Won’t last though. Nottingham West has always been Tory. I’m a Tory myself, but I fancied a change.’
‘Fancied her you mean,’ Joe said. ‘As for not telling you, Nick, I never knew your Sarah’s surname. And, let’s face it, she was mousy in those days, little glasses, didn’t show off her chest. Whereas here . . . I’m surprised you recognised her.’
Sarah used to dress down. Political women did in the 1980s. Nick was always encouraging her to grow her hair, with limited success. In the photo in the Sun it was long and wavy, perfectly styled. Nick felt a surge of he-didn’t-know-what: some kind of reverse jealousy the Germans would have a word for. Sarah had finally become the woman he had always known she had the potential to become. That didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him was that she was fucking a Tory frontbencher.
Nick did a school run followed by calls to Carlton and Top Valley, on the edge of the city, to and from the Meadows, then Hyson Green, which had Nottingham’s biggest black and Asian population. Evening came quickly. Nick was tempted to pick up one of the punters coming out of the pubs, but only licensed city cabs were allowed to pick up on the street and in the taxi ranks. They paid for the privilege. An unlicensed driver would get a fine if the police spotted him. A beating, if he cut up a licensed cabbie who’d had a bad day. Even so, everybody did it, especially on quiet nights like this. But Nick was keeping his nose clean.
One good thing about working nights, there wasn’t time for heavy drinking. Nick would have to cut down on the dope, too. He wasn’t a kid any more and he was on probation. From now on, he would only take calculated risks and the fewer of those, the better. He wasn’t going back.
He kept a low profile around the taxi office. Anybody, at any time, could grass him up: to the dole or the probation. He’d been grassed up once already. He’d refused to believe that at the time, putting his arrest down to a combination of bad luck and good police work. Inside, he’d learnt that the idea of police investigatory work was a nonsense: the drugs squad relied on grasses and confessions like every other detective. And Nick hadn’t been stupid enough to confess.
The will for revenge eats at the soul: that was another maxim he’d made up for himself inside. Let it go. But this was a hard one to stick to. Nick wanted to know who’d put him inside. Revenge might’ve been their motive, too. Best not to keep that wheel turning. He’d like to be sure, though, so he could put it behind him. There was a modern cliché saying success was the best form of revenge. Nick ought to devote himself to becoming a success. That wasn’t going to happen when he was driving a crappy cab for his brother.
At one in the morning he stopped for diesel. He always left more in the car than when he borrowed it, but if he’d had a bad night, the fuel, on top of the car hire, might mean him working for only a couple of quid an hour. Tonight he’d worked long hours, though, done pretty well. He got out of the car. At night you had to pay at the front of the petrol station, through a small gap in the window – another change while he’d been inside. The cashier’s voice through the grille was disembodied.
‘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
‘Fancied her you mean,’ Joe said. ‘As for not telling you, Nick, I never knew your Sarah’s surname. And, let’s face it, she was mousy in those days, little glasses, didn’t show off her chest. Whereas here . . . I’m surprised you recognised her.’
Sarah used to dress down. Political women did in the 1980s. Nick was always encouraging her to grow her hair, with limited success. In the photo in the Sun it was long and wavy, perfectly styled. Nick felt a surge of he-didn’t-know-what: some kind of reverse jealousy the Germans would have a word for. Sarah had finally become the woman he had always known she had the potential to become. That didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him was that she was fucking a Tory frontbencher.
Nick did a school run followed by calls to Carlton and Top Valley, on the edge of the city, to and from the Meadows, then Hyson Green, which had Nottingham’s biggest black and Asian population. Evening came quickly. Nick was tempted to pick up one of the punters coming out of the pubs, but only licensed city cabs were allowed to pick up on the street and in the taxi ranks. They paid for the privilege. An unlicensed driver would get a fine if the police spotted him. A beating, if he cut up a licensed cabbie who’d had a bad day. Even so, everybody did it, especially on quiet nights like this. But Nick was keeping his nose clean.
One good thing about working nights, there wasn’t time for heavy drinking. Nick would have to cut down on the dope, too. He wasn’t a kid any more and he was on probation. From now on, he would only take calculated risks and the fewer of those, the better. He wasn’t going back.
He kept a low profile around the taxi office. Anybody, at any time, could grass him up: to the dole or the probation. He’d been grassed up once already. He’d refused to believe that at the time, putting his arrest down to a combination of bad luck and good police work. Inside, he’d learnt that the idea of police investigatory work was a nonsense: the drugs squad relied on grasses and confessions like every other detective. And Nick hadn’t been stupid enough to confess.
The will for revenge eats at the soul: that was another maxim he’d made up for himself inside. Let it go. But this was a hard one to stick to. Nick wanted to know who’d put him inside. Revenge might’ve been their motive, too. Best not to keep that wheel turning. He’d like to be sure, though, so he could put it behind him. There was a modern cliché saying success was the best form of revenge. Nick ought to devote himself to becoming a success. That wasn’t going to happen when he was driving a crappy cab for his brother.
At one in the morning he stopped for diesel. He always left more in the car than when he borrowed it, but if he’d had a bad night, the fuel, on top of the car hire, might mean him working for only a couple of quid an hour. Tonight he’d worked long hours, though, done pretty well. He got out of the car. At night you had to pay at the front of the petrol station, through a small gap in the window – another change while he’d been inside. The cashier’s voice through the grille was disembodied.
‘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
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