Born Under Punches (15 page)

‘And I can just write anything I like? Keep on doin' what I'm doin'.'

Pears looked slightly pained. ‘Well, yes, to an extent. Keep it broadly anti-Thatcherite, of course. We would have some ideas that we would want you to cover, but we can discuss them later.'

‘Such as?'

‘We'll discuss them later.'

‘We'll discuss them now.'

Pears shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘Well, what we had in mind – initially, after which you'd probably be on your own – would be an exposé of the yuppies in the City. You know the kind of thing. Too much money, not enough sense. Stick it to Thatcher's darlings. That kind of thing.'

‘And you want me to come all the way down from Newcastle to do that?'

Pears smiled his shark smile again. ‘Why, yes. I shouldn't think you have yuppies up here.'

Larkin reddened, took a large gulp of his drink, stared at the other man.

‘No, we have miners. We have strikes. You interested in that?'

Pears floundered.

‘Well … I … I mean, of course, eventually. But at the moment, I mean it's not a priority.'

Larkin drained his pint, stood up.

‘And it's not a priority for me to sit here and be patronized by one of Maxwell's arselickers.'

Pears stood also.

‘Wait.' He reached into his jacket, pulled out a card. ‘Just think about it. Here's my card.'

He handed it over. Larkin took it.

‘Catch you later, Bob,' said Larkin. ‘I'll have a cracking piece for you in a couple of days.'

‘Glad to hear it.'

Bob didn't look glad. Larkin wondered how much Bob stood to gain or lose from a finder's fee.

Larkin walked straight out of the pub and turned left towards Grainger Street. As he reached the corner, he realized he still had Pears's card in his hand. He looked at it, about to toss it into a nearby litter bin. He saw the name, the address, the phone number. He flicked it over, ready to throw. And realized there was some writing on the back.

In longhand, it said
Stephen Larkin: starting salary.

There followed a figure.

Larkin stared at the number a long time, jaw open.

Traffic went by, people walked around him.

He looked up, snapped out of it, pocketed the card. He began to walk home.

As he walked, he began, quite unconsciously, to pat the pocket that held the card.

He shook his head.

And then he smiled.

8. Now

His chest was aching, lungs aflame. Every inhaled breath fanned the fire. His legs moved slowly, laboriously; like the ground was coagulating and his knees couldn't bend. His thighs, calves and arches threatened pain if he continued, cramp if he stopped. His arms moved slowly, feebly punching air. The air was winning. His breath came in jagged shudders, facial muscles contracted with exertion, mouth open and gasping. A lumbering bipedal on a coronary countdown.

Larkin was jogging.

Over the unevenly grassed surface of the Town Moor, ignoring the stares of passers-by, ignoring the cold, grey drizzle.

Not because he wanted to, but because he felt he must.

Old trainers, old tracksuit bottoms, positively prehistoric Elvis Costello and the Attractions' 1986 Blood and Chocolate Tour T-shirt. The clothes disused and damp, his body misused and cramping.

It was the dead man's hair that had done it.

The morning after the night after the visit to Coldwell with Tony Woodhouse. Alone, drinking, thinking: 1984/seventeen years ago/the miners' strike/Charlotte.

Charlotte.

The empty cans had multiplied, the memories had kept up. The CDs had come out: Lloyd Cole, the Smiths, Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Bought consciously to replace vinyl, unconsciously to keep his memories pristine and laser-accessed. Bad move. When the laser hit, the ghosts came out, got up and danced with the sounds.

‘How Soon Is Now?', ‘I Wanna Be Loved', ‘Are You Ready to Be Heartbroken?'.

Mournful, slow dances. The empty cans multiplied.

And in the morning, the mirror. He had not wanted to look, but he had, and for once had looked honestly, seeing what was there, rather than what he deluded himself into believing was there: eyes black-rimmed, creased at the sides, heavy with the weight of what they had seen. The beginnings of a broken vein collection at either side of his nose. His chin being joined by another underneath. His skin showing the seasons of the years.

He scrutinized his body with the same honesty: ridges of excess flesh, surplus folds around his chest and waist. The years of junk food and alcohol had made territorial gains, settled into parts of his body, claimed squatters' rights with no plans to move. Not fat, but not fit any more.

Twenty-one to thirty-eight. Seventeen years. He could see it.

So Larkin, hungover, tired, had resolved to do something. He would get a haircut.

Down to Scotts, in the chair, looking down at the nylon paisley covering his body. The barber started, the hair fell. Not black, but grey: old man's hair. Dead man's hair.

So now he was running, sweating back time, hoping thirty minutes could roll back seventeen years.

And then his body declared its limitations: legs aching, left knee locking, ribs burning, chest cramping and tightening. He had to stop, or at least slow down. He reduced his speed to a trudge and a shuffle.

He looked around: to his left, Spital Tongues, the dental hospital, the BBC. To his right, Grandstand Road curving out and away from the city.

To his left. Beyond what he could see was Fenham. Where he used to live. With Charlotte. He tried to see beyond the moor, tried to see seventeen years into the past, his old flat, him in the bay window typing, her coming in from college, them on the floor making love. He tried to see how happy they were then, tried to see the future they would have had together. Tried. But couldn't.

All that belonged to another life, another person.

Dead now, just ghosts. Just pristine, laser-accessed memories.

He stopped, got his breath back, turned round.

He ran away from Fenham, away from his memories. Back to the flat where, knees creaking, chest aching, he would reward himself with a long bath and a cup of coffee.

Or perhaps a cold beer.

‘There, watch.'

They watched the screen. A man stood at a roulette table, watching the wheel spin, the metal ball glinting, dancing within. He stood next to other men wearing chinos, polo shirts, sports jackets. Blending in. Blanding in.

‘Now he loses this one …'

The ball stopped on a red number, the croupier raked in the chips, including the bland man's.

‘Now watch what happens.'

An almost imperceptible nod passed between the croupier and the man.

‘There, see it? There.' The voice quietened, became studied, concentrated. ‘Now there'll be the bit with the hand.'

The croupier began to call for bets, moving her hand beneath the table as if to scratch her knee.

‘That's it there. Now the look.'

The croupier looked at the man, nodded slightly.

‘Now the bet.'

The bland man appeared to hesitate then slid most of his chips on to a red square.

The voice sighed. ‘Now we know what'll happen next.'

The wheel was spun, the ball did its dance, came to land on the man's square. The man faked amazement and delight, raked in his winnings.

‘So, boss, what d'you reckon?'

Tommy Jobson sat back in his chair, fingers across his stomach, and stretched his legs. One polished shoe crossed the other. He uncurled his fingers, picked at the crease in his trousers, keeping it sharp.

‘What do I think?'

His words were well modulated, voiced slow and dark.

‘I think there's a croupier who's soon going to be unemployed. I think there's a man who's about to be taught a lesson.'

‘You want me to deal with him? Or d'you want to talk to him?'

The man speaking, Jason, was sharp-suited, well dressed. Nasty, brutal and short. Lethal, Tommy knew, like thin electric cable fizzing in water. Tommy's second-in-command.

‘I don't know. What d'you reckon, Davy?'

The man at the other side of the table, drinking twenty-four-year-old malt, smiled. Detective Inspector ‘Davy' Jones. A big man who didn't like struggling for the good things in life but certainly enjoyed fighting for them. He smiled. ‘You want me to have a word?'

‘Yeah. You and Jason sort it out.'

Jason's eyes were lit with a sudden, cruel light. ‘You want to come?'

‘I'll watch from here.'

The two men stood up, left the room. Left Tommy alone.

The mini-Vegas on Tyne, the Ratpack dream made real. Tommy sat behind the desk, drinking twenty-four-year-old malt, at the heart of it.

One wall all screens, showing his kingdom, his empire's cornerstone, from all angles and distances. Tommy watched. Tommy liked to watch.

He watched them move through the casino, turning their money into chips, turning chips into his money. Faces telling stories: furrows and frowns, joy and self-confidence, arrogance and loss, dejection to elation. Faces telling stories. Usually the same one.

And the body language: from the rigid tension of the lucky streaker struggling not to betray himself, to the desperate slump of the last-chance loser, and everything in between.

And the hands: holding, folding, dealing, feeling. The smooth plastic coating on the razor-edged cards, the heavy, tactile beauty of the chips. The chips being stroked, caressed, stroking and caressing in return, asking to be used, to be spent. The punters obliging.

Sometimes a sensuously choreographed ballet of charm and fortune, sometimes a rough, struggling threesome between punter, luck and money. Natural theatre. CCTV soap opera. Life.

Tommy watched it all. Apart from it, above it. No matter who won on the floor, Tommy won in the end. Because the house always won. And Tommy was the house.

On the wall behind him, framed certificates and photos. Financial certificates, charity certificates. Photos: Tommy with celebrities. Footballers, rock stars, actors, politicians. Pride of place: Tony Bennett. No Frank and Dino, just Tony Bennett.

He flicked a switch on the desk, the screens changed. Now they showed a basement, colour, but lit starkly in black and white. The bland man was pushed into a pool of light by Jason. Davy, taking his jacket off, folding it neatly over a chair, stepped into view.

Tommy pressed another button on the desk. A hidden VCR began to record.

Jason was talking to the man.

‘So, Mr Blacklock, it seems you and your girlfriend have been abusing our hospitality here.'

The bland man made protestations of innocence.

Tommy muted the sound, poured himself another drink. Watched. He didn't need to hear. He knew what was coming next.

Davy talked to the man, produced his warrant card. The man still protested his innocence, hands raised.

Then Davy hit him. A punch in the kidneys. The man went down, face opened with surprise. Then a kick in the ribs. Then another. Then Jason, leaning down, squatting, talking to him. The man nodding. Jason looking at Davy, disappointed, giving another kick just for fun.

Jason opened his jacket, took out a contract and a pen, handed it to the man. The man, hands shaking, sighed. Tommy knew what it was: a legal document allowing the house to reclaim the money they thought he had stolen, plus any interest they deemed necessary, plus a waiver saying the house was not responsible for any injury to his person. All legal, signed and co-signed by a high-ranking police officer.

Jason then took the man's debit and credit cards, pulled him to his feet.

Tommy switched off, emptied his whisky glass.

The house always won. And Tommy was the house.

He put his whisky glass down on the desk, looked around, sighed.

No Frank and Dino, just Tony Bennett.

The Chuckle Brothers went through their routine: one thick, one thicker because he thinks he's clever. They were being chased around a deserted car park by a security guard.

Davva and Skegs stared at the TV, watched the antics, a spliff between them. Skegs wanted to laugh but felt he couldn't. Davva just looked annoyed.

‘Why don't they just fuckin' hit 'im, man? Stab 'im or shoot 'im or somethin'? Then they can just walk off.' Davva shook his head. ‘That's what I'd do.'

‘'S funny, man,' said Skegs. ‘Just a laugh.'

Davva turned to face him.

‘It fuckin' isn't funny. They wanna knife im. That'll stop 'im.

Skegs was going to tell him it was just for kids, just a laugh, but he decided not to. He looked around the room. He didn't think Davva would appreciate it. Tanya hadn't tidied it since the last time they'd been there. The big colour TV was gone, a portable black and white replacing it. There were other things missing too. The room had less in it, but seemed much messier.

The baby was sleeping in the other room. It had been complaining noisily when they had turned up with Tanya's stuff, but after she had given them their money and retreated to the bedroom it had stopped. Must've fed it or something, Skegs had decided.

Tanya sat in the armchair staring in the direction of the TV, slack-mouthed, slack-eyed. Skegs looked at her. He didn't know what she was seeing, but he didn't think it was the same thing he saw. A smile played at the edges of her lips, small and distant.

The security guard had caught up with the Chuckle Brothers, had them both by their collars. He was huffing and puffing, throwing out threats.

‘He ain't gonna do nothin',' said Davva. ‘Listen to him. If he was gonna do somethin' he'da done it by now, steada just shoutin' about it.'

Another, suited, man turned up to explain things and the Chuckle Brothers were free to go. Davva stood up.

‘This is shit. C'mon.'

Davva stubbed the spliff out in an overflowing ashtray.