‘Hey, don’t I know you?’
Nick looked up.
‘Mr Cane, right?’
‘Right.’
‘You were my English teacher – like, ten years ago.’
‘Sure, I recognise you – Neville?’
‘Nigel. What are you doing driving a cab? Couldn’t hack teaching no more?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘You were a good teacher. Got me a C. Only C I got.’
‘Thanks, Nigel. I’d better go. Got a pick up.’
There was somebody behind him waiting to pay. Nick took his change.
‘All right. G’night Mr C, g’luck.’
‘Same to you.’
And what happened to Nigel, Nick wondered, that he was working as a night cashier at a petrol station when he was twenty-five? He’d not been a dim kid, just unsuited to school.
At two, there was a call to Mapperley Road. A working girl was finishing for the night and wanted to go to Aspley. Most of the older prostitutes lived a long way from their beat. That way, their neighbours wouldn’t know what they got up to. This woman was Nick’s age, nearly past it in sex worker terms.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘You’ll have to open a window,’ Nick said, apologetically. ‘It’s not my cab.’
‘Thanks, duck.’
She didn’t speak again, making her Nick’s favourite kind of customer. He knew where he was going, could relax while listening to Radio One. He’d missed hearing new music while he was inside. Late nights, Radio One played dance, Indie stuff or techno, which was pretty new to him. He’d picked up the difference between techno and drum’n’bass. If it sounded like it had been programmed by a computer, it was techno. The best record was called ‘Born Slippy’, by a band called Underworld. When that came on, Nick was inclined to turn the radio up, though the punters sometimes complained. They wanted Radio Trent or Gem AM, bland commercial pop pap. Tonight, though, when Nick put a couple of notches on the volume for something trippy by Orbital, the woman in the back said, ‘Yeah, louder.’
They got to her place and she leant forward, her tits hanging out and having the intended effect.
‘Do you want to come inside for a few minutes?’ she proposed. ‘Party?’
‘Sorry,’ Nick said. ‘I don’t pay for it.’
‘Maybe you wouldn’t have to. I’ve got some beer, a smoke. If you could just run the babysitter home first.’
‘The journey cost six quid, duck. Sorry. I’m tempted, but I’ve got a living to earn.’
Best not to offend anyone unless you had no choice. This was the new, sorted Nick (sorted was one of the words that had taken on new meaning while he was away). He hadn’t had sex in five years, but the first time wasn’t going to be with a pro. He hadn’t fallen that far.
‘All right. Another time. Here’s a tenner. The sitter will be out in a minute. She’s only five minutes away. You can keep the change, all right?’
‘Thanks.’
The sitter took her time. Probably fallen asleep. He nearly sounded his horn, but figured that would draw attention to the working girl’s late hours, so he got out of the car to see, locking it, because you couldn’t be too careful. The other drivers all had stories about times they’d been robbed, the tricks that had been played on them in the most unlikely places.
The girl came to the door in shorts and a vest. She looked about thirteen. The bloke with her was at least twenty, a wiry, sour-faced youth with matted hair, a ring through the nose and jeans more torn than together.
‘Sorry about the wait,’ the woman called.
‘Where are you going to, love?’ Nick asked the girl.
She told him. ‘And can you take my friend, too?’
‘I’ve only been paid to take you home.’
‘He’ll pay.’
They got in the back, sat separate as strangers. Through the rear view mirror, Nick saw the guy rolling up. The girl’s place was two minutes away. She got out and ran to the door. Her boyfriend didn’t say goodnight.
‘Where to?’ Nick asked.
‘City.’
‘Any particular bit?’
‘I’ll tell you when we get there,’ he said, putting the roll-up in his mouth.
‘Sorry,’ Nick told him. ‘You can’t smoke in here.’
‘Yeah, but someone has, han’t they? I can smell it. Tell you what, I won’t tell if you don’t,’ the guy told him, lighting up.
Sometimes a cabbie was like a teacher. Discipline had to be instantaneous and consistent, otherwise you lost control. Nick slammed on the brakes.
‘Either the fag goes out or you do. Rules.’
Nick didn’t look in the rear view but he could feel the guy staring at him with hatred, or something like. Then he heard the door open.
‘All right. It’s out.’
‘The ride into town’ll be four quid. Let’s have it now.’
While you were in control, use it. This was an ordinary saloon. There was no way for Nick to lock the doors to prevent the guy doing a runner at the end of the ride if he chose to.
‘You’re joking.’
‘It’s the rules.’
‘Who makes the rules?’
‘I do.’
‘Sod that,’ the youth said. ‘I’ll pay you when we get there.’
He didn’t have the money. Nick could sense it. He could smell the street on the guy, too. Even if he had the money, he wouldn’t pay if he could help it.
‘Get out,’ he said, turning so that the crusty couldn’t jump him.
‘Make me.’
Nick reached beneath the seat with his right hand. The guy went into one of his pockets, probably had a knife. Nick darted forward with his left, pinched the guy’s bollocks so hard that tears ran down his face. A trick he’d had to learn inside.
‘Stop, stop!’
Nick let go.
‘You’re a fucking maniac,’ the pipsqueak said, opening the door.
‘S’right, but at least I don’t have to get my rocks off fucking thirteen-year-olds,’ Nick shouted as the guy hobbled along the side of the ringroad, leaving the door open. Nick accelerated so that the door caught the jerk on the side before slamming shut. What chance for the girl he’d been screwing? Nick had few scruples where sex was concerned, but he’d never knowingly had an underage girl.
Stop moralising, Nick told himself. For all he knew, it might have been the girl who did the seducing. Nick used to be professionally responsible for girls her age, otherwise he might feel differently. Was he really concerned about the girl’s welfare? No, what it came down to was that girls under sixteen didn’t turn him on. He needed to put all the old liberal, seeing both sides of the story crap behind him. Ethics were a luxury he couldn’t afford. He should take whatever was on offer, but keep to the law, even when he didn’t agree with it. Without law there was chaos: tough on the causes of crime, he’d heard that one inside. He wondered what Sarah made of all that. Sarah, who had been on his mind all day. Sarah, who had never been far from his mind for the last fifteen years. Sarah, with her Tory-boy lover.
8
The call-out took Nick to a library in one of the city’s biggest council estates. He was early and got out of the cab for a smoke. A sign on the library door announced that this morning there was a surgery with Sarah Bone, MP. The photo was a bad one. Sarah wore a forced smile and big hair that didn’t suit her. The red jacket she was wearing matched her lipstick. Red might be the party colour but it made her face look ghostly-pale. He wanted to see what the real Sarah looked like, but before he could summon up the nerve to go inside, a woman came out: bottle blonde, ample chested and hard faced – one hundred per cent Nottingham.