Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  Tony turned to him. ‘More than fucking “oh, dear”, isn’t it? For me anyway.’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘She might not say anything.’

  Tony sighed. ‘No, she might not. I’ll have to talk to her again.’

  Tony’s mobile trilled. He answered it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Listen, Tony, it’s me.’ Louise. Her voice frantic. ‘Don’t hang up. Please. Please talk to me. This is important, please.’

  ‘He-hello, Louise.’

  His voice was hesitant, unused to dialogue.

  ‘Oh, thank God. Listen, you’ve got to help me. I’ve tried Stephen and he’s not answering. Please. You have to help.’

  ‘OK, Louise, calm down. Just tell me what’s wrong.’

  She told him.

  He listened.

  ‘Right. I’ll meet you at my house. Ten minutes. Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.’

  He ended the call.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We’ll take my car. I’ll drive.’

  *

  Suzanne wanted out of there.

  She hadn’t spoken since Karl picked the two boys up in Coldwell and drove back to his flat. She knew what they were thinking, expecting of her. They had openly stared at her body, especially the odd-looking one in the glasses. The other had tried to be cooler, more reserved about it, as if it was all no big deal. Something about him unnerved her. She sensed anger within him, which, one day, would probably manifest itself in cruelty and violence.

  She had felt their eyes on her from the back seat of the car, like spiders crawling all over her body.

  Karl lit a spliff, handed it round. The two boys demolished their share, Suzanne declined.

  ‘Take it.’

  A command, not a request.

  She took it.

  They reached the Wills Building, parked, went up to Karl’s flat.

  ‘Help yourself, lads,’ said Karl, throwing Davva a bottle of tequila.

  Davva examined it as if he’d never seen tequila before.

  ‘Ta,’ he said, then looked again. ‘What’s that at the bottom? Looks like a worm, or somethin’.’

  ‘It is,’ said Karl, happy to impartknowledge. ‘That’s gold tequila. The best stuff. An’ the worm’s supposed to be like a drug. Eat that when you’ve reached the end of the bottle and you get like an acid trip.’

  Davva looked again at the bottle, awe in his eyes. ‘Fuckin’ brilliant …’

  ‘Get stuck in.’

  Karl smiled, turned to Skegs on the other side of the room.

  ‘Put some music on, Skegs. There’s some UK garage collections there. One o’ them’ll do.’

  Skegs did as he was told. Oxide and Neutrino kicked things off. The air in the flat became angular with beats, solid with lyrics and sampled harmonies.

  Skegs’s attention was caught by something lying next to the CD cabinet. He picked it up. ‘Hey, looka this.’

  The others turned, looked Skegs had found Karl’s automatic.

  ‘Careful with that,’ Karl said. He smiled. ‘You don’t know where it’s been.’

  Karl looked at Suzanne to see if she was smiling. She wasn’t.

  ‘Whassamatter with you?’

  Suzanne sighed.

  ‘I can’t do this, Karl. I can’t go through with it. I want to go home.’

  Karl looked at her. There was no love in his eyes, no warmth. He looked like a farmer at auction appraising cattle, weighing up cost and profit.

  ‘See how it goes.’

  He turned to the boys.

  ‘Lads, amuse yourselves for a bit.’ He pointed to the coffee table. ‘There’s skunk, weed, coke. Some white widow, you’ll like that. Help yourselves. Then make yourselves scarce. Me an’ the lady got a bit o’ business to attend to.’

  Davva and Skegs rolled themselves skunk spliffs. Karl a white widow. He inhaled a couple of times, shaking his head from the buzz. Suzanne did nothing.

  The boys left the room. Karl turned to her. He was red-faced, keyed up, breathing hard. He began to touch her.

  ‘Wait,’ said Suzanne.

  ‘What?’ Irritation bordering on anger in Karl’s voice.

  ‘Need to go to the toilet.’

  She grabbed her bag, left the room.

  Once in the toilet she took out her mobile phone. Dialled a number in desperation. Hoped it would be answered.

  Hoped it would be her mother.

  The Daimler pulled up to the kerb in front of Tony’s house.

  ‘There she is,’ Tony said.

  He pointed to a Ka parked on the opposite side of the road. He hauled himself out of the Daimler as quickly as his shattered leg would allow, made his way over to her.

  She saw him coming, got out of the car and ran to him. She reached him in the middle of the road, flung her arms around him.

  ‘Tony …’

  She clung to him.

  He held on to her.

  ‘We’d better move,’ he said.

  They walked to the pavement, still holding on to each other.

  There was too much to be said in such a small space of time. Instead they said nothing.

  They reached the pavement. Louise stopped dead, stared at the man in the light-coloured suit emerging from the driver’s side of the Daimler.

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘Tommy Jobson,’ said Tony.

  ‘What’s he—’

  ‘It’s OK. He’s with me. Times change.’

  The knife. Tommy grinning about what he was going to do with it.

  ‘Times don’t change for me,’ she said.

  Tommy looked at her, his face impassive.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be going to get your daughter?’ he said. He opened the car door.

  She looked at him. Physically he was the same. Older, a little greyer. But his eyes were different.

  They looked pained.

  Lost.

  ‘Get in,’ he said.

  They got in. Tommy drove. He stayed just within the speed limit, police involvement being the last thing they wanted.

  The Wills Building. Red-brick and grass-brick art deco. Spotlit in the darkness.

  Tommy pulled the car up in a residents’ parking bay.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Louise.

  ‘To get your daughter.’

  Louise was getting out of the car.

  ‘No. No. You’re not going in there. I won’t let you—’

  ‘You think you’re going to get her? Just walk in, walk back out with her?’ He shook his head. ‘Stay here.’

  Tommy walked off.

  Louise started to go after him. Tony put a restraining arm on her.

  ‘Let him go. He knows what he’s doing. It’s what he does for a living.’

  She subsided, sighed.

  Tommy walked to the front door.

  And struck lucky. Someone was leaving as he was entering. They held the door for him. He smiled, nodded his thanks.

  He took the lift up to the right floor. Alighted.

  He didn’t need to know the number. The noise led him to it. He rang the bell, waited. It was soon opened by a youth clutching his jeans about his waist.

  Karl. That was the name Suzanne had given.

  Knowing subtlety wouldn’t work, Tommy grabbed the youth by the throat, gripped hard. He squeezed off air, making him light-headed and disorientated. Feeling the youth weaken, Tommy pushed him backwards as hard as he could.

  Karl caught the side of the sofa, upended it as he fell. He crashed on to a coffee table, scattering weed and charlie, then tumbled on to the floor, lay there.

  He checked the youth, found no signs of immediate threat, looked round for Suzanne. He found her crouched on the floor, naked. Fear in her eyes, clothes in her hands.

  She looked just like her mother, Tommy thought.

  ‘I’ve come to take you home,’ he said. ‘Your mother sent me.’


  She couldn’t hear. His words were lost to the music.

  He looked around, trying to find the source of the noise. Couldn’t. Angered by this, he took a step towards her and tried again.

  ‘Come on, we’re leaving.’

  Suzanne collapsed to the floor, tried to scuttle over to the corner of the room. Away from Tommy.

  He crossed towards her.

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  He held up his hands to quieten her.

  And felt a thud on the back of his neck.

  Tommy turned. Karl was standing there, blood running from his nose and mouth, fists bunched. Face contorted with violence.

  Tommy knew the look. He had experienced it himself enough times.

  The youth looked like Tommy at that age. It was like looking into the past.

  Karl bellowed something incomprehensible and swung his right fist at Tommy.

  Tommy dodged, feinted, punched Karl in the face.

  Karl’s nose split and he went down again, face a mask of sudden, wet, red.

  Tommy turned again to Suzanne. She looked terrified.

  A sudden pain hit him in the centre of his back. He crumpled to his knees, gasped in agony.

  Karl had grabbed a heavy metal ornament, got to his knees, thrown it.

  Tommy painfully knelt up. The ornament had fallen by his feet. He picked it up and, gasping for breath, threw it back at the now-standing Karl.

  Karl ducked. It hit the mirror over the fireplace, rained shards on to the carpet.

  Tommy pulled himself slowly to his feet. Karl was coming at him again.

  Karl swung. Tommy blocked.

  Karl swung again. Tommy blocked again.

  Tommy was tiring. Karl’s pinprick pupils showed his body had become a cocaine-driven engine. Tommy couldn’t compete with that. He needed an edge. A weapon.

  The ornament was lying on the mantelpiece. Tommy grabbed it, swung it sharply at the side of Karl’s head.

  It connected.

  Tommy didn’t let go, followed through with the swing.

  Karl fell, hit the floor hard.

  Tommy dropped the ornament on top of him. Looked down.

  Like looking into the past.

  Tommy hoped the past had been defeated.

  He turned again to Suzanne. She was by the window, curtain clutched around her body, sliver of broken mirror held knife-like in one hand. Blood pooling and dripping around her fingers and palms.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Tommy, moving cautiously up to her, shouting. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. Your mother sent me. Put it down. You’re hurting yourself.’

  She looked at him and for a split second he thought his words had reached her. Then her gaze shifted beyond him, over his shoulder, to the other side of the room.

  Tommy turned, looked.

  Two boys, one holding a gun.

  ‘Put the gun down,’ he shouted. His words were lost in the din.

  ‘Put it down,’ he said again and began to cross to them.

  The two boys looked scared, fearful of what would happen next. They remained rooted to the spot.

  ‘Come on,’ said Tommy, pointing to the gun, ‘don’t play silly buggers. Put that thing down before someone gets hurt.’

  Tommy held out his hands, showed he had no weapons.

  Then spun round, landed on his knee.

  Pain seared through Tommy’s body. He closed his eyes. A blinding, white starburst. He put his hand to his right side, pressed, brought his fingers away.

  Blood.

  He had been shot.

  By a boy.

  He looked up. The shooter was sitting on the kitchen floor, clutching the automatic in his hand, his face full of surprise.

  Tommy tried to stand but couldn’t. The pain was too great. He slumped to the floor, managed to drag himself over to the wall.

  A shrill, ringing sound. Hammering.

  Tommy thought the noise was in his head but then noticed the other boy reacting to it: the doorbell. Someone pounding on the door.

  The boy was shaking his head, crying.

  Tommy couldn’t move. His vision began to blur. He blinked.

  He watched as Suzanne grabbed the discarded throw from the sofa to cover herself, opened the door.

  Black snowflakes began to fall in front of him. Gather at the sides of his eyes.

  Tony and Louise entered. Louise and Suzanne hugged. They were both crying.

  Tony knelt down before him, spoke.

  Tommy didn’t hear it.

  The black snowflakes began to pile up, drifting to the centre of his vision.

  His legs, side, felt wet. He knew the blood, the life, was leaking out of him.

  Karl on the floor. The past defeated.

  Louise and Suzanne hugging. Reunited.

  He closed his eyes.

  Smiled.

  Wondered what counted as redemption.

  And was gone.

  EPILOGUE

  How Soon Is Now?

  Now

  Morning.

  The day starts. The night ends.

  Dreams either forgotten and abandoned or dragged through to waking.

  The Modern Age: An Epilogue

  The modern age, as we know it, began on Friday 8 June 2001. This is not a date plucked at random for its Clarke/Kubrick futuristic connotations nor is it yet an officially recognized one. It was the first morning after the general election.

  Tony Blair’s New Labour government has been returned to power for a second term by an apathetic landslide. People voted for them because there was no credible alternative.

  In the country that Blair’s government now oversee, the gap between rich and poor has never been wider. A fatally dilapidated rail infrastructure. A crisis in education. In housing. In health. In social welfare. Funding withdrawn. Never returned.

  Thatcher’s legacy: time bombs exploding all over the country.

  Seventeen years of deliberate Tory underfunding.

  Five years of New Labour inertia.

  A combined—

  ‘Here.’

  A mug of tea was placed down beside Larkin’s laptop.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ve probably put everything back in the wrong place.’

  ‘Impossible,’ he said, reading over what he had just written. ‘Nothing has its own place in here.’

  ‘True,’ said Claire, ‘but we’re getting there.’

  Larkin stopped writing, stretched, looked around.

  Order was being introduced to the room. Shelves contained books, CDs. The hi-fi had been wired up. Clothes had been wardrobed. Boxes were still on the floor, but they no longer dominated.

  Getting there.

  He walked over to Claire, stood beside her, placed his arm over her shoulder. She moved her neck into it.

  ‘You want to get some furniture in here, mate,’ she said. ‘It’s like you’re waiting for a bus.’

  ‘That’s the next step.’ He looked down at her. ‘Wanna wait with me?’

  Claire stood up. She was wearing Larkin’s dressing gown. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxers. She turned to him, draped her arms round his shoulders. He placed his arms round her waist.

  ‘Does it feel strange having a woman in your flat?’

  ‘Feels strange having a woman in my life. But I’m getting used to it.’

  Claire smiled.

  ‘Y’know, when I woke up without you, I thought you’d—’

  ‘Gone?’

  Claire nodded.

  ‘In my own flat?’ Larkin smiled. ‘No. I’m still here.’

  ‘Good.’

  She brought her face up to his. Kissed.

  It was deep, involving. Eventually they finished, moved apart. Looked into each other’s eyes. Smiled. And embraced. Just to feel each other’s body close.

  Larkin looked over Claire’s shoulders around the corners of the room.

  Ghosts rarely appeared in the morning light. They hid in the darkness, clung to the shadows.
Claire’s presence, he knew, was helping to throw light into those shadows.

  Claire looked at her watch. ‘Better get ready. Time to go soon.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘That’s a minus point about this place. Having to get up so early to travel in to work.’

  ‘There are plus points.’

  ‘I know. D’you mind if I have a shower?’

  ‘Not at all. D’you mind if I join you?’

  Claire smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  They went into the bathroom together.

  Louise woke slowly, stretched. She looked over to the right side of the bed. Tony was still sleeping.

  She smiled to herself. She felt more relaxed than she had done in years.

  Suzanne, she knew, was sleeping in another room. It was all her daughter had done for days, it seemed, sleep. Still, after what she had been through, that was a good thing.

  Suzanne had told Louise everything. Broken down. Louise was helping to piece her back together again. Slowly, but they were getting there.

  Tony had insisted they move in with him. It could have been a recipe for disaster, three damaged individuals living in close proximity to each other. But it had been a week now since the night in the Wills Building had changed everything for them. They were giving each other space. They were giving each other attention. They were allowing each other to heal.

  Tony had agreed to accept treatment for his addiction. Louise had agreed to help him.

  Louise looked at him lying there, eyes closed, peaceful. She loved him. She had always loved him. Even after that night in her flat with Tommy Jobson. She had been angry with him, not wanted to see him any more, but she had never stopped loving him. Loved him through all the years of living with Keith, the phone calls sustaining her, and finally lying with him in bed again. Loving him still.

  The alarm rang.

  Louise jumped up, shocked, then realized what it was. She settled back down again.

  Tony’s eyes opened. He smiled when he saw her.

  ‘Mornin’, you,’ he said, sleep still in his voice.

  She smiled at him.

  ‘Sleep all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Like a log. Getting better all the time. What about you?’

  ‘Not too bad at all.’

  He moved from his side on to his back, looked at the ceiling.

  ‘Time to get up. Come on.’

  Mick began his walk into town.