Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  ‘I don’t need a fuckin’ drink.’

  ‘Get him a pint of lager.’

  Larkin stared at Bob, eyes embers of anger. Bob, busying himself with paying, avoided returning the look.

  The barman placed the lager down. Larkin ignored it.

  ‘It’s there if you want it,’ said Bob.

  ‘What I want,’ said Larkin, his voice low and deep like underground lava looking for a fissure to erupt from, ‘is to know what happened to my fuckin’ article.’

  Bob swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was small.

  ‘We published it,’ he said. ‘We paid you for it and published it.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ said Larkin. ‘You published something with my name on but that wasn’t what I wrote.’

  ‘Well, we subbed it, obviously. Gave it a polish.’

  Larkin found the fissure. ‘Subbed it? You fuckin’ rewrote it! There’s nothin’ of mine in there, nothin’!’

  ‘Keep your voice down. You’ll get us thrown out.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck!’

  The barman appeared again.

  ‘Keep your voice down, please, sir. If you don’t, I’m gonna ask you to leave.’

  He flexed and cracked his knuckles, showed which part of his anatomy would be doing the asking.

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Bob. ‘We’re just talking.’

  Unconvinced yet unable to intercede, the barman moved away, keeping an eye on the situation.

  Bob turned back to Larkin. ‘Your piece was good. Very good.’

  ‘So why did you fuck about with it?’

  Bob opened his mouth, furrowed his brow. He chose his next words carefully.

  ‘You’re a talented writer. An exceptionally talented one, I think. But you have some growing up to do still.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me.’

  ‘I’m not patronizing you. I’m telling you the truth.’

  Larkin took a step closer. So did the barman. Bob flinched.

  ‘I wrote about what was going on in Coldwell on Monday. What I saw. What I experienced. The truth. And what do I find when I open the paper? Propaganda, that’s what. Poor me stories about injured policemen. Hate pieces about bullying, violent miners stopping honest folk from going to work. Nothing about what actually happened.’

  Bob sighed.

  ‘Stephen. What you wrote was brilliant. But unfortunately we couldn’t publish it as it was.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Up till now you’ve dealt with the small stuff. The free press. The left-wing magazines. And it’s fine for them. But if you want to write in the mainstream, you have to be prepared to compromise.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘It’s the truth, Stephen. We’ve got a readership that comprises all sections of society. All sides. Miners and police. And we don’t want to alienate them.’

  He took a sip of his beer. Larkin remained silent.

  ‘Plus,’ Bob continued, ‘we’ve got to think of the legal perspective. You can’t go throwing around unsubstantiated allegations about the police.’

  ‘They’re not unsubstantiated. I was there. I saw it happen.’

  ‘So where’s the evidence? Where’s the pictures?’

  ‘You know where they are.’

  ‘There you go. With them, we’d have had our article. Without them …’

  Bob shrugged.

  Larkin stared mutely ahead. The lava flowed away.

  ‘Your pint’s there,’ said Bob.

  Larkin picked it up automatically, put it to his lips, stopped.

  ‘I don’t want this.’

  He placed it back on the bar.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Bob took a mouthful of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘You want some advice?’ he said. ‘Phone Pears. Accept his offer.’

  Larkin just looked at him.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Stephen? Go back to the magazines with six readers, that pay nothing and think they’re changing the world? You’ve got talent. And ambition. I told you yesterday. There’s nothing for you here.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Listen, I know you’re upset. But listen. I had chances like you once. But I didn’t take them. And I’ve always wished I had.’

  Larkin looked at Bob standing there in his threadbare cardigan, his greasy-collared shirt, his dirty, breakfast-stained tie as if seeing him for the first time. A sad, middle-aged man. Not even a has-been, just a never-was. And he understood. Bob couldn’t do it himself so, like the man who discovered Jackie Milburn, he wanted Larkin to have success so he could experience it vicariously.

  ‘Do yourself a favour. Phone Mike Pears.’

  The barman had lost interest in them. The other two journalists were drinking up, ready to return to work.

  Larkin turned and walked out.

  Bob stood, watched him go. The other two journalists put down their glasses, made their way to the door. Bob downed the remains of his beer, reached for his jacket. As he did so, he noticed Larkin’s untouched pint on the bar top.

  ‘Waste not, want not,’ he said to himself.

  He took a mouthful of beer and sat there alone.

  A punter put a song on the jukebox:

  Prince. ‘When Doves Cry’.

  Bob took another sip of his beer.

  This is what it sounds like.

  ‘Is that Dougie? Dougie Howden?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s Stephen. Stephen Larkin.’

  Silence. Daytime TV rattled tinnily down the wire.

  ‘Stephen Larkin. The journalist.’

  A sigh.

  ‘Oh, aye, bonny lad. Aye. Mind’s wanderin’.’

  The voice on the other end of the phone didn’t sound like Dougie Howden. It belonged instead to an old man.

  ‘Listen. Have you seen tonight’s paper?’

  Another silence, then:

  ‘No, son, I haven’t. Stopped gettin’ the paper.’

  ‘OK. Well, I just wanted to let you know, there’s a piece in it. It’s about the strike in Coldwell and it’s got my name on it but it’s not written by me. Those aren’t my words. OK?’

  ‘Aye, lad. I haven’t seen it meself but I’ll let people know.’

  Dougie’s voice: detached, somnolent.

  It was Larkin’s turn for silence.

  ‘Dougie … You all right?’

  ‘All right?’ Dougie sighed. ‘Aye, I suppose I’m all right.’

  ‘Right. Well, I just wanted to let you know. About the article. I’m sorry, I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Never mind, son, you tried your best. We’ve all done our best.’ Another sigh. ‘Aye, we’ve all done our best.’

  Dougie’s voice didn’t just sound old, it sounded weary. Like he had put down a heavy weight he had been carrying for a very long time and was trying to find rest for his weary body.

  ‘Brutality and propaganda, he said. Aye. That’s how they do it.’ Dougie spoke dreamily, his words like clouds, as if he wasn’t sure who he was talking to and didn’t care. ‘They makiri’ the world over with brutality and propaganda. Well, let them, eh? Let them. Aye.’

  A click and a burr and Larkin was left holding a dead phone.

  He replaced the payphone receiver, stepped outside the box.

  Late afternoon in Newcastle city centre, back at Grey’s Monument.

  Movement all around him as commuters began the first stages of their journeys home, shoppers, bags bulging, deciding on one more store before calling it a day. And the unemployed, walking more slowly, less purposefully, with no immediate direction or reachable goal in sight. With one thing in common:

  They were stopping to buy a paper.

  They would open it on the bus or on the Metro or at home. Maybe they would read the article with his name on it – he couldn’t call it his article – maybe they would only glance at it. They would see the headline, the photos. The opinion would be
lodged. The message subliminally ingested, the side unconsciously chosen.

  He wanted to rush up to the paper seller, knock over his stock, spill his money, shout: Don’t read it! It’s lies! It’s not the truth, I know the truth! I’ll tell you the truth!

  But he didn’t.

  He just watched. People putting down coins, picking up newsprint.

  He timed, he counted.

  As it got busier, the stall averaged six or seven customers a minute. He calculated. Four hundred and twenty people an hour. For three or four hours. From just one seller.

  That was what he was up against. That was-what he was fighting.

  At the other side of the monument were two miners rattling buckets, Coal, Not Dole stickers on both the bucket and them. They looked tired, badly dressed, sallow-skinned. Occasionally passers-by would throw in some coins. They would smile, thank them, hand out stickers in return.

  They didn’t have as many customers as the paper seller. They didn’t make nearly as much money.

  That was what they were up against. That was what they were fighting.

  Larkin turned away.

  He had to think.

  He had to meet Charlotte.

  The first picture showed a tower block. Empty, but standing. The area around it had been cleared in expectation. A concrete and brick anachronism, out of place with its surroundings, its frame of reference. Its world.

  The second picture showed the detonation. Charges placed at the base, blowing out the lower floors, decimating the foundations. The explosive cloud at its base like the lift-off for an Apollo rocket. It looked surprised, if a building could possess such characteristics. It wondered why it was alone, why it was falling instead of others being built to join it.

  The third and final picture in the sequence. No longer a building, just a reductive, sprawled mass of brick, mortar and concrete, a fast-billowing dust storm rising overhead. What it had stood for was now unwanted. It couldn’t change, it couldn’t adapt, so it had to be destroyed. Now it was gone. Unmourned. The world it was a part of gone.

  The Side photographic gallery. An exhibition of collapsing buildings by German photographer Dietmar Hacker. Hacker quoted in the exhibition leaflet: The present destroys the past. Every generation creates its own Year Zero. History is never built upon or learned from.

  He was talking about his generation’s attitudes to the Second World War, but Larkin found something closer to home in the collapsing buildings. His own collapsing beliefs.

  He was killing time before meeting Charlotte. He looked at his watch, made his way out.

  The city was in crepuscular transition: day wear to evening wear.

  He walked to the Swing Bridge, wondering just how much worse his day could get.

  He was the first one there. He stood against the old metal handrail of the bridge, watching the Tyne flow out and away from him. Lights were coming on along the quayside. It twinkled picture postcard: bars and restaurants with wish-you-were-here illumination, streets open and friendly. Behind the lights, pooled dark shadows, harsh and dangerous to step in.

  Charlotte appeared, walking from the Newcastle side, dressed for an evening out.

  He looked up, smiled. Waited for her in the middle of the bridge. Waited to meet her halfway.

  She attempted to return his smile. It flitted about on her face like a swallow trapped in a barn. As she approached, her eyes widened once she took in Larkin’s appearance.

  ‘Hello, Charlotte.’

  He moved towards her, made to kiss her.

  She flinched away.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  Her eyes were all over his face.

  ‘I got attacked in Coldwell. Beaten up.’

  ‘The miners?’

  ‘The police.’

  Her mouth opened incredulously.

  ‘What did you do to provoke them? Did you get arrested?’

  ‘No, I didn’t get arrested. And all Dave and I did was take photos of them beating up miners.’

  She shook her head, disbelieving, but trying to avoid an argument. Her eyes travelled down his body.

  ‘You look a state. We can’t go anywhere tonight with you looking like that.’

  Larkin felt a match being applied to something hot and glowing inside him. It kindled, flared.

  ‘So, you don’t want to be seen with me because my clothes are torn and I’ve got a few scratches, is that it?’

  Charlotte responded. ‘Well, look at you. No wonder you stayed at Dave’s. I thought you just wanted to give us both time to think. I didn’t realize it was because you’d gone twelve rounds with Frank Bruno.’

  ‘Very fuckin’ funny. Y’know, that’s part of the reason I didn’t come home. Because I knew you’d have a go. Have somethin’ to say.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t I? Just look at you.’

  Larkin’s pointed finger was stuck in Charlotte’s face.

  ‘Don’t start. I’ve had a fuckin’ awful day.’

  She stared him straight in the eye.

  ‘Oh, diddums,’ she said, her voice low, level. ‘Poor fucking you.’

  Larkin dropped his finger, turned away biting his tongue. He felt an angry retort building inside him but held it in. He allowed it to accumulate, bottled it up, then let it go: a huge sigh directed at the flowing water, the intensity of which left his body trembling.

  He remained where he was, leaning on the railing, staring out. Avoiding looking at Charlotte.

  Silently she joined him, assumed the same position.

  Behind them, traffic passed. People going home, people coming out Separate lives. Separate worlds.

  ‘My article came out today.’ Larkin spoke to the air in a small voice. ‘Did you see it?’

  Charlotte shook her head. Larkin felt the action more than saw it. ‘I thought you’d show it to me tonight.’

  He nodded. ‘Don’t bother. It’s not worth it.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘They took my words away. They kept my name and took my words away.’

  He felt suddenly tired. A huge wave of fatigue washed over him, bringing with it the long-subdued pain from his injuries. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to lie down.

  He wanted to give in.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Charlotte’s voice softened. She inclined her head towards him slightly.

  ‘They said it was too anti-police. Too pro-miner. So they rewrote it.’

  ‘Well … I suppose they felt … they were being honest.’ He turned to face her, not bothering to disguise the pain and hurt in his voice, his eyes.

  His heart.

  ‘It was the truth. I told the truth. I wrote about what I saw. If they hadn’t taken the photos off us, everyone would have seen.’

  ‘But they did take the photos.’ Her voice was not uncompassionate. ‘So the article couldn’t go ahead.’ She shrugged. ‘Welcome to the real world.’

  The hot and glowing thing was rekindled inside him.

  ‘Don’t fuckin’ patronize me!’

  ‘I’m not patronizing you. But this is how things are. Why should you be in some way exempt from that? You’ve just got to accept it.’

  He opened his mouth to argue, found he didn’t have the strength. He sighed, looked back out at the flowing water. He shook his head.

  ‘I remember when I was little, 1960 something. I remember my dad taking me to the Miners’ Gala that year in Durham. Harold Wilson was Prime Minister then. He had come to make a speech. I remember him standing … I think it was on a balcony, an upstairs window … And I remember him smiling. He started talking. My dad sat me on his shoulders so I could see better. Who’s that? I remember asking. Harold Wilson, my dad said. He’s a great man. So I listened. I can’t remember the words but at the end all the man cheered and clapped. And my dad joined in. So I joined in. Because if my dad thought he was a great man, I thought he was a great man.’

  ‘And d’you still think he was a great man?’

  Larkin gave a
hard sigh.

  ‘No.’ His voice sounded as weary as he felt. ‘He wasn’t a great socialist hero. He was as bent as the rest of them.’

  Charlotte turned to him. Looked at him.

  ‘They’re all the same, Stephen. All of them. That’s why it’s not worth it. Why you should just do the best for yourself. Not rely on anyone else.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do, Stephen.’ Charlotte’s voice was becoming heated. ‘You can’t look at the past like it was some golden age and the present just an aberration. It’s always been the same. The rich have always been rich. The poor have always been poor. And I know which I’d rather be.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘Yes, I do, and so should you. Idealism’s all very well, but you have to grow up some time and make something of yourself.’

  That kindling again inside him.

  ‘That’s the second time today I’ve been told to grow up.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s about time for something, all right. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve had enough of your Thatcherite bullshit and your spineless yuppie cunt friends. I’ve had enough of you never taking me or my work seriously. I’ve had enough of being fucking patronized.’

  Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, words to be guided by the hot anger building up inside, but nothing emerged. Instead, she brought her right hand up, balled it into a fist and crashed it into his face.

  Larkin fell back against the railing, his injured state weakening his resistance. His fingers touched his jaw.

  ‘You bitch.’ His voice was low, breathy. ‘You fucking bitch.’

  ‘Did that hurt, Stephen? I fucking hope so.’ Charlotte was breathing heavily, flexing and unflexing her fingers. ‘I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.’

  ‘Oh, have you now?’

  Larkin straightened up, stared at her. Her eyes held love flipped to hate: his own eyes mirrored it back at her.

  His left arm rose up. He slapped her across the face. Her head snapped sideways with the force.