Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  He looked down at his mug of tea, drank from it.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  Angela didn’t say no immediately. Instead, she ran the arguments through her head. The house they had was aspirational, a stepping stone to their future.

  Then she looked at Mick. Sitting there, holding his mug with shaking hands. Bent out of shape but not yet broken. She felt a pang of anger at his ineffectualness. She wanted to hit him, shout at him to get on his feet again, be a man, provide for his family, give them the life they wanted. But she could clearly see his injuries, both physical and mental, so she refrained. Forced herself to feel compassion, sympathy and empathy for him.

  Bent out of shape but not yet broken. If they stayed here, he would be.

  She nodded.

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  Mick nodded, felt a sad relief course through him.

  ‘Just till we’re back on our feet. Just temporarily.’

  They drank their tea.

  On the floor, Tanya began to stir. She opened her eyes and looked around.

  Then she began to cry.

  Dougie was coughing so hard he had moved off the chair on to his knees. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find relief. His body racking, his ribs aching. Like his lungs were full of gravel and he had to spit it out through a too-small plastic tube. He put his handkerchief over his mouth, tried to catch whatever came out.

  Gradually the coughing began to subside and Dougie struggled to get his breath back, gasping at air like a deep-sea diver. He felt calmer but his lungs were still burning, still full of gravel. He pulled himself back on to the seat, checked the handkerchief.

  Blood.

  He sighed, pocketed it. No panic about his movements, no shock, just a sense of weary inevitability.

  Blood.

  He knew what would happen next. It was how his father had gone.

  Arthur Howden: miner and painter. Dougie still had one of his paintings framed on the wall.

  Part of the Ashington Group in the 1930s. The Pitman Painters. Some moneyed, do-gooding society women had tried to encourage the miners to express themselves creatively through paint. Patronizing it may have been, but the results were very pleasing. The work was good, the men proud. The paintings were exhibited nationally and one, Oliver Kilbourn, went on to some acclaim in his own right. Dougie could remember the others, though: George Blessed, Arthur Whinnom, George and Leslie Brownrigg, Fred Laidler. And others. And his father.

  He looked at the picture hanging in pride of place above his mantelpiece. Almost totally black, it showed a miner chipping away at a seam with his pickaxe. A big man wearing trousers, vest, boots and helmet. It had physicality, strength to it. It communicated hard graft, pride.

  He thought of contemporary images of miners: shouting, fighting, attacking policemen.

  Different world. He knew which one he preferred, which one he wanted to be in.

  Which one he was part of.

  He sat, too tired to move, the fight gone out of him. He braced himself as another coughing fit began to well up.

  Let it come, he thought. Let it come.

  The Fisherman’s Wharf on the Newcastle quayside. Dark interior, old wood, old-world ambience. Where money dined with money. Where deals were made and things were taken care of. No price on the menu.

  Tommy opened the door, entered. Suited, booted, he was nervous. He had to be. He was meeting Clive Fairbairn.

  Fairbairn gave a small wave, a beckoning. Tommy crossed the floor. Fairbairn’s table was away from the other diners. Intimate. Secluded. Tommy sat down. Immediately, a waiter flourished a menu before him. Tommy went to take it. Fairbairn waved it away.

  ‘He’s having the same as me. Monkfish. Aren’t you?’

  Tommy shrugged. He wouldn’t have known a monkfish if it had bitten him.

  ‘Yuh-yes.’

  Fairbairn took a mouthful of white wine, swooshed it round his mouth and swallowed, smacking his lips.

  ‘Nice here,’ he said. ‘They know how to treat you. Help yourself to some wine.’

  Tommy did so, filling his glass. He drank. Wine was wine to him.

  ‘Guh-good.’

  ‘Yeah. The best.’

  Fairbairn leaned back. Tommy took him in: black double-breasted silk suit with an ivory silk shirt and bright red silk tie with matching pocket handkerchief. Tommy would have betted that the man’s braces were red too. And silk. Gold glistened on his fingers, wrists and neck.

  ‘So,’ Fairbairn said, smiling, ‘how you doing, Tommy?’

  ‘Fuh-fine.’

  ‘Any problems I should know about?’

  ‘Nuh-nothing I can think of.’

  Fairbairn smiled again. It made him look like something that should have been caught, landed and eaten at this restaurant.

  ‘Good. Good. I’m hearing good things about you, Tommy. Good things from the people who matter.’

  He took another sip of wine, smacked his lips again.

  ‘This is good stuff.’ He replaced his glass. ‘Now, Tommy. To business.’

  Fairbairn rested his arms on the table, steepled his fingers before his face. His captain-of-industry look. He spoke, voice low, murmuring, hiding the words from any hidden microphones.

  ‘Times are changing in our business, Tommy, and we have to change with them. Drugs are becoming socially acceptable. Take cocaine, for instance. It’s now the drug of choice to a lot of people in the south and I don’t mean the usual crowd, the skaghead estate kids who’d try anything, I mean the middle classes. Moneyed, affluent. Professional people.’

  Another mouthful of wine, another smack of the lips.

  ‘Now, I’ve had people doing market research. And they tell me that just as those southern markets are very lucrative, the northern territories could be too. It’s up to us to exploit them. Get it sewn up.’

  The food arrived. They ate.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ said Fairbairn. He ate slowly, cutting his fish into small chunks, popping them into his mouth, chewing leisurely.

  ‘Something to savour, this.’

  Tommy agreed that it was and kept eating, mimicking Fairbairn’s actions. Learning all the time.

  Fairbairn didn’t talk business all through the meal. He told anecdotes, stories. He was in a good mood.

  It looked to Tommy like Fairbairn enjoyed cultivating the high life image. Tommy liked it: it was how he had reckoned Frank had been in his prime, holding court at the Sands. He also imagined that a lot of it was put on for his benefit, an aspirational measure, a subtle glimpse of the high life that could be Tommy’s if he played the game by Fairbairn’s rules.

  ‘Saw Cliff Richard in here once,’ said Fairbairn after another lip-smacking mouthful of white wine. ‘I thought of sending someone over for his autograph. For the wife. But then thought again. I didn’t think it would be something she would thank me for.’

  He laughed. Tommy joined in, simultaneously trying to swallow a mouthful of monkfish.

  ‘We’re out of wine,’ said Fairbairn. ‘Let’s have another bottle.’

  The meal continued in that fashion until coffee and brandy were served. Then Fairbairn reverted to type. The warm bon viveur disappeared. The hard, cold businessman returned.

  Enjoy the life, Tommy took as the message, but make sure you earn it.

  And make sure you know how to earn it.

  ‘Now,’ said Fairbairn, granite-eyed, ‘business. Cocaine. Lawyers. Businessmen. Rock stars. Actors. Sportsmen. They all take it. What we have to do is set up regular routes and customers for our area. And make sure that anyone visiting our fair region knows where to come for their Bolivian marching powder. D’you think you’re up to the task?’

  ‘Muh-me, Mr Fairbairn?’

  ‘Yes, Tommy, you. I want you in charge of this. It’s what you’ve been doing on a small scale and now it’s time you stepped up. So, I’ll ask again. D’you think you’re up to the task?’

  Tommy smiled. He couldn’t help himself.r />
  ‘Definitely, Mr Fairbairn.’

  No hesitation, no trace of a stammer.

  Fairbairn smiled.

  Tommy felt like he’d grown another couple of inches in height.

  ‘Good. Start tomorrow. Move through the city. Any unclaimed area is yours. Create new areas. If you think you can, take areas from others.’

  ‘What about the opposition?’

  ‘That’s up to you. But if I were you, I’d send a message. A clear warning about what’ll happen if they don’t co-operate with you.’

  Fairbairn leaned forward.

  ‘Know anybody who moves in those circles? Anybody who fits the bill?’

  Tommy thought. Then smiled. ‘One.’

  ‘Is this our friend from before?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Good. Give him a chance, get him to play ball—’ Fairbairn chuckled at his own joke ‘—and if he won’t – and let’s be honest, we don’t expect him to – do whatever you like with him.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fairbairn.’

  Fairbairn nodded benevolently.

  ‘Now then, Tommy, how about another brandy?’

  Keith watched. In the car, in the alley. In the shadows.

  Straight there after work, only a large doner and his book for company.

  Always his book.

  Tonight.

  The word had made him tingle with anticipation all afternoon. But so far it had been something of a letdown. Louise had come in from college and stayed in. That was that. No flatmate, no boyfriend.

  But she was in there. Alone. That gave him some kind of frisson.

  Alone.

  What was she doing alone in the flat? He knew what he imagined her doing. Where he imagined her lying. Where he imagined her touching herself.

  His cock stiffened once again. He remembered all the times she wouldn’t let him watch her pleasure herself. The pleading he had done, how she had ignored it.

  And she was probably up there right now, doing just that.

  His hand trembled as he fed the cooling pink kebab meat into his mouth.

  He had to know. He had to see.

  He checked his watch. Ten thirty. Woodhouse wouldn’t be coming for her now.

  He had to know. He had to see.

  He placed the half-eaten kebab on the passenger seat, locked the book in the glove compartment, got out and, shaking, locked the car.

  There was no way he could see in from the front. The flats opened straight on to the street. The back door opened on to a set of wooden steps which led down to a shared back yard and a gate leading into an alley. That was his best bet.

  Keith walked down the deserted street, trying not to draw attention to himself. He reached the alley, counted along to Louise’s gate. He tried the latch, careful not to make any sound, and swung the gate slowly inward. His heart was beating salsa rhythms in his chest, legs turning to liquid as he stepped in, noiselessly moving over the concrete yard to the wooden steps.

  He placed his foot gently on the first step. Then the next one. And the next. The wood creaked. He stood stock-still, waited. Not breathing. Nothing happened. No one had heard. He continued his ascent. Soon he was standing outside the back door that led into the kitchen.

  It wasn’t enough. He needed to see into the back bedroom window. Louise’s bedroom.

  He swung his legs up to the wooden handrail and braced himself for his next move, tried not to look down.

  Keith grabbed hold of the side of the building with one hand, then the other. He moved his right hand up the wall until it met a metal guttering support. He pulled on the support, testing to see whether it would hold his weight, decided to chance it.

  He swung off the wooden platform, edged his left hand to the next support. He swung his legs forward. They landed on the bathroom windowsill. He looked along at the bedroom window. The curtains were drawn, but there was a chink of light showing through them. Encouraged and emboldened by this, Keith edged his way along until he could see in.

  Half-hanging, half-crouching, he managed to peek through the thin sliver.

  He was rewarded. There was Louise lying on the bed.

  He was disappointed too. She wasn’t doing any of the things he had imagined her doing. She was wearing her dressing gown over her pyjamas and her hair was turbaned into a towel. She was reading a magazine, mouthing the words to a song coming from her cassette player.

  Nevertheless he watched. Thrilled to be privy to something secret, something no one else would ever see, a moment no one else would ever share.

  It wasn’t long before she took the towel from her head, gave her hair a final rub dry, turned off the tape player and the light and settled down to go to sleep.

  Keith watched as her eyes closed, her breathing slowed and she drifted off.

  And in that moment she had never looked more beautiful. He had never wanted her more.

  Realizing nothing more was going to happen, Keith edged himself backwards along the window ledge until he reached the platform and swung on to it. His reverse journey seemed quicker and quieter, and it wasn’t long before he was back in his car with his half-eaten kebab. And his book.

  He smiled.

  Tonight he had moved up a level. He hadn’t seen what he wanted to see, but he had seen something.

  And he hadn’t been caught.

  He wanted to write it all down, brag to his book about it. But first he had a more pressing matter to attend to.

  He unzipped his trousers, took out his cock.

  He thought of Louise lying there. Still. Alone.

  He could have gone in and made her do anything.

  Anything.

  He came quickly, wiped himself off.

  He smiled.

  Tonight was good.

  From now on, every night would be better.

  16. Now

  Claire stared. Rendered immobile. Struck dumb.

  Tony’s vein was spiked. Eyes closed, head back. Unaware of her, unaware of anything but the deep, sensual velvet blackness coursing through his bloodstream, massaging his nervous system.

  Through deafening white noise in her head, she found her voice.

  ‘Tony …’

  But stopped. She couldn’t find the right words.

  He had given in, was on a journey of personal rapture, of almost religious ecstasy. So internal, so exclusive, so at odds with the mundane surroundings: the desk, the chair, the office. Herself.

  She couldn’t articulate her emotions. There were too many: racing through her body, her mind, like the drug raced through Tony.

  She crossed to him, took his face in her hand, moved his head side to side.

  ‘Tony.’

  He slowly opened his eyes, looking first through her, then, as he began to reground, at her.

  ‘Claire …’

  Her name spoken like a post-orgasmic sigh. It disappeared like an eight-mile-high vapour trail against a blue sky.

  Tony smiled. Claire didn’t recognize the man she knew in that smile. She turned, walked towards the door.

  ‘Claire … don’t go …’

  She placed a shaking palm on the handle, turned. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  ‘Junkie. Fuckin’ heroin junkie.’

  Tony slowly shook his head.

  ‘You don’t understand …’

  She went out, slamming the office door behind her. In the corridor she put her back against the wall to steady herself, took a deep breath, sucked as much air as she possibly could into her body, held it, exhaled in a tightly controlled stream.

  From downstairs, the ring of the doorbell.

  Her eyes opened with a start, her heart jumped. Then she remembered who it would be.

  Stephen Larkin. Come to take her out for the night.

  She pulled away from the wall, tried a couple of broad, experimental breaths. She stopped shaking. Good. Another breath. Better.

  With a backward glance at Tony’s office, she made her way down
stairs, opened the main door.

  ‘Hello,’ said Stephen Larkin.

  ‘Hi.’

  He pulled her to him, kissed her. She kissed him back but didn’t return his enthusiasm. He stopped, stepped back.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, her voice, her manner, distracted.

  ‘What’s up?’

  She looked at Larkin, his brow furrowed, his eyes holding concern and compassion. She smiled, sighed.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Tough day at work?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll take you away from all this.’

  She closed the door. They began to walk to his car.

  ‘So,’ he said, putting his arm round her, ‘where d’you fancy going?’

  ‘Anywhere,’ she said. ‘Just as far away from here as possible.’

  They got into the Saab and drove off.

  Lights flashed, tunes played. Virtual bullets hit their targets. Muscle-bound men’s bodies were ripped apart, instantly resurrected on the insertion of a pound coin. The dark arcade, lit only by sparse neon and fruit machine holds and wins, sound-tracked by tinny techno bleeps, rapid fire and agonized wails, was a hall dedicated to death, money and bad driving.

  Skegs saw Karl at the far end of a row of video violence. Quake. Codename: Assassin. Metal Gear Solid. Vicarious thrills for empty lives. Unreal death and painless injuries. Cartoon-violent role models for an abandoned, desensitized generation.

  Karl was playing something different. He was a rebel in a galaxy far, far away, flying his X-Wing against the Death Star, fighting for a noble cause against tyranny and fascism.

  Skegs approached him, stood at his side.

  ‘Heh-hello, Karl.’

  Karl ignored him, piloted his X-Wing through canyons, dodged Empire pursuit craft.

  He twisted and turned, controlling the fighter, surprising his enemy with a burst of fire, pumping the joystick like a true flier.

  But not quick enough for the Imperial fighter that appeared on the screen from nowhere. He fired. Too late. Dead.

  The theme tune played, the roll call of honour appeared. Highest player positions: Karl was offered joint fourth. He entered his name, Han S., then turned to Skegs.

  ‘That old shit’s better than that new shit. Hello, Skegs.’