Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  Keith had turned up earlier to talk to Louise. Reason with her, make her see sense. What she had done was wrong. They were meant to be together. If he could just talk to her, tell her his side of the story, she would see that.

  But it hadn’t happened that way. He had driven to her flat straight from work. The door had been answered by her flatmate Rachel, who seemed surprised and embarrassed to see him. She told him Louise had gone straight to town, was meeting someone and wouldn’t be back till late, before closing the door.

  He stood in the street, shaking with anger. Louise with someone else? He couldn’t believe it. That settled it. He had to talk to her. Urgently.

  Keith had driven around aimlessly for over an hour with no recollection of where he had been, only the conversations in his head with Louise. Then he had driven back to Coatsworth Road, parked up a backstreet, waited. All night if necessary.

  Rachel had gone out, surrounding house lights had come on, the street changed from white sky and red brick to cat-grey dark patched with sodium orange. Keith sat in shadow. Around nine thirty he began to feel hungry. He ignored it. He wanted to piss. He ignored it. Keith stayed in shadow.

  The drunks passed, the street was quiet again. Keith kept watching. No radio, no tape player, just his own silence. Lips moving to imaginary conversations. Watching. Time passed.

  Then movement. A car pulled up in front of Louise’s flat, smooth soul/funk blaring. Keith didn’t recognize the tune or the car. The music cut out with the car’s lights. The passenger door opened and out stepped Louise. Keith checked his watch: nearly half-past eleven.

  He was out of the car and crossing the street. Hunger gone, need to piss gone. Louise moved around the car, waited for the driver to emerge. The man was well dressed, good-looking. He said something to Louise as he was locking the car that made her laugh. Keith’s stomach filled with sour, angry acid.

  ‘Louise!’ It came out shakier than intended.

  She turned and saw him. The smile froze on her face, the laugh died in her mouth. ‘Keith? What are you doing here?’

  He reached the pavement, opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘I … I …—’

  He couldn’t find the words. Hours of imaginary conversations with her and he couldn’t find the words.

  Louise looked at him. Anger tinged with sympathy. ‘Look, Keith, it’s over. You and me are finished. I’m seeing someone else now. It’s what you should do too.’

  Keith’s eyes began to well with tears. ‘But … I love you …’ As he spoke, he realized how pathetic the words sounded. He hated himself for saying them.

  Louise sighed, ‘Keith, it’s over. Go home.’

  She turned to enter her flat. He made one last, desperate attempt to grab her, caught her arm. The man she was with interceded, grabbed his wrist with speed and force.

  ‘I think you should go now,’ the man said.

  Keith felt his cheeks redden. He dropped his arm and looked at the pair of them. There was nothing more he could do, nothing more he could say. He turned and walked back to his car, ignoring the goodbye Louise gave him.

  He climbed back in the driving seat and watched, through tears of humiliation and self-loathing, Louise and her new man enter her flat. He started the engine and drove away.

  But he was soon lost. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to get anything to eat. He wanted to piss, though. He drove the car in a huge circle, returned to the same spot in the backstreet. He got out, unzipped his trousers and let fly a stream of piss against the brick wall. It came out fast and hard, steaming, acrid. Seemingly endless. He cried all the while, body convulsing with big, racking sobs.

  Then, eventually, empty and spent, he got back into the car and sat. He sighed, looked up at the flat. The front room light was on. It stayed on until twenty to one. Then darkness.

  In the shadows of the backstreet, Keith watched the darkness.

  Larkin woke up to find himself alone in bed. No Charlotte. No surprise there. Since their row the other night, they had been spending as little time together as they could. Even by their tempestuous standards this was dragging on.

  He threw back the duvet, stretched himself on to his feet, made his way to the bathroom. He entered the front room to discover Charlotte in her terrycloth bathrobe, sitting in the swivel chair by his desk, staring out of the window.

  ‘Mornin’.’

  She slowly spun the chair to face him.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice was small, quiet.

  ‘Shouldn’t you … have gone by now?’ Larkin hoped the words bridged more than just the physical space between them.

  ‘I’m not in till this afternoon.’ She looked up, seeming to see him properly for the first time then. ‘What about you? Are you just going to walk around the flat naked all day?’

  Larkin sat down in an armchair.

  ‘There was a time when you would have liked that.’

  The ghost of a smile haunted Charlotte’s face. ‘Yes, there was a time …’ She sighed. ‘What’s happened to us, Stephen? Why can’t we get along any more?’

  ‘I don’t know, Charlotte. I don’t know.’

  ‘I still love you.’

  ‘I still love you.’

  He smiled, opened his arms slightly.

  ‘C’mere.’

  ‘You come here.’

  ‘Compromise,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet on the sofa.’

  Smiling, they both moved towards the sofa, sat down. Larkin put his arm round Charlotte, pulled her to him. The weight of her body felt good against his. Her arms moved around him, stroking. They sat like that for a while.

  ‘I’m naked under this dressing gown, you know.’

  ‘I know. Look.’

  Her eyes took in his growing erection.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  They both looked at each other, smiled. Larkin saw pleasure in her eyes, but something else. Loss? Dissatisfaction? He didn’t know. At that moment he didn’t want to know.

  He didn’t know what she could see in his eyes.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘is this the bit where we kiss and make up?’

  ‘Kiss?’ All mock-effrontery. ‘We’re just going to kiss?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Larkin, pulling open her robe and easing her down on to the sofa. ‘We’re not just going to kiss.’

  Tony felt lighter than air, as if he could fly to training rather than drive. He could just rise above the opposition, win the ball and score every time.

  On the radio: Bruce Springsteen – ‘Dancin’ in the Dark’.

  Last night had gone better than he had expected. The meeting with Tommy had been like a dream. There was a little niggle of doubt at the back of his mind, but he chose to ignore it. It would be OK.

  Then there was Louise. It wasn’t just the sex – although that was something special in itself – it was her. She made him feel like he was in love. That glitch with her ex had been nothing. They wouldn’t see him again.

  He sighed contentedly as he pulled into the training ground. Dancin’ in the dark? No mate, I’m dancin’ in the light.

  Lighter than air. As if he could fly.

  He was going to win the ball and score every time.

  *

  ‘Keith!’

  Keith’s head snapped up, eyes sprang open. No idea where he was. Completely disorientated.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

  He looked around. He was at his desk at work. Gavin, his boss, was thrusting a handful of paper at him.

  ‘Sorry. I must have … nodded off a second.’

  ‘You must have nodded off all fucking morning judging by this.’

  He threw the papers at Keith’s desk. They scattered with an angry flap, then gently floated down. Keith just looked at them.

  ‘We’ve just had one of our buyers on the phone …’

  Gavin began to talk, ranting at Keith until his face had turned crimson. Keith heard nothing of it. His eyes stared at the floor, head back in the car, in the
alley. The street had lightened. People had left for work. She still hadn’t come out when he’d left.

  ‘… the fuck’s wrong with you?’

  Keith sighed, knew some response was called for. He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m having a few … problems.’

  Gavin sighed, perched on the edge of his desk.

  ‘I can’t seem to think straight at the moment.’

  ‘Can’t think straight, eh?’

  Keith shook his head. She still hadn’t come out when he’d left.

  ‘Well, you’d better fucking start thinking straight or I’ll find some other fucker who can.’ Gavin stood up. ‘Got that?’

  Keith’s face flushed. He nodded.

  ‘Good. Get on with it, then.’

  Gavin walked away.

  Keith waited until he’d gone then, trembling, rose and made his way down the hall in the direction of the toilet. The rest of the office were staring at him. He knew that. He tried to pretend they weren’t there.

  The men’s room. He laughed. I’m being treated like anything but.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. Skin and hair dirty and greasy, suit creased, tie askew. His shirt: black-rimmed collar, sour armpits. Stinking breath.

  He felt tears begin to well behind his eyes. Loss, anger, self-pity. He was damned if he was going to cry.

  He gripped the porcelain, making it vibrate, struggling to control himself. But he was defeated. The tears bubbled up inside him, came out.

  He spun away from the mirror then, with a howl of pain, turned back and struck the glass. It didn’t break. But the pain in his hand was sudden and excruciating.

  He turned away. Loss, anger, self-pity. Now pain. Keith looked for an outlet. The cubicle door swung open. Someone came out. He didn’t know who. The man hurried out, wanting to avoid him. He looked at the cubicle door. And kicked it. And kicked it. And kicked and kicked and kicked and kicked.

  And screamed as he did it. Screamed her name as loud as he could.

  Larkin walked into the Groat Bar on the Groat Market, the darkened interior causing his eyes to squint after the bright Newcastle city-centre sunlight.

  He had spent the morning on the phone. First to Dougie Howden. The scabs were being bused in the following Monday. Larkin was alerting friends and comrades in the press, sorting out a photographer, going to Coldwell to document the event. Tell the truth. Dougie’s last words: ‘I know you mean well, lad, but tempers are runnin’ high. Remember Orgreave. Be prepared.’

  While he was doing this, Charlotte had kissed him goodbye and left the flat. He remembered their lovemaking following their making up. When he entered her she cried out, when she came she cried tears. Afterwards they lay on the living room floor, naked, entwined.

  ‘Why do we do this?’

  Charlotte’s voice was quiet, like she didn’t want to break the spell.

  ‘This fighting, then this making up?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Larkin sighed. ‘Maybe we like it.’

  ‘It’s not good, you know. It’s not good for us.’

  Larkin nodded. He said nothing.

  ‘I love you, Stephen.’

  Larkin turned his head, looked at her. She was perfect. Beauty itself.

  ‘I love you too, Charlotte.’

  She gave a fragile smile, turned her head away.

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  Soon afterwards she had left for college and Larkin had begun to work.

  He had received a call from Bob Carr, an editor down at Thomson House. Local newspaper publishers. He was Larkin’s contact there, the one he’d sent his latest article to. Bob liked the article, wanted to give him more work. More than that, Bob wanted him to meet someone, had invited him down to lunch at the Groat Bar.

  Bob, middle-aged, bespectacled, with too much life lived the wrong way and nothing to show for it, sat in a booth with another man. The other man, well suited, groomed, looked the opposite to Bob. Larkin knew what he was: the metropolitan success story next to the regional burnout.

  ‘Stephen.’ Bob waved him over. ‘Great article. We loved it. Well done. Looking forward to the next one.’

  Larkin smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, this is Mike Pears. An old mate from years back.’

  They shook. Bob went to the bar to get Larkin a drink.

  ‘So you’re Stephen Larkin?’ asked Pears. ‘Heard a lot about you.’

  Larkin was taken aback. ‘Really?’

  Pears nodded, smiled. He had teeth like a shark.

  ‘Really. All good.’

  Bob returned with Larkin’s pint, joined them.

  ‘Gettin’ on all right, yeah? Mike used to work up here. Down south now, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Pears smoothly angled his shoulder, subtly excluding Bob from the conversation.

  ‘Who for?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘The Daily Mirror.’

  Larkin smiled. ‘Thought all the journalists, the proper ones, left when Maxwell took over.’

  Pears laughed. ‘You said he wasn’t afraid to be confrontational, Bob. I like that.’

  Bob shrugged, about to speak. Pears ignored him, kept going, face businesslike again.

  ‘Mr Maxwell hasn’t been in charge long. I think you’ll find if you give him a chance he’ll surprise everyone. Turn that paper into something truly remarkable.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Pears took a sip of his drink. It was either Perrier or gin and tonic.

  Bob smiled, nodded.

  ‘And this is where you come in.’ Pears put his glass carefully down. ‘I was having a chat with my old mate Bob here, about how we’d lost Foot and Pilger and how we were looking for someone, a bright young investigative journalist, to take their place. Bob thought of you.’ He held his hands out, smiled a faux-innocent smile. ‘And here I am.’

  ‘Really?’

  Larkin had to admit, after that little speech, he was impressed. Flattered to be compared with two of his heroes. But he tried not to let it show.

  Pears continued: ‘We looked at your work and liked what we saw. We liked your anger. Your passion.’

  Larkin nodded, flattered.

  ‘So what do I get out of this?’

  ‘Job satisfaction, prestige.’ Pears leaned in closer. ‘And a lot of money, of course.’

  ‘And I can just write anything I like? Keep on doin’ what I’m doin’.’

  Pears looked slightly pained. ‘Well, yes, to an extent. Keep it broadly anti-Thatcherite, of course. We would have some ideas that we would want you to cover, but we can discuss them later.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We’ll discuss them later.’

  ‘We’ll discuss them now.’

  Pears shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘Well, what we had in mind – initially, after which you’d probably be on your own – would be an exposé of the yuppies in the City. You know the kind of thing. Too much money, not enough sense. Stick it to Thatcher’s darlings. That kind of thing.’

  ‘And you want me to come all the way down from Newcastle to do that?’

  Pears smiled his shark smile again. ‘Why, yes. I shouldn’t think you have yuppies up here.’

  Larkin reddened, took a large gulp of his drink, stared at the other man.

  ‘No, we have miners. We have strikes. You interested in that?’

  Pears floundered.

  ‘Well … I … I mean, of course, eventually. But at the moment, I mean it’s not a priority.’

  Larkin drained his pint, stood up.

  ‘And it’s not a priority for me to sit here and be patronized by one of Maxwell’s arselickers.’

  Pears stood also.

  ‘Wait.’ He reached into his jacket, pulled out a card. ‘Just think about it. Here’s my card.’

  He handed it over. Larkin
took it.

  ‘Catch you later, Bob,’ said Larkin. ‘I’ll have a cracking piece for you in a couple of days.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  Bob didn’t look glad. Larkin wondered how much Bob stood to gain or lose from a finder’s fee.

  Larkin walked straight out of the pub and turned left towards Grainger Street. As he reached the corner, he realized he still had Pears’s card in his hand. He looked at it, about to toss it into a nearby litter bin. He saw the name, the address, the phone number. He flicked it over, ready to throw. And realized there was some writing on the back.

  In longhand, it said Stephen Larkin: starting salary.

  There followed a figure.

  Larkin stared at the number a long time, jaw open.

  Traffic went by, people walked around him.

  He looked up, snapped out of it, pocketed the card. He began to walk home.

  As he walked, he began, quite unconsciously, to pat the pocket that held the card.

  He shook his head.

  And then he smiled.

  8. Now

  His chest was aching, lungs aflame. Every inhaled breath fanned the fire. His legs moved slowly, laboriously; like the ground was coagulating and his knees couldn’t bend. His thighs, calves and arches threatened pain if he continued, cramp if he stopped. His arms moved slowly, feebly punching air. The air was winning. His breath came in jagged shudders, facial muscles contracted with exertion, mouth open and gasping. A lumbering bipedal on a coronary countdown.

  Larkin was jogging.

  Over the unevenly grassed surface of the Town Moor, ignoring the stares of passers-by, ignoring the cold, grey drizzle.

  Not because he wanted to, but because he felt he must.

  Old trainers, old tracksuit bottoms, positively prehistoric Elvis Costello and the Attractions’ 1986 Blood and Chocolate Tour T-shirt. The clothes disused and damp, his body misused and cramping.

  It was the dead man’s hair that had done it.

  The morning after the night after the visit to Coldwell with Tony Woodhouse. Alone, drinking, thinking: 1984/seventeen years ago/the miners’ strike/Charlotte.