Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  Larkin was breathing heavily too. He was surprised: Claire was now different, a sexually emboldened girl. Another layer of the onion. He liked that, the element of surprise. He moved towards her.

  ‘Don’t. Don’t touch me. Just tell me what you want me to do.’

  He told her.

  Down to the Haymarket.

  ‘Was that OK for you?’

  Afterwards, under the duvet. Bodies spent, entwined.

  Larkin smiled. ‘More than OK. So. What’s a nice girl like you—’

  ‘Doing in a place like this? Oh, please.’

  He smiled.

  ‘D’you mean why am I in Coldwell, the CAT Centre or in bed with you? Are we talking geography or philosophy?’

  ‘Whatever. In Coldwell. Working with addicts. Seems a long step for an artist.’

  Claire sighed. ‘Well, I finished my degree at Edinburgh and came back down here. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to go back to Rowlands Gill and my family and I wanted to paint, so I came to the coast for inspiration. But it wasn’t like I thought it would be.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I remembered the Northumberland coast as being bleak but beautiful. But I think that’s further up. This town is just bleak. Like a big lump of old machinery that’s broken down and no one’s bothered to fix it. Just left it to rust in the street. Anyway, long story short, I’d found my subject. I just need some models. Faces that would match the landscape.’

  ‘So you got a job at the CAT Centre?’

  ‘Volunteered at first. Then Tony gave me a regular job. I paint there, help the clients to work through their situations, express themselves through art. Kind of ad hoc art therapy, I suppose. Anyway, it helps me pay off my student loan. gives me a worthwhile job to do. And provides plenty of models.’

  ‘Good arrangement. So can I see your pictures?’

  She smiled. ‘No. Well, not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Not finished?’

  ‘Don’t know you well enough.’ She smiled again Differently, this time. ‘Yet.’

  Larkin returned the smile. It held promise in it.

  ‘Right. So that’s two out of three answers. How come I’m here?’

  ‘We fancied each other. We decided to do something about it.’

  ‘What about Tony?’

  He felt her body tense against his.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I might be wrong, and I might be out of order for asking, but isn’t there something between you two?’

  She waited a while before answering. When she spoke, the words sounded like they had been carefully rehearsed. ‘There was once. But it didn’t last. There’s nothing now. We’re better off as friends.’

  She nodded, confirming it to herself. ‘Yeah.’

  He held her. They lay in silence.

  Northumberland Street. Nearly there.

  ‘Morning’s coming.’

  The room was lightening, candlelight gradually replaced by dawn.

  They had drifted into sleep, woken at the unfamiliarity of the other’s body, touched, drifted again.

  It felt, to Larkin, like the dawn had made the world over, made things new.

  That ‘whoo’ feeling.

  ‘You in work today?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  ‘Back home. Working on the book.’

  ‘All right for some.’

  They looked at each other. Face to face. The morning light a new light. In it, they saw each other differently. Intimate strangers.

  ‘I’d better get ready.’

  Claire got out of bed, quickly pulled on a dressing gown as if embarrassed by her nakedness, by the previous night’s need.

  Larkin lay there, heard noise from the bathroom, the kitchen. He scoped the bedroom. It looked different in the light. Less homely, more impersonal. Touches of comfort were dotted around, but as a whole the décor stopped short of total ownership. As if she didn’t feel at home.

  He thought of his own flat. And how things were relative.

  She returned, carrying two mugs of coffee.

  ‘Waitress service, thank you.’

  She placed Larkin’s mug by his bedside, hers on the dressing table.

  ‘Come back to bed.’

  ‘Got to get ready for work.’

  ‘Five minutes. Go on.’

  Claire gave an exasperated sigh, climbed back beneath the duvet. She didn’t remove her dressing gown. They lay side by side. Not touching.

  ‘So,’ Larkin said, ‘was last night just a one-off?’

  ‘Don’t know. That’s up to you.’

  ‘And you.’

  She paused before answering.

  ‘You know where I live. Where I work. I won’t stop you if you want to call.’

  ‘OK. I’ll call.’

  ‘Good.’

  Claire’s body relaxed, softened. They moved together.

  John Dobson Street. Into the concrete precinct.

  They finished their coffee, played around a little, dressed, went their separate ways.

  The day looked like being a good one: bright, sunny.

  Larkin dropped Claire off at the CAT Centre and made his way home. He replaced Wilco on the stereo with Jim White. Tapped the steering wheel, sang along.

  About being handcuffed to a fence in Mississippi but things being always better than they seem.

  He found the music curiously uplifting.

  The Central Library. Reference department. His destination.

  Tommy Jobson. Born 1968, brought up in a succession of children’s homes and foster homes. Mother alcoholic, depressive, unable to cope. Father absent, violent and abusive when there.

  Public records. Time-consuming but easy to trace if you knew where to look. And he did. Piecing together the next few years took some educated guesswork.

  He sat in Newcastle Central Library, poring over rolls of old microfilm looking for names, links, clues. Joining the dots in reverse. Following the river back to its source. Like a psychic investigation, a forensic meditation.

  A court appearance in the early 1980s for twoccing. First offence, suspended sentence, community service. Then nothing. He either wised up or went straight.

  Larkin could guess which.

  He decided to widen his search, take in Clive Fairbairn. That proved easier. Hardly a month went by without Fairbairn’s picture in the paper. A boys’ club. A hospital wing. An art gallery. Charitable donations. Philanthropic gestures.

  And there, in most of the photos, was Tommy Jobson.

  That tingle, that journalistic intuition. Proven.

  Standing at the back, to the side, the smiles and handshakes circumventing him. Bypassing him. Unsmiling, ill at ease. Never identified, never named. Dark-suited, a sullen shadow. Slicked-back, light-refracting hair. An eminence greased.

  Larkin kept searching.

  The years rolled forward. Fairbairn inching towards legitimacy: talk of retiring coincided with rumours of a police investigation against him. He was quoted as wanting to hand on the baton, groom his successor. No mention of Tommy Jobson by name.

  Then the next phase: Tommy striking out on his own. No mention of Fairbairn, just the shadow, centre stage. Now billed as local casino owner. Posing with celebrities, from footballers and boxers to actors and Tony Bennett. Making charitable donations of his own, holding up oversized cheques for good causes. Throughout all, the same expression: mouth turned up, eyes turned down. Masking more than uneasiness. Larkin looked closer, detecting even through the newsprint a sadness, a definite emptiness.

  Then Fairbairn’s fall: the court case, the verdict, the profiles. Vilification upon vilification. Recast from lovable rogue with an open chequebook to devil in human form. A tabloid bogeyman. Taking the fall on his own. Associates no more than hinted at, a lawyer-shaped hole where there should have been portraits.

  Consequently, no mention of Tommy Jobson.

  Then up to the present day.

  Larkin sat back, rubbed his e
yes. He turned the viewing machine off, began to gather his things. He boxed up spools, handed them back. The exercise had been helpful but not conclusive. All he had were facts. Hard little cogs. What he needed was a lubricant, something to make them go round, mesh together. Turn the bones of fact into the flesh of substance.

  And he knew just the person to talk to.

  ‘Steve, long time no see. Wonderful! Come in.’

  Dave Bolland opened the door to his office, showed Larkin to a chair. He resumed his position behind his desk, smiled.

  Bolland ran an independent news agency, the News Agents, out of an office beside Newcastle University’s old Lit and Phil Building. It was home to a rotating team of journalists, all selling local stories to the local and national press. Larkin had worked there himself for a while.

  Larkin looked at Bolland. His old friend was looking tired. Trim and fit, purple shirt tucked into suit trousers, showing no fat, only squash muscles. Hair cropped short, receding at the temples, and a slightly more artificial shade of blond than it used to be. His face showed lines but wasn’t overly creased. He was wearing his years well.

  Larkin knew Bolland would be similarly appraising him. He wondered what he saw. And whether he’d be too polite to say it. He was:

  ‘You’re looking well, Steve,’ said Bolland politely.

  Larkin smiled. ‘And you, Dave.’

  ‘So. What do I owe the pleasure? I presume this isn’t just social.’

  ‘You presume right.’ Larkin told him he was looking for information on Tommy Jobson. He didn’t tell him why. He wasn’t sure himself.

  ‘Teflon Tom?’ said Bolland.

  ‘So called because nothing sticks to him?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Like what, for instance?’

  ‘Like his connection to Clive Fairbairn. Like the fact that whenever the law line up someone to testify to his nefarious deeds, that witness has a sudden change of heart.’

  ‘Why can’t you find anything?’

  ‘Because he’s too good. Because he’s got the right people working for him who know how to respond to different threats. The Fairbairn connection, for instance, is hidden under so many paper trails and payoffs you can’t find it. I know. We’ve tried.’

  ‘So what is the connection?’

  ‘Well, Fairbairn regarded him as the son he never had. That’s an open secret. Spent the last decade grooming him to take over. And now due to the extended holiday forced on the charming Clive, Tommy runs the show.’

  Larkin smiled again. ‘Is that the word on the street? That he’s Mr Big?’

  ‘That’s the word on the street.’ Bolland laughed. ‘Well, listen to us. Aren’t we just a couple of hard-boiled private eyes?’

  ‘Private dicks, don’t you mean?’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ Bolland leaned back in his chair. ‘So, what’s this about, anyway?’

  ‘I’m not sure, really. I’m writing a book on the miners’ strike. Using Coldwell as a case study. Britain in microcosm.’

  Bolland shuddered. ‘Can’t you leave all that alone, Steve? It’s all in the past. Ancient history.’

  ‘Well, I disagree, Dave. I’m looking at the actions then, the consequences now. Reaping what you sow. It’s not just in the past.’

  Bolland sighed. ‘Doesn’t being so angry all the time wear you out?’

  Larkin sighed. ‘Yeah. Well, wears me out and keeps me going.’

  Bolland laughed. ‘Let it go, Steve. Enjoy yourself. Live a little. You’ve earned it.’

  Larkin shrugged.

  Bolland waited, realized Larkin wasn’t going to speak further. ‘So, why all the interest in Tommy Jobson? D’you think he was behind the strike? Was it all a massive conspiracy?’

  ‘I was at a charity football match. So was he.’

  Bolland rolled his eyes. ‘Definitely worth investigating.’

  Larkin leaned forward. ‘You don’t happen to know if he contributes to that charity, do you? The CAT Centre?’

  ‘’Course I don’t.’

  ‘D’you know anyone who would know?’

  Bolland smiled. ‘I usually charge for this, you know.’

  ‘I’ll give you a cut of the fee.’

  Bolland sighed. ‘I’ve got someone here who’s good with numbers. It’s his forte. Knows where to find them, knows how to read them. He’ll give you as much as he can find.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  ‘But you’ll have to pay him, though. He doesn’t do favours.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Anything else? Would you like me to solve who murdered Princess Di?’

  Larkin shrugged. ‘Up to you. Don’t put yourself out on my account, though.’

  Bolland laughed. ‘Good to see you again, Steve.’

  ‘And you, Dave.’

  They talked a while longer, filling in gaps, reminiscing. The more they chatted, the more Larkin realized how little they had in common any more. Bolland had gone his merry New Labour way, Larkin was Larkin. But they were still friends.

  It was time to go. Larkin stood up, thanked Bolland for his help.

  ‘No problem. I’ll let you know what I come up with.’

  ‘’Predate it.’

  ‘You know, we should go out for a drink some time. Play catch up properly.’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be good.’

  ‘Let’s do that, then.’

  They shook hands, the physical act bridging a gap that stretched further than years. They parted without making arrangements. There was very little chance of them getting together for a drink. They both knew that. But they were old friends.

  It was something else that was said out of politeness.

  Larkin saw himself out of the building, stood on the pavement, looked around.

  Rush hour. Because he didn’t have a nine-to-five job, Larkin liked this time of day. It would have been different otherwise.

  All around, commuters and traffic were hurrying to leave the city before nightfall. Like virgins fleeing vampires, were-wolves fearing full-moon lycanthropies.

  Larkin began to walk. He had a lot to think about. The book. Tommy Jobson. Tony Woodhouse. The past. The present. Claire Duffy.

  Claire Duffy. That had taken him by surprise. But pleasantly so.

  He had to go somewhere, order his thoughts. Decide what to do next. About everything.

  He couldn’t face going home, so he checked his pockets for money, found he had enough for what he wanted without visiting an ATM. He looked around, pub radar on high. Settled on the Forth, headed for Pink Lane, and his invaluable aid to the thought process.

  He could taste the first pint already, imagine it keeping him company as the day faded totally and the dark took over. The one constant to set against change and uncertainty. The one thing that would help him reach decisions.

  He couldn’t get there quickly enough.

  Suzanne was nervous. Nervous and, if she was honest with herself, more than a little scared.

  She stepped out of the concrete bus shelter, swapping the smell of stale piss for cold night air. She looked up and down the street. Nothing. She checked her watch. Seven minutes. No pedestrians during that time. Only the occasional passing car, headlights picked her out, throwing her sharp relief shadow against the concrete, bleeding slowly away to nothing as it passed.

  She looked at her watch again. Eight minutes. Just gone.

  She was about five miles out of Newcastle in an anonymous satellite town she didn’t know the name of. All she knew was that it was Tuesday night. The dullest, most depressing night of the week, according to Karl. Monday was optimistic, Wednesday was halfway, Thursday was tolerable because it was almost Friday, and Friday was the end of the week. But Tuesday, Tuesday was nothing. You’ve got to get into their mindset, he’d said. You’ve got to think like them. You have to have a special reason to be out on a Tuesday night, especially in a dump like this. Either that or you’re lost. Whichever, he’d said, it’s perfect for us.

 
; She shivered, zipped her collarless burgundy-leather jacket up to her neck, shifted her weight from foot to trainered foot, flapped her arms about her body. Her teeth were beginning to chatter, but she preferred the street to the stink of the bus shelter.

  She was shivering from more than cold. She felt dirty, like her body was covered from head to foot in greasy black grime. It was only imaginary dirt, she knew, but strange imaginary dirt. Made her skin tingle to think about it. She didn’t know whether to luxuriate in the sensation or stand under a hot shower, attempt to wash it away, only turning the water off when her skin was red and sore. Purged.

  She checked her watch, flapped her arms. Nine minutes. Nearly ten.

  The only people she had seen were a couple in their mid-twenties leaving the pub opposite. As soon as the door swung closed behind them, they were on each other, pulling themselves into a shop doorway, performing lingual tonsillectomies and febrile body cavity searches. Their passion eventually consumed them and they hurried off to consummate in private.

  Suzanne watched, fascinated. They looked like boring, ordinary people. What Karl would call lesser people. But their passion had a depth that was anything but ordinary and boring. It seemed in no way a lesser thing. It excited her. It confused her. What she and Karl had was great, she knew that, but he’d never done anything like that to her. Never been spontaneous with his love. Never dragged her into a doorway because he couldn’t wait to be alone with her.

  She checked her watch again. Ten minutes became eleven.

  Then she saw someone walking towards her.

  A man: medium height, medium build. Black curly hair, black-framed glasses. Mid-thirties: young enough to still have dreams, old enough to realize they would never now come true.

  Perfect.

  She stood, miming a bored traveller waiting for her bus, watching him surreptitiously. She knew he had been eyeing her up as he approached, probably without consciously realizing it. It was what men did. She was often eyed up, tooted at. Especially when she was dressed for school.

  He drew level.

  ‘E-excuse me,’ she said. It came out croaking, almost a whisper.

  Her heart was beating overtime, body trembling. She swallowed. Her throat was dry, empty.

  The man stopped walking, looked at her.

  ‘Huh-have you got the time, please?’

  The man looked swiftly at his wrist. Eager to please. ‘Nearly half-ten.’