Born Under Punches (39 page)

There was no way he could see in from the front. The flats opened straight on to the street. The back door opened on to a set of wooden steps which led down to a shared back yard and a gate leading into an alley. That was his best bet.

Keith walked down the deserted street, trying not to draw attention to himself. He reached the alley, counted along to Louise's gate. He tried the latch, careful not to make any sound, and swung the gate slowly inward. His heart was beating salsa rhythms in his chest, legs turning to liquid as he stepped in, noiselessly moving over the concrete yard to the wooden steps.

He placed his foot gently on the first step. Then the next one. And the next. The wood creaked. He stood stock-still, waited. Not breathing. Nothing happened. No one had heard. He continued his ascent. Soon he was standing outside the back door that led into the kitchen.

It wasn't enough. He needed to see into the back bedroom window. Louise's bedroom.

He swung his legs up to the wooden handrail and braced himself for his next move, tried not to look down.

Keith grabbed hold of the side of the building with one hand, then the other. He moved his right hand up the wall until it met a metal guttering support. He pulled on the support, testing to see whether it would hold his weight, decided to chance it.

He swung off the wooden platform, edged his left hand to the next support. He swung his legs forward. They landed on the bathroom windowsill. He looked along at the bedroom window. The curtains were drawn, but there was a chink of light showing through them. Encouraged and emboldened by this, Keith edged his way along until he could see in.

Half-hanging, half-crouching, he managed to peek through the thin sliver.

He was rewarded. There was Louise lying on the bed.

He was disappointed too. She wasn't doing any of the things he had imagined her doing. She was wearing her dressing gown over her pyjamas and her hair was turbaned into a towel. She was reading a magazine, mouthing the words to a song coming from her cassette player.

Nevertheless he watched. Thrilled to be privy to something secret, something no one else would ever see, a moment no one else would ever share.

It wasn't long before she took the towel from her head, gave her hair a final rub dry, turned off the tape player and the light and settled down to go to sleep.

Keith watched as her eyes closed, her breathing slowed and she drifted off.

And in that moment she had never looked more beautiful. He had never wanted her more.

Realizing nothing more was going to happen, Keith edged himself backwards along the window ledge until he reached the platform and swung on to it. His reverse journey seemed quicker and quieter, and it wasn't long before he was back in his car with his half-eaten kebab. And his book.

He smiled.

Tonight he had moved up a level. He hadn't seen what he wanted to see, but he had seen something.

And he hadn't been caught.

He wanted to write it all down, brag to his book about it. But first he had a more pressing matter to attend to.

He unzipped his trousers, took out his cock.

He thought of Louise lying there. Still. Alone.

He could have gone in and made her do anything.

Anything.

He came quickly, wiped himself off.

He smiled.

Tonight was good.

From now on, every night would be better.

16. Now

Claire stared. Rendered immobile. Struck dumb.

Tony's vein was spiked. Eyes closed, head back. Unaware of her, unaware of anything but the deep, sensual velvet blackness coursing through his bloodstream, massaging his nervous system.

Through deafening white noise in her head, she found her voice.

‘Tony …'

But stopped. She couldn't find the right words.

He had given in, was on a journey of personal rapture, of almost religious ecstasy. So internal, so exclusive, so at odds with the mundane surroundings: the desk, the chair, the office. Herself.

She couldn't articulate her emotions. There were too many: racing through her body, her mind, like the drug raced through Tony.

She crossed to him, took his face in her hand, moved his head side to side.

‘Tony.'

He slowly opened his eyes, looking first through her, then, as he began to reground, at her.

‘Claire …'

Her name spoken like a post-orgasmic sigh. It disappeared like an eight-mile-high vapour trail against a blue sky.

Tony smiled. Claire didn't recognize the man she knew in that smile. She turned, walked towards the door.

‘Claire … don't go …'

She placed a shaking palm on the handle, turned. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

‘Junkie. Fuckin' heroin junkie.'

Tony slowly shook his head.

‘You don't understand …'

She went out, slamming the office door behind her. In the corridor she put her back against the wall to steady herself, took a deep breath, sucked as much air as she possibly could into her body, held it, exhaled in a tightly controlled stream.

From downstairs, the ring of the doorbell.

Her eyes opened with a start, her heart jumped. Then she remembered who it would be.

Stephen Larkin. Come to take her out for the night.

She pulled away from the wall, tried a couple of broad, experimental breaths. She stopped shaking. Good. Another breath. Better.

With a backward glance at Tony's office, she made her way downstairs, opened the main door.

‘Hello,' said Stephen Larkin.

‘Hi.'

He pulled her to him, kissed her. She kissed him back but didn't return his enthusiasm. He stopped, stepped back.

‘You OK?'

‘Yeah,' she said, her voice, her manner, distracted.

‘What's up?'

She looked at Larkin, his brow furrowed, his eyes holding concern and compassion. She smiled, sighed.

‘I'm OK.'

‘Tough day at work?'

‘You could say that.'

‘Come on, I'll take you away from all this.'

She closed the door. They began to walk to his car.

‘So,' he said, putting his arm round her, ‘where d'you fancy going?'

‘Anywhere,' she said. ‘Just as far away from here as possible.'

They got into the Saab and drove off.

Lights flashed, tunes played. Virtual bullets hit their targets. Muscle-bound men's bodies were ripped apart, instantly resurrected on the insertion of a pound coin. The dark arcade, lit only by sparse neon and fruit machine holds and wins, sound-tracked by tinny techno bleeps, rapid fire and agonized wails, was a hall dedicated to death, money and bad driving.

Skegs saw Karl at the far end of a row of video violence. Quake. Codename: Assassin. Metal Gear Solid. Vicarious thrills for empty lives. Unreal death and painless injuries. Cartoon-violent role models for an abandoned, desensitized generation.

Karl was playing something different. He was a rebel in a galaxy far, far away, flying his X-Wing against the Death Star, fighting for a noble cause against tyranny and fascism.

Skegs approached him, stood at his side.

‘Heh-hello, Karl.'

Karl ignored him, piloted his X-Wing through canyons, dodged Empire pursuit craft.

He twisted and turned, controlling the fighter, surprising his enemy with a burst of fire, pumping the joystick like a true flier.

But not quick enough for the Imperial fighter that appeared on the screen from nowhere. He fired. Too late. Dead.

The theme tune played, the roll call of honour appeared. Highest player positions: Karl was offered joint fourth. He entered his name, Han S., then turned to Skegs.

‘That old shit's better than that new shit. Hello, Skegs.'

Skegs cleared his dry throat, said hello in return.

‘What brings you here?'

The noble rebel was gone. Hard, cold Karl replaced him. ‘You got money for me?'

Skegs dug into his pocket, forked over some notes. Karl positioned himself away from Skegs, other punters and any CCTV cameras that might have been watching, and counted it.

‘Good,' he said, turning back. ‘Need anythin'?'

Skegs shook his head. It wobbled as if it was loose.

‘Right.'

Karl looked at Skegs, the look telling him their audience was at ah end. Skegs didn't move.

‘Was there somethin' else, Skegs?'

Karl sounded irritated, his voice sharp-edged.

‘I nee … need to talk to you, Karl.'

Skegs was beginning to shake.

Karl held up his hand, shrugged.

‘So, talk.'

Skegs looked around, checked for listening feds, the way Karl had taught him. He mumbled something.

‘Speak up.'

‘I said, I wuh-want out, Karl.' Skegs shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I can't do this any more.'

Karl looked at him, his eyes flat, dead. Then he turned back to the video game, fed some coins into it.

‘OK.'

Skegs couldn't hide his surprise. ‘Really?'

Karl punched some buttons, gestured to the joystick.

‘Here,' he said, ‘have a go.'

Karl moved aside. Skegs moved in. The theme tune started and Skegs was now the noble rebel, fighting against tyranny.

The game began.

‘You want out, Skegs, fine by me.'

Karl watched the screen, checked Skegs's progress.

‘You … you sure?' Skegs's voice distracted by heroics.

‘Just return any unsold stuff an' walk away.' Karl's voice, focused, controlled.

‘I thought you'd give us bare trouble.'

‘No. Up to you, innit? I remember when I was your age.' Karl spoke with a wise, world-weary wisdom, the voice of someone forty years older than Skegs, not four. ‘I was offered the chance to make money. Like you. So I weighed up the pros and cons. The risks an' benefits. An' I did it.'

They both flinched as Skegs narrowly avoided an attack by a concealed Imperial fighter.

‘An' here I am. Rich an' successful. Shoot 'im.'

Skegs fired. The Imperial fighter exploded.

‘You don't want that,' Karl continued, ‘fine. I'll put you back on the street an' that's that. To your left.'

Another attack, another successful counterattack.

‘Yeah?' said Skegs.

‘Yeah,' said Karl. ‘But it'll be hard. You've had money. You'll have none. You've had a job. It won't be there any more. You've tasted my stuff. It won't be free any more. You'll have nothing to do.' Karl put his mouth to Skegs's ear. ‘The street'll claim you.'

Skegs struggled to avoid an unexpected attack.

‘You'll probably need somethin' to help cope with the days. So you'll come to me. An' you'll have to pay.'

One laser blast and Skegs was dead.

Game over.

Skegs watched the screen. The theme tune played. No high-scoring roll call came up. Skegs couldn't hide his disappointment. He stood still, head down.

‘How d'ya know?' Skegs mumbled. ‘How d'ya know I'll be on drugs?'

‘Because I know.'

Skegs looked up, right at Karl. At his hardly blinking eyes. At the threat and authority in his body. At his creepy self-assurance. And Skegs was scared. He knew then that he would end up in a gutter somewhere on heroin or crack, dependent on Karl. Because he knew Karl would see to it.

Karl smiled.

‘Off you go. If you're goin'.'

‘I'll stay.'

Skegs's voice was quiet, dumbly acquiescent.

‘Good.'

Karl could barely conceal the triumph in his voice.

Skegs turned and, shoulders slumped, began to walk away.

‘Oh, Skegs.'

He turned. Karl beckoned him back. Karl put his arm round his shoulder, suddenly matey, and smiled.

‘Just had an idea. To show that we're all in business together, to demonstrate solidarity, like, why don't you an' Davva come round to my flat tomorrow night?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. We'll get some booze, some blow, some skunk. Make a night of it.'

‘Aye, Karl, that sounds champion.'

‘An' I tell you what.' Karl's voice dropped, became conspirational. ‘I've got this girl I'm workin' on at the moment. Primin' 'er up, gettin' 'er ready. You see, I'm thinkin' of diversifyin'. Gettin' a few girls workin' for me. I'll bring her along an' all. Let you two have a go on her. See if she's ready to be turned out. What d'you reckon? You up for it?'

Skegs could feel the erection beginning in his jeans.

‘Aye, am I.'

‘Off you go, then.'

Karl watched him go, proud of the way he had manipulated the boy. Knowing he had ensnared him for life.

Or for as long as Karl had use for him.

He turned back to the machine. He didn't want to be a noble rebel any more. He wanted something more visceral, more violently celebrational.

He found it, put his money in, unholstered his weapons and got to work.

As the body count increased and the on-screen blood and gore thickened, he found himself getting hard.

He began to think of Suzanne and what he had planned for her. It made him harder still.

He dodged bullets. He dispatched death without letting it touch him.

No longer noble or a rebel.

He was immortal.

The doorbell rang. Claire went to the door, opened it.

Despite the late hour, she wasn't in bed. She had been expecting the call.

‘I think I owe you an explanation.'

Tony Woodhouse stood on her doorstep.

She left the door open, walked away. Tony entered, closing it behind him. He limped to the living room, found her sitting on the sofa. Arms crossed, legs clasped together. He stood, looked at her.

‘Well?' she said.

‘I suppose you had to find out sooner or later.'

She said nothing, waited for him to continue.

‘It's heroin,' he said. ‘You were right. I've been on it for years, ever since—' he gestured to his shattered leg ‘—this. It hooked me.'