David Jackson - Marked

‘You see, Doyle?’ he says to his mirror image. ‘You cannot hurt me. You cannot win.’

He is stronger than Doyle now. In fact, he feels almost invincible. He can survive a severe beating. He can jump through glass without serious injury. What’s next? How much stronger can he possibly get?

And there are other forces within him that are yet to be released. Doyle doesn’t suspect this. He doesn’t know what he has unleashed. Well, he will find out soon enough.

Doyle started this.

Stanley Francis Proust will finish it.

What if Doyle is right?

LeBlanc considers this as he sits in his car. He pulses the windshield wipers, batting away the rainwater for a brief instant to afford him a glimpse of Proust’s place.

What went on in there? What really happened?

The most plausible scenario is the obvious one. Doyle beat the crap out of Proust, not once but twice. That account fits all the facts, without the requirement for much imagination or twisted reasoning. When faced with multiple possible explanations, always go with the simplest. Occam’s razor, and all that.

But would even Doyle go that far? Would he resort to beating a perp to within an inch of his life? Even if he got a confession, what could he do with it? It would be obvious to the DA and everybody else that it had been obtained through violence and intimidation. Why would Doyle put his job on the line like that?

So then there’s the alternative. Doyle is telling the truth. Proust is an evil genius who killed two girls and is now trying to discredit the only cop who believes he did it. And the way he does that is by practically killing himself.

How likely is that? Is Proust capable of such a thing?

He seems the genuine article to LeBlanc. Since the first moment he met Proust, he has felt that this is a man who is truly terrified of Doyle. An innocent man who has been wrongly accused and is being continually harassed and bullied by his accuser. Could that all be an act? Is Proust that good?

‘Shit,’ says LeBlanc.

He doesn’t know what to make of this, whom to believe. The problem is he doesn’t know either party well enough. Not even his own partner. Doyle is not the sharing type. Maybe he’s got issues. If we were to get all psychological about this, maybe the shit he went through when his partners were killed has turned him into a man who feels he cannot trust anyone but himself. Who the hell knows?

Can I even be sure that he hasn’t gone totally off the rails?

And as for Proust. .

Well, maybe I need to get to know him a little better too.

It’s almost as if Proust has been waiting for him to arrive.

He is standing behind his counter at the far end of his shop, staring straight at LeBlanc as he comes through the door.

Pangs of pity instantly stab at LeBlanc.

Jesus. Just look at the guy. He can’t even stand up straight. If he were an animal he’d be put down.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Detective LeBlanc,’ says Proust, and it seems to LeBlanc that he has difficulty just getting those two words out. ‘Are you. . alone?’

Meaning, Is Doyle with you?

LeBlanc catches Proust’s fearful glance through the window behind him.

‘I’m alone,’ he says. ‘Thought I’d check up on you. See how you are.’

‘I think. . I think it looks worse than it is.’ He attempts a smile, but then winces with his pain.

Putting a brave face on it, thinks LeBlanc. Would he do that if he were faking?

‘You got time to talk?’

‘Sure. It’s pretty quiet right now. You wanna come back for a coffee?’

LeBlanc nods, then walks around the counter to join Proust. He follows him through the first door into the small storeroom. It looks as though most of the glass has been cleared up, but as they get closer to the other door there is still a crunching noise underfoot.

‘I made a start,’ says Proust apologetically. ‘I’ll try to get the rest later.’

LeBlanc glances at the spot where Doyle had him pinned against the wall. The image of Doyle’s face is still vivid, his expression that of a man who was about to rip LeBlanc’s head off.

They step through the now useless door, and into the tiny living area.

‘You want coffee? Or do you prefer tea?’

‘Tea. If that’s okay.’

He watches as Proust shuffles over to the electric kettle, grunting as he picks it up.

‘Here,’ says LeBlanc. ‘Let me do it.’

He takes the kettle from Proust, then tells him to go sit down while he prepares the tea. For the next few minutes, the only conversation is about where the teabags, cups and so on are kept.

When the tea is made, LeBlanc joins Proust at the table. He starts off with some chit-chat. Some meaningless preamble to put the guy at his ease.

‘How’s business?’

‘Two customers today. The first one was a woman. Took one look at me and walked straight out again. Then a guy came in for a neck tat. He asked what happened. I told him I forgot my wife’s birthday.’

LeBlanc smiles, putting on a show for Proust’s benefit. ‘You expecting any more today?’

‘I doubt it. Nothing booked in. And this weather, not many people passing by either. You ever consider it yourself?’

‘Me? A tattoo? Nah, not my thing.’

‘You should. You worried about the pain?’

‘Should I be?’

‘Not at all. It’s like a. . like a hot scratch.’

‘A scratch, huh?’

‘Yeah. And you don’t need to worry about hygiene neither. All of my equipment is guaranteed bug-free. I use an autoclave. You know what that is?’

LeBlanc shakes his head.

‘It’s kinda like a pressure cooker, you know what I mean? It makes this super-hot steam which-’

‘Stan, what happened here today?’

Proust was happy talking about his work. LeBlanc can see the enthusiasm drain from his face.

‘What?’

‘What happened? When Doyle came to see you.’

LeBlanc watches as Proust’s eyes widen and the knuckles whiten on the fingers of his hand holding the cup.

‘We were talking. He wanted to ask me some questions.’

‘About what?’

‘About the girl who was killed. He thinks I had something to do with it.’

‘And did you?’

Proust’s stare is one of disbelief at the bluntness of the question. ‘No, man. I told Doyle and I’m telling you. I never met that girl. I wouldn’t put a tat on someone that young, and I wouldn’t hurt a girl like that. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. You gotta believe me.’

‘Why doesn’t Doyle believe you?’

‘I. . I dunno, man. I really don’t.’

LeBlanc hears something else in those words. He’s not quite sure what it is. Something Proust wants to say but which he’s holding back.

‘Okay, so he’s asking you questions. When I came into your shop, it wasn’t just a conversation, Stan. It was getting kinda heated back here.’

‘Yeah, I know. He wouldn’t let it go. I kept telling him I didn’t do this terrible thing, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept calling me a murderer. Saying how I enjoyed doing disgusting things to young girls. Sexual things. And then. . torturing them. Detective, I couldn’t even torture an ant. I respect life. He’s trying to make me out to be some kind of monster. I couldn’t do those things. Please. You have to believe me.’

Proust grimaces and brings a hand to his ribs. He’s really suffering, thinks LeBlanc.

‘What I heard, it wasn’t just an argument. You were pleading, Stan. You sounded like you were being attacked. You were begging Doyle to stop. Stop what, Stan?’

Proust drops his gaze. Stares into his tea. ‘The questions. The accusations. I’d heard them a thousand times. So many times I was starting to believe them myself. I needed for them to stop. I felt like he was driving me crazy.’