Born Under Punches (44 page)

Tommy painfully knelt up. The ornament had fallen by his feet. He picked it up and, gasping for breath, threw it back at the now-standing Karl.

Karl ducked. It hit the mirror over the fireplace, rained shards on to the carpet.

Tommy pulled himself slowly to his feet. Karl was coming at him again.

Karl swung. Tommy blocked.

Karl swung again. Tommy blocked again.

Tommy was tiring. Karl's pinprick pupils showed his body had become a cocaine-driven engine. Tommy couldn't compete with that. He needed an edge. A weapon.

The ornament was lying on the mantelpiece. Tommy grabbed it, swung it sharply at the side of Karl's head.

It connected.

Tommy didn't let go, followed through with the swing.

Karl fell, hit the floor hard.

Tommy dropped the ornament on top of him. Looked down.

Like looking into the past.

Tommy hoped the past had been defeated.

He turned again to Suzanne. She was by the window, curtain clutched around her body, sliver of broken mirror held knife-like in one hand. Blood pooling and dripping around her fingers and palms.

‘It's OK,' said Tommy, moving cautiously up to her, shouting. ‘I'm not here to hurt you. Your mother sent me. Put it down. You're hurting yourself.'

She looked at him and for a split second he thought his words had reached her. Then her gaze shifted beyond him, over his shoulder, to the other side of the room.

Tommy turned, looked.

Two boys, one holding a gun.

‘Put the gun down,' he shouted. His words were lost in the din.

‘Put it down,' he said again and began to cross to them.

The two boys looked scared, fearful of what would happen next. They remained rooted to the spot.

‘Come on,' said Tommy, pointing to the gun, ‘don't play silly buggers. Put that thing down before someone gets hurt.'

Tommy held out his hands, showed he had no weapons.

Then spun round, landed on his knee.

Pain seared through Tommy's body. He closed his eyes. A blinding, white starburst. He put his hand to his right side, pressed, brought his fingers away.

Blood.

He had been shot.

By a boy.

He looked up. The shooter was sitting on the kitchen floor, clutching the automatic in his hand, his face full of surprise.

Tommy tried to stand but couldn't. The pain was too great. He slumped to the floor, managed to drag himself over to the wall.

A shrill, ringing sound. Hammering.

Tommy thought the noise was in his head but then noticed the other boy reacting to it: the doorbell. Someone pounding on the door.

The boy was shaking his head, crying.

Tommy couldn't move. His vision began to blur. He blinked.

He watched as Suzanne grabbed the discarded throw from the sofa to cover herself, opened the door.

Black snowflakes began to fall in front of him. Gather at the sides of his eyes.

Tony and Louise entered. Louise and Suzanne hugged. They were both crying.

Tony knelt down before him, spoke.

Tommy didn't hear it.

The black snowflakes began to pile up, drifting to the centre of his vision.

His legs, side, felt wet. He knew the blood, the life, was leaking out of him.

Karl on the floor. The past defeated.

Louise and Suzanne hugging. Reunited.

He closed his eyes.

Smiled.

Wondered what counted as redemption.

And was gone.

EPILOGUE

How Soon Is Now?

Now

Morning.

The day starts. The night ends.

Dreams either forgotten and abandoned or dragged through to waking.

The Modern Age: An Epilogue

The modern age, as we know it, began on Friday 8 June 2001. This is not a date plucked at random for its Clarke/Kubrick futuristic connotations nor is it yet an officially recognized one. It was the first morning after the general election.

Tony Blair's New Labour government has been returned to power for a second term by an apathetic landslide. People voted for them because there was no credible alternative.

In the country that Blair's government now oversee, the gap between rich and poor has never been wider. A fatally dilapidated rail infrastructure. A crisis in education. In housing. In health. In social welfare. Funding withdrawn. Never returned.

Thatcher's legacy: time bombs exploding all over the country.

Seventeen years of deliberate Tory underfunding.

Five years of New Labour inertia.

A combined—

‘Here.'

A mug of tea was placed down beside Larkin's laptop.

‘Thanks.'

‘I've probably put everything back in the wrong place.'

‘Impossible,' he said, reading over what he had just written. ‘Nothing has its own place in here.'

‘True,' said Claire, ‘but we're getting there.'

Larkin stopped writing, stretched, looked around.

Order was being introduced to the room. Shelves contained books, CDs. The hi-fi had been wired up. Clothes had been wardrobed. Boxes were still on the floor, but they no longer dominated.

Getting there.

He walked over to Claire, stood beside her, placed his arm over her shoulder. She moved her neck into it.

‘You want to get some furniture in here, mate,' she said. ‘It's like you're waiting for a bus.'

‘That's the next step.' He looked down at her. ‘Wanna wait with me?'

Claire stood up. She was wearing Larkin's dressing gown. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxers. She turned to him, draped her arms round his shoulders. He placed his arms round her waist.

‘Does it feel strange having a woman in your flat?'

‘Feels strange having a woman in my life. But I'm getting used to it.'

Claire smiled.

‘Y'know, when I woke up without you, I thought you'd—'

‘Gone?'

Claire nodded.

‘In my own flat?' Larkin smiled. ‘No. I'm still here.'

‘Good.'

She brought her face up to his. Kissed.

It was deep, involving. Eventually they finished, moved apart. Looked into each other's eyes. Smiled. And embraced. Just to feel each other's body close.

Larkin looked over Claire's shoulders around the corners of the room.

Ghosts rarely appeared in the morning light. They hid in the darkness, clung to the shadows. Claire's presence, he knew, was helping to throw light into those shadows.

Claire looked at her watch. ‘Better get ready. Time to go soon.'

‘OK.'

‘That's a minus point about this place. Having to get up so early to travel in to work.'

‘There are plus points.'

‘I know. D'you mind if I have a shower?'

‘Not at all. D'you mind if I join you?'

Claire smiled at him.

He smiled back.

They went into the bathroom together.

Louise woke slowly, stretched. She looked over to the right side of the bed. Tony was still sleeping.

She smiled to herself. She felt more relaxed than she had done in years.

Suzanne, she knew, was sleeping in another room. It was all her daughter had done for days, it seemed, sleep. Still, after what she had been through, that was a good thing.

Suzanne had told Louise everything. Broken down. Louise was helping to piece her back together again. Slowly, but they were getting there.

Tony had insisted they move in with him. It could have been a recipe for disaster, three damaged individuals living in close proximity to each other. But it had been a week now since the night in the Wills Building had changed everything for them. They were giving each other space. They were giving each other attention. They were allowing each other to heal.

Tony had agreed to accept treatment for his addiction. Louise had agreed to help him.

Louise looked at him lying there, eyes closed, peaceful. She loved him. She had always loved him. Even after that night in her flat with Tommy Jobson. She had been angry with him, not wanted to see him any more, but she had never stopped loving him. Loved him through all the years of living with Keith, the phone calls sustaining her, and finally lying with him in bed again. Loving him still.

The alarm rang.

Louise jumped up, shocked, then realized what it was. She settled back down again.

Tony's eyes opened. He smiled when he saw her.

‘Mornin', you,' he said, sleep still in his voice.

She smiled at him.

‘Sleep all right?' he asked.

‘Like a log. Getting better all the time. What about you?'

‘Not too bad at all.'

He moved from his side on to his back, looked at the ceiling.

‘Time to get up. Come on.'

Mick began his walk into town.

He hadn't slept. Or if he had, he couldn't remember it.

Days and nights were the same now. He was in darkness whether his eyes were closed or open. Waking or sleeping, he still moved through the same nightmare.

The police had visited him twice in the last week. The first time had been to inform him of his son's arrest and to ask him and Angela to join them at the station.

They had complied and found Davva in a terrible state, crying so much they couldn't understand him. The duty solicitor explained.

Drug dealing. Underage sex. Kidnapping. Actual bodily harm. Murder.

Mick was stunned. Angela had started on Davva. Screaming at him, shouting, telling him how stupid he had been. Mick had stepped in, calmed her down. Davva had started crying again. He needed a hug from his mother. It never came.

Davva was interviewed, charged, kept on remand. He and his friend, they were told, would be sent to a secure unit.

Mick and Angela had gone home.

Two days later, another policeman had called. The badly decomposed body of a teenage girl had been discovered in Wyn Davies House. They believed it was that of their daughter, Tanya. Dead from a heroin overdose.

Mick had slid into shock which in turn gave way to tears. Angela had just remained silent.

There was a baby, Mick said, Carly.

There was no baby found in the flat but they would make enquiries.

They had to identify the body. The bloated, corrupted corpse they saw bore no relation to the daughter they had once known.

Back home, Mick had cried. Angela had said, ‘Well, that wasn't our daughter.'

‘No,' said Mick sadly.

‘She stopped bein' our daughter years ago.'

Mick looked at her, too stunned to reply.

‘And as for our son, I just wash my hands of him.'

Mick could stay silent no longer.

‘You wash your hands of him? You washed your hands of Tanya and look what happened to her!'

Angela turned to him, red cheeks wobbling with anger.

‘You sayin' it's my fault, is it? Is that the thanks I get for everythin' I've done over the years? An' where were you in all this?'

‘I was here. Right here. Lettin' you get away with every-thin'.'

‘That's right. Blaine me.'

‘Look at you! Just look at you! You've got no love in you, have you? No love at all.'

Mick grabbed his coat. He was shaking.

‘Where you goin'?'

‘Out.'

He slammed the door behind him.

He had gone out and stayed out.

Now, he reached the town centre. He checked the time on the clock. The supermarket would be open, but not for what he wanted.

He found a wall beside the rows of trolleys, checked the ground for pound coins, found none. Sat and waited.

Opposite was a fading poster, left up from the election. For the Labour Party:

GET OUT AND VOTE. OR THEY GET IN AGAIN.

It showed Thatcher's hairdo on Hague's head.

Mick stared at the poster, squinted hard. The more he looked, the more he saw Blair's face beneath the hair, not Hague's. He laughed.

‘Too late, mate,' he said out loud, ‘they have got in again.'

Mick waited.

Tony sat behind his desk in the CAT Centre, nervous now the time had come. He could talk to other people about their problems, their addictions. That was his job, his talent. What he couldn't do was talk about his own.

‘Thanks for coming.'

He looked around the room. Larkin, Claire and Louise. The door firmly shut.

‘Thanks for saying you'll help. I appreciate it. I've taken advice, both medical and legal, to see where I stand. There's a doctor we do some work with here. We're going to come up with a treatment programme together. Got to do something to keep a clean supply.'

He smiled weakly. The others responded in kind.

‘Are you still going to go public?' asked Claire.

‘Stephen thinks it's the best thing to do. After everything that's happened recently there's going to be a lot of interest in us. I have to say, I think he's right.'

‘We make it pre-emptive,' said Larkin. ‘If we don't come clean, so to speak, then word about Tony'll leak out. This way we control the interviews, the press. Make Tony come out of it in the best light possible.'

‘And keep the Centre going,' said Claire.

‘That's the important thing,' said Tony. ‘We've got to keep this place running. Even if someone else has to take over.'

‘It might not come to that,' said Louise.

Tony smiled at her. She smiled back, then looked out of the window.

The police had treated Tony, Suzanne and herself quite sympathetically, she thought. The only note of suspicion they had sounded was over Tommy's presence. Tony had explained that he had to take his charitable donations when and where he found them. He had also used his influence with local police and politicians to minimize the impact.

However, they knew word would get out. That was when Louise had suggested getting her brother to manage that end of things.

Tommy's funeral had been a media scrum. News cameras had fought for shots of celebs, crims or celeb crims, police cameras had quietly recorded the attendees, noting whose laugh was loudest, whose smile was widest, knowing they would try to make themselves in line for Tommy's vacant position.