Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  Charlotte.

  The empty cans had multiplied, the memories had kept up. The CDs had come out: Lloyd Cole, the Smiths, Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Bought consciously to replace vinyl, unconsciously to keep his memories pristine and laser-accessed. Bad move. When the laser hit, the ghosts came out, got up and danced with the sounds.

  ‘How Soon Is Now?’, ‘I Wanna Be Loved’, ‘Are You Ready to Be Heartbroken?’.

  Mournful, slow dances. The empty cans multiplied.

  And in the morning, the mirror. He had not wanted to look, but he had, and for once had looked honestly, seeing what was there, rather than what he deluded himself into believing was there: eyes black-rimmed, creased at the sides, heavy with the weight of what they had seen. The beginnings of a broken vein collection at either side of his nose. His chin being joined by another underneath. His skin showing the seasons of the years.

  He scrutinized his body with the same honesty: ridges of excess flesh, surplus folds around his chest and waist. The years of junk food and alcohol had made territorial gains, settled into parts of his body, claimed squatters’ rights with no plans to move. Not fat, but not fit any more.

  Twenty-one to thirty-eight. Seventeen years. He could see it.

  So Larkin, hungover, tired, had resolved to do something. He would get a haircut.

  Down to Scotts, in the chair, looking down at the nylon paisley covering his body. The barber started, the hair fell. Not black, but grey: old man’s hair. Dead man’s hair.

  So now he was running, sweating back time, hoping thirty minutes could roll back seventeen years.

  And then his body declared its limitations: legs aching, left knee locking, ribs burning, chest cramping and tightening. He had to stop, or at least slow down. He reduced his speed to a trudge and a shuffle.

  He looked around: to his left, Spital Tongues, the dental hospital, the BBC. To his right, Grandstand Road curving out and away from the city.

  To his left. Beyond what he could see was Fenham. Where he used to live. With Charlotte. He tried to see beyond the moor, tried to see seventeen years into the past, his old flat, him in the bay window typing, her coming in from college, them on the floor making love. He tried to see how happy they were then, tried to see the future they would have had together. Tried. But couldn’t.

  All that belonged to another life, another person.

  Dead now, just ghosts. Just pristine, laser-accessed memories.

  He stopped, got his breath back, turned round.

  He ran away from Fenham, away from his memories. Back to the flat where, knees creaking, chest aching, he would reward himself with a long bath and a cup of coffee.

  Or perhaps a cold beer.

  ‘There, watch.’

  They watched the screen. A man stood at a roulette table, watching the wheel spin, the metal ball glinting, dancing within. He stood next to other men wearing chinos, polo shirts, sports jackets. Blending in. Blanding in.

  ‘Now he loses this one …’

  The ball stopped on a red number, the croupier raked in the chips, including the bland man’s.

  ‘Now watch what happens.’

  An almost imperceptible nod passed between the croupier and the man.

  ‘There, see it? There.’ The voice quietened, became studied, concentrated. ‘Now there’ll be the bit with the hand.’

  The croupier began to call for bets, moving her hand beneath the table as if to scratch her knee.

  ‘That’s it there. Now the look.’

  The croupier looked at the man, nodded slightly.

  ‘Now the bet.’

  The bland man appeared to hesitate then slid most of his chips on to a red square.

  The voice sighed. ‘Now we know what’ll happen next.’

  The wheel was spun, the ball did its dance, came to land on the man’s square. The man faked amazement and delight, raked in his winnings.

  ‘So, boss, what d’you reckon?’

  Tommy Jobson sat back in his chair, fingers across his stomach, and stretched his legs. One polished shoe crossed the other. He uncurled his fingers, picked at the crease in his trousers, keeping it sharp.

  ‘What do I think?’

  His words were well modulated, voiced slow and dark.

  ‘I think there’s a croupier who’s soon going to be unemployed. I think there’s a man who’s about to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘You want me to deal with him? Or d’you want to talk to him?’

  The man speaking, Jason, was sharp-suited, well dressed. Nasty, brutal and short. Lethal, Tommy knew, like thin electric cable fizzing in water. Tommy’s second-in-command.

  ‘I don’t know. What d’you reckon, Davy?’

  The man at the other side of the table, drinking twenty-four-year-old malt, smiled. Detective Inspector ‘Davy’ Jones. A big man who didn’t like struggling for the good things in life but certainly enjoyed fighting for them. He smiled. ‘You want me to have a word?’

  ‘Yeah. You and Jason sort it out.’

  Jason’s eyes were lit with a sudden, cruel light. ‘You want to come?’

  ‘I’ll watch from here.’

  The two men stood up, left the room. Left Tommy alone.

  The mini-Vegas on Tyne, the Ratpack dream made real. Tommy sat behind the desk, drinking twenty-four-year-old malt, at the heart of it.

  One wall all screens, showing his kingdom, his empire’s cornerstone, from all angles and distances. Tommy watched. Tommy liked to watch.

  He watched them move through the casino, turning their money into chips, turning chips into his money. Faces telling stories: furrows and frowns, joy and self-confidence, arrogance and loss, dejection to elation. Faces telling stories. Usually the same one.

  And the body language: from the rigid tension of the lucky streaker struggling not to betray himself, to the desperate slump of the last-chance loser, and everything in between.

  And the hands: holding, folding, dealing, feeling. The smooth plastic coating on the razor-edged cards, the heavy, tactile beauty of the chips. The chips being stroked, caressed, stroking and caressing in return, asking to be used, to be spent. The punters obliging.

  Sometimes a sensuously choreographed ballet of charm and fortune, sometimes a rough, struggling threesome between punter, luck and money. Natural theatre. CCTV soap opera. Life.

  Tommy watched it all. Apart from it, above it. No matter who won on the floor, Tommy won in the end. Because the house always won. And Tommy was the house.

  On the wall behind him, framed certificates and photos. Financial certificates, charity certificates. Photos: Tommy with celebrities. Footballers, rock stars, actors, politicians. Pride of place: Tony Bennett. No Frank and Dino, just Tony Bennett.

  He flicked a switch on the desk, the screens changed. Now they showed a basement, colour, but lit starkly in black and white. The bland man was pushed into a pool of light by Jason. Davy, taking his jacket off, folding it neatly over a chair, stepped into view.

  Tommy pressed another button on the desk. A hidden VCR began to record.

  Jason was talking to the man.

  ‘So, Mr Blacklock, it seems you and your girlfriend have been abusing our hospitality here.’

  The bland man made protestations of innocence.

  Tommy muted the sound, poured himself another drink. Watched. He didn’t need to hear. He knew what was coming next.

  Davy talked to the man, produced his warrant card. The man still protested his innocence, hands raised.

  Then Davy hit him. A punch in the kidneys. The man went down, face opened with surprise. Then a kick in the ribs. Then another. Then Jason, leaning down, squatting, talking to him. The man nodding. Jason looking at Davy, disappointed, giving another kick just for fun.

  Jason opened his jacket, took out a contract and a pen, handed it to the man. The man, hands shaking, sighed. Tommy knew what it was: a legal document allowing the house to reclaim the money they thought he had stolen, plus any interest they deemed necess
ary, plus a waiver saying the house was not responsible for any injury to his person. All legal, signed and co-signed by a high-ranking police officer.

  Jason then took the man’s debit and credit cards, pulled him to his feet.

  Tommy switched off, emptied his whisky glass.

  The house always won. And Tommy was the house.

  He put his whisky glass down on the desk, looked around, sighed.

  No Frank and Dino, just Tony Bennett.

  The Chuckle Brothers went through their routine: one thick, one thicker because he thinks he’s clever. They were being chased around a deserted car park by a security guard.

  Davva and Skegs stared at the TV, watched the antics, a spliff between them. Skegs wanted to laugh but felt he couldn’t. Davva just looked annoyed.

  ‘Why don’t they just fuckin’ hit ’im, man? Stab ’im or shoot ’im or somethin’? Then they can just walk off.’ Davva shook his head. ‘That’s what I’d do.’

  ‘’S funny, man,’ said Skegs. ‘Just a laugh.’

  Davva turned to face him.

  ‘It fuckin’ isn’t funny. They wanna knife im. That’ll stop ’im.

  Skegs was going to tell him it was just for kids, just a laugh, but he decided not to. He looked around the room. He didn’t think Davva would appreciate it. Tanya hadn’t tidied it since the last time they’d been there. The big colour TV was gone, a portable black and white replacing it. There were other things missing too. The room had less in it, but seemed much messier.

  The baby was sleeping in the other room. It had been complaining noisily when they had turned up with Tanya’s stuff, but after she had given them their money and retreated to the bedroom it had stopped. Must’ve fed it or something, Skegs had decided.

  Tanya sat in the armchair staring in the direction of the TV, slack-mouthed, slack-eyed. Skegs looked at her. He didn’t know what she was seeing, but he didn’t think it was the same thing he saw. A smile played at the edges of her lips, small and distant.

  The security guard had caught up with the Chuckle Brothers, had them both by their collars. He was huffing and puffing, throwing out threats.

  ‘He ain’t gonna do nothin’,’ said Davva. ‘Listen to him. If he was gonna do somethin’ he’da done it by now, steada just shoutin’ about it.’

  Another, suited, man turned up to explain things and the Chuckle Brothers were free to go. Davva stood up.

  ‘This is shit. C’mon.’

  Davva stubbed the spliff out in an overflowing ashtray.

  Skegs stood also.

  ‘Where we goin’?’

  ‘We’ve got work to do, haven’t wuh?’

  Skegs followed him out. He was glad to leave. Tanya’s flat didn’t seem like the comfortable shelter it used to be.

  ‘See ya, Tanya, we’re gannin’ noo,’ said Davva from the door.

  Tanya partially inclined her head. ‘See yas, lads …’

  They left, slamming the door.

  Tanya sat still, staring ahead. The Chuckle Brothers finished, Badger and Bodger started.

  Then from the bedroom, the familiar cry: the baby.

  Tanya didn’t move. Just stared straight ahead, slack-jawed, slack-eyed. Unsmiling.

  The baby cried.

  A single tear rolled over her blank features.

  The baby cried.

  The tear moved slowly down her chin, dropped and was gone.

  The baby cried.

  Tanya didn’t hear.

  With Billie Holiday on CD, Tommy Jobson piloted the Daimler east out of the city centre, past Yorkshire Tyne Tees TV, City Road becoming Walker Road. He took a right down Glasshouse Street, past the industrial estate and reclamation plant down to the river’s edge.

  The old warehouses and pubs had been swept away, replaced by St Peter’s Basin: a marina, townhouses, apartments, penthouses. Docklands on Tyne in miniature. He drove through the strangely deserted streets, the mournful, lost voice of Billie not totally at odds with the surroundings.

  ‘I Cover the Waterfront’.

  He turned into the gated car park of Chandler’s Quay, switched off the engine, sighed. Took a minute to sit, think, then took the lift up to the penthouse.

  From the Chandler’s Arms to Chandler’s Quay.

  Same place, different view.

  Same place, different world.

  The view stretched from the city all the way down the Tyne past Riverside Park. Quite beautiful, surprisingly so. At first it had excited him, thrilled him to see how far he had risen, until he realized the people in the council flats up the embankment in Walker had the same view. That leached the pleasure from it, killed it for him.

  Same place, different world.

  But somehow not so different.

  From Chandler’s Quay to the Chandler’s Arms.

  Memory was becoming increasingly important to Tommy. He would sometimes do little tests, take himself down streets that were no longer there, into pubs or restaurants that no longer existed, relived conversations with people either dead, gone or lost, re-dressed a person in a fashion they used to wear. This, for Tommy, was history. The history that mattered. And he felt it his duty to remember the past in order to understand the present, otherwise the present would just be a collection of actions in a vacuum, not the consequences of previous actions.

  He had to keep the past, his past, alive. And he did. Sometimes, he thought, too alive.

  He poured himself a hefty whisky, looked at it, added some more. He sat down on his white leather sofa and waited.

  ‘Just checking some other interests,’ he had told Jason, as he had left the casino.

  Jason had given a leering smile in return. That was fine with Tommy. Let him think what he liked.

  The wait was soon over. The entryphone buzzed. He opened the door without checking. He knew who it would be. She walked in a few minutes later, gave him a faint smile. Tommy opened his wallet, counted out the bills.

  ‘You can get changed in there,’ he said, pointing to the bathroom.

  She trotted off, heels clacking on tiles.

  Tommy drained his glass, went into the bedroom. The frame was already in place. He stripped off slowly, folded his clothes neatly on the bed. He stood there, naked, face showing no emotion.

  She re-entered. Black PVC basque, spike-heeled boots, blonde hair pulled into a severe ponytail, razor-gash red lipstick.

  ‘Hello, Cathy,’ he said.

  It wasn’t her name. She was just the latest in a long line of them.

  She ignored him.

  ‘Get over there.’ She pointed to the frame.

  Tommy crossed, stood, legs apart, as she lashed him to the X-frame using strong leather restraints. The frame stood against the bedroom’s glass wall. Tommy stood gazing out over the Tyne.

  Behind him he heard Cathy give the first experimental crack of the whip. He waited, expecting the sting across his back at any second.

  It came. Not a sting, a buzz.

  ‘I didn’t feel it.’

  ‘I’m just warming up.’ Cathy’s voice was harsh.

  He waited. The next blow came. Harder, but not hard enough.

  The third. Still not hard enough.

  ‘Harder.’

  Cathy obliged.

  ‘Harder. Harder.’

  She whipped him. And again. And again.

  Thirty minutes later, Cathy’s time was up. Her hair had slipped from the ponytail and hung loose over her shoulders, plastered to her face and body by sweat. Red lines ran round her body and legs where the basque and boots had chafed against her slick, salty skin. Her armpits stank of exertion, her arms trembled from work.

  In front of her, Tommy leaned against the frame, his back and buttocks a mass of red welts, stripes, bleeding and broken skin. Cathy, panting and shaking, began to undo Tommy’s restraints. Once undone he didn’t move, just stood as if still restrained, staring out over the Tyne.

  ‘So what d’you feel like?’

  Cathy snaked her arm round to touc
h his penis.

  ‘Nothing.’ Tommy spoke quietly.

  She squeezed his penis. It hung flaccid, limp. She began rubbing it.

  ‘How d’you feel?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Tommy felt her remove her hand, turn, heard her clack-clack into the bathroom, heard the shower run.

  He didn’t move.

  Eventually she finished, got changed and left quietly.

  He stayed where he was, ignoring the pins and needles in his arms and legs, watching the sun go down, spread-eagled before the Tyne.

  ‘I feel nothing,’ he said to the river, the glass, his reflection.

  ‘I feel nothing.’

  Night had fallen completely and with the darkness came the thrill of expectation, flipping Suzanne’s stomach over and over.

  She lay naked under the thin, cool sheet, the aromatic candle she had brought and lit providing the room’s only light, the smell chasing away the faint lingerings of antiseptic and bleach. The room – the whole flat – always smelled of that. Karl was fastidious in his cleanliness.

  He had promised her a night she wouldn’t forget: the candle had been her idea, an attempt to introduce sensuous romance to the room’s clinical minimalism. Karl had reluctantly agreed.

  The bedroom door opened. Karl stood there, naked, erect, face red, breath heavy, eyes like dots.

  Her breath caught, she smiled at him, began to edge the sheet down slowly, thrilled by his body.

  ‘D’you wanna see what I’ve got down here?’ Coyly.

  Karl walked straight over to the bed, ripped the sheet off her body. He stared at her nakedness, chest heaving, breath escaping in laboured gasps. His cock, his body, looked ready to explode.

  Then he was on her, straddling her, pinning her wrists down. Breathing hard, harsh breaths into her face.

  ‘You trust me, yeah?’ Gasping.

  ‘You know I do, Karl.’ Suzanne’s voice was small, unsure. This seemed like a different Karl.

  ‘Good.’

  He moved both hands to her right wrist. Something cold and tight on her skin, a soft click, then she couldn’t move her arm. Same with the other arm. Quickly, he moved to her legs, restraining each ankle until she was spread, starred and naked, on the bed. He straddled her again, smiled.