Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  He ordered a drink, tasted it. It felt good.

  He found a seat, got comfortable, took another mouthful. Already the pressure of the last few days was beginning to ease. He began to relax.

  Outside, the bus he had wanted drew near.

  It didn’t stop.

  He had missed it.

  Skewered spicy pork. Brown rice. Gado gado sauce. Red wine. Bistro fare, but classy.

  The décor: soft lighting, stripped-pine floors, bentwood Windsor chairs. Retro prints on the walls: James Dean’s cheekbones, Ronald Reagan selling Chesterfields.

  And the music: Sade. Working Week. The New Jazz. Smooth.

  Tony looked across the table at Louise. Forking rice into her mouth. Hair tied up, dress cut down.

  Beautiful. She caught him looking at her, stopped chewing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just looking at you.’

  He smiled. She joined him.

  Berwicks on Old George Yard off the Cloth Market. The perfect little bistro, thought Tony. Intimate and comfortable yet sleek and fashionable. The kind of place our parents would never have gone to. This was the third time Tony and Louise had eaten there. It was rapidly becoming their favourite restaurant. They didn’t even notice the other diners. It was a special place reserved just for them.

  They finished their meal, Tony paid, they stepped outside. Began walking along High Bridge. The autumn air was carrying on it the first ice notes of winter. Louise shivered slightly, pulled her coat around her body. Tony placed his arm round her. She snuggled into him. They were a perfect fit.

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I should’ve put something warmer on.’

  ‘You look fine as you are.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m cold. I should’ve worn my duffel coat.’

  Tony laughed. ‘No girlfriend of mine’s going to walk around in a duffel coat.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’ll soon be earning enough to keep her in style. Stick around, you’ll see.’

  She snuggled further into him. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was smiling.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk?’ Tony said when they reached the corner of Grey Street.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have an early night? Don’t you have to be up for training in the morning?’

  ‘Yeah, butthat’s tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t want my future life of luxury wrecked before it’s even started.’

  Tony grinned. ‘It won’t be. Trust me.’

  Louise looked in his eyes, liked what she saw, returned his smile. ‘OK, then.’

  They walked along Dean Street, down the Side, on to the Quayside. Above them, the massive floodlit supports of the Tyne Bridge; opposite, the multicoloured fairy lights of the Tuxedo Princess, the floating nightclub. Along the front, bars and cars, old warehouses, a few flats. And the Tyne below them lapping the sides, catching the light, glinting like ephemeral diamonds bobbing on dark spilled oil, too quick to grasp, then gone, borne out to the open sea.

  They leaned on the railings, looked out at the river.

  ‘This is my favourite part of Newcastle,’ said Tony.

  ‘Mine too.’

  They huddled closer together.

  ‘You know what you said before?’ asked Louise. ‘About me sticking around?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, how long did you have in mind?’

  Tony turned to her. The lights caught Louise’s eyes. Made them glint like diamonds.

  ‘As long as you like,’ he said.

  Tony took a deep breath, looked at her. Those eyes. Those diamonds. But not the unreachable ones of the river. They were here. Real and attainable. Not hard or cold, just beautiful and precious.

  ‘Look, I’m … I’m not very good at this sort of thing. I haven’t … haven’t done it before. But look, Louise, I just …’

  He sighed. She waited.

  ‘I love you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I don’t think I ever will again. I love you and never want to be without you. Ever.’

  He sighed again. He was shaking. Despite the cold, he was sweating.

  Louise smiled.

  ‘It means a lot to hear you say that. And I know how difficult it was for you to say it. And I love you. I feel exactly the same. And I hope we’re never apart. Ever.’

  They grabbed each other, pulling together, wanting flesh to join, to meld. They kissed, mouths devouring, demanding more than touch, wanting the other’s life, their soul.

  Love.

  Consuming, rebirthing love.

  Holding on. For ever.

  Keith watched.

  Parked inconspicuously behind several other cars on the Quayside. Looking like a predatory minicab waiting to shovel up the waterfront drunks expelled onto the pavement at closing time.

  They hadn’t seen him. That was a small triumph he could hold on to. Not when the new boyfriend picked her up. Not when they drove, parked and went to the restaurant. Not when they came out. And not now.

  He watched them in the restaurant, anger welling. It was the kind of place he couldn’t afford on his salary. So that was what she saw in him.

  They hadn’t seen him. No one had. He had melted into the shadows so perfectly it had been like he didn’t exist: a shadow himself.

  A young couple had come out of the pub with an urgent passion for each other. The boy had pushed his girl up against a wall right next to where Keith had been hiding. He had pushed up her skirt and pulled down her knickers while she had undone his jeans. They had fucked there and then, hard and fast. So close that Keith could have reached out of the darkness and touched them.

  The sight had made his own cock hard. He had wanted to knock the boy out of the way and take the girl himself. But he hadn’t. He had just watched. He would have settled for a wank but he hadn’t dared. Because he might have lost his focus. And he had a job to do.

  The episode had left him hungry, unfulfilled, and the sight before him, Louise and her new boyfriend devouring each other, made him feel even worse. At least that slut and her boyfriend had fucked in the dark away from watching eyes. Louise, Keith thought, was just turning into a whore.

  They broke apart, walked away. Smiling. Like they had put on a show specially for Keith. A show that he could only watch and not take part in. Louise showing him how she paid for her rich boyfriend’s attention.

  He felt his anger twist and bubble up inside him.

  He knew where they were going. Where the boyfriend had parked his car on Grey Street. They would drive back to Louise’s flat. Sometimes the boyfriend would go in, sometimes not. He seemed to have a set pattern. Tuesday night. He wouldn’t stay.

  Keith started the car, drove to Louise’s flat, parked in his usual spot in the alley. Soon, the boyfriend’s car pulled up. Keith smiled to himself, taking pride in how accurately he had plotted their routine.

  They kissed. He watched. Bile churning in his stomach.

  Louise left the car, entered the house, closed the door behind her. The boyfriend sped off.

  He watched as an upstairs light went on. Sighed.

  ‘Now we’re alone,’ Keith said out loud. ‘Just you and me together …’

  He watched.

  The earlier couple came back to him. Fucking hard against the wall. Rough urgency as they took each other.

  He could do that with Louise. Just walk over there now. There was nothing stopping him. He could just walk over the road, go straight in, throw her on the bed. Push up her skirt, pull down her knickers. Rough urgency. That would make her see the error of her ways. Soon he would have her begging, pleading with him to take her back.

  Yes. Throwing her on the floor. Teaching her a lesson. He liked that idea. His cock stiffened at the thought of it. He got it out, started to stroke it.

  He could do it. Just walk over there. Right now. Show her who was boss …

  ‘You’re mine, you bitch, you slut …’


  Throw her on the floor …

  ‘Bitch … Cunt …’

  Slap her if she gave him any lip …

  ‘Whore … Whore …’

  Hit her, punch her if he had to …

  ‘Bitch …’

  Boss. He’d show her who was boss …

  He came.

  Spurting over the steering wheel, over the front of his trousers.

  He opened his eyes, looked quickly around. No one there, no one had witnessed him.

  Good.

  The light went out in the flat.

  Keith found a handkerchief in his pocket, wiped himself down.

  He sighed, composed himself. He waited for the guilt to come. Expected some kind of post-ejaculatory shame for his thoughts.

  But none came. In fact it was the opposite. He felt quite pleased with himself.

  He settled back for the night.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Biding his time.

  For the right time.

  12. Now

  Tommy parked the Daimler in the visitors’ car park, turned off the engine, sat listening to the CD player.

  Diana Krall: Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

  A blues voice of smoke and seduction, of loss and late-night loneliness wrapped in a body of blonde beauty. A slice of darkness in daylight.

  The perfect Cathy.

  He checked his watch: two p.m.

  Visiting time.

  The stone lodged in his chest fell all the way to the pit of his stomach.

  He took a deep breath, locked the car, walked to the entrance, concrete and plaster concealing century-old red brick, and began the procedure.

  The visiting order checked, the duty desk officer asked: ‘Relation?’

  Tommy looked him in the eyes.

  ‘Son.’

  The officer nodded, let him through the first door.

  He joined the queue, was patted down, had a metal detector run over him, had his mobile taken, a receipt issued, was smelled by a sniffer dog.

  Then another door, this one not opening until the previous one was firmly closed.

  And finally through. Up a corridor, round the corner, a wait while the officer unlocked the door, locked it behind them. Into a room of Formica-topped tables and orange plastic chairs, men sitting at them wearing matching orange bibs.

  Durham prison. Visits.

  Tommy scoped the room. The men were physically different, racially mixed, various ages, but they all shared something in common. It wasn’t something they, had, rather something they lacked; an absence rather than a presence. A wilful deadening to outside stimuli, the reconfiguring of shrunken horizons and expectations, the recalibration of time.

  The look of the lifer.

  Clive Fairbairn sat at his table, hands together, back straight, a desk-bound CEO awaiting an underling’s report or a headmaster awaiting a pupil’s excuses.

  The boss was fronting it, performing the illusion of empire, but he was looking old, tired. Prison, although Mr Fairbairn wouldn’t admit it, Tommy thought, was being tough on him.

  Tommy sat down.

  ‘Hello, Tommy.’ It was an old man’s voice. Still shot through with steel, but corroded.

  ‘Huh-hello, Mr Fairbairn.’

  Tommy swallowed hard. In moments of stress his voice still gave him away. It was a reminder of where he had come from, of what he still was underneath the expensive cars and fine suits. He willed himself to relax, mentally speed-ran the exercises the speech therapist had given him.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  That was better. Back in control.

  Fairbairn looked around, gestured. ‘I’m in prison. How d’you think I’m doing?’

  Tommy nodded. ‘They treating you all right?’

  Fairbairn sighed, softened his attitude slightly. ‘It’s not too bad, I suppose. You get used to it. You ride it.’

  Tommy nodded. ‘Thanks for sorting the invite.’

  Fairbairn nodded.

  ‘Son.’ Tommy smiled. ‘Nice.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there was a time.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Fairbairn leaned forward. The movement caught the eye of a prison officer. Fairbairn sat back.

  ‘I’ve been hearing things, Tommy. Word gets to me.’

  ‘Wh-what d’you mean, things?’

  ‘That you’ve taken your eye off the ball. You’re going soft.’

  Tommy stared at him. His eyes flint, his face stone. Like Fairbairn had taught him.

  ‘I don’t know who said that,’ said Tommy, ‘but they told you wrong.’

  ‘I hope so, son. Because I don’t want to get out of here and find nothing left for me. Know what I’m saying? And I will get out, you mark my words. I’m not paying good money to that bunch of overpaid briefs for nothing, you know.’

  Tommy swallowed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Fairbairn. Everything is in good hands. You know that. You can trust me.’ Tommy smiled. ‘Like family, you used to say.’

  Fairbairn stared at him. Flint and stone. ‘No smoke without fire.’

  Tommy sighed. ‘Listen. Everything is being run exactly as if you were there. There’s no trouble.’

  ‘So why am I hearing things?’

  ‘Because with you in here all the chancers come out of the woodwork. They all see it as their time has come, you know? They make sure you hear things because they know they’ll prey on your mind. Especially in here. Set you wondering, set us at each other’s throats. So we destroy ourselves and you’ve got nothing to come out to. And they take over.’

  Fairbairn kept his eyes on Tommy. The words were absorbed, like a stolen car sinking slowly to the bottom of a deep lake.

  And in that moment, eyes unguarded, defences stripped down, worry marking his face, Tommy saw Fairbairn as he really was.

  Not the feared/revered head of the biggest firm in the north-east, but an old man: scared, alone, deluding himself about being released again, knowing in his heart he was here to die.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Fairbairn, everything’ll be fine for when you come out.’

  Fairbairn sighed, nodded. ‘Yeah. You just … In here …’

  ‘I know.’ Tommy’s voice had softened.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Fairbairn’s eyes were suddenly ablaze. Like a spark of life animating a clay golem. Activated. Ready to rip out hearts. ‘Don’t you ever tell me what it’s like in here. Ever. You have no idea.’

  ‘Suh-sorry, Mr Fairbairn. You’re right,’ Tommy said quickly.

  Fairbairn subsided, nodded.

  They sat silently, looking at anything but each other.

  Some of the other prisoners had wives and children meeting them. The younger children played in a play area in the corner, content. The older ones sat at the tables, sullen for the most part, unable or unwilling to equate the person opposite them with the word father. The wives looked at their husbands. Representatives of two different worlds looking for common ground conversations, hardly speaking, communicating through silence and near silence, or chatting volubly and incessantly, thin smiles papering over deep and, in most cases, irreparable cracks and chasms.

  ‘How’s Caroline?’ said Fairbairn, eventually.

  Tommy’s eyes aimed for flint, missed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘She sent her love.’

  Fairbairn’s eyes glittered. A smile that most people would have missed appeared at the corners of his mouth. Cold. Mirthless.

  ‘Tell her I send it back.’

  Tommy swallowed hard. He tasted bitterness in his mouth. ‘I will.’

  They then set sail on a sea of silence for the remainder of the visit, making only occasional forced landings on to islands of words. Fairbairn began to reminisce, relive old triumphs. The action of a man whose best was in the past, whose future was grey and small. Tommy joined in, indulged him, played straight man.

  Then time to go.

  ‘Good to see you, Mr Fairbairn. Glad you’re well.
Thanks for inviting me.’

  Fairbairn smiled. ‘Call me Clive. After all this time.’

  Tommy smiled. ‘Clive.’ The name seemed strange coming from his mouth. It fitted like a glove two sizes too small.

  ‘But listen.’ Fairbairn’s smile disappeared. His eyes were suddenly hard and bright again. ‘Whatever’s going on, sort it. And quickly.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fairbairn.’

  Time was up. Fairbairn was escorted, along with the other prisoners, back to his eight-by-four world. The visitors, patted down, mobiles returned, were free to go.

  Back in the car park, Tommy checked the Daimler for signs of vandalism, found none, got it. Diana Krall was soon back in his ears, his mind.

  He started the engine, changed the CD. He wanted something different.

  He flicked around the five installed discs. Sinatra. Dino. Billie Holiday. Dino. Back to Diana.

  He switched it off, drove out of Durham and back home in silence.

  He wanted something different.

  But he didn’t have it. And he didn’t know what it was.

  Karl supplied, Davva and Skegs sold. The system was simple and good. It worked.

  Their territory was now the whole of the T. Dan. They had regulars. Clients, Karl called them. They worked their market, got to know their customers’ needs, who wanted what. Blow. Skunk. Crack. E. Horse. Got stuff on demand. Uppers. Downers. Speed. Tried not to miss an opportunity to sell.

  They stashed stuff all over the estate. Merchandise. Money. Behind loose bricks, buried in secret places. The golden rule: carry as little money or product as possible at any time. Karl had wised them up, trained them well: don’t get caught. If you do get caught, don’t get done as dealers. And don’t give up names.

  They cycled the length and breadth of the estate, sorting clients out. Strictly cash. No cash, no hash. Karl took his share of the wedge, left them with their wages. When they weren’t working, they were having fun. In the arcades, on the video games, the bandits, the pool tables. Feeding themselves on burgers, kebabs, chicken. Chips with everything. Lifting, or occasionally buying, designer gear and CDs.

  They were living it, larging it, loving it.

  Skegs drew all the mucus from the tubes in his face into his mouth, rolled it, and let it fly. It landed square in the middle of the lamppost.