David Jackson - Marked

She takes a step toward him. ‘No, Steve. You have to accept it.’

‘What do you mean?’

She waves her arms to indicate the space around them. ‘All this! The way you’re keeping so busy. The way you won’t come near me. The way you won’t talk. The way you’re pushing Megan’s things away from you. You’re in denial, Steve. Can’t you see that?’

He shakes his head, and his lips twist into a sneer. ‘That’s crap.’

‘No. No, it isn’t. Take a look at yourself. Tell me this is normal. Tell me you’re acting exactly the same way you did before Megan was taken from us.’

‘Of course I’m not the same. Nothing is the same. I’m just trying to cope, Nicole. You do it your way and I’ll do it mine. Is that okay with you?’

She goes back to the box and takes out one of the items. A swimming trophy. A shiny shield set upon a polished wooden plinth. One of the first things Megan ever won. She carries it over to Steve and holds it up to his face.

‘This is Megan, Steve. It’s not just a memory. It’s what she was. And it’s all we have left of her. If you think you’re coping, then fine. But don’t you dare, don’t you dare , throw anything of Megan’s away. Not a trophy, not a photograph, not a school report, not even a drawing she made when she was two. Because if you do, if I find that a single possession of hers has gone missing, then I’m going missing too. I’m taking Megan’s things and I’m walking out of this house and I’m never coming back. Do you understand me?’

He looks at her for some time, and she tries to work out what’s going through his head. Is he ashamed? Or is he steeling himself for round two?

‘I hear ya,’ is all he says. Which tells her only that he doesn’t want to continue this conversation. It’s a nothing answer. A cop-out. She feels her own anger growing. She wants to slap this man, to bring him out of this semi-conscious state he has imposed on himself.

But then suddenly her rage is elbowed out by pity. This is her husband. Megan’s father. He wasn’t responsible for her death. He didn’t ask for this. And he can’t deal with it. That’s not his fault either. He is strong in so many ways but he can’t handle this. What is so wrong with that? What is so weak about a man who cannot accept the loss of his only child, his beautiful daughter?

She takes a step closer. She wants to hug him. Wants him to hug her. She reaches out a hand and touches it to his arm.

‘You’re hurting,’ she says. ‘We’re both hurting. We need to help each other. Nobody else can do it for us.’

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. She hopes that a whole lot more will follow that breath. Some tears. Some release. Some emotions other than hate.

‘I should finish these shelves,’ he says.

She nods. She closes her eyes and then opens them again, and a tear falls.

She walks over to the shelving. Puts Megan’s trophy on one of them. Turns it slightly so that it is square on. She steps back and lets the metal reflect the light into her eyes.

‘It looks good there,’ she says. ‘Don’t you think?’

He doesn’t answer, and she steps out of the garage and closes the door softly behind her. She waits for a while, then puts her ear to the door. She remains poised there, her fingers on the handle, praying for a cry of anguish or at least a rhythmic gentle sobbing.

Hearing nothing, she walks away.

He’s crazy.

Has to be.

Nobody throws themselves through a panel of glass like that. That only happens in the movies, where they use fake glass. The real stuff is dangerous, man. It can cut you to ribbons. It can slice through your jugular or another artery, or it can take part of your face off, leaving you permanently disfigured. Nobody in their right mind would risk that.

Which is kinda the point, really. Because Proust isn’t in his right mind, is he? Anyone who could do what he did to those girls has to be certifiable.

Or desperate.

What? No, surely not. Nobody could be that desperate. Sure, Proust is afraid of me, but not as shit-scared as he pretends to be. That’s for show. That’s for the likes of LeBlanc and anyone else who’s willing to act as an audience. Proust is clever. He knows what he’s doing. He’s devious and manipulative and crazy. And that makes him dangerous as fuck.

And let’s not forget guilty. Let’s keep that on the list. Because he is. This act of his is all a smokescreen, designed to hide the real story here. Which is that Stanley Proust murdered those two girls. That’s what I need to hang on to. That’s what I need to make others see too.

‘Cal!’

It’s Tommy LeBlanc who interrupts his thoughts. He’s just come into the squadroom, and he’s standing there with his legs apart and his hands twitching at his sides like he’s a gunslinger calling out his sworn enemy.

‘Lemme guess,’ says Doyle. ‘You wanna talk.’

‘Yes, I want to talk. That okay with you?’

Doyle starts to rise from his chair. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

He follows LeBlanc out of the squadroom and into the interview room along the hallway. LeBlanc closes the door. He marches across to the window, then back again. Then back to the window, all the while refusing to look Doyle in the face.

‘This an exercise class?’ Doyle asks. ‘I forgot to bring my gym shorts.’

LeBlanc halts and turns angrily on Doyle. ‘This is no joke, Cal. What the hell were you thinking? You promised me you would keep away from Proust.’

‘Uh, no I didn’t. You said I should keep away. I never agreed to that.’

‘Didn’t you even think to keep me in the loop?’

‘You weren’t here when I decided to go see him.’

‘Jesus Christ. I went to the washroom. I was gone for all of five minutes.’

Doyle shrugs. ‘What can I say? I make snap decisions.’

LeBlanc shakes his head. Paces up and down a little more.

Says Doyle, ‘How is he?’

‘Proust, you mean? You really wanna know? He’s dead, Cal. He didn’t make it.’

Doyle tenses. He stares in disbelief at LeBlanc. Proust dead? No. He can’t be. It can’t end like this.

‘What? No. He can’t be dead.’

‘No, he’s not fucking dead, Cal. But isn’t that what you wanted to hear? Don’t you want him taken out? Wouldn’t you love to see him lying on a cold slab in the morgue?’

Doyle feels a stab of irritation. ‘All right, Tommy, that’s enough. I don’t like being told what my thoughts are, and I don’t like little pranks like the one you just pulled on me. You got this all wrong.’

‘Have I? Have I, Cal? Tell me how I should see this. Tell me what I should think when I see you attack Proust, ripping his shirt off like that. Tell me what conclusions I should reach when you come back from seeing Proust with a huge shiner under your eye, and he ends up with broken ribs and missing teeth. Tell me what I should imagine happened when Proust comes flying through a glass door and you’re the only other guy in the room, and then you continue to assault him. What kind of picture should I be seeing here, Cal?’

‘Not the obvious one. I know how it looks, but it’s phony. Proust jumped through that door. He must have seen you outside and then he ran into his apartment so that I would follow. When he heard you come through the front door he started yelling and then he dived through the glass.’

‘Uh-huh. And the bruises? The fractured rib?’

‘I don’t know. He threw himself down some stairs. He picked a fight in a bar. I have no idea. But I didn’t do it. That I do know.’

‘Then how come it looks so much like you did?’

‘Because that’s what he wants you to think. He wants you seeing him as the victim instead of the perp. He wants your sympathy. He wants me off his back.’