Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  Tony was getting into his argument.

  ‘It’s like America during prohibition. You know why so many blues musicians in the 1920s were blind? Because of the prohibition alcohol they drank. Moonshine. Bathtub gin. Gangsters. Same with drugs now. You legalize them, get addicts to register with their doctors. Given clean supplies, you take the gangsters out of the equation.’

  He gestured at the estate.

  ‘Like around here. People think addicts just sit around all day getting out of it. They don’t. They’re a hard-workin’ bunch. They’re always on the go, looking for money to get their next fix, stealin’, muggin’, sellin’ their bodies even. Anythin’. You take that away and they could get on with their lives. Sort themselves out. Drugs aren’t the problem. Criminalize water or air and you’ll be sold dodgy stuff by gangsters. No, heroin doesn’t fuck you up. You could take it for years, a clean supply, and your best friend wouldn’t be able to tell.’

  He smiled. ‘Honestly.’

  Larkin smiled also. ‘Pretty persuasive argument.’

  ‘All absolutely true.’

  ‘Can you see that happening?’

  Tony laughed. ‘Not immediately. Especially not with an election comin’ up. They don’t want to say anythin’ that would upset the Daily Mail. But it has to be done. I firmly believe that. But until they do that—’ he looked around again, gestured ‘—they’ll keep comin’ to me. And I’ll patch them up and send them home again. And that’s where the demons are.’

  ‘So why d’you keep doing it, then?’

  Tony opened his mouth to reply but stopped himself. His face broke into shadow before opting for a smile. ‘Someone has to … You got plenty of quotes there?’

  Larkin clicked the tape off. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Then come on,’ said Tony. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’

  They drove away, leaving the rain to hammer away at the T. Dan Smith Estate.

  The Garden of Eden the pub was called. If there was a prize for most inappropriate and misleading pub name, thought Larkin, then this would win it.

  It was perched on the edge of a particularly unpicturesque stretch of the Blyth River on the borders of a red-brick housing estate. Upriver to the left stood the tall, belching chimneys of the Cambois power station. Downriver to the right were what remained of the docks and piers, with the tall, white wind turbines rotating slowly in the distance. On the opposite bank bordered by flat, open space were six rows of terraced housing, looking peculiarly bleak and out of place.

  The pub, which had an incongruous new conservatory backing on to an old wooden jetty, was exactly as Larkin had expected it to be. Scarred, wooden tables and chairs, carpet worn down by use, too expensive to replace. However, the landlord gave them a hearty welcome, which surprised Larkin, but as he and Tony were the only two customers he was probably glad of the trade. Larkin sat in the conservatory waiting for Tony to finish his conversation with the barman and bring two pints of lager to the table. Thankfully, the rain on the conservatory roof drowned out the Tina Turner tape.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Tony, sitting down.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Larkin, looking around.

  ‘They do their best.’

  They both sipped.

  ‘I used to work down here,’ said Tony.

  ‘What, this pub?’

  ‘No, there.’ Tony pointed to the docks. ‘When I left school. It was either that or the pit. After see in’ what happened to me dad, I thought me chances were better in the open air.’

  ‘And the football?’

  ‘Thank God it came along when it did.’ He looked at the docks. ‘Yeah …’

  ‘D’you miss it?’ Larkin asked quietly.

  Tony frowned, sighed. ‘Ended before it started, really. If I’d been in it a bit longer … I don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t miss the training, though.’

  ‘D’you miss the docks, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Tony quickly. ‘That’s what I was usin’ the football to escape from.’

  ‘Know what you mean,’ said Larkin, but Tony wasn’t listening. He was staring at the docks, drifting away, seeing something Larkin couldn’t.

  ‘Clive Fairbairn,’ said Larkin suddenly.

  Tony came back into focus with a jolt. ‘What?’

  ‘Clive Fairbairn,’ Larkin repeated. ‘That’s where I’d heard it before. His trial. Something about him using Coldwell docks as one of the main inlets for hard drugs from Europe.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Tony. ‘But I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. There were a number of raids a few years ago. Hard drugs and decommissioned guns from Russia. On the way to the IRA, they reckoned.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Tony, putting on a show of remembering. He took a hefty mouthful of beer. ‘Glad they got all that off the streets. Makes my life that bit easier.’

  ‘Anything like that going on when you were there?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘I wasn’t there long,’ said Tony, not keeping eye contact, ‘and I wasn’t looking.’

  Larkin held the look, then nodded. There was something there, something in Tony’s answers that didn’t ring true, but he was going to get no further. At the moment. Time for a change of subject, he thought.

  ‘So, anyway,’ he said, ‘what happened after the football?’

  Tony smiled, back in control. ‘I did a degree in sociology …’

  Back to the familiar biography. How he had accidentally come to attend university after his football career came to an end. How he ended up running the CAT Centre – ‘Just lucky. Right man in the right place at the right time.’ How he gets donations – ‘Do a Bob Geldof. If they say no, threaten to name an’ shame. Always does the trick. Always opens the chequebook.’ He went on to talk about the structure of the centre, the qualifications of the staff, the success stories they’d had. Larkin had heard all the stories before. It was like Tony was giving a chat show performance. But Larkin nodded along, his dictaphone on the table capturing it all.

  Tony finished talking. Larkin picked up the dictaphone.

  ‘Got everything you need?’ Tony asked.

  Larkin smiled. ‘For now.’

  Tony nodded, stood up, popped a breath mint into his mouth. ‘Won’t do for me to counsel alcoholics smelling of booze.’

  They both laughed.

  They headed for the door. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving Coldwell temporarily glistening.

  Larkin waited until Tony had the car key in his hand and said: ‘On, by the way, I called in to see Louise the other day.’

  Tony stopped dead, the key frozen on its way to the lock.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, his voice a little thin. ‘How was she?’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Larkin. ‘She asked after you.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Tony, his face pleasantly impassive. ‘Well, if you see her again, give her my—’ he paused ‘—regards.’

  ‘I will do.’

  Tony opened the car door, swung his left leg painfully in. Larkin didn’t move.

  ‘You don’t mind if I walk?’ he asked. ‘Take in some local colour.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  They made arrangements for Larkin to return the following day and Tony drove off, but not before reminding Larkin of the football match on Sunday. Larkin reluctantly agreed to be there. Tony sped off, leaving Larkin standing alone on the pavement.

  He began to walk back towards the town centre, slowly, taking it all in. It had changed. And not for the better.

  He walked past a grim, low-lying council estate, past terraced streets, the red-brick rain-purged of grime. Past an old Victorian ex-pub turned community centre, one wall covered by a mural, the paint now faded, chipped and tagged, the door locked, the windows caged up. Past a hole-in-the-wall pub, the interior dark and uninviting, human misshapes silhouetted by fruit machine glow sat hunched on bar stools, threat pooled and lurking in its shadows. Next down, a used furniture and appliance store, offeri
ng ‘not unreasonable’ rates of credit. Through the window, Larkin saw a fat man in a stained polo shirt laughing down the phone. Probably at the not unreasonably small amounts of rubbish he was getting desperate customers to buy.

  He reached the main shopping area, started to walk towards the car park. Past some girls pushing pushchairs, kids trudging miserably behind them. The girls, seventeen or eighteen, saw someone they knew on the other side of the street; another girl with a pushchair. They started a shouted conversation, the first girl bellowing, ‘Aw, man, ahm a single mother now, man,’ then looking around, smiling as if expecting a round of applause, as if that fact should get her noticed. She didn’t look very bright. The two kids with her tried to wander away into a shop.

  He reached the bus station. The lone wino still occupied the low wall in front of the toilets. He looked wet through, as if he hadn’t moved during the rain. His matted mohican and ratty ponytail were damp but still worn proudly, as if they had just come into fashion. None of his friends had joined him. He had given up talking to himself now, and just nodded, as if listening.

  Larkin headed for the car park, moving among the pedestrians. They were all poorly and cheaply dressed, looking for the most part either overweight or undernourished, some of them both. Bad skin, greasy hair. The plentiful fast foods and bakeries selling cheap hot pies offered tempting quick fixes, food for a hungry heart. People fed as they walked, giving their bodies the illusion of satisfaction, leaving their empitnesses unfilled.

  He reached the car park, got his keys out, looked around. Suddenly the air was filled with the rhythmic throb of drum ’n’ bass. He turned, saw a flash Japanese car go past, heading in the direction of the T. Dan Smith Estate. One of Tony Woodhouses’s ICI directors, thought Larkin wryly. Then a second thought: the car that had dropped Suzanne off at Louise’s house the other night.

  He sighed. There must be plenty of boy racers driving overpowered cars with tinnitus-inducing sound systems built in. So what?

  He took one last look around the town. The sun was now shining but it still felt cold. He got in the car. Yeah, he thought, I’ve got the measure of you, Coldwell. Where you were then, where you are now. Then he thought of Tony Woodhouse.

  But I haven’t got the measure of you at all.

  He started the car up, drove away.

  Karl drove the way he did everything else: cockily. He swung round parked cars, paid only the barest lip service to traffic lights and road markings, showed other drivers that, no matter who they were or where they were going, he had right of way. He came first. He had never been in an accident, would never be in an accident. That was other people. Lesser people. On the road, as in all other aspects of his life, Karl was bulletproof. His immortality was assured.

  He smiled as he drove, head nodding unconsciously to the music as he planned his day: distribution run to the T. Dan, gather up the cash from his delivery boys, maybe take a couple of freebie blow jobs. Then later, pick up Suzy, take her back to his place. His smile widened as he felt the first throbbing of an erection.

  He had a surprise for her later. She was going to love it.

  Davva and Skegs were having the time of their lives. Davva piloted his brand-new mountain bike down the concrete ramp of the old skateboard park on the outskirts of the T. Dan. He pedalled faster, furiously plummeting, before letting the momentum carry him up the opposing slope. He hit the top and turned, jackknifing the bike in midair, twisting like the pros on TV, to make a return journey down.

  The front wheel hit the slope dead on, but the back one, still at an angle, juddered. Davva wrestled with the handlebars, trying desperately to keep his balance, but it was no good. The bike slid away beneath him and Davva smacked on to the concrete, bruising his limbs, his new jeans and sweatshirt getting friction-scuffed in the process. The bike scraped down the slope, coming to rest at the bottom.

  Skegs couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Stupid fucker!’ he shouted before laughing again. ‘You shoulda seen yersel’ …’

  Davva got to his feet and, face reddening, walked over to where Skegs stood by his bike, arms draped over the handlebars, and smacked him in the head. The laughter stopped immediately. Skegs looked at Davva, his face showing more than just physical hurt.

  ‘Fuck d’ya do that for?’ Skegs rubbed his head.

  ‘If you can do better, fuckin’ do it.’ Davva righted his bike.

  Skegs reddened, lip trembling. ‘Ah’ll right.’

  He straddled his mountain bike and walked it, with difficulty, to the top of the slope, then began the descent. He pedalled as hard as he could, mouth twisted with exertion. He followed Davva’s trajectory, down then up, but on reaching the summit found he didn’t have enough speed to take off. He tried the same manoeuvre Davva had tried, with even less success. The bike began to fall backwards on to him. His legs buckled as the weight of the bike pressed down on him and he began to stumble. He fell, the bike came with him, and he rolled and twisted his way down the ramp, landing in a contorted heap at the bottom.

  Skegs extricated himself from his bike and stood up, cheeks burning with humiliation. He looked across at Davva. The boy wasn’t laughing; he was just smiling. Somehow it made it worse.

  Skegs walked his battered new bike over to where Davva was standing and took his place, wordlessly, by his side. Davva was still smiling. Skegs was close enough to see the mix of contentment and cruel pleasure.

  Skegs idly spun his pedal with his foot, said nothing. Waited.

  They stood like that for what seemed a long time. Eventually, Skegs took a battered joint from his back pocket, lit it, sucked it down and, stifling coughs, offered it to Davva. Davva looked at the boy, nodded and took a toke. They relaxed a little after that.

  Soon the spliff was gone and they were deciding what to do next. Their minds were made up for them by the approaching thump of drum ’n’ bass. Karl’s car pulled up to the kerb. The boys ran over to it. He wound down the window but not the music.

  ‘Afternoon, boys,’ Karl said, leaning out of the window. ‘Got anythin’ for me?’

  Davva and Skegs found it difficult to hear Karl over the incessant thump from the speakers but they didn’t mind. It was all part of the whole scene to them. Flash. Bling bling. Besides, they knew what he wanted. They reached down into their pockets and turned over bills and coins to Karl.

  Karl counted it, shrugged. ‘Not much for a mornin’s work.’ Something sharp and glittering came into his eyes. ‘You boys not holdin’ out on me, are you?’

  The boys shook their heads, quickly, fear bulging in their eyes. Karl smiled.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Make sure you don’t. Now, you got enough stuff for the rest of the day?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Good. Remember, if you get caught, you’re on your own. Now get a fuckin’ move on. You didn’t get those bikes just to fuckin’ play on. Fuckin’ shift.’

  The two boys pedalled away quickly, not daring to look back.

  Karl watched them go, smiled to himself, then drove off.

  Claire Duffy shut down her computer, checked the contents of her shoulder bag and moved towards the door. She paused, wondering whether to put her face round the door to Tony’s office. She did. He sat at his desk, playing with his pen, staring off beyond the four walls. She shook her head, concerned. He hadn’t been the same since getting back from meeting that journalist. She gave a tentative knock on the doorframe.

  ‘Tony?’

  He looked up, startled to find her there.

  ‘I’m just off.’

  He nodded. ‘OK. Goodnight, Claire.’ He went back to his pen.

  Claire nodded, didn’t move. ‘Um …’

  He looked up again.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  She moved into the room. When she spoke, her voice was deliberately airy. ‘Look, I’m not in a hurry tonight. Fancy a drink or something?’

  ‘Not tonight. Sorry. We’ll do it another time.’
He didn’t meet her eyes.

  Claire nodded, understanding. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  She left.

  Tony waited until the front door closed and he was alone in the centre. He picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory. It was answered eventually. He told the person who answered who he was and who he wanted to speak to. After what seemed like a long wait, they picked up.

  ‘Hello, Tommy,’ Tony said. ‘It’s me. We need to talk.’

  Tony listened to the reply, made arrangements for the meeting, put the phone down and sighed. His eyes wandered around the office. He didn’t see the surroundings, the furniture, files and posters. He saw the achievements, the results. The successes the centre had had, the failures. The people who had come through the door, the lives he had become involved with. To him, that was – they were – the centre. That was what mattered to him. That was what was important.

  Outside, the day was fading, the dark taking hold. He knew it was time to leave, to go home. He had that familiar feeling, the craving upon him, but still he didn’t get up.

  Just sat there, staring at the walls, the door.

  ‘So, I’m finally getting to see where you live?’ asked Suzy with a giggle in her voice. ‘I should feel flattered.’

  She stepped through the doorway straight into the living room. The Wills Building, the old cigarette factory on the coast road, had been recently refurbished and turned into minimalist, modernist designer flats, aimed at young aspiring professionals. Karl thought he fitted this description right down to the ground.

  It looked like a show flat: white leather sofas, pale walls, blond wood, straight lines and unostentatious, shining precious metal. A huge wide-screen TV and DVD sat in one corner, expensive midi system next to it.

  ‘This is lovely …’ said Suzy, wide-eyed.

  Karl closed the door behind her. It locked with a soft, yet forceful, click.

  ‘All mine,’ he said.

  She turned to face him. ‘Can I have a guided tour?’

  Karl placed his hands on her hips, thumbs moving slowly inside the waistband of her jeans.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, eyes locking on to her, ‘we’re gonna go exploring.’