Born Under Punches (34 page)

‘The miners?'

‘The police.'

Her mouth opened incredulously.

‘What did you do to provoke them? Did you get arrested?'

‘No, I didn't get arrested. And all Dave and I did was take photos of them beating up miners.'

She shook her head, disbelieving, but trying to avoid an argument. Her eyes travelled down his body.

‘You look a state. We can't go anywhere tonight with you looking like that.'

Larkin felt a match being applied to something hot and glowing inside him. It kindled, flared.

‘So, you don't want to be seen with me because my clothes are torn and I've got a few scratches, is that it?'

Charlotte responded. ‘Well, look at you. No wonder you stayed at Dave's. I thought you just wanted to give us both time to think. I didn't realize it was because you'd gone twelve rounds with Frank Bruno.'

‘Very fuckin' funny. Y'know, that's part of the reason I didn't come home. Because I knew you'd have a go. Have somethin' to say.'

‘And why shouldn't I? Just look at you.'

Larkin's pointed finger was stuck in Charlotte's face.

‘Don't start. I've had a fuckin' awful day.'

She stared him straight in the eye.

‘Oh, diddums,' she said, her voice low, level. ‘Poor fucking you.'

Larkin dropped his finger, turned away biting his tongue. He felt an angry retort building inside him but held it in. He allowed it to accumulate, bottled it up, then let it go: a huge sigh directed at the flowing water, the intensity of which left his body trembling.

He remained where he was, leaning on the railing, staring out. Avoiding looking at Charlotte.

Silently she joined him, assumed the same position.

Behind them, traffic passed. People going home, people coming out Separate lives. Separate worlds.

‘My article came out today.' Larkin spoke to the air in a small voice. ‘Did you see it?'

Charlotte shook her head. Larkin felt the action more than saw it. ‘I thought you'd show it to me tonight.'

He nodded. ‘Don't bother. It's not worth it.'

She said nothing.

‘They took my words away. They kept my name and took my words away.'

He felt suddenly tired. A huge wave of fatigue washed over him, bringing with it the long-subdued pain from his injuries. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to lie down.

He wanted to give in.

‘What d'you mean?' Charlotte's voice softened. She inclined her head towards him slightly.

‘They said it was too anti-police. Too pro-miner. So they rewrote it.'

‘Well … I suppose they felt … they were being honest.' He turned to face her, not bothering to disguise the pain and hurt in his voice, his eyes.

His heart.

‘It was the truth. I told the truth. I wrote about what I saw. If they hadn't taken the photos off us, everyone would have seen.'

‘But they did take the photos.' Her voice was not uncompassionate. ‘So the article couldn't go ahead.' She shrugged. ‘Welcome to the real world.'

The hot and glowing thing was rekindled inside him.

‘Don't fuckin' patronize me!'

‘I'm not patronizing you. But this is how things are. Why should you be in some way exempt from that? You've just got to accept it.'

He opened his mouth to argue, found he didn't have the strength. He sighed, looked back out at the flowing water. He shook his head.

‘I remember when I was little, 1960 something. I remember my dad taking me to the Miners' Gala that year in Durham. Harold Wilson was Prime Minister then. He had come to make a speech. I remember him standing … I think it was on a balcony, an upstairs window … And I remember him smiling. He started talking. My dad sat me on his shoulders so I could see better. Who's that? I remember asking. Harold Wilson, my dad said. He's a great man. So I listened. I can't remember the words but at the end all the man cheered and clapped. And my dad joined in. So I joined in. Because if my dad thought he was a great man, I thought he was a great man.'

‘And d'you still think he was a great man?'

Larkin gave a hard sigh.

‘No.' His voice sounded as weary as he felt. ‘He wasn't a great socialist hero. He was as bent as the rest of them.'

Charlotte turned to him. Looked at him.

‘They're all the same, Stephen. All of them. That's why it's not worth it. Why you should just do the best for yourself. Not rely on anyone else.'

‘You think so?'

‘I do, Stephen.' Charlotte's voice was becoming heated. ‘You can't look at the past like it was some golden age and the present just an aberration. It's always been the same. The rich have always been rich. The poor have always been poor. And I know which I'd rather be.'

‘I'm sure you do.'

‘Yes, I do, and so should you. Idealism's all very well, but you have to grow up some time and make something of yourself.'

That kindling again inside him.

‘That's the second time today I've been told to grow up.'

‘Well, it's about time, don't you think?'

‘It's about time for something, all right. I've had enough.'

‘Oh, really?'

‘Yeah. I've had enough of your Thatcherite bullshit and your spineless yuppie cunt friends. I've had enough of you never taking me or my work seriously. I've had enough of being fucking patronized.'

Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, words to be guided by the hot anger building up inside, but nothing emerged. Instead, she brought her right hand up, balled it into a fist and crashed it into his face.

Larkin fell back against the railing, his injured state weakening his resistance. His fingers touched his jaw.

‘You bitch.' His voice was low, breathy. ‘You fucking bitch.'

‘Did that hurt, Stephen? I fucking hope so.' Charlotte was breathing heavily, flexing and unflexing her fingers. ‘I've wanted to do that for a long time.'

‘Oh, have you now?'

Larkin straightened up, stared at her. Her eyes held love flipped to hate: his own eyes mirrored it back at her.

His left arm rose up. He slapped her across the face. Her head snapped sideways with the force.

‘Bitch.'

‘Bastard!'

And she was on him, hands thumping, nails raking skin, feet kicking. He grabbed her shoulders, hand still stinging, fingers digging through layers of clothes, trying to reach skin, aiming for bone.

They moved up and down the path, grappling, tussling, unchoreographed body movements locking them in a dance of despair. Locked together, fighting to be apart.

Pedestrians dodged them, pointed at them, walked round them.

Cars slowed down for drivers and passengers to get a better view.

Larkin and Charlotte were oblivious to all this, oblivious to everything but themselves.

Eventually they began to tire.

Danced out, Charlotte's feet slowed, her hands stopped. Larkin eased his grip on her. Her head fell on to his chest. They slowed to a standstill. Larkin looked down. Charlotte's shoulders were shaking. She was crying.

His grip altered. He put his arm round her, encircling her, drawing her to him. She allowed herself to be drawn.

Pedestrians began to ignore them. Cars sped by.

Charlotte took deep breaths, attempted to control her tears. She looked up.

‘I can't do this any more.' Her voice was cracked, a porcelain vase broken many times and glued back together, its shape preserved, its original beauty tarnished. ‘I'm not strong enough.'

They looked at each other, spent, as if by a bout of vigorous lovemaking.

‘So what d'you want to do?'

She sighed, ran her fingers through her hair. ‘It's not doing us any good,' she said. ‘Either of us.'

Her head dropped. Her eyes couldn't meet his.

‘I love you.'

Charlotte's body juddered as a fresh onslaught of tears threatened to well up and out of her. She struggled to keep them down.

‘I love you probably more than I'll ever love anybody in my life,' she said, her voice strained. ‘But this is killing me. Living like this …'

The tears came. She couldn't stop them.

Larkin held her close to him, clung on to her until she rode the crying out.

‘What d'you want to do?'

Her voice sounded small, like it was retreating to the end of a long corridor. ‘Stay at Dave's tonight. Move your stuff out tomorrow when I'm out.' She sighed, quivered. ‘That's the way it's got to be. Sorry.'

She pulled away from him.

‘I love you. But I can't bear to be with you.'

She began to walk away.

‘I love you too, Charlotte.'

But she was gone. Into the pools of darkness behind the bright lights of the quayside.

And Larkin was alone.

He sat on a bench outside the cathedral, felt the city ebb and flow around him.

The wind struck up. It blew the night's debris over his feet.

Styrofoam kebab boxes. Waxed paper fast-food wrappers with ketchuped chips stuck to them like bloody, severed fingers. Newspapers.

Newspapers.

He looked down. There was today's paper. There were the pictures from his article.

There was his name.

He saw it briefly, then it was gone with the rest of the torn, soiled paper, blowing down the street, joining the rest of the day's effluence.

He sighed.

In the end, that was all it came down to.

He sat, saw the paper float away, watched while it disappeared from sight.

The building was demolished, just rubble and dust.

When the paper had gone he stood up, made his way to a payphone, dug a card from his pocket, dialled a number.

Three rings and it was answered. Music tinkled in the background. Smooth and warm, like aural oil. Voices laughing.

‘Mike Pears.'

The voice matched the music.

‘Hello.' Larkin cleared his throat, tried to remove the hesitancy. ‘It's Stephen Larkin here.'

‘Stephen. Good to hear from you. How are you?'

It was like the greeting of a long-lost friend.

‘Fine.'

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?'

Larkin could almost see Pears grin as he spoke.

‘The job. Is the offer still open?'

‘Do you still want it?'

‘Is it still going?'

‘Do you still want it?'

Larkin sighed.

‘Yes.'

‘Then the offer stands. How soon can you get down here?'

Larkin looked around. He saw the city he had grown up in, the only one he had ever lived in. He saw familiar buildings, streets. Saw people on pavements whom he didn't know but who had that familiar north-east look. Stone and brick, concrete and glass. Flesh and blood. Roots and foundations solid. Impervious to change.

‘There's nothing to keep me here. I'll be down tomorrow.'

‘Good.'

Pears gave him directions and instructions.

‘I look forward to seeing you. It's the right decision. You won't regret it. Now I must dash. Dinner guests to entertain. See you tomorrow.'

Larkin said goodbye, recradled the phone.

Then walked away.

14. Now

The voice was thrown upstairs, a vocal hand grenade. It landed harshly, exploding on unappreciative ears.

‘Get downstairs now. I won't tell you again.'

‘Then don't,' Suzanne mumbled to herself, turned over.

She threw the duvet over her head, snuggled down within. She felt safe inside, cocooned, warm. Too warm, in fact. Hot. But better than being cold. Better than being outside, shivering on an anonymous street corner. Or lying stripped and cuffed to a hard bed in a shivery, antiseptic room.

She heard footsteps on the stairs, an angry bustle. She lay still, anticipating.

The duvet was pulled roughly from her body.

‘Get up. Now. And get ready for school.'

Her mother's voice: tired, battle-weary, but still fighting.

‘I'm not going. I don't want to.'

Suzanne's voice: flatlining in her own ears, toneless, dead.

‘You're going to get up.'

‘I feel sick. I'm not going.'

‘There's nothing wrong with you. Get up.'

‘I'm not going.'

A sigh from her mother, the bunched duvet thrown to the floor. Face-to-face close.

‘You're in the last year of your GCSEs. You need to go. And as long as you're living under my roof, young lady, and part of this family, you'll do what I tell you.'

Eye-to-eye contact. Louise held. Suzanne, eventually, dropped.

Her body felt like lead as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and on the floor.

Louise sighed, straightened up.

‘Come on down. I'll get your breakfast ready.'

Her voice had softened, warmed. A truce in the battle.

Suzanne nodded.

‘What's that?'

Louise's voice was sharp again. She grabbed Suzanne's right hand, examined the wrist.

‘And that one.' She grabbed the other wrist. ‘What's that? How'd you get these?'

Suzanne knew what her mother was staring at but looked anyway. Saw the circular bruises, new piled on old, fading through the skin spectrum from purple to yellow, that enclosed her wrists.

Kisses from the chain of love, Karl had called them. Then he had laughed.

She pulled her feet close to the bed, hoping her mother wouldn't see the matching marks there.

‘Don't know,' said Suzanne.

‘You must know,' her mother said, anger, panic and worry bubbling under her words.

‘They're …' Suzanne sighed. ‘Just leave me alone. I've got to get ready.'

‘But—'

Suzanne stood up.

‘Leave me alone. Get out of my room. Leave me alone!'

Her hands slapped against her mother's chest, pushing her out of the bedroom, pushing her away.