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
T he 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.
‘Waiting for me?’
‘Polly Bolton?’ Nick stubbed out his rollie and opened the cab’s back door. ‘Meeting your MP?’
‘Recognised her, did you?’ She sounded bitter about something.
‘Saw her in the paper a while back. She was dating some Tory.’
‘They were having a work meeting, she says.’
‘In that dress?’ Nick glanced in the mirror, checking out the woman’s breasts again.
‘If I went out in a dress like that, I’d be looking to pull.’
‘If I saw you out in a dress like that, I’d be first to make a move.’
The woman laughed. ‘You flatter all your punters, do you?’
‘No, love. Only the ones I fancy.’
In Sheffield, where Nick came from, love was the equivalent of duck in Nottingham, a friendly endearment. In Nottingham, his home since university, he used it more sparingly. He parked outside Tesco. Polly leant forward to pay and flashed him a smile that was more than friendly.
‘Can you pick me up just after ten? By that door?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’ll be you, will it?’
‘I was planning on finishing around then, so I’ll make it my last stop.’
He watched her hurry into the
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
T he 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.
‘Waiting for me?’
‘Polly Bolton?’ Nick stubbed out his rollie and opened the cab’s back door. ‘Meeting your MP?’
‘Recognised her, did you?’ She sounded bitter about something.
‘Saw her in the paper a while back. She was dating some Tory.’
‘They were having a work meeting, she says.’
‘In that dress?’ Nick glanced in the mirror, checking out the woman’s breasts again.
‘If I went out in a dress like that, I’d be looking to pull.’
‘If I saw you out in a dress like that, I’d be first to make a move.’
The woman laughed. ‘You flatter all your punters, do you?’
‘No, love. Only the ones I fancy.’
In Sheffield, where Nick came from, love was the equivalent of duck in Nottingham, a friendly endearment. In Nottingham, his home since university, he used it more sparingly. He parked outside Tesco. Polly leant forward to pay and flashed him a smile that was more than friendly.
‘Can you pick me up just after ten? By that door?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’ll be you, will it?’
‘I was planning on finishing around then, so I’ll make it my last stop.’
He watched her hurry into the
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