Born Under Punches (16 page)

Skegs stood also.

‘Where we goin'?'

‘We've got work to do, haven't wuh?'

Skegs followed him out. He was glad to leave. Tanya's flat didn't seem like the comfortable shelter it used to be.

‘See ya, Tanya, we're gannin' noo,' said Davva from the door.

Tanya partially inclined her head. ‘See yas, lads …'

They left, slamming the door.

Tanya sat still, staring ahead. The Chuckle Brothers finished, Badger and Bodger started.

Then from the bedroom, the familiar cry: the baby.

Tanya didn't move. Just stared straight ahead, slack-jawed, slack-eyed. Unsmiling.

The baby cried.

A single tear rolled over her blank features.

The baby cried.

The tear moved slowly down her chin, dropped and was gone.

The baby cried.

Tanya didn't hear.

With Billie Holiday on CD, Tommy Jobson piloted the Daimler east out of the city centre, past Yorkshire Tyne Tees TV, City Road becoming Walker Road. He took a right down Glasshouse Street, past the industrial estate and reclamation plant down to the river's edge.

The old warehouses and pubs had been swept away, replaced by St Peter's Basin: a marina, townhouses, apartments, penthouses. Docklands on Tyne in miniature. He drove through the strangely deserted streets, the mournful, lost voice of Billie not totally at odds with the surroundings.

‘I Cover the Waterfront'.

He turned into the gated car park of Chandler's Quay, switched off the engine, sighed. Took a minute to sit, think, then took the lift up to the penthouse.

From the Chandler's Arms to Chandler's Quay.

Same place, different view.

Same place, different world.

The view stretched from the city all the way down the Tyne past Riverside Park. Quite beautiful, surprisingly so. At first it had excited him, thrilled him to see how far he had risen, until he realized the people in the council flats up the embankment in Walker had the same view. That leached the pleasure from it, killed it for him.

Same place, different world.

But somehow not so different.

From Chandler's Quay to the Chandler's Arms.

Memory was becoming increasingly important to Tommy. He would sometimes do little tests, take himself down streets that were no longer there, into pubs or restaurants that no longer existed, relived conversations with people either dead, gone or lost, re-dressed a person in a fashion they used to wear. This, for Tommy, was history. The history that mattered. And he felt it his duty to remember the past in order to understand the present, otherwise the present would just be a collection of actions in a vacuum, not the consequences of previous actions.

He had to keep the past, his past, alive. And he did. Sometimes, he thought, too alive.

He poured himself a hefty whisky, looked at it, added some more. He sat down on his white leather sofa and waited.

‘Just checking some other interests,' he had told Jason, as he had left the casino.

Jason had given a leering smile in return. That was fine with Tommy. Let him think what he liked.

The wait was soon over. The entryphone buzzed. He opened the door without checking. He knew who it would be. She walked in a few minutes later, gave him a faint smile. Tommy opened his wallet, counted out the bills.

‘You can get changed in there,' he said, pointing to the bathroom.

She trotted off, heels clacking on tiles.

Tommy drained his glass, went into the bedroom. The frame was already in place. He stripped off slowly, folded his clothes neatly on the bed. He stood there, naked, face showing no emotion.

She re-entered. Black PVC basque, spike-heeled boots, blonde hair pulled into a severe ponytail, razor-gash red lipstick.

‘Hello, Cathy,' he said.

It wasn't her name. She was just the latest in a long line of them.

She ignored him.

‘Get over there.' She pointed to the frame.

Tommy crossed, stood, legs apart, as she lashed him to the X-frame using strong leather restraints. The frame stood against the bedroom's glass wall. Tommy stood gazing out over the Tyne.

Behind him he heard Cathy give the first experimental crack of the whip. He waited, expecting the sting across his back at any second.

It came. Not a sting, a buzz.

‘I didn't feel it.'

‘I'm just warming up.' Cathy's voice was harsh.

He waited. The next blow came. Harder, but not hard enough.

The third. Still not hard enough.

‘Harder.'

Cathy obliged.

‘Harder. Harder.'

She whipped him. And again. And again.

Thirty minutes later, Cathy's time was up. Her hair had slipped from the ponytail and hung loose over her shoulders, plastered to her face and body by sweat. Red lines ran round her body and legs where the basque and boots had chafed against her slick, salty skin. Her armpits stank of exertion, her arms trembled from work.

In front of her, Tommy leaned against the frame, his back and buttocks a mass of red welts, stripes, bleeding and broken skin. Cathy, panting and shaking, began to undo Tommy's restraints. Once undone he didn't move, just stood as if still restrained, staring out over the Tyne.

‘So what d'you feel like?'

Cathy snaked her arm round to touch his penis.

‘Nothing.' Tommy spoke quietly.

She squeezed his penis. It hung flaccid, limp. She began rubbing it.

‘How d'you feel?'

‘Nothing.'

Tommy felt her remove her hand, turn, heard her clack-clack into the bathroom, heard the shower run.

He didn't move.

Eventually she finished, got changed and left quietly.

He stayed where he was, ignoring the pins and needles in his arms and legs, watching the sun go down, spread-eagled before the Tyne.

‘I feel nothing,' he said to the river, the glass, his reflection.

‘I feel nothing.'

Night had fallen completely and with the darkness came the thrill of expectation, flipping Suzanne's stomach over and over.

She lay naked under the thin, cool sheet, the aromatic candle she had brought and lit providing the room's only light, the smell chasing away the faint lingerings of antiseptic and bleach. The room – the whole flat – always smelled of that. Karl was fastidious in his cleanliness.

He had promised her a night she wouldn't forget: the candle had been her idea, an attempt to introduce sensuous romance to the room's clinical minimalism. Karl had reluctantly agreed.

The bedroom door opened. Karl stood there, naked, erect, face red, breath heavy, eyes like dots.

Her breath caught, she smiled at him, began to edge the sheet down slowly, thrilled by his body.

‘D'you wanna see what I've got down here?' Coyly.

Karl walked straight over to the bed, ripped the sheet off her body. He stared at her nakedness, chest heaving, breath escaping in laboured gasps. His cock, his body, looked ready to explode.

Then he was on her, straddling her, pinning her wrists down. Breathing hard, harsh breaths into her face.

‘You trust me, yeah?' Gasping.

‘You know I do, Karl.' Suzanne's voice was small, unsure. This seemed like a different Karl.

‘Good.'

He moved both hands to her right wrist. Something cold and tight on her skin, a soft click, then she couldn't move her arm. Same with the other arm. Quickly, he moved to her legs, restraining each ankle until she was spread, starred and naked, on the bed. He straddled her again, smiled.

‘Trust me.'

Part of her was scared, part of her was excited. A small part, the part that liked the forbidden, the taboo. The part that had drawn her to Karl in the first place.

‘I love you,' she said.

‘You'll love this.'

From behind the pillow, Karl produced a wide strip of black cloth. He blindfolded her, eliciting a gasp.

‘Relax. Let me do the work.'

She felt his hands over her body, stroking, pinching, tickling, scratching. Her breasts, ribs, arms, thighs. She began to ease into it, enjoy it, muscles releasing, body relaxing. It felt like pleasure in space: she was floating, drifting through black clouds of bliss, smelling the candle, hearing Karl's breathing.

His hand slowly snaked between her thighs, fingers gently tugging on her clitoris, rolling the hard knob of flesh slowly between them. She moaned slightly, pushing her pelvis towards his hand. She was hot and wet and ready for him.

Suzanne felt him then, between her legs as he slowly slid into her body, one hand still stimulating her clitoris.

But it felt different. It wasn't his cock – even in a condom it didn't feel like that. This was cold and hard and with every thrust something caught her. It didn't hurt, it didn't make her panic, but it unnerved her slightly.

A vibrator, or something. A sex toy. That would be it. She relaxed, tried to enjoy it.

‘D'you like that?'

‘Yuh-yes,' she said. The sharp bit had just caught her, made her jump.

‘Wanna see what it is?'

She didn't answer at first.

‘OK …'

Leaving the thing inside her, he leaned over, untied the blindfold. She blinked: even the candlelight seemed strong after total darkness.

Still blinking, she looked down. And froze.

There was Karl, erect, red-faced, smiling. And in his hand was a gun. An automatic. The grip in his hand, the trigger beneath his finger. The barrel inside her body.

She tried to pull back, buck her body away from the gun. She screamed, pulling her wrists and ankles against the cuffs, straining, pain shooting up her arms and legs, panic coursing round her body.

‘Get that thing out of me! Please!'

She started to cry, big, juddering sobs. For the first time in years she wanted to go home.

Karl slowly pulled the gun out of her. She calmed down. He smiled at her.

‘It's OK,' he said. He looked at the barrel of the gun, caressing it with his eyes, slowly licked his tongue down the length of it.

‘Mmm. The taste of you. Your love. Your fear.'

‘Let me go, please, Karl.' Her voice was small, frightened. ‘I want to go home now.'

‘Just a minute.'

He moved up the bed until he was lying next to her. One hand gently stroking her clitoris, one hand holding the gun. He looked into her eyes. They were wide with terror, like a veal calf on an abattoir killing floor.

‘We're different, you and me.'

His voice was whispered, his words warm.

‘We're not like ordinary people. We're not boring.'

He smiled again.

‘Wuh-what are we, then?'

Karl seemed to give the question some thought.

‘We're … freethinking. We're liberated. Don't you think?'

Suzanne didn't answer.

‘We're nonconformist. We're
exciting
.'

The final word was half-whispered, half-shouted.

‘Aren't we?'

Suzanne dumbly nodded.

‘D'you like that?'

She looked at him, his smiling face, his muscular body, his erect cock. She allowed herself to feel what he was doing to her.

‘Yes.'

‘Good.'

He smiled, began trailing the gun over her flesh, cold metal stroking warm flesh. She tensed, tried to pull away.

‘Sshh. Don't. It's OK. Just listen. Just listen.'

His words calmed her down slightly.

‘Good.'

His mouth was right against her ear, whispering.

‘We're different, you and me. We see things differently. We see the world differently. We see sex differently.'

The gun continued to stroke her. She listened.

‘Sex for us isn't like sex was for your mam and dad. It was just something they did, something they felt embarrassed about. A job they had to do. A function.

‘But not for us. We know what it does, what it can do for us. It frees your mind, your body, it unlocks your inhibitions, your fantasies …'

His voice was soothing yet exciting, sensual and mesmeric.

The pressure on her clitoris increased. Her body responded accordingly. He saw the change, smiled.

‘Yeah … There's only one thing as powerful as sex, one thing in the world.'

‘What?' She was gasping.

He held the gun up, watched it glint in the candlelight.

‘Death. Sex and death. The most powerful things in the world. One gives life, one takes it away.'

He reapplied the gun to her skin, moved it downwards, over her stomach. She tensed again.

‘Sshh, it's all right, it's all right.'

His voice was soothing. The gun touched her clitoris.

‘Sshh …'

The gun trailed over her clitoris, slowly moved back inside her again.

‘Sshh …'

The gun was inside her, his fingers moving over her clitoris.

‘Some people love to be strangled when they come. They say it's the ultimate orgasm …'

The gun moved, caressed. His fingers moved, caressed.

‘The French call orgasms la petite mort. The little death. They know the score …'

Her breathing intensified, her hips thrust forward to meet the gun, to pull it in further, to press herself harder against his fingers.

‘That's it … Come on, feel it Let yourself go … Give yourself up to it …'

And it built up inside her until she had to find release. Screaming, thigh muscles tensed to cramping, fingernails digging blood from her palms, hips pressed forward to devour his hand, his gun, she came.

Love, fear and hate, all finding release from her body. The orgasm was the most shattering thing her fifteen-year-old body had yet experienced. It was something she didn't understand but fully acknowledged.

She lay there, restrained, body riding out the final waves.

She eventually opened her eyes, looked up.

Karl was smiling at her. She smiled back.

He kept smiling. It went past warmth, became a thing of triumph, of encapsulation.