Born Under Punches (29 page)

Mick told him. Dougie found the number, dialled. He told them who he was, who he was calling on behalf of, who he wanted. He repeated his litany three times before he was finally put through to someone who could help him.

Mick watched. He couldn't hear the words Dougie spoke, didn't want to listen. His emotions were so churned up, he didn't know what to think or feel.

Dougie put the phone down, smiled at him.

‘Congratulations. You're a dad.'

Mick looked at him, speechless.

‘Baby girl. They told us the weight an' that, but I'm not good at rememberin' things like that.'

Dougie looked at Mick's face. It was completely open, like a raw wound.

‘Still,' said Dougie, attempting to widen his smile, ‘somethin' to be happy about, eh?'

Mick burst into tears. He cried for everything. For the last few days, the last few months, for his marriage and his future. For his daughter. He cried for his life.

Dougie watched, helpless. He felt for Mick but he couldn't intervene. He wasn't a man who cried, but he didn't think anything less of Mick for doing it. If Dougie was honest, he had felt like doing the same thing himself for the last few days. And if he did, he probably wouldn't stop.

Mick searched through his pockets, found a handkerchief, blew his nose.

‘You goin' to visit her?'

Mick nodded. ‘I'd better.'

‘If you leave now, you'll just catch visitin' time.'

Mick nodded again, stood up, checked his pockets.

‘I'd better just …'

‘Have you got any money?'

Mick reddened, shook his head.

Dougie delved into his pocket, brought out a five-pound note, handed it over.

‘Here.'

‘Dougie, I—'

‘It's all right. Just take it.'

Mick slipped the note slowly into his pocket.

‘Thank you, Dougie.'

Dougie nodded. ‘Now, go on. Your family needs you.'

‘Awe. Thanks Dougie. You're—'

‘Go now. Or they'll not let you in.'

Mick nodded, gave a slight smile. Then he left.

Dougie resumed his seat in front of the TV.

Game shows. Soaps. Chat shows. Sitcoms. Anything and everything.

He tried to let them wash over him, act as narcotic rather than stimulant.

It didn't work. His mind was too active. He thought of Mick. He thought of himself. He thought of the strike. He thought of the future.

And one phrase kept coming back, taking up residency inside his skull:

The outside world doesn't understand, doesn't care.

Mick checked his watch, pulled his jacket closer.

Twenty minutes he had stood at the bus stop. No sign of a bus. Hardly any traffic at all.

The previous two days played over and over in his mind in a continuous loop. He would pause, pick out a particular scene, examine it closely, trying to find meaning in it, purpose, but all he could find was pain.

He checked his watch again, stamped foot to foot.

A new baby daughter. He couldn't believe it, didn't know how to let the feeling sink in. He was a father. Elation crept up on him.

A father.

In his mind the elation took form: a shiny new coin rose in the air. Landed heads up.

He smiled to himself.

But with fatherhood came responsibilities. Things were expected of you. Money.

The coin flipped. Tails. Elation became instant depression.

He had nothing. Nothing to offer her. No job. No hope of a job.

The coin kept spinning: a downward spiral.

He thought of the way he looked. What Angela would say when he walked in.

Look at the state of you. Coming to greet your daughter looking like that. I'm ashamed. None of the other fathers look like that.

She was right. He couldn't go looking like this. But he had to go. He had to see them.

The coin disappeared.

He had to see them. But if that was the case, then he needed something to bolster him.

He looked around. There was a pub just beside him. The blue star shone. The windows emanated warmth.

Dougie's fiver was in his pocket.

Just the one, he thought. A pick-me-up.

He checked his watch, looked around.

The blue star shone.

Dougie's fiver was in his pocket.

Just the one.

He checked the road one last time. Nothing. He turned and entered the pub. The air was thick and warm. The barmaid didn't recoil at his battered face. She greeted him, smiled.

He ordered a drink, tasted it. It felt good.

He found a seat, got comfortable, took another mouthful. Already the pressure of the last few days was beginning to ease. He began to relax.

Outside, the bus he had wanted drew near.

It didn't stop.

He had missed it.

Skewered spicy pork. Brown rice. Gado gado sauce. Red wine. Bistro fare, but classy.

The décor: soft lighting, stripped-pine floors, bentwood Windsor chairs. Retro prints on the walls: James Dean's cheekbones, Ronald Reagan selling Chesterfields.

And the music: Sade. Working Week. The New Jazz. Smooth.

Tony looked across the table at Louise. Forking rice into her mouth. Hair tied up, dress cut down.

Beautiful. She caught him looking at her, stopped chewing.

‘What?'

‘Nothing,' he said. ‘Just looking at you.'

He smiled. She joined him.

Berwicks on Old George Yard off the Cloth Market. The perfect little bistro, thought Tony. Intimate and comfortable yet sleek and fashionable. The kind of place our parents would never have gone to. This was the third time Tony and Louise had eaten there. It was rapidly becoming their favourite restaurant. They didn't even notice the other diners. It was a special place reserved just for them.

They finished their meal, Tony paid, they stepped outside. Began walking along High Bridge. The autumn air was carrying on it the first ice notes of winter. Louise shivered slightly, pulled her coat around her body. Tony placed his arm round her. She snuggled into him. They were a perfect fit.

‘Cold?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I should've put something warmer on.'

‘You look fine as you are.'

‘Maybe, but I'm cold. I should've worn my duffel coat.'

Tony laughed. ‘No girlfriend of mine's going to walk around in a duffel coat.'

‘And why's that?'

‘Because I'll soon be earning enough to keep her in style. Stick around, you'll see.'

She snuggled further into him. He couldn't see her face, but he knew she was smiling.

‘Shall we go for a walk?' Tony said when they reached the corner of Grey Street.

‘Shouldn't you have an early night? Don't you have to be up for training in the morning?'

‘Yeah, butthat's tomorrow.'

‘I don't want my future life of luxury wrecked before it's even started.'

Tony grinned. ‘It won't be. Trust me.'

Louise looked in his eyes, liked what she saw, returned his smile. ‘OK, then.'

They walked along Dean Street, down the Side, on to the Quayside. Above them, the massive floodlit supports of the Tyne Bridge; opposite, the multicoloured fairy lights of the Tuxedo Princess, the floating nightclub. Along the front, bars and cars, old warehouses, a few flats. And the Tyne below them lapping the sides, catching the light, glinting like ephemeral diamonds bobbing on dark spilled oil, too quick to grasp, then gone, borne out to the open sea.

They leaned on the railings, looked out at the river.

‘This is my favourite part of Newcastle,' said Tony.

‘Mine too.'

They huddled closer together.

‘You know what you said before?' asked Louise. ‘About me sticking around?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well, how long did you have in mind?'

Tony turned to her. The lights caught Louise's eyes. Made them glint like diamonds.

‘As long as you like,' he said.

Tony took a deep breath, looked at her. Those eyes. Those diamonds. But not the unreachable ones of the river. They were here. Real and attainable. Not hard or cold, just beautiful and precious.

‘Look, I'm … I'm not very good at this sort of thing. I haven't … haven't done it before. But look, Louise, I just …'

He sighed. She waited.

‘I love you. I've never felt like this about anyone before. I don't think I ever will again. I love you and never want to be without you. Ever.'

He sighed again. He was shaking. Despite the cold, he was sweating.

Louise smiled.

‘It means a lot to hear you say that. And I know how difficult it was for you to say it. And I love you. I feel exactly the same. And I hope we're never apart. Ever.'

They grabbed each other, pulling together, wanting flesh to join, to meld. They kissed, mouths devouring, demanding more than touch, wanting the other's life, their soul.

Love.

Consuming, rebirthing love.

Holding on. For ever.

Keith watched.

Parked inconspicuously behind several other cars on the Quayside. Looking like a predatory minicab waiting to shovel up the waterfront drunks expelled onto the pavement at closing time.

They hadn't seen him. That was a small triumph he could hold on to. Not when the new boyfriend picked her up. Not when they drove, parked and went to the restaurant. Not when they came out. And not now.

He watched them in the restaurant, anger welling. It was the kind of place he couldn't afford on his salary. So that was what she saw in him.

They hadn't seen him. No one had. He had melted into the shadows so perfectly it had been like he didn't exist: a shadow himself.

A young couple had come out of the pub with an urgent passion for each other. The boy had pushed his girl up against a wall right next to where Keith had been hiding. He had pushed up her skirt and pulled down her knickers while she had undone his jeans. They had fucked there and then, hard and fast. So close that Keith could have reached out of the darkness and touched them.

The sight had made his own cock hard. He had wanted to knock the boy out of the way and take the girl himself. But he hadn't. He had just watched. He would have settled for a wank but he hadn't dared. Because he might have lost his focus. And he had a job to do.

The episode had left him hungry, unfulfilled, and the sight before him, Louise and her new boyfriend devouring each other, made him feel even worse. At least that slut and her boyfriend had fucked in the dark away from watching eyes. Louise, Keith thought, was just turning into a whore.

They broke apart, walked away. Smiling. Like they had put on a show specially for Keith. A show that he could only watch and not take part in. Louise showing him how she paid for her rich boyfriend's attention.

He felt his anger twist and bubble up inside him.

He knew where they were going. Where the boyfriend had parked his car on Grey Street. They would drive back to Louise's flat. Sometimes the boyfriend would go in, sometimes not. He seemed to have a set pattern. Tuesday night. He wouldn't stay.

Keith started the car, drove to Louise's flat, parked in his usual spot in the alley. Soon, the boyfriend's car pulled up. Keith smiled to himself, taking pride in how accurately he had plotted their routine.

They kissed. He watched. Bile churning in his stomach.

Louise left the car, entered the house, closed the door behind her. The boyfriend sped off.

He watched as an upstairs light went on. Sighed.

‘Now we're alone,' Keith said out loud. ‘Just you and me together …'

He watched.

The earlier couple came back to him. Fucking hard against the wall. Rough urgency as they took each other.

He could do that with Louise. Just walk over there now. There was nothing stopping him. He could just walk over the road, go straight in, throw her on the bed. Push up her skirt, pull down her knickers. Rough urgency. That would make her see the error of her ways. Soon he would have her begging, pleading with him to take her back.

Yes. Throwing her on the floor. Teaching her a lesson. He liked that idea. His cock stiffened at the thought of it. He got it out, started to stroke it.

He could do it. Just walk over there. Right now. Show her who was boss …

‘You're mine, you bitch, you slut …'

Throw her on the floor …

‘Bitch … Cunt …'

Slap her if she gave him any lip …

‘Whore … Whore …'

Hit her, punch her if he had to …

‘Bitch …'

Boss. He'd show her who was boss …

He came.

Spurting over the steering wheel, over the front of his trousers.

He opened his eyes, looked quickly around. No one there, no one had witnessed him.

Good.

The light went out in the flat.

Keith found a handkerchief in his pocket, wiped himself down.

He sighed, composed himself. He waited for the guilt to come. Expected some kind of post-ejaculatory shame for his thoughts.

But none came. In fact it was the opposite. He felt quite pleased with himself.

He settled back for the night.

Watching.

Waiting.

Biding his time.

For the right time.

12. Now

Tommy parked the Daimler in the visitors' car park, turned off the engine, sat listening to the CD player.

Diana Krall:
Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

A blues voice of smoke and seduction, of loss and late-night loneliness wrapped in a body of blonde beauty. A slice of darkness in daylight.

The perfect Cathy.

He checked his watch: two p.m.

Visiting time.

The stone lodged in his chest fell all the way to the pit of his stomach.

He took a deep breath, locked the car, walked to the entrance, concrete and plaster concealing century-old red brick, and began the procedure.

The visiting order checked, the duty desk officer asked: ‘Relation?'