David Jackson - Marked

Somehow — she’s not sure how — she makes it to the end of the platform. Even manages to curl her toes over its front edge. She’s breathing hard, but not through exertion. Her pulse is pounding in her head. She tries to focus. She knows exactly what to do, what the technique is. She has seen Megan do this a thousand times. Has even acted as her daughter’s sternest judge and critic of her efforts.

Megan is good, though. Superb. Nicole can picture her now. Launching herself into space, her arms out, her spine arched. Sailing through the air for what seems like an age. Then, at the last possible moment, bringing her palms together in the flat-hand position, her arms tight against her ears. A perfect ‘rip’ entry into the water with barely a splash. And throughout this, her mother watching from the benches, unable to breathe through both admiration and fear.

Nicole ventures a snap glance into the dive well. Jesus, it’s high up here.

She can’t back out now. She has driven twenty miles to get here. She’s at the Nassau County Aquatic Center in East Meadow. It’s only eight-forty. The place isn’t even open to the public yet. But that’s okay. The staff here know her well. The countless hours she spent here with Megan while she trained and competed.

‘Go, Mom! Nothing fancy. A simple dive, just like all the others.’

Simple. Easy for you to say. I’m crapping myself just standing here.

Focus, Nicole tells herself. She has limbered up with twenty lengths in the main pool. She has done several practice dives from the three-meter springboard. She has worked her way up the tower to the 7.5-meter platform. What’s this but just a little extra height?

She purses her lips and exhales hard, trying to control her breathing. She flicks water from her fingers at her sides. Curls her toes over the platform edge again. I’m ready, she thinks.

‘Stop thinking about it. Just do it.’

Nicole looks down. This time, she thinks. I can do this.

And then she turns around and almost runs back to the safety of the handrails.

‘Jeez, Mom! What are you doing?’

But Megan isn’t annoyed. She’s laughing. And Nicole is laughing too. They are both laughing because it’s the same every time. Nicole goes up, Nicole comes down. But it’s always via the stairs. It’s become a running joke between mother and daughter. Something Nicole will never forget.

As she clambers her way down the steps, she can hear Megan practically screaming with laughter. And Nicole cannot help but join in. They will laugh together until the tears run down their faces, and Megan will refuse to let it lie. She will tease her parent all the way home. Tell her that she cannot believe how her own mother cannot even-

The laughter stops.

It stops because Nicole cannot see Megan anywhere on the poolside. She is not here.

She was never here.

And now Nicole knows why she came all the way to the Aquatic Center in East Meadow. When she got up this morning she told herself she needed to get out of the house. She needed some exercise. Something to take her mind away from the horrors of reality.

Swimming, she decided. She has always been a good swimmer.

But now she knows it was her mind playing tricks on itself. She didn’t really have to settle on swimming as a distraction. And even if that was all she could come up with, she could have visited a pool closer to home.

No, she came here not to forget but to remember. To make a connection. This is Megan’s place. This is where she spent a huge portion of her free time outside school hours. Not hanging around on street corners. Not going off to places like the East Village. Why would she? This sport was her life.

And now Nicole knows why she didn’t execute her dive. It wasn’t just her fear. It was the fact that it wasn’t right. It wasn’t what was expected. By either of them. If Nicole had dived, there would have been no laughter, no ribbing. It would have been the end. It would have closed a door.

‘Nic? Are you okay?’

Phil. One of the pool guards.

‘I. . I heard about Megan,’ he says. ‘I’m real sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ she replies. But then she hurries away. Back to the changing rooms. She doesn’t want to lament; she wants to celebrate. She wants to keep the laughter of Megan ringing in her ears for ever.

A crap.

That’s all he’d gone for. A quick dump.

It’s always the same when he drinks strong coffee. It pushes everything else out of his system. He couldn’t contain himself any longer.

Besides, he’s not a nursemaid. He’s not paid to sit here minding Doyle all day.

But he can guess where Doyle has gone. His choice of the very moment that LeBlanc slips out of the squadroom to do his own disappearing act is no coincidence.

Of that LeBlanc is certain.

He is angry, but his anger is tempered by a sense of sadness. He feels he has given Doyle every opportunity to do things in the right way and, every time, Doyle has insisted on shrugging off his partner’s helping hand.

I can’t stop Doyle’s march of destruction, thinks LeBlanc.

All I can do is make sure the only one destroyed by Doyle is himself.

‘Jesus, Stan! What the hell happened to you?’

He’s not concerned, thinks Proust. Curious, yes. But Doyle doesn’t care about my welfare. Wouldn’t matter to him if I was dead.

‘I got on the wrong side of someone.’

There, Doyle. Make of that what you will. You wanna play games, let’s do it, you sonofabitch.

‘Who would that be, Stan?’

‘Why? You think they should be arrested? Think they should be locked up for doing this to me?’

He sees the confusion in Doyle’s eyes. The uncertainty. He’s on unfamiliar ground now, and he doesn’t like it. Well, fuck him. He started this.

‘What’s going on, Stan? You looking to jam me up for what happened to you? You really think you could pull that off?’

Doyle advances as he says this. He cuts a threatening figure, and although Proust has the counter between him and Doyle, he still feels nervous. He can feel himself starting to tremble.

No, he tells himself. You can do this. Stand up to him. He’s a bully, and there’s nothing a bully likes better than a willing victim. Show him what you’re made of. What’s the worst he can do? Inflict pain? Ha! I can do pain now, you bastard. Try me. Go ahead, you big fucking nobody, try me.

‘I’m not looking to do anything, Detective. Why would I? What would be the purpose? I’m just a plain ordinary citizen, wanting to get on with his plain ordinary life. There something wrong with that?’

When Doyle slams his palm down on the countertop, the bang echoes around the room and Proust flinches visibly.

Stay calm, he tells himself. Anyone would have jumped at that. Doesn’t mean you’re scared. Don’t let him get to you.

Doyle raises his voice. ‘No, Stan. You’re not a plain ordinary citizen. Ordinary citizens don’t torture and kill other citizens. You’re special in that way, Stan. That’s why you get my special attention.’

Proust can feel his eye twitching. Shit! He gets it sometimes. A nervous tic. He rubs his eye, trying to massage it back into its normal behavior. He doesn’t want Doyle thinking he’s intimidated by him, because he’s not. Damn straight, he’s not.

‘I ain’t nothing special. I just do tattoos. And you need to stop making all these accusations about me.’

Doyle leans forward over the counter, his expression menacing. ‘Or what, Stan? What will you do?’

Proust wants to maintain eye contact. He wants to look this bastard right back in his pupils and tell him what a sad, pathetic clown he is. He wants to punch him. Right in the mouth. Knock a few teeth out.