Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Bitch.’

  ‘Bastard!’

  And she was on him, hands thumping, nails raking skin, feet kicking. He grabbed her shoulders, hand still stinging, fingers digging through layers of clothes, trying to reach skin, aiming for bone.

  They moved up and down the path, grappling, tussling, unchoreographed body movements locking them in a dance of despair. Locked together, fighting to be apart.

  Pedestrians dodged them, pointed at them, walked round them.

  Cars slowed down for drivers and passengers to get a better view.

  Larkin and Charlotte were oblivious to all this, oblivious to everything but themselves.

  Eventually they began to tire.

  Danced out, Charlotte’s feet slowed, her hands stopped. Larkin eased his grip on her. Her head fell on to his chest. They slowed to a standstill. Larkin looked down. Charlotte’s shoulders were shaking. She was crying.

  His grip altered. He put his arm round her, encircling her, drawing her to him. She allowed herself to be drawn.

  Pedestrians began to ignore them. Cars sped by.

  Charlotte took deep breaths, attempted to control her tears. She looked up.

  ‘I can’t do this any more.’ Her voice was cracked, a porcelain vase broken many times and glued back together, its shape preserved, its original beauty tarnished. ‘I’m not strong enough.’

  They looked at each other, spent, as if by a bout of vigorous lovemaking.

  ‘So what d’you want to do?’

  She sighed, ran her fingers through her hair. ‘It’s not doing us any good,’ she said. ‘Either of us.’

  Her head dropped. Her eyes couldn’t meet his.

  ‘I love you.’

  Charlotte’s body juddered as a fresh onslaught of tears threatened to well up and out of her. She struggled to keep them down.

  ‘I love you probably more than I’ll ever love anybody in my life,’ she said, her voice strained. ‘But this is killing me. Living like this …’

  The tears came. She couldn’t stop them.

  Larkin held her close to him, clung on to her until she rode the crying out.

  ‘What d’you want to do?’

  Her voice sounded small, like it was retreating to the end of a long corridor. ‘Stay at Dave’s tonight. Move your stuff out tomorrow when I’m out.’ She sighed, quivered. ‘That’s the way it’s got to be. Sorry.’

  She pulled away from him.

  ‘I love you. But I can’t bear to be with you.’

  She began to walk away.

  ‘I love you too, Charlotte.’

  But she was gone. Into the pools of darkness behind the bright lights of the quayside.

  And Larkin was alone.

  He sat on a bench outside the cathedral, felt the city ebb and flow around him.

  The wind struck up. It blew the night’s debris over his feet.

  Styrofoam kebab boxes. Waxed paper fast-food wrappers with ketchuped chips stuck to them like bloody, severed fingers. Newspapers.

  Newspapers.

  He looked down. There was today’s paper. There were the pictures from his article.

  There was his name.

  He saw it briefly, then it was gone with the rest of the torn, soiled paper, blowing down the street, joining the rest of the day’s effluence.

  He sighed.

  In the end, that was all it came down to.

  He sat, saw the paper float away, watched while it disappeared from sight.

  The building was demolished, just rubble and dust.

  When the paper had gone he stood up, made his way to a payphone, dug a card from his pocket, dialled a number.

  Three rings and it was answered. Music tinkled in the background. Smooth and warm, like aural oil. Voices laughing.

  ‘Mike Pears.’

  The voice matched the music.

  ‘Hello.’ Larkin cleared his throat, tried to remove the hesitancy. ‘It’s Stephen Larkin here.’

  ‘Stephen. Good to hear from you. How are you?’

  It was like the greeting of a long-lost friend.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  Larkin could almost see Pears grin as he spoke.

  ‘The job. Is the offer still open?’

  ‘Do you still want it?’

  ‘Is it still going?’

  ‘Do you still want it?’

  Larkin sighed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the offer stands. How soon can you get down here?’

  Larkin looked around. He saw the city he had grown up in, the only one he had ever lived in. He saw familiar buildings, streets. Saw people on pavements whom he didn’t know but who had that familiar north-east look. Stone and brick, concrete and glass. Flesh and blood. Roots and foundations solid. Impervious to change.

  ‘There’s nothing to keep me here. I’ll be down tomorrow.’

  ‘Good.’

  Pears gave him directions and instructions.

  ‘I look forward to seeing you. It’s the right decision. You won’t regret it. Now I must dash. Dinner guests to entertain. See you tomorrow.’

  Larkin said goodbye, recradled the phone.

  Then walked away.

  14. Now

  The voice was thrown upstairs, a vocal hand grenade. It landed harshly, exploding on unappreciative ears.

  ‘Get downstairs now. I won’t tell you again.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ Suzanne mumbled to herself, turned over.

  She threw the duvet over her head, snuggled down within. She felt safe inside, cocooned, warm. Too warm, in fact. Hot. But better than being cold. Better than being outside, shivering on an anonymous street corner. Or lying stripped and cuffed to a hard bed in a shivery, antiseptic room.

  She heard footsteps on the stairs, an angry bustle. She lay still, anticipating.

  The duvet was pulled roughly from her body.

  ‘Get up. Now. And get ready for school.’

  Her mother’s voice: tired, battle-weary, but still fighting.

  ‘I’m not going. I don’t want to.’

  Suzanne’s voice: flatlining in her own ears, toneless, dead.

  ‘You’re going to get up.’

  ‘I feel sick. I’m not going.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you. Get up.’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  A sigh from her mother, the bunched duvet thrown to the floor. Face-to-face close.

  ‘You’re in the last year of your GCSEs. You need to go. And as long as you’re living under my roof, young lady, and part of this family, you’ll do what I tell you.’

  Eye-to-eye contact. Louise held. Suzanne, eventually, dropped.

  Her body felt like lead as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and on the floor.

  Louise sighed, straightened up.

  ‘Come on down. I’ll get your breakfast ready.’

  Her voice had softened, warmed. A truce in the battle.

  Suzanne nodded.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Louise’s voice was sharp again. She grabbed Suzanne’s right hand, examined the wrist.

  ‘And that one.’ She grabbed the other wrist. ‘What’s that? How’d you get these?’

  Suzanne knew what her mother was staring at but looked anyway. Saw the circular bruises, new piled on old, fading through the skin spectrum from purple to yellow, that enclosed her wrists.

  Kisses from the chain of love, Karl had called them. Then he had laughed.

  She pulled her feet close to the bed, hoping her mother wouldn’t see the matching marks there.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Suzanne.

  ‘You must know,’ her mother said, anger, panic and worry bubbling under her words.

  ‘They’re …’ Suzanne sighed. ‘Just leave me alone. I’ve got to get ready.’

  ‘But—’

  Suzanne stood up.

  ‘Leave me alone. Get out of my room. Leave me alone!’

  Her hands slapped again
st her mother’s chest, pushing her out of the bedroom, pushing her away.

  Louise, too surprised to speak or retaliate, found herself standing on the landing. The bedroom door slammed in front of her. She turned, made her way downstairs, her mind a whirlpool of emotions.

  She reached the bottom. Held it in. Let no ripples disturb the surface.

  Into the dining room where her son Ben sat at the table, dressed for school, silently spooning in mouthfuls of Cinnamon Grahams and milk.

  He looked up when she entered, eyes skittering nervously about, then back to his cereal.

  Louise looked at Ben. The opposite of his sister. Inward as she was outward. Quiet as she was loud. Down as she was up. The opposite, but just as difficult to talk to.

  She screwed a smile to her face. A hard, shiny plaque, covering the cracks.

  ‘All right?’

  Ben, eating, nodded.

  ‘Good.’ She spoke in a calm, measured voice. ‘When you’ve finished, get a wash.’

  Ben nodded again.

  Louise realized that was all she was going to get and left the room. She entered the kitchen, looked around.

  Sometimes she found it hard to believe this was all hers. This house, this family. This life. She stretched her arms out in front of her, flexed her fingers. Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench. Even her skin, her bone, her own body. Like she was just looking after it until the proper owner returned.

  She felt someone else in the room, turned. Ben stood there, bowl and spoon in hand, staring at her.

  She dropped her arms, moved to one side. Reddened. Ben passed her, eyes down, deposited his dishes in the dishwasher, left the kitchen.

  She watched him go. Why had she felt uncomfortable when he looked at her? Not just this time, she always did. But she knew why. Because the way he had looked at her, body posture, mouth set, eyes, was pure Keith. Distilled essence poured into a miniature bottle.

  Ben abluted, packed his bag, left the house.

  Louise sighed in relief.

  She checked her watch, moved to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Come on, Suzanne, you’ll be late.’

  A sullen clump on the stairs was the response. Suzanne slowly made her way down. Louise looked at her.

  ‘You’re not wearing that to go out in.’

  ‘I’m going straight out after school.’

  ‘Not dressed like that.’

  Suzanne reached the bottom of the stairs, grabbed her bag.

  ‘I said—’

  Suzanne turned. ‘Just leave me alone. You’re always on at me! Leave me alone!’

  ‘Suzanne—’

  ‘Don’t touch me! Get away from me!’

  The doorbell rang.

  They both looked at it, at the outline of the figure behind the glass.

  Suzanne opened the door, walked out. The figure in the doorway stepped aside.

  ‘Suzanne!’ Louise said.

  Suzanne didn’t look back, didn’t break her stride. Louise sighed, shook her head. She looked to see who was at the door. Her brother.

  ‘Morning,’ he said and looked around. ‘Haven’t called at a bad time, have I?’

  Louise sighed again. ‘It always seems to be a bad time. Come in.’

  Larkin entered, closed the door behind him.

  Louise stomped towards the kitchen. Larkin followed her.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’ she asked, her back to him.

  ‘Whatever. Coffee’s fine.’

  Louise stood, unmoving, staring out of the window.

  ‘Louise? You OK?’

  Larkin crossed to her, looked at her. Tears were bunching in the corners of her eyes, beginning their descent down her cheeks. She closed her eyes. They fell.

  Larkin took her in his arms, cradled her head against his chest. Her body convulsed, sobs and tears escaping it.

  He held her. It was a strange experience for both of them. Family but not close. Intimate yet distant. Strangers, but there for each other. And with each tear that choked out of Louise, the more they held each other, the narrower the distance between them became.

  Louise’s tears peaked, subsided.

  ‘Why don’t you have a sit-down?’ Larkin’s voice quiet, unobtrusive. ‘Why don’t I make us both a cup of tea?’

  Louise nodded and, grabbing a couple of tissues from the box, made her way to the front room.

  Larkin boiled water, navigated the unfamiliar kitchen, made a pot of tea. He found a tray, carried everything into the front room, set it down.

  ‘I’ve probably done it all wrong and used all the wrong things,’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Her voice quiet, cracked.

  He poured her a mug of tea, handed it to her. Poured one for himself. They waited for them to cool, silently, then drank.

  ‘That better?’

  Louise nodded.

  ‘You OK now?’

  She nodded again, then stopped.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You want to talk about it?’ Larkin’s voice again quiet, supportive.

  She emitted a noise that, at a push, could have been a laugh but sounded more like a harsh bark.

  ‘You just caught me at a bad time, that’s all.’ She sniffed, straightened up. ‘Just feeling vulnerable. We all go through phases.’

  Her words were like Perspex: cheap, see-through and easy to break down.

  ‘Being in tears at nine o’clock in the morning doesn’t sound like a phase.’

  Louise looked into her mug as if expecting to find answers there.

  ‘I suppose you’re … I don’t know …’ She sighed. ‘Where do I start?’ she said into her tea.

  ‘Wherever you like. Take all day if you have to.’

  She took a mouthful of tea, sighed again.

  ‘I’m not … Oh, I don’t know. You don’t want to hear this.’

  ‘Louise, I’m family.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘Yeah, I know, we’ve been pretty shit where being family’s concerned. Maybe it’s about time that changed.’ He smiled. ‘So, I’m here now. Talk to me.’

  She smiled, savouring the novel idea of supportive family. She looked again into her tea, searched for words that would encapsulate and articulate her emotions. She could find nothing definitive, so started as best she could.

  ‘I’m not … happy.’

  Her head came up. Just hearing her voice admit that fact openly was something. Larkin didn’t move, just listened. Emboldened, she continued.

  ‘It’s not recent. I haven’t been happy for a long time, now that I think about it.’

  Another mouthful of tea.

  ‘Any reason in particular?’

  ‘Well, you saw the way Suzanne behaved. Shouting and walking out like that. I just can’t talk to her. Can’t communicate with her.’

  ‘Isn’t that what teenagers are supposed to do with their parents?’

  ‘Yes, I know, but this is something more. She’s like a stranger to me. I don’t know where she goes or who her friends are or what she’s doing. She won’t tell me. Won’t let me in.’

  Larkin remembered the car he’d seen on his previous visit. The boy racer noisebox on wheels.

  ‘She’s got a boyfriend, right?’

  ‘Yes, but I only know that because he picks her up and drops her off. I don’t know who he is, how old he is, what he does, anything. I ask her but she won’t tell me.’ Another sip of tea. ‘And then this morning I found these bruises round her wrists.’

  Larkin leaned forward. ‘What kind of bruises?’

  ‘Like …’ Louise gestured. ‘Like circles round her wrists. Some old, some more recent.’

  ‘Restraint marks?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘If that’s what they are, she’s young to be messing with that kind of stuff.’

  ‘I know.’ Louise sighed, put her tea down. ‘You try to protect them from these things, give them a loving home, some grounding for the future …
Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘What about—’ Larkin had to think of his name ‘—Keith? Can’t he talk to her?’

  ‘No, he can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Louise picked up her mug again, started swirling the liquid around.

  ‘Why can’t he?’ Larkin asked again.

  ‘Because …’ Louise stared hard at her tea, as if that would tell her whether or not to answer. ‘Because … Keith’s never believed Suzanne is his daughter.’

  Larkin sat back in his chair as if he’d been pushed.

  ‘What?’

  He looked at Louise. She kept her eyes on her tea.

  ‘Who else could—’

  ‘It’s … I don’t want to talk about it now.’

  ‘So who does he think the father is? Not Tony?’

  She looked up, straight in the eye.

  ‘I wish.’

  And that encapsulated everything. A lifetime of longing, the span of a fifteen-year-old girl’s life, and the wish for change, for renewal.

  ‘Imagine what that must do to you,’ said Louise, rekindling interest in her tea. ‘Being brought up, having your father making snide comments about who your real father is. Imagine what that would do to you.’

  Imagine who that could send you into the arms of, Larkin thought.

  ‘And is he her father?’

  Louise sighed.

  ‘He just won’t accept his responsibility, that’s all.’ Her voice dripped bitterness.

  ‘Have you talked to her?’

  ‘’Course I have. But the more I told her one thing, the more Keith told her another.’ Another sigh. ‘Poor little girl.’

  ‘What about your son? Ben, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Ben. Oh, he’s his father’s boy, no doubt. Sometimes it’s like having a miniature version of Keith in the house.’

  ‘Mini Me.’

  They both laughed but it soon died away.

  ‘And Keith?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘I hate him.’

  Louise had spoken without thinking. Inadvertently, without searching for the right words to articulate her feelings, she had found them.

  ‘Bit strong,’ said Larkin. ‘Don’t mince words.’

  She thought about what she had just said, searched her emotions for signs of guilt or even shame. She found none. Those words had been the right ones. Once acknowledged, she found she didn’t regret them at all. She gave a small smile.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘those are the right words. That’s how I feel. I hate him.’