Born Under Punches (40 page)

‘So how come no one's … how come we never found out?'

‘Because it's a clean supply. It's a painkiller, that's all. Heroin. Diamorphine. Breaks down the morphine inside the body. And that takes away my pain. Like I've always said, it's the shit it's cut with that fucks you up. Unfortunately, it's very addictive.'

‘You should know. You run a treatment centre for the stuff.'

‘I know. Suppose you could say I practise what I preach.'

He smiled. Weakly.

‘Why don't you try to come off it?'

He shook his head. ‘How can I? What would happen to the Centre if word of this got out? And what if I did get off it? I'd just have to replace it with something else. The pain's not going to go away, you know. No, there are some things you can't get rid of, can't shake off. I'm stuck with it.'

She looked at him, eyes boring into him.

‘It's OK. It's a clean supply.'

‘Where from? No doctor round here would prescribe this.'

‘A friend. Who deals in this kind of thing.'

Claire stared, unblinking. The penny dropped. ‘That gangster. Tommy Jobson.'

Tony looked surprised. ‘How d'you know about him?'

‘Stephen. Stephen Larkin. The journalist. I'm seeing him. I was out with him tonight.'

Tony looked around. ‘Is he here now?'

‘No. I told him I didn't feel well. Wanted an early night. I thought you'd come round.'

‘Just like old times.'

‘Yeah.' Claire laughed mirthlessly. She realized she was shaking with emotion. ‘Old times. You mean when you felt lonely and fancied a fuck you would turn up here.'

Tony sighed. ‘It wasn't like that.'

‘Not at first, not. But then I told you I loved you. And you backed off, told me there was somebody else. And because of her you couldn't get involved with anyone else.'

‘There was. There is.'

‘Didn't stop you coming round here for a fuck, though, did it? And creeping out before the morning. Letting me wake up alone.'

‘Sorry.'

‘And that makes it OK?'

Tony sighed again, shook his head. ‘This other person. It's … complicated. She's someone I've known for years. We used to be very close until I involved her in something I shouldn't have done. And I've always regretted it. We tried to keep each other at arm's length. But we couldn't. We're still close. But she's got responsibilities. So we just … talk on the phone. Or one of us does. The other listens. But that doesn't take care of everything.'

‘And I did? Thanks a lot.'

He tried to speak, but closed his mouth again. The correct words weren't there.

They remained that way, Claire sitting, pulling herself in close, Tony standing, feeling uncomfortable.

‘So what happens next?' Tony said eventually.

‘I don't know,' said Claire. ‘I'll have to think about it.'

Tony nodded.

‘I understand if you want to tell people about this. But I would ask you not to. Not for me, for the sake of the Centre.'

Claire looked straight ahead, over Tony's shoulder, at the picture on the wall. Charcoal etched on paper.

Black and white.

‘I want you to leave now. I think you've said enough.'

Tony opened his mouth to speak, to say something that would resolve the situation. But Claire wasn't looking at him. Wasn't listening. He walked slowly towards the front door, let himself out. The door closed behind him, the click of the lock a small, final sigh of relief.

Claire stayed on the sofa, immobile. Looking at the picture, seeing beyond it.

A figure detached itself from the darkened bedroom, came over to the sofa, sat next to her.

‘You OK?' asked Larkin.

Claire's eyes began to well, her lower lip to quiver. He put his arm gently round her and she yielded to him, burrowing her face into his shoulder.

She sobbed soundlessly. He held her.

‘Take me to bed,' she said eventually. ‘Take me to bed. And don't leave me in the morning.'

‘OK.'

Larkin stood up, bringing her up with him. He walked towards the bedroom, not letting her go.

They went inside.

Closed the door behind them.

Tanya was hungry.

She knelt on the filthy floor of her flat, bare and balled up beneath the dust-covered light bulb. She was shivering. Hot. Cold. She clutched her stomach, felt the pain blading round her body.

Her stomach was a cavernous, convulsing space bordered with sharks' teeth gnashing angrily at her insides. It raged, it growled.

It hungered for something more than food.

She clutched herself, fingernails digging through flesh, rolled on her side. Gasped with pain.

Once, she had had needs to fulfil, desires, like other people. Normal people. Home. Family. Love. Happiness. Respect. Those things were long gone now, eaten up, subsumed: only the ghost of a memory remaining. A dusty image.

In their place was the hunger, the craving: a writhing black pit inside her, surrounded by pumping, blood-laden walls. Not a monkey on her back but an angry, empty void demanding to be filled; physically, spiritually, mentally.

She had money. She had worked for it. Hard. But the boys hadn't come. They hadn't left enough stuff. It was never enough. It hadn't lasted.

No good.

She searched round on the floor, through the carpet, looking for crumbs to pick up, specks to suck. Nothing. Just dirt. And dust. Everywhere dust. All around her. From dust she came, in dust she was.

No good. She would have to go out.

She stood up, slowly made her way to the bedroom, pulled on a sweatshirt, jeans, trainers – nothing was clean any more – raked together the money that men had given her to use her body, left the flat, stumbled downstairs into the darkness.

She knew where she was going. Which flat. She had vowed never to go there again after the men there had made her hurt inside, made her bleed for her smack. Took her pain as payment. But this time she had money. It would be different.

She crossed streets, clutching her stomach, blind to everyone and everything but her own need.

Tanya reached the flat. The door, battleship steel and bolted into place, had a reinforced slot through which money passed in, gear out. She rang the bell. The slot opened.

‘Aye. What you want?'

Tanya pulled the wadded-up bills from her pocket, stuffed them into the slot. Her face contorted with pain, her eyes tearing over.

‘Give us some gear.'

Her voice rasping and cracked.

‘How much?'

‘That much! That much! Just … please …'

The money was taken, the flap closed. She heard voices, laughter seeping round the edges of the thick steel.

She shivered, stamped from foot to foot. No good. The pain moved when she moved.

The flap reopened. A small, tinfoil-wrapped bundle appeared.

‘There you go, pet. 'S a good mixture, that. Somethin' special, just for you.'

Laughter behind the voice, the speaker joining in.

‘Hey, pet, you wanna come in here? Have a little party? Give you a good time.'

The laughter exploded. Tanya ignored it, snatched up the bundle, pocketed it. The flap closed. She turned, began to hurry back to the flat.

The pain was even more intense, tempered with the knowledge that it would soon be assuaged.

‘Nearly there, nearly there, nearly there …'

She repeated the phrase over and over again. A train-like mantra.

She reached the flat, let herself in.

Straight into the bedroom, works out. The bundle unwrapped. Looking for an uncollapsed vein, finding one between her fingers. Hands shaking, nearly too unstable to hold the spoon over the lighter.

That familiar fizz and bubble.

That smell.

She almost smiled in anticipation.

Breathing deeply, holding herself steady, concentrating.

Drawing it up intd the hypo.

Looking at it through the plastic.

Her lover. Her life.

The colour looked different, but she couldn't think about that now. She had to have it.

Had to.

The vein was pushed, tapped, made prominent.

The needle inserted.

In. Back. In. All the way.

And out.

She lay back on the mattress, waited. For that beautiful, exciting numbness to take over her body, to transport her away.

She waited.

But it never came.

Instead, her heart became an old, corroded battery pumping acid through her veins.

Her bones were being pipecleaned with barbed wire.

Razor-toed ballerinas danced furiously inside her muscles.

She rolled over, screamed. It came out as a muffled gag, a bleach gurgle.

‘
Somethin' special, just for you
.'

Laughter behind the voice.

She clawed at her body, tried to rip the poison out.

Couldn't.

Sobbed tears of molten metal.

‘Please … please …'

The words more in her head than her mouth.

‘Help me … I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please … Help me …'

Carly, that was her name, Carly.

‘I'm sorry … Oh, God, I'm sorry …'

Tossing from side to side, vomiting and shitting her insides out.

A nuclear bomb detonated inside her head, her heart. The fallout poisoned her body. A final corruption.

She screamed. It was choked off, gurgled away.

And Tanya stopped fighting.

She lay still, the pain, the life bleached from her body.

Empty, lifeless eyes staring at a bare bulb sun.

No more sadness. No more happiness.

Just oblivion.

And dust.

17. Then

‘Thuh-there's our boy.'

The BMW was parked opposite the gates of Newcastle United's Chester-le-Street training ground. The players were going through their paces. Bibbed and tracksuited, dodging cones, doing sprints, jogs and five-a-sides.

Nev grunted. ‘Like a bunch a' puffs. Look at their hair.'

‘Nuh-not a fu-fan, Nev?'

Nev shrugged. ‘Not a man's game any more.'

Tommy smiled. ‘When wuh-we've finished, our buh-boy won't be playin' eh-eh-eh-any games any more.'

Nev grunted, shrugged.

‘Teach him a luh-lesson.'

Tony finished training, showered. He was feeling good, happy. Tingling from more than just exercise. He was no longer training with the reserves. Big Jack had him with the first team. That gave him a warm yet giddy feeling inside. The first team. His future: here and now. It was happening.

He dressed, threw his gear into his sports bag, made his way into the car park.

He unlocked his car, threw the bag on the back seat, looked up.

‘Shit.'

The warm and giddy feeling disappeared, replaced by something sour and shivering.

Tommy Jobson and Big Nev were crossing the car park towards him. Tommy was smiling his shark smile, Nev was his usual colossal self, as dangerous and threatening as an out-of-control petrol tanker.

‘Hel-hello, Tony. How you duh-doin'.'

Tony stared at them, fronting it. Hoping the sudden shake in his limbs couldn't be seen.

‘Hello, lads,' he said. His voice sounded high, tight and strangled in his own ears. ‘What brings you here? Autograph hunting?'

‘Nuh-not interested in the rest,' said Tommy. ‘Juh-just you.'

Tony's stomach back-flipped. He attempted a smile.

‘I can't get you a season ticket if that's what you want.'

Tommy laughed. It came out forced and harsh, dredged from within like a lump of toxic phlegm. ‘No, it's yuh-you we want. Gu-got a proposition for you. Mr Fairbairn sent us.'

Tony shivered inwardly. ‘No,' he said. ‘Whatever it is, the answer's no.'

‘Hear it fuh-first. Then say no.'

Tony sighed, wished he was somewhere else. Said nothing.

‘We've found a way where you can still play football and work for us.'

‘Not interested. Sorry.'

Tony shook his head, tried to get into his car. Nev placed his huge paw on the doorframe, stopped him. It looked like he could have ripped the door off with one hand.

‘Hear us out.'

Tommy's voice sounded sharp and confident. He smiled again.

‘There's a lot of new markets opening up. Lot of money to be made by a bright, ambitious, enterprisin' young lad such as yourself. Take your team, for instance. Young men about town earnin' a good livin'. Why not give them some good-time charlie?'

‘Not interested.'

‘Needn't interfere with your career. Could be a profitable luh-little sideline.'

Tony swallowed hard. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not interested.'

‘But, Tony—'

‘Listen, Tommy. I thought we had a deal. I thought that what I did for you was in the past.'

Tommy shrugged, smiled. ‘It's not.'

The words fired Tony. Adrenalin kicked in, a surge of strength. Fight or flight.

‘As far as I'm concerned, it is. I don't owe you anythin'.'

He looked at Nev, then back at Tommy.

‘Tell your trained gorilla to take his hand off my car. And then both of you piss off. I've got a date. And I don't want to keep the lady waitin'.'

Nev lifted his arm, pulled it back, ready to strike Tony. But Tommy put his hand up, stopped him.

‘Leave it, Nev. Let him go.'

Nev dropped his arm but didn't relax.

Tony looked between the two of them, saw no immediate threat. He climbed into his car, started it, drove away as fast as he could go.

Tommy and Nev watched him. Nev turned to Tommy, anger and violence in his eyes. ‘You let him go.'

Tommy nodded, eyes on the receding car.

‘What for? Whassamatter? You gettin' soft?'

Tommy turned to him, eyes like two hot coals. The blade Tommy kept up his sleeve had materialized in his hand. ‘Don't you ever say that to me again. Ever. Y'understand?'