The White Room (4 page)

‘Thanks, lads,' she said and smiled. ‘That's kind of you. Keep me warm when the nights are cold.'

‘It's cos, y'kna' …'

Lukey tried to speak, found the words wouldn't come.

‘It's cos we wanna fuck ya.'

Fenny had spoken. Lukey put his head down quickly. Even in the shadows he could feel himself blushing again.

The prostitute smiled at the boys again. They were too nervous to notice its condescendingly maternal qualities.

‘That's sweet,' she said. ‘Listen, lads, thanks for the fags, but you'd better run along now cos I'm workin'.'

Disappointment hit the boys with an almost physical force. Nearly a week of planning, all for nothing. They stood there, unsure whether to stay or walk. Lukey turned to the others, planning to walk, trying to find as much dignity as possible.

‘That's not fair,' said Nabs.

The others, including Brian and the prostitute, turned to face him.

‘We bought you those fags. If we're not ganna get nowt for them, we want them back.'

The prostitute opened her mouth to speak.

‘Aye, 'e's right, y'kna',' said Fenny, emboldened by Nabs's words. ‘It's not fair, we should get somethin'.'

The prostitute closed her mouth again, her words dying in her throat. She looked side to side, hoping the noise hadn't put off any potential punters. There were none. She sucked her bottom lip, thinking. Red lipstick stained her teeth. She ducked back into the alley, mind quickly made up.

‘Come on, then,' she said, her voice weary beyond her years, yet brisk and businesslike, ‘but be quick.'

The three older boys followed her into the shadows. Brian toddled slowly behind them. Nabs, Lukey and Fenny exchanged excited smiles, amazed and not a little apprehensive that their plan had worked.

The prostitute stopped, stepped back against a darkened doorway. The boys stopped also. She began unbuttoning her blouse.

‘You can all have a look at me tits,' she said, unhooking her bra from behind and pushing it up her chest.

They stared. The prostitute had small breasts with small nipples. They felt their erections rising.

Brian looked between the woman's breasts and the boys' enrapt faces. He knew something was happening but was unsure what it was.

‘Can I touch them?' asked Nabs.

She sighed. ‘If you must. But quickly.'

Nabs stepped up and ran his hands over them. Tentatively at first, then more assuredly as his confidence grew. He began to probe harder, breathe heavier. He took her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and pinched.

‘Ow!' She slapped his hands away. ‘They are attached, you know. Right, that's your lot. You next.'

Lukey then Fenny took turns fondling her breasts.

‘That's enough. I reckon that's a packet of fags' worth.' She began to reattach herself then looked down at Brian. He was staring up at her, eyes wide, blank.

‘What's the matter?' she said. ‘You want a go?'

‘Aye, gan on, Nabs,' said Lukey. ‘Let your Brian have a go.'

The prostitute kneeled down beside him.

‘Well?' she asked and smiled at him. ‘Do you wan' to squeeze my lovely titties as well?'

She laughed when she said it. Playful and taunting, yet with a cruel edge.

Brian looked up, his hands staying by his sides, his eyes locking on to hers.

‘Are you a slag?' he asked.

The prostitute stared at him, open-mouthed.

‘My mam's a slag. My dad calls her that. A fuckin' slag. Then he hits her. An' takes her money off her. Is that what happens to you?'

The prostitute stood upright and moved backwards all in the same motion. She looked like she had just been slapped in the face.

‘Right,' she said, pulling her clothes back together, ‘piss off, all of you. I'm workin'.'

She began to walk away, back up the alley. The boys didn't move; just stared at her. She reached the mouth of the alley, turned back to them.

‘Go on, piss off!'

The boys turned and reluctantly began to walk away.

Brian reached for Nabs's hand. Nabs batted it away.

They walked home to Byker. It was a long time before any of them spoke.

Jack didn't want to go home.

Highs were heading to lows. The joy of the meeting, of getting work, was receding. As the night had darkened, so had Jack: shadows were assuming substance, fears becoming more tangible.

Memories returning in pinpoint focus.

He tried to ward it off, use the night's positives as a counterbalance, but it was no good. He could feel the mood descending, as it always did, like an old, damp army blanket thrown over his head. The harder he struggled, the firmer its grip.

He didn't want to go back to the house he used to call home. Like everything else, it now seemed so alien to him.

And so small: narrow doorways, cramped rooms, compacted hallways. Too small for the amount of people it contained. Too small for Jack. He felt as if he was always bumping into things, having to squeeze between gaps in the furniture and bodies, fight for tiny, territorial increments. He thought years of army living would have cured him of that, but even there, in that strictly regimented existence, he had more space than he had at home.

He was also sharing a bedroom with his younger brother, Tommy. A very cramped bedroom. Although Tommy had never said anything, Jack got the impression that Tommy believed he should never have returned from the war. Perhaps a hero's death fighting the Nazis, perhaps an indefinite stay in Colditz. Anything, in fact, that would have given Tommy his own room.

While Tommy snored, Jack would lie awake staring at the darkness, trying not to see tangible shapes in flickers of half-light. And if he did sleep it was the same dream. His bed was a sea, the water black, oily, treacherous with hidden currents, hungry to pull down unwary swimmers. The Tyne as it ran through Scotswood: stinking of the waste of industry. Jack would lie on the surface, floating, imaginary balls and chains shackled to his hands and feet. The balls were stuffed full of memories, of images, names and places. All heavier than lead. They were trying to drag him down, drag him back. Jack would struggle, fight to keep his head above water, to keep breathing. Then he would wake, gasping. And the dream, in one form or another, would continue. That was not the only dream, but it was probably the worst. There were others. Waking or sleeping, nights – all nights – would pass like this. The only respite was that moment of waking dislocation, of temporary amnesia as the dream fell away and reality took over. He savoured those moments. Luxuriated in them. Wished they would last for ever.

Every night he would put off going to bed but ultimately he knew he was postponing the inevitable. So he walked. Tried to tire himself out, reach a state where his body would accept sleep but not dreams.

Newcastle fascinated him. It described itself as a city but felt more like a market town. Nine thirty at night and the streets were virtually deserted. He passed pubs, glimpsed men inside drinking, playing darts and dominoes, talking, not singing. Mini communities dotted on corners. The men Dan Smith had mentioned. Jack considered entering, buying himself a pint, striking up a conversation. But he couldn't do it. He would just want to talk about the things he tried not to think about. He would be spotted, shunned as different. He would be alone in there.

He walked, not thinking, not noticing where he was going. Head down, cap pulled tight, hands in pockets, eyes narrowed.

‘'Scuse me, have you got the time?'

The voice, playful, singsong. Local inflections, universal cadences.

He looked up. He was standing in front of the Essoldo cinema. He had walked to the bottom of Westgate Road. The woman who had spoken to him had blonde hair, curled and bobbed, just tidy enough. Blouse and skirt, stockings and heeled shoes, black overcoat. The blouse had been opened to reveal the tops of her small breasts. She wore heavily applied make-up, a child's approximation of how an adult should look.

She smiled at him.

‘Pardon?' he said.

‘I asked,' she said, pushing up the playfulness in her voice, ‘if you've got the time?'

Jack fumbled back his sleeve, looked at his watch. Then the penny dropped. He looked up, straight at the girl.

‘Sorry,' he said, ‘I'm not interested.'

They looked at each other. The girl smiled.

‘Are you not?'

Jack shook his head.

‘Sure?'

Jack nodded.

‘Only you haven't walked away yet.'

She moved towards him, legs slow, hips gyrating languorously. She pulled her coat away from her sides so he would have an unimpeded view of her figure.

‘Have you?'

Jack swallowed, his throat parched earth.

‘I haven't … haven't got any … much … money.'

The girl smiled.

‘We'll see what we can do. What's your name?'

‘Juh … Jack.'

Her fingers stroked his jacket lapels, his shirt. The movements were well practised, clinical. Jack ignored that. He concentrated only on her fingers. The feel of another person touching him. He began to get an erection.

‘This your first time, Jack?'

He began to shake his head – no – then stopped. He had been with whores in the army. They had been in every country, in every town, outside every barracks. His regiment, roaring boys all, had used whores as they had used drinking and fighting: a natural way to relax, to let off steam.

But that was in a previous life. That had happened to a different person.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘first time.'

‘Come on, then,' she said and took his hand, leading him down the alley.

‘No,' he said, stopping. He looked at the dark, the shadows. ‘Not down there.'

‘Where, then? You got somewhere?'

He thought of his bedroom. Tommy all snores and resentment. His bed drowning him in black, oily water. Dragging him down with the weight of memories.

He shook his head. ‘No.'

She stopped moving. He felt an immediate disappointment. He wanted this woman. Or at least the use of her body for a short while. The way she had touched his jacket, his chest … He was hard now, built up with frustration, wanting release. Wanting her to give him release.

‘Haven't you got somewhere?' he asked.

She looked at the cinema.

‘We could go in here.'

‘Yeah? Wouldn't they mind?'

The girl laughed.

‘I don't think so. Come on.'

She led him into the lobby. Tarnished Art Deco coated with dust and loveless disrepair. Jack glanced at the lobby cards:
Things To Come.
Produced by Alexander Korda. Directed by William Cameron Menzies. It showed rocket ships, skyscrapers, spacemen. It was an old film, ten years or so. New films were as rationed as food in Newcastle.

The girl walked to the counter, Jack in tow. The man behind the counter was short, round, greasy, with more hair tonic than hair plastered across his shining pate. He gave her a smile. It curled with knowingness, unpleasantness, lasciviousness.

‘Hello again, Isobel.'

‘Hello, Howard. Two, please.' She hugged herself into Jack's arm. ‘Me boyfriend'll pay.'

‘Course he will,' said Howard, pulling two tickets off a large drum.

Jack fumbled in his pocket, brought out the correct coins, slapped them down on the counter.

Howard handed over the tickets and the change.

‘Enjoy yourselves.'

‘We will,' said Isobel.

They reached the doors, about to enter. Isobel stopped.

‘Let's get the money sorted out first.' The playfulness had dropped out of her voice. She held her hand out. ‘Twenty bob.'

‘What? Twenty bob?'

‘Ssh. Don't raise your voice. All right. Make it ten.'

Jack's erection was larger than his unwillingness to part with what little money he had. He fumbled in his pocket, brought out the money, handed it over, his hand shaking.

She pocketed it, plastered on her fake smile again. She gave a small shrug.

‘Let's go in, then.'

Isobel entered the darkened cinema. Jack followed. She led him to a section of the cinema, beneath the projectionist's window, away from the rest of the seats. Cigarette smoke and dust curled and bounced in the shaft of light. She sat down in the shadow. Jack sat down next to her. Other customers were dotted about in twos and ones, all watching the screen. No one paid any attention to Jack and Isobel.

Jack's seat felt well sat in, the crimson velvet threadbare, springs threatening to poke through and into him, the seat hinges dropping down at an uncomfortable angle. He squirmed, tried to find a position he could settle in.

He thought of his earlier walk around Scotswood. Watching from the back of a deserted cinema. Unable to follow, unable to join in. This was different. He felt it. He hoped it.

Isobel leaned over to him, whispered, ‘Excited, are you?' She placed her hand on his crotch, gave an exploratory squeeze.

‘Ooh, you are.'

She kept on squeezing, pumping, building him up.

He looked around nervously.

‘Don't worry,' she said, ‘no one can see us here.'

She opened the buttons on his trousers, pulled out his penis, made some approving remark about it. Jack didn't hear her. He was concentrating on the feel of her fingers on himself. He opened his eyes, looked at her. She smiled at him and, with another well-practised movement, slid to her knees and licked her lips theatrically.

She bent in, started to suck.

His head rolled back. He felt the flood of sensations through the tip of his penis travel down the shaft. It was an intense, immediate feeling, a stimulation the like of which he hadn't experienced for a long time.

He gasped, closed his eyes.

And the images were back. The slaughterhouse.

The bull he had helped kill earlier: fighting for life as two inches of heavy metal were punched into its brain.