Born Under Punches (12 page)

He reached the bus station. The lone wino still occupied the low wall in front of the toilets. He looked wet through, as if he hadn't moved during the rain. His matted mohican and ratty ponytail were damp but still worn proudly, as if they had just come into fashion. None of his friends had joined him. He had given up talking to himself now, and just nodded, as if listening.

Larkin headed for the car park, moving among the pedestrians. They were all poorly and cheaply dressed, looking for the most part either overweight or undernourished, some of them both. Bad skin, greasy hair. The plentiful fast foods and bakeries selling cheap hot pies offered tempting quick fixes, food for a hungry heart. People fed as they walked, giving their bodies the illusion of satisfaction, leaving their empitnesses unfilled.

He reached the car park, got his keys out, looked around. Suddenly the air was filled with the rhythmic throb of drum 'n' bass. He turned, saw a flash Japanese car go past, heading in the direction of the T. Dan Smith Estate. One of Tony Woodhouses's ICI directors, thought Larkin wryly. Then a second thought: the car that had dropped Suzanne off at Louise's house the other night.

He sighed. There must be plenty of boy racers driving overpowered cars with tinnitus-inducing sound systems built in. So what?

He took one last look around the town. The sun was now shining but it still felt cold. He got in the car. Yeah, he thought, I've got the measure of you, Coldwell. Where you were then, where you are now. Then he thought of Tony Woodhouse.

But I haven't got the measure of
you
at all.

He started the car up, drove away.

Karl drove the way he did everything else: cockily. He swung round parked cars, paid only the barest lip service to traffic lights and road markings, showed other drivers that, no matter who they were or where they were going, he had right of way. He came first. He had never been in an accident, would never be in an accident. That was other people. Lesser people. On the road, as in all other aspects of his life, Karl was bulletproof. His immortality was assured.

He smiled as he drove, head nodding unconsciously to the music as he planned his day: distribution run to the T. Dan, gather up the cash from his delivery boys, maybe take a couple of freebie blow jobs. Then later, pick up Suzy, take her back to his place. His smile widened as he felt the first throbbing of an erection.

He had a surprise for her later. She was going to love it.

Davva and Skegs were having the time of their lives. Davva piloted his brand-new mountain bike down the concrete ramp of the old skateboard park on the outskirts of the T. Dan. He pedalled faster, furiously plummeting, before letting the momentum carry him up the opposing slope. He hit the top and turned, jackknifing the bike in midair, twisting like the pros on TV, to make a return journey down.

The front wheel hit the slope dead on, but the back one, still at an angle, juddered. Davva wrestled with the handlebars, trying desperately to keep his balance, but it was no good. The bike slid away beneath him and Davva smacked on to the concrete, bruising his limbs, his new jeans and sweatshirt getting friction-scuffed in the process. The bike scraped down the slope, coming to rest at the bottom.

Skegs couldn't stop laughing. ‘Stupid fucker!' he shouted before laughing again. ‘You shoulda seen yersel' …'

Davva got to his feet and, face reddening, walked over to where Skegs stood by his bike, arms draped over the handlebars, and smacked him in the head. The laughter stopped immediately. Skegs looked at Davva, his face showing more than just physical hurt.

‘Fuck d'ya do that for?' Skegs rubbed his head.

‘If you can do better, fuckin' do it.' Davva righted his bike.

Skegs reddened, lip trembling. ‘Ah'll right.'

He straddled his mountain bike and walked it, with difficulty, to the top of the slope, then began the descent. He pedalled as hard as he could, mouth twisted with exertion. He followed Davva's trajectory, down then up, but on reaching the summit found he didn't have enough speed to take off. He tried the same manoeuvre Davva had tried, with even less success. The bike began to fall backwards on to him. His legs buckled as the weight of the bike pressed down on him and he began to stumble. He fell, the bike came with him, and he rolled and twisted his way down the ramp, landing in a contorted heap at the bottom.

Skegs extricated himself from his bike and stood up, cheeks burning with humiliation. He looked across at Davva. The boy wasn't laughing; he was just smiling. Somehow it made it worse.

Skegs walked his battered new bike over to where Davva was standing and took his place, wordlessly, by his side. Davva was still smiling. Skegs was close enough to see the mix of contentment and cruel pleasure.

Skegs idly spun his pedal with his foot, said nothing. Waited.

They stood like that for what seemed a long time. Eventually, Skegs took a battered joint from his back pocket, lit it, sucked it down and, stifling coughs, offered it to Davva. Davva looked at the boy, nodded and took a toke. They relaxed a little after that.

Soon the spliff was gone and they were deciding what to do next. Their minds were made up for them by the approaching thump of drum 'n' bass. Karl's car pulled up to the kerb. The boys ran over to it. He wound down the window but not the music.

‘Afternoon, boys,' Karl said, leaning out of the window. ‘Got anythin' for me?'

Davva and Skegs found it difficult to hear Karl over the incessant thump from the speakers but they didn't mind. It was all part of the whole scene to them. Flash. Bling bling. Besides, they knew what he wanted. They reached down into their pockets and turned over bills and coins to Karl.

Karl counted it, shrugged. ‘Not much for a mornin's work.' Something sharp and glittering came into his eyes. ‘You boys not holdin' out on me, are you?'

The boys shook their heads, quickly, fear bulging in their eyes. Karl smiled.

‘Good,' he said. ‘Make sure you don't. Now, you got enough stuff for the rest of the day?'

They both nodded.

‘Good. Remember, if you get caught, you're on your own. Now get a fuckin' move on. You didn't get those bikes just to fuckin' play on. Fuckin' shift.'

The two boys pedalled away quickly, not daring to look back.

Karl watched them go, smiled to himself, then drove off.

Claire Duffy shut down her computer, checked the contents of her shoulder bag and moved towards the door. She paused, wondering whether to put her face round the door to Tony's office. She did. He sat at his desk, playing with his pen, staring off beyond the four walls. She shook her head, concerned. He hadn't been the same since getting back from meeting that journalist. She gave a tentative knock on the doorframe.

‘Tony?'

He looked up, startled to find her there.

‘I'm just off.'

He nodded. ‘OK. Goodnight, Claire.' He went back to his pen.

Claire nodded, didn't move. ‘Um …'

He looked up again.

‘You OK?' she asked.

‘Yeah, I'm fine.'

She moved into the room. When she spoke, her voice was deliberately airy. ‘Look, I'm not in a hurry tonight. Fancy a drink or something?'

‘Not tonight. Sorry. We'll do it another time.' He didn't meet her eyes.

Claire nodded, understanding. ‘OK,' she said. ‘See you tomorrow.'

She left.

Tony waited until the front door closed and he was alone in the centre. He picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory. It was answered eventually. He told the person who answered who he was and who he wanted to speak to. After what seemed like a long wait, they picked up.

‘Hello, Tommy,' Tony said. ‘It's me. We need to talk.'

Tony listened to the reply, made arrangements for the meeting, put the phone down and sighed. His eyes wandered around the office. He didn't see the surroundings, the furniture, files and posters. He saw the achievements, the results. The successes the centre had had, the failures. The people who had come through the door, the lives he had become involved with. To him, that was – they were – the centre. That was what mattered to him. That was what was important.

Outside, the day was fading, the dark taking hold. He knew it was time to leave, to go home. He had that familiar feeling, the craving upon him, but still he didn't get up.

Just sat there, staring at the walls, the door.

‘So, I'm finally getting to see where you live?' asked Suzy with a giggle in her voice. ‘I should feel flattered.'

She stepped through the doorway straight into the living room. The Wills Building, the old cigarette factory on the coast road, had been recently refurbished and turned into minimalist, modernist designer flats, aimed at young aspiring professionals. Karl thought he fitted this description right down to the ground.

It looked like a show flat: white leather sofas, pale walls, blond wood, straight lines and unostentatious, shining precious metal. A huge wide-screen TV and DVD sat in one corner, expensive midi system next to it.

‘This is lovely …' said Suzy, wide-eyed.

Karl closed the door behind her. It locked with a soft, yet forceful, click.

‘All mine,' he said.

She turned to face him. ‘Can I have a guided tour?'

Karl placed his hands on her hips, thumbs moving slowly inside the waistband of her jeans.

‘Oh, yeah,' he said, eyes locking on to her, ‘we're gonna go exploring.'

They ended up in the bedroom where, without a word being spoken, Karl had undressed Suzy and, not ungently, but firmly, pushed her down on to the bed. She lay there flat on her back, knees clenched together in nervous anticipation, arms wrapped tightly around her breasts. Her heart was beating like a jungle clubbing rhythm. She was sure he could hear it. She sighed, her breath juddering out. Yes, she was unclothed, but lying there in that room, looking at Karl, she suddenly felt somehow more than naked.

She watched Karl undress, neatly fold his clothes on a dressing table. She gasped as she saw his erect cock spring loose from his jeans. It excited yet frightened her at the same time. Like Karl himself.

He stood there, looking down at her. He took in her firm, high breasts, slim waist, dark pubic hair and smooth, long legs. She looked clean, unsullied. His cock stiffened more at that thought.

He knelt beside her and began to move his hand slowly up her body.

She felt his fingers tracing their way up her calves, her thighs … She tingled where he had touched. Her heart palpitated.

‘Karl.' Her voice came out hesitant and breathy, her throat suddenly dry. He looked at her, didn't answer, kept his hands moving.

‘I know we've done things …' she said, ‘in the car and that, but I've never gone all the way with anyone before. You're the first one.'

‘I know.' There was no hesitancy in Karl's reply, no breathiness. Just calm, authoritative words.

‘I wanted it to be you.'

Karl moved his body on top of her, put his hands between her legs. She gasped, jumped.

‘Tell me what you want me to do,' he said, smiling.

She swallowed. Her throat was dry. ‘Fuck me,' she whispered. ‘Fuck me, Karl.'

Karl obliged.

Larkin walked up the flight of stairs, into the flat's front room. It was still a mess: unpacked boxes just raided when needed and CDs piled around. The one chair. He couldn't call it
his
flat yet; he doubted if he ever would. It was just where he lived. He doubted it would ever look lived in.

He went to the fridge in the kitchen, removed a Stella, popped it, slumped himself down in the chair. He looked around. He sighed.

The flat. His life. The mess. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to think. He was tired. He kept the light off. He swigged hard at the can.

Tony Woodhouse. Louise. Other people's lives. Another swig. It was easier to go into other people's lives. Make judgements. Sort them out. Easier than doing it in his own.

Another swig. He looked around the room, saw the shadows. Hiding in the shadows, the shapes of the ghosts. Standing on the edges. This world and the next. Hunched, black against black. Looking at him with sightless eyes. Reminding him.

Their names: Sophie. Joe. Charlotte.

Dead.

And the missing: Andy. Henry. Faye.

Alive, but gone.

And the others. All the others.

He stood up, turned the light on. The ghosts fled, the shadows disappeared. The naked bulb hunted them down, threw them out. He crossed to the TV, turned it on, sat back down, picked up the can.

The TV washed over him. He didn't even know what he was watching.

He just sat there, thinking, but trying not to.

Just ghosts left. Just shadows. Just the past.

Later, they lay side by side on the bed. Karl had drifted off to sleep but Suzy was still wide awake. She lay on her side, watching the gentle rise and fall of his shoulder as he dozed. She smiled, relived their lovemaking.

Because that's what it had been, she decided: lovemaking. At first it had been painful for her she had been unprepared for the sheer depth of Karl's cock and contracted her body, her legs, together. But Karl had been patient. He had gently eased it into her, stroked her and talked to her. Gradually she had given in to the feeling of pleasure spreading through her and eventually abandoned herself, ceding control to Karl, opened her legs as wide was they would go, letting him all the way in.

He had pulled out of her before he came, and when she saw him kneeling above her, panting and sweating, that was when she told him she loved him. And he said he loved her too, then came all over her breasts.

She was fascinated. She had never seen a man come before. She touched her fingers to the sticky white stuff, picked it up. Karl saw this and slowly moved her hand to her mouth, smiling, until she had licked it all off. Although she didn't like the taste, she tried not to show it, so as not to upset Karl. She smiled.