The White Room (30 page)

He felt Ava's lips around his erect cock. Pushing up and down. Up and down. He smiled, opened his eyes.

And froze.

There was Mae. Kneeling on his legs with her mouth over his penis.

‘What you doin'?'

He jerked away. The movement sent her crashing to the floor. She looked up at him, eyes spinning different emotions, going round like fruit machine wheels: fear, incomprehension, disappointment. And more he didn't recognize. Couldn't name.

He quickly buttoned himself up.

‘What you doin', pet?'

Mae scuttled herself into a corner, stared up at him. Tears were welling in her eyes.

She looked like a hurt animal.

Terrified.

He thought the best thing to do would be to play it down. Reassure her.

‘Come here,' he said and held out his arms.

She stared at him, didn't move.

‘Come on, pet, it's all right. Come over here.'

He managed a small smile for her. It was an effort.

‘Come on.'

Slowly, she picked herself up off the floor and crossed towards him.

‘Sit down,' he said.

He had meant on a chair, but she sat on his lap. It made him uncomfortable, but he didn't have the heart to turf her off. She put her arms around his neck, buried her face into him.

‘Men like that,' she said, her voice a small, fragile thing. ‘Men like it when I do that.'

‘Not all men, pet. Not all of them.'

He felt her hug him all the harder. He felt her tears on his skin.

Bert's body was shaking. From anger or shock, he didn't know which.

‘Come on, pet,' he said, his voice soothing, ‘no harm done, eh?'

Mae kept sobbing.

‘Listen,' he said, ‘what about a nice cup of tea, eh? I'll put the kettle on an' make us a nice cup of tea. Would you like that?'

He felt her head nod slowly against his neck.

‘Right, then. You sit here and I'll do it.'

She clung on even harder.

Bert forced a smile. ‘Come on, pet, I can't get up if you won't let go.'

She didn't let go.

Bert sighed. ‘What is it, pet? Is something wrong at home?'

He felt her body go rigid. She froze in mid-sob. She pulled her head back, stared at him.

There was that look again, he thought. That scared, caged animal look.

‘All right, pet, you stay here. I'll go and put the kettle on.'

Bert stood up, leaving Mae in the armchair, and made his way to the kitchen. He busied himself filling the kettle and teapot, trying not to think about what had just happened.

Then he heard the door slam.

He went back into the room. Mae was gone.

Just her rabbit left on the chair.

He sighed, shook his head.

From the kitchen, the kettle began to whine.

Just what's going on in that house, he wondered.

‘So how d'you want me, then?'

‘On top.'

‘You want me to do all the work, then?'

‘You don't expect me to, do you? I'm paying you. Fucking do it.'

She was a whore, a cheap one. Young, but already beyond the point of redemption. Ben liked that. It turned him on, adding to her corruption.

Sweaty, dirty sex in a sweaty, dirty basement.

He loved it.

She wore a see-through baby doll nightie and giggled when she mounted him. A
frisson
ran through his body as she lowered herself on to him.

He thought of Sharon.

‘Just popping out to see a client, darling,' he had said. ‘You'll be all right on your own for an hour or so?'

She had smiled and nodded. Ben could still see the adoration in her eyes. He feigned it and returned it.

Sharon.

A means to an end. He had seduced her, corrupted her, and now had her where he wanted her. He still kept up the pretence of courting her, wining and dining her, but, like commuting to work or eating dinner, it was part of the routine. A workmanlike but necessary part of his day. Her ageing body no longer thrilled him, but he played along. Fucked her. Because he still had a part for her to play.

‘You're smilin'. You like that?'

‘Yeah, I like that. Don't talk. Just keep going.'

He had driven past his mother's old place in Byker a few days earlier. He didn't know why; he hadn't felt the need to do it previously. Must be getting sentimental.

The house had been allowed to atrophy. He could imagine his mother sitting inside. Gnarled and twisted into a hate-filled old age.

He had parked and looked at the house.

And felt nothing.

Another person, another life.

He had driven away.

He felt an orgasm building inside him. This pockmarked, flabby-thighed whore was pulling it out of him.

He thought of his plan. How near it was to completion.

And came.

*

Summer arrived. School's out.

The Animals had left the Club A Go Go, gone on to bigger things: ‘We Gotta Get out of This Place' duking it out with the Stones' ‘Satisfaction' and the Beatles' ‘Help' for the top spot.

And Newcastle was changing. Dan Smith planned, implemented. Dan the man who made things happen:

New homes. New roads. New office blocks. New civic centre. New airport. New university.

New city.

New
castle.

And Dan Smith everywhere: the papers. The radio. The television. Calling for more money, more employers, more leisure facilities, more jobs.

More, more, more.

And Dan getting what he wanted.

Dan loved and adored. Admired and revered. Mr Popularity.

And the city remade in his image.

Dan's Castle.

And Scotswood was changing too:

Not just tower blocks and attendant periphery, but a new abattoir. A fully automated, conveyor-belt-driven slaughterhouse. Costing two million pounds, filling eleven acres of land. Between Scotswood Road and Whitehouse Road, a place called Paradise.

Animals would be killed, bled, gutted, skinned, beheaded, dehoofed, carved, chopped. Passing down the line, being stripped back to their component meat products. Packaged and processed and freighted away. Reinforced-concrete and white-tile efficiency. No waste. Carcass after carcass.

Good for Newcastle, good for the area, good for jobs.

One lone voice of dissent: Professor M. M. Cooper, Dean of Agriculture at King's College. ‘Any slaughterhouse built within a city rapidly creates slum conditions,' he said. ‘I do not think it is a question of civic pride. Get the dashed thing out of town.'

No one listened.

The tower blocks and attendant periphery. The abattoir.

Paradise.

Summer, and school's out:

Mae stood at the top end of her street, looked down towards the river. Her eyes were hard, dark and empty. Showing nothing, filmed over like emotional cataracts.

The car was there again: 1600 Cortina. Some suited man behind the wheel. Third day now. Sitting and looking.

At her.

Mae knew what he was there for. What he wanted. Even at a distance, she knew. A sense she had developed; forcibly planted, and violently encouraged to grow inside her. It enabled her to spot needs, pinpoint twisted wants. She had become a child alchemist, had found the whore's philosophers' stone: she knew how to turn base desires into money.

She walked down the street. Around her, other children played, people led their lives. She ignored them. She was working. She reached the car. The man looked at her, his eyes wide. She looked into them, saw what he wanted, what he needed, before he did.

The man kept staring. Mae didn't move. The man licked his dry lips, swallowed. Mae didn't move. The man realized she wasn't going to go away so slid across and wound his window down. His hand was shaking.

‘Hello,' the man said. ‘What's your name?'

His voice was as shaky as his hand.

‘Mae.'

‘Mae, eh? That's a pretty name. D'you live round here, Mae?'

‘Over the road.'

The man looked, eyes settling on Mae's house. He nodded as if confirming something to himself. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger.

‘Why don't you get in, Mae, eh? Sit next to me.'

He patted the green leather of the passenger seat.

Mae opened the door, got in, closed it behind her. The car smelled of old, anticipatory sweat. She could see the man's erection through his suit trousers. He was squirming around in his seat, eyes saucered, lit by dark fires.

Mae looked at the man's groin.

‘D'you want me to play with your cock?'

The man gasped. Mae almost smiled. She felt something like electricity surge through her body.

‘Yuh – yes.'

He sweated, squirmed, some more.

‘Cost you,' she said.

‘Huh – how much?'

‘A tanner.'

The electricity swelled and surged.

‘That all?' he said and, laughing, reached eagerly into his trouser pocket.

Mae felt herself flush with a sudden rage. The man was laughing at her. Belittling her. She couldn't have that.

The man pulled some change from his pocket, handed her a sixpence.

‘And those pennies there,' Mae said, pointing.

The man handed over the pennies. Mae pocketed the money. She leaned across and undid the man's trousers, her fingers still shaking with a residue of anger. She pulled the man's penis out and began moving it up and down, her little hand holding on tight.

He settled back in the seat, face a study of pleasure.

Mae kept pumping.

‘You see that house there?'

Mae pointed with her free hand. The man reluctantly allowed his gaze to follow her finger.

‘That's me uncle's house, that.'

The man grunted.

‘He'll be in there now, I reckon. Watchin'.'

‘That's what he does for pleasure, is it?' the man said between gasps.

Mae kept pumping.

‘No,' she said. ‘He doesn't like us doin' this. Tries to stop us.'

The man moaned.

‘Found us with one bloke last week. I had his willy in me mouth.'

The man moaned louder.

‘I told 'im it was all the bloke's fault.'

Mae kept pumping. She felt the man's penis soften slightly.

‘Don't talk,' he gasped. ‘Just keep going.'

Mae acted as if she hadn't heard him.

‘He got a hold of this bloke, an' 'e was all “I hate perverts, I hate poofs” an' that, an' 'e was ganna cut this bloke's willy off.'

Mae kept pumping. The man's penis was rapidly softening.

‘Just … shut up … keep … going …'

‘Well, 'e just beat the bloke up,' said Mae. She giggled. ‘Had to go to hospital afterwards.'

‘Shut … up …'

Rapidly softening.

‘Said 'e would kill the next one.'

Mae pumping away.

‘Shut up!'

‘Cut 'is willy off.'

‘Shut up!'

‘Stuff it in 'is mouth.'

‘Shut up!'

Rapidly softening.

Mae looked up, didn't stop pumping.

‘I think this is 'im now.'

‘Fuck!'

The man reached across Mae, fingers scrabbling frantically, and opened the passenger door.

‘Get out! Just get out!'

He pushed Mae bodily from the car, scrambled to close the door. He pulled away from the kerb, tyres screeching, trousers around his knees.

Mae picked herself up, watched him go.

She smiled to herself. Electricity lit up her whole body. She felt like some kind of Christmas tree, bright, alive and pulsing with power.

An angry, rage-driven power.

She checked the money in her pocket. Her smile widened. All hers. None for her mother. All hers.

She put it back, enjoying the weighted clink of the coins against her thigh. She walked away.

Thinking what she would spend it on.

Thinking how she could make some more.

Sharon threw the last of her tea down the sink, rinsed her mug, stood it on the drainer. She turned around. She was, all things considered, happy.

If she thought of her job and how it made her feel valued and the degree of independence it gave her, then yes, she was happy. If she thought of her lover and the fact that after all this time he could still move her and thrill her. How dynamic and uncomplicated he was. Charismatic and genuinely funny. He didn't want to move in with her or marry her but, as he had explained, that was a good thing. They would never have to go shopping together. Do the housework. Buy insurance. They would never have to be mundane; they would always be exciting for one another.

Happy.

And then there was Jack. And Isaac. And their house. She had given up with Jack. She had given him every opportunity to improve, every chance to change. And he hadn't done any of it. It was his own fault. He had brought her indifference on himself. Lately, though, he had been more relaxed, spending more time away from the house. If he had a lover, she would love to see the boring old hag who would have taken him on.

And Isaac. His school reports were showing an increasingly violent, angry child. At home he was sullen and withdrawn. Sharon had tried talking but received no response. She felt guilty but didn't know what else to do. But he was a boy. They did that. It was a phase he was going through.

The house. No longer a real, functioning home. Just a series of compartmentalized areas. The three of them living in three separate worlds. Even with the heating on in the winter, the air between them felt cold and brittle. They rarely spoke, as if sound wouldn't be carried and received from one person to the next. They had become used to it. Accepted it. It was the way they lived. She would spend as little time there as possible. Cook, clean, shop. Fuel the engine. Hope that by doing that it would need no maintenance.

Sharon tried not to think too hard about these aspects of her life.

Sharon was, all things considered, happy.