Born Under Punches (11 page)

Larkin shrugged. ‘Up to you.'

Tony thought for a moment. ‘Let's go for a drive,' he said. Larkin stood up immediately, trying not to show his relief at being freed from the chair. He grabbed the dictaphone, followed Tony out.

‘Here,' said Tony, looking through the windscreen, ‘is where most of our clients come from.'

As soon as Tony and Larkin had climbed into the Puma, the heavens had opened, washing people from the streets, grime from the buildings. Tony had made a comment about his leg forecasting the weather, then driven to the T. Dan Smith Estate. There they now sat, looking out.

Larkin followed Tony's eyeline. Here, the rain wasn't washing the estate clean; it was just giving the discoloured concrete and brick a dark, oil-like sheen.

‘T. Dan Smith?' asked Larkin. ‘Is that some kind of town planner's joke?'

Tony smiled. ‘Apparently not. They decided that the estate – and all the blocks and streets on it – should be named after prominent north-easterners.' He gestured. ‘There's Catherine Cookson House, of course, and those bungalows next to it are in Jimmy Nail Walk. There's also Jackie Milburn House, Paul Gascoigne House—'

‘Tony Woodhouse House?'

Tony's expression changed, darkened slightly. ‘No,' he said, looking through the side window, eyes beyond the rain. ‘Only the heroes. Not the ones who never made it.'

Larkin nodded.

‘So most of your clients …'

‘Yes,' said Tony, jumping on the subject change, ‘most of them come from here. Most of the people on the estate are on something or other.'

‘What's the worst?'

Tony gave a bitter laugh. ‘There isn't a worst. There are just differences. Degrees. Booze, heroin, crack. Different strokes for different folks. Same end result.'

‘They all visit you?'

‘Not all of them. Only the ones who think we can help them. Who want to be helped.'

‘And do you?'

Tony sighed. ‘We've had some successes, but mostly it's a question of slapping a Band-Aid on and sending them out again. There's only so much we can do with what we've got.'

Larkin followed Tony's eyes. Through the windscreen-bleaching rain, the estate looked almost derelict. Broken fences spilled wild-growing grasses and weeds on to pavements. Rotting furniture, rusting appliances and burned-out cars were dotted around like parts of a dismantled barricade. The flats and houses, boarded and burned out, decayed and uninhabitable, sat side by side with lived-in ones. A darkness more than rainclouds hung over the place.

‘The estate's always been rough. I should know, I come from around here,' Tony said, ‘but it's never been this bad. When the mine went, the town died with it.' He gave an angry sigh, air hissing through his teeth. ‘You take away the work, you take away the pride, what have you got left? This.'

‘Were you around for the miners' strike?'

Tony's face clouded, his thoughts suddenly unreadable. ‘Not … really. My dad was, though. And my brother. It was the pit that killed my dad. His lungs.'

‘What about your brother?'

Tony stared away from Larkin, avoiding eye contact. ‘Moved away. Got a job in Chester. Works with computers now. I don't see much of him. Suppose he did the right thing, getting out when he could. The only growth industry around here now is—'

‘Drug dealing?'

Tony gave a grim smile. ‘Got it in one. And I'll tell you what, some of the kids are good at it. Fuckin' good. Under different circumstances they could be running ICI or something like that.' His Geordie accent was becoming stronger.

They lapsed into silence again. ‘D'you hate them?' Larkin asked eventually.

‘I hate what they do, but …' He paused. ‘Comin' from around here, I understand why they feel they want to escape. Both the dealers and the punters.' He nodded, more to himself than to Larkin.

‘Can you see anything improving?'

‘Not really,' Tony replied. ‘At the end of the day, we just treat the symptoms, not the causes. It would take a hell of a lot to get rid of them.'

‘Like what?'

Tony smiled. ‘You'd have to take away the boredom. Give them jobs. Stop what they were trying to escape from in the first place.'

‘That's a tall order.'

‘Right. You're talkin' a massive injection of cash and a huge redevelopment programme. But that's not gonna happen. Still, there is one thing you could do.'

‘What?'

‘Legalize heroin for a start.'

‘What?'

‘Legalize it. Not just decriminalize it, legalize it. Legalize the lot. Do that and street crime'll disappear virtually overnight.'

‘How?'

‘You break the chain.'

Larkin stared at Tony, frowned. Tony turned to him, explaining. ‘OK. Think about it. Does heroin kill?'

‘Yes,' said Larkin.

‘No,' said Tony. ‘Heroin has never killed anyone. Fact. It's a painkiller. Admittedly a highly addictive one, but a painkiller. Full stop. Overdose on it and all you'll get is a bit of a headache. Maybe an upset stomach. An overdose of paracetamol will do you more harm. No, it's the stuff it's cut with that kills you. Drug dealers are gangsters. For them the profit motive is everything. They'll cut it with anything. Talcum powder, brick dust, cement dust, face powder, curry powder, drain cleaner. Anything. Some of this stuff is toxic, obviously. Some gets in the body and clots. Causes gangrene. Leads to amputation.'

Tony was getting into his argument.

‘It's like America during prohibition. You know why so many blues musicians in the 1920s were blind? Because of the prohibition alcohol they drank. Moonshine. Bathtub gin. Gangsters. Same with drugs now. You legalize them, get addicts to register with their doctors. Given clean supplies, you take the gangsters out of the equation.'

He gestured at the estate.

‘Like around here. People think addicts just sit around all day getting out of it. They don't. They're a hard-workin' bunch. They're always on the go, looking for money to get their next fix, stealin', muggin', sellin' their bodies even. Anythin'. You take that away and they could get on with their lives. Sort themselves out. Drugs aren't the problem. Criminalize water or air and you'll be sold dodgy stuff by gangsters. No, heroin doesn't fuck you up. You could take it for years, a clean supply, and your best friend wouldn't be able to tell.'

He smiled. ‘Honestly.'

Larkin smiled also. ‘Pretty persuasive argument.'

‘All absolutely true.'

‘Can you see that happening?'

Tony laughed. ‘Not immediately. Especially not with an election comin' up. They don't want to say anythin' that would upset the
Daily Mail.
But it has to be done. I firmly believe that. But until they do that—' he looked around again, gestured ‘—they'll keep comin' to me. And I'll patch them up and send them home again. And that's where the demons are.'

‘So why d'you keep doing it, then?'

Tony opened his mouth to reply but stopped himself. His face broke into shadow before opting for a smile. ‘Someone has to … You got plenty of quotes there?'

Larkin clicked the tape off. ‘Yep.'

‘Then come on,' said Tony. ‘Let's go somewhere else.'

They drove away, leaving the rain to hammer away at the T. Dan Smith Estate.

The Garden of Eden the pub was called. If there was a prize for most inappropriate and misleading pub name, thought Larkin, then this would win it.

It was perched on the edge of a particularly unpicturesque stretch of the Blyth River on the borders of a red-brick housing estate. Upriver to the left stood the tall, belching chimneys of the Cambois power station. Downriver to the right were what remained of the docks and piers, with the tall, white wind turbines rotating slowly in the distance. On the opposite bank bordered by flat, open space were six rows of terraced housing, looking peculiarly bleak and out of place.

The pub, which had an incongruous new conservatory backing on to an old wooden jetty, was exactly as Larkin had expected it to be. Scarred, wooden tables and chairs, carpet worn down by use, too expensive to replace. However, the landlord gave them a hearty welcome, which surprised Larkin, but as he and Tony were the only two customers he was probably glad of the trade. Larkin sat in the conservatory waiting for Tony to finish his conversation with the barman and bring two pints of lager to the table. Thankfully, the rain on the conservatory roof drowned out the Tina Turner tape.

‘Cheers,' said Tony, sitting down.

‘Nice place,' said Larkin, looking around.

‘They do their best.'

They both sipped.

‘I used to work down here,' said Tony.

‘What, this pub?'

‘No, there.' Tony pointed to the docks. ‘When I left school. It was either that or the pit. After see in' what happened to me dad, I thought me chances were better in the open air.'

‘And the football?'

‘Thank God it came along when it did.' He looked at the docks. ‘Yeah …'

‘D'you miss it?' Larkin asked quietly.

Tony frowned, sighed. ‘Ended before it started, really. If I'd been in it a bit longer … I don't know.' He smiled. ‘Don't miss the training, though.'

‘D'you miss the docks, then?'

‘No,' said Tony quickly. ‘That's what I was usin' the football to escape from.'

‘Know what you mean,' said Larkin, but Tony wasn't listening. He was staring at the docks, drifting away, seeing something Larkin couldn't.

‘Clive Fairbairn,' said Larkin suddenly.

Tony came back into focus with a jolt. ‘What?'

‘Clive Fairbairn,' Larkin repeated. ‘That's where I'd heard it before. His trial. Something about him using Coldwell docks as one of the main inlets for hard drugs from Europe.'

‘I wouldn't know,' said Tony. ‘But I wouldn't be surprised.'

‘Yeah, that's right. There were a number of raids a few years ago. Hard drugs and decommissioned guns from Russia. On the way to the IRA, they reckoned.'

‘Oh, that's right,' said Tony, putting on a show of remembering. He took a hefty mouthful of beer. ‘Glad they got all that off the streets. Makes my life that bit easier.'

‘Anything like that going on when you were there?' asked Larkin.

‘I wasn't there long,' said Tony, not keeping eye contact, ‘and I wasn't looking.'

Larkin held the look, then nodded. There was something there, something in Tony's answers that didn't ring true, but he was going to get no further. At the moment. Time for a change of subject, he thought.

‘So, anyway,' he said, ‘what happened after the football?'

Tony smiled, back in control. ‘I did a degree in sociology …'

Back to the familiar biography. How he had accidentally come to attend university after his football career came to an end. How he ended up running the CAT Centre – ‘Just lucky. Right man in the right place at the right time.' How he gets donations – ‘Do a Bob Geldof. If they say no, threaten to name an' shame. Always does the trick. Always opens the chequebook.' He went on to talk about the structure of the centre, the qualifications of the staff, the success stories they'd had. Larkin had heard all the stories before. It was like Tony was giving a chat show performance. But Larkin nodded along, his dictaphone on the table capturing it all.

Tony finished talking. Larkin picked up the dictaphone.

‘Got everything you need?' Tony asked.

Larkin smiled. ‘For now.'

Tony nodded, stood up, popped a breath mint into his mouth. ‘Won't do for me to counsel alcoholics smelling of booze.'

They both laughed.

They headed for the door. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving Coldwell temporarily glistening.

Larkin waited until Tony had the car key in his hand and said: ‘On, by the way, I called in to see Louise the other day.'

Tony stopped dead, the key frozen on its way to the lock.

‘Oh, yeah,' he said, his voice a little thin. ‘How was she?'

‘Fine,' replied Larkin. ‘She asked after you.'

‘That's nice,' said Tony, his face pleasantly impassive. ‘Well, if you see her again, give her my—' he paused ‘—regards.'

‘I will do.'

Tony opened the car door, swung his left leg painfully in. Larkin didn't move.

‘You don't mind if I walk?' he asked. ‘Take in some local colour.'

‘Not at all.'

They made arrangements for Larkin to return the following day and Tony drove off, but not before reminding Larkin of the football match on Sunday. Larkin reluctantly agreed to be there. Tony sped off, leaving Larkin standing alone on the pavement.

He began to walk back towards the town centre, slowly, taking it all in. It had changed. And not for the better.

He walked past a grim, low-lying council estate, past terraced streets, the red-brick rain-purged of grime. Past an old Victorian ex-pub turned community centre, one wall covered by a mural, the paint now faded, chipped and tagged, the door locked, the windows caged up. Past a hole-in-the-wall pub, the interior dark and uninviting, human misshapes silhouetted by fruit machine glow sat hunched on bar stools, threat pooled and lurking in its shadows. Next down, a used furniture and appliance store, offering ‘not unreasonable' rates of credit. Through the window, Larkin saw a fat man in a stained polo shirt laughing down the phone. Probably at the not unreasonably small amounts of rubbish he was getting desperate customers to buy.

He reached the main shopping area, started to walk towards the car park. Past some girls pushing pushchairs, kids trudging miserably behind them. The girls, seventeen or eighteen, saw someone they knew on the other side of the street; another girl with a pushchair. They started a shouted conversation, the first girl bellowing, ‘Aw, man, ahm a single mother now, man,' then looking around, smiling as if expecting a round of applause, as if that fact should get her noticed. She didn't look very bright. The two kids with her tried to wander away into a shop.