David Jackson - Marked

It’s the point of no return. Proust considers pulling his hand back. Forget it, he’ll say. I made a mistake. I don’t really want to do this. .

But he doesn’t do or say any of this. He can’t back out now.

He takes a step closer to Gowerson. Puts the envelope right under Gowerson’s nose.

Gowerson reaches up a hand and takes the envelope. He doesn’t open it. Just slips it into his inside jacket pocket.

‘It’s all there,’ says Proust. ‘You can count it if-’

The blow comes from nowhere. One second Proust is talking, the next a fist is crashing into his jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. He feels something explode in his mouth and he reels backwards. He blinks furiously to clear his vision and sees Gowerson coming toward him, his fists clenched. Proust puts his hands up to protect his face, but then another blow smashes into his ribcage. He swears he hears his ribs shatter into a thousand pieces as the air is forced out of his lungs, and as his arms drop again another cannonball lands on his cheek. His head snaps back and forth like a punchbag in the gym, and now he wants to tell his attacker to stop. He wants to say he’s had enough, but he knows it will be fruitless. This is just the beginning. He knows this. He has signed up for this. He has handed over good money for this. And so the beating continues, and he continues to endure it. He absorbs blow after crushing blow, wondering when he will die or fall unconscious or simply fragment. He sees blood on his hands and on his clothes, and then he loses the ability to see because of the blood in his eyes — at least he hopes that is what it is and that he hasn’t been made blind. And when he loses the will to do anything but be a target he drops to the floor and curls into a ball and puts his hands over his head and listens to the thud, thud, thud as feet and fists pummel his body into mush. And while he does this he reaches a curious state of detachment. It feels to him as though he leaves his body, rising above it to watch as it is mercilessly battered. Pain leaves him. Fear leaves him. The experience becomes almost. . exquisite.

It takes him some time to realize when it is over. The thudding stops. The pain floods back in. He realizes he is not dead, and that it is not necessarily a good thing. He craves the relief that unconsciousness would bring.

He unfurls his arms slowly, surprised that he can still move them. He raises his head, sees nothing. He brings a hand to his eyes and wipes them. He feels warm wetness on his fingers — his blood, presumably — and his cheeks seem grossly swollen and tender. He blinks. Dark fuzzy shapes come into view. Gradually they sharpen. He sees the figure of Gowerson standing a few feet in front of him. He prays that he is not merely taking a rest, and that the ordeal has truly ended.

He manages to twist himself into a sitting position. The pain will permit him to do no more than that. He is seized by a sudden need to cough. As he does so, it is as though a razor-sharp spear is thrust into his chest. Blood sprays from his mouth, then dribbles down his chin. He explores with his tongue. Finds a loose tooth. He pushes against it with the tip of his tongue and it comes away. He spits it out. More scarlet dribble. Another agonizing cough. He looks again at Gowerson. It takes an effort, but he manages to push out two words that seem so absurd they are almost comical.

‘Thank you.’

He frightens her, this man Doyle.

It is not just his physical presence, although he is a big man. He is tall and broad and carries himself with an air of confidence that suggests he is afraid of no one.

Nor is it the fact that he is no stranger to violence. The slight bend to his nose from an old break attests to that, and the massive swelling on his left cheek suggests that he still doesn’t go out of his way to avoid it.

Nor is it merely his eyes. Those startling emerald-green eyes that are the first things everyone must notice about him. You cannot help but be drawn to them, and they in turn seem to penetrate beyond mere flesh and bone, and drill deep into your very thoughts.

No, what it is about Doyle that disturbs Nicole Hamlyn so much is that she gets the unshakeable feeling that he is an iceberg. What she sees in front of her now is merely the tip. There is much more that is hidden, that will probably remain hidden. Things he has seen. Things he has done. Things he can never talk about. She does not know quite why she senses this about him, but she knows she is right. She would bet on it.

And yet. .

And yet, despite the aura of danger and dark, unimaginable happenings, she feels that this is a man you want on your side. This is a man who will never give up. He will always uncover the truth, whatever the cost to himself.

She wants — needs — that to be so about Doyle. And as she realizes that, she starts to wonder whether her needs are distorting her reality. Maybe Doyle is nothing special, after all. Just another regular cop.

But she doesn’t think so.

She allows him into their home again. He comes alone this time, and he is wet again, but not as soaked as last time.

She touches her fingers to her own cheek. ‘What happened?’

He looks puzzled at first, and then he understands.

‘Oh. This. Occupational hazard.’

And that’s it. That’s how lightly he dismisses the violence that left this imprint on his face. Nicole has met many men who would have been severely traumatized by such an act. And others who would be seething with anger and a self-destructive need to exact dreadful revenge. Steve falls into the latter group. He would neither forgive nor forget. He would seek retribution.

She wishes that Steve could be more like Doyle. She wishes he could allow himself to process the grief in whatever way he needs so that they can prepare to move on.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Take a seat. I’ll fetch Steve. Can I get you tea or coffee?’

‘No,’ says Doyle. ‘Thank you.’

She walks through to the kitchen and then to the door that opens into the garage. She can hear clattering and banging on the other side. It’s been like this all morning.

She opens the door and steps into the garage. Steve is bent over a cardboard box, hauling things out of it and tossing them onto the concrete floor. The whole of the floorspace is covered in items that were previously tidied away in crates.

‘Steve,’ she says, and when he doesn’t hear her, she shouts, ‘STEVE!’

He pauses and looks across at her. ‘Why did we keep all this junk? What the hell were we thinking?’ He grabs an object from the box. ‘Look at this. A clock with no hands on it. Why the fuck did we keep a clock with no hands? What possible use could it be?’

He hurls it away from him. It hits the wall and shatters. Pieces ricochet across the garage.

It occurs to her to remind him that the clock was a family heirloom passed down to her by her mother. The missing hands were taped inside the casing. Steve had put them there with the intention of restoring it one day. All of this occurs to Nicole, but she says nothing. She just stares down at what is left of the clock, now damaged beyond repair. Perhaps like their marriage, if they do nothing to stop it fragmenting.

‘The police are here,’ she says, fighting to disguise her sadness. ‘Detective Doyle. I thought you should know.’

‘What does he want? Have they caught the guy yet?’

‘No. I don’t think so. I think he just wants to ask us some more questions.’

‘Then you don’t need me. I got nothing more to say.’

She thinks, Nothing to say? Your daughter has been murdered and you have nothing to say?

He turns away from her and starts rummaging in the box again.

‘Steve?’ No answer. ‘ Steve, please! ’