Born Under Punches (36 page)

And Tommy had allayed his fears as best he could.

But the truth: going legit costs. Especially in the porn industry. Profits were dipping.

The Internet. The DIYers. Cutting out the middleman. Anyone with a digicam and a computer could outmatch what he was doing. Sites with monthly subscription rates. Free sites accessed by premium-rate phone lines. Then there were the enthusiasts, amdrammers squeezing the pros out of the market. And the customers had never had it so good. Why pay for it when you can get it for free?

But Tommy couldn't tell Mr Fairbairn that. Couldn't make him see. This wasn't the old days. These weren't business rivals who would see sense after a visit from a hammer artist or a craftsman with the pliers. These e-porn barons weren't even in the same city, perhaps not even the same country. And they did it for fun. Not money, fun.

And Tommy didn't know how to fight that.

Tommy found a crate, sat down, sighed. His trips to the warehouse had become increasingly frequent. It was the only place offering tranquillity. He would stand, sit, stare, think. Examine his life, what it was, what it had become.

Where it was going.

He looked around the warehouse again. It was big, like a cathedral. But for blood sacrifices, for the worship of false idols, of graven images.

He knew all about blood sacrifices: times when the floor had been a red river as the market competition had been forcibly removed. And Tommy, naked, hands and body covered in other men's blood, his hard-on from pain not porn, had been the high priest.

And he knew all about worshipping false idols. Putting his faith in the wrong things. Like his first idols: Frank. Dino. Even the half-blind, black Jew to an extent. Men who knew who they were. What they were about. His first role models, men who left footsteps for him to follow in. Lifestyles to emulate. Words to live up to.

And he had tried. Growing up, he had clung to their vision, made himself over in their image.

But now they were gone. Frank and his apostles had finished their last Vegas supper, checked out of the Sands for the last time. And no loungecore resurrection could ever bring them back. Their world had disappeared too. They had died clinging to a crumbling myth they had built around themselves: men out of time. Just men. Only men.

And Tommy had wanted more.

Like a son. Fairbairn's words. His next idol, his next role model.

And like a son he was. He worked hard at it, being a good son, a worthy heir, and for a time he thought he had made it, thought that families could be more than biology.

With the wedding, he had thought that was it, that was him for life.

But then Caroline had put him right on a few things. Told him where he stood. And where she stood.

Or rather lay.

He had come in one day and found her in bed with another man. In his house, in his bedroom.

With Clive Fairbairn.

Tommy could remember that day, see it as clearly as if it was unfolding before him now. He had entered the room and stood there. Said nothing, done nothing. Just stood there, feeling like his heart had been ripped out, his balls cut off.

Fairbairn had sat up, looked at him. Grinned.

Hello, Tommy, he said. Here I am, you cuckolded cunt. What are you going to do about it? Are you going to be a man about it?

And Tommy had done nothing. There was nothing he could have done.

He went to another part of the house. Listened to Frank: ‘In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning'. He wanted it to help him but it didn't touch him, didn't move him. He heard the voice but the words were empty.

Later, when Fairbairn had finished and left, Caroline had come to see Tommy. She had sat looking at him, smoking. Her dressing gown falling open. He didn't look. He didn't care.

I told you I wanted to see other people, she said. I'm sorry you found out this way, if it hurt you. But Clive and I have done this for a long time. I don't mind. It keeps him happy. And that keeps my dad happy. You should see someone else too.

Tommy said nothing. Waited for her to leave the room.

Then, after a long while, phoned Cathy.

Fairbairn and Tommy never spoke about the incident. Caroline and Tommy never spoke.

Tommy joined the golf club. And carried on with his life, his faith, his belief gone.

He began to see his situation for what it was. His knife work stopped bringing him joy. The euphoria became boredom and finally revulsion. His business dealings gave him no thrill. He needed a change. More than that, he wanted to make amends. He wanted more than faith. He wanted redemption.

Then out of the blue he had a visitation. One night, working late at the casino. Tony Woodhouse.

You owe me, he said, limping, wincing from the pain. You fuckin' owe me. Time you started payin'.

Tommy didn't even bother being tough with him. The fact that Tony had shown up at all showed he had balls.

I've got work to do, said Tony, and I need a partner. A silent one. And I thought of you. Come on, I'll give you the sales pitch.

Into Tony's Astra automatic and off down the coast road.

Where we going?

Home, said Tony. My home.

Coldwell. The 1992 version. The ‘unprofitable' mine had closed in '86. It had been the heart of the town, now cut out. The rest of the town had been propped up, its health artificially maintained, but a replacement heart had not arrived. The town was dying.

They drove around the streets, slowly. Tony letting the images settle into Tommy's mind.

Long way from Ponteland, aren't you? No golf clubs here.

Tony turned the tape player on.

Bruce Springsteen: ‘Lucky Town'.

Nothing lucky about it, he said.

They drove to a housing estate, pulled over, stopped. They looked at each other.

I could make one call on my mobile and you would vanish so quickly it would be like you'd never lived on this planet.

Yeah, I know. Tony sounded unimpressed. But you won't.

Why not?

Because if you were going to do that, you'd have done it by now. Look out of the window.

Tommy looked.

What d'you see?

A housing estate.

Describe it.

Is this part of your sales pitch?

Describe it.

Tommy sighed, playing along. Run down. Boarded up. Broken windows.

Tony nodded. Right. Broken windows. There's a theory about them. Want to hear it?

Tommy shrugged.

OK, then. Tony looked through the window. A window gets broken. It doesn't get repaired. Another one appears. And another. Then places get boarded up. And the weeds start to grow. And people stop fighting for things. Some of them move out. Others stay. And the ones who stay stop trying. They stop controlling their children. Then things are dumped in the street. Then cars are parked and stripped. Then there's no law.

Then drugs take a hold. Tony looked at Tommy. Broken windows.

Tommy looked back at him.

Why can't they get them repaired?

Oh, I'm sure they want to. But maybe they don't know how. Or can't afford it. Or aren't physically able. And the ones who should be repairing them, who've got the money and the know-how, can't. They think people who live there should take responsibility. And they won't help until they do. And in the meantime, more broken windows appear. And more.

Tony sighed.

I was brought up around here. And it didn't used to be like this.

He turned to face Tommy.

I'm going into business. And I want you to back me.

Tommy laughed. You're going into the double-glazing business?

Tony smiled. No. I'm setting up an addiction treatment centre. I've been promised some money but I need more. And that's where you come in.

Tommy laughed. Really?

Yes, really. Fairbairn's got this area of the coast sewn up tight. And that means you do too. This – he pointed to the estate – is where you're making your money from.

Tommy laughed again. Not so loud this time. So you want me, who does what I do for a living, to fund a centre for drug addicts?

Yes. I'm sure the irony won't escape you.

And I'm just going to hand this money over, am I?

Tony's voice dropped, became low and dangerous. Yes, you fucking are. Because I used to work for you. I helped you get rich. And look what happened to me. You could say it's because of me you're where you are today. So yes, you owe me.

Tommy looked at the estate. Saw what Tony saw. And something else: above the clouds, a small white chink of light. A glimpse of sun through heavy clouds. A small, stirring epiphany.

The beginnings of redemption.

Tommy smiled.

Tony was still talking. And of course it's tax deductabJe. A charitable donation from a well-respected local businessman.

OK.

Tony smiled. Good. There is one other thing I want from you.

And he told him.

And Tommy laughed. And that irony topped them all.

And he was back in the warehouse. Back in the present.

The legitimate businessman, still buying his ticket on the road to redemption. In instalments.

Another look around. Stock that seemed to arrive more quickly, leave more slowly.

The cathedral, worshipping false gods, hot idols. Blood sacrifices a thing of the past.

Frank and Dino: useless saints. Failed him when he needed them.

Fairbairn: I hear you're going soft.

I wish I could care, he thought. I wish I could.

He turned the lights out, reset the alarms, bolted the door.

He got into the Daimler, drove away.

He said it out loud:

‘I wish I could care.'

Lunchtime. And Suzanne sat alone.

She was in the café not far from her school nursing a latte. The café was small, box-like. It suited her perfectly. That was exactly how she felt. Boxed. On all sides.

Her friends: she couldn't talk to them any more. She found their concerns childish and petty, their lives and interests boring. She no longer had anything in common with them and knew they had little time for her.

Her teachers: all they could do was get on her case. How did she ever expect to pass her exams if she didn't apply herself? How did she hope to do A-levels, go to university, if she didn't work? What had happened to her? She used to be such a good student.

She wanted to scream and shout: fuck off, all of you! Leave me alone! You all. want a part of me! Fuck off!

But she didn't. She kept it inside.

In the box.

And then there was Karl. It was getting too much now. He scared her. She wanted out. But the thing was, the part of him that scared her had a flipside. It gave her butterflies of a different kind. It was what had attracted her to him in the first place. Thrilling. Dangerous. It was what kept her going back.

That and the fear of what would happen if she didn't.

She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, beg for help, let the tears run down her face, her voice echo round the room. She wanted someone to throw their arms round her and tell her they loved her. Tell her they weren't going to leave her alone.

But she knew that wouldn't happen.

So she just sat there, kept it all locked away inside.

Boxed in.

Her mobile trilled. She checked it. A text message from Karl, telling her when and where. She put the phone back in her bag. She would be there.

She checked her watch. Time to go back to school.

She picked her cup up, drained it, set it down.

Her hand was shaking.

She couldn't stop it.

Time fell away.

Larkin and Louise hadn't stopped talking, covering the years with words, pouring memories into the spaces in between.

The weather improved. Clouds moved away, the sun shone They walked down the Tynemouth streets enjoying the weather, the. sea, each other's company.

They found a café: pretty, genteel, with a view of the ruined abbey that put an extra few pounds on the price of their lunch.

They ate: wholemeal sandwiches and coffee. A fancy cake each.

They talked.

‘So what happened to you?' Louise asked after their plates had been cleared and coffee fill-ups poured. ‘London and that. One minute you were here, the next you were gone. Then you were back.'

Larkin sipped his coffee ‘Long story. I just split up with Charlotte. Remember her?'

Louise nodded.

He replaced his cup in its saucer. He had been holding it before his face like a shield, hiding behind it.

‘I got a good job offer and I went. It was good for a while, then it all turned to shit. And a lot of people got hurt.' He gave a grim laugh. ‘The way the 80s ended.'

He drained his cup, signalled for a refill.

‘Thirsty?'

‘Not used to talking,' Larkin said. ‘About myself, anyway.'

‘When did you come back?'

‘Four years ago. I came to cover a story for this tabloid I was working for then. Drugs war thing. And I decided not to go back to London. Stayed up here. Went freelance.'

‘And what happened with—' Louise reddened, began to fall over her words ‘—Charlotte?'

Larkin looked at his coffee, the liquid swirling around, black and seemingly bottomless.

‘It all ended badly,' he said. ‘I started seeing her again. Bad idea. For one thing she was married, for another she wasn't the person she once was.'

‘In what way?'

‘Well …' He sighed, tried to find the right words. ‘She'd … chased her dreams a little too vigorously. Her dreams involved money. She'd got involved with drugs. In a big way. And some very heavy people. And it—' he sighed again ‘—killed her.'

His dream flashed back: Charlotte on the Swing Bridge, a shotgun blast, himself unable to stop it. And Charlotte gone.

‘You read all this, though. It was in the papers.'

‘I remember. I wanted to contact you, but I didn't know how.'

Larkin gave a weak smile. ‘Don't worry. I wasn't much company.'