Born Under Punches (38 page)

He looked around the office again. No one was looking; Good. He eased open the desk drawer, slid out a book.

The book.

His heart was pounding. He had to swallow hard. The book itself was such a thrill for him, much better than pornography had ever been.

He looked at the dates. Entries. Columns. Times.

Fragments of a life secretly recorded, secretly captured. Pieced together to form a whole.

By him. Only by him.

His cock was stone now. The longing was building within him; he wanted to relieve himself all over his girlfriend's secrets.

But he controlled himself. He used patience, letting the feeling build, enjoying the anticipation.

He put the book away, went back to his work.

Tonight.

Back in his car, down the alley, deep in the shadows. Watching.

Tonight.

Keith resumed work, willed the day away.

Tonight.

Mick opened the door, then moved aside to allow Angela to enter first. She limped slightly as she walked, stitches not yet healed, pain reminding her of the birth. She sat down in an armchair, white and worn out.

Mick followed, a borrowed carrycot in both hands.

‘Here she is,' he said, placing the cot on the floor.

He sat down in the other armchair, wincing from his own injuries.

He had tidied the house for Angela and Tanya's homecoming. Top to bottom. Every room. Inside and out. Acquainted himself with cleaning products he had never previously thought about. It had felt good to be working again, to be useful. Even if it was only housework.

He looked at Angela, smiled. She attempted a tentative one in return.

‘The house looks nice,' she said. ‘You've worked hard.'

‘Aye,' he said. He took pride in hearing her words. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?'

Angela thought that would be nice. Mick went into the kitchen.

Angela looked at the baby Tanya lying asleep in her cot, arms thrown out, hands up as if in surrender. She thought of the things she had whispered to her at night on the ward. How life was going to be different for her daughter. How she would give her things she herself had never had, go without if necessary. How she would make sure Tanya would do something with her life.

Angela looked around. At the house they couldn't afford to live in. At the furniture they couldn't afford to plan for.

A crash came from the kitchen. Something breaking on the floor.

‘You all right in there?'

‘Yes,' said Mick. ‘I just … I broke … a mug fell off, that's all. I'll clear it up.'

She looked at Tanya. The noise had made the baby stir but not wake. Angela smiled. Tanya was a good baby.

But Mick. She was worried about Mick. The strike, the police beating, it was all beginning to take its toll on him. He seemed to be breaking up, fragmenting before her eyes.

Mick re-entered, bearing a tray. Teapot, mugs, milk and biscuits. He placed them down, poured. He settled back, looked at the baby.

‘She's beautiful, isn't she?' he said, smiling.

Angela nodded.

Mick looked at Tanya's face, her hands. Everything about her was so tiny, so delicate yet precise. Her fingernails. The ridges of her knuckles. The curve of her ears. Her eyelids. An amazing feat of human engineering. A life, a wondrous creation, perfection in miniature. He felt himself well up.

‘You just want to … to do everythin' right, don't you?'

Angela nodded again.

Mick blew his nose, sighed.

‘I've, I've been thinkin',' he said. ‘What to do. About, you know, the future.'

Angela listened, said nothing.

‘This is only temporary, mind,' he said. ‘Just till things get better. Why don't we sell the house. Get a council one instead. Then we'd have some money, you know, behind us. Get a car. Help with the baby. Help to retrain. Just temporary. Just to get us back on our feet again.'

He looked down at his mug of tea, drank from it.

‘What d'you think?'

Angela didn't say no immediately. Instead, she ran the arguments through her head. The house they had was aspirational, a stepping stone to their future.

Then she looked at Mick. Sitting there, holding his mug with shaking hands. Bent out of shape but not yet broken. She felt a pang of anger at his ineffectualness. She wanted to hit him, shout at him to get on his feet again, be a man, provide for his family, give them the life they wanted. But she could clearly see his injuries, both physical and mental, so she refrained. Forced herself to feel compassion, sympathy and empathy for him.

Bent out of shape but not yet broken. If they stayed here, he would be.

She nodded.

‘All right,' she said.

Mick nodded, felt a sad relief course through him.

‘Just till we're back on our feet. Just temporarily.'

They drank their tea.

On the floor, Tanya began to stir. She opened her eyes and looked around.

Then she began to cry.

Dougie was coughing so hard he had moved off the chair on to his knees. He couldn't breathe, couldn't find relief. His body racking, his ribs aching. Like his lungs were full of gravel and he had to spit it out through a too-small plastic tube. He put his handkerchief over his mouth, tried to catch whatever came out.

Gradually the coughing began to subside and Dougie struggled to get his breath back, gasping at air like a deep-sea diver. He felt calmer but his lungs were still burning, still full of gravel. He pulled himself back on to the seat, checked the handkerchief.

Blood.

He sighed, pocketed it. No panic about his movements, no shock, just a sense of weary inevitability.

Blood.

He knew what would happen next. It was how his father had gone.

Arthur Howden: miner and painter. Dougie still had one of his paintings framed on the wall.

Part of the Ashington Group in the 1930s. The Pitman Painters. Some moneyed, do-gooding society women had tried to encourage the miners to express themselves creatively through paint. Patronizing it may have been, but the results were very pleasing. The work was good, the men proud. The paintings were exhibited nationally and one, Oliver Kilbourn, went on to some acclaim in his own right. Dougie could remember the others, though: George Blessed, Arthur Whinnom, George and Leslie Brownrigg, Fred Laidler. And others. And his father.

He looked at the picture hanging in pride of place above his mantelpiece. Almost totally black, it showed a miner chipping away at a seam with his pickaxe. A big man wearing trousers, vest, boots and helmet. It had physicality, strength to it. It communicated hard graft, pride.

He thought of contemporary images of miners: shouting, fighting, attacking policemen.

Different world. He knew which one he preferred, which one he wanted to be in.

Which one he was part of.

He sat, too tired to move, the fight gone out of him. He braced himself as another coughing fit began to well up.

Let it come, he thought. Let it come.

The Fisherman's Wharf on the Newcastle quayside. Dark interior, old wood, old-world ambience. Where money dined with money. Where deals were made and things were taken care of. No price on the menu.

Tommy opened the door, entered. Suited, booted, he was nervous. He had to be. He was meeting Clive Fairbairn.

Fairbairn gave a small wave, a beckoning. Tommy crossed the floor. Fairbairn's table was away from the other diners. Intimate. Secluded. Tommy sat down. Immediately, a waiter flourished a menu before him. Tommy went to take it. Fairbairn waved it away.

‘He's having the same as me. Monkfish. Aren't you?'

Tommy shrugged. He wouldn't have known a monkfish if it had bitten him.

‘Yuh-yes.'

Fairbairn took a mouthful of white wine, swooshed it round his mouth and swallowed, smacking his lips.

‘Nice here,' he said. ‘They know how to treat you. Help yourself to some wine.'

Tommy did so, filling his glass. He drank. Wine was wine to him.

‘Guh-good.'

‘Yeah. The best.'

Fairbairn leaned back. Tommy took him in: black double-breasted silk suit with an ivory silk shirt and bright red silk tie with matching pocket handkerchief. Tommy would have betted that the man's braces were red too. And silk. Gold glistened on his fingers, wrists and neck.

‘So,' Fairbairn said, smiling, ‘how you doing, Tommy?'

‘Fuh-fine.'

‘Any problems I should know about?'

‘Nuh-nothing I can think of.'

Fairbairn smiled again. It made him look like something that should have been caught, landed and eaten at this restaurant.

‘Good. Good. I'm hearing good things about you, Tommy. Good things from the people who matter.'

He took another sip of wine, smacked his lips again.

‘This is good stuff.' He replaced his glass. ‘Now, Tommy. To business.'

Fairbairn rested his arms on the table, steepled his fingers before his face. His captain-of-industry look. He spoke, voice low, murmuring, hiding the words from any hidden microphones.

‘Times are changing in our business, Tommy, and we have to change with them. Drugs are becoming socially acceptable. Take cocaine, for instance. It's now the drug of choice to a lot of people in the south and I don't mean the usual crowd, the skaghead estate kids who'd try anything, I mean the middle classes. Moneyed, affluent. Professional people.'

Another mouthful of wine, another smack of the lips.

‘Now, I've had people doing market research. And they tell me that just as those southern markets are very lucrative, the northern territories could be too. It's up to us to exploit them. Get it sewn up.'

The food arrived. They ate.

‘Lovely, isn't it?' said Fairbairn. He ate slowly, cutting his fish into small chunks, popping them into his mouth, chewing leisurely.

‘Something to savour, this.'

Tommy agreed that it was and kept eating, mimicking Fairbairn's actions. Learning all the time.

Fairbairn didn't talk business all through the meal. He told anecdotes, stories. He was in a good mood.

It looked to Tommy like Fairbairn enjoyed cultivating the high life image. Tommy liked it: it was how he had reckoned Frank had been in his prime, holding court at the Sands. He also imagined that a lot of it was put on for his benefit, an aspirational measure, a subtle glimpse of the high life that could be Tommy's if he played the game by Fairbairn's rules.

‘Saw Cliff Richard in here once,' said Fairbairn after another lip-smacking mouthful of white wine. ‘I thought of sending someone over for his autograph. For the wife. But then thought again. I didn't think it would be something she would thank me for.'

He laughed. Tommy joined in, simultaneously trying to swallow a mouthful of monkfish.

‘We're out of wine,' said Fairbairn. ‘Let's have another bottle.'

The meal continued in that fashion until coffee and brandy were served. Then Fairbairn reverted to type. The warm bon viveur disappeared. The hard, cold businessman returned.

Enjoy the life, Tommy took as the message, but make sure you earn it.

And make sure you know how to earn it.

‘Now,' said Fairbairn, granite-eyed, ‘business. Cocaine. Lawyers. Businessmen. Rock stars. Actors. Sportsmen. They all take it. What we have to do is set up regular routes and customers for our area. And make sure that anyone visiting our fair region knows where to come for their Bolivian marching powder. D'you think you're up to the task?'

‘Muh-me, Mr Fairbairn?'

‘Yes, Tommy, you. I want you in charge of this. It's what you've been doing on a small scale and now it's time you stepped up. So, I'll ask again. D'you think you're up to the task?'

Tommy smiled. He couldn't help himself.

‘Definitely, Mr Fairbairn.'

No hesitation, no trace of a stammer.

Fairbairn smiled.

Tommy felt like he'd grown another couple of inches in height.

‘Good. Start tomorrow. Move through the city. Any unclaimed area is yours. Create new areas. If you think you can, take areas from others.'

‘What about the opposition?'

‘That's up to you. But if I were you, I'd send a message. A clear warning about what'll happen if they don't co-operate with you.'

Fairbairn leaned forward.

‘Know anybody who moves in those circles? Anybody who fits the bill?'

Tommy thought. Then smiled. ‘One.'

‘Is this our friend from before?'

‘Could be.'

‘Good. Give him a chance, get him to play ball—' Fairbairn chuckled at his own joke ‘—and if he won't – and let's be honest, we don't expect him to – do whatever you like with him.'

‘Thank you, Mr Fairbairn.'

Fairbairn nodded benevolently.

‘Now then, Tommy, how about another brandy?'

Keith watched. In the car, in the alley. In the shadows.

Straight there after work, only a large doner and his book for company.

Always his book.

Tonight.

The word had made him tingle with anticipation all afternoon. But so far it had been something of a letdown. Louise had come in from college and stayed in. That was that. No flatmate, no boyfriend.

But she was in there. Alone. That gave him some kind of
frisson.

Alone.

What was she doing alone in the flat? He knew what he imagined her doing. Where he imagined her lying. Where he imagined her touching herself.

His cock stiffened once again. He remembered all the times she wouldn't let him watch her pleasure herself. The pleading he had done, how she had ignored it.

And she was probably up there right now, doing just that.

His hand trembled as he fed the cooling pink kebab meat into his mouth.

He had to know. He had to see.

He checked his watch. Ten thirty. Woodhouse wouldn't be coming for her now.

He had to know. He had to see.

He placed the half-eaten kebab on the passenger seat, locked the book in the glove compartment, got out and, shaking, locked the car.