Born Under Punches (27 page)

‘Twenty.'

It seemed to be the right answer. Bruce nodded.

‘C'mere,' she said, and spread her arms.

The man moved towards her, landing his mouth on hers.

And then he started. He touched her hungrily, as if it wasn't just a long time since he had been with a woman but an even longer one since his hands had been usefully employed. He poked, squeezed, prodded as if he were searching for something or roughly checking she was real. All the time his mouth was working at her face, like some alien life form, sucking the air out of her, leaving her skin covered in drool.

He shoved his hands down the front of her jeans, kneaded her between the legs. His other hand forced its way up her zippered leather jacket, squeezing her breasts and pinching her nipples so hard she would have bruises in the morning.

It was a struggle to act as if she was enjoying it. She ran her hand over his front, fingers coming to rest on his erect penis. The feel of it through his jeans made her gag. She quickly swallowed back the bile so he wouldn't taste it. She kept her hand on his penis. With a feral grunt, he stepped up his exploring, as if he was running out of time.

He grabbed the front of her jeans, tried to open them.

Suzanne was scared now. All previous thoughts of power were long gone. This wasn't supposed to happen. It should have ended before this.

She tried to scream but no sound would come out.

He opened the button of her jeans, worked the zip down. His fingers still probing her. She was hurting. He undid his own jeans, put his hand on his penis, attempted to shove it roughly inside her.

Suzanne couldn't bear any more. She screwed her eyes tight shut. Froze, rigid with terror.

Please, oh, please …

‘Oi!'

She had never been so relieved to hear a voice in her life. She breathed deeply, felt that relief travel all over her body.

Bruce turned towards the sound, saw only a blond-haired young man, well dressed, well muscled, walking towards him. He looked furious.

‘What the fuck d'you think you're doin'?'

‘Oh, shit,' said Suzanne, remembering the script.

Bruce's face was clouded by terror and confusion.

‘Who's that?'

‘My brother.'

‘Oh, shit, oh, fuck …' Bruce looked ready to dissolve on the spot.

‘What the fuck d'you think you're playin' at, eh?'

‘I met her at the bus stop … She said she wanted sex …'

‘He's lying, Duke, honest …' said Suzanne. She could barely get the rehearsed words out. ‘He grabbed me. He saw me at the bus stop waiting for you and he dragged me down here.'

Duke looked at Bruce, standing with his trousers undone and his rapidly retracting penis hanging pathetically. His gaze was rage-filled.

‘You filthy fuckin' rapist. You bastard.'

Duke got up close to Bruce, stuck his face into his.

‘You know how old she is, eh? Fifteen. Aye, fifteen, that's all. An' you were tryin' to fuck 'er.'

Duke sighed in angry exasperation.

‘Fuckin' fifteen.' He grabbed Bruce's jacket. ‘Put your cock away, you're comin' with me.'

‘Where?' Bruce croaked. He was almost too terrified to speak.

‘The coppers. They know how to deal with you. Fuckin' rapist paedophiles. Fuckin' scum.'

Bruce's legs gave way. The only thing holding him up was Duke. Bruce began to cry.

Now that her ordeal with him was over, Suzanne felt pity for the man. Daring to believe dreams come true. This was where it had got him. She pulled her clothing back together, said nothing. Her part was over.

‘Come on,' said Duke and started walking.

‘No, please … please …' wailed Bruce as he was dragged stumbling along, trousers falling down, flaccid penis hanging out. ‘I don't … I don't … please …'

‘Why not? You got any better ideas?'

‘I've got money, I'll give you money …'

Duke stopped walking.

‘How much?'

Bruce scrambled for his wallet, shaking as he opened it.

‘Look, I've got … I've got … thirty quid! Thirty quid!'

He held the notes out.

The fire was reignited in Duke's eyes.

‘Thirty quid?'

He slapped the notes from Bruce's trembling hand. He pointed to Suzanne.

‘You think that's all she's worth, eh? Thirty quid?'

Bruce looked at Suzanne. She couldn't meet his eyes.

‘No,' said Bruce. ‘I can get more …'

He fumbled his Switch card from his wallet, held it up as if it was a ticket to paradise.

Duke snatched it from him.

‘Let's get goin'.'

He gave Bruce a look of total contempt.

‘An' tuck yourself in, you fuckin' nonce.'

‘Duke? Where the fuck did Duke come from?'

Karl laughed, kept looking straight ahead. The car ate up the coast road as they travelled back to Whitley Bay.

Suzanne stared out of the window. Away from him. Watched the night go past.

‘It was all I could think of,' she said, not looking around. ‘You didn't want me to say your real name, did you?'

Karl laughed.

They had got over three hundred pounds out of Bruce, whose real name had been James. Suzanne had seen the look on his face when he'd handed it over. It wasn't just money. He was handing over holidays in Majorca, new cars, presents for the kids, clothes for the wife. The look: pure hatred for her, pure loathing for himself.

‘Don't you feel bad about taking his money?' she said.

‘No. If he's stupid enough to be led around by his dick, he deserves all he gets.'

She could feel Karl looking at her. His eyes boring into the back of her neck. He was waiting for her to agree with him, to fall into line with his way of thinking.

She said nothing, kept staring out of the window.

Karl sighed.

‘People are thick, Suzanne. They're not like us. Don't get upset about them or their sordid little lives or their sordid little dreams. Think of us instead. We're higher beings than they are.'

Still no response from Suzanne.

‘It's like nature. When lions pounce on them … what are they called? … wildebeests and devour them. Survival of the fittest. That's all. We're lions. And you want to stay with the lions. Not the wildebeests.'

She didn't reply.

‘The money tonight? It's all for you. Have it. Buy yourself something pretty with it. Something I'll like.'

She sighed. ‘OK.'

They drove in silence fpr a while. Eventually Karl spoke.

‘Didn't it make you feel powerful? Having that bloke there? Knowing you could tell him to do anything and he would do it?'

She remembered the
frisson
of power it had given her. Then the feeling of powerlessness. The fear. She shivered.

‘You left it a bit late. You could have stopped him earlier.'

Karl's voice became edged with steel.

‘I stopped him just at the right time.' He took his hand from the wheel, finger pointing accusingly at her. ‘Don't question me. I know what I'm doing. I know what's best.'

She didn't look around.

He sat back, in control again.

‘Don't worry, it'll get easier. Next time we do it.'

She didn't look around.

‘And anyway, turned me on seein' that bloke with you. When we get back to mine, we'll fuck.'

Suzanne sighed. She replayed the night's events in her mind, rapid speed. Made a decision.

‘I'm not coming back to yours tonight. I'm going home.'

Karl laughed.

‘Why? You missin' Mummy and Daddy?'

‘No,' she said. ‘I want a shower.'

11. Then

‘So? I don't see how that stopped you coming home.'

Charlotte's voice, her words wrapped in a metallic carapace by a zinging phone wire, sounded hard and distant: at the other side of the world rather than the other side of Newcastle.

‘Well, we—' Larkin winced. The pain in his side stabbed at him. ‘It was late when we got back and we were—' another stab ‘—were tired. I didn't want to wake you.'

‘You wouldn't have. I was awake. Waiting for you.'

He tried to move his position on the sofa, gasped in pain.

‘What's the matter with you? Are you all right?'

‘Nothing, I'm just … sitting uncomfortably.'

The wire hummed, sent static tension through the air.

‘Can I expect you tonight, then?'

Larkin felt his side again. Perhaps a rib was broken. Cracked, at least. He remembered his face in the mirror from earlier. Bruised and bloodied.

‘Might not. I'm working with Dave on this article. Got to get it done.'

Another static silence.

‘I'll see how I get on.' He sighed. ‘Sorry.'

‘Well, at least you weren't out with another woman.'

‘No, I was in with Dave.'

Charlotte sighed. It seemed like one of relief rather than exasperation.

‘We need to have a talk, Stephen.'

The earlier harsh tone was lessening by several degrees.

‘I know.'

‘It might be better if you stay there tonight. Give us both a bit of thinking space.'

‘Yeah, suppose you're right.' Larkin winced again. ‘Look, I'll see you tomorrow. Where we arranged. We'll sort everything out then.'

Another static sigh from Charlotte. ‘Yes.'

Hum.

‘Aren't you going to ask me what it was like?' he asked. ‘What happened?'

‘I don't need to. I saw it on the news. Look, I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow.'

And she was gone. He replaced the receiver, sighed.

‘Shit.'

‘Giving you a hard time?'

Bolland moved slowly, painfully, into the living room, handed Larkin a mug of coffee, lowered himself carefully into an armchair, like an arthritic pensioner into a hot bath.

Bolland's flat was in Jesmond, his student grant supplemented by parents much wealthier than Larkin's. And by Bolland selling some of his pictures.

Athena bought most of them. He took artful landscapes, classic cars, anything he happened to see that he thought they would go for. He never used models, never used studio shots, developed them himself, kept his overheads down, his profit up.

Examples of his work adorned the walls of his flat. Framed and mounted, they were the opposite of his greeting card work. Toiling manual labourers, pickaxes glinting in the sun, captured not in a romanticized glow but in a harsh, stark light, the pain clearly seen on their bodies and faces, the tarmac and concrete cracked and splintering beneath their steel toe-capped feet. Pub-life: dusty boozers, sunlight streaming in through grimy windows, anointing solitary old drinkers, caught with roll-ups and pints, mouths open, caught between past memory and present inertia. Gangs of youths clutching pints of lager, heads thrown back in laughter, mouths stretched wide over teeth: the feral baying of the hunting pack. There was a professional objectification of the subjects. It was clear Bolland knew where he was going.

Larkin hadn't noticed it before but, as he looked around the room, with its second-hand furniture and first-class TV and hi-fi, he was struck by the thought that Bolland was just playing at being a student, adopting protective camouflage for this period in his life. Waiting to change – evolve - into whatever the next phase of his life would be. A natural chameleon.

But for all that, still a good friend.

Larkin sipped his coffee. It was hot. Another sliver of pain to slip into his body. It was bitter. Good. So was he.

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Charlotte's not happy because I didn't go home last night.'

‘She'd be even more unhappy if you had,' said Bolland, ‘state you're in.'

Larkin nodded. ‘I know.'

‘So what d'you want to do, then?'

Larkin thought. His clothes were currently in Bolland's washing machine. He had borrowed a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt. He didn't feel like venturing outside with Thompson Twins 1982 Tour on his chest.

‘D'you mind if I stay here? Work on the article?'

‘No problem. You can use my electric typewriter.'

Electric. Of course.

‘Thanks.'

‘I take it you'll be wanting to crash here tonight?'

‘If that's OK.'

‘No problem.'

They sipped their coffee.

Arriving back the previous night, they had compared injuries. Stomachs and ribs bashed and bruised. Severe gravel rash on their hands and faces. Larkin had found out with panic that he was pissing blood. Bolland had assured him it was nothing to worry about. Said it used to happen to him quite regularly when he played rugger at school. Larkin, disquieted by the revelation but reassured by the fact, made no comment.

‘So fucked off about those photos,' Bolland said eventually. ‘So fucked off.'

‘Me an' all.' Larkin sipped his coffee. ‘We've still got the words, though. If I write up everything that happened just as I saw it, that should be enough.'

Bolland nodded, stood slowly up.

‘OK. I've got to go in today. Explain where I was yesterday. You know where everything is. Just help yourself.'

‘Cheers, Dave.'

Bolland got ready, slowly, painfully, and left.

Larkin was alone. He finished his coffee, crossed to Bolland's desk, moved the clutter, replaced it with the electric typewriter, plugged it in, switched it on. He thumbed through the record collection, selected something suitable to work to.

Talking Heads:
Remain in Light.

He placed the vinyl on the turntable, let the arm fall slowly on to side one, track one.

‘Born under Punches'. Perfect.

Feeding a sheet of paper into the typewriter, he focused in, concentrated on the previous day. He brought forth all the anger, pain and inflicted suffering. He let it percolate inside him. Then, when he felt it about to explode, he began to write.