David Jackson - Marked

All that LeBlanc can do now is trust his partner. But he tells himself that Doyle better have a damn good explanation for this. The train of thought better be a lot more convincing than ‘Victim has tattoo; I know a tattoo artist.’

For now, discomforting though it is, all he does is give Proust a helpless look.

Says Doyle, ‘Don’t ask him , Stan. This is between us. And I want you to know that this is just the beginning. You know what you did, and I know it too. So I’m coming back. I’m gonna come back again and again until you admit what you did. From now on, you’re mine, Stan. Every spare minute I have is gonna be spent watching you. You’re mine. Do you understand that?’

‘Man, that’s not right. I’m clean. I didn’t do nothing. I just do tattoos.’

Doyle grabs him by what’s left of his shirt and shakes him. LeBlanc finds himself taking a step forward.

‘ I said, Do you understand, you piece of shit? ’

Proust’s mouth curls down as if he’s about to cry. ‘Okay. Yeah. I understand.’

Doyle pushes him away. ‘I’m coming back, Stan. While I’m gone, I want you to write down everything you did since Saturday morning. I want places and times, to the exact minute. That includes details of any customers you had here. Because, believe me, I am gonna check them out. And if I find one anomaly, just one. . well, you know what would happen then, don’t you, Stanley?’

Doyle doesn’t wait for an answer. He just turns on his heel and heads for the door. When he brushes past LeBlanc, it’s as if he doesn’t see him. His face is a perfect match for the thunderous weather outside.

LeBlanc takes a last look at the pathetic figure of Proust, busy trying to pull the fragments of shirt together around his skinny frame as if it’s somehow possible to reassemble it. Again he feels he should say something, but doesn’t. Instead, he leaves the shop and runs to catch up with Doyle.

In the car, LeBlanc puts the obvious question. The one that will clear all this up and put his mind at rest. The one that will lend logic to Doyle’s actions and attitude.

‘You want to fill me in? Tell me what all that was about?’

Doyle’s answer is in his scowl and in the way he puts his whole body into twisting the ignition key and in how he slams forward the transmission lever. Words are hardly necessary, but he supplies one anyway.

‘No.’

And that’s it. That’s the best LeBlanc’s going to get. A single syllable infused with venom. And as Doyle whips the car out into the traffic and pounds his horn at the first driver who dares to object, LeBlanc starts to wonder whether the stories are true after all. He starts to imagine that this big guy in the leather jacket and with the bent nose could easily fit into the role of a criminal. Maybe even a killer.

Sitting next to this man about whom he really knows nothing, LeBlanc feels incredibly uneasy.

If not a little afraid.

She is no longer sure what to do with her time.

When there was hope, she could stare for hours out of the window and picture Megan walking back to the house. She could tell herself that it was an episode with an end. One of those crazy things that hormone-filled teenagers go through in attempting to understand themselves and their place in the world. Megan would return.

Now that has gone. The window holds no interest for Nicole. The world beyond this house holds no interest. It is dark and it is filled with evil and it destroys. The chair remains where the detective put it, back in its rightful place. A tiny attempt to restore order in a home where normality has been ripped to shreds.

The crying won’t stop. Whenever she thinks all her reserves of tears have been squeezed out of her, her body seems to manufacture more, and five minutes later the valves are open again. Her head is pulsating with pain at the effort of dealing with the grief.

She is tired, so tired. But she cannot sleep. Not yet. Not until she collapses with exhaustion.

She doesn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone. When her mother phoned, she had to tell her the dreadful news. There was little conversation: it was mostly mutual wailing and silent sobbing. Her mother wanted to come over; Nicole ordered her not to.

Steve has his own ways of dealing with this. Or not dealing with it. She can hear him upstairs now. Loud animal grunts as he lifts his weights. Before that he went on a five-mile run. He hasn’t trained this hard for years.

She remembers little of the hours that have passed since the visit from the detectives. That time is a hole in her life, devoid of content. Her anguished mind pushed everything else away. She saw nothing, heard nothing, was not even conscious of time. She could have been dead.

Now, she tries to find things to do. Little jobs to occupy her mind. But Megan is there. She will always be there. Nicole will wash the dishes and see Megan take them from her to dry them. She will switch the kettle on and hear the tiny clinks of crockery as Megan fetches down the mugs. She will tidy the bathroom and smell Megan’s body spray.

Her head is so filled with Megan. Her life is so empty without Megan.

Outside, it continues to rain. Lord, how it rains.

She hears a steady thud, thud, thud. Steve coming downstairs. Much more heavy-footed than usual. There is anger in those footsteps.

He comes into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator and takes out a carton of orange juice and drinks straight from the carton. A manly dismissal of social niceties. She would rebuke him for it, normally.

She watches him drink. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple. The fluttering pulse in his neck. The sheen of perspiration on his face and pumped-up arms. She can smell the sweat. She can feel his pain.

‘You should take a shower,’ she says, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

He drains the carton and tosses it into the flip-top trashcan.

‘I’m not going to let this rest, Nicole.’

She folds her arms and leans back against the counter. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The police. I’m going to call them later. I’m going to call them every couple of hours if I have to. I’m going to stay on their case until they catch this sonofabitch.’

‘Steve, you don’t have to-’

‘You know what I’ve been thinking? A private eye. We should get a private eye on this. I don’t care how much it costs. We’ve got to find the bastard.’

She keeps her voice soft and low. Soothe the savage breast, and all that.

‘We don’t need a private detective. Let the police do their job.’

‘Boy. I tell ya. If I could just get my hands on that. .’

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Just puts his hands out and tightens them around an imaginary neck. She can see his tendons flex. She can sense the power in that grip and the satisfaction he is getting from his envisioned deed of vengeance.

Like many men she has met, Steve does not deal well with emotion. He was brought up by a very competitive sportsman of a father. Crying is weakness. Forgiveness is weakness. Surrender is weakness. The stereotypical view of manliness was one of the things that attracted her to Steve in the first place, and there has been many a time she has been grateful for the reassurance and feeling of security it has brought her.

Not now, though. She heard him crying earlier, but it wasn’t enough. He didn’t purge himself. He kept too much inside, where it will fester. Where it will gnaw away at him. And when he does release it, it will be at the wrong time, in the wrong place, and for the wrong reason. Watching him now as he chokes the life from his invisible victim, she feels not a little afraid.

She walks across the room and puts a hand on his arm. It’s like oak. Hard and unyielding. He needs to yield. He needs to give a little. Otherwise he’ll break.