Born Under Punches (24 page)

They went back to watching the match.

The CAT Centre Crew were still playing well but some of their aggression, their edge, was gone. Larkin thought it was because Ged had been subbed, but there were other reasons; no matter how focused they were, how much they wanted to succeed, they were still physically ravaged men. Most of the fighting and pushing wasn't done on the pitch, it was done within themselves.

Larkin had surprised himself by becoming completely involved in the game. He didn't think he would have been, not to this extent. He wanted the CAT Centre Crew to win, willed them to succeed. He was watching the game through Tony's eyes, through Ged's. Sitting on the bench, he was on the team.

The game wore on. Both teams were tiring. The physical condition of both sets of players was beginning to show.

The police made a substitution.

Larkin stood up, crossed to Tony.

‘D'you want some fresh legs up there?'

Tony didn't take his eyes off the game.

‘No, thanks.'

‘When am I going on, then?'

‘You're not.'

‘What d'you mean?'

Tony turned round, faced him.

‘Sorry, Stephen, but you won't be playing.'

‘Why not?'

He gestured to the pitch, to the CAT Centre Crew. ‘Because they're the ones who need to play, not you.'

Larkin was confused and a little annoyed. ‘So why get me over here? Why get me dressed up and sat on the bench?'

Tony sensed Larkin's annoyance. His face softened, became kinder. ‘Because I wanted you to experience what the lads were going through, see it from their point of view. I didn't want you to be just a spectator.'

Larkin nodded, thin-lipped. ‘Right.'

‘I'm sorry if that's upset you, I didn't mean it to. I just wanted this game to mean the same to you as it does to the lads.'

‘OK.'

Their conversation came to an abrupt end. Some of the crowd started cheering, some complaining. Dave Wilkinson was on his feet, loudly remonstrating with the referee.

They turned to see what had happened. The referee was ignoring protests from the opposition, pointing to the spot.

Penalty.

Larkin and Tony weren't quite sure what had happened, but Mick was on the ground near the opposition goal, being pulled to his feet and congratulated by his team-mates.

Ged was on his feet, shouting, telling them which player should take it.

One of the younger lads placed the ball, stepped back.

Larkin, Tony, Claire and Ged watched, not daring to speak, hardly daring to breathe.

The younger lad stood looking at the ball. He took a couple of deep breaths, rubbed his hands together. He looked at the goal, saw the keeper, calculated his angle. He ran at the ball. Kicked it.

Top left corner: straight in, keeper diving to the right.

Two–nil to the Coldwell CAT Centre Crew.

Cheers and hugging from the sideline. Dave Wilkinson spat oh the grass, sat down again, folded his arms.

‘That's what this means! You see?'

‘I do.'

Tony nodded, smiled. ‘Good.'

Larkin sat back down on the bench to watch the remainder of the game.

He felt good about the goal, enjoying it as much as the rest of the team, feeling a part of the success, the celebration.

Once the elation had died down, he thought of Tony's words. He took them deeper, applied them on other levels.

I suppose he's right. I suppose this is what I am, he thought. An observer. A watcher. Someone who's involved but doesn't directly take part. A recorder. A chronicler. Like an actor watching a friend's performance from a house seat in the stalls. In the audience but not of the audience. Not passive, but not really active, either.

I used to be an active participant. It wasn't always this way, but this is what I've become.

Maybe it's better this way.

Maybe it's safer.

He took the camera from his bag, held it to his eye, focused.

Nothing was happening in front of him, so he dropped it to his lap, waited.

Waited for something to happen in front of him, something he could record.

Click.

‘Well, thank you for coming here.' Tony sipped his Coke, smiled. ‘All of you. You've helped us have a great afternoon.'

He scoped the room. The Coldwell leisure centre bar: strip lights, tubular-framed furniture, beige walls, oatmeal carpet. So little atmosphere they should provide spacesuits, he thought.

A buffet ran down one wall. The food unreconstructed northern working class: pork pies, sausages, white bread sandwiches. The drinks soft. No alcohol.

The guests: The Coldwell CAT Centre Crew plus friends and families, the opposition plus same, the centre staff, the famous actor, Stephen Larkin, Dean Plessey and other assorted councillors. Colleagues to be congratulated, clients to be encouraged, friends to be thanked, councillors to be cajoled. A gathering to be enjoyed, a room to be worked.

He talked on, thanking each in turn for their contributions, offering weak jokes, accepting weak laughter in return. Glancing surreptitiously at his watch.

Larkin drank his Coke, half-listening. Claire caught his eye, smiled. He smiled back.

Final whistle: two–nil to the Coldwell CAT Centre Crew. The team had been ecstatic, cheering, shouting, hugging each other. It was their Cup Final, their Champions League. The fact that they had beaten the police sweetened the victory.

The opposition were gracious in defeat. They swapped shirts, shook hands, applauded the crowds, applauded the victors. The last time they had seen these people was when they had arrested them. Now these people had bested them. The respect was reluctant, begrudged, but it was shown.

Then back to the changing rooms, the showers, then up to the bar for the reception. Larkin missed Tony's congratulatory post-mortem talk in the changing room. He didn't feel he'd contributed enough to warrant being there.

He had arrived first and watched as the room had gradually filled. Dean Plessey and his councillors, making straight for the buffet, chattering vapidly, hoping for a photo in the paper. Plessey avoiding eye contact with Larkin. They had surrounded the actor, ringfenced him up the stairs, telling him how good he was in his TV films, hoping some of his charisma would wear off on them. He managed to extricate himself, moved away. He stood now, looking out of the window at the damp town. He seemed lost without an audience. Larkin moved alongside him.

‘Enjoying yourself?' asked Larkin, nodding towards the councillors.

The actor smiled diplomatically. ‘Part of the job.'

He twinkled when he spoke. Larkin could see how he had become a star.

They talked. Larkin introduced himself, explained why he was there. ‘D'you do many of these things?' he asked.

‘A few,' said the actor. ‘If they're for a good cause, like this. Plus some of my family are from here. It reminds me of home.'

His Geordie accent returned the more he spoke.

‘And those lads on the pitch, you know? I mean, I went straight into the shipyards from school. Then they closed. And if I hadn't had a talent for acting and been lucky with it, I might have ended up like one of them. There but for the grace of God, y'know?'

Larkin nodded.

The room had begun to fill. The actor went to talk to Tony. Larkin went to the buffet, saw Mick standing with a woman, piling his plate up. It didn't matter how much Mick ate, Larkin thought, it would never fill him, never round him out. The years had pared too much of him away, sliced portions off him, like a knife to a ripe pear, leaving only the core, the seeds.

The woman beside him, however, made up for it. Whatever had been removed from Mick had been placed on her. She was big but uncomfortably so: her body bulked, her hands, wrists, feet and ankles small. She was piling food from the table on to her plate. The expression on her face said it was more of a duty than a pleasure.

‘Good game, Mick. Well done.'

Mick smiled. The sides of his face crinkled like paper.

‘Thanks.' He turned to the woman next to him. ‘This is Angela. Me wife. This is Stephen Larkin. He's a journalist. He worked with Dougie Howden during the miners' strike. Now he's writin' a book about it.'

Angela, her face expressionless, said, ‘Hello.'

‘Did you see the game?' asked Larkin.

She nodded only, pushed food into her mouth.

‘Yeah,' said Larkin, turning to Mick. ‘What happened to Dougie Howden? Any chance of an interview?'

‘Only through a clairvoyant,' said Angela through mouthfuls of food.

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' said Larkin. ‘Was it recent? He couldn't have been all that old.'

‘Nine months after the strike finished. Cancer of the lung, they said. Blamed workin' down the pit. But I reckon it was the strike that killed him. He just seemed to lose the will, didn't he?'

Angela nodded, took a bite from her pork pie.

Mick sighed. ‘Either way, it was minin' killed him. Told you we were better off without the pit, didn't I?'

There was something dry and joyless about the couple, thought Larkin. Mick, grey and insubstantial as a ghost, Angela mechanically cramming food into her mouth, taking neither pleasure nor nutrition from it. One trying to disappear from the world, one fighting to remain substantial.

Tony finished his speech. Applause, then conversation again.

The gathering was reaching its peak. The CAT Centre Crew had brought their own atmosphere into the room, replacing the earlier muted sterility with a temporary warmth and bonhomie. Temporary because the bar would revert to normal once they had gone, temporary because they would have to wake up in the morning and get on with their lives. No longer heroes.

But not yet.

The evening was still for enjoying. All around the room tribal demarcations were breaking down. Crew players chatted with policemen and, in some instances, councillors. Tony was talking to Dean Plessey. Claire, standing between the two, nodding. Tony giving his watch surreptitious glances.

No sign of Tommy Jobson.

Larkin, finding himself refilling his Coke glass next to Dave Wilkinson, introduced himself. They talked. The game. Small things. Introductory stuff.

‘So what are you doing here exactly?' asked Wilkinson. ‘I know you're not local.'

‘Writing a book. About Coldwell. The miners' strike and after.'

Wilkinson nodded.

‘Actually,' said Larkin, ‘I wonder if I could come and have a chat with you some time?'

Wilkinson's eyes narrowed. ‘Why?'

‘Find out about the role of the police now. How it's changed from during the strike.'

‘I wasn't here during the strike.'

‘No, but you're here now.'

Wilkinson said nothing.

‘I won't stitch you up.'

He smiled. ‘Why do I feel suspicious when a journalist tells me that?'

Larkin smiled also. ‘Check me out with Tony if you like.'

‘All right, then.'

They walked over to Tony. Plessey saw them coming and excused himself.

‘Tony,' said Wilkinson, smiling, ‘this journalist says I can trust him. Should I?'

They talked with good humour. Wilkinson gave Larkin a card, then excused himself.

Tony looked again at his watch.

‘Well, I think I'd better be off.'

‘You're not coming for a drink?' asked Claire. ‘I thought we could all go for a drink after this.'

‘Sorry,' said Tony. ‘I've got to go home. Expecting an important phone call.'

Claire looked disappointed. ‘OK.' She turned to Larkin. ‘What about you?'

Larkin looked at her. Drink in one hand, shoulders back, breasts pushed forward against her shirt, one leg straight, one leg open.

Signals, he thought, and felt something stir inside himself. The signal had connected. Now a response.

‘Fine by me. I'm up for it.'

She smiled. ‘Good.'

Tony made his goodbyes around the room and left.

Larkin looked around. The party was wearing down. Tribal units were being re-established, numbers were dwindling. Time to leave.

Claire pulled her coat on. ‘So where d'you fancy, then?'

Larkin shrugged. ‘I'm easy.'

‘How easy?'

He smiled. Her eyes locked on to his. So big he could have fallen into them.

‘Let's go.'

They left.

Tony sat at home. Curtains drawn, lights off. In an armchair in the front room.

By the phone. Ready if it rang.

His house was old, Edwardian. On the outskirts of Coldwell. No wife, no significant other. No one in the house to come home to.

He felt no pain in his leg. He had taken something for it. Wearing off now, leaving him comfortably numb. Pleasant pins and needles.

He looked at his watch.

Time.

The phone rang.

He picked up the cordless receiver, allowed three rings, pressed the button.

Signal answered, he was connected.

All he could hear was atmospherics. The whistle in the wire. Breathing at the other end.

He said nothing. He just listened, eyes closed.

‘I'm here,' said a voice eventually.

He said nothing.

‘I know you're there. I can hear your breathing. Makes me feel near when I hear that. Like you're with me. Beside me.'

He said nothing.

A sigh. ‘That last time we were together I never wanted it to end. I know you didn't either. When I'm with you it just feels good. Time flies. When you're gone and I'm back here … it's like I've never been away. The good feeling wears off so quickly.' A laugh. ‘I'm like one of your clients. I need a fix. More and more often.

‘But it's not getting any easier. In fact I think it's getting worse. The days build up. And they mean nothing. They just crowd into your memory, take up space. Take up the space of the good times. And I need the good times. I need to remember them. I need to know there'll be more of them. They'll be back again. They will be back again, won't they?'