David Jackson - Marked

‘You’ve got your leeway. It’s why I’m sitting in the car with you. Think yourself lucky I’m not jumping up and down on the hood right now. Look, Paulson, what you did for me, it’s much appreciated. Really. I’ll try to return the favor someday. But I can’t forget what came before that, and I’m sure it’s still fresh in your memory too. You came after me with all guns blazing, and you nearly succeeded in ruining my life. My wife sees me sitting out here with you, she’ll be down here choking you with your own tie. That’s the kind of love she has for you, Paulson. Think about that.’

‘You don’t think what happened last Christmas wipes any of that away?’

‘I think it complicates things, is what I think. What I would like to do is forget about the past and move on with my life. But certain people won’t let me do that. You included. What are you doing here at my home anyhow?’

‘Maybe I just thought I’d see how you are. Catch up on things.’

Doyle wags a finger at him. ‘Uh-uh. You’re here on business. You’re here as an IAB man. Don’t try pretending you’re not. At least have the decency to be honest about it.’

‘What, you think it’s always a question of one or the other? Is that how it is for you, Doyle? Do you stop being a cop when you take off your shield and your gun? Is it that easy for you?’

‘I’m saying that you have your shield with you now, Paulson. Even though it’s in your pocket, your IAB shield is the only thing I can see in front of me right now. I’d like to know why.’

Paulson pats his pockets, and for a second Doyle thinks he’s about to pull out his badge.

‘You got any cigarettes?’ says Paulson. ‘I think I ran out.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ says Doyle. ‘And if you light up in here, I’m getting out of the car.’

Paulson nods, goes quiet for a few seconds, then says, ‘I heard some things.’

‘Things? What kind of things?’

‘Things concerning you. You and a guy who runs a tattoo place.’

And now Doyle is interested. Also a little concerned. He was always of the conviction that Proust would not put in a complaint. Could he have gotten that so wrong?

‘Stanley Proust.’

‘Yeah, that’s him.’

‘What’s he say about me?’

‘He ain’t said nothing yet. Leastways, not to me. Other voices are whispering your name.’

‘I don’t suppose you wanna say who?’

‘Don’t matter. The point is, you’re making waves again. Disrupting the cosmic karma.’

‘So they summoned you to restore order to the universe?’

Paulson smiles. ‘Actually, no. I asked for this gig. I kinda feel fate has fashioned an unbreakable bond between us. We’re forever joined by elemental forces beyond our feeble understanding.’

‘That’s a disturbing thought, Paulson.’

Paulson shrugs. ‘Who are we to question the actions of the gods?’

Doyle pulls his what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about face. ‘Those cigarettes of yours, they’re just tobacco, right? You mind coming back down to earth now?’

‘I’m trying to put you in the picture, Doyle. The bigger picture which you never seem to appreciate. You’re causing ructions, and there are some who don’t like ructions. They are severely ruction averse.’

‘I’m doing my job. Proust is a murderer. I’m gonna nail him for it. It’s as simple as that.’

Paulson emits a laugh which could cause small children to burst into tears. ‘It’s never simple, Doyle. You of all people should have learned that by now. Life is complex. It’s got hidden corners and trapdoors. The unwary need to be careful. Step on the wrong floorboard, and down you go.’

‘Yeah, right. Thanks for the warning. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go home now.’

Doyle reaches for the door handle, but Paulson puts a restraining hand on his arm.

‘Jesus Christ, Doyle. Do you have to be so obtuse? I’m trying to help you here.’

‘Help me or threaten me?’

‘You’re fucking paranoid, do you know that?’

‘Like the joke goes, just because I’m paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me. Plus, my experience is that there are definitely people out there who would love to see me taken down.’

‘Maybe. And maybe you’re handing them the ammunition. Proust is a time bomb, Doyle. And you’re the guy who’s started him ticking. When he goes off, he will shake the fabric of the space-time continuum. Time will be reversed. You and me, we’ll be back to square one. It will be as if last Christmas never happened. It will be just you and me in a tiny room somewhere, with only a tape recorder for company. I don’t want to see that happen. I don’t want to relive that.’

‘You been watching too much Star Trek . And that still sounds like a threat to me.’

Paulson sighs. Rolls his eyes. ‘Like I said, the problem with you is that you only ever see what you want to see. You got tunnel vision. You see IAB sitting next to you. The rat squad, right? The bureau whose only purpose in life is to make you miserable. What you don’t see is me. Paulson. The guy who saved your sorry ass. And when you look at Proust, you see a stone killer, right? You fail to see the man who holds your liberty in his fingers. And your ears ain’t so good, neither. Remember me saying how I asked for this assignment? You know why? Because if I hadn’t taken it, somebody else would have. And this other IAB detective would’ve marched straight into your squadroom. He would’ve talked to your lieutenant about what we already know, and then he would’ve marched you into an interview room to squeeze what else he could out of you. And all this happening while your colleagues are watching and thinking and making up their own version of events. That’s what I’ve protected you from by coming here tonight. You can thank me when you’re ready.’

Doyle considers this. It’s all true. But what he can’t work out is why. A part of him wants to believe that Paulson really is a changed man. Another part wants to know what the catch is.

‘Okay, Paulson. Thank you. That what you want to hear?’

‘Yeah,’ says Paulson, nodding. ‘Yeah. That’s nice. I’m touched.’

There’s something in Paulson’s voice that tells Doyle he really means it. But it also feels to Doyle like he’s about to be beheaded and he’s forgiving his executioner. Handing him a bag of silver before the ax descends.

‘Until we meet again,’ says Doyle.

He says it jokingly, but Paulson appears to take it seriously. He looks almost. . sad.

‘Sure,’ says Paulson.

Doyle opens the door and steps out into the rain. As he walks around the car he hears the engine being fired up. But it’s followed by the soft hum of the driver’s window being lowered.

Says Paulson, ‘Everything’s connected, you know. The past, the present, the future. They’re all parts of the same river. Nothing exists in isolation. Sometimes we’re not even aware of it. But when that truth hits you, it can hit you hard. Take it easy, Doyle.’

Doyle stands there for a while. Watches as Paulson’s car pulls away. Tries to figure out what the hell he was getting at.

When he notices that the rain is trickling down the back of his neck, he shivers.

Home sweet home.

He walks in with the expectation that, finally, he can leave all his troubles out there in the rain. He can get out of these wet clothes, have a steaming-hot shower, a nice meal that isn’t fish, and then he can spend some quality time with his loving wife and doting daughter.

But those expectations are dashed when he sees the expression on the face of said loving wife. Because it’s not so loving at the moment. In fact, it’s downright livid.