Born Under Punches (35 page)

Louise, too surprised to speak or retaliate, found herself standing on the landing. The bedroom door slammed in front of her. She turned, made her way downstairs, her mind a whirlpool of emotions.

She reached the bottom. Held it in. Let no ripples disturb the surface.

Into the dining room where her son Ben sat at the table, dressed for school, silently spooning in mouthfuls of Cinnamon Grahams and milk.

He looked up when she entered, eyes skittering nervously about, then back to his cereal.

Louise looked at Ben. The opposite of his sister. Inward as she was outward. Quiet as she was loud. Down as she was up. The opposite, but just as difficult to talk to.

She screwed a smile to her face. A hard, shiny plaque, covering the cracks.

‘All right?'

Ben, eating, nodded.

‘Good.' She spoke in a calm, measured voice. ‘When you've finished, get a wash.'

Ben nodded again.

Louise realized that was all she was going to get and left the room. She entered the kitchen, looked around.

Sometimes she found it hard to believe this was all hers. This house, this family. This life. She stretched her arms out in front of her, flexed her fingers. Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench. Even her skin, her bone, her own body. Like she was just looking after it until the proper owner returned.

She felt someone else in the room, turned. Ben stood there, bowl and spoon in hand, staring at her.

She dropped her arms, moved to one side. Reddened. Ben passed her, eyes down, deposited his dishes in the dishwasher, left the kitchen.

She watched him go. Why had she felt uncomfortable when he looked at her? Not just this time, she always did. But she knew why. Because the way he had looked at her, body posture, mouth set, eyes, was pure Keith. Distilled essence poured into a miniature bottle.

Ben abluted, packed his bag, left the house.

Louise sighed in relief.

She checked her watch, moved to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Come on, Suzanne, you'll be late.'

A sullen clump on the stairs was the response. Suzanne slowly made her way down. Louise looked at her.

‘You're not wearing that to go out in.'

‘I'm going straight out after school.'

‘Not dressed like that.'

Suzanne reached the bottom of the stairs, grabbed her bag.

‘I said—'

Suzanne turned. ‘Just leave me alone. You're always on at me! Leave me alone!'

‘Suzanne—'

‘Don't touch me! Get away from me!'

The doorbell rang.

They both looked at it, at the outline of the figure behind the glass.

Suzanne opened the door, walked out. The figure in the doorway stepped aside.

‘Suzanne!' Louise said.

Suzanne didn't look back, didn't break her stride. Louise sighed, shook her head. She looked to see who was at the door. Her brother.

‘Morning,' he said and looked around. ‘Haven't called at a bad time, have I?'

Louise sighed again. ‘It always seems to be a bad time. Come in.'

Larkin entered, closed the door behind him.

Louise stomped towards the kitchen. Larkin followed her.

‘Tea? Coffee?' she asked, her back to him.

‘Whatever. Coffee's fine.'

Louise stood, unmoving, staring out of the window.

‘Louise? You OK?'

Larkin crossed to her, looked at her. Tears were bunching in the corners of her eyes, beginning their descent down her cheeks. She closed her eyes. They fell.

Larkin took her in his arms, cradled her head against his chest. Her body convulsed, sobs and tears escaping it.

He held her. It was a strange experience for both of them. Family but not close. Intimate yet distant. Strangers, but there for each other. And with each tear that choked out of Louise, the more they held each other, the narrower the distance between them became.

Louise's tears peaked, subsided.

‘Why don't you have a sit-down?' Larkin's voice quiet, unobtrusive. ‘Why don't I make us both a cup of tea?'

Louise nodded and, grabbing a couple of tissues from the box, made her way to the front room.

Larkin boiled water, navigated the unfamiliar kitchen, made a pot of tea. He found a tray, carried everything into the front room, set it down.

‘I've probably done it all wrong and used all the wrong things,' he said.

‘Doesn't matter.' Her voice quiet, cracked.

He poured her a mug of tea, handed it to her. Poured one for himself. They waited for them to cool, silently, then drank.

‘That better?'

Louise nodded.

‘You OK now?'

She nodded again, then stopped.

‘No,' she said. ‘No, I'm not.'

‘You want to talk about it?' Larkin's voice again quiet, supportive.

She emitted a noise that, at a push, could have been a laugh but sounded more like a harsh bark.

‘You just caught me at a bad time, that's all.' She sniffed, straightened up. ‘Just feeling vulnerable. We all go through phases.'

Her words were like Perspex: cheap, see-through and easy to break down.

‘Being in tears at nine o'clock in the morning doesn't sound like a phase.'

Louise looked into her mug as if expecting to find answers there.

‘I suppose you're … I don't know …' She sighed. ‘Where do I start?' she said into her tea.

‘Wherever you like. Take all day if you have to.'

She took a mouthful of tea, sighed again.

‘I'm not … Oh, I don't know. You don't want to hear this.'

‘Louise, I'm family.'

She looked at him.

‘Yeah, I know, we've been pretty shit where being family's concerned. Maybe it's about time that changed.' He smiled. ‘So, I'm here now. Talk to me.'

She smiled, savouring the novel idea of supportive family. She looked again into her tea, searched for words that would encapsulate and articulate her emotions. She could find nothing definitive, so started as best she could.

‘I'm not … happy.'

Her head came up. Just hearing her voice admit that fact openly was something. Larkin didn't move, just listened. Emboldened, she continued.

‘It's not recent. I haven't been happy for a long time, now that I think about it.'

Another mouthful of tea.

‘Any reason in particular?'

‘Well, you saw the way Suzanne behaved. Shouting and walking out like that. I just can't talk to her. Can't communicate with her.'

‘Isn't that what teenagers are supposed to do with their parents?'

‘Yes, I know, but this is something more. She's like a stranger to me. I don't know where she goes or who her friends are or what she's doing. She won't tell me. Won't let me in.'

Larkin remembered the car he'd seen on his previous visit. The boy racer noisebox on wheels.

‘She's got a boyfriend, right?'

‘Yes, but I only know that because he picks her up and drops her off. I don't know who he is, how old he is, what he does, anything. I ask her but she won't tell me.' Another sip of tea. ‘And then this morning I found these bruises round her wrists.'

Larkin leaned forward. ‘What kind of bruises?'

‘Like …' Louise gestured. ‘Like circles round her wrists. Some old, some more recent.'

‘Restraint marks?'

‘Yes. Oh, I don't know.'

‘If that's what they are, she's young to be messing with that kind of stuff.'

‘I know.' Louise sighed, put her tea down. ‘You try to protect them from these things, give them a loving home, some grounding for the future … Oh, I don't know.'

‘What about—' Larkin had to think of his name ‘—Keith? Can't he talk to her?'

‘No, he can't.'

‘Why not?'

Louise picked up her mug again, started swirling the liquid around.

‘Why can't he?' Larkin asked again.

‘Because …' Louise stared hard at her tea, as if that would tell her whether or not to answer. ‘Because … Keith's never believed Suzanne is his daughter.'

Larkin sat back in his chair as if he'd been pushed.

‘What?'

He looked at Louise. She kept her eyes on her tea.

‘Who else could—'

‘It's … I don't want to talk about it now.'

‘So who does he think the father is? Not Tony?'

She looked up, straight in the eye.

‘I wish.'

And that encapsulated everything. A lifetime of longing, the span of a fifteen-year-old girl's life, and the wish for change, for renewal.

‘Imagine what that must do to you,' said Louise, rekindling interest in her tea. ‘Being brought up, having your father making snide comments about who your real father is. Imagine what that would do to you.'

Imagine who that could send you into the arms of, Larkin thought.

‘And is he her father?'

Louise sighed.

‘He just won't accept his responsibility, that's all.' Her voice dripped bitterness.

‘Have you talked to her?'

‘'Course I have. But the more I told her one thing, the more Keith told her another.' Another sigh. ‘Poor little girl.'

‘What about your son? Ben, is it?'

‘Yes, Ben. Oh, he's his father's boy, no doubt. Sometimes it's like having a miniature version of Keith in the house.'

‘Mini Me.'

They both laughed but it soon died away.

‘And Keith?' asked Larkin.

‘I hate him.'

Louise had spoken without thinking. Inadvertently, without searching for the right words to articulate her feelings, she had found them.

‘Bit strong,' said Larkin. ‘Don't mince words.'

She thought about what she had just said, searched her emotions for signs of guilt or even shame. She found none. Those words had been the right ones. Once acknowledged, she found she didn't regret them at all. She gave a small smile.

‘No,' she said, ‘those are the right words. That's how I feel. I hate him.'

She sat up straight in the chair, emboldened by her admission.

‘If you feel that strongly, you should leave.'

‘Yes, I should.' She sighed. An ice pick of uncertainty chipped away at her confidence. ‘But I can't. Not until the kids are a bit older. When they'll need me less.'

‘You should think of yourself, Louise.'

‘I know that,' she said, as if in answer to an argument she had played in her head over and over again. ‘But I keep thinking of our mam and dad. What they would say if they were still alive.'

‘They'd probably want you to be happy.'

‘Or they'd want me to finish what I started. Do my duty.'

‘I doubt that.'

Louise shrugged. ‘I don't know.'

‘There'll never be a right time, you know.'

‘I know. I'm just trying to pick the best time.'

‘I always thought you had what you wanted, you know.'

‘Really?'

‘Yeah. The perfect little marriage. The perfect little family. It was all you ever seemed to want.'

Louise gave a hollow laugh.

‘You never knew me well, did you? No, I don't think there's such a thing as the perfect family. There's only people. And they're never perfect. Some are just better at hiding things from others, that's all.'

Larkin sipped his tea. It had gone cold.

‘So,' he said, smiling, ‘have you got anyone else lined up?'

She looked at him, frowned. ‘What?'

‘Are you seeing anyone else?'

She opened her mouth to reply but stopped herself.

‘No. Well, yes. Sort of.' She felt herself reddening. ‘It's hard to explain.'

Larkin smiled again. ‘And none of my business.'

Louise joined in the smile. ‘Something like that. Maybe some other time.'

Larkin put down his mug.

‘Tea's gone cold,' said Louise. ‘Want another?'

‘That would be lovely, thanks.'

Louise looked at her watch. ‘It'll be lunchtime soon. Would you like something to eat?'

‘Why don't we go out somewhere? My treat.'

Louise smiled radiantly: it lit up her eyes.

‘I'd like that a lot. Thank you. You know, I think we've got a lot of catching up to do.'

‘We have.'

They both stood up, caught each other's eye.

‘Thanks for listening.'

‘That's OK. That's what brothers are for. Or supposed to be for.'

‘It's nice to see you again.'

Larkin laughed.

‘Again? We may as well say it's nice to meet you.'

They both laughed.

Then got ready and went out for lunch.

*

The warehouse was chocked: boxes and crates, sealed and bound, were shelved high to the ceiling, stocked deep to the walls.

Tommy stood in the centre of the space. An emperor surveying his empire.

Knee-deep in filth.

The boxes were crammed full of magazines, videos, books, CD-ROMs, DVDs. All pornography. All tastes catered for.

The warehouse at a point midway down the line; where demand grabbed at supply, where sex became money.

What filled the boxes was initially cheap to make. Cut-price camcorder footage, the models paid in cash or comfort drugs, burned on to disk or copied on to tape. Photos taken and treated likewise, cheaply bound on coloured paper. Mainly from Europe, some home-grown, some American. The costs kept deliberately low.

Then Tommy became involved. The distributor. Bulk whittled down to singles and delivered to stores, which, follow the paper trail, his company also owned.

The customer was kept drained, happy and eager for more. And both Tommy and the whole operation were totally legit. He was a businessman. He had assumed Clive Fairbairn's mantle: King of the Middlemen. The thousand per cent mark-up man. Respected. But not openly so.

I hear you're going soft. Fairbairn's words.