Born Under Punches (32 page)

Off the main room he could see the kitchen and the bedroom. The kitchen looked and smelled awful. Dishes piled up and mouldering, overflowing bins, old food left to rot. The bedroom consisted of a mattress covered by a stained sheet. It looked like it had been well used.

‘Where's the telly?'

Tanya looked to where the TV had stood. She shrugged.

‘Sold it.'

Skegs noticed something else about the flat. It was silent.

‘Is the baby asleep?'

Tanya looked puzzled. She frowned. Then her eyes slowly lit up, like a reflection of the light cast by the overhead bulb.

‘Oh, yeah. Someone's … lookin' after her.'

She nodded, confirming the words as truth to herself.

Skegs didn't want to be there any more. It was as if bad spirits were living in the flat. He felt depressed and scared. He wanted to conclude his business, then leave.

Tanya's eyes were now misty and distant. Lost.

‘I've got your stuff.'

She came back, crossed to Skegs. Smiled.

‘Mmm. Gimme. Gimme.'

He took a bag from his pocket. She grabbed for it, hungry. He held it out of her reach.

‘Money first.'

She turned and ran to the bedroom. He heard her scrambling around. She came running back out, tits wobbling as she ran, Skegs noticed, notes and coins clenched in her fist.

‘Here.'

She dumped them in his palm, made a grab for the bag. He again moved it out of her reach while he counted the money.

‘There's not enough.'

Panic crossed her features.

‘What?'

‘There's not enough. You know the price.'

Her eyes filled with desperation.

‘How much is missin'?'

‘Five pounds nearly.'

‘I'll get you the money. I'll pay you next time.'

Skegs shook his head, pocketed the bag. Bad spirits. Conclude and leave.

‘I'm sorry, Tanya. Karl says I can't do that. He says I need to get the money. I can't make any exceptions.'

‘Karl …'

A fox-cunning smile spread over her features.

‘Sometimes I didn't have the money for Karl. He used to let us off.'

‘He says I can't do that, Tanya.'

‘I used to give him somethin', though.'

She smiled. Her teeth yellow, her breath stale. Her mouth looked like a sucking wound. She licked her dry, cracked lips. She dropped to her knees, began pulling open Skegs' jeans.

‘This is what I used to do for Karl …'

Skegs jumped back, away from her fingers.

‘What you doin'?'

She followed him on her knees.

‘Come on, don't be shy …'

He moved further back, felt his legs connect with the sofa. He lost his balance, fell on to it.

‘D'you want us naked, is that what it is?'

She pulled the shift over her head. Skegs looked at her body. Ribs poking through skin, breasts tired and droopy. Her skin was bone-white, marbled and blemished by dark needle tracks, picked scabs, infected ulcers. Her pubic hair was dirty and matted. He was repelled by her.

But, apart from his mother and a cousin when he was little, she was the first naked female he had ever seen. He had always fancied Davva's sister. When they were growing up and she started to develop tits, Skegs was always trying to see them. When she began going out with older boys, Skegs would try to imagine what they were doing together.

Despite everything, he felt himself getting hard. She opened his jeans, pulled out his cock.

‘You're goin' to love this …'

He closed his eyes, tried not to think of that horrible mouth touching his skin. That awful diseased-looking body wrapped around his legs. He thought of how she used to look. When she used to give him glimpses of her tits when she bent over. When he used to stare at her arse in a tight skirt. When she used to smile and laugh.

He imagined sunlight and kisses and love. Lots of love. Bodies entwined, rolling and rolling together.

He came, thought of her and smiled.

Then he opened his eyes. Bad spirits.

Tanya was kneeling on the floor spitting into the carpet, her scabbed and tracked body shining in the ugly light. She looked up at him. He smiled. She didn't return it. There was only fear and pleading in her eyes. Need in her voice.

‘So you gonna let me off with the money, then?'

Skegs looked at her, clear-eyed. He saw her not as she was but as she had become. A junkie whore. Stinking and drugugly.

He stood up, fastened his trousers. He threw her the bag, opened his mouth to speak to her, but she was already away into the bedroom, her whole world shrunk to the size of a small polythene bag.

He let himself out, closed the door, stood on the landing. He saw only dark towers against dark skies.

He thought of what had just taken place. His heart sank, like a rock thrown down a deep, dark well.

He wanted to scream, cry, throw up, go home.

But he couldn't do any of them.

So he turned and walked downstairs, trudged to his next delivery.

This is my daughter Caroline, old Ken Norris had said, grinning.

The girl had smiled. Demure but confident.

Tommy remembered Clive Fairbairn's words: she's a looker. And I hear she likes you. If you like her, that could solve an awful lot of trouble between me and her old man. He had winked then. And give you an awful lot of fun an' all.

Tommy had been struck by her. Anyone would have been struck by her. Auburn haired. Beautifully figured.

I'll just leave you two to get acquainted. Old Ken Norris's grin widened. It swallowed him up. He disappeared.

Hello, I'm Tommy. He was testing out his new voice. Modulated. Speech therapied. It was working well. He smiled.

Can I get you a drink?

And that was the start of it.

Now Tommy lay on the bed and watched her dress.

She dropped the thick white towel on the floor and stood before the mirror. Her eyes checked for sags, wrinkles or cellulite on her expensively maintained, health-club-toned body. She nodded to herself, finding little to complain about.

The wedding had been a dream. No expense spared, fairytale stuff.

She had looked beautiful, he had looked handsome.

Old Ken Norris had beamed, Clive Fairbairn had treated it like the wedding of a favourite son. The two men were united, drinking together at the reception, laughing at each other's jokes, back slaps and hugs when they made their red-faced, tottering goodbyes.

Just like Romeo and Juliet, old Ken Norris had said several times.

And Tommy and Caroline had their beautiful new house filled with beautiful new things in a beautiful part of Northumberland and a beautiful new car to drive them there.

No expense spared, fairy-tale stuff.

Romeo and Juliet.

And that's when it started to go wrong.

The underwear was next: lacy, filmy, silky things, stroking her body like pastel gauze and scraps of mist. Then the stockings: shiny and sheer and sparkling in the light, held up by lace edges. Legs expensively giftwrapped, an exciting present to open.

She sat down to apply her make-up. It covered, it exposed, it heightened, it darkened. Like a gun in the hands of a killer or a computer to a hacker, she used clothes and make-up like a weapon. A smart bomb with pinpoint accuracy. She always hit her target.

Tommy knew that now. Tommy had once been her target.

And not just Tommy.

At the wedding, his business associates had joked: you'll not have to play around for a while. She'll keep you happy for a few years yet. Long time till she's forty and you'll have to exchange her for two twenties.

Tommy had laughed along. One of the lads.

But not inside. Because he wanted the fairy-tale stuff for himself. He believed in it. He wanted it for real.

Not long afterwards, she had put him right on a few things.

I only did this for my father, she said. I know this was all arranged. So I think we should just keep going as we were before and put on a brave face for them. It's for the best, don't you think?

Tommy wanted to scream and shout: you're my wife! I love you! I want this to last for ever!

But he didn't. As with so many things in his life, he had just bottled it up. Stonewalled. Said OK.

And that was that. The end of the honeymoon.

Then came the dress. Short enough, tight enough, dark. Simultaneously concealing and revealing. Heeled shoes and one last tousle of the hair. Spray of Ghost. She was ready.

‘I'll be late,' she said. ‘You don't need to wait up.'

He nodded.

She left.

He looked around the bedroom. Cream, gold and off-white, pillows and duvets as soft as clouds in dreams. The rest of the house was the same. As opulent as a palace.

As constraining as a prison.

Just like a fairy tale.

He heard the rev of the engine, Caroline speeding away in her BMW roadster.

She was beautiful. He had to admit that. But cold and hard like a Rodin statue. Unyielding, flawless marble.

There was nothing between them now. Not even illusions.

He sighed, stretched. Thought of Caroline dressing. Something began to stir inside him.

He reached over to the bedside table, picked up the phone, dialled a number by heart. It answered on the third ring.

He said one word.

‘Cathy.'

And waited. Eventually, the voice he wanted to hear came on the line.

‘At the flat. One hour.'

He smiled. There was no humour in it. Just the hollow smile of a hollow man.

‘Come on, Rapunzel,' he said, ‘time to let down your hair.'

Larkin dreamed.

He saw Charlotte again. It was the last time. The final time.

They were on the Swing Bridge. They were planning a new future together.

Then Torrington appeared with the shotgun.

And Larkin was again running towards him, trying to stop him from firing, legs weighted down with dream slowness as they had been in real life.

Then the blast. Shattering the night. Echoing down the years, the shockwaves still felt in the present.

And Charlotte was gone.

Larkin woke. Clutching for Charlotte, wanting to hold her, save her. Grasping only air. Ghosts.

He sighed, turned over.

Claire lay on her side, away from him. Naked, breathing deeply.

Lying on one arm, legs lightly crossed.

Etched in charcoal, white against dark.

He moved over, put his arm round her. She shifted slightly, eased her body back on to his.

He sighed, smiled. Felt the dream slip through his fingers like sand. Away.

He held her close, tried to go back to sleep.

It took a while, but it happened eventually.

13. Then

Larkin didn't care what he looked like. He only cared about where he was going.

Another day on and his injuries were in spring bloom. Bruises were a swirling Turner mix of purples, reds and blues, with spider webs of green and edges of yellow. They covered his body and face, mingled with scabbed-over gravel rash. He wore them all proudly, like a Pictish tribal warrior marked for battle against the invading hordes of Roman oppressors. His sense of purpose overrode his aching body.

The weather was unseasonably warm. The sun shines on the righteous, Larkin thought.

He had left Bolland's Jesmond flat wearing his cleaned clothes, proudly displaying the scuffs, rips and battlemarks. He had left late morning, timing his walk to the centre of the city. He could have taken the Metro and been there in a matter of minutes, but that didn't smack hard enough of struggle. He could have stayed in Jesmond, but it wasn't the right place for what he was going to do.

He had to walk into town. Motivate his injured body. It was important. Because:

He was going to buy a paper.

Sleep on Bolland's sofa had been fitful, tossing painfully and turning slowly, anxieties and excitements tumbling together. He had tried to compartmentalize. The anxieties: his relationship with Charlotte. His injuries. The direction of the miners' strike.

The excitements: seeing his report in print. Helping to turn public opinion. Shape a new future.

Down Sandyford Road, past the Civic Centre and the Playhouse, on to the Haymarket, down Northumberland Street. He stopped, stood watching a paper seller outside Eldon Square for several minutes. People approached, laid down their coins, walked away with a newspaper. Into their bags, under their arms.

Carrying Larkin's words away with them. He tingled at the thought.

He wrote, they read. So simple, so perfect. He could slip into their minds, put his ideas alongside theirs, let them fight it out for supremacy. Strongest wins. Which would be Larkin. Because his ideas were the strongest.

His words were the truth.

He stepped towards the seller, hand in pocket, but stopped himself.

Not this one. The moment wasn't right.

He continued his walk to Grey's Monument, stood beneath the column, looked around. Grey Street with its gentrified Georgian buildings and Theatre Royal stretched elegantly down to the river before him. Beside that stood Grainger Street, leading to the Grainger Market, the railway station and the lower-rent end of town. To his right, Blackett Street led to Gallowgate, St James' Park football ground and the west end of Newcastle. To the left, New Bridge Street bled away into the rougher environs of Byker. Behind him, Northumberland Street gave way to the rarefied surroundings of Jesmond.

Newcastle. Dead-centre. Rough and smooth, high and low coming together in democratic confluence.

This was where he would buy his paper.

He paid the man, smiling broadly, and placed the paper under his arm. He walked to the base of the monument, feeling the weight of importance contained within the newsprint, and sat down on the stone.

He opened the paper.

There he was on page four. Two-page spread.

His heart pumped blood faster round his body.