (29 page)

‘Would you like something to drink?'

Ben asked for coffee, was informed he could have something stronger if he wished, insisted on coffee. Dan Smith asked for tea. Terry, closing an adjoining door behind him, went to get the drinks.

‘Lovely building,' said Ben once the two men were alone.

‘This your first visit to the civic centre?'

Ben told him it was.

‘It's not finished yet,' said Dan Smith, smiling, ‘but we put a lot of planning into it. I like to think of it as a people's art gallery. Something the whole city can be proud of.'

‘It's wonderful,' said Ben. ‘I'm sure they will be.'

‘High praise indeed, when a Southern gentleman such as yourself can appreciate what we're doing up here.'

Ben smiled.

Terry arrived with the tea and coffee, set it out, left.

‘So,' said Dan Smith, sipping his tea, wincing from the heat, ‘what can I do for you?'

Ben set down his coffee.

‘Well,' he said, ‘I'm from London, as you can tell. But I prefer to be based up here. More of a sense of optimism in Newcastle. And that's in no small part due to you.'

Dan Smith almost blushed.

‘Well, we've got a good team around us. We have to get rid of the old, flat-cap image of the grim, industrial North. Replace it with a new, international one. That's the only way we can attract new business. The only way we can move forward.'

‘I agree,' said Ben. ‘That's why I wanted this meeting.'

Ben took a sip of coffee, crossed his legs, continued.

‘I'm an entrepreneur, a businessman. I own property, rent it out. Walker, Byker, that way. Heaton.'

The quality of light in Dan Smith's eye changed, but his face remained the same. He kept listening.

‘I'm moving into property development. I'm buying up buildings, land. I've got an expanding portfolio. I'm moving into redevelopment. However …'

He looked straight into Dan Smith's eyes.

‘I want to make sure that my vision can sit alongside yours. Otherwise there's no point.'

Dan Smith nodded, kept listening.

‘Now I may not be, politically, the kind of person you normally deal with …'

Dan Smith showed amusement.

‘But I think we can agree on this.'

Dan Smith scrutinized Ben, then stood up.

‘Come over here.'

Dan Smith crossed to the corner of the room, where the model city lay. Pristine white towers thrust from the ground. Shining, multi-level walkways and driveways encircled the city. Old buildings were depicted as flat, low and grey. The new, modernist white-hot city rising from the ash-coloured old.

‘This,' said Dan Smith, ‘is the shape of things to come. This is going to be the city of Newcastle.'

Ben looked at the plan, saw potential. Saw money. He turned to Dan Smith, smiled.

‘I think you're a man I can do business with,' he said.

They sat back down, talked. Dan Smith brought Ben up to date with his plans. Le Corbusier brought in to design.

State-of-the-art housing. A new international airport. Hotels. A whole city precinct devoted to education with an extended university. Massive cultural initiatives making the arts accessible for all. A huge, indoor shopping centre in the middle of the city. Existing stores and banks asked to change their branded images to black and white to fit in with the city colour scheme. Complete redevelopment. A whole new environment.

His vision.

‘So you see,' said Dan Smith, ‘although my roots are in Marxism, I prefer to see myself as a progressive. From what you say, I think you're the kind of young man I could see eye to eye with.'

‘I've got a vision too,' said Ben. ‘Not as grand as yours, though. The vision for my company is to create one that can offer a full service. Look at the way you do things at the moment. You want a building put up. Or a road, whatever. That involves surveyors, consultants, town planners … there would have to be costings made, studies taken. Now, assuming this goes ahead, you'd need an architect to design it, engineers, builders to build it, then it's up. Then you need managers …' He shrugged. ‘Lot of planning. Lot of dealing with different companies. Wouldn't it be better just to deal with one company?'

Dan Smith smiled.

‘That's an audacious concept.'

‘It is. And I'm working towards it. I'm starting by moving into construction.'

‘Well, you'll have to go a long way to beat Bell and Sons. Number-one company in the area. Our first choice.'

‘Well …' Ben looked at his immaculately polished boot. ‘Not going to be around for ever, are they? Not the way Ralph Bell is.'

Dan Smith sighed sympathetically.

‘The man's had a lot of misfortune in his life,' he said. ‘Especially recently'

‘Perhaps he won't be in business much longer.'

Dan Smith shrugged.

‘Perhaps you'd be open to a bit of … competitive tendering.'

Dan Smith looked at Ben, gauging him. Then he nodded.

‘If the time comes, we'll talk about it then. I'm open to offers.'

Ben smiled.

The two men talked more. Ben found himself liking Dan Smith, being swept along by his vision. A visionary bureaucrat.

Accent on the visionary.

Dan Smith stood up.

‘Well, if you'll excuse me, Mr Marshall, I'll have to be getting on.'

He stood up, offered his hand. Ben took it.

‘Pleasure to meet you.'

‘Likewise, Mr Smith.'

‘Call me Dan.'

‘Dan.'

‘I like your ideas. I'm sure we can do business together. Let's keep in touch.' He gestured to the door. ‘Terry will see you out.'

Terry did see Ben out, all the way to the lift. He made his way across the foyer, giving the brunette receptionist a wink, getting a giggle in return. Once outside in the fountained courtyard, he took a deep breath of cold, January air.

‘Let's hope 1965 brings us plenty to be cheerful about,' he said out loud.

He walked to the car park to pick up his car.

He had an appointment with his solicitor.

Mae Blacklock opened her eyes. But the nightmare was still with her.

Waking or sleeping, the nightmare was still with her.

She wanted to get out of bed, get a drink of water. Go to the toilet.

But she didn't dare.

Her mother might be waiting for her. Might have things for her to do.

She clutched the stuffed rabbit close to her chest. The toy was threadbare, dirty and well handled. It was the only protection she had. It was no protection at all.

At least she hadn't wet the bed this time. She hated that. Her mother would hang the mattress on the line so that the entire street could see what she had done. And rub her face in the wee on the sheets.

She lay there, covers pulled up tight, staring at the ceiling.

Trying not to breathe, not to exist.

After that first night, that first, horrible night, her mother had started in earnest. Men would arrive at the house specifically to see Mae. Mae would be taken into the white room with the crucifixes on the wall, the expressions of love and agony, and made to greet the men. Mae didn't want to do it, refused at first.

‘Remember the prison,' her mother said, ‘where they send the naughty children who won't do what their mams tell them.'

Mae looked at the man, at her mother. Terrified. She nodded.

‘Well, that's where you'll be if you don't do what you're told.'

Her mother nodded at the man, who handed her some money and began to undress.

And he had her.

And he hurt her.

Sometimes her mother was there. Holding her down, forcing her mouth or legs open.

This just got the men more excited.

Sometimes the men would tie her up, blindfold her.

Sometimes they would hit her with things. Hard things. Soft things. It didn't matter. They were all used with force. They all hurt.

Sometimes her mother was there, laughing and joining in. Sometimes she wasn't.

It didn't matter.

Sometimes her mother would take her to another woman's house where the same things would happen.

Afterwards, Mae would have to wait while her mother drank gin and went to bed with the other woman.

She would hear them laughing together. Swearing together.

Mae retreated to a small place inside herself. A small cell that she couldn't escape from but at least nothing could get in to hurt her.

She felt tiny, powerless.

She felt like she was dying slowly, a piece at a time.

The girl in the bubble. The small, dark bubble.

Other children seemed further away than ever.

Mae desperately needed a wee.

Slowly, she flung back the covers, swung her feet to the floor. She pad-padded over the lino, down the hall and to the toilet. The cold made her shiver through her nightie.

She finished up, wiped herself off. Gently, because she was sore all the time. Then she debated. To flush or not to flush. The sound might wake her mother. Make her angry. But then if she didn't flush the toilet, her mother might be angry about that too.

She took a deep breath, pulled the chain. Kept the door tightly closed until the last of the water echoed away.

Then tiptoed back to her bed.

She risked a glance around her mother's bedroom door; careful not to make the door creak, she pushed it open.

Her mother sprawled naked across the bed, bedclothes twisted and tangled about her body as if she were roped down. She was snoring loudly, head back, mouth open.

Booze-snoring, Mae called it.

Mae wondered what day it was.

Saturday.

Good.

She hurried out of her bedroom, began to get dressed.

Hopefully, she could be out of the house before her mother woke up.

She knew just where to go.

Bert sat at his kitchen table with a mug of strong tea, a Woodbine and the
Daily Mirror.

Breakfast.

He turned to the back page, began to read the football news, planning on studying the form, too, put a bet on later. There was a knock at the door.

Bert pulled on his Woodbine, set it down in an ashtray and, pulling his braces up over his vest, went to answer it.

He opened the door. There stood Mae. Fully dressed in her winter coat, clutching her battered old stuffed rabbit.

She's too old for that, he had thought on several occasions. Too old to be carrying a little kid's toy around. He hadn't said anything, though. He had heard that some of the kids at school had taunted her about that. He had also heard that at least one of them had required hospital treatment as a result.

Bert had said nothing about it.

‘Hello, pet,' he said to her now. ‘This is a surprise.'

Her dark eyes bored into him.

‘Can I come in?'

‘Course you can, pet. In you come.'

She went into the kitchen. He closed the door, then followed her.

‘There's tea in the pot still, if you want some,' he said. ‘Or I've milk if you'd prefer.'

Mae didn't reply, just helped herself to a cup of tea, sat down.

Bert looked at her. Mae was still a little girl, but sometimes she seemed so grown up. Drinking tea. What was she now? Nine or ten? Something like that, he thought. Maybe even younger. And she carried herself like a grown up. Talked like a grown-up. When she talked at all. Mostly just sat there. Stared.

Bert often found that unnerving.

‘Can I stay here today?' she said.

‘Well, for a bit, aye. I'm goin' out later, like.'

‘Where?'

‘The pub. At dinnertime. An' the bettin' shop an' all.'

‘Can I stay here?'

‘Well …'

He looked at Mae. Her big eyes, her blank expression. There was something going on behind those eyes, inside her mind. He would get an occasional glimpse of what seemed like terror fluttering and flickering, like a caged animal desperate to escape. He didn't know what was wrong with her, but he knew she wouldn't tell him if he asked.

And it probably wasn't any of his business.

‘Aye, go on then. Will Monica be missin' you?'

Mae shook her head.

‘All right, then, you can stay.'

Mae gave a slight smile.

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘Can I go and see Adam?'

‘Course you can, pet. You know where he is.'

She went out into the yard, looking almost happy.

Bert sat back down, picked up his Woodbine. It was nearly half ash. He took a few last pulls from it, stubbed it out.

Watched the smoke curl and drift to the ceiling.

He hardly saw Monica any more. She had never been a big part of his life; they were friends who had occasional sex more than anything else. In the last few months he had noticed a change in Monica. She had become harder, crueller. Maybe she had always been, he thought. Maybe, as their relationship was dwindling, he was seeing her in a more honest light.

There were other women around but, if he was honest with himself, the older he got the less interested in sex he became.

He read the paper, drank his tea and smoked for much of the morning. Mae played in the yard, talking to imaginary people, acting out imaginary scenes. Bert didn't listen.

‘Mae,' he said, putting his coat and cap on, ‘I'm away out now. Will you be all right, pet?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Champion. I'll be in the Shovel if you need us.'

He left the house.

A few pints, conversations, wasted bets and hours later, he returned. Took up his position in the armchair and fell asleep with the newspaper over his chest.

Forgotten Mae was even there.

Bert began to feel an unfamiliar sensation in his groin. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Behind his closed eyes, he saw Ava Gardner appear before him. He was surprised to see her there but, as he had always liked her, he didn't mind. She was wearing a black, see-through negligee, and seeing the outline of her body, the curve of her breasts and thighs, gave him an erection. He watched as she smiled at him, then bent over before him.