Born Under Punches (25 page)

He said nothing.

‘Sorry. I know. No questions. It's better this way. I know. But it's not easy. It's not for ever. I keep telling myself it's not for ever. Just a few more months at the most. Then we'll be together properly. Perhaps all of us.'

A choke.

‘Sorry. It just gets to me. I look at him and think … it should be you here. I wish he was dead.'

Silence on the line. Only breathing.

‘Sometimes I can't believe it's like this. It's come to this. I wonder how we got here. The mistakes you make, the path you're forced to take.

‘I can talk to you. I always could. I could talk to you about day-to-day things. I used to save them up to tell you, going over in my mind what I would say. But I don't need to now. I don't want to talk about the small things. I need to talk about the big things. Love. And loss. There's a broken heart here. Two broken hearts here. But it's funny, don't you think? Something broken can be whole at the same time. Like this. There's distance, physical distance, between us. But at the same time I feel close to you. I feel like I do when we're together. We're here but we're not here. Is it a paradox, is that right? I don't know.'

He said nothing.

‘I suppose it's time to go. You phone me next time. You know when.'

Another sigh.

‘I can't wait to hear your voice. You've still got my heart. You still turn me on.

‘I love you.'

‘Speak to me soon. Good night. I'll be with you.'

The phone went dead in his hands.

‘Goodnight,' he said.

‘I love you too, Louise.'

PART THREE

Secret Lovers

10. Now

Larkin sat at his desk, laptop open, trying to work on the book.

But it was no good. He couldn't concentrate. His mind would skip back to the previous night, on to parallel lines of thought. He sat upright, stretched his arms above his head. Two people kept coming into his mind: Claire and Tommy Jobson. He had replayed the previous night with Claire and the events leading up to that while he worked. But he couldn't stop thinking about them. Either of them.

Especially Tommy Jobson.

It was no good. He had to do something about it.

He saved the work he had done, shut down the laptop. He wondered for a moment whether he was just using Tommy Jobson as an excuse for avoiding work. No: he had that tingle, that journalistic intuition that announced itself when he was on the verge of something interesting.

He grabbed his jacket, shut the door, made his way into town.

As he walked, the previous night came back to him.

Fragments. Flashbacks. He smiled at the memories, let them keep him company as he walked.

Down Osborne Road.

*

‘Sorry about the mess,' Claire Duffy said, opening the door of her flat and letting Larkin in.

It was what he had imagined it to be. IKEA and budget-end Habitat. Comfortable, lived-in. Candles and shelved books. Framed prints and posters.

‘It's not a mess,' he said.

He looked at her, smiled.

She returned it. It was a nervous smile, frayed at the edges. The earlier layer of sexual bravado peeled off like the skin of an onion.

‘Have a seat. Would you like some coffee or something?'

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Whatever.'

The bottom of Osborne Road, right on to Jesmond Road.

‘Here.'

She handed him a mug. Brown with blue spirals.

‘Thanks.'

He hadn't sat down. He had been looking around the room, reading the spines of books, the spines of CDs, checking ornaments. Taking in the visible accessories of another person's life. Subconsciously searching for compatibility, for differences. The music belonged to someone a decade younger but there was common ground: Macy Gray, Massive Attack, Moby. All the Ms. On the bookshelves, along with the latest literary bestsellers, were plenty of large-format art books, serious studies of technique alongside vast colour reproductions. He stopped at a framed drawing hanging above the mantelpiece. It was an original, the paper slightly yellowed. On it were broad, sweeping curving strokes, char-coal or heavy B pencil. The lines formed a reclining, naked figure, white against dark. Viewed from the back, lying on one arm, legs lightly crossed. The picture was mounted in a clipframe with no backing paper, just bare brown hardboard.

‘This is good,' he said. ‘What is it?'

She lit a candle.

‘What does it look like?'

‘A naked woman.'

Claire smiled.

‘I studied fine art. That was my breakthrough piece.'

She came and stood next to him. Larkin was aware of his breathing changing.

‘The first one you sold?'

‘No. The first one I drew. Properly. With my hand and mind connected, free enough to put down what I wanted the way I saw it. I was so excited then I felt like I could do anything. I mean, I've done better since and that, but I keep that up there so I never forget what it feels like. That “whoo” feeling. Y'know what I mean?'

‘Yeah,' said Larkin, ‘I know.'

She moved over to the sofa. Another nervous smile.

‘Why don't we sit down?'

Her voice sounded dry, breathy.

Larkin sat down.

Jesmond Road West. Down Barras Bridge.

The coffee sat cooling, barely touched. Larkin and Claire were on the sofa, lip-joined. Hands touching, exploring. Hearts quickening, blood singing. New skin on new skin.

‘Shall we go into the bedroom?'

Claire directed the breathily phrased question at his chest.

‘Yeah.'

She stood up, took-his hand, led him across the room.

Once there, they stepped up a gear, stripping each other with an urgency that had no regard for fabrics or aesthetics.

Claire sat down on the bed, chest heaving, back against the pillows, the headboard. Larkin moved to join her. She put up a hand, stopped him.

‘Not yet.' Another breathy whisper. ‘Don't touch me. Just look at me.'

Larkin stopped suddenly as if physically restrained. He knelt at the bottom of the bed, coiled, ready to move.

The room was dark, faint, second-hand candlelight from the living room and a muted gold glow of a streetlight through the curtains the only illumination. She was shadow-lit, darkness highlighting the curves of her hips, her breasts, her legs. It brought contrasts: the white of her breasts against the shading of her nipples, her milk-plaster thighs, the ebony-rendered pubic hair.

Etched in charcoal, white against dark.

Her hands rested on her thighs, one bent down, one bent up. Both open. Relaxed.

‘Look at me. All of me.'

Larkin looked.

She was breathing hard, eyes wide, locked on his. She moved her legs. He followed the movement.

‘What d'you want me to do?'

Larkin was breathing heavily too. He was surprised: Claire was now different, a sexually emboldened girl. Another layer of the onion. He liked that, the element of surprise. He moved towards her.

‘Don't. Don't touch me. Just tell me what you want me to do.'

He told her.

Down to the Haymarket.

‘Was that OK for you?'

Afterwards, under the duvet. Bodies spent, entwined.

Larkin smiled. ‘More than OK. So. What's a nice girl like you—'

‘Doing in a place like this? Oh, please.'

He smiled.

‘D'you mean why am I in Coldwell, the CAT Centre or in bed with you? Are we talking geography or philosophy?'

‘Whatever. In Coldwell. Working with addicts. Seems a long step for an artist.'

Claire sighed. ‘Well, I finished my degree at Edinburgh and came back down here. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to go back to Rowlands Gill and my family and I wanted to paint, so I came to the coast for inspiration. But it wasn't like I thought it would be.'

‘How come?'

‘I remembered the Northumberland coast as being bleak but beautiful. But I think that's further up. This town is just bleak. Like a big lump of old machinery that's broken down and no one's bothered to fix it. Just left it to rust in the street. Anyway, long story short, I'd found my subject. I just need some models. Faces that would match the landscape.'

‘So you got a job at the CAT Centre?'

‘Volunteered at first. Then Tony gave me a regular job. I paint there, help the clients to work through their situations, express themselves through art. Kind of ad hoc art therapy, I suppose. Anyway, it helps me pay off my student loan. gives me a worthwhile job to do. And provides plenty of models.'

‘Good arrangement. So can I see your pictures?'

She smiled. ‘No. Well, not yet, anyway.'

‘Not finished?'

‘Don't know you well enough.' She smiled again Differently, this time. ‘Yet.'

Larkin returned the smile. It held promise in it.

‘Right. So that's two out of three answers. How come I'm here?'

‘We fancied each other. We decided to do something about it.'

‘What about Tony?'

He felt her body tense against his.

‘What about him?'

‘I might be wrong, and I might be out of order for asking, but isn't there something between you two?'

She waited a while before answering. When she spoke, the words sounded like they had been carefully rehearsed. ‘There was once. But it didn't last. There's nothing now. We're better off as friends.'

She nodded, confirming it to herself. ‘Yeah.'

He held her. They lay in silence.

Northumberland Street. Nearly there.

‘Morning's coming.'

The room was lightening, candlelight gradually replaced by dawn.

They had drifted into sleep, woken at the unfamiliarity of the other's body, touched, drifted again.

It felt, to Larkin, like the dawn had made the world over, made things new.

That ‘whoo' feeling.

‘You in work today?' he asked.

‘Yeah. You?'

‘Back home. Working on the book.'

‘All right for some.'

They looked at each other. Face to face. The morning light a new light. In it, they saw each other differently. Intimate strangers.

‘I'd better get ready.'

Claire got out of bed, quickly pulled on a dressing gown as if embarrassed by her nakedness, by the previous night's need.

Larkin lay there, heard noise from the bathroom, the kitchen. He scoped the bedroom. It looked different in the light. Less homely, more impersonal. Touches of comfort were dotted around, but as a whole the décor stopped short of total ownership. As if she didn't feel at home.

He thought of his own flat. And how things were relative.

She returned, carrying two mugs of coffee.

‘Waitress service, thank you.'

She placed Larkin's mug by his bedside, hers on the dressing table.

‘Come back to bed.'

‘Got to get ready for work.'

‘Five minutes. Go on.'

Claire gave an exasperated sigh, climbed back beneath the duvet. She didn't remove her dressing gown. They lay side by side. Not touching.

‘So,' Larkin said, ‘was last night just a one-off?'

‘Don't know. That's up to you.'

‘And you.'

She paused before answering.

‘You know where I live. Where I work. I won't stop you if you want to call.'

‘OK. I'll call.'

‘Good.'

Claire's body relaxed, softened. They moved together.

John Dobson Street. Into the concrete precinct.

They finished their coffee, played around a little, dressed, went their separate ways.

The day looked like being a good one: bright, sunny.

Larkin dropped Claire off at the CAT Centre and made his way home. He replaced Wilco on the stereo with Jim White. Tapped the steering wheel, sang along.

About being handcuffed to a fence in Mississippi but things being always better than they seem.

He found the music curiously uplifting.

The Central Library. Reference department. His destination.

Tommy Jobson. Born 1968, brought up in a succession of children's homes and foster homes. Mother alcoholic, depressive, unable to cope. Father absent, violent and abusive when there.

Public records. Time-consuming but easy to trace if you knew where to look. And he did. Piecing together the next few years took some educated guesswork.

He sat in Newcastle Central Library, poring over rolls of old microfilm looking for names, links, clues. Joining the dots in reverse. Following the river back to its source. Like a psychic investigation, a forensic meditation.

A court appearance in the early 1980s for twoccing. First offence, suspended sentence, community service. Then nothing. He either wised up or went straight.

Larkin could guess which.

He decided to widen his search, take in Clive Fairbairn. That proved easier. Hardly a month went by without Fairbairn's picture in the paper. A boys' club. A hospital wing. An art gallery. Charitable donations. Philanthropic gestures.

And there, in most of the photos, was Tommy Jobson.

That tingle, that journalistic intuition. Proven.

Standing at the back, to the side, the smiles and handshakes circumventing him. Bypassing him. Unsmiling, ill at ease. Never identified, never named. Dark-suited, a sullen shadow. Slicked-back, light-refracting hair. An eminence greased.

Larkin kept searching.

The years rolled forward. Fairbairn inching towards legitimacy: talk of retiring coincided with rumours of a police investigation against him. He was quoted as wanting to hand on the baton, groom his successor. No mention of Tommy Jobson by name.

Then the next phase: Tommy striking out on his own. No mention of Fairbairn, just the shadow, centre stage. Now billed as local casino owner. Posing with celebrities, from footballers and boxers to actors and Tony Bennett. Making charitable donations of his own, holding up oversized cheques for good causes. Throughout all, the same expression: mouth turned up, eyes turned down. Masking more than uneasiness. Larkin looked closer, detecting even through the newsprint a sadness, a definite emptiness.