Born Under Punches (13 page)

‘Now your turn,' he said, and knelt down between her legs. He brought her to orgasm with his tongue. She had honestly never felt anything like it before. When she had regained her breath, she told him again that she loved him.

The whole thing was perfect. Just like she had imagined her first time would be.

And now she was watching her lover sleep. Her lover. She smiled. It felt good saying that. Grown up at last.

Suzy was bright; she knew what Karl was, what he did. Yes, it bothered her, but not too much. It was his work, what he did to make money. She could box off that bit of him and have the rest. The thing was, he was so much more interesting than all the boys at school. Yes, she was both brainy and good-looking, but it was a combination that either scared boys off or only attracted the real losers. What she wanted was excitement, danger. Anything hut her boring school life, her depressing home life. And with Karl she had it. And she was so grateful for it.

She reached out her hand, began to tenderly stroke him. Her fingers trailed down his body until they came to rest on his semi-deflated cock. She began to explore it, felt the soft ridges that had so recently been hard, the rough bits, the smooth bits. Slowly, she felt it begin to harden again.

Karl's eyes opened and he jumped up, turning quickly to face Suzy, grabbing her by the wrist. Suzy jumped back from him, shocked by his sudden reaction, but he held her hard.

‘What you doin'?' Karl asked, voice sharp but sleepily edged.

‘Ow, you're hurting me …'

‘What you doin'?'

‘Just … just touching you …' she said.

‘Don't do that unless I ask you to, yeah?'

Suzy nodded. ‘Sorry, Karl.'

‘Good.' He sighed, looked at her, the sudden fear in her face. He smiled. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I just woke up too quickly.'

Suzy smiled in return, relief at having the old Karl back evident on her face. ‘That's all right. Would you like me to keep going?'

He smiled again. ‘Why not?'

She smiled again and began enthusiastically to resume stroking him.

‘Suzy …' Karl said after a while.

‘Yeah?'

‘Use your mouth.'

‘OK,' she said, and did as she was told.

And the more she sucked him, the more relaxed and responsive he became, and the more she enjoyed pleasing him.

And when his body bucked and he held her mouth over his cock, she didn't complain or pull away. And even though she didn't like the taste, she swallowed his semen, happy and content to have a part of him inside her.

And she loved him all the more for it.

7. Then

Tony Woodhouse drove east out of the city centre of Newcastle, the sky darkening the further he went. He drove past Tyne Tees Television, City Road becoming Walker Road, then took a right down Glasshouse Street, in among the industrial estate and reclamation plant. Almost at the river's edge. He slowed the car to a prowl, his neck craning left and right. He breathed heavily. His stomach was doing backflips. His hands made the steering wheel wet and slippy.

Then he saw it. Squat, ugly, dilapidated. Paint flaked away, the blue star out front no longer lit. The Ropemakers Arms. Silhouetted starkly against the Tyne, it should have spoken of the city's faded maritime history – a ropery, a chandler – but it just brought to Tony's mind another use for a rope – a noose. Something you walked towards but never away from.

He had been planning this moment all day, and building up to it for longer than that. The dread was knotted inside him. He had had a terrible morning in training; no concentration or application. In the end he had complained of a stomach upset, which wasn't far from the truth, and begged off. They had sent him home. He hadn't gone home, however.

Neil Moley had been released from hospital. He wouldn't talk about what had happened to him in the toilets of the Trent that night. In fact, due to the knife wounds that Tommy Jobson had inflicted on his face, he couldn't talk at all.

Tony pulled up outside Neil's Benwell flat. Crumbling red brick, roads chicaned with debris, feral dogs and children roamed. He knocked at the door. Neil answered, his face Michelin-Manned with bandages and gauze, his eyes shot through with fear. Neil pulled Tony inside, checked up and down the street, followed him in.

‘Fuck me, Neil …' said Tony, inside.

Neil picked up a pad and pen.

There after you next.

‘I know,' said Tony. He looked at Neil again, shook his head. ‘Shit …'

What you gonna do?

Tony looked at Neil. And made up his mind.

‘I'm goin' to see Tommy. Talk to him. Straighten it out.'

Neil's hand shook when he wrote.

Be careful.

‘I'll be careful.'

He sighed, shook his head again. He put his hand into his jeans pocket, drew out his wallet handed over the notes that were in there.

‘Here, Neil. Take this.'

Neil took it. No arguments. He held up a finger, then disappeared from the room. There came the sound of rummaging from somewhere else in the flat, then Neil returned with a bundle wrapped in an old Fenwick's carrier bag. He handed it to Tony.

‘Should have just given it back in the first place,' Tony said.

What was showing of Neil's face reddened.

‘Hell's bells,' said Tony. ‘What a fuck-up, eh?'

Neil nodded.

‘I'll get it straightened out. Leave it to me.'

Neil nodded. He didn't have to write down that it was too late for him. They both knew it anyway.

Tony left, before the weight in his chest could get any heavier.

Now, he found the brightest streetlamp, took his chance with the broken glass that littered the road like cat's eyes and parked the car. He cut the engine, cut the headlights, took a deep breath, held it and let it out in a controlled stream. He tried to leave the car, but his body wouldn't budge.

Aw, fuck it, just do it.

With a sense of dislocation, he felt his body get out of the car, lock it and walk towards the pub as if someone else was pulling the strings. He patted the parcel in his pocket, opened the front door and entered.

The interior more than lived up to the exterior's cheerless promise. Men who either had something to prove or nothing left to prove were dotted around the drab room, either seated at old Formica-topped tables or standing against an old, solid-looking bar. There was no music, no TV. There was no sound at all as the men stopped what they were doing and stared at Tony.

Tony, with nearly no expression on his face, walked up to the bar. He cleared his throat.

‘Lager, please.'

The barman's muscles were wrapped in years of fat, but it looked like they still received regular exercise. He moved slowly down the bar and, with visible reluctance, began to pour. He slopped the pint down on the counter, waited for Tony to hand over his money.

‘Tommy in tonight?' asked Tony quietly, handing over a couple of pounds.

The barman's face was like a stone wall. Hard, chipped and blank. ‘Who?'

‘Tommy. Tommy Jobson.'

Stone wall.

Tony sighed. His chest shook as the air expelled. ‘Just tell him Tony Woodhouse is here. He'll want to see me.'

The barman didn't move, but from the corner of Tony's eye he saw a small, ratty-looking man detach himself from the bar and slip out of the room. The barman kept on ignoring Tony. Tony stared into the depths of his lager. Soon the ratty man returned, gave a slight nod to the barman.

‘Through there,' the barman said to Tony, thumb gesturing to the doorway ratty had just emerged from. Tony, who hadn't touched his drink, didn't thank the man. He just turned round and walked through the doorway.

There he found a flight of plain wooden steps and began to climb, trying to steady himself on the loose banister. At the top of the stairs were several doors, all closed bar one, slightly ajar. Gasping and groaning came from inside. Swallowing deeply, Tony entered.

‘Hello, Tuh-Tuh-Tony,' said a voice he immediately recognized. ‘Come in. Huh-huh-have a seat.'

Tony looked around. The room was dark, curtained. The nicotine-flocked wall a dull, dingy background pattern. Dark seating encircled the walls, a small bar in the far corner. The function room. No lights bar the glow from a TV pumping out hard-core porn. A blonde hid grimaces behind faked joy as two well-built men roughly penetrated her. Big Nev sat in front of the TV along with two other men. The men watched. Big Nev checked the racing form. At the back of the room, behind an anglepoise-lit desk, sat the boy who would be king. Immaculately suited, smelling of Arrogance for Men. He smiled, gestured to the TV.

‘Like her? She's a luh-local girl. You might have cuh-cuh-come across her before. Eh-eh-everyone else has.'

The two men by the TV laughed. Nev didn't need to. He went on reading the paper. Tommy gestured Tony forward. Tony moved slowly, planting his weight firmly, keeping his legs from shaking.

‘This is a sun-surprise,' said Tommy. ‘What brings you here?'

Tony cleared his throat, hoping the cracks in his voice wouldn't show. ‘I think you know why I'm here.'

Tommy raised his eyebrows.

Tony moved his hand towards the package sticking out of his pocket. Nev was immediately on his feet, paper flung to the floor. Tony stopped, looked around, startled and scared. Tommy made a placatory gesture with his hand. Nev sat down, still staring. The other two men divided their attention between the porn and Tony.

‘Nuh-nice and slow,' said Tommy.

Tony slowly eased the package out of his pocket, laid it on the desk. Tommy picked it up, opened it.

‘Well, well, Cuh-Christmas come early.'

Inside were two piles of notes, bundled together with elastic bands.

‘It's exactly as Neil gave it to me. I haven't counted it, I haven't looked at it.'

Tommy looked at it, did a quick mental calculation. ‘Seems about right.' He smiled. ‘Don't think Neil would try an' stiff me now.' He looked up. ‘Thuh-thuh-thank you, Tony.'

Tony swallowed again, launched into his prepared speech. ‘Look, Tommy, that's my part done. I don't work on the docks any more, so I'm no good to you there. And I've never been any good at dealin' or distributin'.' Tony stopped and waited.

Tommy looked at him. Hard.

‘So that's it. You just walk away.'

Tony nodded. The room was cold but he was sweating. ‘I just want to forget about it. You know what I'm doing-now. I've got all that to lose. I won't say a word.'

Tommy continued to stare at him. The only sound in the room was a badly faked orgasm. This was abruptly silenced as Nev, with a sigh, leaned forward and flicked the video off. The room was filled with the sounds of Leslie Crowther imploring people to come on down. Nev put his paper away, settled down to watch. The other two men didn't look pleased, but they said nothing.

Eventually Tommy spoke. His voice was slow, calm and modulated. His words almost singsong. ‘You started off by lookin' the other way on Coldwell docks. But you wanted more.' He pointed a finger. ‘It was you who asked me if you could start dealin'. Remember that.'

‘I've got the football now. I've got somethin' to lose. I can't do this any more.'

Tommy stared long and hard at him. Like a cobra coiled to strike, all muscle and force.

‘No.'

Tony almost fell to the floor.

‘But Tommy, I can't—'

Tommy smiled. ‘Juh-juh-juh-juh-joke.' He laughed. The other two men laughed. Even Nev pulled himself away from the screen for a second and smiled.

Tony gave a nervous smile. ‘What?'

‘You're fuh-free to go.'

A round of applause from the TV.

Tony couldn't believe what he was hearing. ‘And that's that?'

‘That's thuh-that.'

Tony smiled. It was for real this time. ‘Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate this.'

Tommy shrugged. ‘Off you go. We cuh-can't stop you.'

Tony turned. ‘Thank you.'

‘But.'

Tony reached the door. He froze, turned slowly.

‘Buh-but. Just ruh-remember where you are now. Footballers. Like a bit of chuh-charlie. Maybe a market we'll want to exploit in the future. When we do, wuh-we'll let you know.'

Tony shivered. ‘But—'

‘Or maybe not.' Tommy shrugged. ‘Who knows? Guh-goodbye, Tony.'

Tony left the room, made his way down the stairs, through the desolate bar and into the dark street as fast as his shaking legs would move him.

He walked slowly back to his, car, feet crunching on loose gravel and broken glass, feeling cautiously pleased. He thought of Tommy's last words. Just a threat. That's all. Something for me to walk away with. No, he was out of it, he decided. That was that.

He sighed, noisily, gratefully sucking in air, fear leaving his body.

He reached his car, pleased to see it still in one piece, took out his keys, leaned against the door and vomited into the gutter.

Past ten thirty and chucking out time.

The dowdy pubs and half-lit working men's clubs of Shipcote in Gateshead were sweeping the last of the stragglers through the doors and on to the streets. Beer-bloated men, lagered lads and Bacardied women made their way home, the streets alive with the drunken symphony of laughter, fighting, singing and shouting.

One such group meandered down Coatsworth Road, arm in arm, rivalries and differences put aside, filled with the temporary solace found in the bonhomie of the bottle. As they walked past a side street, one of them entertaining the rest by singing ‘Jump', doing his David Lee Roth impression to accompany it, none of them looked down the backstreet. None of them registered the green Mark One Escort sitting there. None of them saw the man behind the steering wheel, slumped in shadow, staring at the flats opposite.

Keith had turned up earlier to talk to Louise. Reason with her, make her see sense. What she had done was wrong. They were meant to be together. If he could just talk to her, tell her his side of the story, she would see that.